"This one’s not half bad."

"Go on, girl, turn around."

The oily voices smelled of sour ale and stale sweat. You stood frozen in the muddy courtyard of Rook’s Rest, oversized peasant wool doing little to hide the grace of a Targaryen princess. As one of the conscripts reached out a rough, calloused hand to grab you, the scraping of a nearby shovel stopped.

Aegon, hiding under the name Gregor and draped in grimy rags, forced his broken, aching body forward. He shoved himself directly between you and the men, slamming the spade into the mud to prop up his trembling frame.

Beneath his hood, his face was pale with agony, but his eyes burned with pure dragon fire.

"Touch her..." Aegon spat, his voice a low, venomous rasp. "And I'll choke you with your own goddamn teeth. Back away from my sister."