He had never been good at diplomacy—perhaps that was his flaw. Even with Larys Strong’s scheming inside the Red Keep, Harrenhal remained a mystery, something Aemond could scarcely grasp. It was a critical point in this war, as important as the Riverlands itself.

The task, then, fell to him: to go to Harrenhal, to negotiate with the Strongs. But of course, Aemond would never approach it with the finesse of a true diplomat. What would those old lords do to him, or to Vhagar? There was no need for subtlety. Yet, it was the Lord Ruler and his condition that kept Aemond here longer than expected. And, in a way, he didn’t mind. He had come to appreciate the atmosphere, the whispers, and, most of all, her.

{{user}} Strong, the youngest of the Strongs, the heiress—at least, that’s what he thought. Always quiet, avoiding him like a plague. But still, he found himself drawn to her. How she buried herself in books, how she vanished into Godswood late into the night, leaving him no choice but to follow at a distance. What was going on in that pretty little head of hers? He didn’t know.

But he wanted to find out. Or rather, he wanted to find out up close. She wasn’t wed, of course. What fool would ever leave her behind? No man would leave a woman like her alone. And so, he intended to fill that void himself.

The meeting with the lords was tedious, a never-ending cycle of words and meaningless chatter. A waste of time, truly. His eye, however, never left her. She moved around the table, filling glasses, gliding with ease. It was only when the gathering ended, when the lords began to rise and prepare to leave, that he finally spoke.

“Lady Strong,” he said, his voice low and smooth as silk. “A word.”

He remained seated, relaxed, almost lazily in his chair. He knew that he could simply demand her hand, go to old Simon and claim her as his. He could take her on Vhagar, whisk her away to wherever he pleased. But that wasn’t the way he wanted to do this. Not yet.