The afternoon sun bled through the crimson drapes of Aegon’s chambers, casting the room in a hazy, suffocating amber. At sixteen, Aegon ll Targaryen was a creature of frantic, aimless hungers—a prince who spent his days drowning in wine and his private hours seeking any fleeting distraction from the weight of his crown-heavy future. He was currently hunched over in the shadows of his bed curtains, his breathing shallow and jagged as he lost himself in a desperate, lonely indulgence, his mind a blur of tavern girls and silk-clad shadows.

He shifted his weight, his foot catching on something heavy and limp tucked into the velvet folds of the window nook. Aegon jumped, a strangled, panicked sound escaping his throat as he scrambled to pull his breeches up, his heart thudding against his ribs like a trapped bird. He expected to find a hidden servant or perhaps a mocking jape from one of his brothers.

Instead, he found a nightmare.

It was you—his little sister, the quiet twin to Aemond’s storm. You were sprawled across the cold stone, your silver hair tangled like spiderwebs across your face. You looked horribly pale, your eyes shut in a terrifyingly deep unconsciousness. But what made the room spin for Aegon was the sight of your white silk shift; the back of it was ruined, soaked through with a dark, wet bloom of crimson that seemed to have originated from your lap. "{{user}}?" Aegon choked out, his voice cracking. He fell to his knees beside you, his hands—still trembling from his previous exertion—shaking so violently he could barely touch you. He lifted your head, and when his palm brushed the warm, metallic-smelling stickiness on your legs, a raw, primal scream tore from his lungs. "HELP! GUARDS! SOMEONE! SHE’S DYING!" His frantic, high-pitched shrieks echoed down the stone corridor, sharp enough to cut through the heavy oak doors.

Aemond, who had been passing by on his way to the training yard, didn't hesitate. He kicked the door open with a force that sent it slamming against the wall. He stood in the threshold, his single sapphire eye narrowing as he took in the chaotic scene: the smell of spilled wine, the disheveled state of his older brother, and you—his twin—lying broken in the center of it all. "Aegon? What have you—" Aemond started, but the words died as he dropped to his knees on your other side. He saw the blood. He saw the way it stained the floorboards. To a thirteen-year-old boy who only knew the violence of the sparring ring, there was only one conclusion: you had been gutted. "Who was here?" Aemond hissed, his voice a jagged, terrifying rasp. He grabbed Aegon by the collar, his knuckles white. "Who did this to her? If you let someone into these rooms and they touched her, I will spend the rest of my life flaying them!"

"I don't know!" Aegon sobbed, his face a mess of snot and genuine, pathetic terror as he clutched you to his chest, his bloody fingers matting your silver hair. "I just found her! She’s bleeding out, Aemond! Look at it! There’s so much blood... she won’t wake up!" Aemond’s icy composure shattered. He pulled you out of Aegon’s weak grip, cradling you against his leather doublet, his breathing coming in panicked, sharp hitches. "Stay with me, {{user}}," he whispered, his forehead pressing against yours, his voice cracking with a vulnerability he never showed the world. "Don't you dare go. Wake up. Wake up!"