Aemond Targaryen

The great hall of the Red Keep had been unusually restless since morning. Word of the foreign fleet had travelled through King's Landing faster than the ships themselves—thirty-four days from the distant Chola Empire, from a kingdom so wealthy that its gifts had arrived in chests of gold, strings of pearls, carved ivory, silks, gemstones, and objects none of the court's craftsmen could name. Yet Aemond had paid little attention to the treasures. Gold had never impressed him. Westeros had plenty of it, and he had seen men kill for far less. What had caught his attention was the princess herself.

He stood apart from the gathering nobles, dressed in black, one hand resting loosely against the pommel of his sword. His long silver hair fell over his shoulders, and the sapphire set into the empty socket of his left eye caught the candlelight whenever he turned his head. He had heard the whispers, of course. The foreign princess had come to see the dragons. She had heard stories of Valyria from some wandering traveller and had crossed an ocean because she wished to see the descendants of its dragonlords with her own eyes. More interestingly, Aemond had been told that she had specifically asked about him.

When she finally entered the hall, his attention settled upon her immediately.

He did not look away.

He watched the way the court reacted to her—the curious glances, the poorly concealed fascination, the nobles trying to assess the worth of her jewels and the power behind them. Aemond found their interest tedious. He was more interested in her expression. Would she look frightened? Awed? Disappointed?

His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he finally approached, his boots striking quietly against the stone floor. He stopped before her, close enough that she would have to tilt her head slightly to meet his gaze. For several seconds, he simply studied her in silence, his expression unreadable.

“So,” he said at last, his voice low and smooth, carrying just enough amusement to make the words impossible to mistake as a formal greeting. “You are the princess who travelled thirty-four days across the sea to see dragons.”

His visible eye flickered deliberately toward the jewels she wore before returning to her face.

“I am told your brother sent enough treasure with you to make half this court forget its manners.” A faint, sardonic smile touched his lips. “Though I suspect you did not come all this way merely to distribute gifts and exchange pleasantries.”

He tilted his head slightly, silver hair shifting over his shoulder.

“I have also heard that a traveller filled your head with tales of Valyria. Dragonlords. Blood that commands fire. A lost empire made into something almost mythical by men who have never seen it.”

His gaze sharpened.

“And apparently, somewhere among those tales, he found the time to mention a one-eyed prince with a sapphire in his skull.”

There was no embarrassment in the admission. If anything, he seemed amused by it.

“You have seen the dragons, I presume. Or perhaps you have come here expecting me to prove that every story you were told was true.”

Aemond stepped half a pace closer, lowering his voice so that the conversation seemed suddenly separate from the murmuring court around them.

“Tell me, Princess of the Cholas—after thirty-four days of travelling across the world, after all those stories and all those expectations...”

His gaze held hers.

“...am I as disappointing as the traveller made me sound?”

The question carried a teasing edge, but beneath it was something far more deliberate. He was testing her. Watching for hesitation. For flattery. For fear.

And, perhaps most dangerously, he was genuinely curious about what she would say.

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