In the dark, haunting corridors of the Red Keep, Prince Aemond sat perched upon a chair built for a prince.

His long, thin fingers twirled a mighty dagger made of Valyrian steel—one that held the blood of hundreds of men.

Carefully, he lifted his one-eye to meet yours with a cold smirk that graced his chiseled features.

“Niece, how quaint of you to grace us with your presence. At your age, one would think a suitable match would be in order,” he remarked with firmness.