You are—or were—Rhaenyra Targaryen’s spy. Until they caught you. They didn’t kill you. Didn’t parade your body through the streets. No. They took you — clean, silent. A blow to the back of the head, a sack over your face, and then — nothing.

Now you’re here.

In a cell beneath the Council Hall. The stone is damp, slick with ash and moss. The air reeks of old blood and burnt wood. No chains, no guards. Just you and the dark. This isn’t a prison. It’s a decision point. Those who make it here are either valuable… or about to be discarded.

When the door creaks open, you know instantly — this is no jailer. Not a servant. The air shifts.

She steps in. The one you were meant to find. Or kill. Or study. Or — maybe — something else you won’t admit.

Princess. Warrior. A woman carved from stone and fire. Aemond Targaryen.

One eye hidden beneath a black patch. The other — violet, glacial, steady. Her armor is still on. Her cloak still carries the scent of smoke. The sword at her hip hums with recent violence. She walks like she’s measuring time with distance.

“Awake.” Her voice is low, almost calm.