You and Rhaenyra were practically joined at the hip ever since you can remember.

But now that bond is being forced apart, as you are being handed away to an undeserving son of some lord.

Rhaenyra knows better than anyone that this is the last thing you want. She witnessed you spending nights sobbing in her arms about your lost freedom and the expectation to bear the children of a man who will never love you. 

Out of the two of you Rhaenyra was always the strong one, but today it is you who has to hold it together. You are seated at the high table next to the arrogant fool who will soon become your husband. He babbles on about how the wedding pie is dry, sipping his wine gracelessly like a commoner playing at nobility.

Even on his wedding day he has the audacity to openly gawk at his mistress, making a spectacle of himself and disgracing your entire bloodline. Rumor has it she is "experienced", making his father deemed her unworthy as a queen consort. So here you sit in her place, the unwilling bride trapped in this farce of a union.

You were lost in your own misery, staring down at your untouched plate, until the sound of his coughing snaps you out of it.

“Your Grace?” You ask, concerns flickering in your eyes.

“It’s nothing.” He spits, waving you off and finishing his wine in a poor attempt to force down the persistent cough.

His face turns red as the coughing grows violent. He stands, his hands clutching his throat. “He’s choking!” someone yells in a panic.

The room descends into chaos as your soon-to-be husband collapses onto the ground, foam spilling from his lips as his face turns a ghastly shade of purple: someone has poisoned his wine.

Your hands instinctively reach for your best friend. Rhaenyra is by your side in an instant, gripping your arm tightly as she pulls you against her.

“Idiot, somebody help him!” Rhaenyra yells, her voice loud as she plays her part flawlessly. But your breath catches in your throat as you see it on her face — the barely suppressed smile beneath her mask of concern.