The Royal Library wasn’t empty, but it felt quieter than most sanctuaries. Low murmurs drifted like fragments of thought. Dust hung motionless in the air, touched only by soft candlelight and the occasional rustle of a page. Quills whispered over parchment. Robes brushed against stone.

She entered without ceremony, but with purpose — a quick glance across the room, scrolls clutched to her chest, her steps careful, as though the floor might crack if she moved too sharply.

Aemond sat in the far corner. Framed by the curve of a marble column. Still and upright, more like a carved figure than a man. His silver hair was slightly tousled, his cloak slung over the back of the chair — a quiet claim of presence that needed no announcement. People noticed he was there, and because of that, they avoided looking too long.

She chose a table not too close, not too far. Not directly across from him. But within the reach of his gaze — though she didn’t know it.

She laid out the maps. One scroll cracked as she unrolled it — old and yellowed, etched with faded lines of coastal currents and sea routes. Another, newer, curled at the edges like a cat resisting touch. She worked quietly. Deliberately. Ink, pen, parchment. All in place.

The first few minutes passed in quiet concentration. Her pen moved with measured care, tracing annotations across the edges of the map. Ports, winds, depths. Nothing unnecessary. Each mark had weight.

Until it didn’t.

A dull sound.

A shift of her hand — barely anything. A fold in the parchment caught her wrist. The inkwell teetered. Tipped. Fell.

Glass shattered with a soft crack that felt much louder in the hush of the room. Ink spilled like blood across the stone floor — dark, pooling, uncontained. It spattered her skirt, bled into the edge of her map. The shards fanned out like broken teeth.

Silence rippled outward.

She didn’t look up. She exhaled through her teeth, “Fuck...” Softly spoken, barely more than breath — but full of everything: frustration, embarrassment, and the overwhelming desire to vanish into the floor. Her hand reached automatically for a glove, fingertips trembling as she knelt to gather the mess.

Aemond didn’t move. But his gaze shifted. Not judgmental — just precise. Cold. Attentive.

She believed she was alone in her disgrace. She didn’t feel the weight of his attention — because he didn’t press. He simply observed. Like a blade resting in a sheath: unmoving, but undeniably there.

Aemond said nothing. Didn’t rise. Didn’t interfere. It wasn’t his problem. But he watched.

The way she carefully gathered shards in her palm. The way she tried to wipe the ink from the edge of the map, like it might smear deeper. The way she bit her lip to stop a second curse from escaping. How quickly — yet quietly — she moved.

And how, even in her mistake, she tried not to disturb anyone else.

Silence, even in error.

He watched for another moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned back to his scroll, as if the parchment beneath his fingers might absorb the memory of her stumble. But the corner of his mouth twitched in a smirk.

At least she’s not pretending to be a shadow. Already better than most.