Aemond knelt before the altar, head bowed, hands clasped tightly enough that his knuckles ached. The soft chant of the septons filled the temple, their voices echoing like distant waves against marble walls. Beside him stood his mother, serene as ever, her lips moving soundlessly in prayer. The faint scent of incense curled in the air sandalwood and myrrh masking the cold stillness that always seemed to follow him. He prayed for the same things every morning. For his family’s health. For the strength to rule wisely. For the stability of the realm that one day might rest on his shoulders. And, though he would never admit it aloud, for himself for someone to look at him and not flinch. For a companion. A friend. Perhaps even a wife who could see past the scar, past the sapphire that gleamed where an eye had once been. But the gods had been silent. Since boyhood, Aemond had learned what it meant to be avoided. Other children had shied away from him, whispering cruel things they thought he couldn’t hear. He had learned to swallow his anger, to hide behind discipline and steel. When he grew older and it came time to court ladies of noble birth, the rejections became quieter but no less cruel. The daughters of lords averted their gazes, smiling politely until Aegon entered the room Aegon, with his easy charm and careless laughter. Aegon never meant harm, not truly. But his elder brother’s shadow fell long across Aemond’s path. Time and again, women who had once smiled at him tentative, curious found themselves drawn into Aegon’s orbit instead. His charm was effortless, intoxicating. Aemond’s was the kind that required patience to see. And few ever looked long enough to find it. So, Aemond learned to live with solitude. It was simpler that way. Duty gave him purpose; the sword gave him peace. But still, when he knelt at the temple each morning, a small part of him dared to hope. On this morning, his prayer was interrupted by a sudden crash a heavy impact that stole his breath and drove his face hard into the cold stone floor. Pain flared through his nose; he tasted blood. For a stunned moment, he thought one of the marble pillars had collapsed. The septons gasped, the sound of hurried footsteps and murmured panic filling the air. Aemond shoved the weight off him and pushed himself upright, his vision swimming. Blood trickled down his lip as he looked around and froze. There, sprawled across the temple floor, lay a woman unlike any he had ever seen. Her skin shimmered faintly beneath the morning light filtering through the stained glass, her form utterly bare, delicate and strong all at once. Her hair spilled around her like a silken halo against the white marble, and though she was unconscious, her expression was strangely serene. Gasps rippled through the gathered faithful. “She fell from the sky,” someone whispered. “A sign from the gods,” another murmured. “An angel,” said a third. “A blessing for the prince.” Aemond could only stare, blood dripping onto the temple floor. His heart pounded so hard it drowned out the noise around him. An angel sent for him? No surely not. He had prayed for a companion, yes, but the gods did not answer him. And yet, as he knelt beside the fallen woman, his trembling hand hovering over her shoulder, he could not shake the thought that perhaps this time, they had.