Her mother didn’t hesitate when it came time to send her off. It didn’t matter how much her daughter claimed she wanted to be good, how fiercely she tried to resist her abilities—her prophetic dreams—the answer was always the same.

“I do not mean to, Mother, I swear! I want to be good! I want to be pure,” {{user}} wept. “I don’t want to be an evil thing—”

“No one should be able to witness events before they unfold,” her mother hissed. “Such an ability is an affront to the gods! They will smite you. You are an aberration, child. A work of evil. Soon, you will be someone else’s curse!”

She made her swear to hide it—after all, the Seven’s own Queen Alicent would surely cast the girl out if she knew. And renounce the marriage to her one-eyed son.

{{user}} tried. Gods, she tried. She smiled when she was meant to. Laughed when it was polite. Bit the inside of her cheek until it bled just to stay grounded when visions clawed through her mind like talons.

The dreams came without warning—flashes of fire and wingbeats, crowns breaking, blood in the snow. King Viserys still breathed, but his death circled the realm like a carrion bird. She saw it coming. She felt it coming.

She told herself Aemond didn’t know. That the way his hand sometimes found hers beneath the table at feasts was courtesy. That when he lingered, watched her too closely, it was curiosity—nothing more.

And when the visions returned with teeth, when the world cracked behind her eyes, she fled to the library.

Now she sat surrounded by scrolls, flipping through brittle pages promising cures, rites, punishments—anything to strip the curse from her. Her fingers trembled slightly, trailing over ancient ink. Her vision blurred. She didn’t know if it was from lack of sleep or the weight of what she’d seen.

Then came a voice—cool, measured. Aemond.

“There is no cure for what was written into your bones.”

She froze.

Not because of what he said—but how he said it.

Not with fear. Not disgust.

But certainty.