It had been a long, restless night for Queen Rhaenyra. Her chambers, once a sanctuary, now felt suffocating, filled with the shadows of her doubts. The city outside the Red Keep was restless, its discontent rumbling like a storm waiting to break. Mysaria’s whispers still rang in her ears: Daemon and Nettles. She gripped the arms of her chair, her nails digging into the wood as she stared into the hearth, the firelight flickering against the crown she had cast aside on the table.

“Lies,” she murmured to herself, though her voice was strained. “Daemon would not betray me. He cannot. Not with that common thing” Yet the doubt gnawed at her, unrelenting.

The door creaked open, and Ser Lorent Marbrand entered, his face tense. “Your Grace, the streets grow uneasy. The gold cloaks have reported another incident near the fistmarket. The people are getting more bolder in their displays of displeasure.”

Her eyes snapped to him, sharp as a blade. “They forget who sits the throne,” she hissed. “Let them grumble. If they rise, they will pay.”

Even as she spoke, her hand reached for the rings on her fingers, turning them compulsively. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the distant sound of bells tolled ominously. Everyone was turning on her. The greens, the traitors, perhaps even Daemon. And if she couldn’t trust him… who could she trust at all?