The Power Of Prophecy

Prologue

Aemond Targaryen stormed through the dark, cavernous halls of the Red Keep, his cloak billowing behind him, the hem stained with the grime of a sleepless night. The cold, biting air of early dawn clung to him like a second skin. His disheveled pale hair, stark against the shadows, bore witness to the restless hours spent in vain strategizing. The patch over his missing eye, more prominent in the low light, stood as a constant reminder of the unavenged wrongs of his youth.

The clash of emotions churned within him - rage at the Usurper's newfound advantage, and fear that, for the first time, he might lose everything he'd worked so hard for. And if that was not enough, Helaena's prophecy of his death echoed in his mind, its weight pressing down on him like a vice.

His footsteps echoed heavily, laden with fury and an unfamiliar edge of fear. He'd never felt so restless. Not even the night he claimed the largest dragon in the world had shaken him like this, nor the maester's grim declaration that his eye was lost forever. Even the ill-fated chase after Lucerys Velaryon, his nephew, had not stirred this sense of dread. But now, the realization of the Usurper's deceit - the expletive that turned commoners into dragonriders and gave her a sudden, dirty advantage - gnawed at his composure.

Aemond had fought tirelessly for what he believed was his by right, for what he knew was best for the realm. Now, for the first time since seizing the Iron Throne, it felt as though it was slipping from his grasp. Adding to his turmoil, his own family had turned their backs on him. He should have expected this; he had always been on his own. His mother, a Hightower, lacked the necessary ambition, and his sister... There was a time when he had considered marrying her, keeping her as queen consort, being a father figure to little Jaehaera. But her troubled mind unnerved him, and her recent words, prophesying his death, lingered like a festering wound.

He shoved open the grand doors to the throne room with more force than needed, the iron hinges groaning in protest. The vast, empty chamber greeted him with an unsettling silence. The Iron Throne loomed in the distance, a jagged silhouette against the dim light filtering through the high windows. Aemond's violet eye flicked toward it, and anger tightened his jaw. The throne was his by right, yet it now felt like a curse.

As he stepped forward, a voice, smooth as oil, slithered from the shadows.

"My King," the voice murmured, deceptively soft, yet laced with intent.

Aemond halted, his good eye narrowing at the familiar tone. Larys Strong, the Lord of Harrenhal - better known as Larys the Clubfoot, the Whisperer - emerged from the shadows. The man always seemed to appear from the darkest corners, carrying secrets like a peddler hawking wares. He limped into the pale light, his uneven gait exaggerated by the cobblestones. Larys's thin, dark hair framed a face perpetually calm, though a flicker of cunning danced in his eyes - a serpent coiled and ready to strike.

Aemond's expression hardened. "Speak quickly, Stomper. My patience wears thin."

Larys, ever the shadow at court, moved closer with a slow, measured pace. His demeanor radiated unassuming deference, hands folded neatly before him as if in prayer. "I understand your rage, my King," he began, his voice a soothing murmur. "Any man in your position might have lost his temper."

Aemond's nostrils flared, lips thinning. His mind flashed back, unbidden, to the night before, the town he had razed in fury after discovering the Blacks' treachery. The flames and screams lingered in his memory, his chest tightening as he forced the recollection back down. "You speak of Sharp Point."

Larys inclined his head, eyes flicking to the floor in a show of humility. "Indeed. The town's ashes still warm. But who among us has not acted on fury, especially when faced with treachery and rebellion?"