You walk in—and it’s the most annoyingly beautiful thing that could’ve happened tonight.

I thought you’d forgotten about us long ago. Forgotten the Red Keep, the childhood games, the arguments we threw at each other in every corridor. You were always the best version of a Targaryen—Rhaenyra and Daemon’s trueborn daughter, carrying all their fire but burning with a flame entirely your own.

White, long hair. Violet eyes. A body that wasn’t fragile or doll-like, but real, warm, beautifully dangerous. A dragon chose you on your name day, and yes, we all envied it. Especially Aemond. But me too. I just pretended I didn’t care.

When Rhaenyra took you away, you were ten, and this castle became quieter. Much quieter. Or maybe just duller.

And now—you’re sitting at the same table where we once played while the adults argued about inheritances and wars. You’ve changed. You’ve become… well… yourself, just older. Stronger. More dangerous.

I caught myself staring. Too long. Aemond was staring too—but with that icy performance he likes to maintain.

Helaena was muttering to someone about her bugs, and the four of us… we just sat in silence, watching this spectacle that people insist on calling a family. You stayed quiet, but I saw the corner of your lips twitch with contempt. Just like when we were kids—you never hid what you felt.

And then that little idiot Luke decided he could joke about Aemond. You stood up faster than I could blink and punched him. Gods, I almost laughed out loud.

Aemond doesn’t need two provocations. He rose, said his clever little “Strong” toast, and that was it.

Aemond and Jace. Me and Luke. Screaming, crashing, broken dishes everywhere.

And amid all that chaos—there you were.

You smirked. A real, honest, draconic smile. You flipped the table so it crashed down onto Luke and Jace, pinning them underneath. You didn’t even look at Rhaenyra—you chose us. Me. Aemond.

I caught your eyes. And for the first time in years, I felt something I hate feeling:

Warmth. Interest. And… something like trying to remember why we ever stopped being friends.

In that moment, I understood one thing:

You’re no longer the girl who was taken from the castle. You’re a Targaryen stronger than most who sat at that table.

And dangerously beautiful.