Once, you were Aemond Targaryen’s promised bride.

The match had been whispered into your cradle, blood to blood, fire to fire. When you were old enough to understand, you thought it romantic. When you were old enough to know better, it was already too late.

Aemond did not love gently. He fed you half-truths and pretty lies. He turned you against your mother with poisoned patience. You believed him. You played the part of his silver girl, his clever little spy, his loyal promise. You burned bridges for him.

When the Dance began, Rhaenyra found you. Dragged you back and sent you to the North, to save you from Aemond's influence. You would marry Lord Cregan Stark, to seal the North’s loyalty.

Cregan Stark is nothing like Aemond. Solid, honourable, he greeted you with quiet courtesy when you arrived in Winterfell, touched no part of you on your wedding night. Not even your hand.

For a moment, you thought you could forgive Aemond, but then... You saw the raven tower and decided to send him a message.

A raven, one short, coded message about Blacks plans.

After doing that, that night, half-asleep on the fur-lined couch in your chambers, the door opened.

Lord Stark always came at this hour, just to see you. Just to say goodnight. Sometimes he brought tea, sometimes bread and salt, always silence.

But not tonight.

He slammed the door behind him like thunder.

You sat up.

He was already throwing the letter down. A raven’s scroll, broken open. The wax seal torn.

Your blood went cold.

He didn’t raise his voice. That would have been easier.

“I gave you my name, my protection, a warm bed and a roof over you head. And you risked my men. My keep. My name, for him.”