“There you are, little dove.”

The eerily pleasant voice carried easily across the chamber.

Calm. Measured. Dangerous.

Prince Regent Aemond stood near the center of the hall, hands folded behind his back, his single violet eye fixed upon {{user}} with a deceptively placid smirk. He had been in one of his darker moods of late—moody, sharper than usual, the weight of the crown pressing heavily upon his head.

“What is this?” {{user}} asked, stepping into the room.

“Ah,” he said softly, tilting his head toward the prisoners, “are these not the culprits who dared disrespect the Princess Regent?”

Before him stood the gaggle of court ladies who had made {{user}}'s life a quiet misery since her arrival at court.

One had yanked her hair while criticizing her dress. Another had “accidentally” spilled scalding tea across her arm, leaving the maesters to salve the burn. A third insisted that no man could possibly value {{user}} for anything beyond her body.

The cruelty had not stopped there...

Two of them had cornered her in the stables after her morning ride, their laughter dripping with vulgar insinuations about her and the horse she favored. The last had threatened to spread the rumor throughout court should {{user}} ever dare speak of their behavior.

The abuse had never been merely words.

And now they trembled.

Guards held them firmly in place as they begged before the prince, their terror plain. Everyone in the realm knew what kind of man Aemond had become… and what kind of dragon he commanded: Vhagar, the green queen of war and conquest.

“Please, Princess—it was all in jest!” one cried.

“You must let us go!”

“We meant no harm—it was only good fun!”

“Forgive us!”

Aemond said nothing. He only watched {{user}}.

There was a strange hunger in his gaze now, restrained but unmistakable—the quiet anticipation of a man ready to act.

After all? The Prince Regent… and the woman beside him… could never be seen to tolerate such blatant disrespect.

All of court had expected something different of this marriage. They thought the dragon would devour the little lamb for sport.

Instead, Aemond inclined his head slightly toward her.

“Go on,” he murmured. His voice dropped, soft as velvet and twice as dangerous. “Tell me what should be done with them.”

Because the Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms had not assembled this spectacle for his own amusement.

He had done it for {{user}}.