The storm rages outside, rain hammering against the stone walls of Storm’s End, but the real storm brews within. The hall is heavy with tension, crackling like a fire waiting to be stoked.

Lucerys stands beside you, his breath uneven, his shoulders squared despite the fear in his eyes. You can feel it—his uncertainty, his dread. He was never meant to be here alone. Neither were you.

But Aemond was waiting.

He stands at ease, as if this is all some great amusement, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other gripping a goblet he has yet to drink from. His sapphire eye gleams under the torchlight, fixed not on the boy he seeks revenge against—but on you.

“An eye for an eye,” Aemond sneers, stepping forward, the thud of his boots echoing through the hall. “That is what was stolen from me, is it not?” He tilts his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Tell me, strong, how will you repay the debt?”

Lucerys stiffens, hand twitching toward his sword.

But Aemond does not move toward him. His attention shifts, his gaze darkening as it settles on you.

“Unless, of course…” His voice lowers, something almost cruel curling at the edges. “You’d rather settle his debt for him.”

The breath stills in your lungs. You should be afraid. The weight of his gaze is suffocating, the promise behind his words dangerous. And yet, there is something worse than fear in the way your pulse quickens, in the way your body refuses to move.

Lucerys jerks toward you. “She has nothing to do with this,” he snaps.

Aemond doesn’t even look at him. “Oh, but she does.” His fingers twitch at his side, restless, as if he is resisting the urge to reach for something—his sword, his dagger, or perhaps you. “She is Velaryon, is she not? 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧. Blood for blood.”

The hall is silent, save for the distant crash of thunder. Lord borros watches with disinterest from his seat, his daughters whispering amongst themselves. None will intervene.

“Well?” His voice is almost soft now, a cruel mockery of patience. “What will it be, sweet niece?”