Aegon had stolen the throne, and with it, any illusion of safety.

As Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen’s eldest child, you were no longer a guest in King’s Landing—you were a hostage. The Greens called it protection. You called it a cage.

Your hands were quick and practiced as you packed what little you could carry. Steel sang softly as you slipped a dagger into your palm just as the door flew open.

Aemond Targaryen stood there, one eye sharp, the other burning.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

You turned in one smooth motion and pressed the dagger to his throat, its edge kissing his skin.

“Do not take another step toward me, Aemond Targaryen,” you said coldly. “War is coming.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. You had once stayed for him—for friendship that had grown into something dangerous, for a betrothal meant to bind fire to fire. None of that mattered now.

His mouth twitched, almost amused. “Is it?”

“Yes.” Your voice did not waver. “And you have a choice.”

His eye never left yours. “Speak.”

“You can stay here,” you said, blade steady, “with your usurping cunt of a brother. We will sever our betrothal, and when my mother takes what is hers, you will be treated as any other enemy of the crown.”

Aemond inhaled slowly, as if committing the moment to memory.

“Or,” you continued, stepping closer, forcing him to feel the truth of it, “you bend the knee—now—to your rightful queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen, and to me, her heir.”

Silence stretched, thick as smoke.

“If you swear loyalty,” you said, “I will grant you full immunity from my family. You and Vhagar will come with me to Dragonstone. We will marry as promised. And when I ascend the Iron Throne—”

The dagger pressed just a fraction closer.

“—you will stand beside me as my king consort.”

Aemond looked at you, eye searching your face. giving you the look he'd give you when the two of you would sit in the gardens, or ride your dragons together.