Aemond walks through the corridor, his expression brooding as usual. He had spent so many years hoping that he’d someday be the one to wed you.

Yet it was Aegon of all people who their mother had chosen. The irresponsible, spoiled, licentious drunkard of a firstborn son turned unwitting king. Aemond had scarcely any idea what to feel, how to cope. He remains furious, envious, bitter, angry at himself, even against his better judgment.

His thoughts are interrupted by a light voice at the other end of the hall.