#i think the more their relationship will grow the more they will learn from and about each other | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zeciex · 13 hours ago

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Let me rant a bit about Dae and her relationship with Edelin, because I've had a few comments telling me that I'm focusing too much on minor/secondary characters.

Daenera has lost her entire crew, she's alone and in need of some form of allies and companionship--and that's where we get the start of the relationship with Edelin. We know Daenera can be kind and friendly with no secondary motive, but the start of the relationship is very much with a motive--to find an ally. Edelin is the easier target because Mertha would never come to her side. And then from there, Daenera genuinely grows to like Edelin and she sees how she's being treated and how she's underestimated, and she makes a friend of her. That's not to say that there's still not ulterior motive beneath it all but here's the thing--this chapter and in a previous scene, we see Edelin showing that she KNOWS what Daenera is doing and she tells her straight up that if it came to the two, she'd choose herself. And Daenera can respect that. They see each other and they decide to find company in one another, knowing there's more to it.

And then we get me trying to establish a growing relationship between them--me trying to make the secondary/minor characters have a storyline/character arc/character development.

Edelin is also a character who's end I haven't decided on--which opens her up to be a reoccurring character. Giving her development makes her not flat and that development will come through interactions with Dae.

Anyway.

Yeah, Daenera very much went through the stages of grief. It was a hope lost, a dream, nothing fully tangible for her. She hadn't met her sister, they didn't have a relationship, she was... just a hope of life. She grieves for her, but that grief is a drop in a stream for the loss she feels for Luke--and he is a drop in the ocean she will face later--

Aemond really wanted to comfort her, but I also don't think he knows how. It's not exactly something he has learned--if anything, what he has learned is to bottle it up and not speak about it. All he could offer her is his company/quiet as she worked through it.

And he did bring her comfort. As much as she hates it, he does give her solace. Its a strange thing.

Aemond enjoyed the whole interaction at the end. He was so amused, and I think a part of her were also amused. We'll see a bit more of this fighting-but-not-really/throwing shade and japes.

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 3

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 3: Word of the Dead

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

Weariness had become a shroud around Daenera, wrapped tightly in its suffocating embrace. It pressed into her skin, her bones, deep inside. She sat before the dressing table, the polished surface of the mirror reflecting a face she barely recognized, her features drawn and pale, shadows pooling beneath her eyes. The glow of the candlelight flickered unevenly, throwing long, restless shadows across the chamber, though even the golden hues couldn’t soften the sharp lines of her exhaustion.

Behind her, Mertha’s voice grated against the stillness, sharp and unforgiving as the scrape of iron on iron. The older woman held up the damp remains of Daenera’s dress, the once-lustrous fabric darkened and heavy with rain. She shook it with an exaggerated vigor, droplets splattering the floor like blood against stone.

“–I hope you’ve had your fill of death,” Mertha snapped, her voice climbing. “I hope you’ve commended the sight to memory! The poor boy.”

The sound of rain battering the shutters filled the room, a steady rhythm drumming against the windowpanes like the beating of some great, restless heart. . It was as though the gods themselves had grown tired–tired of the endless schemes and betrayals of mortals, of their blood-soaked ambitions and unending grievances. Perhaps they sought to drown the world in their wrath, to wash it clean of sin and sorrow. But mercy was not the gods’ way, and the rain fell without promise of redemption, a bitter reminder of how unyielding the world remained.

Her fingers rested lightly on the edge of the dressing table, the cool wood grounding her as Mertha’s tirade continued unabated. The chamber felt stifling despite the chill creeping in from the storm, the air thick with unspoken tension. Somewhere in the depths of her fatigue, Daenera wondered if the gods had sent the rain not as wrath but as a mockery–an illusion of cleansing that would never touch the festering wounds of this world. No storm could wash away the sins that had taken root here.

Daenera watched the droplets race down the glass, her envy flaring briefly. How simple it must be, she thought, to be the rain–to rage freely, without consequence or restraint, without care. The rain lashed against the stone walls of the Red Keep, it seemed to carry the weight of its own wrath–seemed to mock her.

Patrick’s life had been the noose she carried, her every movement constrained by the knowledge that the Greens held his fate in their hands. But now that burden was gone, severed by her own hand. And in truth, she felt a bitter sense of relief, even triumph–it stirred something far darker within her.

It would take time before the Greens loosened their hold on her again; she knew that much. The death of the boy would only deepen their scrutiny, tighten their watch. Yet she had paid that price willingly, knowing that it would cost her what little freedom she had. And yet, there were still freedoms she could take within the confines of this gilded cage.

A bird in a cage might not be free to fly, but it could still sing–and it could still bite.

The thought brought a bitter twist to her lips, an almost imperceptible smile that carried no warmth. If this was to be her prison, she would make it as wretched for her captors as it was for her. Let them watch her every move, chain her to her chambers, whisper their suspicions behind closed doors. She would show them there was no caging her rage.

Her fingers grazed the edge of the table, the cool wood grounding her as her thoughts turned sharper, more deliberate. She could make life miserable for them–Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, Otto, even Mertha.

Her reflection stared back at her, unyielding, as she leaned closer to the mirror. The shadows beneath her eyes seemed to deepen, the firelight flickering across her features like the glow of embers. That ember of rage had been with her since the moment she rose amidst the rubble of her chambers. It had been a spark then, small and fragile, but it had grown, fed by every indignity, every insult, every betrayal. It burned against her ribs now, a constant reminder of what she had lost–and what she would one day reclaim.

Aemond. His name pressed against her mind like a sharp edge. He had gotten what he wanted–a wife bound to him by chains as much as vows. But she would make sure he wished he hadn’t. She could see his cold, calculating expression in her mind’s eye, his singular gaze that sought to pierce through her, to lay claim to what he had ruined.

“They should make you take his place in the dungeons,” Mertha spat, her voice sharp and unforgiving as she moved about the chamber like a restless bird. The fabric of her skirts swayed and hissed with her movements, the quiet rustling as sharp as a blade in the otherwise suffocating silence.”That is where you belong–among rapers and murderers, you wicked creature.”

“I would take the night watch over her myself,” Mertha said, a sneer curling at the corners of her lips, her tone dripping with self-importance. “But the day has drained me, and you are young. Your energy will serve you better tonight.” She busied herself with gathering the discarded underdress from the floor, shaking it out before throwing it carelessly into the basket at the foot of the bed. “It will be a long day tomorrow, and I’ll need my strength.”

Mertha’s gaze snapped back to Edelin, sharp and commanding. “You must not fall asleep,” she warned, her voice lowering into something that resembled a hiss. “The gods know she cannot be trusted. I wouldn’t want to wake in the morning and find you dead, as they did the poor boy.” She straightened, brushing her hands off with exaggerated finality as if ridding herself of some invisible stain. “Stay vigilant, do you hear me?”

Daenera’s gaze lifted from her reflection in the mirror to regard the older woman. Mertha’s face was pinched with disdain, her eyes gleaming with self-righteous fury as she discarded the damp dress in a basket. A sickly pallor clung to her skin, her complexion ashen and lifeless, while the whites of her eyes blotted with red. The skin around them was flushed and swollen, betraying the rawness of fatigue and strain. It wasn’t hard to guess the cause. She’d been retching–violently so, if the bloodshot state of her eyes was any indication.

Her attention did not linger long; instead, it drifted to the young woman just behind her. The girl had been uncharacteristically silent, her usual chatter replaced by a subdued quiet since leaving the sept. There was a heaviness to her presence now, a weight in her every movement as she worked through Daenera’s hair with a brush. The tangles yielded reluctantly to her careful ministrations, and each stroke of the brush seemed to carry an unspoken frustration. She did not meet Daenera’s gaze in the mirror, her focus fixed on the task at hand.

“You will remain at the Princess’s side at all times. Do you understand?” Mertha snapped, her tone dripping with scorn as she pointed an accusing finger at Edelin. The older woman loomed like a shadow over the younger lady-in-waiting, her presence a constant weight that pressed down on the room. “You will not let her out of your sight for a single moment–not a single breath! If she so much as steps into the privy, you will stand outside, staring in at her from the open door!”

Daenera grimaced, her frown deepening as the indignity of Mertha’s command settled over her. The thought of being watched even in her most private moments, of someone hovering behind her as she relieved herself, made her stomach twist with revulsion.

Edelin seemed to share her unease. The younger woman’s hands faltered in their careful work, her brushing pausing for the briefest of moments. She hesitated, her lips parting slightly as if to protest, but Mertha’s sharp, scornful gaze bore down on her like a hammer. Reluctantly, Edelin turned back to her task, her face a careful mask of submission that failed to hide the faint tremor of her fingers.

“Yes, Lady Mertha…” she murmured, the words clipped and heavy with reluctant obedience. Her frown deepened as she resumed her brushing, the strokes growing firmer.

“And if she proves even a bit difficult, you will call for the guards immediately. Do you understand me?” Her sharp voice carried across the room from where she stood. “I will not let her humiliate us again.” She hefted the basket with a grunt, the motion sharp and deliberate, as though the weight of her burden served as evidence of her righteousness. Her eyes, hard and gleaming, turned towards them.

Daenera felt the prickle of Mertha’s attention against the back of her neck, an unwelcome presence that tightened her shoulders. She met her gaze in the mirror, her expression calm but cold, her eyes glittering with defiance. They held each other’s stare for a long, tense moment.

Then, Mertha shifted her focus to Edelin, her tone hardening. “Be wary of her, girl,” she warned, her words laced with bitter scorn. “She is as kind as a viper and twice as cunning.”

Edelin shifted but said nothing, her head bowing slightly in a gesture of reluctant acknowledgement. Her hands moved with practiced care through Daenera’s hair, the brush going through the strands smoother now.

With a final sniff of disdain, Mertha spun sharply on her heel, the heavy skirts of her dress swishing against the stone floor with each forceful step. The wicker basket bumped against her hip, the motion punctuating her retreat as she disappeared behind the lattice screen. Moments later, the muffled sound of the chamber doors opening and shutting reached them, followed by a decisive click that seemed to echo in the still air.

“A viper,” Daenera murmured, her voice soft and edged with a dry humor. “How inventive.”

The room settled into silence, broken only by the steady drumming of rain against the windows, the world outside dark and lost in the storm’s fury. The fire crackled in the hearth, sending errant sparks dancing upward before they vanished into the darkened stone. Its heat radiated outward, warring with the persistent chill that lingered at the edges of the chamber, crawling along the floor like an unwelcome guest.

The brush moved slowly through Daenera’s hair, the soft bristles tugging against stubborn tangles as they worked through the dark curls. Each stroke coaxed the locks into a loose cascade, spilling down her back in an unruly spill of shadowy waves. The ends tickled the curve of the chair’s back, swaying faintly with each pass.

Daenera’s gaze shifted from her own reflection in the mirror to Edelin’s, studying the girl as though seeking answers in her quiet demeanor. The red-gold of Edelin’s hair gleamed in the firelight, the strands pulled back into a tightly braided coil pinned neatly at the nape of her neck. Her pale blue eyes remained fixed on the task, unyielding and methodical, but the faint crease between her brows betrayed her unease. Her lips pressed into a tight line, a silent barricade holding back whatever thoughts churned behind her calm exterior.

The silence grew heavier, thick with words unspoken, until Daenera broke it. Her tone was soft, measured, yet it carried the weight of apprehension.

“What is it?” she asked, her fingers drifting to toy idly with the edge of a strand of hair. “I can feel you want to say something.”

Edelin drew in a deep breath, measured through her nose, as though summoning every ounce of courage within her. The brush in her hand stilled mid-stroke, her fingers tightening around the handle. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her head and met Daenera’s gaze through the mirror. Her blue eyes were steady, but the faint quiver in her lower lip betrayed the turmoil beneath her composed exterior.

“Did you poison him?” She asked, her voice low. The words hung in the air like a blade suspended over a neck. The corners of her mouth pulled downward, her expression strained, but she pressed on. “I want you to tell me the truth.”

Daenera’s face remained impassive, her dark eyes locked with Edelin’s in the glass. Her heart thudded a painful rhythm against her ribs, the ache reverberating through her chest. The acrid taste of bile rose in her throat, and her tongue felt dry, as if all the moisture had fled her mouth. She resisted the urge to look away, though it took more resolve than she cared to admit.

“I cannot give you the truth,” She said at last, her voice calm but laced with an edge of weariness. Her words were measured, deliberate, as though she were stepping carefully along the edge of a precipice. “You know that.”

“You can,” Edelin pressed, her tone soft but insistent.

Daenera’s lips twitched, the faint curve caught somewhere between a smile and a scowl, though it was neither. “And what will you do with it?” She asked, her voice strained. “What then? Will you bring it to the Small Council? March into the Great Hall and lay it before them?”

“I should,” Edelin said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It is my duty.” Her pale blue eyes held Daenera’s in the mirror, unflinching despite the tremor in her fingers. The words lingered in the air, as though the room itself held its breath, waiting for what might follow.

Edelin moved, setting the brush aside on the polished surface of the dressing table. The faint clink it made against the wood seemed louder than it should have been, an unspoken punctuation. She straightened, drawing herself up, her youthful features set with a determination that made her seem older than she was.

“I am not asking for them,” she continued, her tone sharper now, steadier. “I am asking for the truth–for myself.” Her hands disappeared briefly into the folds of her skirts, and when they reemerged, she held a small pouch.

Daenera’s gaze flickered to the object as Edelin placed it on the table before her, the soft scrape of fabric against wood drawing her attention. The pouch was unassuming, its pale, creamy cloth bright against the dark surface. But it was damning in its simplicity, a quiet truth laid bare between them.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The storm outside raged on, the relentless drum of rain on stone a backdrop to the tense stillness that filled the chamber. Daenera’s heart plummeted, a hollow ache settling deep within her chest as the lavender pouch lay before her. The scent of lavender wafted into the air, delicate yet overwhelming, mingling with the cloying remnants of incense that still lingered in her nostrils. It was a sickly-sweet aroma, at odds with the cold dread that coiled in her stomach. Her eyes burned with the prickle of unshed tears, though she refused to let them fall. Tears would not help now.

Her gaze lifted slowly from the pouch to Edelin’s face. For a moment, the younger woman seemed transformed–her features hardened by the weight of understanding, the sharpness of her expression far removed from her usual youthful softness. The knowledge she carried was etched into her face, undeniable, even as she sought a confirmation she already knew in her heart.

“You could take it to the Council,” Daenera said, her voice strained and dry as though every word scraped against her throat. “They would no doubt welcome your… evidence.” Her tone grew brittle, laden with weariness. “But it would change nothing. Their punishment is already decided.”

Her hand moved, reaching tentatively towards the pouch. She wanted to seize it, to hide its damning presence from sight, yet part of her just wanted it within her hold–wanted the security of it, however damning it was for her to keep. Before her fingers could close the distance, Edelin’s hand shot out. She slid the pouch across the table, out of Daenera’s reach.

“Are we all so easily discarded?” Edelin demanded, her voice cracking.

Daenera froze, her outstretched hand retreating slightly as Edelin’s words settled on her with the same sharp sting as a slap. Her brows knitted together, as she stared up at Edelin. “Nothing about this has been easy,” she said, her words twisted into something sharp and bitter, almost a sneer. Her voice was raw and strained as tears burned at the back of her eyes. She blinked them away fiercely, unwilling to let them fall.

“You told him he was going home,” Edelin pressed.

“This was the only way he was ever going home,” She answered, her jaw tightening as she leaned back against the seat, the wood pressing into her spine. “The Hightowers would never have released him.” Her gaze flicked back to meet Edelin’s, her voice growing harsher, weighed with frustration. “He would have stayed in the dungeons–alone, forgotten, rotting in the dark. Every footstep outside his cell would have been a death knell, every echo a reminder that the noose was waiting.”

Her throat tightened as she swallowed hard against the lump rising there, her emotions clawing at her like a living thing. It felt as though she had swallowed a jagged stone, its edges tearing into her, making every breath ache. “I didn’t want him to suffer.”

Edelin stood silent for a moment, her pale blue eyes searching Daenera’s face, her expression wavering between pity and unease. When she finally spoke, her tone was measured, understanding yet cautious, as though she were treading carefully across ice.

“I understand that,” she said, her voice low. “Truly, I do. But… it gives me pause.”

She hesitated, her hands twisting together as she gathered her thoughts. “I have been kind to you, as you have been to me,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “And I am grateful for that kindness, Princess. But… I am still in their service.” Her words hung heavily in the air as she looked down at her hands, her fingers knotting in the fabric of her skirts. “I’ve held my tongue before because you asked it of me–held my tongue when I properly shouldn’t have…”

Her voice broke, and she raised her head again. “I don’t want to find myself in the same position as the boy,” she said, her words low. “I don’t want to end up discarded, forgotten, let to rot because I’ve been loyal to the wrong person.”

“You won’t,” Daenera said firmly. The words hung in the air, a promise or a plea–it was hard to tell.

“You don’t know that,” Edelin countered, her voice trembling slightly. “I might end up in the dungeons, just as he did. Waiting for the noose.”

Daenera held her gaze, reading the desperation written across the young woman’s face. She understood Edelin’s fears all too well–that her kindness, her proximity to Daenera, would mark her. And yet, even as her chest tightened with the weight of understanding, she found herself speaking. Words rose unbidden, soft but steady. “I don’t believe you’ll find yourself in that position. You are neither child nor fool, and that is why I trust you, Edelin. You’ve stood by me when many would not, when it would have been easier to distance yourself. I see the risk you take, and I do not take it lightly. If the time comes when they turn their eyes toward you, I will not begrudge you for your choice.”

Edelin nodded and stared into the middle distance, her expression apprehensive. When she finally spoke, her voice wavered, as if she were forcing herself to ask a question she feared the answer to. “There are still berries in the pouch… Are–are you going to poison the King? The Small Council? Your husband?”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. Daenera let out a slow breath, her lips curving in a faint, humorless smile. “If I’d meant to poison them,” she said, her tone edged with sardonic amusement, “it would have been done by now.” She shifted in the chair, her eyes drawing to meet Edelin’s wary gaze. “I’d be no freer for it…”

No, she would not be spared. She could already see it–herself locked away in a damp, lightless cell, awaiting a trial that was no more than a performance. The verdict would be predetermined, her fate sealed. Whether it ended with a rope tightening around her neck or the cold kiss of a headman’s blade, the result would be the same.

Even if she somehow managed to rid the Keep of the Greens, even if she tore them out like the weeds they were, the realm would still cry out for justice. The lords and banners of Westeros would demand her head, and her mother, for the sake of the crown, would have no choice but to oblige them.

Daenera’s heart twisted at the thought. Her mother, who had already lost so much, would lose yet another child–this time by her own hand. It would break her, she thought.

And she didn’t want that for her. She didn’t want to be the shadow that darkened her reign, the wound that festered in the heart of her rule.

But more than that, she didn’t want to die.

Daenera glanced at the pouch where it rested on the table, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the air like a ghost. She knew exactly how many berries remained. Four. Four lives she could take, if she so chose.

For a fleeting moment, Daenera allowed herself the indulgence of impossible imaginings, the kind that belonged to children spinning dreams of kingdoms they would never rule. Each name pressed against her mind like a dagger poised to strike.

Aegon, who occupied the throne that was her mother’s by right, his existence the linchpin of the Green’s ambitions. Otto, the Hand that set the board against her mother. Aemond, the rider of Vhagar, the Greens’ most fearsome weapon, and her brother’s murderer…

Her fingers tightened instinctively, though there was nothing in her grasp. She would need three to strike at the heart of their power. Aegon, Otto, and Aemond. Without them, the Greens’ strength would falter, their unity splintering like a cracked blade.

But that would leave her with only one berry. One final life to take.

Her thoughts turned to Alicent. The Queen Dowager had tormented her mother for years, weaving webs of guilt and ambition to smother the rightful Queen’s claim. Alicent’s venom had seeped into every corner of the Red Keep, infecting all it touched. Yet as much as Daenera despised her, Alicent’s power was waning. Without her sons and father, the Queen Dowager would be nothing more than a shadow in a court that no longer needed her. Killing Alicent might bring momentary satisfaction, but it would do little to weaken the Greens’ cause. Her death would be a wound that no longer bled.

For a fleeting, haunting moment, Daenera thought of using the berry on herself. It would be over in an instant–a brief, bitter swallow. Her death would be on her own terms, out of the hands of her mother. That would be a waste, and she had no use for waste. There were other ways to die, should she decide on that course. The berry was a tool, not a reprieve.

If Aegon, Otto, and Aemond were removed from play, the Greens’ foundation would crumble. Their strength would falter. But even without its leaders, the council still held power. The Small Council would not vanish overnight; its members would scramble like rats on a sinking ship, seeking to salvage what they could.

Yet one figure remained in her thoughts, an unseen viper lurking in the shadows of the court: Larys Strong.

The clubfoot. His loyalty was to no one but himself, his scheming far more insidious than the others. It would be a mercy to her mother if Larys Strong was removed entirely from the board–and Daenera would take great satisfaction in his death.

But such thoughts were idle, and she pushed them aside–for what use was poison without a means to deliver it? She had neither the freedom to act nor the cunning to see it done unnoticed. And though vengeance burned within her, she could not stomach the thought of dying as both a Kingslayer and a Kinslayer. History would not look kindly on her, even if her heart carried honor. No, she did not wish to die–not yet.

“The remaining berries are assurances,” She added softly, her voice taking on a weightier tone. They were a contingency. “For myself.”

Understanding flickered in Edelin’s eyes, her expression softening with sudden clarity. Before she could voice her thoughts, Daenera tilted her head ever so slightly, a wry smile playing at her lips. “And Mertha, perhaps,” she said, her voice carrying a dry edge. “If she keeps on the way she does.”

The jest hung in the air, and after a beat, the corner of Edelin’s mouth twitched, her lips curving into a faint smile. It was the kind of amusement one found when laughing felt almost too dangerous–subdued, guarded, but genuine. The firelight danced between them, casting flickering shadows across the polished oak table and the intricate weave of the rushes beneath their feet.

Silence settled in the room once more, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint rustle of fabric as Daenera adjusted her seat. But it didn’t last. She leaned forward, her voice cutting through the quiet. “What will you do?”

Edelin rose slowly. Her fingers tightened around the pouch in her hands as she looked down at it, her brows furrowing as though the pouch itself might offer some guidance. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally, she drew in a breath, her voice firm but low as she answered.

“I’ll hide it.” Her voice carried the conviction of a decision made, though her gaze, when it lifted to meet Daenera’s, revealed the unease beneath her resolve. “Your chambers will be searched come morning. They’ll tear through everything–every chest, every corner. I will take it with me and keep it hidden.”

Relief washed over Daenera, lifting the weight from her chest, though a shadow of unease lingered at the edges of her thoughts. “You cannot hide it in your room. They’ll question you either way, but if they uncover it…”

Edelin gave a short nod. “I won’t say a word of this.” She paused, looking down at the pouch in her hands. “I will keep your secrets.” Her eyes lifted, meeting Daenera’s. “But if the choice comes down to you or me…”

“I understand,” Daenera said, reaching for her hand. Her fingers closed over Edelin’s, feeling the faint outline of the pouch concealed within. “I am thankful for you, Edelin. Truly. I value your friendship more than I can ever express.”

The girl’s slips curved into a faint smile, a look that carried warmth and steadied Daenera’s frayed nerves. The weight that pressed against her chest eased just slightly, like a knot loosening.

Without another word, Edelin shifted her hand, tucking the pouch deep into the folds of her skirts. The moment passed, and she stepped behind Daenera, where she began to gather the dark waves of her hair. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving strands into a loose braid, her touch light yet sure. She worked in silence for a time, adding thin ribbons of silk to the braid, the delicate fabric glinting faintly in the firelight.

“I am sorry,” Edelin murmured after a moment, her voice soft, almost tentative, as though the words were a fragile offering. “For your loss.”

Daenera blinked, the words catching her off guard, though she quickly masked her surprise. The weight of grief, ever-present and unyielding, swelled in her chest. She swallowed hard, willing away the tears that threatened to rise. “Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The silence that settled over the chamber was tentative, stretched taut between them like an invisible thread that might snap at the slightest of breath. The fire in the hearth crackled, its embers pulsing faintly in the dim light, casting shifting shadows across the polished wood of the dressing table. Rain still drummed against the windowpane–louder in the silence.

Daenera watched Edelin through the mirror as the girl worked through the length of her dark curls. The younger woman’s movements were practiced, careful, as she wove the ribbons of silk through the strands, taming their unruly wildness in preparation for the morning. Edelin had fallen back into her quiet diligence, though Daenera did not miss the occasional flicker of thought in her eyes.

When Edelin finally spoke, her voice was measured, but there was something tentative beneath its surface, something that made Daenera’s lips twitch with wry amusement.

“What will you do now?” She asked, her pale blue eyes fixed on the task before her, the words carrying an air of casual curiosity that did not quite mask the deeper intrigue beneath.

Daenera exhaled softly, lifting a hand to toy with one of the silk ribbons that had been woven into her hair. She wound one tightly around her fingertip, then unraveled it, only to wrap it around another. A small, idle act–something to busy her hands while her mind shifted through the weight of the question.

“What can I do but languish in bed all day?” she murmured, her lips curling in a wry smile. “I shan’t leave my bed for a week, I think. Not that it matters–I won’t be permitted beyond my chambers regardless.” Her lips quirked as she met Edelin’s gaze through the mirror. “ I should be rather easy to keep an I on, don’t you think?”

Edelin hummed softly, twisting another length of silk through Daenera’s dark locks. “Mertha will be beside herself,” she mused, amusement creeping into her voice. “What was it she said this morning? ‘The only people who can afford to spend their days sprawled in bed–”

“‘Are down on the Street of Silk,” Daenera supplied with a smirk, shaking her head in amusement. She stretched lazily, her fingers tracing the embroidered edges of her robe. “Yes, I seem to remember something to that effect.” She stretched her arms above her head, letting her limbs go slack as she lounged back on the chair. “It’ll give her something to gnash her teeth over, and I rather like the thought of it. What can she do? Drag me from bed? She’d have to haul me through the halls like a sack of grain, and I doubt she has the strength or the nerve to try.”

A small chuckle escaped Edelin–almost a snort–before she caught herself, pressing her lips together as if she had not right to find humor in any of it. But Daenera saw it–the briefest glimpse of something lighter beneath the surface. It was a fragile thing, but it was there nonetheless and it eased the mood.

“You’re making things harder on yourself by opposing her at every turn,” Edelin chided, though there was no true reproach in her tone–just the weary truth of someone who had spent too long in the company of Mertha. “Not everything has to be a battle. Sometimes it’s easier to endure than to suffer the consequences of her ire.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, hesitation flickering in her gaze before she continued, softer now. “And… she should never have struck you.”

Daenera’s gaze drifted to her reflection in the mirror, tracing the contours of her face. The cheek that had been struck bore only the flush of exhaustion, no bruising, no swelling. The slap had stung, but it left no lasting mark—whether by design or by lack of force, she could not say. Had Mertha wielded just enough control to ensure it would not linger, or had the sheer audacity of the act stolen some of its strength? Either way, the sting had been real, sharp enough to startle but not wound. And, in some strange way, she had welcomed it.

“I was deserving of that one–” she murmured, the admission barely more than a breath.

“No.” Edelin’s voice was firm, sharper than before. Her red brows knitted tightly, her displeasure writ plainly across her features. “You are a Princess. It doesn’t matter what you may have done–she had no right to lay a hand on you.” Her head shook slightly, as if the very thought of it unsettled her. “Her mistreatment of you–it isn’t right.”

The vehemence in her tone, the unguarded concern that colored her words, sent a flicker of warmth through Daenera. It was a rare thing to hear such defiance spoken on her behalf. A rare thing, to feel the weight of someone’s anger on her account.

For a moment, she simply watched Edelin, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the ghost of a smile touched her lips, fleeting but genuine.

“I do not understand why you allow it,” she said, her voice edged with quiet fury. Then, as though realizing she had overstepped, she hesitated, drawing in a sharp breath. “Forgive me, Princess. It is not my place.”

Daenera caught the flicker of restraint in Edelin’s reflection, the way her lips pressed into a thin line as if she wished to swallow the words back down. “Do not hesitate now,” she said, her tone measured, absent of reprimand. If anything, there was an openness to her words.

Edelin’s shoulders squared, seemingly emboldened. “Then I will speak plainly.” Her voice softened, though urgency still simmered beneath the surface. “Why not go to him?” Why not let him put a stop to it?” She hesitated just slightly, as if weighing her words. “He’s your husband–”

Daenera’s expression darkened, and the flare of irritation was immediate. Her lips curled into something that was neither a smile nor a scowl. “He is my brother’s murderer,” she said flatly.

The words settled like iron between them, heavy and immovable. Aemond’s name was not spoken, but it didn’t need to be. His presence loomed over the conversation all the same.

Edelin did not flinch, though the tension in her posture grew, her hands tightening ever so slightly around the strands of Daenera’s hair as she twisted them into careful braids–had the hands been Mertha’s, Daenera was sure she’d feel the reproach burning at her scalp.

“Then I could go to him,” Edelin said carefully. “He is still your husband. He would not allow–”

Daenera’s lips curled into something caught between a sneer and a smirk. “We may be married,” she said, her voice clipped with barely restrained irritation, “but I have no desire to rely on him.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she heard the petulance in them, like a child railing against a gentle reprimand. It irked her. She was no child, yet the stubbornness in her own tone betrayed her.

The very thought of going to Aemond–of seeking his protection, of pleading for his intervention–curdled in her stomach like spoiled milk. The notion made her blood boil. To humble herself before her brother’s murderer, to ask anything of him, would be a betrayal of all that still burned within her. The thought stung sharper than any of Mertha’s slights, cutting deep into the raw edges of her pride. She would endure a thousand small humiliations, suffer every sneer and whispered insult, before she would ever crawl to Aemond Targaryen for help.

He had already taken too much from her. She would not give him this.

“I do not want him to know.”

She would suffer Mertha. She would suffer this prison. But she would not suffer Aemond’s protection.

“Your pride may keep you standing, but it will not make it any easier,” Edelin murmured, finishing the last braid. “And you will only suffer for it.”

Daenera grimaced, rolling one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Perhaps,” she allowed, though there was no real concession in her tone. Then, as if to undercut the moment, the corner of her lips curled in a ghost of a smirk. “But should it ever become too much to bear… I still have a few berries left.”

She watched Edelin’s reaction through the mirror, saw the way her lady’s eyes widened, her fingers briefly stilling in Daenera’s hair. There was a flicker of hesitation–just for a heartbeat–before the tension shattered with a sudden, incredulous laugh. Edelin shook her head, amusement chasing away her earlier unease, her lips pulling into an exasperated smile.

“Gods save us,” she muttered, still chuckling, “You are impossible.”

Daenera only hummed in quiet satisfaction, tilting her head slightly as Edelin resumed her work, weaving silk through the long, dark strands. The storm still raged beyond the Keep’s walls, the wind howling through the towers, but within the chamber, for just a fleeting moment, the weight of it all seemed a little lighter.

Once Edelin finished weaving the last of the silken strips through Daenera’s braids, she stepped back, seemingly admiring her work with quiet satisfaction. Daenera studied her reflection, tilting her head slightly as she took in the intricate braids cascading down her back. They varied in thickness–some woven tightly, others looser, softer–and threaded through them were silken ribbons of varying hues. Deep crimson, pale gold, and midnight blue intertwined with the dark strands of her hair, each color catching the firelight as though a rainbow had been woven into her tresses.

Her father, Laenor, had taught her to braid her hair like this. "To protect it," he had said, his hands deft and sure as he wove the strands together, "and to keep it from tangling into mats. You’ll thank me for it one day."

And she had.

Even now, she could recall the warmth of his hands as they guided hers, the quiet patience in his voice as he showed her how to twist and weave each section with precision. It had been one of the few things they shared—an unspoken ritual, a bond forged in simple, careful movements.

She had been young then, barely past her sixth nameday, her hair wild and unruly as the sea. He would laugh as she wrinkled her nose in frustration, murmuring, "It’s a Targaryen mane, but it has the soul of Velaryon waves. Stubborn as the tides."

She had not understood then how precious those moments were. How fleeting. But this–this, at least–was something of him that remained. And for that, she would always be grateful.

Daenera rose from her seat, rolling her shoulders as she stretched her aching limbs, feeling exhaustion seep deeper into her bones. Every movement felt weighted, as though the events of the day had carved themselves into her flesh, leaving her heavier with their burdens. The thick layers of her night robe trailed behind her, whispering against the cold stone floor as she made her way towards the bed.

When she reached it, she sank onto the mattress with a slow, weary exhale, feeling the feather-stuffed bedding give beneath her weight. For a moment, she simply sat there, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes, willing away the dull throb of fatigue. Gods, she was tired. The kind of tired that settled into the marrow, that no amount of sleep could truly mend.

And yet, she knew rest would not come easily. Even if her body yielded to it, her mind would not. It would race in endless circles, retracing the same agonizing thoughts, the same bitter regrets, the same simmering anger that refused to fade.

She let out another slow breath, lowering her hands to her lap. The chamber was quiet save for the faint crackle of the fire and the steady drum of the rain against the windowpanes.

The quiet rustle of fabric and the soft click of the drawer were the only other sounds in the chamber as Edelin moved with quiet efficiency, gathering the leftover ribbons and slipping them neatly into their place. Her fingers worked with practiced ease, smoothing each strip of silk before tucking them away, the motion precise, almost reverent. When she finally closed the drawer, the faint snick of wood meeting wood echoed in the stillness, a small, measured sound against the hush of the room.

“Would you choose a book?” Daenera murmured at last, her voice quiet but steady.

Edelin paused, glancing over her shoulder. “A book?”

“I doubt I’ll find any rest, and I have little desire to be left alone with my thoughts,” Daenera admitted, shifting back against the headboard. She reached for the pillows, propping them up to sit more comfortably. “I thought I’d read to you, as I promised I would.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then Edelin’s entire face lit up, her expression shifting from wary surprise to something far softer. “Really?” She asked, her voice carrying an unmistakable note of hope, her pale blue eyes bright with something almost childlike.

Daenera inclined her head in a slow nod, and that was all the encouragement Edelin needed. Without hesitation, she turned swiftly, the fabric of her skirts whispering against the cold stone as she hurried from the bedchamber into the adjoining common room.

Beyond the doorway, the faint sounds of movement reached Daenera’s ears–books shifting, the soft scrape of parchment, fingers trailing along leather-bound spines. The quiet rustling carried through the dimly lit chamber, each sound deliberate, searching.

Moments later, Edelin reappeared, cradling a book in her hands as though it were a relic of great worth. She held it carefully, reverently, her fingers tracing the embossed title along the gilded spine before she extended it toward Daenera. The firelight flickered over the worn leather cover, illuminating its deep indigo hue.

The Watchers on the Wall by Maester Harmune.

Daenera’s gaze flickered over the familiar gilded spine, recognition settling like a stone in her chest. It was one of Aemond’s books.

For a moment, a stubborn flicker of defiance sparked within her. A part of her wanted to refuse it outright, to push it back into Edelin’s hands and send her to find another–any other–so long as it did not bear the mark of him. The thought of reading something Aemond had once poured over, of letting his choice in words take root in her mind, was enough to make her fingers twitch with hesitation.

But just as quickly as it came, she forced it down. It was a childish, foolish kind of obstinacy, and she knew it. It is only a book. Whatever satisfaction she might gain from spiting Aemond in this small way was not worth the effort. To refuse it would be to give him more power over her than he already held.

With a quiet resolve, she took the book from Edelin’s hands and settled back against the pillows, fingers tracing the worn leather before she opened it to the first page.

When Edelin lingered at the bedside, her hands clasped before her, Daenera glanced up, a slight furrow creasing her brow. The girl stood uncertainly, her posture stiff, as though waiting for permission she had never needed before.

Daenera tilted her head, studying her for a moment before patting the empty space beside her. “Join me,” she said, her voice softer now, lacking the usual guarded edge. “You can’t very well stand there the whole time. And–I’d like the company.”

Edelin blinked, her expression shifting between hesitation and something unreadable. But the reluctance lasted only a moment before she relented, moving with careful grace as she crawled onto the bed, settling beside Daenera atop the thick layers of blankets.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting golden light over the pages as Daenera opened the book. The weight of it felt solid in her hands, the scent of parchment and ink mingling with the lingering traces of lavender from the silken sheets.

Then, in a voice steady and measured, she began to read.

“It is said that the wind howled across the black pines of Sea Dragon Point, carrying with it the cries of wolves and the whispers of greenseers, when the Warg King had called forth a storm from the spirit wood, thick with mist and shadow, to blind his foes. But winter was coming for him, and winter did not fear the dark.”

She read aloud from the Chronicle of Sea Dragon Point, one of the many accounts compiled within the Waters on the Wall. The words painted images of long-forgotten battles, of the King of Winter riding at the head of his armies, banners snapping in the frozen wind as he marched against the Warg King and his skinchangers. The story spoke of war-wolves the size of destriers, of ravens that carried the voices of the dead, of a battle fought beneath a sky thick with swirling snow and seething magic.

Edelin listened intently, her breath slow and measured, and as the tale unfolded, her head found its way to Daenera’s shoulder. It was a quiet, unspoken thing–no hesitation, no formality, just a simple shift in weight as she rested against her.

Now and then, she murmured soft comments, wondering aloud if the Warg King had truly wielded such power, or if the greenseers’ whispers were just the fancies of storytellers. Daenera responded when she felt inclined, but for the most part, she simply read on, allowing the cadence of the words to fill the space between them.

It was… comfortable. Almost familiar in a way she had not expected.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like another life–like the nights she once spent in the nursery, reading to her younger brothers beneath the warm glow of candlelight. She remembered Joffrey nestling close, too proud to ask outright for another chapter but lingering until she gave in. She remembered the way little Aegon would nod off before the end of the tale, his small fists curled into the blankets, his silver hair tousled against her arm.

That time was gone now. Her brothers were gone too, one buried, the others out of reach.

But here, in this quiet moment, with the fire casting long shadows across the walls and the steady weight of Edelin at her side, she allowed herself–just for a little while–to remember what it was like to be a sister instead of a prisoner.

She had fallen into a steady cadence of words, weaving through one chronicle and into the next, when the distant groan of the chamber doors echoed through the quiet. It was not a sound easily mistaken–the heavy wooden doors did not yield to passing drafts or the stirrings of servants. Someone had entered.

Daenera stilled, her gaze lifting just slightly from the book in her hands. Beyond the lattice screen, she caught a flicker of movement–a shadow gliding across the floor, tall and deliberate. Then, a glint of silver, unmistakable even in the dim light, and the sound of measured footsteps against stone.

Aemond.

The warmth of her head resting against her shoulder vanished as Edelin sat up abruptly, her breath catching as she straightened further.

Aemond did not acknowledge them at first. He crossed the chamber without hesitation, his long strides carrying him toward the desk tucked into the corner, moving with the same quiet purpose he always carried. A drawer scraped open, its sound sharp against the hush. He rifled through its contents with practiced ease, plucking something from within before shutting it once more.

Only then did he turn, his gaze flickering toward them.

His eye found Daenera first.

Daenera refused to acknowledge him, her gaze fixed on the weathered pages of the book before her. The words blurred into meaningless symbols, their substance lost to her entirely. Yet she kept her eyes trained on them, feigning indifference even as she tracked his every movement from the edge of her vision, her senses sharpened to his presence. Every measured footstep, every shift in fabric, every controlled breath–she noted it all, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.

“Leave us.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and unyielding as tempered steel. The weight of his command was absolute.

Edelin stiffened, hesitating only for a heartbeat before swiftly rising from the bed. She had been seated near him–on his side. The very thought sent a bitter taste to the back of Daenera’s throat. Would she ever allow him in that bed again? If it were her choice, the answer would be never.

Edelin dipped into a quick curtsy, her skirts whispering against the stone as she moved. Before departing, she cast a fleeting glance toward Daenera, her hesitation evident, as though silently asking if she should truly leave her alone with him. Daenera nodded in reassurance, and with no further protests, Edelin turned and hurried through the chamber, her steps light but swift. The door closed behind her with a quiet click.

Silence settled in the room like an encroaching fog, thick and unrelenting. And then, there were just the two of them.

As Aemond turned his back to her, Daenera’s gaze flickered upward. The candlelight glowed against the hard lines of his shoulders, the deep green of his doublet darkened further by the shadows. He moved with an air of quiet purpose, reaching for the flagon of wine resting upon the table. The deep red liquid sloshed against the sides of the goblet as he poured, the only sound in the heavy, suffocating silence. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained it in a single swallow, setting it down with a dull clink against the wooden surface before abandoning it entirely. Not a single drop left.

Daenera forced her eyes back to the open book before her, though the words on the page blurred into nothingness. She turned the mover in her mind, trying to weave sense from them, to anchor herself in something that was not him. And yet, from the edge of her vision, she caught the way he moved–a controlled, deliberate pace as he wandered back to the desk, returning whatever it was he had retrieved back into its place–a habit, she knew.

When he turned at last, his gaze found her. She felt it settle upon her, heavy as a weight pressed into her skin. There was no mistaking his interest–his presence bore down on her, a silent force demanding acknowledgement. Her grip tightened slightly around the edges of the book, the parchment rough beneath her fingertips. The pages might as well have been blank for all she could read of them now.

He leaned back against the desk, a picture of ease, though she knew him well enough to recognize the tension radiating off of him. He watched her for a long moment, the familiar prickle of irritation itching beneath her skin as his gaze slid over her.

She would not give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.

Then, without a word, he pushed off the desk, his movements measured and steady as he crossed the room. Each step sent a ripple of tension through her, her pulse quickening in defiance of her will. The sound of his boots against the stone floor echoed in the silence, a slow, deliberate rhythm that grated against her nerves. He rounded the bed, drawing closer, and for a fleeting moment, she bracing herself, half-expecting him to lower himself onto the mattress beside her, to claim his place without care or question.

But instead, his hand reached out, long fingers curling around the pillow at her side. He lifted it, the fabric shifting beneath his grip, and without a glance in her direction, turned and carried it across the room.

Daenera breathed out in relief, heart shuddering in her chest. Had he dared to settle beside her, she thought she might have driven the spine of the book straight into that cursed sapphire eye before smothering him with a pillow for good measure.

He settled on the chaise with the same quiet deliberation, shrugging off his belt and unfastening the claps of his doublet. The fire caught the hard planes of his face as he discarded the garment, his movements unhurried, effortless. Every action spoke of ownership, of familiarity, as if he had already decided this was his place to claim.

Bitter words rose unbidden to her lips, lodging against the back of her teeth. She did not want to break the silence, did not want to acknowledge him, did not even wish to breath the same air as him. And yet, despite herself, her lips parted.

“I do not want you here,” she said, her voice cold as iron.” From now on, if you wish to sleep well, you will do so in your own chambers–or else you’d have to sleep on the floor like a dog.”

Aemond did not flinch, nor did he seem surprised. Instead, he merely shifted, settling into the chaise with an air of measured indifference. “The chaise is comfortable enough.”

Daenera’s gaze narrowed at the page. “Not when it’s wet.”

His eye seemed to gleam with something unreliable, she felt it even as her gaze was set on the book, felt the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corner of his lips. “And if I have all the water removed?”

She hated the way he spoke–calm, controlled, so certain of himself. And she hated, more than anything, that he found humor in her defiance.

And so, pettily–because pettiness was the only weapon left to her in this gilded prison–she answered, each word honed to a pointed edge. “Then I will fucking piss on it.”

The night had stretched into an eternity, an unending cycle of drifting in and out of fitful sleep, caught between waking and dreaming. Sleep, when it came, was shallow and uneasy, frayed at the edges by restless thoughts that refused to settle. Every time she closed her eyes, she found herself back in the depths of the Sept, standing in the cold, candlelit silence as the Silent Sisters worked over the lifeless boy laid out before her. His skin was pale, waxen, his golden curls damp and darkened in death. Their knives moved with reverence, slicing into his flesh, prying open his ribs as they reached inside to extract his organs–one by one–while she could do nothing but watch.

Sometimes, the boy on the stone slab was not golden-haired at all. Sometimes, his pale curls had bled into a deeper hue, shifting, thickening, taking on the unruly wildness she knew so well. And suddenly, it was not him, not the boy she had poisoned, but someone else. A brother.

His skin was pallid, his lips drawn into the ashen stillness of death, the cold finality of it settling over him like a shroud. The candlelight flickered across his face, casting shifting shadows over lifeless features, hollowing the soft curve of his cheeks, deepening the sunken stillness of his closed eyes.

She could almost hear the whisper of her own voice, soft and coaxing, weaving lies as gently as a mother tucks a child into bed. You are going home, Patrick. Words that had been meant to soothe, to soften the edge of his fear, yet had been nothing more than empty breath–cruel deceptions clothed in mercy.

And as she gazed at the boy laid bare upon the cold stone, she wondered if Luke, too, had believed he was going home. Had he looked toward the horizon with relief, with the quiet certainty that he would see his mother again, that he would sleep once more beneath Dragonstone’s sky? Or had he known, as Vhagar’s shadow swallowed the storm, that home was a place he would never reach?

When the Silent Sisters turned away, their robes whispering against the cold stone, something shifted. They moved as shadows, silent as the dead, carrying away the glass jars that held what remained of the boy’s insides. The air was thick with the scent of myrrh and death, clinging to Daenera’s skin like a second shroud. She should have turned away too, should have followed them into the dim corridors beyond the chamber. But she could not.

Neither the golden-haired child she had poisoned nor the dark-haired boy who had haunted her dreams remained. Instead, something smaller lay swaddled in cloth, its frail shape stark against the hard, unyielding stone.

So small. Too small.

Her breath caught in her throat, a sharp hitch of air she could not release. The cold of the Sept pressed against her skin, but she felt nothing, as if her body had numbed to everything but the sight before her. The chamber, the distant murmur of prayers, the lingering scrape of steel against flesh–all faded into the periphery. Her world shrank, narrowed to the impossibly delicate bundle lying before her.

Her fingers trembled as she reached out, longing, desperate.

And then she saw it.

A wisp of silver hair, soft and fine as gossamer, barely visible in the dim glow of the candles.

Her breath shuddered from her lips, unsteady, uneven. Too small. Too impossibly small to be here, in this place of death and decay. The chill gnawed at her bones, but she did not care.

All she wanted in that moment was to gather the bundle into her arms, to cradle it against her chest, to shield it from the cold grip of the stone. To take it from these walls, away from the death and decay that clung to the air, and let her warmth pour into it, chasing away the chill that did not belong to something so small.

Her fingers curled, desperate to grasp the soft swaddling cloth, to feel the impossible weight of it against her. If she could only hold it, she could will life into it–breathe warmth into cold flesh, whisper comfort against a too-fragile brow.

But even as she reached, the air around her seemed to still, thickening like mist, pressing heavy against her lungs. The chamber wavered at the edges of her vision, the candlelight dimming, shadows creeping in like grasping fingers. And then–

A shudder ran through her chest, sharp and sudden.

She gasped, torn from the dream, her body lurching awake as if pulled from deep waters. Sweat cooled against her skin as the room pressed down around her. The air felt thick and suffocating, clinging to her like unseen hands. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a dull ache pressing behind her eyes. The world was dark, the only illumination the flickering firelight casting restless shadows across the walls. For a moment, she simply lay there, staring at the canopy overhead, struggling to separate dream from memory. The phantom scent of incense still lingered in her nostrils, the cold touch of the Sept’s stone floor ghosting along her bare feet.

No matter how many times she pulled the blankets over her, no matter how fiercely she willed herself back to sleep, the cycle would begin again. Each time she closed her eyes, she was back there–watching, waiting, unable to move.

And each time, when they turned into the bundle of darkened fabric, she’d wake before reaching him.

The only solace Daenera found in the endless, wretched hours of the night came in the form of the man she despised. It was a strange, loathsome comfort, knowing he was there–just beyond the edge of her sight, a shadow lingering at the periphery of her awareness. She could not see him, but she felt his presence like the faint warmth of a dying fire, an awareness that settled into the marrow of her bones, a tether that kept her from slipping too far into the abyss of restless dreams. And she hated herself for it.

When she finally woke, it was with a sluggish, heavy pull, as though her body had been weighted down by lead. The weight of exhaustion pressed heavy against her limbs, dragging at her movements as she pushed herself upright. She braced one arm against the mattress, her fingers curling into the soft fabric of the sheets as she rubbed at her face, trying to rid herself of the drowsy fog clinging to her thoughts.

The world around her felt strange, disjointed, as though she had woken in a place that was not her own–like a song heard through thick stone walls. The air felt cloying against her skin, thick with the scent of spent candle wax. Weariness clung to her, needling beneath her skin like trapped embers, crawling like a thousand unseen ants.

The light streaming through the windows stabbed at her eyes, sharp and unforgiving.

Daenera winched, turning her face slightly away, blinking against the warmth that flooded the chamber. The sun had already climbed above the walls of the Keep, its position telling her it was later than when she was usually awoken. Mertha was nothing if not punctual. The old hag roused her at the break of dawn, when the sky bled red and bruised above the horizon.

She frowned at the daylight, as if it had betrayed her. There was no evidence of the previous night’s storm–no lingering mist, no streaks of rain trailing down the glass. The sky was clear, bright, as though the day before had never happened at all. If not for the ache in her bones, the weight of her heart pressing against her ribs, she might have thought it had all been nothing more than another fevered dream.

Frowning, she rubbed her face again, the press of her fingers doing little to chase away the lingering grogginess. She forced herself more upright, her gaze drifting across the chamber, searching–until it landed on the chaise.

Empty.

No trace of its occupant remained.

The pillow and blanket had been put away. There was no discarded boots, no abandoned clothes draped over its back. It was as if Aemond had never been there at all.

Her frown deepened as a strange tightness coiled in her chest.

The faint murmur of voices carried through the air, distant but distinct. Beyond the bedchamber, in the adjoining room, figures spoke in hushed tones, as though wary of disturbing her rest.

Daenera’s unease curled in her chest, coiling tighter with every passing moment. She pushed the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold stone floor with a quiet tap. For a moment, she simply sat there, listening, her senses sharpening against the strange stillness of the morning.

She pushed the blankets aside and rose from bed, bare feet meeting the cool stone floor with a shiver. Moving towards the chair, she plucked up the robe she had discarded the night before, the silk slipping like water through her fingers as she pulled it around herself. The fabric was soft, another layer of warmth, but it did little to shake the lingering heaviness in her libs. She slipped her feet into her waiting slippers, and with slow steps, she shuffled towards the adjoining chamber.

The scent of food reached her before she stepped through the archway–warm, rich aromas of roasted meat, freshly baked bread, and ripe fruit heavy in the air. Her stomach twisted, though whether in hunger or unease, she couldn’t tell.

She halted just beyond the threshold.

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows in thick, golden shafts, illuminating the room in a hazy glow. The long dining table had been set in one end, its polished surface laden with an array of food–ripe fruit and shelled nuts, boiled eggs, meats sliced into neat portions, warm loaves of crusty bread. And at the far end of it all, seated with an unreadable expression, was Aemond.

Her eyes found him immediately, drawn to him before anything else. He sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed, one arm resting against the table, his long fingers absently tapping on its surface. Yet there was nothing idle about him–his presence, as always, engulfed her. His gaze drew from Edelin to her.

With a gentle clink, Edelin set down a bowl of berries, the delicate sound barely disrupting the thick silence hanging in the room. Her movements were deliberate, careful, as if wary of disturbing something fragile, something already on the verge of splintering.

She straightened, smoothing invisible creases from her apron before lifting her gaze. Her eyes met Daenera’s–hesitant, searching–and for the briefest of moments, her expression betrayed something unspoken. A sadness, quiet and lingering, settled in the slight crease between her brows.

It was not pity, not quite, but something close to it.

“Why are you still here?” Daenera’s voice was all cool disdain as he stepped further into the room, her movements unhurried as she drifted towards the table. “I thought we had come to an understanding.”

Stopping to the chair to his left, she rested a hand against the carved wooden back, her fingers idly tracing the grain before plucking a single berry from a bowl. She rolled it between her fingers, holding it before her mouth. “I see my threats weren’t enough to deter you.” She popped the berry into her mouth, chewing slowly, letting the silence stretch for a moment. “What will it take? Must I piss on all the furniture to rid myself of your presence?”

A sharp clatter split the air.

The clatter had rung through the chamber like a struck bell, reverberating off the high stone walls. Edelin stood frozen, her fingers splayed over the tray as if by sheer force of will she could undo her mistake. Her face burned crimson, shame creeping up her throat.

Daenera barely spared her a glance. The noise had startled her, yes–sent a jolt through her ribs, coiled her nerves tighter–but she had not reacted beyond a slow, measured breath. She seemed to feel the impact echo through her bones, the feeling jarring.

Her attention returned to Aemond.

He did not flinch, nor did he seemed to care for the source of the commotion. His gaze met hers, sharp and unreadable, the corner of his mouth curved–just slightly, just enough for her to see it. His amusement bled into something more serious, the curve flattening.

“I have something to tell you.”

He moved then, shifting the plate before him. The scrape of metal against polished wood was soft, deliberate, as he pushed it across the surface towards her. It came to rest beside the chair she gripped, inviting her to take a seat.

She did not sit.

Her gaze flickered downward. The food had been arranged with thought–small portions of roasted meats, ripe fruit sliced into pieces, chilled grapes and peeled tangerines. Freshly baked bread, still warm, set alongside honey and jam. And a cinnamon cake topped with sugar.

The scent curled into her senses. She felt a pang of hunger deep in her belly, but what fleeting warmth that came with the offering did not reach her.

A sick, molten heat curled in her stomach. Half of her wanted to shove the plate away, to overturn it onto his lap and let him wear his pathetic attempt at civility like the mockery it was. But she did not move.

“Are you to soften the blow of telling me you’ve killed another of my brothers with cake and tea?” Daenera scoffed, her voice laced with venom. “Do you think it will make it easier to swallow?”

He hadn’t been gone long enough for it to be true. She knew that. But the words left her lips all the same. Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, knuckles whitening as she glared at him. The scent of warm bread and sugared fruit lingered in the air, cloying and thick, but it did nothing to soothe the tightening in her chest.

Edelin, wisely, said nothing. Without another word, she gathered the tray, her movements careful, practiced. She turned on her heel and slipped from the chamber, the heavy wooden door falling shut behind her with a muted thud.

Aemond remained composed, his expression an unreadable mask. Not a twitch of his jaw, not the slightest crease in his brow betrayed his thoughts. And yet, there was something in his eye–a flicker of something elusive. Amusement? Irritation? Pity? Worry? Daenera could not tell. He did not rise to her provocation, did not sneer or scoff as she expected. He merely regarded her, studying in that way of his, as though peeling back her layers to reveal her bleeding insides.

The silence stretched between them. Then, at last, he spoke.

“Sit,” He said, his voice smooth, measured. A urging that bordered on command.

There was something in the way he held himself, in the deliberate calm of his tone, in the weight of his single eye upon her that made unease coil deep in her belly. It was in the quiet insistence of his words. The way he looked at her–with a gentleness so sharp that it cut her more deeply than his scorn ever could.

A knot tightened in her throat.

“I don’t want to,” she said, the words leaving her lips before she could stop then, a childish defiance she knew already was useless. And yet, she clung to it, as if voicing her refusal would keep at bay whatever terrible thing he meant to tell her.

Aemond did not blink.

“Sit down, Daenera.” This time, his voice was firm, unyielding as cold steel.

Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, nails biting into the polished wood, pressing so hard she felt the strain in her joints. The wood did not give, would not break under her grip–so she did. She released her grip on it and lowered herself into the chair. Her hands found their place in her lap, curled into fists against the silk of her robe.

Aemond did not gloat. He did not smirk as she had expected him to–no cruel twist of his lips, no gleam of satisfaction in his eye. Instead, he regarded her with a quiet gentleness that unsettled her more than his arrogance ever could. And that, somehow, was so much worse.

His arrogance, his cruelty–those things she could fight against. They gave her something solid to grasp, something to spit venom at, something to push against. But this… this quiet patience, this measured restraint, this softness–it felt like a dagger slipping between her ribs in slow, excruciating inches. It stripped her of armor, left her exposed and flailing.

Whatever words he held back lingered in the air, an unspoken storm gathering in the silence between them. It clung to her skin like damp fog, coiling around her ribs, settling in her chest like water filling a drowning woman’s lungs. She felt it, the suffocating dread creeping through her, the gnawing certainty that whatever he meant to say was not anything good.

Aemond inhaled slowly, deliberately, the movement measured and precise. His fingers twitched idly against the polished wood of the table–just the faintest motion, absent and unhurried, betraying some restless thought stirring beneath his composure. Daenera’s gaze flickered towards them before she forced herself to look away, to return her focus to his face.

And yet, she could still feel them.

The ghost of his touch lingered, seared into her skin as if he had only just held her, as if his grip had never loosened. She still recalled the bruising pressure of his fingers, the way they had burned into her flesh, branding her in ways she could never truly scrub away. She still carried the bruises on her thighs, small blossoms of purple.

Aemond shifted slightly, brow contemplative. He parted his lips as if to speak, then hesitated, exhaling through his nose in a soft hum. It was not so much uncertainty that held his tongue, she thought, but something else. He was choosing his words with care, as though the right words would lessen the blow of what he wished to tell her.

At last, he spoke.

“We’ve received word,” he said, his voice a quiet drawl, “that your mother has returned to Dragonstone.”

Daenera exhaled, a slow and measured breath, though it did little to steady the storm within her. Her mother had left Storm’s End. Had returned home.

For a fleeting moment, relief washed over her, swift and forceful, crashing over her like a wave breaking against the shore. But just as quickly, it retreated, dragging something heavier in its wake. Grief surged to take its place, welling up inside her like the rising tide, lodging itself between her ribs. It pressed against her throat, made it difficult to swallow, difficult to breathe.

Had her mother abandoned the search?

Or worse–had she found what she was looking for?

She closed her eyes. Just for a moment.

And in that single moment, she saw him.

Her brother lay upon the cold, unforgiving stone. The Silent Sisters worked over him with quiet reverence, their hands steady in their duty. She saw the pale, waterlogged flesh, the places where his skin had turned grey, kissed too long by the sea. Salt clung to him like a second burial shroud, glistening against the limp, tangle mess of his curls–curls that had once been soft, once had been warmed by the sun, now stiffened by the ocean’s embrace.

But would he truly look like that after all this time? After all that happened?

The thought coiled inside her like a living thing, sinking its fangs into the tender flesh of her heart. She almost wanted to ask him, almost wanted to force the truth from his lips, to demand if her mother had found something, anything. But the fear held her still. Because she already knew the answer.

There was nothing left to find.

Daenera forced herself to breathe, slow and steady, though it did little to ease the tightness coiling in her chest. The weight of exhaustion pressed against her ribs, heavy as a millstone, and the warm air of the chamber felt thick in her throat. She willed herself to keep her composure, to smother the grief before it could bloom into something she could not control. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her robe, nails biting into the silk.

She gave a small nod, a single, curt motion that barely disturbed the strands of silver hair falling over her shoulders. Her lips parted, then pursed, as if to trap the question before it could leave her tongue. She swallowed, forcing down the bitter taste of sorrow.

And then, at last, she spoke.

“Is that all?” Her voice was a blade’s edge, honed sharp, but strained–fraying at the seams. She would not break–not in front of him.

The silence that followed was brief, but it dragged, a heartbeat too long, as if the weight of what he was about to say needed that extra breath to settle. The tension drew taut as a bows string before the arrow was released.

Aemond’s gaze remained on her. “No,” he murmured, softer than she expected. He straightened slightly, a mere shift in posture, yet it felt deliberate, careful, as though bracing himself. His hands, long-fingered and calloused, stilled against the table. “Your mother lost the child.”

A thousand thoughts stormed through her mind, each one crashing over the next. She thought first of Jace. The last she had head, he was at Winterfell, far beyond the Green’s reach–surely beyond their reach. But then–Joffrey? Aegon? Viserys? Had something happened to them? Had the war already stolen more from her than it had already taken?

And then, at last, the truth settled in.

It was not them. It was not one of her brothers.

It was the child–the one her mother had been carrying.

The realization landed like a blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. She felt the weight of it sink into her bones, cold and merciless. Grief swelled in her chest, thick and cloying, rising like a tide she could not hold back. The air thickened, turned to something unbreathable. The room blurred at the edges, light wrapping around her vision as nausea coiled in her gut, sharp and violet.

She rose, too quickly, the legs of the chair scraping roughly against the stone floor. The sound barely registered. Blood pounded in her ears, drowning out the distant murmurs of the Keep beyond these walls, drowning out the warmth of the fire, the lingering scent of sugared fruit and cinnamon still cloying in the air.

Her composure slipped, crumbled through her fingers like sand.

Her sibling–gone before they could even be held, before they could take their first breath.

The grief curled inside her like a living thing, sharp-toothed and ravenous, tearing at the fragile seams of her restraint. Her throat burned, bile rising, but she forced it down.

Out of the blurred edges of her vision, Daenera caught the slightest movement–a flicker of motion that, for a moment, she mistook for hesitation. But it was not hesitation.

Aemond reached for her.

His fingers hovered just shy of her own, the barest breath of space between them, as if he meant to grasp her hand, to still her, to ground her. But she wrenched away before he could touch her, as if his fingers were flame and she had already been burned too many times. The motion was sharp, instinctual, a recoil from something she could not bear to endure. She turned her back to him, closing herself off, severing whatever fragile moment might have passed between them before it could take shape.

A sharp ache bloomed in her chest, spreading like a bruise, pressing heavy against her ribs until it felt as if they might crack beneath the weight. She strained to breathe, to force air past the tightness in her throat, but it caught and stuttered, shallow and uneven. Her hands found her hips, fingers pressing against the curve of her spine as she tried–gods, she tried–to steady herself.

Her gaze lifted skyward, as if seeking solace in the high vaulted ceiling, in the distant light that streamed through the windows. But the tears burned hot behind her eyes, threatening to spill, and she clenched her jaw, willing them away.

And she did not want him to see.

She did not want him to watch her unravel, to bear witness to her pain, to see the raw, ugly thing that grief made of her. Vulnerability was a weapon turned against its wielder, and she would not offer him that blade–not again.

A sob rose in her throat, thick and strangling, but she swallowed it down, forcing it into the put of her stomach where it could rot unseen.

Her mother had wanted this child–had longed for it. Daenera had seen it in her eyes, had heard it in the quiet way she spoke of the babe, in the way she touched her stomach as if the child were already there in her arms.

And now, there was nothing.

Her hand rose, fingers trembling slightly as she tugged at the collar of her dress, as if loosening the fabric might somehow loosen the tightness coiling in her chest. She pressed her palm against her heart, felt the frantic beat beneath her skin, fast and uneven, as though her own body rebelled against the weight of the truth.

Her mother had lost a son.

And now, she had lost another child.

Another life stolen, another piece of her mother torn away. And the gods were silent.

Daenera closed her eyes.

For a fleeting moment, she no longer saw her brother stretched out upon the Silent Sisters’ stone table, his chest broken open, his curls stiff with salt.

Instead, she saw something smaller.

Too small.

A bundle of fabric lay upon the cold, unforgiving slab–wrong, out of place, never meant to be there. The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows over the swaddled form, over the impossibly delicate curve of it.

And then, a wisp of silver hair.

Soft. Fine as gossamer. Barely visible in the dim light, but there all the same.

Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between her ribs, aching as though something inside her had cracked. The room around her faded, the weight of the present slipping beneath the tide of grief pulling her under.

Oh, gods. The letter.

The realization dawned on her, settling in the pit of her stomach like a stone.

By now, Fenrick would be on his way to Dragonstone, carrying the letter she had written with such careful, measured words. She had tried–foolishly, naively–to offer her mother some semblance of solace, to give her something to cling to amidst the reunion on loss. She had told her that the child she carried would bring her comfort–that not everything had been lost.

Regret was a sharp, bitter thing, curling around her ribs and sinking its teeth deep.

Behind her, Aemond spoke, his voice low, careful. “Daenera…”

She lifted her hand, fingers trembling slightly as she motioned for him to stop. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to turn, to face him, to bear the weight of his gaze pressing against her as it always did.

Her grief twisted into something worse–guilt. It tore through her anew, sharp and relentless, pulling her apart at the seams.

Had she done this?

Was this her punishment? A cruel retribution from the gods for what she had done to the boy who trusted her? For the poison she had slipped into his food, for the lies she had whispered as she sent him to his death?

Her breath shuddered in her chest, jagged and uneven, but she swallowed the turmoil down, forcing herself to steady. She wiped at her cheek, smearing away the single tear that had escaped before it could be seen. Before he could see it.

“When?” Her voice came, quieter than she had intended, hoarse with the effort of keeping herself together. “When did this happen?”

Aemond was silent for a beat too long. Then–”Does it matter?”

At last, Daenera turned to face him. Her movements were slow, reluctant, as if forcing herself to meet his gaze would make the weight in her chest any easier to bear–but it did not, it only made it all the heavier. Another tear slipped free trailing in a slow descent down her cheek before she wiped it away with a trembling hand. It was a futile effort. More clung to her lashes, catching the light like glistening shards of glass. She could feel them tremble, feel the heat behind her eyes threatening to spill over again, but she refused to let them fall.

She met his gaze, and it nearly undid her.

His expression was carefully neutral, yet there was something guarded in the set of his jaw, something restrained in the way he held himself. And his eye–gods, his eye. It was not cold as it so often was, nor sharp with mockery, nor darkened by cruelty. Instead, there was a softness there, a quiet, somber patience that only deepened the ache in her chest.

“I–” the words caught in her throat, breaking apart before it could fully form. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Did I–?”

Her lips parted, but she could not finish the question. Was it my fault? The words remained trapped behind clenched teeth, rattling inside her skull like a dying thing. Did I do this? The thought alone sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through her. Had the gods seen what she had done? Had they cast their judgment, taken something from her mother in retribution for what Daenera had stolen from another?

The guilt gnawed at her, a ravenous beast sinking its teeth into her ribs. She could not bring herself to ask him, could not bear to voice the thought that had already sunk its claws into her mind.

And worse–why, why in all the gods’ names, was she looking to him for reassurance? Why was she searching his face for some denial, some certainty that this was not her doing, that she had not willed this tragedy into being?

Hatred curled inside her–hatred for herself, for the shameful, desperate way her heart clung to his presence in this moment. She swallowed again, fingers curling into the silk of her robe as she forced her voice into something steadier, something more composed, though it still trembled. “When did it happen?”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, watching her in that way he always did–like he saw more than what she gave. He studied her, peeling back the layers of her composure as though he could see the raw, open wounds beneath.

“It was before.”

Before.

Before she had killed Patrick. Before she had sealed her own damnation.

For the briefest of moments, the relief came swift and sharp, crashing through her like a desperate breath breaking the surface of deep waters. It was a cruel, fleeting thing, barely there before it was swallowed whole by something far worse. A wave of guilt surged up in its place, heavier than before, pressing down on her like a boulder against her chest. She felt sick with it, sick with herself. What did it matter when it had happened? What difference did it make? The child was still gone, lost before ever taking a breath. And yet, for the smallest fraction of time, she had felt relief that it had not been her fault. That it had not been her sin that had stolen another life from her mother’s arms.

She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, nails biting into the flesh of her palms until she could feel the sting of it, grounding herself in the pain. She could not allow herself that feeling, could not let herself grasp onto it. Her mother had lost her son, and now she had lost another child.

There was no comfort in the timing of it, no absolution in the fact that it had been before Patrick. And yet, she had sought it anyway, like a coward grasping at scraps of solace in the face of an unbearable truth.

She forced her shoulders back, forced the breath into her lungs, forced the grief into something small and quiet, something she could lock away until she was alone. Because no matter how much she might feel as though she was drowning, she could not afford to let herself sink.

“Before,” Daenera echoed, the word curling bitterly on her tongue. Her brow furrowed, and something inside her twisted. The grief threatening to pull her under began to harden, cooling into something sharper and accusatory. “When before?”

Aemond inhaled through his nose, slow and measured, though his posture stiffened slightly. He bore the weight of her accusation as he bore all others–like armor, as though he had long since learned to let such words slide from his skin like rain against steel. He did not flinch, nor did he waver. Instead, his head tilted, just enough for the sunlight to catch the angular lines of his face.

When he finally spoke, his voice was the same even, measured tone. “Before.”

Before Patrick.

Before Luke.

The child had been lost before he had ridden to Storm’s End, before he had given chase in the rain, his rage and wounded pride spurring him forward, before the storm had swallowed them both whole. Before the sky had split with the crack of thunder, before Vhagar’s massive jaws had closed around Luke and torn him from the sky. Before the sea had claimed whatever was left, dragging it down into the cold, endless depths, leaving nothing but salt and silence in its wake. Beforeher mother had searched those very waves, desperate, grieving, calling for a son who would never answer. BeforeDaenera’s own hands had been stained with the blood of the innocent, before poison had coated her fingertips, before death had followed in her shadow.

Before everything.

And yet, no matter how she turned it over in her mind, no matter how she tried to unravel the cruel weaving of fate, she could not shake the truth of it.

It did not matter.

The order of their suffering changed nothing. The loss remained. The grief endured. The dead did not return.

“It seems the news of our father’s passing brought it upon her,” Aemond continued, his voice careful. And yet, his fingers–long and deft, ever steady–began to tap idly against the polished wood of the table. A restless habit, though whether born of irritation or impatience, she could not tell.

Daenera’s lips parted, but only a breath escaped before her grief twisted into something else entirely–something raw and seething, something blistering beneath her skin like an open wound.

“When her rightful claim was usurped.” She did not temper her hanger, did not bite back the words before they could lash out. She wanted them to land.

Not only had her mother lost her father, but her very birthright had been stolen from beneath her, torn away by those who had sworn loyalty and then betrayed her in the same breath. Her throne had been usurped, her claim trampled beneath the weight of ambition and treachery. She had carried a child, nurtured it within her, only for it to be wrenched from her before it could ever take its first breath. And then, as if the gods had not yet finished their cruel work, she had lost her son–her sweet, bright boy–swallowed by the storm, by the beast, by the sea.

The gods were vicious, their judgment as merciless as it was senseless. They were no wise and righteous overseers, no keepers of justice and fate. They were cruel, capricious, laughing down from their lofty halls as mortals broke beneath their whims. What justice was there in this? What righteousness? There was none–only suffering, only grief, only the relentless toll of loss upon loss, piling higher like bodies left to rot upon the battlefield.

How could they punish her–her mother, whose only crime had been existing as her father’s heir–while those who had taken, those who had stolen, those who had murdered were left to rule, to thrive, to wear crowns dripping with the blood of the innocent?

The gods had no justice. They only had cruelty.

Aemond’s jaw tensed, just slightly. A small shift, a twitch of muscle, but she saw it.

“How many more must die for your family’s ambition?” She bit out, fury coiling around her grief like a viper.

“The fault is not ours,” Aemond siad, his tone composed, infuriatingly patient, as though he expected her anger, as though he would simply weather it like a storm passing overhead. “The child was malformed, he continued, his voice careful, as if he were offering her something close to reassurance. “It is said it had horns, scales…a tail.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “It would not have survived, whether it came now or later.”

“Who?” Her voice was sharp, demanding, slicing through the thick silence between them. “Who said this? How do they know?”

Her breath quickened, her hands curling into fists at her sides, nails biting into the flesh of her palms. The words felt too heavy, too cruel to accept without a fight. Aemond had spoken them so plainly, as if they were mere facts and not a sentence of grief carved into her very bones.

“How do you know it's the truth?” She challenged, stepping closer now, her gaze burning into his.

Daenera seethed, but she could feel her fury unraveling at the edges, slipping through her fingers like sand. She needed someone to blame, needed it to make sense of it all, needed somewhere to aim her anger before it ebbed out entirely, only leaving behind an aching emptiness. But Aemond did not flinch, did not rise to her anger.

“We have received multiple accounts,” he said, his voice dreadfully gentle, offering her no cruelty, no satisfaction, only the quiet inevitability of truth.

Daenera felt the fight drain from her in an instant, like a blade sliding free from between her ribs, leaving behind only the gaping wound, the hollow ache where fury had once burned. The fire inside her flickered, then went out entirely, snuffed like a candle’s flame, leaving only behind the curling remnants of smoke, grief’s cold fingers creeping into its place.

She swayed slightly on her feet, her pulse thrumming in her ears, tears pressing hard against the back of her eyes. She closed them, only to find that the darkness brought no relief. The image waiting for her there–waiting in the hollow spaces behind her ribs, in the marrow of her bones. The small bundle wrapped in cloth. The wisp of silver hair barely visible. Unbearable stillness.

She rubbed her hand across her face, as though she could wipe away the vision along with the tears that threatened to spill. With a quiet, weary sigh, she sank back into her chair.

She wished she had been there.

Wished she could be there now–with her mother, beside her, as she mourned her children.

Daenera was growing weary of grief, of loss. It clung to her like a second skin, a weight that hadn’t lessened yet, only shifted, pressing down on her in different ways, at different times. She was drowning in it. The loss of this sibling–one she had never met, one she had only allowed herself to hope for–was but a drop in the ocean of sorrow that had already swallowed her whole.

It was a cruel thing to admit, even to herself, but it was the truth. Compared to Luke, compared to the gaping, irreparable wound his absence had left inside of her, this loss felt small–manageable. A shallow wound against a deeper, festering one.

Perhaps that was not so strange.

And perhaps, there was only so much grief one could carry before it became to heavy to bear. So she gathered this small sorrow, cupped it in her hands like water, and let it slip through her fingers, pouring it into some quiet place within herself where it could no longer drown her.

“I wanted to be the one to tell you,” Aemond said softly.

Her gaze lifted to meet his, and this time, there was no scorn in her eyes, no reproach or bitter edge to her expression. Only something quieter, something more measured. A tired understanding, perhaps. A truce, however fragile, however brief.

The sunglint spilled through the high windows, cutting through the coldness of the chamber, catching the strands of his pale hair and turning them to gold. The light softened him, rounded the edges of his sharp features, took the severity of him and made him something almost gentle. Almost human.

Daenera swallowed, drawing in a slow, steady breath, holding it deep in her lungs before releasing it, exhaling the grief, the weight, the ache–if only for a moment.

“Thank you for telling me,” she murmured at last.

Aemond studied her, his gaze lingering. And then, quiet, deliberately he ventured, “I wanted to tell you about–”

“But you didn’t,” Daenera cut him off, her voice regaining an edge–something brittle. A simmering ember of anger licked at her ribs. It did not blaze into a roaring fire, but it smoldered there, deep and slow-burning, waiting.

“I waited for you,” she said, the strain in her voice betraying the wounds that had yet to close, the kind that festered beneath the skin and leaked poison into the blood. “I waited for you, but you never came.”

For the first time, Aemond broke her gaze. He turned his face ever so slightly, his eye flickering away, his shoulders going taut beneath the fabric of his doublet. The shift was small, but she saw it bathed in the light of day as it was–the tension in his jaw, the almost imperceptible curl of his lips, the way his fingers twitched against the table as if resisting the urge to move. It could have been mistaken for annoyance, but it wasn’t.

Shame, she thought. Regret, perhaps.

His next words came as softly as they had the last time, spoken with the same quiet weight, the same bitter aftertaste. “I wanted to give you one more night.”

The same words he had spoken when they sat together in the ruin of her chambers, amidst shattered glass and scattered blood. One more night believing her brother was alive. An explanation. A bitter solace. A stinging mistake.

One more night–one night too long. And yet far too little.

“It wasn’t enough,” Daenera murmured. Her voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “It would never be enough.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, the silence between them thick with everything neither of them would say. Words unspoken tangled in the space between them, unsaid truths pressing against the weight of air.

And still, neither of them looked away.

“You should have been the one to tell me,” she murmured, finally breaking her gaze, her voice quieter now. “Just as I should be the one to tell Patrick’s parents of their son.

Her fingers curled slightly against the table’s surface as she lifted her gaze back to him. “I do not expect it to bring them peace. But at least they will know. I owe them that much.” It was the kindest thing she could offer. “Let me write to them. Let me be the one to inform them of his passing.”

Aemond studied her. His lips pressed together, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face–perhaps a sharp remark, a cutting jest waiting on his tongue, but if so, he swallowed it. Instead, his gaze flickered downward, settling on the plate of food in front of her, untouched, the warm of it long since dissipated.

“If you eat,” he said at last.

Daenera blinked at him, caught off guard by the audacity of it. It was so unexpected, so absurdly him that she nearly let out a sharp, humorous laugh. Instead, her expression darkened, her brows pulling together as a scowl twisted her lips. She briefly entertained the idea of overturning the plate onto his pristine doublet, watching the food spill into his lap with a pure, spiteful satisfaction. She could already picture it–the way his lips would tighten, the sharp edge of his glare, the inevitable snap of his patience.

The thought was tempting.

Spite crackled beneath her skin, hot and restless, but she forced it down.

It should be her that told Patrick’s parents. She had taken their son’s life–whatever justification, whatever mercy she had told herself had softened it, it was still her hand that had ended it. And for that reason alone, she begrudgingly reached for the plate, sliding it towards herself with slow, reluctant movements. She picked up a piece of tangerine, lifting it to her lips without breaking her glare, scowling at Aemond as she chewed.

Across the table, the corner of his lips curled–just slightly, just enough to make her scowl deepen.

The first few bites were an effort, her throat constricting, her stomach coiled so tightly it felt as though it might reject the food entirely. But the more she ate, the more the tension eased, the tightness giving way to something else–something she had not realized had been gnawing at her. Hunger.

She had barely eaten since the day before yesterday. Perhaps even longer than that. She had forced herself to move, to speak, to endure, but she had done so on nothing but sheer will. And on some level, she suspected Aemond knew.

Her eyes flicked up, narrowing slightly as she caught him watching her. “Are you not going to eat?” she asked, her tone sharp, edged with irritation.

“I’ve eaten,” Aemond replied, entirely unbothered.

“Are you just going to stare at me while I eat? If so, I’d much prefer if you left.”

If anything, he seemed amused by her hostility. His hand lifted lazily from the surface of the table, reaching for her plate with deliberate slowness, plucking a single grape between his fingers.

Daenera reacted before she could think.

Her hand snapped out, slapping against his with a sharp smack. The sound echoed between them, louder than she had expected, but she did not regret it. Resentment flared in her chest, hot and immediate. If he had wanted to sit here, if he had wanted to share her food the way they had once done before, then perhaps he shouldn’t have murdered her brother.

The vitriol did not make it to her voice, though. Nor did it reach the glare she leveled at him. Instead, her tone was cold, flat, edged with something quieter, something just as sharp. “If you’ve eaten, then leave. Or get your own food. Don’t steal mine.”

Aemond’s gaze flickered to where she had struck his hand, then back to her, something unreadable passing over his expression.

Then, with an infuriating little smirk, he popped the stolen grape into his mouth.

The doors swung open with a quiet creak, and the sharp rhythm of approaching steps cut through the silence. Daenera barely had time to register the intrusion before Mertha stood before her, her hands folded neatly, her face in that ever-present mask of tight-lipped disapproval–though now, it was drawn even tighter, as though she had bitten into something sour and found it worse than expected.

Edelin hovered behind her, expression worried.

“My prince,” Lady Mertha said stiffly, inclining her head. “Forgive the intrusion, but the Lord Confessor’s patience has worn thin. He insists that they begin the search now.”

At the words, Aemond leaned back slightly in his chair, the shift slow, deliberate. Whatever flicker of amusement that had lingered in his features vanished in an instant, his face hardening into something cold and impassive–his familiar mask of steel and ice. Every trace of that infuriating smugness from moments before was gone, replaced by something unreadable, something distant.

His fingers twitched idly on the tabletop, betraying the only sign of his irritation. He inhaled through his nose, the sound quiet but edged with something restrained.

“Very well,” he said at last, his voice carrying no emotion, nothing but the crisp weight of obligation.

Mertha did not move. She did not bow her head in dismissal, did not turn to fetch the Lord Confessor. Instead, she lingered, her dull gray eyes dragging from Aemond to Daenera, her gaze narrowing as her expression tightened.

“Princess,” she said, her tone stiff with expectation. “We must get you dressed properly. You are in no state for company.” With a sharp flick of her wrist, she gestured for Daenera to follow, already turning towards the bedchamber.

A cold prickle of unease ran down Daenera’s spine, a familiar dread twisting deep in her chest. She knew what waited for her behind the dressing screen, beyond the sight of others. Knew what Mertha’s cruel hands would do. The evidence of it still lingering on her skin–every cruel pinch, every warning squeeze, every silent reproach. The thought of it–of standing there, bare beneath Mertha’s fingers as she worked over her with disapproving hands and sharp, muttered words–made tension coil in her stomach.

But still, she rose to her feet.

“Lady Mertha,” Edelin interjected smoothly, stepping forward with an air of quiet insistence. “Allow me to see to the princess. I will dress her.”

Mertha’s head snapped toward her, lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line.

Edelin did not falter. “The Lord Confessor’s men will need to be supervised,” she continued, her tone carefully even. “They will tear through this chamber like hounds after scraps. Someone must ensure they do not leave a mess we will only have to clean later.”

Mertha’s lips twitched, her displeasure barely concealed. She exhaled sharply though her nose and turned back to Daenera, her eyes narrowing in quiet suspicion. Her gaze lingered for a beat, as if considering whether to press the matter, to drag Daenera to the screen herself.

But then, without a word, she pivoted sharply on her heel. “Very well, make her presentable,” she said and strode to the doors, her skirts sweeping across the stone floor as she went to admit the Lord Confessor and his men.

Daenera let out a slow, controlled breath, grateful for Edelin.

She stepped into the bedchamber, the warmth of the late morning sun filtering through the tall windows, casting golden light against the cool stone walls. The air was still, thick with the lingering scents of candle wax and the morning meal.

Crossing the room, she made her way to the basin, dipping her hands into the cool water before bringing it to her face. The sudden chill sent a shiver down her spine, but she welcomed it, relished the way it momentarily cleared the haze from her mind–and washed the salt from her face. Droplets slipped down her skin, trailing along her jaw, and she reached for a cloth to dry them away, pressing the fabric against her cheeks with slow, deliberate movements.

When she finally lifted her gaze to the mirror above the basin, she understood why Mertha had been so quick to comment on her appearance.

Strands of hair had slipped free from their braids, some curling in wild disarray around her face, the carefully woven plaits loosened from restless sleep and the wear of the day. The silk strips woven into them had come undone, some hanging limply, others barely clinging to the braid at all. Shadows bloomed beneath her eyes, a testament to the fitful rest that had done little to ease the weight pressing on her shoulders.

She looked tired. Worn.

And she was.

The distant murmur of voices drifted through the open archway, punctuated by the shuffle of boots against stone. Low, hushed tones woven together, an indistinctive hum of men speaking, orders given. Yet amidst it all, one sound stood apart–the rhythmic, deliberate tap of a cane against the floor.

Daenera’s breath stilled for a fraction of a moment, an instinctive reaction, though she forced herself not to tense. The sound unsettled her. The slow, measured beat of it, never hurried, never uncertain. A herald of unpleasant things.

Edelin’s hands remained gentle, undisturbed by the noise beyond the chamber. With practiced efficiency, she helped Daenera out of her nightgown, the fabric slipping from her shoulders in a whisper of silk. A moment later, she was easing her into a fresh gown–a modest, loose-fitting dress of grayish-blue brocade, its fabric soft against her skin.

The girl worked swiftly, fingers deft as she moved to Daenera’s hair, undoing the intricate weaving she had secured the night before. The ties slipped free one by one, and with them, the last remnants of braids unraveled. Her dark hair spilled down her back, loose and soft, waves curling from where it had been bound.

Edelin hesitated briefly, as if expecting some instruction, some desire for her to gather it up, to set it with pins and ribbons. But Daenera gave none. She let her hair fall as it was, unbound and unstyled, unwilling to fuss with it. She had neither the patience nor the mood for it.

“Would you prepare ink and parchment?” Daenera asked, her voice quiet but firm as Edelin removed the final braid from her hair. Strands slipped free, falling in loose waves over her shoulders and down her back, pooling like dark silk. “I expect I will need more than one sheet.”

Edelin gave a small nod, setting aside the silk strip she had unwoven and placing it neatly on the surface of the dressing table before turning to fulfill Daenera’s request.

Daenera exhaled, lifting her hands to her hair, running her fingers through the long, thick strands to smooth them out. Rising from the chair, she swept the mass of it over her shoulder before letting it fall back behind her. It cascaded down past her hips, heavy and unbound.

Mertha would surely find fault with her appearance–the simplicity of her dress, the lack of jewelry, the way she left her hair undone instead of setting it in careful plaits and coils as a lady ought to. But Daenera could not bring herself to care. Not today.

Without another word, she turned from the mirror and made her way toward the common room.

The room was a whirlwind of movement, a flurry of restless energy as men tore through every corner of the space with methodical precision. Cupboards were thrown open, drawers upended, books lifted and set aside, decorations shifted from their places as hands dragged across every surface in search of something unseen–something they would not find. The scrape of wood, the rustling of parchment, the dull thud of objects being set down or discarded–all of it filled the air, mingling with the thick oppressive tension that hung like a storm waiting to break.

As Daenera stood at the threshold of the room, men moved past her with single-minded purpose. They did not pause, did not acknowledge her presence beyond the necessity of stepping around her, their focus set entirely on the task at hand.

Her gaze swept across the room, cutting through the chaos–until it landed on him.

Larys Strong.

The Lord Confessor stood apart from the frenzy, watching rather than searching, his sharp gaze meeting hers. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. But the way he looked at her–calculated, considering–made something crawl beneath her skin, made indignation flare within her chest.

She gritted her teeth and turned away from him, tearing her gaze from his prying stare, intent on ignoring him.

Her eyes drifted to the far end of the table, where Edelin had already set out the ink and parchment with meticulous care. The quill rested neatly beside them, its tip glistening faintly in the afternoon light. Her seat from earlier had been pushed in, the remnants of her interrupted meal cleared away–no trace of the bread or fruit remained.

Only the cup of tea lingered.

It had been moved, no longer in its original place, but now sitting beside the pot of ink at the opposite end of the table, as if subtly repositioned to accompany her new task. The gesture was a small one, yet Daenera recognized Edelin’s quiet consideration in it. A reminder. A kindness. A way to steady her hands before she set ink to parchment and wrote the words she did not want to write.

But she hardly had time to register the small act of consideration, her gaze barely flickering over the carefully arranged parchment and ink before her attention was drawn elsewhere–to him.

Her eyes found him without meaning to, latching onto his presence as though pulled by an unseen force. Aemond.

He had not moved. He sat where he had before, poised yet at ease, as if entirely unaffected by the commotion around him. His profile was sharp in the glow of the sunlight, the golden strands of his hair catching in its warmth, making him seem almost otherworldly–almost soft. But Daenera knew better.

She had half-expected–half-hoped–that he would have left by now. It would have been easier, cleaner, not to have to share space with him, not to be reminded of the tangled, wretched mess that existed between them. And yet, bitterly, begrudgingly, she felt something cold and treacherous loosen in her chest at the sight of him still lingering. She could not call it relief–she refused to call it that.

She said nothing as she passed him, her steps measured, controlled. She felt herself brush past him without sparing him a glance, settling into the chair before the parchment–at the opposite end of the table where he was sitting. Her fingers smoothed over the parchment’s surface, grounding herself in the task.

“Her herbs are over here,” Mertha said, her voice clipped as she gestured towards the far corner of the long room. Her tone held its usual note of authority, sharp and reproachful.

At the entry to the apartments stood Maester Gilbar and his apprentice, their washed-out gray robes blending into the stone walls, their presence unassuming. The eldest maester’s hands were clasped before him, knotted with age, while his much younger charge stood attentively at his side, watching, waiting.

“You can remove all of it–”

“No,” Aemond’s voice cut through the room like the edge of a blade.

From his place at the other end of the table, he barely shifted, only tilting his head slightly as he spoke. He lounged against the wooden surface, leaning lazily on one elbow, his posture deliberately relaxed, yet anything but careless. A book lay flat before him, its pages untouched, as it had merely been something to occupy his hands rather than his mind.

“You will look through it,” he continued, his voice steady, cool, leaving no room for argument. “Remove only what is necessary. The rest, you will return as it was.”

Mertha stiffened, her lips pressing into a tight line. Her disapproval was palpable, her fingers curling ever so slightly against the fabric of her skirts. “The Dowager Queen ordered it all removed.”

“And I am giving you new orders.”

Aemond’s gaze met hers, cold and controlled, his brow lifting ever so slightly in challenge. There was no raised voice, no outward sign of irritation–just that quiet, unwavering authority that left little room for defiance. His mere presence seemed to consume the room, filling every empty space, pressing against the walls like something unseen but undeniable. There was an air of danger about him, something quiet and coiled, like a blade resting in its sheath–hidden, but no less lethal.

He did not need to raise his voice, did not need to move with any grand display of power. It was in the way he carried himself, the effortless command in his posture, the sharp edge to his gaze. He was a man who did not need to remind others of his authority–he simply was.

And everyone in the room felt it.

Maester Gilbar cleared his throat, the sound rasping in the thick silence, his aged frame shifting slightly as he adjusted his stance. The chain around his neck swayed with the movement, metal links clinging together in quiet protest. His apprentice remained still beside him, rigid, uncertain, while Mertha lingered a moment longer, the weight of unspoken words seemingly pressing against her lips.

Reproach flickered in her eyes, her mouth tightening as if she might yet voice her displeasure. But in the end, she swallowed it down, gritting her teeth. Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and gestured for the maester to follow.

Daenera barely spared them a glance.

She could still feel Aemond’s gaze on her, heavy, unwavering, pressing against her like the ghost of a touch. It prickled against her skin, demanding acknowledgement, but she refused to meet it–refused to feel grateful that he would let her have her herbs. Instead, she turned her attention to the parchment before her, dipping her quill into the inkwell. The dark ink clung to the tip, and she tapped it twice against the edge to shake off the excess, watching the tiny droplets stain the rim.

The quill hovered over the parchment, poised and ready.

But no words came.

Her mind, once full of thought, so burdened with what needed to be said, now sat empty, blank as the page before her. The silence stretched, her breath shallow, her fingers tightening around the quell as though she could will the words into existence.

The nose of the search continued around her, a steady drum of disruption–the shuffling of boots, the scrape of furniture being moved, the voices cutting through the space as orders were given and carried out. Daenera remained still, putting it out of her mind as she stared at the blank expanse of parchment before her.

How do I even begin?

What words could she possibly offer? What comfort could she give when she knew there was none to be had? No sentence, no carefully chosen words could soften the sting of their loss.

She dipped the quill into the ink, pressing the tip lightly to the parchment, watching as the black stain bleed into the fibers. The soft scratch of the quill met the paper, delicate, hesitant, but the wound was swallowed by the nose around her.

Lord and Lady–

The words sat before her. She stared at them, then with a frustrated breath, dragged the quill through them, striking them out.

Setting the quill aside, she crumbled the ruined parchment, tossing it aside before reaching for a fresh sheet.

I have no words to offer you comfort in this–

Her jaw clenched. No, that wasn’t right either. It was the truth, but the truth was a hollow thing. She scratched through the sentence, crumbling the parchment and tossing it aside again, reaching for another.

The pile of discarded parchment had grown into a small mountain of frustration, crumpled remnants of failed attempts littering the table like fallen leaves. Each rejected letter, each scratched-out sentence, only fed the gnawing irritation curling in her chest. The right words would not come–not ones that mattered, not the ones that might dull the edge of grief for the parents of the boy she had taken. Nothing was enough, nothing could be enough, and the futility of it all made her stomach twist.

With an aggravated sigh, she set the quill aside, fingers stained with ink curling slightly before she flexed them in an attempt to rid herself of the tension coiling in her knuckles.

Leaning back in ehr chair, she pressed her spine against the unforgiving wood, tilting her head until it met the backrest with a dull thud. She stared at the ceiling, letting her breath escape in a slow exhale before dragging her gaze back to the ruined parchment strewn across the table. A waste of paper.

Her hand lifted, fingers ghosting over the rim of the now-cool teacup beside her inkpot before she sighed once more, this time softer, quieter. “Edelin,” she murmured, her voice no longer edged with irritation but something wearier. “Bring me more tea.” A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “And pour one for yourself as well, if you’d like.”

Edelin, who had remained silent at her side, flinched slightly, as if the request had startled her. Daenera turned her head just enough to watch the girl’s expression shift, the small crease between her brows deepening with confusion.

“I’d like it if you’d join me,” she said, offering a simple invitation.

“Princess?”

“You can practice your letters,” Daenera continued, her voice softer now, almost absent as she reached for one of the discarded parchments. Her fingers smoothed out the crumpled sheet, revealing the tangled mess of scratched-out words, failed beginnings that never found their end. “Or draw, if you’d rather,” she added, turning the parchment slightly in her hands before glancing back at Edelin. “It seems such a waste to discard them entirely.”

Edelin’s eyes widened in surprised. Then, before she could stop herself, her lips curled into a smile. “Really?”

Daenera gave a small nod, watching as Edelin tried–and failed–to temper her excitement. There was something almost childlike in the way her expression brightened, a rare glimpse of unguarded joy that had no place in a world like this.

But before Edelin could utter another word, a sharp, disapproving noise cut through the moment like the scrape of steel against stone.

Mertha.

The older woman stood rigid, her scowl carved deep into her face, hands planted firmly on her hips, her entire stance radiating displeasure. Her lips curled downward, thin and bloodless, eyes narrowing as she fixed Edelin with a look meant to wither whatever foolish notion had taken root.

Edelin hesitated, her fingers twitching faintly at her sides. For a fleeting moment, she looked down, studying her hands as though considering whether to retreat, to bow her head and fall back into the quiet, obedient role expected of her.

Then, as if making a decision, she lifted her gaze once more–this time meeting Daenera’s eyes.

“I would like that,” she said at last, her voice steady despite the deepening scowl Mertha shot her way. A quiet defiance, a choice made.

She reached for the empty teacup, fingers wrapping around it with deliberate intent.

“Thank you,” she added, as if daring Mertha to object.

As Edelin moved through the room towards the pot of tea hanging over the fire in the hearth, her steps light but unwavering, she seemed intent on ignoring Mertha’s sharp, narrow-eyed scowl. The older woman’s silent disapproval lingered, thick as smoke, still, Edelin did not falter. If anything, she carried herself with more purpose, as though determined to have this small act of defiance.

The Lord Confessor’s men continued their search–ransacking, really–their hands trailing over every surface, their eyes scanning each object as if the very stones of the room might whisper her secrets. Drawers scraped open, rugs were lifted, shelves emptied only to be hastily repacked–much to Mertha’s displeasure. No corner was left undisturbed, no possession too insignificant to escape their notice. They moved with the cold efficiency of hounds on the scent of prey, though whatever they sought would not be found. Because there was nothing to find.

And then, amidst the chaos, Larys Strong moved.

Unlike the others he did not search. He did not paw through her belongings or upset the furniture with prying hands. He did leave the marks of disturbance in his wake. Instead, he drifted through the chamber like a shadow, his presence deliberate, unhurried. The slow, steady tap of his cane accompanied each of his steps, the sound too precise to be anything but intentional.

It was not necessity. It was a reminder.

Larys was not a man who commanded a space the way Aemond did, with his sharp-edged presence and the sheer weight of his gaze. No, he was something far more unassuming. He did not demand attention–he crept into awareness, slipping through the cracks of conversation and silence alike. A cripple who wore his affliction like a mask, a man who allowed others to see only what he wished to see–less–while beneath the surface, his mind wove its webs.

His presence felt like a violation.

Not just his, but theirs. The men rifling through her things again, treating what little she had as though it belonged to them. The first time had been her old chambers, where every object, every piece of fabric, every book had been hers. They had torn through it as they did not, leaving nothing untouched.

And now, in this new chamber, this space meant to be hers, meant to be a sanctuary–even if it was the one she had desired–it felt the same.

Violating.

It reminded her too much of that night–of how he had ordered her stripped, of how his men’s rough, indifferent hands had seized her, pulling at laces and fabric with the same disregard they now showed to her drawers and cupboards. They had peeled her apart, layer by layer, until she had been left standing in nothing but her smallclothes, the cold pressing against her skin.

The memory curdled in her mind, but she pushed it down.

The tap of his cane against the stone made the muscles in her spine tense, the hairs at the nape of her neck prickling as Larys approached. This time, his gaze was not on her–his attention was, however. His head tiled slightly, his sharp eyes flickering towards the far wall, where a great tapestry of the finest greens hung. It was a beautiful piece, expertly woven, depicting a vast forest bathed in golden light, its canopy breaking just enough to allow the sun to dapple the moss-laden earth below.

“Such fine work,” he murmured, his voice smooth, carrying the careful cadence of a man who measured every word before he spoke it. His fingers curled over the head of his cane, watching the tapestry with something unreadable in his expression. “The details are exquisite.”

Then, his gaze slid back to her, keen and knowing.

“But I wonder, Princess… Were you displeased with the ones I gifted you”

Daenera inhaled slowly through her nose, her fingers tightening around the quill before she dipped it into the inkwell, watching as the dark liquid clung to the tip. She set her gaze firmly on the parchment before her, the fine script of her unfinished letter waiting to be continued. The quill hovered above the sheet, ink threatening to drop onto the page as she let her silence stretch just a little longer than necessary.

“I did not care for them,” she said at last, her words cool, edged with quiet finality. She saw no reason why she shouldn’t be so blunt.

She did not want his gifts. Did not want anything hanging in her chambers that bore his influence, anything that served as a reminder of his betrayal and all that had followed. She did not want his eyes watching her–even in something as inanimate as a tapestry.

Larys did not so much as blink at her curtness.

“I had thought they were just to your liking,” he mused, unbothered. “They are not so different from the ones you have up now. I had them woven with such care, you see… selected by my own hand. A thoughtful gesture,” he continued, his fingers drumming idly atop the head of his cane. “I had hoped they might bring you some joy–a touch of something familiar, perhaps. After all, I know how fond you once were of your time in the Kingswood along with my brother.

Daenera’s fingers tightened around the quill, ink pooling at its tip as it hovered above the parchment. Her jaw clenched, fire burning in her chest. When she lifted her gaze, she met Larys’s sharp stare with a glare of her own, her lashes fluttering slightly as she steeled herself against the venom curling on her tongue.

“Indeed,” she said, her voice cool and flat, though there was no mistaking the sharp edge beneath it. “I do have fond memories of your brother.” She let the words linger, let them settle between them like a blade laid across the table. “He was a good man. Honorable. Trustworthy.”

Unlike you.

“He understood loyalty was not something to be bartered but something to be upheld,” Daenera continued, her voice smooth but edged with quiet steel. “A shame such virtues are not inherited by blood.” Her quill tapped lightly against the parchment. “He was a man who deserved better fate than that that befell him. He would be disappointed in you.”

Larys came to a slow halt before her, the steady tap of his cane ceasing as he reached for one of the many crumbled pages strewn across the table. His fingers plucked a discarded letter, smoothing over the creased parchment, peeling it open with a care that felt almost like mockery.

“Perhaps,” he mused, almost a hum. “But he is not the only one who deserved a better fate than the one that befell him…”

The soft scratch of parchment unfurling filled the space between them, the sound prickling against her skin like the scrape of a dull blade.

Daenera remained still, her breath shallow, as she watched his gaze skim over the parchment, absorbing the tangled scrawl of condolences, of words she had tried and failed to shape into something meaningful. The weight of it, the intrusion, made her stomach twist. Though the letter was unfinished, though it contained nothing but fragmented apologies and half-formed regrets, it was hers-

It was as though he were peeling back the layers of her skin, prying into the raw, festering wound beneath, sinking his fingers tino the rot of her guilt and pressing–just to see where she would break.

Daenera gritted her teeth. Grief, anger, and shame stirred tight within her chest, each emotion tangled so thickly she could no longer separate one from the other. She refused to meet his gaze, would not give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply his words struck. Instead, she focused on the quill in her hand, though it trembled ever so slightly. Ink pooled where the tip met the parchment, spreading across the sheet like spilled blood, soaking greedily into the fibers.

“It is not an easy thing, is it? Larys mused, as if he understood, as if he had ever understood. “Writing to the bereaved.” His tone carried the same insidious softness, the kind that soothed while it pried. “He was a young boy. Such a shame…”

The words slithered between them, curling in the space like smoke, like something that could not be battered away.

A sharp, seething urge shot through her–to reach across the table, to rip the letter from his hands, to tear it apart piece by piece until there was nothing left for him to inspect, nothing left for him to pick at.

“A shame, indeed,” she said, her voice cool but brittle. He was a child, yet you imprisoned him as though he were a traitor grown. A child who fell ill in a cell, a child who could have been saved had any of you thought to do so.”

“Children grow into men, Princess. And men take up swords,” Larys murmured, his voice smooth, deliberate, each word measured as though he were weaving a trap with silk instead of steel. “It would be foolish to ignore the seeds of treason simply because they have yet to bear fruit.”

His fingers released the crumpled parchment, letting it fall open on the table before her, the unfurled words laid bare like an exposed wound. His head tilted slightly as he regarded it, as if contemplating the weight of what she had tried–and failed–to say.

“I do not envy your task, Princess,” he continued, his tone almost gentle, as though he were offering condolences instead of pressing a blade deeper into an already festering wound. “Telling grieving parents of their child’s fate… such a burden.”

The way he said it sent a slow, crawling heat up Daenera’s spine, something between fury and unease. But before she could summon a response, before she could shape her anger into words, he exhaled softly–almost thoughtfully–and added,

“I do hope they will find solace in your words. That they will read them and know their son was… cared for.” His gaze flickered back to her then, his lips curling in something that was not quite a smile. “Unfortunately, he put his life in the wrong hands.”

“Lord Larys.”

Aemond’s voice cut through the room like a blade, sharp and unyielding. Cold steel wrapped in quiet authority.

“Refrain from speaking to my wife.”

He did not so much as glance up from the book before him, his posture as composed as ever, as if the matter was beneath his notice–as if Larys himself was beneath his notice. Yet there was no mistaking the warning beneath his words, the subtle finality that severed whatever the Lord Confessor might have continued to say.

“You are not here for company,” Aemond continued, turning a page with deliberate ease, as though entirely unbothered. “You are here to supervise the search. Do your job.”

Silence settled between them for a heartbeat, thick and weighted.

Then, Larys released a slow, measured breath, his expression unreadable. “Of course, my prince,” he murmured, inclining his head ever so slightly. “Forgive me.”

His gaze lingered on Daenera for the briefest of moments, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he turned away. The rhythmic tap of his cane punctuated his retreat as he drifted back into the middle of the room, vanishing into the controlled chaos of the search.

Even as he moved away, Daenera could still feel the lingering presence of his words, the weight of what had been said–and what had been left unsaid.

Agitation and guilt simmered beneath her skin, a restless, needling sensation that refused to settle. It pricked at the edges of her composure, rising in waves, pressing against her ribs, tightening around her throat like unseen hands. It burned low and slow, like embers waiting to catch flame, and she despised the way it made her feel–feeling she could not name.

Her gaze drifted, drawn as if by some unseen pull, towards Aemond.

He sat at the far end of the table, his posture deceptively relaxed, yet nothing around him was truly at ease. One elbow rested against the wood, supporting his weight, while two fingers ghosted along the sharp plane of his cheekbone, the others curled at his jaw, cradling his head in an absentminded pose. His eye remained lowered to the book before, expression unreadable, his gaze steady on the pages–but Daenera felt his attention all the same.

Even as he remained still, she knew he missed nothing.

She watched him through her lashes, unwilling to fully turn her head, unwilling to acknowledge that she was watching at all. The midday sun poured through the high windows, spilling golden light across the room, illuminating the polished wood of the table, the cold stone walls, the shifting shadows of those still searching through her belongings. It bathed him in its glow, catching the silver strands of his hair, turning them almost white, almost golden. He looked terrible and beautiful all at once.

Yet even in the warmth of the sun, even in stillness, he reamined himself–a blade, a beast dressed in civility.

Protector. Monster.

He was both, and she did not know which unsettled her more.

She hated that his mere presence steadied her, that even without a word, without a glance, he anchored her in a way she could not understand–did not want to understand. Hated that the weight of him in the room, the quiet force of his authority, was enough to make Larys retreat, enough to remind everyone present of who truly held power here.

She despised the way it settled the storm inside her, the way it quieted the trembling in her fingers, the unease coiling tight in her chest. That it protected her, even when she did not want it, even when she had no wish to rely on it.

And still–still–she found solace in it.

As much as she wanted to recoil, to push against the feeling, to reject the bitter comfort his presence provided, it was there nonetheless. A truth she could not deny. A truth she hated herself for.

Daenera forced her gaze downward, fixing her attention on the parchment in front of her, where a heavy blot of ink had spread like spilled blood, seeping through the sheet beneath, and the one under that. Her fingers curled around the quill, her grip too tight, too stiff, as she stared at the ruin of what should have been her letter.

For a fleeting moment–briefly, childishly–Daenera entertained the thought of snatching up one of the crumpled letters and tossing it at his head.

His blind side was to her–an oversight, a vulnerability he rarely allowed.

Aemond had honed his reflexes through years of relentless sword training, his body molded for combat, his instincts sharpened to near-perfection. On the battlefield, he could read an opponent’s movements before they even struck, knew the rhythm of the fight as intimately as a dancer knew the steps of their routine.

But here?

Here, where there was no battle, where he was at ease, unexpecting–he was vulnerable.

She knew he struggled with his peripheral vision, with his depth perception. A flaw he compensated for in war, in the controlled chaos of combat, but outside of it? It was different. He might catch her movement in the last instant, might sense the shift in the air, but too late–the crumpled letter would already be sailing toward him, already bouncing off his head before he could react.

She could see it so clearly in her mind–the sharp flicker of awareness flashing across his face, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the briefest beat of delay before he turned toward her. His single eye, always watchful, always seeing too much, would land on her at last.

There would be no true surprise in his gaze, only that quiet, knowing amusement he always carried, that lingering intrigue that never quite left him when it came to her. He would not scowl–not truly–nor would he chid her–no, he would smirk, if not with his lips, then with his gaze alone, a gleam of something half-mocking, half-entertained.

And if there had been no one else in the room, perhaps he would have picked it up and tossed it back. Perhaps he still would.

She exhaled, shaking the thought from her mind, dismissing it as she reached instead for the ruined parchment. Setting aside the ones the ink had bled through, she placed them neatly near the chair beside her, making room just as Edelin returned.

The girl carried two steaming cups of tea, the rich, earthy scent of it curling through the air, grounding Daenera in the presence. Edelin set them down with quiet care, the porcelain clinking softly against the wood before she settled beside her with a small, pleased smile.

Without hesitation, she turned her attention to the page in front of her, her fingers curling around the dry quill, bringing its point to the words, tracing over them. A learning habit, Daenera realized. The motion of following the letters an attempt to make her body remember them, as though committing their shape to touch, she would be able to write them at a later time without jumbling their order.

Daenera turned her attention back to the blank sheet before her, forcing herself to block out the distractions around her. The shuffling of boots across stone, the scrape of drawers being opened and closed, the rustle of pages as books were shifted from their places–she ignored it all. Even Mertha’s sharp, shrill reprimands, snapping at the men to return everything to its proper place once their prying hands had finished disturbing it, became nothing more than background noise.

The midday sun poured through the high windows, its warmth spilling over her back, pressing against her skin like a heavy cloak. It should have been comforting, that steady heat, the way it wrapped around her like a blanket. But she barely noticed it now.

Instead, she reached for the quill, dipping it into the inkwell, watching as the tip darkened before she brought it to the parchment. The first few words came hesitantly, uncertain, and before she had even formed a full sentence, she was already reaching for a fresh sheet. Again and again, she wrote–each attempt falling short, each line either too impersonal, too forced, too hollow.

It took several discarded pages, ink bleeding across the table from her hurried scratches, before she finally settled on what needed to be said.

The letter toed the line between formality and something more personal. Not distant, but not too familiar. Careful. Measured.

It would not bring comfort. She knew that much.

But at the very least, it would be something.

The letter read:

To Lord and Lady Piper,

I write to you with a heavy heart and deepest regrets to inform you of the passing of your son, Patrick.

There are no words in this world that can mend the wound left by the loss of a child, nor do I dare offer you empty comforts, knowing they would be unworthy of your grief. It is a poor thing to learn of such sorrow through ink and parchment, a message carried by dark wings instead of spoken by the lips of one who knew him. And yet, it is all I can offer.

Patrick was a boy of great heart and keen mind. He was kinder than most, and I cared for him as though he were my own blood. He did not deserve the cold isolation of a cell nor the sickness that crept upon him while he was there. I do not pretend that my words will change what was done, nor will I insult you by pretending what happened was just. He was imprisoned when he should not have been. That is the fault of the men who placed him there. And mine as well.

I blame myself for his fate, for not doing more, for not being able to save him. I did all within my power to protect him, to see him freed from that cell, to have him home in your arms where he belonged–but it was all for naught. I do not ask for your forgiveness–I do not deserve it.

When the illness took hold, I was there to hold his hand. I told him he would be going home. And in the end, I can only hope that he believed me.

I wish I could give you something more, something to make this loss less cruel, less unbearable. But I have only this truth to offer you, and the promise that I will carry his memory with me, as I carry my own grief.

May the gods grant you the strength to endure what they have taken from you.

Daenera Velaryon.

A shallow breath shuddered from Daenera’s lips as she leaned back, watching the ink dry on the parchment. She leaned back slightly, as if putting distance between herself and the words now sealed in ink. They now sat before her, each letter etched in careful, deliberate strokes. Yet they did nothing to ease the weight pressing against her ribs, the ache deep in her bones.

She blew softly over the parchment, coaxing the ink to dry, though she knew it was more out of habit than necessity. No amount of breath could lift the weight of the words she had written, nor could it undo the truth they carried–or ease the lie that kept it all together. Her gaze lingered on the letter, her fingers gripping the edges with just enough pressure to crease the parchment.

Ink stained her hands, dark smudges trailing across her fingertips, smeared in uneven blotches along her palm. It had dried in places, turning her skin a mottled mess of black and gray, sinking into the fine lines of her palm. The sight of it stirred something uneasy in her–it looked too much like blood.

Her jaw clenched, and she forced herself to blink the thought away.

She traced the edges of the parchment absently, the rough fibers pressing against the pads of her fingers as her gaze flickered over the lines once more, as if searching for something she had missed. A mistake. A word too cold. A sentiment too weak. But no–there was nothing more to add, nothing that could make it enough.

A thought crept in, unbidden.

Had her mother received one such letter?

Had she held a piece of parchment in shaking hands, inked with the confirmation of her son’s death? Had it carried some semblance of comfort, or had it only deepened the wound, made it real in a way that even grief had not yet managed?

She tried to imagine it—the moment the letter arrived at Dragonstone, the moment her mother’s fingers had broken the seal, the way her breath must have caught as her eyes traced over the words. Lord and Lady Piper. Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. Did it make a difference? Did the words soften the loss, or only sharpen its edge?

Was it ever a comfort?

Her fingers stilled against the parchment, her breath shallow, the ache in her chest pressing deeper.

No.

It never was.

“Edelin,” she murmured, turning slightly towards the girl at her side. Her voice was quiet, strained, as though the words caught against the tightness in her throat. “Take this to the prince.”

She held the letter out, fingers curling slightly as though reluctant to part with it. For all her certainty in her choice, a part of her still balked at the idea of handing it over–to let him be the first to read the words she had beld onto the page.

Edelin nodded without hesitation, settling her quill down. Rising from her seat, she smoothed her skirts before stepping away, her movements quiet against the ruckus the room held. The soft rustle of fabric accompanied her as she brushed past Daenera’s chair, slipping away like a shadow towards the other end of the table.

Daenera did not watch her go. She did not follow the letter’s small journey. Instead, she let her hands fall to her lap, curling and uncurling her ink-stained fingers as if she could shake loose the lingering weight of what she had written.

But the stain remained.

And so did the ache.

Aemond’s gaze lifted from the book, slow and deliberate, as though drawn from distant thought. The golden light streaming through the windows spilling over his features, casting sharp relief over the high cut of his cheekbones, the straight curve of his nose. It caught in the dark sweep of his lashes, making the silver flakes of his eye gleam as he lifted his gaze.

Edelin approached, extending the letter towards him. He took it without a word, his fingers brushing against the parchment, turning it slightly in his grasp before his eye began to move over the page.

Daenera did not turn to watch him directly, but she observed nonetheless–from the corner of her eye, from the shift in his posture, from the slight tightening at the corner of his lips as he read. He said nothing at first, only tilted his wrist slightly, as though weighing the letter, his mouth pursing.

Then, after a long pause, he handed the parchment back to Edelin with a quiet murmur, his voice low, measured.

“If you wish it sent, sign your name properly.”

A simple statement. A pointed one.

And though his tone remained smooth, unbothered, Daenera did not miss the meaning beneath it.

Frustration flared hot in her chest, her teeth grinding together as she shot Aemond a sharp glare. The audacity of his demand grated against her, and it did not help that he had made it with such maddening ease–voice soft, measure, but pointed. Across the table, he remained composed, watching without so much as a flicker of irritation, his patience sharpened by quiet amusement.

Edelin hesitated beside her, shifting slightly before placing the letter back into her hands with a sheepish expression, as though she were a guilty child caught between warring parents.

Daenera snatched the parchment from her grasp, fingers tightening around the quill as she dipped it into ink, bringing it down with a sharp, deliberate stroke.

Velaryon–scratched out.

The ink bled into the fibers, a jagged line slashing through the name like a wound. Without pause, she wrote another in its place–Baratheon–deliberate, bold, unmissable beneath the old name. He wanted another name, then so be it. She’d give it to him. After all, had that not been her name too?

She felt a sharp flare of satisfaction at the name she had written, knowing well the sting it would carry. Her former husband’s house. A name that no longer belonged to her, but had been hers nonetheless.

She knew he would not accept it–of course, he wouldn’t. But that was never the point.

It was meant to needle him, to press against the edges of his control, to remind him–even now, even here–that she had been someone else's, and she did not yield so easily. A deliberate act of defiance, a small rebellion carved in ink, meant to test the boundaries he had set around her.

It was childishly spiteful, she knew. A petty thing. But in that moment, she didn’t care.

She did not look at Aemond as she thrust the letter back into Edelin’s hands, her irritation evident in the quickness of her movements.

Edelin turned on her heels, practically flying back to Aemond’s side as though she were a raven sent across great distances, bearing news between warring houses. She presented the letter once more, and Daenera watched as Aemond’s gaze dropped immediately to the name she had chosen to sign.

His eyes sharpened.

His lashes fluttered ever so slightly as he glanced up at her, a slow, knowing shift of his gaze, before the corner of his lips curled–not in displeasure, but something far more infuriating.

Unabated amusement.

He leaned back in his seat, the movement slow, deliberate, the very picture of unbothered ease. With little ceremony, he handed the letter back, his fingers releasing it effortlessly, as though the exchange was of no consequence to him–as though he had expected as much from her.

His gaze did not return to his book, nor did he so much as glance at the letter again. Instead, his eye remained fixed on her, watching, studying, waiting.

Daenera met his stare with a glare of her own, sharp and unwavering, though it only seemed to amuse him further. There was no irritation in his expression, no hint of frustration–only that quiet, infuriating amusement, lurking at the edges of his lips, flickering in the depths of his gaze.

As though he was enjoying this.

As though her defiance was not a thorn in his side, but something else entirely–something expected, something welcome.

The realization only made her grip tighten around the quill, her fingers aching with the force of it. She snatched the letter from Edelin’s hands, her movements sharp, unrestrained. The tip of the quill scraped against the parchment, the sharp sound slicing through the air as she pressed down, almost hard enough to tear through the delicate fibers of the page. Ink pooled at the tip, bleeding into the paper in thick, deliberate strokes, the force behind her writing betraying the anger simmering beneath her composed exterior.

She knew she should temper her hand, ease her grip–but she didn’t. She let the pressure build, let the sharp drag of the quill against the parchment carry the frustration she would not speak aloud. Let it show in the harshness of the lines, in the way the ink settled too dark, too heavy in places.

The tension in her fingers refused to abate, and for a fleeting moment, she almost wished the parchment would rip. At least then, it would be a tangible break, something to match the slow, grinding strain inside her.

She struck out Baratheon with a single, merciless slash, the ink bleeding into the fibers, dark and final. But she didn’t stop there.

Her grip on the quill tightened, her fingers aching from the pressure, but she barely noticed. The anger coiling in her chest, hot and unrelenting, demanded release, and so she let it spill onto the page in jagged, furious letters:

‘Daenera Strong, or so my stupid, long-faced, one-eyed prick of a husband likes to call me.’

Without pause, she shoved the letter back into Edelin’s hands, uncaring of the way the parchment wrinkled under her fingers, crumpling slightly as it was passed over once more.

This time, when Aemond took it, the amusement in his gaze grew.

His eye flicked over the words, his grip tightening just slightly at the edges of the parchment. The telltale shift of the corner of his lips, the slow inhale through his nose, the way his eye fluttered up to meet hers–smug.

Daenera watched him, the sharp curl of satisfaction twisting in her chest–until it soured.

Aemond, ever composed, merely handed the letter back once more, his movements slow, effortless, expectant. He had known she would do this. Had known she would try to needle him, to test the limits of his patience. And still, the outcome had been inevitable.

The only way to have the letter sent, to have it reach Patrick’s parents as she intended, was to obey.

Her pride bristled at the thought, a fresh sting of resentment flaring in her chest as Edelin returned to her side, wordlessly offering the letter back.

Daenera took it, unfolding the crumpled parchment with deliberate care, smoothing the creases between her fingers. The ink had bled slightly where she had pressed too hard, and she knew she would need to copy it onto a fresh page. A part of her burned with the urge to refuse entirely, to dig her heels in out of sheer defiance.

But her pride was not worth more than this letter.

And so, she gripped the quill with steady fingers and began again, each word carefully rewritten, each sentence weighed with the same deliberate precision as before. The slow, rhythmic scratch of ink against parchment filled the space between them, replacing the silence that had settled over the room like a thick, heavy fog.

When she reached the end, she did not hesitate.

She signed the letter, firm and unflinching:

Daenera Targaryen.

The name felt heavier than ink alone, final in a way she could not bring herself to dwell on.

Without another glance at the words, she sent it back to Aemond. Daenera’s gaze drifted toward him, drawn by something she could not quite name–resentment, perhaps, or the unwilling pull of inevitability.

She watched as Aemond read over the letter once more, his eye moving steadily across the page, his expression unreadable save for the faintest purse of his lips. But she saw it–the satisfaction lurking in the subtle pull at the corners of his mouth, a quiet triumph in the way he held himself.

When he lifted his gaze to meet hers, it was with a look of quiet acknowledgment, a brief but pointed glance that told her what she already knew: this was always how it was going to end. He gave her a single, curt nod–nothing more, nothing less–before turning his attention away, already moving on to matters of greater importance in his mind.

His gaze landed on Maester Gilbar and his young apprentice, who stood a few steps away, engaged in hushed conversation with the Lord Confessor.

“Maester,” Aemond called, his voice smooth but firm, effortlessly drawing their attention. He extended the letter toward him with the same effortless authority he wielded in all things. “See to it that this letter is sent immediately–and that the boy’s body is returned home to his parents.”

The aged maester blinked, his rheumy eyes flickering with brief hesitation before he inclined his head in acknowledgment. The chains around his neck swayed with the motion, the dull clink of metal filling the space between words. Without turning, he lifted a hand in a slow, deliberate gesture, beckoning his young apprentice forward.

The boy obeyed at once, scurrying through the room with hurried steps, weaving past the men still shifting through Daenera’s belongings. He reached the letter where Aemond had left it and plucked it up with careful fingers, clutching it as though it were something precious–hough, if the boy had any true understanding of its weight, he did not show it.

Returning to his maester’s side, the apprentice lingered, wide-eyed and eager, standing as still as a well-trained hound awaiting its next command.

The maester, for his part, barely acknowledged him.

He inclined his head once more, the movement stiff with age, offering a murmured farewell before turning on his heel.

The apprentice followed close behind, the letter tucked beneath his arm, his other hand grasping the small woven basket filled with dried herbs and tinctures–remnants of whatever search they had conducted through her chambers

Daenera did not look away.

Even as the weight of it left Aemond’s hands, even as the finality of it settled over the room, she kept her gaze on him, knowing–hating–that he had won this battle, small as it was.

Daenera swallowed, her throat tight, her emotions tangled in a bitter knot she could not untangle. She felt grateful–resentfully, unwillingly grateful–that Aemond had not only ordered the letter sent but had also ensured Patrick’s body would be returned home. It was the least that could be done, and yet the taste of that gratitude was sour on her tongue, thick with resentment.

She pushed back her chair abruptly, rising from her seat and abandoning the small ruin of failed attempts that littered the table–a mountain of crumpled parchment, discarded words that would never be read, ink-blotted sheets soaked with frustration, and the quill still dripping onto one of them, its black stain spreading outward like spilled blood.

As she stepped forward, she rubbed her stained fingers together absently, the ink smearing across her skin. She would have to scrub them clean later, but for now, she let it sit there, let it linger like something earned.

Aemond’s gaze lifted as she moved, his eye following her, tracking her without urgency.

There was something almost lazy about the way he watched her, his head tipping back against the chair, his body sinking deeper into its frame. He studied her through dark lashes, the way a cat might watch the shifting light as it basked in the sun–idle, observant, but never truly unaware.

She did not slow as she neared him.

Instead of stopping before him, she moved around his chair, stepping between him and the towering bookshelves behind him. She did not hesitate, did not break her stride, circling him with deliberate ease before coming to a halt at his side.

And then, without a word, without so much as a glance toward him, she reached down and swept the book from the table, stealing it from his grasp before he could react.

She did not want to read it.

She simply did not want him to.

The weight of the book settled in her hands, cool against her ink-stained fingers, and before he could protest, before he could even move, she turned on her heel and strode into the bedchamber, taking it with her.

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