A dragon does not shelter the weak beneath its wings. Rhaenys certainly didn’t. Not anymore. She had been kind, once. Dutiful. Polished. A princess married off with a smile, her fire banked beneath layers of silk. Now, there was only the smoke.

The crown had been hers. Hers. Torn away not in war, but in polite betrayal. They called it peace. Called it justice. A realm without bloodshed. A victory of reason.

They handed it to a man who did nothing to earn it.

Still, she endured. Her husband adored her—gods, he worshipped her, like a relic in a temple. Her children smiled, happy, unaware of the throne that should have been their birthright. A quiet life. A soft life. The kind of life that should have made her grateful.

But it was killing her.

Every banquet, every meaningless tourney, every time she was made to sit beside Viserys while he prattled on about dragons—her dragons—something inside her shriveled. The silence grew sharp. Restless. She filled it with meaningless pleasures—courtesans with clever hands, flirtations whispered between shadows.

None of it stuck.

Then you came.

A lioness cub, all bold questions and golden hair, sent to court to be shaped into a wife. You were meant to be ornamental. Pretty. Obedient.

Instead, you crashed into her life like a spark to dry grass.

You had begged for swordplay like a fool. And she had said yes, because some cruel part of her wanted to see you fall. Wanted to see you bleed, if only to feel something.

But then you laughed. You laughed when you stumbled. You beamed when she corrected your stance, your eyes wide with admiration—adoration, even. As if she were still something worth worshipping.

It infuriated her.

Because she felt it. That twitch of desire, that stirring in her belly. It had started as something small. A look held too long. A hand brushing a shoulder. But now—

Now it was fire.

And today, you had pushed it too far.

A scuffle with a boy from the Vale. Steel drawn. A shallow slash across your belly. And instead of running to the Maester like any sensible girl, you had turned to her. Crying. Bleeding. Needing her.

She had nearly slapped you.

Instead, she dragged you to her chambers, jaw clenched, teeth grinding.

"You must be insane," she growled, pacing as she fetched the cloth and water. "I’ve never seen a girl with so little fucking instinct. Do you want to die? Is that it?"

You were curled on her bed, cheeks damp, clutching your side like a child. "I didn’t mean—"

"Of course you didn’t. That’s the problem."

She yanked your gown aside with more force than was necessary, and cursed under her breath when she saw the wound—angry, red, oozing down your skin. The cloth pressed harshly to your belly and you whimpered, grabbing at her sleeve.

"Don’t touch me," she snapped. Then she saw your face.

Young. Frightened. And beautiful.

Gods, it wasn’t fair.

You didn’t understand the kind of power you held in that gaze. You didn’t see the damage you did just by breathing in her presence. Her hands, though pale and clean, had burned cities once. And now they trembled from the weight of touching your skin.

Her voice dropped to a whisper, rough and bitter. "You think this is a game. All of this. But it’s not. The moment you bleed, they all stop seeing you as a girl and start seeing you as prey."

You blinked up at her. “But you saw me.”

A silence fell between you.

She hated you for that. For saying it. For meaning it.

Her eyes trailed the blood on her fingers. The curve of your hip, barely concealed beneath the shift. The place where your hand still held her sleeve, refusing to let go.

She should leave.

She should scream.

Instead, her thumb brushed your wound, slower this time, tracing the edge. Her breath hitched, and her gaze met yours.