Aemond walks fast—angrily, almost violently, as if each step is a blow against himself. The stones on the slope are slick and sharp, but he doesn’t feel the pain. His cloak snaps in the wind like a flag of defeat. The hood has fallen back. His tangled hair whips across his face.

He yanks on his gloves—rough, furious movements, like he’s trying to press the leather into bone. The left tightens with difficulty, the right refuses to behave. His skin is clammy, marked by the scent of perfume and sweat. The brothel still clings to him: silk, powder, false warmth.

He hadn’t gone there for flesh. Not this time. He went to Madam Sylvi because everything was rotting.

And then Aegon came.

He burst into the room like a jester storming his own court. Drunk. Grinning. Rotten with wine and inheritance. The knights flanked him, heavy with silver and spilled ale. Aegon leaned on the doorframe like the world was spinning under him.

"You fucked her like a dog?" Aegon shouted, pointing at Sylvi. "Hah? Just like that?" Barked. Loud. Guttural. Vicious.

Aemond rose. Didn’t say a word. He walked past Aegon without looking at him. There was more silence inside him than in a tomb.

Now—the beach. The night is black, like a forgotten banner. The sand is black too—wet with old tide, streaked with brown rot and brine. The sea is heavy, molten lead under the moon. And still—he walks toward it.

His cloak snaps like a whip at his calves. Pebbles hiss beneath his boots. The wind claws at his face, rakes through his hair.

He stops. Inhales. Deeply. Through his nose.

…and freezes.

Something changes. There’s a new scent in the wind. Not brothel. Not wine. Alive. Pure. Complex.

Omega.