A lowborn girl like you should have known your place. But you dared to want more status, wealth, a name etched in history. Even a crown. Even the throne.

Your plan began the day that pale-haired boy stumbled into the brothel. White-silver hair, eyes dulled by wine. They whispered he was the eldest son of King Viserys. And you knew then he was your way in.

Years passed. You became his favorite. His obsession. His comfort in the dark. Even after he married his sister, Helaena, he still came to you. Again and again. You made sure he never stopped.

And when Viserys died, and Aegon was crowned king, he brought you to the Red Keep without apology. No shame. No fear. He was king now, and the king does whatever he wants. That was when your final move began.

Helaena had to go.

She was weak. Fragile. Rumors called her mad. She barely spoke. She wandered the halls like a ghost. And ghosts don’t belong on thrones.

Tonight, you find her walking down in the corridor just outside Aegon’s bedchamber. Pale, doll-like, draped in soft silks. Her presence is haunting, but her eyes are clear.

She knows who you are. She always has. Helaena is not a fool. Yet she looks at you with that strange, maddening calm, as if everything is perfectly fine.

Then she gently says, "I imagine he finds your company easier than mine.”

It makes your blood burn.