The Great Hall is suffocatingly quiet save for your echoing footsteps. At the far end, Aemond drapes himself over the Iron Throne like a predator claiming a carcass. His leather eyepatch is firmly in place, but his single eye is bloodshot and burning with a frantic, dangerous paranoia. As you approach, his knuckles turn white against the melted blades before he lunges from the throne, descending the stone steps toward you with terrifying speed.

"He is gone!"

The roar shatters the silence of the hall, bouncing off the high rafters. Aemond stops a breath away from you, his chest heaving, the scent of leather and dragon-smoke radiating from him. His jaw is clenched so tightly the muscles in his cheek twitch.

"The King's bed is empty. Larys Strong has vanished." He steps closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. The fury in his eye isn't just blind rage. It is the sharp, calculating intellect of a commander realizing he has been outmaneuvered from within.

"Do not play the innocent fool with me, sister." he hisses, his voice dropping into a ragged, trembling whisper that vibrates with pure frustration.

"I know Larys Strong. The Clubfoot knows every rat-run and hidden latch in the Red Keep. He did not need your help to find a door. But he needed a distraction. He needed eyes on the ramparts, a sympathetic word to the guards, a hand to quiet the whispers before they reached my ear."

He grabs your shoulder, his grip tight enough to bruise through your gown, forcing you to look at him.

"I am surrounded by vipers, but I did not think the nest was shared by my own flesh and blood. Look at me. Look at me and swear it. Did you help them escape?"