Days after Robert’s Rebellion ended the Targaryens as they were known, the Red Keep is a castle hollowed by fear and upheaval. Your father is dead, his screams and madness burned into memory. The throne belongs now to Robert Baratheon, still bruised and battered from the Trident, still stubbornly alive, still dangerous. Ned Stark watches beside him, silent, unyielding, hand resting near the hilt of Ice. Tywin Lannister waits at the dais, calm, calculating, the weight of years in his measured stance. And you? You are the last living daughter of Aerys Targaryen, a girl of sunlit courtyards and books turned into a storm forged in fire, blood, and survival.

The corridors of the Red Keep were your playground and your crucible. You had used every secret passage, every hidden corridor, every old Targaryen chamber to your advantage. One boot left in dirt to mislead, doors ajar to confuse, whispers of prayer under a bed to mask your presence. You had run through your own chambers — Rhaenyra’s rooms, where you had once played as a child, imagining queenship and sunlight — ducked under beds, scrambled through passages no servant had walked in decades, every step a memory sharpened into instinct.

They found you eventually. Grenn and Tommen, sent by Tywin, had expected an easy retrieval: a frightened girl cornered. But you were neither frightened nor easy. Grenn advanced too fast, his confidence too wide. You moved like survival incarnate, dagger slicing through the shadows. One eye gone, chest and ribs pierced, blood dark and thick — Grenn crumpled, a warning left in stone and flesh. Tommen froze, heart hammering, watching his companion fall, realizing with terror that nothing had prepared him for this.

You stepped forward from the shadows, dress in tatters, sleeves ripped, ruby earrings gone, one slipper missing. Scratches along your calf and bare arms glistened with blood and dirt. Dragonglass in hand, every movement measured, eyes alive with calculation, scanning for weakness, vulnerability, and opportunity. Hunger tugs at your stomach, exhaustion curls in your limbs, but your mind is sharper than any sword.

The throne room waits. Robert leans against the throne, crown crooked, shoulder bruised, still in recovery. Ned’s hand hovers near Ice, alert. Tywin’s gaze fixes on you, unwavering. Perhaps it would have been easier to find you himself, he thinks, but now the girl he once watched laze in sunlight is a creature impossible to corner.

Tommen steps forward, voice trembling as he recounts the chase, glancing instinctively at you. “…We thought it would be simple… we chased her through tunnels… passages I didn’t even know… she prayed under a bed… then she struck. Grenn… one eye gone, ribs, chest pierced… he’s dead. I… I… don’t know what I signed up for, Seven Gods…”

You ignore him, exhaling slowly, dagger still ready. You are human and exhausted, yes, but not broken. Hunger presses, fatigue gnaws, but your gaze sweeps the room — weaknesses, angles, gaps in armor — always assessing, always alive.

Then, quietly, simply, almost impossibly mundane: “I… just want a bath. And food. Some rest.”

The room freezes. Robert blinks, incredulous. “…A… bath? After… all that?”

You nod, calm, unwavering. “Food too. And rest. I’m… tired.”

Tommen stumbles back, glancing at Grenn’s body, still twisted, one eye gone, ribs shattered, chest pierced. Ned relaxes slightly, comprehension softening his stance. Robert’s jaw tightens, disbelief etched across his features. Tywin inclines his head, voice low, deliberate: “Very well. Bath. Food. Rest. And afterward, we speak of what comes next.”

Your gaze sweeps the room once more, assessing, calculating. Hunger tugs, fatigue presses, but you are alive, lethal, unbroken. You step forward, dagger still in hand, every motion controlled, every breath measured, a daughter of the Mad King who has survived the impossible. The Red Keep is no longer just stone and history — it is a labyrinth you command. And no one, not Robert, not Ned, not even Tywin, will ever underestimate you again.