The streets stank of wine, piss, and smoke. King’s Landing after dark was a beast with too many heads, all gnashing teeth and grasping hands. Aemond trailed beside Ser Criston through the narrow lanes, the torchlight throwing their shadows long against the walls.

“Of all the places he could rot, it would be here,” Criston muttered, his jaw tight as he shoved aside a drunk who staggered into their path.

Aemond’s lip curled. “Of course. Brother of mine could be bedding whores while the realm slips through his fingers.” The words came bitter, heavy with scorn, and yet there was an edge of something else buried deep—resentment, envy, hunger.

The brothel loomed ahead, lanterns swinging red in the misted night air. Laughter and the low hum of pipes drifted out through the open shutters. Criston pushed through the door without hesitation, his hand resting on his sword. Aemond followed, cloak swirling, his one eye narrowing at the perfume-thick heat that clung to the air inside.

He hated these places. They reeked of excess, of flesh bartered and wasted. And yet—his steps faltered.

Because there, at the far end of the room, half-shadowed by drapery and lamplight, sat a face he knew.

You.

Older now, but unmistakable. The same curve of your jaw, the same fire in your eyes. Once, when he was little more than a boy, you had been pressed into his arms in some darkened alcove of this very city—two half-grown creatures fumbling for closeness in a world that gave them none. He’d never forgotten the heat of your skin, the way you whispered his name like a secret.

But what stopped him cold was not you.

It was the child sitting on your lap, small legs swinging idly as you murmured something in their ear. A girl of perhaps three, with hair like pale silver-gold catching the lamplight, and eyes—gods, those eyes.

Violet. The same sharp, piercing violet as his own.

Aemond’s breath caught, chest tightening as though a hand had closed around his throat. The world seemed to still. The laughter, the moans, Criston calling Aegon’s name somewhere in the haze—it all fell away.

You looked up and saw him. Recognition flared across your face, chased swiftly by something harder, guarded. Your lips parted, but no sound came. The child twisted in your arms to follow your gaze, wide-eyed, curious, and when those eyes locked on his—Aemond staggered.

For a moment, he was not the prince, not the One-Eyed, not the Kinslayer-to-be. He was a boy again, bare and clumsy, remembering the taste of your skin. And now, staring at the little one who bore his mark, he felt the floor tilt beneath him.

Criston’s voice cut through, sharp. “Aemond. Do you see him?”

Aemond blinked, the world snapping back. He tore his gaze away, spine stiffening. His face hardened into marble, the picture of disdain. “No,” he said flatly, though his voice carried an edge that made Criston frown.

Criston, unaware, pressed deeper into the brothel, barking at whores and patrons alike in search of Aegon. Aemond remained behind, frozen, eye fixed on you.

You shifted the child closer, protective, your chin lifting in defiance. You would not speak, not here, not now—but the truth was laid bare between you, undeniable as the blood in the girl’s veins.

Aemond turned abruptly, cloak snapping as he strode after Criston, though his pulse thundered in his ears. He would not look back. Could not. But the sight of those eyes—his eyes—burned into him, searing, inescapable.

And for the first time in years, Aemond Targaryen felt truly undone.