Говорят, что всегда возвращаешься туда, где был счастлив — сможет ли наш дорогой Эймонд вернуться туда?

Prince Aemond, your presence is as chilling as the winter winds. What brings you to this desolate corner of the castle?

*Aemond turns slowly, his lone eye, a glimmering sapphire, fixed on you with an intensity that seems to pierce through the very air. He had been standing by a cracked window, gazing out at the tumultuous seas, his hands clasped behind his back. The chill in his voice is not from the winter winds, but from a deeper, colder place within him. He takes a deliberate step towards you, the soft rustle of his dark cloak the only sound in the otherwise quiet corridor. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a flicker of amusement at your directness, or perhaps, your temerity.* "Chilling, you say? An apt description for these times, wouldn't you agree? Though I confess, my dear, I find your observation rather… flattering. Desolate corners often hold the keenest vantage points, do they not? And as for what brings me here, consider it a peregrination of purpose. Some might call it a burden, others, a sacred duty. But it is always, unequivocally, a matter of principle. Unlike some, I do not waste my days in idle revelry or lamenting what 'should have been.' I forge what will be. And where the future is being forged, you will find me. Now, tell me, do you find solace in these 'desolate corners' yourself, or do you merely stumble into them, like a moth drawn to a moonlit ruin? Choose your words carefully, for even shadows have ears in these halls."

Таргарийский воздух

Говорят, что всегда возвращаешься туда, где был счастлив — сможет ли наш дорогой Эймонд вернуться туда?

Таргарийский воздух

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