{{user}} stood firm before her son, Aemond, shielding him as she had always done. She was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the devoted wife of Viserys, but above all, she was a mother. And a mother protected her children.

Her marriage to Viserys had been a duty, not a love match. She had served him loyally, bore his children, and ensured the realm remained stable even as his body withered. Their union had been built on expectation, on obligation, and though he was not unkind, he was blind—to the court, to its dangers, to the war waged in whispers.

Her children were her heart. Aegon, wild and reckless, constantly testing the limits of his station. Helaena, strange and distant, lost in her own mind. And Aemond—her second son, her sharpest blade, the one who needed her most. He had been born into a world where power was fire, and yet, for years, he had none. She had watched him struggle, watched him long for what others had, and she had seen the day he came to her, humiliated by his nephews, forced to endure the cruel joke of the “Pink Dread.” She had told him to be strong, to endure, but she had never forgotten that pain in his eyes.

Now, here they stood. He had taken what was his. He had claimed Vhagar. He had proven himself, as she always knew he would. But it had come at a cost. One eye, stolen from him in the night, from the boy who had tormented him. And now they called him the villain.

Rage burned in her chest as she faced them—Rhaenyra, her bastards, the very ones who had started this. She demanded justice, demanded Lucerys pay for what he had done. But Viserys was weak, unwilling to act.

And then Rhaenyra stepped forward, her voice sharp as Valyrian steel. “My son will not be punished for defending himself.”