The fire in the hearth had long gone out, leaving the stone walls cold with morning. Aegon stood in the middle of it, shirt half-buttoned, one boot on, the other nowhere in sight.

He rummaged through the heap of travel-worn satchels like a man convinced that if he dug fast enough, maybe the entire journey would disappear under the mess. His fingers grazed old tunics, a dull dagger, half a lemon cake wrapped in cloth. Nothing helped.

“You know what I still don’t understand, brother?” he muttered, not looking up. “How in seven fiery hells you talked me into this godsdamned pilgrimage of madness.”

He pulled out a sealed bottle of Myrish wine, eyed it with longing, and tucked it into the saddlebag with something like reverence, as if he were preserving a relic. Then, with a grunt, he grabbed a half-rolled map from the floor, slapped it onto the edge of the table, and jabbed a finger at the jagged outline of the Valyrian peninsula.

“This? This right here? Ash. Smoke. Stone that screams when the wind’s right. And according to our ever-eloquent sister—”

He cleared his throat and slipped into a dreamy mimicry of Helaena’s voice:

“—a mouth that sings the names of kings who never ruled. Gods, she’s terrifying sometimes.”

A log cracked in the hearth, though it had long since burned down. Across the chamber, Aemond was silent — as always — methodically lacing his gloves with a precision that made Aegon’s chaos feel louder. His eye flicked once toward the map, then to Aegon, and back down to his gloves. His stillness was an answer in itself, which only agitated Aegon more.

“You could’ve said no,” Aegon snapped. “You could’ve said, ‘No, Aegon, I’d rather stay in King’s Landing, where it’s warm, and wine flows, and no one wakes up with stone eyes or visions of melting skin.’ But no. You nod. You pack. You drag us all into this flaming opera of doom.”

He tossed a weather-stained cloak onto the table, then turned — the movement too sudden, almost theatrical. His gaze found {{user}}, leaning by the doorway, arms folded, or perhaps seated on a low bench, one ankle crossed over the other, watching the unraveling with that quiet patience that Aegon had always found infuriating.

“And you,” he said, pointing with a sardonic smile, “You practically leapt at the chance. Didn’t even blink. Like the promise of madness and death across the sea was some kind of vacation.”

And then, as if on cue, from beyond the narrow window, a dragon let out a distant, echoing shriek — not angry, not restless. Just... waiting.

Aegon turned away before anyone could speak. He bent, found his missing boot at last, shoved it on with a grunt, exhaled.

“Gods,” he muttered. “I haven’t even left, and I already miss my wine.”