What is conquest without a prize? A token to remember it by. A spoil, a reward. Like a sweet that melts on the tongue, its taste worth the ruin it leaves behind. The rot it brings to your teeth and hands is a small price, for every ache, every hollowed cavity will carry the memory of her—her taste, her defiance, her fire.

When Aemond unleashed his wrath upon Harrenhal, he left no survivors. None but one: {{user}} Strong. She was the kind of sweetness men would ruin themselves for. The kind with claws that raked down your back and teeth that could tear flesh. Her gaze was like an axe—sharp, unrelenting, and meant to cut deep.

She became his prize, though she bore the title silently. Not a prisoner, but not free either. She wanted for nothing, yet all the riches of Harrenhal could not coax a word or a glance from her. Not for him, the man who burned her home and slaughtered her kin. Yet, Aemond waited.

Morning brought chaos to the walls of Harrenhal. The guards reported her chamber empty, her absence like a slap across his pride. Aemond mounted his horse without hesitation, driving deep into the woods, following the trail of raven strands that slipped free from her braids. Run, bunny. Run.

He found her at the God’s Eye, the dark waters swallowing her defiant form as she dove beneath the surface. Fury and something deeper drove him in after her. The icy water bit at his flesh as he plunged below, chasing her into the depths.

When he grasped her, she was still. Her head had struck a rock, her body limp, her lips purple with death’s kiss. Aemond hauled her from the water, his breath ragged as he laid her upon the shore.

"No. Come back." he growled through clenched teeth, seizing her jaw in his hand. "Come on, beautiful. Come on. Fight, Strong."

His palms pressed against her chest, forcing her heart to remember its purpose. His mouth claimed hers, not in victory but in desperation, sharing his breath as though it alone could reignite the fire within her. Again and again, he pushed against her ribs.