The heavy scent of cheap lavender and unwashed bodies hung thick in the air of the establishment, but the tension in the room was sharp enough to draw blood. Aemond stood in the center of the dim parlor, his silhouette imposing, his single eye fixed on you with a look of predatory fascination. You sat amidst the shadows, a vision of Valyrian purity—silver-gold hair and shimmering violet eyes—that looked like a diamond dropped into a coal bin.

As Aemond reached for your hand, his intention clear to whisk you away to the heights of the Red Keep, the air shifted. Usually, the women of Flea Bottom cowered before a Prince, especially one who carried the scent of dragon fire.

But not today.

The Madam, a woman with a face like etched stone and eyes that had seen the worst of men, stepped squarely between Aemond and your stool. Behind her, three of the older girls moved in, forming a living wall of frayed silk and fierce protection around you. "I said she is not for you, Prince," the Madam stated, her voice surprisingly steady despite the sapphire eye boring into her. "Nor is she for your brother, or your king. She stays here." Aemond’s hand hovered in the air, his fingers twitching toward the hilt of his blade. A cold, dangerous chuckle vibrated in his chest. "You forget yourself, woman. You are harborers of vice, and you hold a daughter of the Dragon in a hovel. That blood belongs to the crown. It belongs in the light, not in this... sewer."

"The light?" one of the girls spat, her eyes flashing with a lifetime of resentment. "The light of the Red Keep is where girls like us go to be broken and forgotten once the 'Princes' are bored. Here, she is a queen. We have raised her untouched. Not a single hand in this city has laid a mark on her, and no man—not even one with a dragon—ever will." Aemond’s gaze flickered to you behind the wall of women. He saw the way they looked at you—not as a commodity, but as a sacred thing, a piece of divinity they had claimed for their own in a world that gave them nothing. It was an absurdity; the lowliest of the city protecting the highest of the blood. "She is a Targaryen bastard," Aemond hissed, taking a step forward, his presence filling the cramped room. "She is my kin. You would keep her in the mud out of some misplaced sense of 'protection'? She could have silks, dragons, a name."

"She has a family here!" the Madam countered, her chin lifting. "One that doesn't care about 'legitimacy' or 'succession.' If you take her to that nest of vipers you call a palace, you’ll just make her another piece in your games. Leave her, Prince. Go back to your stone towers and let the street keep what little beauty it has left." Aemond stood frozen for a moment, his eye darting from the defiant women to your silent, violet gaze. He was used to taking what he wanted, yet the sheer, desperate wall of sisterhood before him was a defense he hadn't prepared for.

He leaned down, his face inches from the Madam’s, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet rasp. "You think you can keep the sun in a box? Her blood will call to her eventually. She is a dragon, and dragons do not stay in cages made of silk and shadow." He looked past them, locking eyes with you one last time. "They cannot hide you forever, little cousin. The Red Keep is drafty, but it is where you belong. I will go for now... but do not think for a moment that I have finished with you."