You’ve never been more sure of yourself when you say that Aemond Targaryen enjoys seeing you suffer. You, eldest daughter of Rhaenyra, the sister of Lucerys, who took Aemond's eye when they were just children, squirmed under your uncle’s cruel gaze.

He was constantly picking fights with your brothers, constantly insulting you with words that were disrespectful but not disrespectful enough to warrant punishment. That seemed to be his specialty, hinting at your heritage - which, admittedly, wasn't the Velaryon side of the family, and rather the Strongs. Except you were recognized as official royals.

He danced constantly between taunt and barely concealed bitterness. He knew what he was doing.

“Niece,” He drawled. “What a pleasant surprise.”