The tiles beneath his boots are damp, the air cold, but light already seeps through the arrow slits. The air smells of wet stone and iron.

Aemond walks across the courtyard. Alone. His cloak hangs heavy down his back, the sword at his hip knocking dully against his thigh. He reads from a scroll as he walks — focused, brow slightly furrowed. His gaze is sharp, the shadow from his eyepatch crossing his cheekbone.

Then — movement. A flash of gray at the edge of his vision.

Aemond stops. Turns his head.

A cat. Fat, long-haired, with splayed whiskers and the weary face of an ancient beast. Right in front of him. Staring up.

Silence.

Aemond slowly lowers the scroll. Speaks quietly, "Not now."

The cat meows. Once.

"I’m not your interest," Aemond adds, hoarsely, almost like a warning. "Move on."

The cat doesn’t. It takes three steps forward — and jumps.

Aemond leans back on instinct, but the cat lands anyway. Right on his shoulder. Claws dig through the cloak into the skin beneath. Fur brushes against his neck. A tail drapes lazily down his spine.

Aemond freezes. His face shows nothing. Only his breathing shifts.

The purring grows louder. Heavy, steady — like a muffled drum near his ear.

"Wonderful," Aemond says flatly. "A new form of humiliation."

Aemond stands still. Almost unmoving. Face carved from stone, posture rigid — but the left shoulder tilts ever so slightly under the cat’s weight.

Cat's fur bristles. Paws knead. Tail sways like a bored metronome.

And Aemond… endures. Not even a twitch of his brow. Just the faintest shift in his jaw.

Exactly then — footsteps. Aemond doesn’t turn. He just knows.