Your belly swirled, burning with ill-mixed draughts that younglings ought not drink, yet Aegon drank treble as much. By his hand, he lit an eke candle, and beside it set forth a thing foul and withered: a mummified hand, its nails no more, and its flesh inscribed with strange marks; warnings in foreign tongues.

Daeron, the youngest, bent low, blue eyes keen despite his tremor. “What sorcery is this?” he questioned, prodding at one of its fingertips.

Aegon only cackled, sprawled upon the flagstones with all the careless pride of a king half in his cups. “This, sweet brother, is the hand of a witch.”

Daeron recoiled at once, fingers brushing the seven-pointed star at his chest. The boy was devout, wary of any shadow that mocked that of the Stranger. Aemond said naught, though you marked the hard line of his jaw, his patience fraying with his brother’s antics.

“A hand of a witch?” you asked, voice low, for curiosity pricked deep. You lifted it by the wrist, turning it to the candle’s warm glow, tracing the carvings as though they ought whisper their true meaning. “You jest.”

“Wrong,” Aegon purred, tossing back yet another thicket of wine with so much as a hiss. “Here lay the rules,” he said, grinning like a mad man ready to torch the whole of the keep. “Ye grip it so—aye; firm as greeting any lord, and say ‘talk to me’. Then the dead will answer.”

Daeron winced in disgust, facing away. However, Aegon pressed on, his eyes alight. “Should ye not be craven, ye may bid them enter. But keep them no more than a minute, lest they nestle within ye like that of grey worms.”

Your heart pounded at his words, blinking hard as though anxiousness knew your name. Aemond’s single eye found yours in the candlelight, cold and sharp, his fingers drumming faint against the stone floor as though reminding you he watched still.

“I like it not,” Daeron muttered, clutching the seven-pointed star that hung low about his neck as though the Seven themselves might shield him so. “‘Tis black magic. Black as any night! We oughtn’t tempt the Stranger’s kin.”

“Oh, enough,” Aegon barked, thrusting a cup into his brother’s hands. “You are a man-grown now—drink, and be done with your whining. Will you disobey your king?” Shamed, Daeron obeyed, swallowing deep his pride.

“Now watch,” Aegon said. He lit another taper, set it beside the hand, then seized the thing in his grip. “Talk to me.”

The chamber turned cold. Aegon froze, eyes fixed on some horror none but he could see. His smirk faltered, and breath stilled, until at last he tore his hand away, pale as any husk. “‘Twas staring at me,” he whispered, his japes turned to ash.

Aemond’s disdain could be borne no longer. He wrenched the relic toward himself and clasped it tight. “Talk to me,” he hissed.

His lone eye went wide, and for the first time you saw true fear in him.

“What do you see?” you demanded, though your voice shook with uncertainty.

“I let you in,” he whispered.

His head snapped back, body stiff and seizing. The possession took hold, his eye rolling back until total darkness eclipsed all light that dwelt within.