They had done it.

Laenor Velaryon was already far from Westeros, sailing across the Narrow Sea with the man he truly loved. The plan had unfolded almost perfectly—blood spilled, a body left behind, a grieving widow before the court. No one suspected the truth. The funeral had taken place in Driftmark, solemn and convincing, and Rhaenyra had stood beside the pyre, playing her part: a widow, a grieving wife, a princess bound by duty, each role carefully measured, each breath a reminder of the freedom she had lost.

Afterward, the plan had been simple. She and Daemon would leave quietly, before the court could tighten its grip around them once more. No dramatic escape, no grand farewell—just distance, and the chance to be together, finally, after so many years of waiting.

For a moment, it had almost worked.

Almost.

Otto Hightower had found out.

Rhaenyra did not know how, and she did not want to. The man had eyes in places even the spiders feared to crawl, and by the time she realized something had gone wrong, the castle had already begun to close around them like a trap.

And once again, just as so many years before, she and Daemon had been torn apart.

King Viserys had been furious. Not the quiet disappointment of the past, not the weary frustration she had learned to anticipate. This time it had been something sharper, something that tasted of betrayal. His daughter. His heir. His own brother. All conspiring beneath his roof. He refused to hear explanations. Refused to hear anything at all.

Yet even in his anger, he could not do the one thing Otto surely hoped for. He would not disinherit her, not when the only alternative was naming Aegon his heir. And Aegon…even the King could see the boy was already half-lost to wine and recklessness, far too careless for the weight of the Iron Throne.

So Viserys chose another punishment.

Another marriage.

Another man chosen for her under the careful counsel of his ever-faithful Hand—Otto Hightower.

Rhaenyra had learned long ago that Otto’s loyalty ended where his ambition began. Her father would never see the snake coiled around his own throne until it had struck.

A necessary measure, Viserys had said. You will be grateful for it in time. Marriage is stability.

Rhaenyra knew better. This was not stability. It was control—another cage to contain her, another alliance to strengthen the crown, another decision about her own life and her own body made without her consent. She could feel the weight of it even now, pressing at her chest, a reminder that her freedom was never truly hers to claim.

And now she waited.

The chamber prepared for the meeting was unnervingly quiet, the last light of evening bleeding through the tall windows and painting the floor in muted gold while torches burned low along the walls. She stood near the table, fingers tracing the polished wood, feeling the silence stretch like a living thing around her.

She did not know your name. She did not know your face. She only knew the whispers. Some called you cruel, others dangerous, and a few—fascinated, fearful, or both—spoke a simpler word: a monster.

Rhaenyra had nearly laughed when she first heard it. Court rumors were rarely kind to those who refused to fit neatly into their expectations. She knew that better than most. Half the realm had already judged her reckless, immoral, unfit to rule—without a single word exchanged.

So she refused to believe without proof. She would see for herself.

Still, if the rumors were true even in part, Otto Hightower had chosen carefully.

Perfect.

And soon she would find out.

The door remained closed. Outside, the corridor stretched into silence, yet she could sense the moment approaching, the instant when the unknown would become flesh and presence. Her fingers tightened slightly against the table, violet eyes fixed on the shadows.

Soon, she would see whether the stories were lies—or whether the court had truly sent a monster to share her cage.