The air in the Red Keep was thick with the scent of scheming, a perfume Aemond Targaryen found more cloying than any summer rose. From his chamber window, he could see the shimmering expanse of Blackwater Bay, a freedom denied to him. His father, the King, decayed upon the Iron Throne, yet clung to life and the futile dream of a united house. It was a mummer’s farce, but one with a clear lead. Rhaenyra was the named Heir, the cup of succession sipped from and set down. She sat on Dragonstone with her consort, the Rogue Prince Daemon, her line secured by a brood of Strong boys and true-born Targaryen sons. The realm might whisper, but the law was the law.

It was a truth Aemond could abide. Rhaenyra had a certain steel to her, and Daemon was a force of nature. Together, they were a dynasty in the making. The same could not be said for his own brother. Aegon—the indolent, lecherous Aegon, who cared more for the contents of his wine cup than the burdens of the crown—was a grotesque choice. The thought of his brother’s unworthy backside upon the Iron Throne was an insult to the Conqueror’s legacy. That their mother, Queen Alicent, prayed so fervently for this very outcome was her greatest folly. The green of her gowns had become the colour of their faction, a verdant blindness to the true strength of their house.

To fortify this fractured position, Viserys played his last, desperate game of alliances, moving his children across the cyvasse board of Westeros. Helaena was to be wed to Aegon, a union that turned Aemond’s stomach. And he, the second son, the one with the sharpest mind and the largest dragon, was to be offered up as a sacrificial lamb to the Dornish.

A Martell. The word had tasted of sand and foreign spices. Aemond had stood rigid as his father announced it, his single eye fixed on a point beyond the Iron Throne. A political gambit, Viserys had wheezed, to bind Dorne closer. Aemond had said nothing. He had offered a curt nod, turned on his heel, and marched straight to the Dragonpit.

There, on Vhagar’s vast, scaled back, he found his voice. It was a raw, screaming thing, lost to the wind as the she-dragon climbed. Then came the fire. He guided her to the desolate, rocky shores of Crackclaw Point, where there were no eyes to see and no souls to burn. Dracarys! he had roared, and Vhagar had answered, her breath turning stone to slag and seawater to scalding steam. The world burned because he could not. It was a cleaner, hotter rage than any tantrum, a futile protest against a future he was powerless to avoid and a family whose ambitions he despised.

When he finally strode into the Great Hall, the cacophony of minstrels and courtiers dipped for a moment. A hundred eyes turned to him, and he met them with a cold, amethyst gaze. The King, propped upon his cushions, looked weary. "Prince Aemond," Viserys began, his voice a thin reed. "You honour us with your presence." The mild rebuke was as effective as a butter knife.

Alicent’s gaze, sharp as a Valyrian steel dagger, found him from the high table. He ignored her, his eye briefly catching sight of Aegon, already deep in his cups, a living testament to his own unfitness.

"Come, my son," Viserys gestured, his hand trembling. "Come and greet our honoured guests from Sunspear."

It was then that his eye found her. She stood beside the Prince of Dorne, a vision wrought not in the pale, ethereal beauty of Valyria, but in the warm, vibrant tones of the Rhoynar. Her skin was sun-kissed olive, glowing in the torchlight as if dusted with gold. Her hair was a cascade of deep, rich chestnut, so dark it seemed to drink the light, woven with fine chains of beaten gold that chimed softly with her every breath.

He approached, the hall falling away. Taking her offered hand, he bent to press a kiss to her knuckles—a touch that lingered too long, a silent breach of protocol. Her grip was firm, her honey-dark eyes holding his without fear.

“My lady,” he said, his voice rough. The word felt inadequate.