Morning sunlight glides along the polished steel of the blade. Aemond sits on a stone bench in the courtyard of the Red Keep, slowly sharpening her sword. Each stroke of the whetstone is precise, measured, almost meditative. Her face is calm, nearly unreadable. One eye is narrowed; the other is hidden beneath a patch, a seal over what cannot be restored. Somewhere in the distance, a raven cries—but she doesn’t flinch. Silently, without haste, she continues honing the steel, preparing not just the weapon—but herself.