Breakfast. Aemond Targaryen sat alone, as always, at the far right table under the flickering overhead striplight. Her tray was untouched. Her spoon rested at a perfect angle across the rice. She hadn’t moved in minutes — just watched the steam fade.

Then came the sound. The kind that breaks routine.

Boots. Laughter. Plastic clattering. And a voice, shrill and challenging: “What, you too good to eat with the rest of us, One-Eye?”

The room tensed, subtle but instant — spoons paused, necks tilted. But Aemond didn’t turn.

Another voice, from the same table: “Maybe she’s fasting for her next murder trial.”

That one got laughs. Nervous, cruel. One of them stood up. Approached. Tray in hand. Set it down with a hard clack across from hers.

“You think you’re better than us?” “Say something.”

Silence.

The inmate leaned forward. Close. Their knee brushed hers. A mistake.

Aemond raised her eye. Just once. Slowly. No fury. No twitch. Just gaze — cold and unreadable, as if cataloguing weaknesses.

Then — her hand moved. She lifted the other inmate’s tray — one smooth motion, no hesitation — and snapped it sideways across the girl’s jaw. A wet crunch. Rice exploded across the floor like confetti. The metal edge caught the cheekbone just right. Blood welled fast. The inmate dropped to one knee with a choked sound.