It wasn’t uncomfortable. Not entirely. Aemond was used to silence—used to the crackle of burning logs over idle talk—and he welcomed it, more often than not. But here in Harrenhal, the quiet never quite felt natural. Not truly.

She did, though. Or so he liked to think.

Alys had left—some time ago now, he supposed. She said there was a matter to tend to, something too delicate for ravens. Whatever it was, it had to be delivered by hand. He believed her. He’d watched her leave, after a kiss.

And so, her sister remained. One of the few he had spared within these crumbling halls—alongside Alys herself, and whatever strange bond tethered them all together.

She didn’t speak to him. Then again, he rarely saw her speak at all. He’d noticed how Alys treated her more like a daughter than a sister. Perhaps she was a daughter, born in shadows and never claimed. She appeared closer to his age than to Alys’s, at least. That much was plain.

They always sat like this, the both of them—near the fire, trying to keep the cold from crawling too deep. The chairs were rough, old things, but they served. And the silence, as always, stretched long. Usually, Aemond didn’t mind. But tonight, hers began to press at him. Just enough to make him want to break it.

“It must’ve been unusual…” he began, the words feeling awkward in his mouth. “Growing up here. I imagine it’s… a particular kind of life. Not necessarily a bad one.”

He wasn’t sure if that sounded right. Or if it would offend her.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eye on the hearth—the flames dampened, struggling in the wet air.

He didn’t expect her to answer. She hadn’t made any effort to speak to him, not yet. But still, it might be something.