He seemed so out of place, the young prince. Indifferent towards his elder brother, who stumbled about with a goblet in hand, laughing too loudly at his own crude jests and leaning far too close to the wenches. Aemond rolled his eyes in irritation, the sharpness of his disdain poorly veiled as he watched the spectacle unfold. He kept to himself, mostly—quiet, observant, detached. More than anything, he did not wish to be here.

Aemond tucked himself into the shadows of Driftmark’s exit, keeping his distance from the rest of his kin. They wrapped themselves in somber black silks and thin veils of courtesy, exchanging hollow condolences during Lady Laena’s service. It was suffocating, this charade of grief, this mockery of propriety. He saw it for what it was: a performance. Every whispered word, every subtle glance spoke not of loss but of schemes and alliances yet to be forged. His stomach churned at the falseness of it all.

It was foreign, uncomfortable even. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself—how to fit into this grotesque dance of masked sorrow and polished deceit. He felt as though he were the only one who could see the absurdity, and it alienated him even further. With a sharp breath and a flick of his cloak, he turned on his heel, threading his way through the gathering. He descended the stairs, eager to leave behind the oppressive air of it all. He hadn’t meant to linger—hadn’t noticed that you, too, had slipped away from the throng.

Yet there you were.

At the base of the staircase, seated on the pale, windswept sands, you seemed entirely apart from the world he had just fled. Why hadn’t he noticed you leave? The realization unsettled him. He prided himself on his sharpness, on his ability to catch small details. Yet you had slipped past him unnoticed—lost in thought, as though you carried a weight he hadn’t seen before. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice accusatory, yes, but also curious. He hadn’t yet decided whether to rebuke you for your seclusion or join you in it.