A mission. Ordered by the Queen Dowager herself, with Ser Criston Cole at his side. Aemond One-Eye would not be bested; not by the Cargyll twins, and certainly not by his grandsire’s scheming. His mother had given him a command: find Aegon, and do not let him fall into the hands of Otto Hightower.

Cloaked in common rags, Prince Aemond and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard slipped through the sea of smallfolk, eyes keen and hunting for whispers from taverns to brothels. The trail had long since gone cold, and hope was beginning to wane on the horizon.

But then—he saw it.

A flicker at the corner of his eye. Movement. He tilted his head toward a narrow alley. Criston followed his gaze. There—silver hair, just visible beneath a hood, untamed and curling faintly before vanishing around the corner.

“Aegon?” Criston whispered in question.

Aemond gave no answer—only that of a low hum and stalked forth. The alley reeked of piss and rotten food, crammed with wenches and drunks. However, he wove through them with little and less effort. Criston was not so fortunate. He was caught in a swarm and the path had been blocked. In moments, he was gone from sight.

But Aemond did not falter. His boots squelched through mud and filth alike, his stride purposeful. Then—he reached out. His fingers clamped down hard around the wrist of the silhouette, and the figure froze. With one sharp yank, the hood fell.

‘Twas not his brother, but a girl. A bastard. And not much younger than he is now.