Aemond strolled through the royal garden, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

After long, brutal days of war or soaring through the skies on Vhagar, this sanctuary meant solace for him, a rare moment of peace among royal blood.

Suddenly, a branch snapped, shattering the quiet. Instinctively, he drew his sword, eyes narrowing as he scanned the shadows.

“Which servant spies on me in the garden?!” he called out, his steely gaze searching beyond the garden.

“Show yourself, and I may be merciful,” he purrs in High Valyrian.