Aemond had always been a conqueror. It was what the dragon's blood demanded, what their legacy was forged upon. He embraced it, thrived in it, proving himself with every battle. Harrenhal burned beneath his flames, a testament to his ruthlessness. At the God's Eye, he had slain his own blood without hesitation.

Yet the cursed walls of Harrenhal whispered at night. He dreamed no longer, only feeling the weight of restless visions and the suffocating presence of ghosts on his chest. Restlessness became a companion, driving him back to the shores of the God's Eye.

Under the pale glow of the full moon, the calm waters shimmered, silent and deceptive. He found himself drawn to the lake, his boots sinking into the soft earth as his gaze swept over the surface. The melody came suddenly, soft and haunting, emerging as if from the throat of the lake itself.

The water rose to his knees before he realized he had stepped in. The song ceased, replaced by the ripple of movement. His sword was in his hand before thought caught up to instinct, his eye locking onto the figure before him.

What he saw stopped him cold. A creature, half-human, bathed in hues of green and blue under the moonlight. Her long hair drifted like a veil over the water, her bare breasts glistening in the night. His sword had struck her tail. She should have been a myth, a vision crafted by restless nights.

Before he could speak, before he could move, she was gone, disappearing beneath the surface as if she had never been there.

That night, he could not rest. Her image burned into his mind. It consumed him, more deeply than any victory ever had. When the moon rose once more, he found himself back at the water’s edge.

“I know you’re here,” he called, his voice steady but softer than he intended. “I won’t hurt you. Show yourself.”

In an act that would have once felt foreign to him, he let his sword fall to the ground. Its weightless absence unsettled him, but he needed to prove to himself that this was not madness.