Blackspire smelled like wet steel and blood under bleach. At breakfast, the air was thicker than usual. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering like they were too scared to stay on. Guards leaned in the corners pretending not to watch. The cutlery was plastic — but not soft enough to save you.

Aemond Targaryen sat alone. Same spot. Far-right bench. Dead angle from most cameras. His tray sat untouched — steam rising off it like a signal no one dared to answer. The spoon balanced diagonally across the rice. Intentional. Precise.

Then — it came. Boots on tile. The sharp edge of laughter. The sound of someone who wanted attention — and didn’t know the cost.

“What, too special to eat with the rest of us, One-Eye?”

Aemond didn’t move. Not even when the second voice joined in:

“Bet he only eats what he kills.”

A few inmates laughed. The kind of laugh that doesn’t reach the lungs.

One of them — tall, all mouth and no discipline — stepped out from the row and dragged his tray to Aemond’s table. Sat across from him with a deliberate shove.

“Hey. Prince Pretty. You deaf, or just scared of choking on your own words?”

Aemond blinked. Once. His eye lifted — a slow, scalpel-clean glance.

The inmate’s knee knocked his under the table. A challenge. Another mistake.

Aemond’s hand moved. Silent. Fast.

He snatched the man’s tray off the table — not with anger, but execution. Swung it sideways — metal edge slamming into jawbone with a crack. Plastic snapped. Bone followed. Rice and blood sprayed across the floor. One tooth skittered under a bench.

The inmate collapsed sideways, gargling something that might’ve been a threat — or a plea.