Slave Market. Somewhere in the south of Essos. After the Dance of the Dragons. The cage is too small for a man. The bars bite into his back when he breathes. Iron rust flakes into the wounds on his shoulders. The sun hangs high and merciless—turning the air to dust and sweat, thick with flies and old blood. Around him: shouting, deals, laughter. The scent of rot and coin. Another market. Another day for the flesh to be priced.

Aemond Targaryen crouches, wrists bound, ankles bruised, head bowed. His once-white hair is matted with filth, sticking to cuts and scabs along his scalp. The sapphire eye is gone—stolen in some alley or tent days ago. The socket is crusted over, a pit of dried blood and ash. What remains is one violet eye, dimmed but not broken.

His mouth is split. His cheek swollen. His ribs protrude sharp beneath torn leather. Someone tried to brand his shoulder—but the mark is unfinished. He tore loose mid-burn, took a man’s ear with his teeth before they chained him down again.

A collar rests against the bone of his neck. Too tight. Too clean. A mockery of nobility.

Two slavers stand nearby, arguing.

"He’s half-dead," — one says, spitting. "He’s Valyrian, you fool. Look at the hair. The eye. The blood alone is worth triple. And they say… he was a dragonrider." "Was."

The first one kicks the cage. Aemond doesn't flinch.

He hasn't spoken in days. Not since they took his ring. Not since they made him watch them strip the bones from Vhagar’s wing and sell it for ivory. He kept silent through the beatings, the knives, the heat. Because silence is the only thing left that belongs to him.

He’s not shackled now—because he can’t stand.

But they price him high. Because of what he once was. Because of what he might still be. Valyrian. Rider. Prince. Monster.

"Ten gold stags for the bloodline," the merchant boasts to a curious buyer. "Skin him or breed him—he’ll make your house richer just by existing."

Aemond breathes through his teeth. Slow. Shallow. He doesn’t look up. Not because he can’t—but because he refuses to give them his face.

The sun burns his skin. The dust dries his lips to cracking. His fingers twitch occasionally, as if still trying to grip a hilt that’s no longer there.

They whisper about him now, as if he can’t hear.

"That’s the prince. The One-Eyed." "What’s left of him."

But inside him, something waits. Not vengeance. Not hope. Something colder. Something that still has teeth.

And far below the markets of men and coin, if the wind ever shifts just right… it might still carry the smell of smoke.