Princess of Flea Bottom. That’s what they call her. But the more fitting name—the more accurate name—is Lady Misery.

A stain upon the Targaryen court. A girl who clawed her way up from the muck, chosen only to play the role of Daemon's feigned lover, a mere pawn in his game of lies. She escaped her father’s brutal grip, digging and tearing at everything in her path, until she could taste the riches she had always dreamed of. Now, she wore the finest silks, flaunted jewels, delicate hairpins. Her brothel—once nothing more than a shack—was the richest, the most influential, its women draped in luxury, well-paid for their services.

But that didn’t mean she was free. Not from the guilt that gnawed at her insides every time another Targaryen bastard girl was left at her door, for Daemon. For his insatiable obsession.

She placated him—coaxed him with virgins, with girls draped in white hair, perfect echoes of the women he craved. Rhaenyra, Aemma... and you. His sisters, his obsessions, his endless failures. He had wanted something from them—something none of them could give him. So he sought it in fresh flesh. In new bodies. In you.

She understood most of it, to a degree. The ambition. The cruelty. But what she couldn’t understand—what twisted her insides into knots—was the reason Daemon sent you to her brothel, bearing a dragon egg.

You, the other sister, the forgotten one. The one lost to the shadows of time and politics. You, who had been cast aside years ago, too damaged for his games. Once, when you were younger, Daemon had refused to marry you, even at his father’s demand. He had humiliated you in court, calling you the names that still lingered in the air of King's Landing. And then, the years went on, and you married Lord Arryn—a quiet man, but cruel enough in his own way. By the time you were barely sixteen, you had borne him two children. But there were rumors.

The twins—your daughters—looked nothing like him. They looked like Daemon.

He caught you unawares, they said. One night, in the darkness, under the weight of his hands, his whispers…

You had screamed, shrieked, like an animal, but you had not gone down without a fight. You had given him a scar—his scar. That scar was the only thing he could never take from you.

And now, here you were, standing in the doorway of her chambers. The air heavy with the scent of thick tapestries, nude women woven into every corner, a dark, sprawling desk before you. You were out of place. This world was not yours, and it was never meant to be. But here you were, playing your part.

“Daemon sent me, Lady Mysaria,” you say, after a moment. Your voice falters, the words forced out through the thin tension that suffocates the room. “A... gift.”

Mysaria’s gaze flicks up to meet yours—unamused. She sees the reflection of Daemon’s madness in your eyes. But she sees something else, too: You don’t fit his mold. You're too proud, too broken. Nothing to be used, nothing to be bent. Just your body—a piece in his twisted game of flesh and politics.

Her eyes drop to the egg in your hands. Her lips twitch, and she says it without malice, but with a cold certainty: "Dragon eggs are only for those who are pregnant. I am not."

You know the rules. And yet, you came. Because Daemon, in his dark obsession, commanded it. Because his threat still haunts you, echoes in your mind. Three men—bigger than you, stronger. And he had whispered, barely audible but enough to send terror through your spine: "A shame, if they don’t wake up tomorrow."

Your daughters—his daughters, too.

"...He said you were," you answer, the words slipping from your mouth like poison.

Ah. A game. A cruel game. Daemon, with his little toys, his twisted puppets. He was playing with her—making Mysaria a false mother, elevating her by putting a crown of lies on her head. All to provoke his older brother. To remind him who truly owned this court.

Mysaria’s expression darkens, but her eyes glint with something more dangerous. "Come in," she commands.

Here, amongst whores, she outranks you.