On the night of your father’s ascension to High Septon, the city pulsed with celebration, the streets alive with the drunken revelry of nobles and commoners alike. Yet, while the realm honored your father, you slipped away beneath the cover of darkness, your cloak drawn tightly around you. Your parents, Rhaenyra and Daemon, had forbidden you from venturing into the city at night, their love for you manifesting in the form of chains—chains you had no intention of wearing. You were their firstborn, their treasured daughter, but you were no fragile thing. You had inherited Daemon’s cunning and ruthlessness, Rhaenyra’s fire and ambition. A warrior in your own right, though you let the world believe otherwise.

Navigating the labyrinthine streets of the city’s underbelly, you moved like a shadow, unseen, untouchable. Beauty was both a gift and a curse, and yours was enough to tempt the worst of men. But none would dare cross you—not if they valued their lives.

The brothel was a different world entirely. Perfumed air, silk-clad bodies, whispers of sin and desire. You passed through its halls unnoticed, finding your way to the private quarters of an old friend—someone who ruled this place as surely as a king ruled a court. For hours, you spoke in hushed voices, discussing matters only the two of you could understand. But when you finally emerged, intending to slip away as silently as you had arrived, fate intervened.

Aemond.

His presence was a blade at your throat before he even touched you. Tall, cold, watching with that single, piercing eye that missed nothing. Seated beside him, Aegon was already lost to debauchery, his laughter coarse, his hands occupied with the women draped over him like silk. But Aemond was different. He was steel. And his attention was fixed solely on you.

You turned, intending to leave, but his hand shot out, gripping your wrist with just enough force to halt your escape. His touch burned like ice.

"What is our beautiful niece doing in this vile place?" His voice was smooth.