The first whisper he received about her didn’t come from the servants, but from eyes. Eyes that followed her through the halls, that trembled when she smiled, that faltered when she passed. She was beautiful — but to Larys Strong, beauty was merely another form of influence. A useful, yet fragile, veil.

She was the daughter of a bastard cousin of the queen mother. Raised in the shadow of the Hightowers, she’d been sent to court as a political token — a decorative piece to parade at feasts and marry well. She did marry well: to Prince Daeron, youngest son of Viserys. It secured her place among the powerful. But that wasn’t enough. She wanted to be heard, feared, imitated. She wanted presence.

Larys saw it in the way she lingered too long near the tapestries that concealed hidden doors. In how her gaze paused over maps, how she listened more than she spoke. She wanted influence — but had no idea how to claim it.

It was during a feast — the kind where everyone pretends to laugh but listens for names dropped between bites — that he approached her.

“Your gown has been mentioned by six mouths and coveted by three glances. A notable feat, but fleeting.”

She turned, curious. “And you care about gowns?”

“Only the ones that hide ambition.”

Their meetings began after that. Brief. Useful. He warned her of coming betrayals, names to avoid, alliances to craft. And in return, he asked for so little. First, a ribbon from her hair. Then, silk stockings worn at the autumn hunt. Trophies.

“They’re keepsakes. Your victories deserve to be remembered, and I like to keep them close,” he would say, voice low, eyes always half-lidded.

She allowed it. She knew what she was gaining. She knew what it cost.

Then came the requests for intimate moments: to watch her bathe at dusk, to brush her hair with his own hands, to see her bare feet. And finally, a kiss — cold, measured, like casting a spell.

There were never screams, never force. But the control was absolute.

She rose at court. Queen Alicent listened to her. Her husband heeded her counsel on matters once reserved for maesters. And when asked how she had learned so much, she only smiled.

“I listen closely.”

And Larys listened to everything. Even the heartbeat of the child growing inside her.

When the son was born, he brought a gift — a silver bracelet with black pearls. He said the boy should wear it at his naming ceremony. He looked at the child too long, with eyes unreadable.

“He’s… perfect,” he murmured, fingers hovering above the crib.

She, pale, answered with silence.

“You’ve won,” he added. “But only because I allowed it.”

He hated the boy. Hated what he represented. Strength. Wholeness. Something he never had. Yet he did not touch the child. He merely left the gift on the dresser and turned to leave.

Before crossing the threshold, he whispered, “Even when a tree blooms, it never forgets the root that sustains it.”

She understood. She knew she would never be free. He would never let her go.