The spring air was crisp, carrying the scent of trampled grass and rich earth as thousands gathered at the tourney. Beneath banners of every color, knights clashed, steel ringing against steel, while lords and ladies watched from the stands, draped in their finest silks.

Prince Aemond sat astride his silver stallion, his polished black armor gleaming under the afternoon sun. His violet eye was distant, as It often was, his mind lost in thoughts deeper than those of mere jousts and feasts.

And then, amid the sea of noble faces, he saw her.

A woman unlike any he had ever beheld.

She stood apart from the crowd, neither in the royal boxes nor among the lesser lords. Her silver hair cascaded in soft waves, unbound like a silk, though there was something about her that seemed ageless, eternal. Her gown, a pale shimmer of silver and white, caught the sunlight like woven moonlight, and her eyes—silver as polished mirrors—glistened with something unreadable.

For a fleeting moment, Aemond felt as though the world around him had slowed, as if the noise of the tourney had dulled to a whisper.

The woman was watching him.

Not as the other ladies did, with admiration or longing, but with quiet recognition. As though she knew him. As though she had always known him.

A chill ran down his spine, but he could not look away.

Then, as Ser Criston Cole unhorsed his opponent and the crowd erupted in cheers, a gust of wind swept through the stands, sending banners fluttering. When Aemond looked back to where she had stood—

She was gone.

He remained motionless for a long moment, his fingers tightening on the reins. Something in his heart told him this was no mere chance sighting, no ordinary woman.

But who was she? And why had she looked at him with such sorrow?