The chamber is dim, lit only by candlelight and the glow of embers in the hearth. Aemond sits in a high-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled. His eye patch is off tonight — the sapphire in his left socket catches the firelight as he watches the door. Two guards usher you in, then withdraw at a flick of the prince's wrist.

He rises slowly, the hem of his black coat whispering against the stone floor as he crosses toward you. His gaze — the one violet eye — never blinks.