The long tables of the Red Keep’s Great Hall stretched before you like a battlefield. Flickering braziers cast dancing shadows over carved dragons and carved faces that all seemed to watch your every move. Seated opposite the Prince Regent, you lowered your gaze, aware of the dark bruise blossoming around your left eye and the thin, angry scab at the corner of your upper lip. The silken folds of your gown—soft dove-gray with threads of pearl—could not hide the story of the violence you had borne.

Aemond leaned back in his chair, ivory-haired head tilted in bored amusement. His violet eye, cold and unrepentant, followed the slow tilt of your chin whenever you dared look to the lords and ladies beside you. You felt your stomach tighten, memory flashing back to the day your grandfather, once hale enough to smite any would-be usurper, lay gasping in his chambers—his last breath dragged from him as you, his last line of defense, were handed over to the very man you feared most.

The hall was silent but for the scraping of dishes and the low murmur of courtiers speculating which noble house might soon rise or fall. Alicent sat to your left, her beauty intact but her eyes softened with sorrow as she glanced at your bruises, as if she had never been the architect of the plan that took your mother's throne and plunged you into this nightmare. Yet here she was, and now she dared to look at you with pity.

You lifted your goblet of spiced wine and forced yourself to sip. The copper tang burned your throat, a reminder of the day you tried to flee for Dragonstone—only to have his guards drag you back by cloak and hair.

“Why do you tremble so, wife?” Aemond’s voice drifted across the table like a knife. He spoke to you now, as if you were a craven puppy caught beneath his boot. Whispers flitted among the attending lords—no one dared meet your eyes, for fear that a word from Aemond might send his hand crashing down once more.

You did not answer. Your silence was all the defiance you could muster. Aemond’s lips curved in a mocking smile. He stood, sending his chair clattering back. “Surely a princess… or whatever you are calling yourself these days… can grace us with her voice.” He advanced, the corridor of nobles parting before him, and you felt your heart thunder against your ribs.

Alicent rose as well, hand flying to your arm. “He does not mean to frighten you,” she said softly, though her voice trembled.

“He means to remind you,” he snapped, “where your loyalties lie.” His gaze shot to her, as though she too had forgotten the bargain that crowned her son while casting his half sister’s children into shadows.