They collided in the stable alley. Literally.

She slipped out of the side gate with the saddle over her shoulder, covered in road dust, knee-high boots, the belt on her waist turned inside out. She cursed, because her companion was late, and her horse was stubborn. The day had been long, her mood worse.

Aemond appeared from the next row suddenly, with that cold dignity that only high-born dragon princes wear, in black, with spurs, with indecently clean gloves.

The collision was physical. Side by side. He was like a wall. She was like the wind. The saddle almost slipped, the hilt of his sword grazed her elbow.

"Careful," Aemond said sharply, without even an apology.

She took a step back, raising an eyebrow. Shoulders squared, saddle pressed to his side.

"Careful?" she asked, dryly. "Do you often fly out of the stables like a stallion without a bridle?"

Aemond stared at her, blinking slowly. One violet eye was cold, the other hidden under a bandage. His lips twitched - in surprise or anger, it was not clear, "Do you know who I am?"

She looked him over from head to toe. Critically. Slowly, "Tall. Pale. Dissatisfied with life. Apparently - someone who has not been allowed to dig manure for a long time."

Aemond froze. Either offended or interested. Behind him, the squire almost choked, but then turned away, pretending to clean the saddle.

She adjusted his belt, nodded at his spurs, "They rattle. The trail of a slayer can be heard half a palace away."

She walked past him without looking back. Saddle on her shoulder, her gait even, like one who is used to walking first - even among men.

Aemond watched her go.

"What is your name?" he asked finally.