The Hearth & Hound is loud tonight — laughter swelling and breaking like waves, mugs clinking in a steady rhythm, boots stamping to the fiddler’s tune. The air is thick with the smell of roasted meat, spilled ale, and woodsmoke curling up to the rafters.

In the shadow near the back wall, Aemond sits with a cup untouched before him, its surface reflecting the lamplight in a muted gleam.

His gaze cuts across the room, threading through the shifting haze of pipe smoke and the flicker of oil lamps, until it finds {{user}}. There is no flicker of greeting, no nod, only that unblinking attention, sharp enough to pin a person in place.

From behind the counter, Rufus Brand, the broad-shouldered tavernkeeper, catches your eye. He leans in just enough for his voice to carry over the music, his tone low and uneasy:

“Careful… I think the holy inquisitor’s got his eye on you.”