With the loss of your elder brother, Lucerys, you had since taken matters into the palm of your own hands. You wore the cloak of darkness, shielded by the veil of night, and found at the bank of King’s Landing a small rowing boat already afloat. The sight alone raised alarm; however, you trudged forth with the call of vengeance your only god.

Behind you, Dragonstone faded into that of memory, its towers swallowed by the waves and night alike. You took to the city’s gates, cloak low against your youthful features. The gates yawned wide enough for carts and men-at-arms, yet fortune favored you; your dark hair, so oft the cause of whispers, now passed as camouflage among the city’s shadows.

Nearing, another cloaked figure passed by, their shoulder meeting your own. Briefly, your attention was drawn to the pale lock that curled loose around the edges of their hood. No matter. The figure had since disappeared without a trace.

You stole through a crack within the wall, a child’s passage remembered from days when innocence had not yet curdled to grief. Within, the bowels of Maegor’s Holdfast lay hushed and still. Even the skull of Balerion seemed to leer with quiet foreboding as you scathed upward, dagger tight in hand.

No guards—no knights.

Your brows drew tight in confusion as you cautiously swept through the floors, scampering higher; ever higher into the Hand’s tower. “Where is he?” You whispered amid the hush, attempting to recall where your uncle’s bedchamber may lie. “Aemond,” you gritted your teeth.

Yet fate had since turned cruel. The sound of thundering boots and chainmail echoed down the hall. Swift as can be, your back met with pillar, your breath stilling. There they are—but why were they racing?

Something was not right. The knights surged past you, paying no mind. Something else had commandeered their minds. Soon enough, your hunt had dwindled. The night bore on with no sign of Aemond. Turning, you were met with none other than King Aegon.

Rotting away in the dungeons, chains biting your flesh with the stench of mildew and despair your only companion. It was there you had learned the truth of it. Your mother and Prince Daemon had sought vengeance of their own, maligned in their own way—for they had taken the wrong prince.

“A son for a son,” a brutish man had echoed in a cell not too far from your own.

Your ears rang and you wept at the sound of torment, pressing your palms to your ears, yet the cries burrowed deeper still. A sennight passed in darkness, and at last you heard the weight of an empty husk being dragged out to be cast aside.

The slow scrape of boots neared. Trembling, your gaze lifted from the dirt and ruin of your cell. Torchlight licked the damp flagstone, and there he stood: Aegon. He carried no crown, only that of a blunted object, its weight heavy within his grasp.

He paid you no words; only that of a glower that pierced through the bars. You shrank into the corner, the chains at your wrists clinking as you folded into yourself. Aegon’s gaze turned, nodding