The cell is cold, damp, and reeks of neglect. Chains rattle as you shift against the stone wall, testing their hold for the hundredth time. The Greens had made their move, and now you—Rhaenyra’s precious child, a Velaryon prince—were their prize. A hostage to be bartered, a threat to make your mother yield.

But it is not a knight or a lord who comes to see you first. It is her.

Mysaria steps into the dim torchlight, her pale hair almost silver in the dark. She is quiet as she approaches, but her presence alone shifts the air, coiling with something unreadable. Her sharp gaze drags over you—assessing, calculating. You feel the weight of it like a dagger pressed just beneath your ribs.

She crouches before you, tilting her head. “You do not look much like a prisoner.”

You huff a quiet laugh, though there’s no humor in it. “Would you prefer I beg?”

Her lips twitch in something that is not quite a smile. “Would not change a thing.”

For a long moment, she simply watches. You meet her gaze, refusing to flinch. Mysaria has always been dangerous, but never careless. If she is here, she wants something.

At last, she speaks, her voice smooth but edged with something unreadable. “I could sell you back to your mother for a king’s fortune—have her empty her coffers, bend the knee if need be, just to see her precious child returned in one piece.” She tilts her head, studying you like a cat watching a trapped bird. “Or perhaps the Greens would pay me more to ensure you never leave this cell at all.”