It had been just one week since the blow to Vensalia's head, and the wound had healed completely. She had returned to her usual routine in King's Landing, a sharp contrast to the chaos that had surrounded her just days before. The Red Keep was still a place of constant tension, but Vensalia had grown accustomed to it. The noise, the whispers, the endless politics—she had learned to navigate it all.

Despite the storm brewing around her, there was one constant: Daeron. The five-year-old boy, younger brother of her betrothed, Aemond Targaryen, had become impossibly attached to her. It wasn’t uncommon for children to seek the comfort of older figures, but Daeron’s devotion to Vensalia went beyond the ordinary. He clung to her side whenever possible, his small hand slipping into hers as they walked the halls of the Red Keep, his wide eyes always following her.

Vensalia didn’t mind his presence. In fact, there was a soft spot in her heart for the young Targaryen. His innocence, his sweetness, reminded her of a time when she herself had been so much younger, before the burdens of politics and ambition had clouded her life. Yet, as much as Daeron's company was a source of comfort, she knew that her life was no longer a place for such innocence. She had responsibilities, alliances, and a future to secure.

The Hightowers, the family of Alicent, had remained in Oldtown after their banishment. The city still reverberated with the echoes of their fall from grace. Most of the people in Oldtown remained loyal to the Hightowers, aided by the maesters, who were always keen to maintain the status quo. However, some had begun to look down upon them, judging them for their fall from favor at court. Vensalia couldn’t bring herself to care. The Hightowers were far from her mind, as long as they remained in Oldtown, as they were supposed to.

Her thoughts, however, had little time for distractions. Rhaenyra, with her persistent and relentless schemes, had become her latest problem.

---

Vensalia sat in the Red Keep’s private garden, enjoying the peace of the moment. The sunlight dappled through the leaves, and the distant sounds of the city drifted lazily in the background. But peace was fleeting in the world she inhabited.

“Lady Vensalia,” a voice called out, breaking her reverie.

She turned to see Rhaenyra approaching, flanked by her eldest son, Jacaerys. The Princess's face was polite but strained, her eyes glinting with a purpose that was unmistakable. Jacaerys, as usual, looked both eager and uncomfortable in her presence. His eyes flickered nervously between his mother and Vensalia.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Vensalia greeted, her tone neutral but tinged with a slight edge of weariness.

Rhaenyra’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ve been thinking more on the future,” she began, settling beside Vensalia with an air of authority. “It is important, as you know, that our houses remain strong. A union between you and Jacaerys could secure that future. It would be a union of power and influence, one that would be far more beneficial than any other.”

Vensalia raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide her amusement. “You continue to suggest that I marry Jacaerys,” she replied, her voice calm yet firm. “And yet, I remain betrothed to Aemond Targaryen. Do you think I could so easily turn my back on a promise made, a bond forged over years?”

Rhaenyra’s smile flickered for just a moment before she recovered, her voice becoming more insistent. “Promises can be broken, especially when they stand in the way of the greater good. Your future with Aemond is not set in stone, Vensalia. You and Jacaerys would make a powerful pair. Think of the legacy you could leave.”

Vensalia felt her irritation flare but controlled it. “I have no interest in being a part of your schemes, Princess. I know well the games you play. Jacaerys is a fine young man, but my heart belongs to Aemond, and I will not betray him for your ambitions.”

Rhaenyra’s expression hardened, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she turned to Jacaerys, who had been silent during the exchange.

“Jacaerys,” she said, her voice softer but no less commanding. “Why don’t you speak to Lady Vensalia? Make her understand.”

Vensalia could see the tension in Jacaerys’s eyes. He was torn between his mother’s command and his own emotions. He stepped forward, his face flushed with a mix of determination and uncertainty. “Lady Vensalia,” he said quietly, his voice strained. “I don’t want to force you into anything. But I… I truly care for you. I have always admired you. And I believe that together, we could do something extraordinary.”

Vensalia’s eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him. Jacaerys was a good man, no doubt, and his words were genuine, but there was something in them that felt more like an obligation than a desire to truly understand her. “Jacaerys, I have made my choice,” she said softly but firmly. “My loyalty lies with Aemond, and no matter how much you may wish it otherwise, nothing will change that.”

Jacaerys hesitated, his gaze flickering with uncertainty. “But... but we could be together, Vensalia. I want to protect you, to make you happy.”

She took a step back, her voice colder now. “Jacaerys, I understand your feelings, but they are misplaced. You have no place in my heart, not while Aemond stands beside me. This is the last time I will say this—please, do not try to change my mind. I will always choose him.”

The finality in her voice was unmistakable. Jacaerys’s face paled, and he stammered, “I… I understand.” But his eyes betrayed him, the hurt and confusion obvious.

Without another word, Jacaerys turned and walked away, his shoulders tense with the weight of his failure.

---

Vensalia watched him go, a faint sense of satisfaction mingling with her frustration. She had dealt with Rhaenyra’s insistence once again, but it was beginning to wear thin. The Princess was relentless in her pursuit, trying to manipulate Vensalia and twist her heart, but Vensalia was not a puppet to be controlled.

Her gaze moved to Daeron, who had been silently watching from a distance. The boy’s eyes were wide with concern, his small figure standing at the edge of the garden. Vensalia offered him a soft smile, but the tenderness in her heart for the child was quickly overshadowed by the irritation bubbling beneath her calm exterior.

“It seems,” she muttered to herself, “that I will have to put an end to this once and for all.”

The sound of footsteps broke her thoughts, and she turned to find Aemond standing at the edge of the garden, his expression unreadable. He had been quiet ever since they had returned to King’s Landing, but there was something in his eyes that spoke volumes. He knew what had been happening, and Vensalia could see the storm brewing in his gaze.

“You handled it well,” he said softly, his voice carrying a hint of admiration. “But I wonder how long Rhaenyra will continue with her schemes.”

Vensalia shrugged, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “As long as it takes, I suppose. But I won’t be swayed. My heart is already spoken for.”

Aemond smiled slightly, his expression softening. “Good. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

---

As the evening drew to a close, Vensalia stood on the balcony of her chambers, gazing out over the flickering lights of King’s Landing. The city below was alive with movement, but up here, it was quiet. The stars sparkled in the sky, a reminder that her path was far from simple, but still, there was a sense of clarity. She had made her choice, and nothing would make her waver.

Her thoughts turned to Aemond again, and a warmth spread through her chest. He had always understood her, even when others failed to see her for who she truly was. With him, she felt at home. With him, she had a future that was hers to shape.

And that was something Rhaenyra, or anyone else, could never take from her.

---

The garden had always been Helaena Targaryen’s sanctuary, a place of tranquility amidst the chaos of courtly life in the Red Keep. Today, as the sun filtered through the bare branches of winter trees, Helaena found herself pacing among the frosted flower beds. The memory of her recent vision lingered vividly in her mind.

Her visions came often, fragments of the future wrapped in riddles. But this time, it was startlingly clear. She had seen herself in a foreign dress, standing amidst a field of pristine snow. Beside her stood Cregan Stark, smiling warmly at her. The sight of him—his dark hair, grey eyes, and the strength in his presence—had made her heart race in a way she’d never felt before.

Helaena had met Cregan only briefly, days ago, when they had crossed paths in this very garden. He had been courteous, his northern accent adding a rugged charm to his words. She hadn’t thought much of the encounter at first, but now her vision left her no doubt. Their futures were tied together.

She blinked, returning to reality. The cold wind bit at her cheeks, but her decision was firm. Without hesitation, she turned and left the garden, her mind set on one goal: to find her father, King Viserys, and tell him of her intention.

---

Helaena hurried through the corridors of the Red Keep, her steps light but determined. When she reached the council chamber, the doors were slightly ajar, and she heard her father’s voice within.

“Ah, Lord Rickon, your journey from Winterfell must have been arduous,” Viserys said warmly.

Rickon Stark’s voice rumbled in response. “The North is no stranger to hardship, Your Grace. The realm’s peace is well worth the travel.”

Helaena hesitated, not recognizing the second voice. She stepped inside, her blue eyes immediately catching sight of her father seated at the head of the table. Opposite him stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and a fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders. She didn’t know it yet, but this was Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Cregan’s father.

“Helaena,” Viserys greeted her, a mixture of surprise and delight in his tone. “What brings you here, my dear?”

Helaena hesitated for a moment, glancing between her father and the unfamiliar northern lord. But the clarity of her vision gave her courage. She stepped forward, her voice soft but steady.

“Father, I wish to marry Cregan Stark.”

The room fell silent.

Viserys blinked in surprise, his expression one of complete bewilderment. “Cregan Stark? The young future Lord of Winterfell?”

Rickon, on the other hand, looked thoroughly amused. A wide smile spread across his face as he rose from his seat, bowing slightly toward Helaena.

“I am Rickon Stark,” he said, his deep voice carrying a hint of humor. “Cregan’s father. It seems I have chosen the right time to visit, Your Grace.”

Helaena’s pale cheeks flushed a deep crimson. She hadn’t expected Cregan’s father to be present, much less involved in this moment. She lowered her gaze, suddenly shy under Rickon’s amused scrutiny.

“My apologies, Lord Rickon,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Rickon chuckled, his laughter warm and unthreatening. “No need to apologize, Princess. It’s not often I hear such bold declarations. My son will be most intrigued to learn of this.”

Viserys, still processing the situation, leaned forward in his chair. “Helaena, where is this coming from? You’ve barely met the boy.”

“I’ve met him in the gardens,” she replied quietly, her eyes meeting her father’s. “And I know our futures are intertwined. I… I cannot explain how I know, but I do.”

Rickon’s brows furrowed slightly, though his smile didn’t fade. “A bold claim, Princess. And what would you say to my son, should he hesitate to agree to such a union?”

Helaena lifted her chin, a newfound determination in her gaze. “I would ask for the chance to prove myself worthy of his trust and affection.”

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temple. “Helaena, you know these matters are not decided on whims. Marriage is a matter of alliances, politics—”

Rickon interrupted, his tone thoughtful. “Your Grace, if I may… The North values loyalty and honesty above all. It seems to me your daughter speaks from the heart. That is a rare quality, even in these halls.”

Viserys glanced between his daughter and the northern lord. “Rickon, are you saying you would entertain this match?”

Rickon smiled faintly. “I am saying I would discuss it with my son. Ultimately, it will be Cregan’s decision.”

Helaena felt a flicker of hope at his words.

After Rickon took his leave to return to his quarters, Helaena lingered in the council chamber with her father. The momentary courage she’d felt earlier had faded, leaving behind a twinge of embarrassment.

“Helaena,” Viserys said, his tone gentle. “Why now? Why him?”

She hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. Her father had always indulged her eccentricities but never truly understood the nature of her visions.

“I feel it in my heart,” she said softly, avoiding his gaze. “He is the one I’m meant to be with.”

Viserys studied her for a long moment before nodding. “You’ve always had a peculiar way of seeing the world, my dear. If this is truly what you wish, I will not stand in your way. But understand, it is not so simple. Cregan Stark is a lord in his own right. He may not feel the same.”

“I understand,” Helaena replied. “But I have to try.”

---

In his chambers, Rickon Stark poured himself a goblet of wine, his mind turning over the events of the day. The Targaryen princess’s bold declaration amused him, but it also intrigued him.

His son, Cregan, was strong-willed and fiercely independent. Would he welcome such a match? Or would he see it as another southern game of politics?

Rickon chuckled to himself. “Cregan, you’ll have quite the tale waiting for you when I return.”

As night fell over the Red Keep, Helaena sat by her window, gazing out at the flickering lights of King’s Landing. Her embarrassment had faded, replaced by a quiet determination.

She didn’t know how Cregan would respond, but she trusted her vision. Her path was set, and she would follow it, wherever it might lead.

Far to the north, in the cold halls of Winterfell, Cregan Stark had no idea that his future had just taken an unexpected turn.

---

Queen Alicent Hightower sat alone in her dimly lit chambers, the curtains drawn to block out the midday sun. The room was a mess—unbrushed hair lay scattered on her vanity, wrinkled gowns piled on chairs, and the air hung heavy with neglect. Days, perhaps weeks, had passed since she’d left these walls, her self-imposed isolation fed by a growing despair.

Alicent’s spiral of anger and helplessness was interrupted by the hesitant knock of a servant.

“Enter,” she called, her voice sharper than intended.

A young maid stepped in, clutching a folded letter in her trembling hands. “Your Grace, news from the King.”

Alicent raised an eyebrow, motioning for the girl to approach. The maid placed the letter on a side table before quickly retreating.

Alicent opened the parchment, her gaze scanning the words. At first, she read with indifference, but her eyes widened as she reached the heart of the message.

“Princess Helaena,” it read, “has been promised in marriage to Lord Cregan Stark’s heir.”

The paper trembled in her hands as her knuckles turned white. Alicent threw the letter aside, standing abruptly.

“No,” she whispered. Then louder: “No! He wouldn’t dare!”

The Queen’s pacing echoed through the room, her unkempt hair falling around her face as she muttered to herself.

“To the North?” she hissed. “He would send my daughter to the frozen North? Away from her family, from me? What kind of father does that?”

Alicent reached for a goblet on her bedside table and hurled it across the room. It struck the wall with a loud clang, spilling wine across the floor.

“How could he make this decision without consulting me?” she shouted, her voice rising with every word. “Helaena is my daughter, not some pawn to be traded for alliances!”

Her voice cracked as she continued, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “He doesn’t understand. He never does. Viserys and his whims, always thinking he knows best.”

The commotion in Alicent’s chambers quickly drew attention. Outside her door, the servants exchanged worried glances while the King’s Guard stood stoically, pretending not to hear the Queen’s outbursts.

“She’s been like this since the news,” one maid whispered.

“Who can blame her?” another replied. “Sending the Princess to the North, of all places…”

“She cursed the King, Lord Stark, and even Lady Vensalia,” added a third servant in hushed tones.

“She’ll bring the castle down if this keeps up,” muttered a guard under his breath.

Despite the rumors spreading like wildfire through the Red Keep, no one dared to confront Alicent or report her state to the King.

Inside the room, Alicent slumped onto the edge of her bed, her fury giving way to exhaustion.

“She’s just a child,” she murmured, clutching a strand of her hair in her fingers. “My sweet Helaena, who sees the world through such innocent eyes… How could he send her away from me?”

Her thoughts spiraled, and as they often did in these moments, they found a new target for blame: Lady Vensalia.

“That girl,” Alicent hissed, her voice low and venomous. “She thinks she’s clever, doesn’t she? Always inserting herself, always turning the King against me. She must have had a hand in this. Somehow, this is her doing.”

Alicent’s bitterness deepened, her resentment feeding on itself. She rose from the bed, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, and began pacing once more.

“They’ll all pay for this,” she muttered. “The King, the Starks, Vensalia… Every single one of them will regret underestimating me.”

Her laughter rang out again, sharp and unhinged, echoing through the walls.

As night fell over the Red Keep, Alicent’s voice finally quieted, leaving an eerie stillness in her chambers. Outside, the servants and guards continued to whisper, their concern growing with each passing day.

And so Alicent remained in her chambers, a storm brewing within her heart. Her isolation fed her anger, and her anger fed her resolve.

“They’ll see,” she whispered to herself in the dark. “They’ll see what happens when they try to take my family from me.”

---

Winterfell’s dining hall was quiet, save for the faint crackling of the hearth fire and the occasional clatter of cutlery. Cregan Stark sat alone at the long table, his plate half-full, untouched. His eyes were fixed on the table, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

The young heir of Winterfell had spent the past few days in a strange daze. Ever since his father, Lord Rickon Stark, had left for King’s Landing, Cregan couldn’t shake a peculiar feeling of anticipation. He told himself it was merely curiosity about his father’s dealings in the capital, but deep down, he knew there was more to it.

He thought about the garden. About her.

The faint sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, breaking his reverie. He blinked, refocusing, just as the large oak doors creaked open. His father entered, shaking off the cold from the northern winds, his fur cloak dusted with snow.

“Father,” Cregan said, rising from his seat.

Lord Rickon’s face, weathered yet strong, softened at the sight of his son. “Sit, boy,” he said, his voice warm. “I’ve had a long journey, and I’ll not have you standing on ceremony for me.”

Rickon took the seat beside his son, the long table emphasizing how few people dined in the great hall that day. A servant approached with a fresh plate of food, but Rickon waved it off, reaching instead for the ale in front of Cregan.

“I’ll eat later,” he said, taking a swig. “First, I’ve news to share.”

Rickon leaned back in his chair, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “You’ll never guess what happened in King’s Landing.”

Cregan tilted his head, curious. “What news, Father?”

Rickon took his time, savoring the moment. “It seems a certain Targaryen Princess has decided she wants to marry you.”

Cregan froze. His father’s words hung in the air like the cold that seeped through Winterfell’s stones. He hadn’t expected that.

“She said that?” Cregan asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

Rickon chuckled. “Aye, and in front of her father, no less. Bold, that one. You could learn a thing or two from her.”

Cregan’s mind raced. “Helaena did?”

Rickon’s eyebrows shot up. “Helaena?” he repeated, his voice laced with intrigue. “You don’t even call her ‘Princess.’ Interesting.”

Cregan’s face flushed. He realized his mistake too late. His casual use of her name had already betrayed him.

“I—” Cregan stammered, searching for an explanation, but his father held up a hand, silencing him.

Rickon leaned forward, his sharp eyes studying his son like a wolf sizing up prey. “So,” he said slowly, “you’ve met her.”

Cregan hesitated, debating whether to deny it. But Rickon’s knowing smirk told him it was pointless.

“Aye,” Cregan admitted finally. “Briefly. In the gardens of the Red Keep.”

Rickon leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening. “And? What did you think of her?”

Cregan shifted uncomfortably. “She’s... different.”

Rickon chuckled. “Different, is she? Different enough for you to forget your place and call her by her name without so much as a title?”

Cregan frowned. “It wasn’t like that. She... I don’t know how to explain it. She doesn’t carry herself like the other highborn girls I’ve met. There’s something... genuine about her.”

Rickon studied his son for a long moment before nodding. “That’s high praise coming from you. So, what did she say to you?”

“She didn’t say much,” Cregan admitted. “We just bumped into each other. She seemed lost in thought, like she wasn’t even aware of where she was.”

“Dragon dreams, perhaps,” Rickon mused.

Cregan looked at his father, confused. “Dragon dreams?”

Rickon waved a hand dismissively. “A gift some Targaryens have. Dreams that show them glimpses of the future. It’s rare, but not unheard of. If she’s one of them, it would explain much.”

Cregan leaned back, his appetite completely forgotten. “You think she saw this?” he asked.

Rickon shrugged. “Who’s to say? All I know is that she stood before her father, the King, and declared she wanted to marry you. That takes courage—or madness.”

Cregan frowned, his thoughts turning inward. He hadn’t spoken to Helaena long enough to know what kind of person she was, but the memory of her lingered in his mind like the scent of blooming flowers in the Red Keep’s gardens.

“What happens now?” Cregan asked.

Rickon chuckled. “What happens now? That depends on you, boy. You’re the heir to Winterfell, and she’s a Princess of the most powerful house in the realm. This could be a match that changes everything—for you, for our house, for the North.”

“But is it what I want?” Cregan asked quietly.

Rickon’s smirk softened into a rare look of fatherly understanding. “That’s for you to decide. But I’ll tell you this—if she’s truly as genuine as you say, you could do far worse. And if she’s willing to stand before her father and name you her choice, she’s already shown more loyalty than most would in her position.”

Rickon clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Think on it, Cregan. The road ahead won’t be easy, especially with a Targaryen at your side. But if you’re willing to walk it, I’ll support you every step of the way.”

Cregan nodded, his heart heavy with the weight of the decision before him. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew one thing for certain: Helaena Targaryen was not someone he could easily forget.

As the two men sat in the quiet hall, the snow continued to fall outside, blanketing Winterfell in a pristine white. For the first time in days, Cregan felt a spark of warmth in his chest—a glimmer of hope, or perhaps something more.

---

The midday sun streamed through the windows of Helaena Targaryen’s chamber, casting soft rays on the table where she sat. Opposite her, Lady Vensalia Vakriyoma struggled with a piece of fabric, her brows furrowed as she carefully stitched a pattern. It was a quiet afternoon, save for the faint sound of seagulls outside and the occasional murmur of servants in the hall.

A knock at the door broke the calm, and a handmaiden entered, bowing slightly. “A letter has arrived for you, Princess,” she said, holding out the sealed parchment.

Helaena tilted her head, curious. She took the letter, thanked the handmaiden, and dismissed her. The wax seal bore the direwolf sigil of House Stark.

Vensalia glanced up from her stitching, her violet eyes sharp despite her relaxed demeanor. “From Winterfell?” she asked.

Helaena didn’t answer. She simply smiled—a small, knowing smile—and broke the seal. She unfolded the letter carefully and began to read.

Princess Helaena,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I recently received news from my father that greatly surprised me, and I felt it necessary to address it directly. While we have only met briefly in the gardens a few weeks past, I was struck by your beauty and the unique grace that sets you apart from others.

Though we are still strangers in many ways, I would greatly welcome the opportunity to know you better. It would be an honor to share a future with you, and I find the prospect of our union to be both humbling and hopeful.

Allow me to add, if I may, that your eyes are truly captivating—a detail I have not been able to forget since our meeting.

Yours sincerely,
Cregan Stark

Helaena reread the letter, her smile deepening. She had been expecting something like this ever since her vision the day before. She folded the parchment and placed it gently on the table, her thoughts momentarily drifting to Winterfell and the young Stark who had written to her.

Her flashback of her vision

It had been a vivid dream, clearer than any dragon dream she had experienced before. In it, she saw Cregan Stark seated at a wooden desk in Winterfell, a candle flickering beside him. He had a piece of parchment before him, but his hands hovered above it, hesitant.

His cheeks were red, his expression a mix of concentration and frustration. He mumbled to himself, scribbled a few words, then crumpled the parchment in irritation. A few more attempts followed before he sighed heavily and left his seat, heading toward the great hall where his father, Lord Rickon Stark, sat.

“Father,” Cregan had said, his tone sheepish. “How do you write to someone... important?”

Rickon had chuckled, his eyes filled with amusement. “Ah, so the young wolf struggles with words? Who’s the letter for?”

Cregan hesitated before answering. “Princess Helaena.”

Rickon’s laughter echoed in the vision, his voice teasing. “Ah, the Targaryen girl. You’ve got a soft spot for her, don’t you?”

Cregan’s blush deepened, and he muttered something under his breath.

When the vision ended, Helaena had awoken with a light heart. She knew what would come next, and now, with the letter in her hands, her vision had come to life.

---

“Are you going to sit there smiling at that letter all day?” Vensalia’s voice broke through Helaena’s thoughts.

Helaena looked up, her cheeks slightly flushed. “It’s nothing,” she said, though her tone betrayed her.

Vensalia raised an eyebrow, setting her embroidery aside. “Nothing? You’ve had that silly grin on your face since the moment the letter arrived. Let me guess—it’s from Cregan Stark.”

Helaena didn’t respond, which only confirmed Vensalia’s suspicion.

The older girl leaned back in her chair, smirking. “If you wish to visit Cregan, just say so. Your blushing face is so obvious.”

“I’m not blushing,” Helaena said, though her cheeks grew redder.

“You’re as red as a dragon’s fire,” Vensalia teased. “Tell me, what did he write?”

Helaena hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s private.”

Vensalia leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Private, is it? Very well, I won’t press you. But if you’re smiling like that after reading his letter, I’d say he made quite the impression.”

Helaena tried to focus on the letter again, but Vensalia’s words lingered.

As the afternoon wore on, Helaena found herself lost in thought. Was it fate that had brought Cregan into her life? Or had her dragon dreams guided her to him for a reason?

She remembered their brief meeting in the gardens of the Red Keep—a chance encounter that had felt anything but accidental. There had been something about him, something steady and grounded, that had drawn her in.

She glanced at Vensalia, who had returned to her embroidery. “Do you believe in fate?” Helaena asked suddenly.

Vensalia looked up, surprised by the question. “Fate?”

“Yes,” Helaena said. “Do you think some things are meant to be, no matter what we do?”

Vensalia considered the question for a moment before answering. “I think fate is a tricky thing. Some would say it’s written in the stars, but I believe we shape our own paths. That said,” she added with a sly smile, “if your dragon dreams say you’re meant to be with Cregan Stark, who am I to argue?”

Helaena smiled again, though this time it was tinged with uncertainty. “Sometimes, I wonder if the dreams are a blessing or a curse.”

“Perhaps they’re both,” Vensalia said, her tone thoughtful. “But whatever they are, they’ve brought you here, haven’t they? And maybe they’ve brought him to you as well.”

The day passed quietly, and as night fell, Helaena sat by her window, gazing out at the stars. She held Cregan’s letter in her hands, reading it one last time before folding it neatly and placing it in a drawer.

She didn’t know how to respond—or if she should respond at all. But one thing was certain: her connection to Cregan Stark was more than a passing fancy. It was a thread woven into the tapestry of her life, and she felt certain it would lead her somewhere important.

For now, she would wait. She would trust in her dreams and the path they revealed, even if she didn’t fully understand it yet.

And as the moonlight bathed her room in silver, Helaena felt a quiet sense of peace, as if the universe itself had whispered that she was exactly where she was meant to be.

---

The library in the Red Keep was unusually quiet that afternoon, sunlight filtering through the tall windows and casting warm patterns on the stone floor. Helaena Targaryen sat alone at a large oak table, quill in hand, her delicate features etched with concentration. Before her was a blank parchment, though several crumpled drafts littered the desk around her.

It had been days since she’d received Cregan Stark’s letter. His words had warmed her heart, but she had hesitated to respond. Was it appropriate to write back so soon? What should she say? The uncertainty had left her paralyzed, though now, as midday approached, she felt ready to put her thoughts to paper.

She dipped her quill into the inkwell and began to write.

Dear Cregan Stark,

I hope this letter finds you well. Please forgive my delayed response; it was not out of disregard but rather my hesitation to find the right words. Your letter brought me great joy, and I am pleased to hear that you accept my proposal.

I must admit, I feared my sudden declaration might have made you uncomfortable. It was not my intention to startle you or rush into such matters without consideration. However, knowing you are open to getting to know each other better fills me with hope.

Since we are in agreement, may I ask your thoughts on how we should proceed? Would exchanging letters suffice for now? Or perhaps you might visit King’s Landing? If you would prefer, I could journey to Winterfell, which I have heard is a place of remarkable beauty and grandeur. I have always been curious about the North and would welcome the chance to see it for myself.

I was also touched by your kind words about my eyes. They are not often a subject of compliment, so your remark caught me pleasantly off guard. To return the sentiment, I find your own eyes captivating. They hold a strength and warmth that I find... reassuring.

I hope we will have the chance to meet again soon. Until then, I will eagerly await your reply.

Sincerely,
Helaena Targaryen

Helaena set the quill down and reread the letter, her cheeks slightly flushed. She hoped her words conveyed the right balance of formality and sincerity, though she found herself feeling unexpectedly shy as she considered how Cregan might react.

She leaned back in her chair, her violet eyes drifting to the bookshelves lining the walls. The library had always been her sanctuary, a place where she could retreat from the noise and chaos of court life. Here, she could lose herself in stories of faraway places, of love and honor, of triumph and heartbreak.

As she waited for the ink to dry, Helaena thought back to her vision—the one that had set all of this in motion. She could still see it clearly in her mind: the snow-covered courtyard, her foreign gown, and Cregan Stark beside her, his smile warm and genuine. It was a future that felt both distant and inevitable, a thread of destiny she could not ignore.

And yet, visions were not always so straightforward. Helaena knew better than most how dreams could twist and turn, revealing truths wrapped in riddles. Was she foolish to act on something so uncertain?

Before doubt could creep in further, she shook her head and folded the letter neatly. There was no use in second-guessing herself now.

Just as Helaena reached for the wax seal, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching. She looked up to see Vensalia Vakriyoma entering the library, her usual calm confidence evident in her stride. Vensalia carried herself with an air of quiet strength and it made Helaena found her presence comforting.

“Writing letters, I see,” Vensalia remarked, her gaze flicking to the parchment in Helaena’s hands.

Helaena nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. “Yes. To the North.”

Vensalia raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. She took a seat across from Helaena, her eyes sharp as they studied the her friend's face. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were writing to someone rather special.”

Helaena felt her cheeks flush again. She hesitated for a moment before admitting, “It’s to Cregan Stark.”

Vensalia’s lips curved into a smirk. “Ah, the young wolf. Tell me, is this correspondence purely formal, or is there more to it?”

Helaena’s smile widened despite herself. “He wrote to me first. It was... kind and thoughtful. I wanted to respond in kind.”

Vensalia leaned back in her chair, a knowing glint in her eyes. “If you wish to visit Winterfell, just say so. Your blushing face is giving you away.”

Helaena laughed softly, her nervousness easing in Vensalia’s presence. “I’d like that, though I doubt my mother would allow it.”

“Don't forget your mother is confined in her chambers by your father so you have a choice to make now but if you want him to come, then let him come here,” Vensalia suggested. “A Stark in King’s Landing would certainly make for an interesting change.”

Helaena considered the idea, her mind already racing with possibilities.

After Vensalia departed, Helaena returned her attention to the letter. She pressed the wax seal carefully onto the parchment, ensuring it was secure. Then, summoning a servant, she entrusted the letter to be delivered to the ravens.

As the servant departed, Helaena allowed herself a moment of quiet satisfaction. She had taken the first step, and now the rest was up to fate—or whatever force guided her visions.

For now, she would wait and hope that Cregan’s reply would bring them one step closer to the future she had glimpsed.

The weeks passed swiftly, with the halls of the Red Keep buzzing quietly about Princess Helaena’s newfound joy. She spent her days exchanging letters with Cregan Stark, her face often glowing with an inner light that warmed even the coldest of hearts. Vensalia, seated across from her at breakfast one crisp morning, couldn’t help but smile at her friend’s happiness.

“You’ve been smiling at that letter for far too long,” Vensalia teased, sipping her tea.

Helaena’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t deny it. “He writes so... kindly,” she said softly. “There’s something about his words that feels... steady, like the North itself.”

Vensalia chuckled. “Just don’t let the ink smudge from staring at it too long.”

As Helaena laughed, Vensalia’s thoughts began to drift. The joy she saw in her friend’s face was a bright spot in the growing unease that crept through the city. The winds of winter were beginning to blow, carrying with them the promise of harsher days ahead.

Though the snows had yet to fall, Vensalia could feel the cold settling into the very stones of the Red Keep. The air was sharper, the skies grayer, and even the once-bustling streets of King’s Landing seemed subdued.

From her vantage point in the Keep, she looked down upon the sprawling city. Flea Bottom caught her eye—its haphazardly arranged roofs and crooked chimneys exuding a sense of desperation. She knew what winter would bring to those narrow, filthy streets.

The sight gnawed at her. She had seen hardship before, but the people of Flea Bottom were on the brink. Hunger, illness, and the bitter cold would claim many lives before the season’s end. And yet, the court would do nothing, content to let the lower classes fend for themselves.

Vensalia sighed, leaning against the cold stone of her window ledge. She had made it a habit to observe the city each day, watching as the people bustled below. They were survivors, but even the strongest needed help during the long winter.

“I can’t just stand by and do nothing,” she murmured to herself.

But the solution was not so simple. Helping the people of Flea Bottom would draw attention, and attention was the last thing she needed. Aemond, her betrothed, would surely notice her actions. His protectiveness bordered on suffocating at times, and while she appreciated his concern, she knew it would complicate her plans.

And Helaena—sweet, trusting Helaena—would worry for her safety. The princess might not say it outright, but Vensalia knew her friend would lose sleep over the thought of her venturing into the city alone.

For now, it was clear: she needed to find a way to help without drawing suspicion.

---

Before she could act on her thoughts about Flea Bottom, Vensalia turned her attention to her dragons. Winter was not just a threat to the people of King’s Landing—it also posed challenges for her bonded creatures.

In the warmth of the dragonpit, Vensalia stood between her two dragons, their massive forms filling the cavernous space. The black dragon with purple glow, Luvius, nudged her shoulder gently, its glowing eyes full of trust.

“You’ll feel the cold soon, won’t you?” Vensalia murmured, running her hand along its smooth scales.

Her white dragon, Silva, its silver eyes luminous in the dim light, let out a soft rumble as if in agreement. Dragons might be creatures of fire and might, but even they felt the sting of winter when it pressed hard enough.

Vensalia had been preparing for this. She instructed the keepers to stock extra firewood and coal, ensuring that the dragons’ lairs, including the other dragons, would remain warm throughout the season. She also took care to bring them additional food, knowing that their energy needs would increase in the colder months.

“Stay strong,” she whispered to them. “We’ll get through this together.”

Once she was satisfied that her dragons were well-prepared for winter, Vensalia returned to her chambers to think. The plight of Flea Bottom still weighed heavily on her mind. Helping the people there would be a delicate task, but it wasn’t impossible.

Sitting at her desk, she began to sketch out a plan. If she could enlist the help of trusted individuals—those who knew the city’s streets and had no ties to the court—she could make a difference without raising suspicion.

Her quill moved quickly across the parchment, her thoughts flowing freely. A mischievous smile crept onto her face as the plan began to take shape. If she succeeded, not only would she help the people of Flea Bottom, but she would also prove her resourcefulness to those who doubted her.

“Let them see,” she muttered under her breath, her smile widening. “Winter may come, but I won’t let it defeat us.”

---

For now, though, Vensalia knew she had to tread carefully. Aemond was sharp, and his eyes were always watching. If he suspected she was planning something, he would demand answers.

Helaena, too, might notice her distraction. Vensalia didn’t want to worry her friend, especially when Helaena seemed so happy exchanging letters with Cregan Stark.

“I’ll take it one step at a time,” Vensalia decided, setting her quill down.

As she looked out the window at the city below, she felt a renewed sense of determination. Winter was coming, but she was ready to face it head-on. And when the time was right, she would act—not for glory or recognition, but for the sake of those who needed her most.

For now, though, she would keep her plans close to her chest and focus on preparing herself and her dragons for the challenges ahead. The people of Flea Bottom would have to wait just a little longer—but she wouldn’t forget them.

Her smile returned, tinged with the same glint of mischief that had carried her through countless challenges before. Vensalia Vakriyoma was not one to back down, no matter how cold the wind blew.

---

The cold air of Flea Bottom bit at Vensalia’s cheeks even beneath her heavy cloak. The streets were narrow and damp, lined with makeshift shelters and shivering figures. The smell of decay and desperation lingered in the air, a harsh reminder of the struggles these people endured.

She pulled the cloak tighter around herself, hiding her distinct white hair streaked with red and her striking pink eyes. As much as she wanted to help, she knew the risks of being recognized. Vensalia was cautious by nature, but this time she had ventured out alone—a decision she now questioned.

Is this foolish? she thought, stepping over a patch of mud. I should have brought someone with me... Aemond, perhaps.

But she quickly dismissed the thought. If Aemond knew what she was doing, he would never let her leave his sight. He’d insist on protecting her, wrapping her in his arms like a shield, and keeping her from carrying out her plans.

She reached under her cloak to touch the small shadow pocket that hung against her hip, its endless capacity her saving grace. Inside were fresh, soft loaves of bread, steaming hot chocolate in sturdy containers, and pouches of gold dragon coins. The supplies were plenty, but she cursed herself for not thinking of a more discreet way to distribute them.

---

A Child in Need

As she walked, Vensalia’s sharp eyes took in the suffering around her. People sat huddled in corners, trying to shield themselves from the wind. Children, their cheeks red and raw from the cold, darted between alleys in search of scraps.

Her heart clenched when a small hand tugged at her cloak. She stopped and looked down to see a boy no older than five. His clothes were rags, his face dirty, and his lips cracked. His voice was hoarse as he whispered, “Water... please...”

Vensalia knelt, her movements careful. She reached into her shadow pocket under the cover of her cloak and pulled out a small water sack. Shielding the action from prying eyes, she handed it to the boy and watched as he drank greedily.

The sound of hurried footsteps made her turn. A woman, thin and frail, ran toward them. Her face was pale with fear as she dropped to her knees before Vensalia.

“I’m sorry! Please forgive him!” the woman cried, pulling the boy close. “He didn’t mean to bother you!”

Vensalia frowned, her voice soft but firm. “Stand up.”

The woman hesitated but obeyed, clutching her son tightly. Vensalia reached into her shadow pocket again and withdrew a small pouch filled with gold dragon coins. She pressed it into the woman’s trembling hands.

“Use this to buy what you need to stay warm,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

The woman’s eyes widened as she opened the pouch, her breath catching at the sight of the coins. She looked up at Vensalia, her expression a mixture of gratitude and disbelief.

“Who... who are you?” the woman asked, her voice trembling.

Vensalia shook her head, her face hidden beneath the hood. “It doesn’t matter. Just take care of yourself and your child.”

Tears streamed down the woman’s face as she fell to her knees again, thanking Vensalia profusely. She clutched the pouch tightly and hurried away, the boy trailing behind her.

Vensalia straightened, noticing the stares of those around her. Whispers spread like wildfire among the smallfolk as they watched the cloaked stranger who had handed out gold so generously.

Good, Vensalia thought. Let them talk.

Her actions were deliberate. Helping these people was more than an act of compassion; it was a way to create ripples in the city, to draw attention to the plight of the smallfolk. She wanted King Viserys and the court to notice, to understand the realities of the people they ruled over.

A group of children began to approach her, their movements cautious. Some asked for water, their small voices shaky with hope. Others simply reached out their hands, their wide eyes pleading.

Vensalia knelt again, pulling out more supplies from her shadow pocket. She handed out bread to the hungriest children and water sack for those who were thirsty. The warmth brought smiles to their faces, and for a moment, their laughter filled the air.

As she worked, some of the bolder children tugged at her cloak, asking to be carried or pulling her toward their friends who needed help. She obliged when she could, her heart aching at their resilience in the face of such hardship.

Vensalia knew the news of her actions would spread quickly. By evening, the story of a mysterious benefactor helping the smallfolk in Flea Bottom would reach the ears of merchants, tavern keepers, and perhaps even the Red Keep itself.

Under her hood, she allowed herself a small smile. This was only the beginning.

As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, Vensalia decided it was time to leave. She had done enough for the day, and the weight of the stares was growing heavier.

Walking back through the narrow streets, she felt a mix of emotions. There was satisfaction in knowing she had helped, even if only a little. But there was also a gnawing worry about what might come next.

She touched the shadow pocket one last time, ensuring it was securely hidden. No one had noticed its peculiarities today, but she couldn’t rely on luck forever.

As she reached the edge of Flea Bottom, she paused and looked back. The sight of children smiling and mothers clutching their newfound coins filled her with a sense of purpose.

This is just the start, she thought. There’s more to be done.

Pulling her hood lower, she slipped into the shadows, ready to return to the Keep unnoticed. Vensalia Vakriyoma was not one to act without reason, and today’s actions were just the first step in a much larger plan.

---

The council chamber was alive with subdued murmurs, the news of the mysterious benefactor in Flea Bottom dominating the discussion. King Viserys Targaryen sat at the head of the table, his brow furrowed in concern. His health had waned in recent years, and his patience for mysteries was thin.

Lord Lyonel Strong, the Hand of the King, cleared his throat, drawing the room’s attention. "Your Grace, the rumors have spread like wildfire. This woman’s actions have captured the hearts of the smallfolk, but they also raise questions about her intent. We must tread carefully."

Viserys nodded, his voice heavy with weariness. "Why would someone do this now? The people of Flea Bottom have suffered for years, yet no one has ever acted so... openly. Winter is upon us, and tensions rise with the cold. This is not the time for unrest."

Lord Lyman Beesbury adjusted in his seat, his expression contemplative. "Perhaps this is not unrest, Your Grace, but a gesture of goodwill. A noble heart might see the plight of the smallfolk and wish to ease their suffering. Not every act of charity comes with ulterior motives."

Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, shifted in his seat. "Charity or not, Your Grace, the secrecy is concerning. If her intent were pure, why hide her face? Why remain anonymous?"

Grand Maester Mellos nodded in agreement. "Such acts, while seemingly kind, can sow discord. The smallfolk now look to her as a savior. If this woman seeks to challenge the crown’s authority, even unintentionally, it could lead to instability."

Viserys leaned back in his chair, sighing deeply. "What do we know about her? Surely, someone must have seen something."

Lyonel shook his head. "The Kingsguard has combed Flea Bottom, Your Grace. The smallfolk are protective of her identity, speaking of her in whispers and reverence. Some claim she is a noble in disguise, others say she is a spirit or even a dragon in human form. None can provide a clear answer."

Viserys’s frown deepened. "And what of the court? Could she be one of our own?"

Lyonel hesitated before replying. "It is a possibility, Your Grace, though none within the court have given reason to suspect them. Yet we must investigate all avenues."

Elsewhere in the Red Keep, Vensalia Vakriyoma sat by her window, gazing out at the city below. The chill in the air signaled the coming of winter, and even within the warmth of her chambers, she could feel its bite. She can feel her dragons stirred restlessly in the dragon pit, sensing the changing season.

Vensalia’s mind was restless. The impact of her actions in Flea Bottom had exceeded her expectations. The gratitude of the smallfolk had filled her with a quiet satisfaction, but she knew the attention she had drawn would come at a cost. The council’s growing unease was predictable, but the intensity of their reaction was unexpected.

She stood and paced the room, her thoughts racing. The shadows in the corners of her chamber seemed to flicker and dance, mirroring her unease. She had acted on impulse, moved by the suffering she had witnessed, but now she needed to tread carefully.

In Alicent Hightower’s chambers, the air was thick with tension. Confined by the King’s decree, she had become a prisoner of her own hatred and grief. Her maids worked in silence, avoiding her sharp glares and muttered curses.

Alicent’s mind was consumed by thoughts of Vensalia. Though she knew little of the woman’s involvement in Flea Bottom, her suspicion burned bright. She hated the way Vensalia seemed to command attention, the way she seemed to thrive in a court that had once been Alicent’s domain.

Her confinement only deepened her bitterness. She paced her chambers, muttering to herself. "That girl thinks she can do as she pleases. The King may trust her, but I see through her. She seeks to undermine me, to take what is mine."

The servants outside her chamber exchanged uneasy glances, her angry voice carrying through the thick wooden door.

Back in the council chamber, Lyonel Strong spoke with quiet authority. "Your Grace, we must act swiftly but carefully. Sending more Kingsguard into the city may draw unwanted attention and worsen the situation. Discretion is key."

Viserys nodded. "Then let it be done. Investigate quietly, but find this woman. If her intentions are pure, she has nothing to fear. If not..." He let the implication hang in the air.

The meeting adjourned, and the council members departed, their faces marked with determination.

That evening, Vensalia stood in the dragon pit, her hands resting on the scales of her white dragon. The beast rumbled softly, sensing her unease. She whispered to it, her voice steady despite her turmoil. "The game begins, my friend. They search for answers, but I will give them none. Not yet."

Her black dragon stirred in the shadows, its eyes gleaming like jewels in the dim light. Vensalia smiled faintly, her resolve hardening. Winter was coming, but so was her moment to rise.

---

Aemond had been hearing rumors for days. Whispers in the halls of the Red Keep, carried on the lips of servants and courtiers alike, spoke of a mysterious woman—a stranger, cloaked in anonymity—helping the smallfolk of Flea Bottom. She was giving away gold coins, food, and hot drinks from a strange, never-ending sack. The smallfolk praised her as a “kind noble lady,” and rumors swirled about who she might be, but no one could say for certain.

Aemond had little patience for rumors, but these ones pricked at his curiosity. It wasn’t just the kindness of the stranger that drew his attention, but the fact that they seemed to be tied to Vensalia. No one had been able to confirm it, but Aemond couldn’t shake the feeling that she was somehow involved. His betrothed—his quiet, reserved, and mysterious betrothed—had a way of drawing attention, even when she didn’t seem to want it.

He was about to ignore the gossip, when his curiosity got the better of him. He had seen Vensalia leave her chambers earlier, wrapped in her cloak as usual. He hadn’t thought much of it at first, but when he overheard a conversation about the woman helping in Flea Bottom, something inside him clicked. He had to know. He had to be sure.

Aemond stood in the hallway, watching as Vensalia made her way out of the Red Keep. His mind raced as he debated following her. He didn’t know why she would go to such a dangerous place, but he couldn’t help the worry that gnawed at him. Flea Bottom was a place filled with danger and violence, and though Vensalia had powers beyond most people’s comprehension, Aemond couldn’t help but fear for her safety.

He took a deep breath, pulled his cloak around himself, and slipped out of the castle. Keeping to the shadows, he moved with quiet determination, his steps purposeful but careful. Vensalia might sense him if he got too close—she was always aware of her surroundings, her sharp senses never failing her. So he kept his distance, watching from afar as she disappeared into the streets of King’s Landing.

It didn’t take long for Aemond to find her again. As he walked along the bustling streets of the city, he kept his eyes trained on her. There she was, a cloaked figure weaving through the crowds of people, her movements deliberate yet graceful. She made no effort to hide, but she was still careful, avoiding too much attention. Aemond had to admit, he admired her ability to move through the chaos unnoticed.

But this time, it was different. This time, Vensalia wasn’t simply passing through the streets—she was stopping. She was speaking to the smallfolk, offering them food and water. Aemond watched in silence, his heart a mixture of pride and sadness. He had never seen this side of her before, and it struck him with a sharp, unexpected emotion.

He watched as Vensalia handed out pieces of bread and warm drink to the children and their mothers, her face hidden beneath the hood of her cloak. The smallfolk’s gratitude was evident, their eyes shining with a mixture of awe and relief. Aemond saw how they treated her with reverence, how they respected her, calling her “the kind noble lady.” It was a name he had heard whispered around the castle for the past few days, but he had never seen it in person.

The Kingsguard, stationed nearby, seemed to take no notice of the activity, but Aemond could see how the smallfolk were subtly distracting them. They were protecting Vensalia, keeping the guards away as best they could. It was clear that the rumors had already spread, that this mysterious benefactor was becoming a symbol of hope for the people.

He felt a pang of pride in his chest. She was helping them. She was doing something he never could. And yet… there was sadness, too. Vensalia wasn’t the type to seek attention outside the court. She had always been cautious, careful, and enigmatic. The fact that she kept her actions a secret—hidden beneath the cloak of anonymity—struck him as odd. Why would she do that? Why not reveal herself? Did she not trust him?

Aemond shook his head, trying to push the questions aside. Now wasn’t the time for doubts. He needed to speak with her, to understand what she was doing here. And maybe… just maybe, he could convince her to stop this dangerous game.

As he watched her move further into the alley, he made his decision. He couldn’t let her stay here alone, not in a place like this. He would find her, talk to her, and make sure she was safe.

Aemond took a step forward, his eyes locked on Vensalia’s cloaked figure. He walked quickly but cautiously, keeping a safe distance between them. He knew better than to approach her too closely. If she sensed him, she would slip away before he could get the chance to speak with her.

But fate had a different plan.

Vensalia suddenly paused, turning sharply down a narrow alleyway. Aemond’s heart skipped a beat. He had to act fast. He didn’t know if she had sensed him or if it was just coincidence, but he had no time to think. He ran forward, catching up to her in a few swift steps, and before she could react, he grabbed her arm and pulled her into the shadows of the alley.

Vensalia froze in surprise, her eyes wide beneath the hood of her cloak. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, the sound of approaching voices reached them. The unmistakable clanking of the Kingsguard’s armor echoed down the street.

Aemond’s heart pounded in his chest. There was no time to explain. Without a word, he grabbed her hand and pulled her deeper into the alley, toward a narrow street that led further away from the noise.

“Stay close,” Aemond whispered urgently. “They’ll be looking for you.”

Vensalia’s eyes flickered with understanding, and she nodded silently. She trusted him—of that, he had no doubt—but she also knew the danger. Aemond was her protector, and though she never asked for his protection, she accepted it without hesitation.

They ran through the winding streets of Flea Bottom, weaving through the narrow alleys and hidden corners. Aemond’s chest tightened with each turn, each step. The Kingsguard were close, and if they caught wind of their presence, they would be in trouble. But Vensalia’s skill with shadows was something he had come to trust, and he knew she had the ability to disappear if necessary.

As they reached the end of the alley, Vensalia did something unexpected. She raised her hand, her fingers tracing the air before her. A moment later, the world around them seemed to shift, as if reality itself had bent. In the blink of an eye, they were no longer in Flea Bottom.

Aemond’s breath caught in his throat as he looked around. They had teleported to the other side of the city, far from the prying eyes of the Kingsguard. He could hardly believe what had just happened. Vensalia had used her umbrakinesis to move them without a trace.

Vensalia’s eyes met his, and she gave him a small, almost apologetic smile. “I couldn’t risk staying there any longer. They would have found us eventually.”

Aemond exhaled in relief, but his heart was still racing. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe at her abilities. She was powerful, more powerful than he had ever realized. And yet, she remained humble and hidden, preferring to help in secret rather than in the open.

“What are you doing in Flea Bottom?” Aemond asked quietly, his voice soft but filled with concern. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why hide it?”

Vensalia hesitated for a moment before answering, her eyes flickering with uncertainty. “I didn’t want to worry you, Aemond. I know you care, but I wanted to help them. The smallfolk are suffering, and I could do something. But… I didn’t want anyone to know. It was never meant to be about me.”

Aemond reached out, gently cupping her chin, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “You’re not just some nameless benefactor, Vensalia. You’re my betrothed. You don’t have to do this alone. You don’t have to hide from me.”

Vensalia looked down, her expression softening. “I didn’t think you’d understand.”

“I understand more than you think,” he replied quietly, his voice steady. “You don’t have to keep secrets from me, Vensalia. If you want to help them, I’ll stand by you. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

She met his gaze, her eyes filled with gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken. And for a moment, neither of them said a word. They simply stood there, side by side, as the winds of winter began to stir.