Every man has his vice, his need. Flesh and desire, bound by will—be it noble or depraved. For Aemond, it was ambition that consumed him. The unrelenting need to prove himself the best, to rise above, to wield his dragon's fire and watch the world burn at his command. Vhagar's shadow loomed vast, impossible to ignore. In death, there is no equal.

Yet, even the most driven man is not immune to the baser cravings of the flesh. In the brothel's haze, where coin grants dominion and indulgence, such desires are easily sated. Be it for the solace of a fleeting touch or the violent release of anger that leaves bloodied sheets and a marked back, it offers reprieve from the weight of princely burdens.

And so, Aemond found himself in the pleasure house that night. Low flames flickered, bodies entwined in carnal rhythm, goblets endlessly refilled. The air was thick with the scent of women, though few, if any, could hold his interest for long. He sat at his table, swirling the amber wine in a goblet of plain iron, far removed from the silver elegance of the Keep. His eye wandered, aimless, until it caught a glimmer—a shadow of silver hair that froze him. Oh.

“Who is she?”

His voice cut through the din, directed at the Madame beside him. She followed his gaze to the girl in question, who stood apart from the others. Clothed modestly in a nightgown, she was no common girl. The blood of Old Valyria was evident in her—her silver hair, her bearing. And perhaps, for the first time in a long while, Aemond felt the blood in his veins quicken.

“Her name is {{user}}, my prince,” the Madame answered, her tone laced with unusual warmth. “I raised her myself. Tonight, she insisted on filling the cups.”

The words lingered, but Aemond did not move his gaze from the girl. She was no part of the brothel’s trade, her body not for sale, her purpose there as distant as her poise was unattainable. A pity. Yet, even from across the room, she held his singular eye. For a moment, or just for tonight, that would be enough.