The scandal that had unfolded in the Red Keep was unlike anything the court had witnessed in years. Queen Alicent slapping Lady Vensalia Vakriyoma, the betrothed of Prince Aemond Targaryen, had rippled through every level of the castle’s hierarchy. What made it worse was the King’s swift and public decision to confine the Queen to her chambers and to place her youngest son, Prince Daeron, under the care of Vensalia. The whispers, once quiet and speculative, now roared through the halls of the Red Keep, staining the once-mighty Hightower name.

The Hightowers, known for their calculated influence and political maneuvering, now walked the halls under the weight of scandal. Otto Hightower, the former Hand of the King and the architect of much of the family's ascent, bore the brunt of the court’s whispers. He maintained his usual composed expression as he strode through the corridors, but no amount of dignity could shield him from the murmurs that followed.

“Did you hear about the Queen?” one maid whispered, her voice barely above a breath as she polished a candlestick.

“I heard she struck Lady Vensalia in front of everyone,” her companion replied, glancing around to ensure they weren’t overheard. “And now she’s locked away. The King himself ordered it.”

“Serves her right,” the first maid said, her tone sharp. “She’s always been so proud, thinking she could get away with anything. Now look at her.”

“But isn’t it strange?” the second maid ventured cautiously. “The Queen’s father, Ser Otto, has always been the one guiding her. Do you think she’s like this because of him?”

“Of course she is,” the first maid replied. “He’s always whispered in her ear, telling her she’s untouchable. Maybe she thought that made her immune to consequences.”

Otto overheard the exchange as he passed by, his footsteps echoing in the stone hallways. His face betrayed nothing, but his mind raced. He knew the damage this scandal had done to the Hightower name. For years, he had carefully built their influence, positioning Alicent as the Queen and ensuring their family’s prominence in the realm. Now, in a single moment of unbridled emotion, Alicent had undone decades of work.

Locked in her chambers, Queen Alicent felt the walls closing in around her. She paced relentlessly, her hands wringing together as she muttered to herself. The once-magnificent view from her window offered no solace. She couldn’t stop replaying the moment she had slapped Vensalia—the sound of her palm against the young lady’s cheek, the horrified gasps of the onlookers, and the dramatic way Vensalia had fallen to the ground.

It had been a moment of rage, fueled by her frustration and jealousy. But now, with the clarity that came from isolation, she realized how thoroughly she had been outmaneuvered. Vensalia had played her like a harp, using Alicent’s temper against her.

“She’s a serpent,” Alicent whispered to herself, her voice trembling with anger. “A cunning, manipulative serpent.”

But even as she said it, she felt a pang of doubt. The court had sided with Vensalia. The King had sided with her. And worst of all, Daeron, her youngest and dearest son, had been taken from her.

The door to her chambers opened slightly, and one of her loyal maids stepped inside. “Your Grace,” the maid said hesitantly, “your meal has been brought.”

“Leave it,” Alicent snapped, turning her back to the servant.

The maid hesitated for a moment before placing the tray on the table and leaving quietly. Alone again, Alicent sank into a chair, her hands gripping the armrests so tightly her knuckles turned white.

She wanted to scream, to throw something, to lash out at the injustice of it all. But she knew none of that would change the situation. The court now saw her as a cruel and unstable queen, while Vensalia was painted as a saint.

While Alicent remained confined, Vensalia thrived. Her composed demeanor and selflessness had endeared her to the court, turning her into a figure of admiration and respect. She moved through the halls with quiet grace, always accompanied by young Prince Daeron, who seemed to have taken to her care with remarkable ease.

“Lady Vensalia is extraordinary,” a noblewoman remarked during a gathering in the gardens. “To endure such treatment from the Queen and still act with such kindness toward Prince Daeron? It speaks volumes of her character.”

“She’s the perfect future queen,” another nobleman agreed. “Wise, patient, and deeply loyal to the Targaryen family. The King was right to trust her.”

“She’s teaching Daeron about their history and the dragons, isn’t she?”

“Yes, and the boy seems to adore her. It’s a shame the Queen couldn’t give him the same care.”

Vensalia heard the whispers, but she paid them no mind. Her focus remained on Daeron, who had quickly become like a younger brother to her. She spent her days teaching him about their family’s legacy, recounting tales of the great Targaryens of old and the dragons that had once ruled the skies.

One afternoon, as they sat in the gardens surrounded by books and scrolls, Daeron looked up at her with wide eyes. “Will I ever be a great dragon rider, like you and Aemond?” he asked.

Vensalia smiled and brushed a strand of silver hair from his face. “You already have the heart of a dragon, Daeron. Tessarion will grow strong, and when the time comes, you’ll soar higher than any of us.”

Daeron beamed at her words, his small hands clutching the edge of his book.

Aemond watched the unfolding events with a mix of pride and frustration. He admired Vensalia’s strength and intelligence, but he couldn’t ignore the pain it caused his family. His mother’s actions had left him torn between loyalty to his blood and his growing admiration for his betrothed.

One evening, as Vensalia and Daeron returned from the gardens, Aemond approached them. “Vensalia,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

She turned to him with a warm smile. “Aemond. Is something troubling you?”

He glanced at Daeron, who was tugging at her sleeve to show her a drawing he had made of Tessarion. “Not troubling,” Aemond replied, his gaze steady. “I just wanted to thank you—for taking care of Daeron and for handling everything with such… grace.”

Vensalia’s smile softened. “We all have our roles to play, Aemond. I only hope I’m fulfilling mine.”

“You are,” he said firmly. “More than anyone else could.”

Meanwhile, Otto Hightower was in a state of quiet desperation. He convened with his allies in secret, trying to salvage the Hightower name.

“We cannot allow this to be our legacy,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “The Queen may have faltered, but we must show strength and unity.”

“Strength?” one ally countered. “The court sees us as weak, Otto. They see your daughter as unfit and blame you for her failings.”

Otto’s jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. “We’ve weathered storms before. This will be no different.”

But even as he spoke, he knew the truth. The damage was done, and the Hightower name might never fully recover.

The court’s judgment was clear. Queen Alicent’s actions had been a grave mistake, and the Hightowers’ influence was waning. In contrast, Vensalia’s star continued to rise, her reputation untarnished and her position solidified.

The whispers about Alicent and Otto grew louder with each passing day, their once-lofty status reduced to fodder for gossip. And as the court watched Lady Vensalia thrive, many began to see her as a new beacon of hope—a symbol of what House Targaryen could become under her influence.

The Hightowers, once the architects of their own destiny, were now at the mercy of the court’s judgment. And in the game of thrones, perception was everything.

The whispers that filled the halls of the Red Keep were enough to make anyone feel the weight of judgment, but for Lady Vensalia, it was a sweet reminder of her power. Her kindness to Prince Daeron had only fueled the gossip and speculation that already surrounded her. Every time she stepped into the gardens or passed through the corridors, she could hear her name being whispered: “The darling of the court.”

It was a title she never asked for, yet one that she found herself relishing. The more they spoke of her, the more she understood just how much influence she was gaining. It was as if she had become the very thing that the courtiers loved to gossip about— a mixture of mystery, charm, and the ability to keep the royal family in her thrall. The way she had effortlessly taken the youngest Targaryen under her care was, to some, the mark of a woman with both compassion and power. To others, it was the subtle play of someone who knew exactly how to manipulate the levers of influence.

For Otto Hightower, it was becoming a thorn in his side. The former Hand of the King, the patriarch of House Hightower, had seen many things in his time. He had watched as the Hightower family had climbed in stature, helped push Alicent to the throne, and ensured that the family's name would remain in the annals of history. But now, as he walked through the corridors, he could hardly avoid the incessant murmurs about Lady Vensalia and her growing influence. She had eclipsed many in her ability to charm and manipulate the court. He knew how quickly the tides of power could change, and if the rumors about her were true, then she had positioned herself dangerously close to controlling the narrative of the royal family.

“Darling of the court,” they called her. Otto grimaced as he overheard yet another servant gossiping about the name, the title, that was now associated with Vensalia. Every time he heard it, it cut deeper. His family had been at the center of the royal court for years, and yet now they were being overshadowed by this young woman, this Lady Vensalia who had not even been a part of the royal family by birth. She had managed to climb to a position of influence in record time, gaining the trust and affection of the court, and most importantly, the King himself.

Otto had long understood the value of reputation. In many ways, it was all that mattered in the court of the Seven Kingdoms. The Hightowers had built their reputation on political savvy, on controlling the flow of information, and on ensuring that their name was attached to every important move made in the realm. Now, all he could hear was Vensalia’s name. She had not only ingratiated herself with the King, but she had also captured the sympathy and affection of Daeron, the youngest Targaryen, after a series of events that had caused scandal. The very sight of her caring for the boy, the youngest son of King Viserys and Queen Alicent, had made the court realize just how well she could play the part of the angelic caretaker.

The way Daeron laughed and played in her presence— it was so easy to see the bond they had developed. It seemed so natural, the connection between the two. Daeron’s happiness in her arms was genuine, and in a way, that made her an even more powerful figure than ever. Her kindness seemed to have won over not only the royal family but the court as well. It was easy to see that she had woven herself into the royal tapestry, a figure both adored and feared.

Meanwhile, Rhaenyra, the once-celebrated “Realm’s Delight,” found herself feeling increasingly uncomfortable in the wake of Vensalia’s rise. She had once been the center of attention, the lady everyone adored. But now, as whispers about Lady Vensalia spread like wildfire, Rhaenyra could feel the spotlight slipping from her. She had been the realm’s darling, but that title was slipping through her fingers as her scandalous past caught up with her. It had been years since her innocence had been questioned, and now, as the truth about her relationships and her past decisions came to light, the court’s adoration of her had diminished.

Rhaenyra watched, frustrated, as Lady Vensalia’s fame overshadowed her own. She could hear the praises for Vensalia wherever she went. People spoke of how she had taken Daeron in her arms, how she had protected him when Queen Alicent had shown cruelty. It was as if Vensalia’s actions had made her the embodiment of all that was good and pure, in contrast to Rhaenyra’s tarnished reputation.

Vensalia, for her part, had no interest in Rhaenyra’s lost title or the woman’s fading glory. She was perfectly content to watch the court’s adoration of her grow, enjoying the subtle power that came with it. It was exactly what she wanted— the court’s attention was now hers, and it was a heady feeling. She had made her move carefully, positioning herself as a figure of kindness and care, all the while knowing that her true intentions lay beneath the surface. She was the villain playing the part of the hero, and it was a game she was more than willing to continue playing.

What struck her as the most amusing part of it all was how easily everyone had been manipulated by her. A few carefully timed acts of kindness, a soft smile, and a comforting word to Daeron, and the entire court had decided she was the perfect model of grace and charity. It was as if the entire court had been waiting for someone like her to arrive— someone they could elevate to a pedestal while tearing down anyone who had been before. Rhaenyra’s fall from grace had only made it easier for Vensalia to step into the light.

It was fascinating to Vensalia, how easily people could be led, how easily they could be swayed by a simple change in the narrative. The idea of being the “darling of the court” was not something Vensalia had sought out, but now that it had come to her, she intended to savor it. She didn’t need to be the pure-hearted heroine— she had never been that type. She was content being the villain, the one whose actions shaped the destiny of the royal family. If people wanted to view her as a savior, so be it. In time, they would learn what she was truly capable of, but for now, she relished in the role she had created for herself.

Her quiet interactions with Daeron had already made their mark. She had been the one to comfort him when the Queen had shown him cruelty, and the little boy had come to trust her more than anyone else in the court. It was a connection that had given her even more power, not only over Daeron but also over the people who watched them interact. She could feel their admiration, and she knew how to use it to her advantage.

As she continued to care for Daeron, her fame continued to grow, and Rhaenyra’s jealousy only fueled her. Vensalia was content to watch the downfall of those who had once been at the top of the court’s hierarchy. The “Realm’s Delight” was no longer the darling of the court— Lady Vensalia had taken that title for herself, and she would ensure that no one would forget her name anytime soon.

---

As Vensalia walked alongside Aemond and Prince Daeron, the trio made their way through the bustling halls of the Red Keep. The air seemed to hum with a quiet respect, almost as if the very stones of the castle were acknowledging the growing power of the young woman at their center. It was rare to see such a combination of nobility, grace, and cunning in one so young, and it did not escape the notice of the courtiers and Kingsguards who stood watch.

Some of the servants, when they caught sight of the trio, paused in their work, bowing their heads in respect as they whispered Vensalia’s name in awe. Others—Kingsguards, lords, and ladies—exchanged glances and quickly straightened their postures, offering the appropriate nods and gestures of reverence. It had become clear that Vensalia was not only the future of House Targaryen through her betrothal to Aemond, but she was also becoming a force in her own right.

Though still a child in many respects, her presence seemed to command authority, and she carried herself as if she had lived a hundred lifetimes. The way she walked, with a quiet confidence and grace, caused even the most stoic of the court to take notice. Some even bowed their heads in deference, as though in the presence of royalty. The maids who had been sweeping the floors now stepped aside to give her space, and the Kingsguard moved just a little closer, making sure their watch over her was firm, but respectful.

Vensalia, aware of the attention she was receiving, kept her smile faint and her posture composed. It was all part of the game. In a world where power was not only earned but also perceived, she knew how to manipulate the public’s image of her. Beneath her gentle smile was the sharp intellect of a young woman who understood that her position was not guaranteed by birth alone. No, she had worked for this, playing her part in the drama that unfolded around her. And she would continue to do so, with precision.

As they walked through the halls, Aemond’s gaze often flicked toward her, his pride barely concealed. He admired her control, the way she had already shaped the narrative around her without so much as raising a finger. She had turned the moment of Queen Alicent’s fury into a weapon, leveraging the Queen’s anger into sympathy for herself. The whispers of her growing influence spread like wildfire, and every moment she spent in the company of Daeron and Aemond solidified her image as a future queen.

The whispers in the corridors and chambers were not lost on Vensalia. As they passed, she could hear snippets of conversation, hushed tones not meant for her ears, but still loud enough to reach her.

"Lady Vensalia is so kind to Prince Daeron, don’t you think? She’s already a mother figure to him."

"She’ll make a fine queen, I hear. She has the patience and poise to match her beauty."

"She’s destined to rule, that one. You can see it in the way she commands the room."

Vensalia didn’t let the praise get to her, but there was something about the words that sent a shiver down her spine. A future mother? A queen?

It wasn’t that she didn’t have the ability to play those roles. After all, she had lived many lifetimes in her own mind and understood the expectations placed upon women in her position. But the thought of being a mother at her young age, barely eleven, almost twelve, felt unsettling. It was one thing to be married off young, as was customary in this world, but the weight of motherhood was another matter entirely.

She was a 21st-century girl in a medieval body, and though the customs of this time didn’t faze her in the same way they might have others, there were moments when the dissonance between her mind and her circumstances became too apparent. But Vensalia was quick to bury those thoughts beneath the surface. She had learned long ago that it was easier to suppress discomfort than to allow it to show. And in her case, she had the charms to bend the world to her will, even if it meant stepping into roles that felt unnatural for her age.

Aemond, walking beside her, seemed to revel in the way she commanded the attention of everyone around her. He knew she was playing the game better than anyone else. Her ability to navigate the complexities of the court was unmatched, and it made him want her even more. The way she subtly manipulated the courtiers and lords without ever raising her voice was nothing short of impressive. Aemond couldn’t help but admire her strength.

As they reached a more secluded part of the castle, Vensalia glanced down at Daeron, who walked beside them, laughing softly at a joke Aemond had made. The little prince had grown so comfortable with her in such a short time, and his trust in her was evident. She could feel the protective warmth she had for him growing stronger with each passing day.

The sight of Daeron, his laughter ringing out, nestled between her and Aemond, made them look like a family. To the onlookers, it was a picture of happiness, of a perfect future. Vensalia, Aemond, and Daeron—three pieces of a puzzle that the court would look to for guidance in the years to come.

And yet, beneath that image, Vensalia knew exactly what she was doing. She had carefully crafted this facade of family and affection, knowing that it would endear her to the court even more. The soft smile she gave Daeron, the way she touched his shoulder or whispered gentle reassurances, was not purely for his benefit. It was for everyone watching, for the lords who would someday kneel before her as their queen. It was a performance, a carefully timed dance, and Vensalia was its star.

As they continued their walk, she caught sight of a few more whispers exchanged among the court.

"Did you see the way Lady Vensalia looks at him? It’s like she’s already his mother."

"She’s so patient with him. I think she’d make a wonderful queen."

"Did you hear? She’s going to teach him about the Targaryen history. She’s already shaping him into a future ruler."

The words almost felt like a weight on her shoulders, and yet she couldn’t help but revel in the attention. They spoke of her with admiration, and for now, that was all that mattered.

Yet, as the whispers continued, a small knot of discomfort twisted in her chest. It was the mention of motherhood that unsettled her most. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to play the part—after all, she was already stepping into a role far beyond her years. But the idea of becoming a mother, of bearing that responsibility, was something she was not yet ready to accept.

Her mind briefly wandered to the life she had left behind—the one she had lived in another body, in another time. In that life, she had been a child not long ago, and now she was expected to grow up so quickly. She had not asked for this, not in the way the world expected. But she had made a choice when she entered this world, and now she had to live with the consequences.

Aemond noticed the subtle shift in her demeanor, the way her smile faltered for just a second. He reached out, brushing his hand against hers in a silent gesture of reassurance. He could sense her unease, though she had hidden it well. Theirs was a partnership, one that he would help her navigate, and he was confident that she would rise to the occasion.

"You’re doing well," he whispered, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Vensalia looked at him, her smile returning, but this time it was softer, more genuine. "I know."

And for a moment, as they walked side by side, with Daeron between them, Vensalia felt a flicker of warmth. Despite her unease about the future, she had learned one thing: she was in control. And in this world, that was all that mattered.

---

Vensalia walked slowly through the hallways of the Red Keep, her heels clicking with a measured pace, her posture straight and elegant. The morning light streamed through the windows, casting a soft glow on the stone floors. She had been hearing her name whispered through the halls with increasing frequency, and every time it did, her smile widened. "The Darling of the Court," they called her. It had a beautiful ring to it, didn’t it? She reveled in it. She loved how the whispers followed her, how the servants' eyes followed her every move. She had become the star of this court, and it was a position she never intended to give up.

Her mind raced as she thought of the growing influence she had garnered in the short time she had been here. Her relationship with Aemond, the way she had taken Prince Daeron under her wing, had all but sealed her position in the royal family. She was beloved by many, admired for her kindness and her grace, and all of it was carefully constructed. She knew how to present herself, how to play the role of the saint—perfect, gentle, innocent. That was the image she needed to maintain. Her reputation as the perfect lady was her weapon, and she wielded it expertly.

But she was no saint. She had never been one. Her powers, her ability to manipulate shadows and darkness, lay dormant for the most part. She only used them when absolutely necessary, and her ambition was growing. She knew how to work the court and turn it in her favor. Everything she did had a purpose, and she reveled in her growing fame. It wasn’t enough just to be admired; she needed to be the one everyone talked about. And right now, everyone was talking about her.

Aemond was supportive of her cunning nature, admiring it even. He had never been bothered by her ambitious ways. On the contrary, he loved her sharp mind, her ability to navigate the delicate web of the court. She was the perfect partner for him. She could see it in the way he looked at her—like a prized possession, someone whose power and beauty he was proud to be associated with. She had him wrapped around her finger, and she intended to keep him there.

The Hightowers, however, were a different story. Otto, the former Hand, had been so sure of his family's power and influence. But now, everything he had worked for seemed to be crumbling. Vensalia loved watching the Hightowers fall. The whispers about her fame were only getting louder, and she felt a rush of satisfaction every time she saw the frustrated look on Otto’s face. The Hightowers, once the architects of so much power in King's Landing, were losing their grip. And Vensalia was enjoying every minute of it.

Today, the tournament was set to begin, but there was still time before lunch. Vensalia had no desire to attend the tournament just yet. It was the perfect opportunity for a stroll. Aemond had wanted to accompany her, of course, but she had told him that he needed to spend some time with Daeron. Daeron had been isolated in the citadel for so long, and she didn’t want him to feel more out of place. Aemond had respected her wishes, giving her a soft smile before leaving her to enjoy her walk in peace. He would join her later, but for now, she had her plans.

As she moved through the halls, Vensalia couldn't shake the feeling that someone was following her. Her senses were heightened, her mind alert. She had learned to trust her instincts. Slowly, subtly, she used her umbrakinesis to extend her awareness, feeling the shadows around her shift. Through the darkened tendrils of her power, she could see who it was—Ormund Hightower, trailing behind her at a distance.

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped her lips. Of course it was him. She had known the Hightowers wouldn't take her rise quietly. Ormund was Otto’s brother, and from what she had gathered, he was just as full of pride as his father, Hobert Hightower. He was certainly arrogant enough to try and confront her. She couldn't help but feel a thrill at the thought. She needed to make sure they understood one simple thing: she was not to be underestimated.

She quickly calculated her next move. She didn’t want to cause a scene just yet, but she also didn’t want to be followed for too long. She spotted an alcove further down the hall—a secluded space where she could wait for him to catch up. There were a few servants nearby, but not enough to make it difficult for her to control the situation. She turned into the alcove, positioning herself just so she could catch him as he approached.

Ormund rounded the corner, his face a mixture of curiosity and disdain. His gaze was calculating, a sharpness in his eyes that sent a thrill through her. He wasn’t the type to make small talk. And she wasn’t interested in having a civil conversation with him. She let him approach, letting him think he had the upper hand. When he was close enough, she turned to face him.

"Lady Vensalia," Ormund said coolly, his voice low. "I suppose you're enjoying the attention. The fame you've garnered... I wonder how much of it is due to your... charms."

Her eyes flashed, but she kept her face serene, a faint smile curling her lips. "I don’t know what you mean, Lord Hightower," she said, her voice sweet, almost innocent. "I simply try to be a good and helpful lady in the court."

Ormund's eyes narrowed, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Is that so? Or have you gained your position... by other means? By seducing the King, perhaps?" His words were heavy with accusation, his tone dripping with venom.

Vensalia didn’t flinch. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, her smile widening just a touch. "I am sorry if I have disappointed you, Lord Hightower. But I assure you, I have done nothing wrong." Her voice took on a note of regret, and she placed a hand over her heart. "I apologize for wasting your time." She made a motion to step past him, but Ormund wasn’t finished.

"Don’t walk away from me, girl," he spat, his voice rising slightly. "You think you can play the innocent, but I see through your little game. You’ve used the King, and now you think you can take whatever you want. The Hightowers will not tolerate it."

Vensalia's smile faltered, but only for a moment. She turned to face him again, her eyes cold. "I have no interest in your family’s opinion, Lord Hightower," she said softly, her voice as sharp as a blade. "But if you wish to make an example of me, I am happy to oblige."

She knew exactly what would happen next. Ormund's rage was boiling over, and he wouldn’t be able to control himself. She stepped back, giving him just the right amount of space, letting him feel his fury consume him. Sure enough, in a burst of anger, Ormund lunged at her, grabbing her hair with a brutal force.

Vensalia let out a high-pitched scream, her voice intentionally shrill and loud. The sound echoed off the walls, and she could hear the gasps of servants who had been walking nearby. It was the perfect moment—her scream was an invitation to chaos.

With dramatic flair, she let herself lose her balance, falling backward onto the cold stone floor. Her scream didn’t stop, the sound lingering in the air as she crashed to the ground. She made sure to twist her body just enough so that it would look like she had truly been knocked off balance. The moment she hit the floor, she felt the eyes of the servants upon her.

Ormund stood over her, his face red with fury, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done. The Hightowers had made their move, and they had been caught in the act. Vensalia lay there, her face twisted in a mixture of pain and fear, her eyes wide with innocence. Her heart raced, but it was not out of fear. It was from the thrill of the game. The power she wielded in this moment.

Her scream continued to echo through the halls, and she heard the hurried footsteps of approaching servants. They had heard everything. They would spread the story, and the Hightowers would be painted as the villains. As the story spread, the court would turn against Ormund, and Lady Vensalia would once again be the darling of the realm. She had won. And she would continue to win.

---

The corridors of the Red Keep were eerily silent, save for the heavy footsteps of Aemond Targaryen as he stormed down the halls. His heart pounded in his chest, blood rushing in his ears. A servant had found him in the garden, frantically explaining that Vensalia was in danger, that something had happened.

Aemond’s mind raced with dread, imagining the worst. Vensalia—his betrothed, the young woman he had grown to cherish in ways he had never thought possible—was in trouble. His eyes burned with an intensity that mirrored the fury of his thoughts. He couldn’t explain it, but something about Vensalia made him protective in a way he had never felt before, and the thought of her in pain, vulnerable, twisted something deep inside him.

As he turned the corner, he finally saw the scene. His great uncle, Ormund Hightower, stood over Vensalia, who was crumpled on the ground. She was shaking, trembling in fear—at least, that’s what he saw at first. His eyes narrowed, the coldness of his gaze cutting through the air. He had seen enough to recognize the subtle glint of excitement in her eyes, the way her breath hitched in a manner that was far too controlled, far too deliberate for someone genuinely in distress.

But it didn’t matter. She was hurt, and that alone would never be tolerated.

The kingsguards held Ormund firmly, their spears at the ready, though none dared approach the raging prince. Aemond's hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white as his fury took over. His eyes locked on Vensalia, her face pale, her hands trembling on the ground. She looked up at him, and despite the obvious distress, there was that same cunning, that same spark of control in her gaze. It was a strange mix of vulnerability and strength that both frightened and fascinated him.

Aemond’s lips pressed together in a thin line, his blood boiling as his mind processed the scene in front of him. His great uncle, Ormund Hightower, had laid a hand on his betrothed. That was unforgivable. The thought of the man hurting her, of someone thinking they could hurt someone he cared about, ignited a fire in his veins.

"Enough!" Aemond’s voice rang out, cold and lethal, making the room fall silent. He turned to the kingsguards who were holding Ormund, his voice low, but commanding. "Take him to the black cells. Now."

The men moved quickly, unsure of what had just unfolded but not questioning their prince’s command. Ormund, for all his years and power, did not resist. He was caught, trapped in a web of his own making. His face twisted in a mix of disbelief and contempt as he was dragged away.

But Aemond didn’t spare him another glance. His eyes remained fixed on Vensalia.

Her trembling had not stopped. Her body was still curled in on itself, though she made no move to stand, her gaze fixed on the floor. He could see her hands shaking at her sides, and his heart clenched painfully at the sight.

But there was something unsettling about it. Vensalia was not the sort of person to show weakness—at least, not like this. The way she controlled her movements, her breaths, even her trembling, made it impossible for Aemond to fully believe that she was as vulnerable as she appeared.

He knelt beside her, his movements quick and purposeful, as he reached out and gently cupped her chin, tilting her face toward him. "Vensalia," he whispered softly, his voice laced with concern despite the storm raging inside him. "Are you hurt?"

She blinked up at him, her wide eyes still holding that strange mixture of fear and excitement, as though she was playing a part in some dark play. She looked at him for a long moment, before her lips parted in a small, almost imperceptible smile.

"I’m fine," she said quietly, though her voice trembled slightly. "It was not as bad as it looked."

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his protective instincts rising once more. He could feel the bloodlust coursing through him, still burning in his chest. His hands hovered over her, but he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to help, to take her pain away, but something about her didn’t seem as fragile as she appeared. He could see the subtle way she was playing this out. She had planned this, hadn’t she? He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Aemond’s frustration was palpable. He had been taught to control his emotions, to hold his power with a firm hand, but he was struggling with this. He couldn’t stand seeing her in pain, even if it was a carefully constructed act. It felt wrong to him, a betrayal of his instincts, yet there was no denying that her strength was part of her allure. It was why he was drawn to her in the first place.

"Why did you let him do this?" Aemond’s voice was low, dangerous. His hand rested gently on her shoulder, but it was a silent command for her to explain herself.

She shifted slightly, still keeping her eyes lowered, though she didn’t shy away from him. "Because I knew you would come," she murmured softly, her voice steady despite the tremor that laced it. "I knew you would protect me, Aemond. I didn’t want to hurt you by making it worse."

Aemond’s heart skipped a beat at the words. It was strange, hearing her speak with such vulnerability, yet he felt an odd comfort in the fact that she trusted him so implicitly. Even in this situation, with all the danger swirling around them, she still believed in him.

His brow furrowed, and his fingers dug into her skin lightly, pulling her closer to him, ensuring that she knew he was there, ready to shield her from whatever came next.

"I would have done anything to keep you safe," Aemond muttered, his words almost a growl, more a declaration to himself than to her.

Vensalia raised an eyebrow, as if surprised by his intensity. "And now you have," she said softly. "But remember, Aemond… sometimes a little drama is needed to get the right result."

Her smile, thin and knowing, left him momentarily speechless. He couldn’t help but feel a bit of admiration for her. She was always playing some game, and in this case, it was a dangerous one. She had manipulated the situation to her advantage, drawing his attention, forcing him to act. And it had worked. She had gotten what she wanted.

The fact that it didn’t sit entirely right with him only added to the complexity of his feelings for her. He wanted to protect her, but he couldn’t shake the sense that she didn’t always need protection. In fact, she might be the one protecting him.

Aemond’s gaze softened, the intensity of the moment shifting into something more tender, more personal. He reached up and gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his hand lingering against her cheek.

"Don’t do that again," he said quietly, his tone far gentler than before. "You may play your games, Vensalia, but never again with your safety. Promise me."

For a moment, Vensalia looked at him as if deciding whether to make light of it or not. But then she nodded, her smile finally becoming more genuine. "I promise."

Aemond breathed a sigh of relief, though his body still hummed with the energy of what had just transpired. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her forehead in a gesture that was protective, almost affectionate.

Before he could pull away, however, he heard the shuffle of footsteps, and he looked up to see the kingsguards slowly backing away, leaving them to their moment.

Aemond stood, pulling Vensalia to her feet with him, his arm securing around her waist. "Let’s go," he said, his voice firm but warm. "We have no time to waste. You need rest, and I need to ensure this will never happen again."

As they walked away from the scene, Aemond couldn’t help but think of the future that awaited them. There was no turning back now. Vensalia had played her part, and he had played his. Now, they were bound together, for better or for worse.

---

The atmosphere within the Red Keep had shifted in the following hours, the shocking events surrounding Lady Vensalia. Whispers filled every corner of the castle: from the kitchens to the noble halls, the name Vensalia was on everyone’s lips. She had become the center of attention, not just for her beauty or her mysterious nature, but for her association with the royal family. More than that, it was her unwavering kindness, especially toward Prince Daeron, that had earned her the title "darling of the court."

But in the shadows of this new rise in fame, darker rumors had begun to circulate. The once-proud House Hightower, whose influence over the Targaryens had been its lifeblood for decades, was now facing its own turmoil. The scandal involving Ormund Hightower, future Lord of the Hightower, had shocked the court and sent tremors through the noble houses. Ormund had been imprisoned in the black cells for attacking Lady Vensalia, Aemond’s betrothed, and the news spread like wildfire.

As soon as the incident was reported, the corridors of the Red Keep were abuzz with whispers. Servants and courtiers exchanged nervous glances, their voices hushed in scandalized awe. The name Hightower, once synonymous with power, honor, and respect, was now tainted with disgrace. House Hightower, so closely tied to the Targaryens for generations, had crossed a line that no one could ignore.

The story of Ormund’s attack had been told in hushed tones, each retelling more dramatic than the last. Some claimed that Ormund had confronted Lady Vensalia in a fit of jealousy, his rage boiling over at her growing influence within the royal court. Others whispered that he had been acting on orders from his father, Lord Hobert Hightower, hoping to put an end to Vensalia’s rise before she became a true threat. But the truth, as with many things at court, was far murkier. The fact remained, however, that Ormund had laid hands on Vensalia, and the consequences were severe.

The Black Cells, the dreaded prison beneath the Red Keep, had become Ormund’s new home. His imprisonment was not just a punishment; it was a symbol of the royal family’s fury at the audacity of a Hightower noble attacking Aemond’s betrothed. Lady Vensalia, with her quiet grace and calculated poise, had earned the Targaryen family's trust and respect, and her standing had risen in the eyes of the court. The Hightowers had overstepped, and they were being made to pay the price for it.

Lord Hobert Hightower, the head of House Hightower, after hearing the news, locked himself in his chambers, stewing in the shame brought upon his family. Every step he took in the halls of the Red Keep felt heavier, each whisper from the servants more stinging than the last. The eyes of the court, once filled with admiration for his House, now looked upon him with scorn. He had tried to maintain the family’s dignity, to keep their name intact, but now his son’s actions had shattered that image.

The Hightower name had once been synonymous with authority and prestige. Their alliances with the Targaryens, built on careful marriages and political maneuvering, had secured their position at the pinnacle of Westerosi power. But now, as the rumors spread about Ormund’s attack, those alliances were being tested. Nobles whispered that the Hightowers had become too accustomed to their power, that they thought their proximity to the Targaryens made them untouchable.

And now, this. Ormund Hightower, the future lord, was behind bars, and the name Hightower was associated with an act of shame that no amount of wealth or influence could erase.

The whispers grew louder. The court had a long memory, and the news of Ormund’s disgrace was not easily forgotten. Lords and ladies who had once courted House Hightower for its connections and power now found themselves turning away. The Hightower influence was waning, and their family name was becoming synonymous with scandal and dishonor.

At the heart of it all stood Lady Vensalia. She had long known that she would be a player in the court’s drama, but even she had not anticipated how quickly the tides would shift. Her rise to prominence had been swift, fueled by her relationship with Aemond and her newfound role as a protector of Daeron. The fact that she had taken the young prince under her care had further solidified her position, and her every move was watched and scrutinized. But her success, as it often happens at court, had created enemies. Ormund Hightower had been one of them.

For a while, Vensalia had kept her distance from the gossip, playing the role of the compassionate lady who only wanted to protect those she cared about. She had given little thought to the Hightowers or their attempts to undermine her. But with Ormund’s attack, she knew the tide was turning. Her enemies were desperate, and in their desperation, they had revealed their true colors.

What made this situation even more dramatic was the fact that Vensalia had played her role perfectly. She had acted the part of the victim, the one wronged by a noble family that believed they were above reproach. The sympathy she had earned was palpable. The court now viewed her not just as a powerful figure, but as someone who had been wronged and deserved justice. The Hightowers, on the other hand, were viewed as arrogant and reckless, willing to harm a lady of noble blood in an attempt to silence her.

Vensalia had watched with a quiet satisfaction as the court turned its back on the Hightowers. She had seen their influence crumble, just as she had predicted. And yet, she knew that the real victory had not yet come. She had worked hard to position herself as a figure of power, and now that power was fully realized. Her name was on everyone’s lips, and with Ormund’s attack, her rise seemed even more justified. The Hightowers had underestimated her, and now they were paying the price for their arrogance.

As the days went by, the whispers grew louder. Some servants whispered that Lady Vensalia was destined for greater things, perhaps even more power than she could have imagined. She was already under Aemond’s protection, and now, with Ormund imprisoned and his father’s name tarnished, Vensalia’s path seemed clearer than ever. She could see the Targaryens becoming more reliant on her, and with that reliance came the potential for even more influence.

For the Hightowers, however, there was no easy way out. Lord Hobert had tried to salvage the family’s reputation, but it was clear that the damage had already been done. Ormund’s actions had tainted their name, and the court would never forget it. The whispers that once praised House Hightower now spoke of their fall from grace. How had it come to this? How had a once-proud house become so enmeshed in scandal?

In the end, the fate of House Hightower was sealed. They had failed to maintain their power, and now they were just another noble house caught in the web of courtly drama. House Hightower’s rise and fall had become another lesson for the nobility: that no one, not even the most powerful of houses, was above the consequences of their actions.

And as for Lady Vensalia? She had played the game expertly. The whispers and rumors of her rise to power were only the beginning. For her, the story was just getting started, and she relished every moment of it. She had made her mark on the court, and now no one could deny her place at the center of it all.