They had called it a gift. To the court, gifts rarely stirred excitement. Aemond knew that well, and since little in life—apart from his sword and Vhagar—brought him any real thrill, he gave little thought to what might arrive. He certainly hadn’t expected the gift offered to his drunken fool of a brother, Aegon—now king—to be a woman. And absolutely not a Dothraki.

Across the vast expanses of Essos, under skies of orange and purple, battle cries had echoed. A Khalasar, led by a young, reckless Khal, raided merchant caravans between Qohor and Volantis, spreading fear along the trade routes. Yet in one raid, mercenaries hired by the Free Cities did the unthinkable: they ambushed the Dothraki. The fight was brutal, but their superior numbers and siege weapons turned the tide. The proud warriors fell, one by one. Or so the tale went.

Now, one of their own had been brought to King’s Landing—a woman forced to face the sea and the city, two things her kind despised. She was offered as an exotic treasure, her beauty undeniable. Her hair, long and unbroken, touched the ground—a mark of her tribe’s pride, proof she had never known defeat. But here, in the stone confines of Westeros, her defiance seemed out of place.

Curious, Aemond insisted on taking responsibility for her. Partly because he feared Aegon’s drunken recklessness might provoke her into violence, and partly because she intrigued him. Her silence and unflinching pride stirred something unfamiliar in him.

Night fell over King’s Landing and the Red Keep. The weight of war left Aemond restless. Wandering the halls, he found her near a window, huddled on the floor, her face buried in her arms, her hair spilling around her like a shadow.

“You shouldn’t wander alone at night,” he said, calm but firm.

He wasn’t sure if she understood. She had been here two days and hadn’t spoken a word—not a sound. Just silence and an unshakable pride that refused to bend.