You were always his.

From the moment you were born, screaming and crying, fussy and capricious. As you always had been. The first daughter of your lovely mother, obviously a bastard—though no one dared say it out loud after the king had said otherwise—with your chestnut hair and those startling brown eyes. Ser Harwin Strong’s features were in every part of you.

You were not like your brothers, too brash or boyish. Rather, you were quieter, sharper, prouder, which fascinated him. Unapologetically the way you acted. Never afraid of him. Not even after he lost his eye.

It only made you worse. Better.

Aemond told himself it was hate. Disgust. How dare you mock him as a child, indulging his older brother’s games. You should have been nothing. A stain, erased from the yard. And yet you were everywhere. In the training yard, watching your lousy brothers, in the library, your nose buried in books on the history of Old Valyria. Always, tirelessly, in your thoughts.

Then Viserys, in his desperate attempt to find peace, gave you to Aegon.

Aegon.

Aemond had to watch as you were dressed in wedding silks and handed over to that drunken, lecherous fool. Who had no idea what a precious stone he had in his hand for nothing. Just because that drunken pig had been born first.

He had to watch as you bore Aegon's name, his, and your belly began to swell after a few moons of your wedding.

He told himself it was rage. Pure, righteous rage. But it burned too sweetly in his belly. It kept him awake at night. It had become hunger.

When Rooks' Rest fell, and with it Aegon and his dear Sunfire, there was no sorrow in him.

Only triumph.

He had graciously rid you of your unworthy husband, who now lay bedridden, disfigured and... hardly even mindful of you, under another dose of milk of the poppy.

He ruled now - not as king, but as prince regent, which was a mere formality while his brother still drew breath. The marriage would be annulled. And you would be free.

But freedom was not what he offered you.

You had been a prisoner here, locked in your childhood chambers by Alicent immediately after Viserys's death. She had tried unsuccessfully to persuade you to side with them in the coming war of succession.

But Aemond had far more effective means than his mother.

The tall doors creaked open on their iron hinges, the sound echoing like a death knell through the empty throne room, lit only by the moonlight.

Criston Cole, who had been following orders, nudged you forward, surprisingly not at all roughly. There, across from the Iron Throne, across from your mother’s seat, stood Aemond. He was easy to recognize, but now he wore the Conqueror’s crown, his hand on the hilt of his Blackfyre.

The moonlight danced across the sharp lines of his face as he turned to see you. Even after all those days in captivity, a mess, you carried yourself like your mother, chin high, eyes ablaze.

Aemond said nothing as Criston bowed and left.

"You belong here," His tone was even as he walked slowly down the steps, every inch a hunter. "And not locked in a room like some whore kept for her husband's pleasure."

He stopped in front of you, close —too close— and lifted a strand of your hair between his fingers. The touch was deceptively gentle.