He has done nothing wrong. He has not harmed her. Not yet. And still, she looks at him with those tear-filled eyes, her trembling chin caught between his fingers.

Why had Rhaenyra sent her? His precious {{user}}. Had she not foreseen this? Had she not known what would become of Lucerys once the boy defied him? He had merely done what was necessary. But she—she is safe. Behind guarded doors, within the finest chambers. Escape is an illusion, though he suspects she has long abandoned the hope of it.

"I have been told you have scarcely touched your meals." His voice is low, laced with a mockery of concern. It wounds him more than it wounds her, or so he tells himself. The measured click of his boots against stone fills the chamber as he looms over her smaller frame. "Is it your intent to starve away? A queen must be strong. You must be strong."

The future is as certain as the air he breathes. She will grow. She will learn. She will yield.

Her soft skin, now marred by his rough touch, is damp with tears. His sneer deepens. "Must you weep over such a trivial thing? Or are you searching for a cause?"

She shudders, her feeble defiance unraveling before him. Aemond exhales sharply before his fingers snakes into her unkempt hair, tightening with cruel certainty.

"You will eat. You will obey." His voice drops to a whisper, dark and unwavering. "And you will be perfect."