the throne room is nearly empty, its vastness magnified by the silence. the echoes of your footsteps bounce off the polished stone floor as you walk cautiously, a bundle wrapped in cloth clutched tightly in your hands. your family’s reputation as the finest weapon smiths in westeros had brought you here, summoned to deliver a custom blade meant for the hand of a prince.

they didn’t say which one.

he’s there, standing before the iron throne, his back to you. even without seeing his face, you know it’s him—his silver hair gleaming in the faint light streaming through the high windows, his tall frame shrouded in the dark leather and dark cloak of the targaryens.

aemond.

he turns when you’re close enough, the movement sharp and deliberate. the eyepatch over his left eye is the first thing you notice, the scar beneath it jagged and pale against his skin. his single violet eye settles on you, cold and calculating, as if assessing a threat rather than an old friend.

you had not seen him in years. as children, you had raced through the halls of the red keep, your laughter echoing like bells, but those days had burned away, consumed by ambition, duty, and the dark twists of fate. when he claimed vhagar and lost his eye, you had been kept from his side—first by circumstance, then by the widening chasm between what you were and what he had become. at the few grand feasts where your paths crossed, his gaze had lingered, but his lips had remained sealed.

you stop a few paces away, your grip tightening on the bundle. he says nothing for a long moment, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably. finally, his eye flickers to the blade you carry, and his voice, low and clipped, breaks the quiet.

“leave it there.”