Your mother and elder sister had abandoned the Red Keep. Your king of a brother had been burned and disappeared without a trace, leaving a hollow throne in his wake. The Hand lay stricken with many an arrow, gone from this land and the next. All ties of blood that remained to you had since been severed; and you were now left with Aemond—the two of you still standing as Daeron lingered safe in Oldtown, far from any ruin. Allies slipped away like ash through open fingers, and the realm closed in with enemies anew.

It was within the small council where you had found your voice, sharp with defiance; daring to speak out against Aemond and refusing his command. You would not hurl your dragon into folly. Too many enemies loomed on the horizon. Your words felt brave then, but now, as you fled down the hall, that bravery faded fast. You had shamed him before lords and councillors. He would not let such a wound go unanswered.

Your steps quickened, skirts gathered in your fists, and past courtiers who turned their gazes. Desperation fueled your steps as you hurried back to your quarters before he could. However, ‘twas an oversight. He had seen right through you. The echo of his boots filled the hall, each strike louder, nearer, relentless as a hound upon scent. A chill crawled up the nape of your neck, as though the Stranger’s hand had met your skin. But it was no phantom haunting you—it was him.

You all but flung yourself into the chamber you called your own, dragging at the oaken doors, but he was faster. His hand shot out, the force of it a violent crack as he wrenched the door open. Wood splintered as he pried it wide, and in he strode with fury. “Do you know what you have done?” It was a voice you barely recognized—cold and lethal, stripped of brotherly restraint.

Fear gripped you, as you held your ground, pressing a hand to his chest. Aemond’s fingers closed around your wrists like iron. “You dare defy me?” His warm breath fanned your face like a growing ember. Gone was the brother you thought you knew, the careful strategist, the quiet intellect. In his place stood a baleful creature.

Step by step, he forced you back, until the rough stone of the wall pressed cold upon your spine. His shadow swallowed you whole, his frame blotting out the candelabra. "Before the lickspittles of the council?” He spat. “You would make a fool of me?"