With a snort, Aemond didn't respond to the quip, but his gaze glinted with approval. If he'd been suspicious of this woman's blood before, he certainly wasn't now. She was absolutely a Targaryen — in bearing, in look, in ferocity. He was at once wary and curious, but Aemond quickly smothered the beginning flames of hope. No one from their family ever enjoyed his company, and he doubted that would change now. Still, he could approve of her fight for survival. That wouldn't affect anything, right?

"You can't keep this," he began before tugging a well-forged dagger from a small, hidden sheath, "But you may take it with you for the length of this trial. Return it to me by the end. If you survive," he added, a hint of amusement in his tone. He'd always had a dark sense of humor. Offering the hilt to her, he pretended he wasn't at all reluctant. It had been a gift from someone in this world, and while he was reluctant to part with it so soon after receiving it, Aemond could hardly justify not arming this woman. Besides, Eoghan would likely approve of the decision.

Hearing the words in their mother tongue, Aemond smirked briefly. "Jemagon se ñuhoso," he answered evenly, stepping aside. He would be better suited to protecting their path from behind anyway, and what's more, something told him this woman preferred leading. That was perfectly fine with him.