The small council chamber felt smaller than usual, the walls seeming to press in as the Prince Regent prowled like a shadow, deliberately dragging out each step as if to savor every ounce of discomfort he could wring from you. His boots echoed against the flagstone, a steady, predatory rhythm—circling the table like a beast assessing its prey; each turn about the table drew him closer, tightening an unseen noose.

The weight of his presence was thick in the air, and his gaze did not waver. His single eye, cold and piercing, burned into the side of your face with each passing moment. Finally, he spoke. “Curious, is it not?” his voice calm, laced with accusation as he resumed his silent prowl. “How oft things go awry, certain faces are nowhere to be found. Certain names left unspoken.”

The Prince Regent continued, “Rook’s Rest. Harrenhal. Ever a convenient excuse. A reason why one might vanish just when their presence would prove… most useful.” Coming to a halt just opposite from you, his fingers carefully traced the backrest of a chair.

“You always have a reason, do you not? Duty. Illness. The gods know what else,” Aemond resumed his circling, closing the distance. “The others? Do you think they have not noticed? That they have yet whispered your name? They wonder why someone in your position always seems to be missing.”

At last he came to stand behind you. His hand settled upon the back of your chair, his weight leaning forward until the wood creaked beneath the strain. His warm breath scraped at the nape of your neck, hot and unkind. “And then,” he whispered, his voice soft as a lover’s, “there is Sharp Point.” He savored the name, rolling it off his tongue languidly, a sound that seemed to make your skin crawl.

“A fire conveniently snuffed out, a castle in flames. And yet… your absence is noted.” The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as he bent nearer. “You were not there. Were you?" His words were soft and intimate, his grip tightening ever so slightly as though daring you to deny it. He tilted his head toward the side, a faint hum slipping from his lips—a mock to your silence.