The gentle light of dawn had begun to filter through the thick curtains, casting soft rays over the room, but Daemon still slept soundly beside Laena. The morning air was crisp and quiet, the kind of calm that only arrived in the early hours before the world fully woke. Yet, there was something amiss in the stillness of the room.

Laena sat at the edge of their bed, her knees tucked up beneath her, her eyes fixed on the dark blue book that lay open on her lap. She was staring at the pages, her fingers resting on the edges of the book, but her gaze was distant, as if she wasn’t really seeing the words written there. The soft rustling of the pages as she absentmindedly turned them was the only sound in the room.

Daemon stirred beside her, the warmth of the blankets around him slowly rousing him from sleep. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the soft light, and then he noticed Laena—her quiet, almost eerie stillness. The silence between them felt heavier than it should have, and his eyes narrowed with concern.

"Laena?" he asked softly, his voice still rough with sleep. "What’s wrong?"

His words seemed to snap her from her trance. She blinked, her expression unfocused, before her gaze slowly turned to meet his. Laena opened her mouth as if to speak, but for a long moment, no words came out. She shook her head, letting out a breath that trembled as it escaped her lips. The emotions that had been simmering beneath the surface now overwhelmed her, and before she could stop herself, the words came pouring out in a rush.

"My... my family," she began, her voice trembling with an intensity she couldn’t control. "Daemon, I—" She paused, trying to steady her breath. "I didn’t know… I didn’t know any of this. About the Velyarionis, my family. They… they were once known as the Velyarionis, and now…" Her voice broke for a moment, her chest tight with emotion. "Now, they’re the Velaryons. They changed their name, Daemon. Changed it after they lost everything."

Daemon sat up, his eyes fixed on her as she spoke, his heart sinking with each word. The book she held was now an open window into a history Laena had never known—one that was shaping the very foundation of her own existence. He watched her, his brow furrowing with a mix of concern and confusion as Laena continued to speak, her words tumbling out faster than she could contain.

"And they were connected to the water dragons," Laena went on, her voice breaking again. "Water dragons, Daemon… they were part of my family’s legacy. I never knew… they lived in the waters, in the northern parts of the world, after the war with Nyxvaris." She shook her head, eyes wide with disbelief. "How could I not know this? How could I have grown up, lived my whole life, never knowing about this?"

Daemon's heart tightened as he listened to her, the pain in her voice hitting him more than he expected. He had always known Laena was strong, a woman of courage and resilience, but seeing her so shaken, so overwhelmed by the weight of her family's past, struck him deeper than anything he could have anticipated.

"Calm down, Laena," he said gently but firmly, moving closer to her, his hand resting on her shoulder. His voice, though soft, held an authority she couldn’t ignore. "Breathe." He reached over and gently cupped her face in his hand, tilting her head slightly so their eyes met. "You’re taking in too much at once. You need to slow down, just breathe."

Laena’s chest hitched with a sob that she quickly suppressed, but the tears that threatened to spill over were impossible to hold back. She looked down at the book again, her fingers trembling as they traced the edges of the pages.

"They had to send them away, Daemon," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "The water dragons… after the battle with Nyxvaris, they had no choice. They were forced to let the dragons go, to send them away to the northern waters. To the Thousand Islands. I can’t even imagine it… my family, my ancestors… they must have been so devastated. To lose them like that. To be forced to give up the very thing that defined them."

Daemon felt his chest tighten as he pulled her into his arms, not saying anything at first, but holding her close. Her body trembled in his arms, and he could feel the weight of her sorrow, of her sense of loss, pressing against him like a heavy storm. He didn’t know exactly what she was feeling, but he understood the devastation of discovering your family’s hidden history, the secrets buried so deep that even you couldn’t have imagined them. Laena had always been strong—stronger than most—but this… this was different.

"It’s a lot to take in, I know," Daemon murmured into her hair, pressing his lips to her forehead. "But you’re not alone in this. Whatever your ancestors did, whatever they went through, it’s not your burden to carry alone. We carry it together."

Laena’s hands gripped the fabric of his tunic, her fingers digging into him as if holding on for dear life. "I feel so… lost," she admitted, her voice soft and broken. "There’s so much I don’t know. I don’t know who I am anymore, Daemon. I thought I knew… but now everything’s changed."

Daemon held her tighter, his mind racing with thoughts of how to comfort her, how to help her find some sense of peace in all this confusion. The weight of her family’s legacy was now on her shoulders, a legacy of dragons and battles, of power and loss. He could sense the turbulence in her heart, the uncertainty that came with discovering such a profound piece of her identity.

"You don’t need to have all the answers right now," Daemon said softly, his voice gentle yet firm. "You just need to take things one step at a time. We’ll figure this out together. You’re not alone."

Laena pulled away slightly to look at him, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with unshed tears. She searched his face as if looking for some sign of reassurance. Daemon offered her a soft, reassuring smile, his eyes filled with understanding.

"You don’t have to carry this weight on your own," he continued, his voice quiet but strong. "We’re in this together, Laena. You’ve always been a part of this family, just like I am. And now… we have a chance to learn about the past and understand what happened. You have a right to that knowledge."

Laena closed her eyes, her head resting against his chest as the weight of his words slowly began to sink in. Slowly, the tremors that had been wracking her body started to subside. She inhaled deeply, letting the air fill her lungs as she calmed herself. Daemon continued to hold her, offering his strength, his unwavering presence, as the storm within her began to quiet.

"Rest now," Daemon whispered after a moment, his hand gently rubbing her back. "You’ve been through a lot. Sleep for now. You can’t carry everything all at once. Let your mind rest, and when you wake up, we’ll figure out the next steps."

Laena nodded, her tears drying against his chest as she closed her eyes. The warmth of Daemon’s embrace was comforting, grounding her in the midst of her storm of emotions. Slowly, her breathing steadied, and her body relaxed into his arms. The pain and confusion she had felt just moments ago began to fade as the softness of sleep began to take hold.

Daemon gently adjusted the blankets around them, his heart still heavy with the knowledge of Laena’s internal struggle. He would not let her face this alone. Together, they would find the answers they both sought—answers about the past, about the Velyarionis, about the water dragons, and about the legacy that had been lost in the tides of time.

With Laena finally drifting back into a peaceful sleep, Daemon closed his eyes as well, allowing himself to rest, knowing that they would face the challenges ahead—together. And for now, that was enough.

---

The council chamber was eerily silent, bathed in the dim light of early morning. King Viserys sat alone at the head of the long, ornate table. His hands rested heavily on the armrests of his chair, and his weary eyes stared blankly at the polished wood before him. The weight of the crown had never felt heavier, and the memories of his brief encounter with Vensalia Vakriyoma lingered like whispers in the back of his mind.

She had done something no one else could—eased the relentless pain of his affliction, even if only slightly. Her magic was unlike anything he had ever known, and her presence was both unsettling and fascinating. Now, he was ready to take the next step, to learn the truths she had promised to show him, though fear and doubt warred within him.

Where was she? How could he summon someone who seemed to exist more as a shadow than a person? Viserys sighed heavily, his fingers drumming against the table. The emptiness of the room pressed in on him, amplifying his unease.

Unbeknownst to him, Vensalia was already there. Hidden in the shadows that pooled in the corners of the chamber, she observed him silently. Her umbrakinesis cloaked her in darkness, rendering her invisible. She had seen his expression, the mix of determination and trepidation, and she understood what it meant. He was ready—or as ready as he could be.

With a faint rustle of fabric and an almost imperceptible shift in the shadows, Vensalia stepped forward, emerging into the dim light. Her sudden appearance made Viserys flinch in his seat, his eyes widening in fright.

"Gods!" he exclaimed, his hand instinctively going to his chest. "You—how long have you been there?"

Vensalia tilted her head, her expression calm but unreadable. "Long enough," she said quietly, her voice smooth yet edged with a cool detachment. "I needed to be sure you were ready."

Viserys took a deep breath, his heart slowly steadying. He studied her, the pale glow of her silver hair catching the light, and nodded. "I am ready," he said, his voice firm despite the lingering tremor. "Show me what you promised."

Vensalia stepped closer, her dark cloak billowing slightly as she moved. She stopped before him, her piercing eyes meeting his. "This will not be easy," she warned. "The truths I will show you cannot be unseen. They will change you. Are you certain?"

Viserys swallowed hard, the weight of her words sinking in. But he thought of his family, his realm, and the future that seemed to loom like a storm on the horizon. If these truths could help him safeguard his lineage, he had to see them, no matter the cost.

"I am certain," he said at last.

Vensalia nodded, then lifted her hand. Her fingers, delicate yet steady, reached toward his forehead. The moment her skin made contact, shadows began to swirl around her hand, dark tendrils coiling like smoke. They seeped into Viserys’s mind, and his world shifted.

---

Viserys found himself standing in a vast, dark void. Around him, shapes and images flickered like distant stars, fragments of moments not yet lived. Vensalia’s voice echoed in his mind, guiding him.

"Look," she said simply.

The first vision came into focus. He saw dragons circling the skies, their roars splitting the air. At first, it seemed majestic, a display of Targaryen power. But then, the dragons turned on one another. Fire clashed against fire, and the skies were consumed by smoke and blood. He saw Rhaenyra, his beloved daughter, facing off against Aegon, her half-brother. Their dragons—Syrax and Sunfyre—engaged in a deadly battle that tore the heavens apart.

"The Dance of the Dragons," Vensalia's voice explained, her tone devoid of emotion. "A war born of pride and ambition. Your children, your grandchildren, will tear the realm apart."

Viserys staggered back, his heart pounding as the vision shifted. He saw his family splintering, alliances crumbling, and the smallfolk suffering beneath the weight of their rulers' greed.

"No," he whispered, his voice trembling. "This… this cannot happen."

"But it will," Vensalia said. "Unless the root cause is severed."

The scene changed again. This time, Viserys saw the Long Night. The skies were darkened, the land blanketed in ice and snow. An army of the dead marched south, their icy breath extinguishing all life in their path. He saw a figure—a woman with fiery hair, wielding a sword that blazed with light—standing against the darkness. But the cost of her stand was great, and the realm was left scarred.

"This is the true threat," Vensalia said. "The enemy that lies beyond the Wall. Yet the realm will not be united to face it. The wounds of the Dance will fester, leaving the Seven Kingdoms weak."

Viserys gritted his teeth, his fists clenching. "How do I stop this?" he demanded. "What must I do?"

The vision shifted once more. He now stood in the Red Keep, watching as Otto Hightower whispered into the ears of the council. His words were laced with deceit, his actions guided by ambition. Viserys saw how Otto manipulated events to favor his grandson, Aegon, sowing discord among the Targaryens.

"Treason," Vensalia said. "Your Hand is the catalyst for the Dance. His machinations will set the stage for the war. Remove him, and you might delay the storm."

Viserys’s mind reeled. The weight of these revelations threatened to crush him. He turned, searching for Vensalia, who now appeared beside him, her expression impassive.

"You show me these horrors," he said, his voice raw with emotion. "But what good is this knowledge if I cannot change what is to come?"

Vensalia regarded him with a piercing gaze. "You can change it," she said. "But only if you act. Your choices will determine the future. Protect your family. Unite them. And do not trust those who serve only their own ambitions."

---

The shadows receded, and Viserys found himself back in the council chamber. His head throbbed, and his body felt weak, but the visions remained vivid in his mind. He looked up at Vensalia, who stood before him, her hand now lowered.

"You have seen the future," she said. "What you do with it is up to you."

Viserys took a shaky breath, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. "You have given me much to think about," he said, his voice hoarse. "I… I need time."

Vensalia inclined her head. "Time is a luxury you may not have," she warned. "Act swiftly, Your Grace. The threads of fate are not easily unraveled."

She turned, her cloak billowing as she moved toward the shadows. But before she disappeared, Viserys called out to her.

"Wait," he said. "I… I am grateful for what you have shown me. But where can I find you if I need your counsel again?"

Vensalia paused, glancing over her shoulder. A faint smile played at the corners of her lips. "You need not find me," she said. "I will find you."

And with that, she vanished into the shadows, leaving Viserys alone with the weight of what he had seen. He sat in silence, the enormity of his task pressing down on him. But amid the fear and uncertainty, a spark of resolve began to grow.

He would not let his family be torn apart. He would do everything in his power to change the course of history. The future was not yet written, and Viserys Targaryen was determined to seize it.

---

The council chamber was filled with tension as King Viserys sat at the head of the long table, his fingers drumming lightly on the polished wood. Around him, the lords and advisors discussed the rivalry between House Blackwood and House Bracken. The dispute had escalated into violence, and the Riverlands were on the verge of chaos. Viserys listened to the arguments, his gaze flickering between Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, and Otto Hightower, his Hand.

Lyonel spoke earnestly. “Your Grace, the Blackwoods and Brackens have been at odds for centuries, but this recent conflict threatens the stability of the Riverlands. If left unchecked, it could spill over into neighboring territories and weaken the realm.”

Before Viserys could respond, Otto cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Your Grace,” he began, his tone calculated and deliberate, “while the Riverlands are important, we must not lose sight of matters closer to the crown. The marriage between Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena is of paramount importance to the future of House Targaryen. A union between them will—”

Lyonel frowned and interrupted, “Lord Hightower, with all due respect, the Riverlands are burning. The stability of the realm must come first. There will be time to discuss the prince and princess’s marriage later.”

Otto turned to Lyonel, his smile tight. “And yet, what good is a stable realm if the royal line is not secure? The marriage of Aegon and Helaena ensures the continuation of House Targaryen’s dominance. Surely that is the most pressing matter.”

Viserys, who had been silently observing the exchange, raised a hand, commanding the room’s attention. His voice was calm but firm. “Enough. The marriage between Aegon and Helaena will not happen.”

The chamber fell into stunned silence. Otto blinked, momentarily speechless. “Your Grace,” he said cautiously, “may I remind you that this union is—”

“You may not,” Viserys interrupted sharply. His gaze was steady, unyielding. “This council exists to address the needs of the realm, not to indulge in the ambitions of any one man. We will focus on the matters at hand—the Blackwoods and Brackens. The marriage is not up for discussion.”

Otto’s composure faltered, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for a retort. Lyonel Strong seized the opportunity to speak. “Your Grace, if I may suggest a course of action? A royal envoy could be sent to mediate the dispute. A neutral party, trusted by both houses, might be able to broker peace.”

Viserys nodded, his expression softening. “A sound suggestion, Lord Strong. Who would you recommend?”

Lyonel hesitated for a moment before saying, “Ser Harwin Strong, Your Grace. He is well-acquainted with the Riverlands and has a reputation for fairness and strength. He could serve as your representative.”

Viserys considered this and then nodded. “Very well. Ser Harwin will travel to the Riverlands to mediate this conflict. The realm cannot afford further instability.”

Harwin, who had been standing quietly at the back of the chamber, stepped forward and bowed. “As you command, Your Grace.”

The king turned back to the council. “This matter is resolved. If there are no further pressing issues, this meeting is adjourned.”

The lords and advisors began to file out, murmuring amongst themselves. Otto lingered, his face a mask of frustration and barely concealed anger. When the room had emptied, leaving only Viserys and Otto behind, the tension between them became palpable.

Otto cleared his throat, trying to mask his irritation. “Your Grace, I hope you understand that my suggestions are always made with the best interests of the crown in mind.”

Viserys leaned back in his chair, studying Otto with a thoughtful expression. “Do you truly believe that, Otto? Or do you believe that the crown’s best interests align with your own?”

Otto stiffened but forced a smile. “I have always served you faithfully, Your Grace.”

Viserys sighed and stood, pacing slowly to the window. “You have served me for many years, Otto. But I have come to believe that your service is not without its flaws. You have used your position to further your own ambitions, often at the expense of the realm.”

Otto opened his mouth to protest, but Viserys raised a hand to silence him. “I am not blind, Otto. I see how you manipulate, how you twist every discussion to suit your goals. And I will not allow it to continue.”

Otto’s face darkened. “Your Grace, if you feel I have failed you, I would ask for the chance to prove otherwise.”

“There is no need,” Viserys said, turning to face him. “I have made my decision. It is time for you to resign as Hand of the King.”

The room fell silent. Otto stared at Viserys, his expression a mixture of disbelief and anger. “Your Grace,” he said slowly, “who would you appoint in my stead? There is no one with my experience, my knowledge of the realm—”

“That is for me to decide,” Viserys said firmly. “You are dismissed, Lord Hightower.”

Otto hesitated, his mind racing as he tried to formulate a response. But the king’s expression left no room for argument. With a deep, reluctant bow, Otto turned and left the chamber.

When the door closed behind him, Viserys let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. He knew the decision would not be without consequences, but it was necessary. Otto’s influence had become a poison, and it was time to purge it from the court.

Viserys returned to his seat and gazed at the empty table, his thoughts turning to the future. He already knew who he would appoint as the new Hand of the King—a man who had shown wisdom, integrity, and a true dedication to the realm. Viserys allowed himself a small, hopeful smile. For the first time in years, he felt as though he was truly taking control of his reign.

---

King Viserys stood in his chambers, staring intently at the intricate structure of Old Valyria that rested on a pedestal near his window. The model had always been a source of solace for him, a reminder of a glorious past and a dream of what could have been. Yet today, it brought him no peace. His mind churned with the images Vensalia had shown him—visions of betrayal, fire, and blood. The future of his family and the realm lay heavy on his shoulders, a weight he could no longer ignore.

The sharp click of heels against the stone floor broke his reverie. He turned his head slightly to see Alicent entering the room, her expression a mix of worry and determination. She closed the door behind her, her movements hurried but careful.

“Your Grace,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “I have heard that my father is resigning as Hand of the King. May I ask why?”

Viserys turned fully to face her, his face set in a hard, unyielding expression. “Alicent,” he said, his tone cold, “before we speak of your father, there is another matter I wish to address.”

Alicent froze under his gaze, a knot forming in her stomach. “What matter, Your Grace?”

Viserys took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “What gave you the right to plan a marriage between Aegon and Helaena without my knowledge or consent?”

Alicent’s breath hitched. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. For a moment, she faltered, unprepared for the king’s sudden anger.

“I... I thought it was the best course of action,” she stammered, trying to regain her composure. “It would secure the future of the Targaryen line—”

“The future of the Targaryen line?” Viserys interrupted, his voice rising. “And who are you to decide that, Alicent? You are the queen consort. Nothing more. You hold no authority to make such decisions!”

Alicent’s lips pressed together tightly as she tried to suppress her growing frustration. “Your Grace, I only meant to strengthen the family. Aegon and Helaena—”

“Enough!” Viserys roared, slamming his fist onto a nearby table. The force rattled the structure, sending several pieces of parchment fluttering to the ground. “You will not lecture me about my own family! The decisions regarding their future are mine to make, not yours. You overstep your bounds, and I will not allow it.”

Alicent recoiled slightly, the sharpness of his words cutting through her like a blade. She clenched her fists, struggling to maintain her composure. “I was only doing what I thought was best,” she said quietly, her voice laced with defiance.

“What you thought was best,” Viserys repeated mockingly. He paced back and forth, his anger boiling over. “Do you think I am blind to your ambitions? Do you think I do not see how you manipulate, how you scheme? You plot to elevate your son, to ensure his place on the throne, and you dare to claim it is for the good of the family?”

Alicent’s eyes widened, and for a moment, she felt a flicker of fear. But it was quickly replaced by anger. “I have done nothing but serve this family,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “I have stood by your side, bore your children, and upheld the duties of a queen. Is that not enough for you?”

Viserys stopped pacing and turned to face her, his expression a mixture of rage and disappointment. “You have done your duty, yes. But you have also sown division within this family. You pit my children against one another, encouraging a rivalry that will tear this house apart.”

Alicent’s mouth opened to respond, but the words died in her throat as she saw the fire in his eyes. For the first time, she realized the depth of his anger, and the hopelessness of trying to reason with him in this moment.

Viserys pointed to the door. “Leave, Alicent. Go back to your chambers. Reflect on your place in this court and this family.”

Alicent stood frozen for a moment, her pride and anger warring with her instinct to obey. Finally, she lowered her gaze and gave a curt nod. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

She turned and left the room, her footsteps echoing in the hall. But as she walked, her hands trembled, and her jaw tightened. The humiliation of being dismissed, the sting of his words—it all fueled a growing rage within her. By the time she reached her chambers, her mind was already racing with thoughts of revenge and power.

Once inside, Alicent shut the door behind her and leaned against it, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. She stared blankly at the richly adorned room, her mind replaying the confrontation over and over. For the first time, she felt the full weight of her position—both its limitations and its potential.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she refused to cry. Instead, she clenched her fists and vowed silently to herself: she would not be dismissed so easily. If Viserys thought he could control her, he was mistaken.

In his chambers, Viserys returned to the model of Old Valyria. His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted one of the miniature towers, his anger slowly giving way to exhaustion. The weight of the crown, the visions of the future, and the conflict within his family—it all pressed heavily upon him.

He exhaled deeply, his gaze distant. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if he had been too harsh with Alicent. But another part of him, the part shaped by the visions and the warnings of Vensalia, knew that he could no longer afford to be lenient. The realm’s future was at stake, and he would do whatever it took to protect it.

---

It had been a few days since Vensalia had left King Viserys’ chambers, retreating into her shadows after witnessing the drama that had unfolded. She had spent those days in quiet observation, lingering unseen in the corners of the Red Keep, always keeping an eye on the future she was determined to shape.

Now, she found herself at the training yard, hidden in the shadows cast by the high stone walls. Her gaze was fixed on Aemond Targaryen, the boy who was destined to become her husband. The sight of him wielding his sword, his brows furrowed in concentration, sent a flutter through her chest. His movements were sharp and precise, his determination evident in every swing of the blade.

But her tender admiration was quickly overshadowed by irritation when her attention shifted to Ser Criston Cole, who was overseeing the training.

“Faster, boy!” Criston barked, his voice grating. “Your form is sloppy. Do it again. And again!”

Vensalia’s eyes narrowed. She could see the strain on Aemond’s face as he tried to focus, tried to ignore the biting words of his instructor. It wasn’t that Aemond lacked skill—quite the opposite. But Criston’s harsh demeanor and constant critiques were wearing on him.

Foolish knight, Vensalia thought, her irritation growing by the second. Who is he to speak to Aemond that way?

She leaned further into the shadows, her fingers twitching as she felt the familiar pull of her umbrakinesis. Criston Cole deserved a lesson in humility, and she was more than happy to provide it.

With a flick of her wrist, the shadows at Criston’s feet began to writhe like living things. Unseen by him or anyone else, they coiled around his boots and gave a sharp tug.

Criston stumbled forward, his arms flailing as he tried to regain his balance. His foot caught on an uneven patch of ground, and he went sprawling face-first into the dirt.

A snicker rippled through the yard as several passing knights paused to witness the scene.

“Careful, Ser Criston!” one of them called out, barely able to contain his laughter. “The ground can be quite treacherous, can’t it?”

Aemond paused mid-swing, glancing over at Criston with a mixture of confusion and amusement. The knight scrambled to his feet, brushing the dirt off his armor with an irritated scowl.

“Focus on your training!” Criston barked at Aemond, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

But Vensalia wasn’t finished. She flicked her fingers again, and the shadows snaked around Criston’s boots once more. This time, they jerked sharply to the side, sending him stumbling into a nearby training dummy. The impact knocked the wooden figure over, and Criston went tumbling with it, landing in a heap.

The knights watching from the sidelines burst into laughter.

“Are you all right, Ser Criston?” one of them called out, his voice dripping with mock concern. “Perhaps you should train alongside the prince—might help with your footwork!”

Aemond’s lips twitched as if he was trying to suppress a smile. He shook his head slightly, returning his attention to his sword, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

Criston, on the other hand, was fuming. He shoved the dummy off himself and climbed to his feet, his expression a mix of confusion and rage.

“What in the Seven Hells—?” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the ground as if it had personally offended him.

Vensalia bit back a laugh, retreating further into the shadows as she prepared her final move. This time, she let the shadows gather subtly beneath Criston’s feet, waiting for the perfect moment.

As Criston turned to address Aemond once more, the shadows tightened and yanked upward. Criston’s feet left the ground entirely, and for a brief, glorious moment, he was airborne.

The landing, however, was anything but graceful. Criston landed flat on his back with a resounding thud, his sword clattering to the ground beside him.

The laughter from the knights reached a crescendo, and even Aemond couldn’t hide his grin this time. He turned his face slightly, pretending to adjust his grip on his sword, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

“Perhaps the knight needs a rest,” one of the onlookers said, his voice barely audible over the laughter.

Criston groaned, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. He looked around the yard, his eyes darting suspiciously as if searching for the source of his misfortune.

Vensalia, satisfied with her work, melted back into the shadows. She cast one last glance at Aemond, her irritation replaced with a sense of triumph. The boy didn’t even know she was there, but she felt a certain satisfaction in having lightened his burden, if only for a moment.

As she slipped away from the training yard, her laughter echoed softly in the recesses of her mind. Let that be a lesson to you, Criston Cole, she thought. No one messes with Aemond Targaryen.

By the time Criston had finally recovered enough to resume the lesson, Vensalia was long gone. But her presence lingered in the smirks of the knights and the quiet satisfaction in Aemond’s expression.

From the safety of her hidden vantage point elsewhere in the Red Keep, Vensalia allowed herself a small, mischievous smile. Sometimes, a little shadowy intervention was all it took to make the world a bit more just—and a lot more entertaining.