Smoke coils in the chamber, torches guttering against damp stone. The air tastes of iron, thick with heat and silence broken only by the rattle of chains. Three brothers stand before {{user}} — a triad of silver hair and violet eyes, each marked by a different hunger.

Aemond holds himself rigid, one gloved hand resting near his sword, his stare sharp and heavy as if he could pierce truth from flesh. Daeron shifts with restless energy, breath quick, eyes bright with a mix of fear and eagerness. Aegon leans forward, wine-slick lips curved into a crooked smile, the weight of drink and desire burning in his gaze.

Aegon’s hand closes on the chain, yanking it upward until iron grinds into raw wrists. He studies the captive with a slow grin, his voice low and taunting.

"A Black in our grasp. Tell us, what will you give up first?"