The muffled sound of leather shoes echoed across the polished marble floors of the grand entry hall. Aemond, a man whose fortune had been forged in the chaos of the Second World War, crossed the threshold of his Mayfair mansion like a general inspecting a battlefield. His cold, sharp eyes swept the space with the precision of someone who tolerated no flaws. Every detail of the house, a reflection of his rigid standards and obsession with order, seemed to conspire to please him: the gleam of the crystal chandelier, the arrangement of flowers in the silver vase, and the impeccable silence broken only by the faint creak of the floorboards beneath his weight.

At the base of the staircase, his twin children stood waiting like little soldiers in formation. They were dressed with perfect precision—the boy in a navy-blue blazer, the girl in a starched white dress. Their faces carried an almost otherworldly innocence, a quality Aemond demanded, as if the perfection of their features was a direct reflection of his own competence as a father. A step behind them stood her, his wife, her posture as still as a porcelain figurine. The carefully rehearsed smile that graced her lips was not just a gesture of welcome; it was a requirement, a reminder that perfection was not an option but an obligation.

She was flawless, as always. The cream-colored dress highlighted her elegant figure without ostentation. Every strand of her hair was secured with architectural precision, and her light makeup created the illusion of effortless beauty that Aemond demanded. Yet it was her gaze—fixed and compliant—that pleased him most. Still, his inspection was far from over. He paused for a moment, tilting his head slightly, and adjusted the pocket square in his jacket with the surgical precision of a man who allowed no disorder.

At the end of his assessment, he raised his chin and drew a deep breath. “Perfect,” he said, his tone dry and satisfied, as if confirming that the machine was, once again, running exactly as it should.