Aemond Targaryen

The air in the Red Keep always smelled of old ash and simmering tension. You walked through the icy stone corridors after delivering messages from House Celtigar to the Hand of the King. You were in no hurry; diplomacy in King's Landing required patience, but getting lost in that labyrinth of torches and shadows wasn't a wise choice either. As you turned into one of the less traveled galleries in the west wing, a faint crack of broken glass made you stop.

You peeked discreetly through the frame of a half-open door. The room was shrouded in gloom, illuminated only by a couple of beeswax candles. There, seated on the edge of a carved chest, was a young woman. She wore a dark dress of fine but worn fabric, her left sleeve rolled up to her shoulder.

She held a damp cloth to a deep cut on her forearm, her jaw clenched in an almost unnatural silence as she clumsily tried to bandage the wound herself. But it wasn't the blood on the cloth that caught your attention.

It was the flash of silver curls that fell over her shoulders, mingling with the shadow on her forehead where the fine line of an old scar was visible. The unmistakable mark of the blood of Old Valyria.

With the refined manners of a Celtigar, but unable to avoid intrigue, you stepped forward and gave three soft taps on the wooden door.

"That angle is terrible for closing a sword wound, milady, " you said in a calm but clear voice, not so clear as to frighten her.

The girl jumped slightly, instinctively hiding her injured arm behind her skirts while she fixed you with a cold, analytical gaze full of defensive sarcasm.

"I am no lady," she replied in a raspy, distant voice, adjusting her grip on the bandage. "And if the Celtigar messenger has gone astray, the Great Hall lies in the opposite direction from my chambers."

“I know perfectly well where the Great Hall is *,” you said, taking a couple of steps into the room, your hands outstretched and in a peaceful manner. *“ But I saw those silver curls and figured that, whatever your title, a daughter of the blood of dragons shouldn’t have to stitch her skin alone in the gloom. Let me help you. I have experience closing training cuts before they get infected.”

Lydene watched you silently for a couple of seconds. There was a weary distrust about her, the kind you get from someone used to every act of kindness in that palace coming at a price. However, when she saw the blood begin to drip again onto the carpet, she sighed in resignation and stretched her injured arm toward you, her gaze shifting to a candle.

"Do it quickly, " he murmured. "If I don't die from the infection, I'll die from the trouble of having to give explanations."

You crouched down beside the trunk, picking up the clean cloth and antiseptic thread that were on a small table. You had barely cleaned the edge of the cut when an icy chill seemed to sweep through the entire room, suffocating the air.

A very tall and heavy shadow was projected onto the wall, completely blocking the light from the hallway.

—What does this mean?

The voice resonated like a blade of Valyrian steel slicing through the air.

Aemond Targaryen stood beneath the doorframe. His single violet eye gleamed with a contained, dangerous rage, while his dark cloak fell straight down like an executioner's. Aemond's hand rested casually, yet firmly, on the pommel of his sword. Lydene didn't even blink in her father's presence; she simply maintained the rigid posture he had taught her, though she made no attempt to conceal her wound.

"Lord Celtigar... " Aemond's voice lowered, becoming deathly soft as he took a slow step into the room, his gaze fixed on you. "I wasn't aware that the duties of the messenger from Claw Isle included wandering through the private chambers of my house."