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The Council

Summary: You were trained in the Citadel’s methods but were never allowed to become a Maester, because of your gender. Instead, you were recruited directly by the Iron Throne for what you know. However that alone is not enough. PS: I'll write a part 2 for this!

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen (House of the Dragon) x Female Reader This is the first time I'm writing for the GOT and HOTD series so if there's any lore related mistakes or suggestions please do point them out to me and I'll fix it for the part 2, enjoy!

Word count: 12,378 // No smut warnings

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON (only for support purposes pls do not feel obligated)

The first thing you learn about King’s Landing is that it does not care what you know.

It cares what you are allowed to be, which banners you were born under, and who thinks they can claim you as a piece on their board. It cares about the cut of your gown, the softness of your hands, the sweetness of your voice. It cares about whether you look like you belong. Knowledge, in this city, is tolerated only when it arrives wearing the right skin. So you arrive with a sealed decree.

Your litter is stopped twice before the Red Keep’s outer yard, not because anyone suspects you of treason, but because the guards need to decide what story you are. A Reach lady traveling alone with a small escort is an object of curiosity, a potential scandal, a problem to be sorted into a proper box. They look for a husband’s sigil, a father’s authority, a brother’s sword. What you bring instead is a strip of parchment bound in ribbon, heavy with wax and the unmistakable three-headed dragon stamped deep enough to leave its teeth in the seal.

The captain who takes it from you does not smile. He is not sure whether to bow. He bows anyway.

You are from House Mullendore, an Oldtown-adjacent house that once held more land than it does now, when its name still carried weight beyond polite laughter and remembered mistakes. Your family’s fall did not come from cowardice. It came from choosing the wrong side at the wrong time, during one of the Reach’s old feuds that the realm never bothered to record properly because powerful houses prefer their embarrassments to vanish. The Citadel remembers everything, of course, but the Citadel does not publish its grudges. It files them away. It waits. It uses them when necessary.

You learned early how a house can be ruined without a single battle. A misjudged marriage. A debt taken at the wrong interest. A neighbor with a longer memory and a sharper smile. Your father taught you courtesy. Your mother taught you silence. The maester assigned to your keep, an old man with ink-stained fingers and a hard, private pity, taught you the only weapon no lord could confiscate from a girl.

He taught you to read like a man in the Citadel would read. To count like a quartermaster. To write like a raven’s wing. To listen like a spy. When you were old enough to be noticed, he took you to Oldtown under the excuse of delivering accounts, and he let you walk the Citadel’s lower halls where novices hurried past clutching their chains and their pride. You were never allowed to become one of them.

Not because you lacked mind, but because you were born in the wrong body for the Citadel’s vows. No matter how cleanly you could translate High Valyrian, no matter how quickly you could solve a rationing problem, no matter how easily you could dismantle a lord’s lie using nothing but arithmetic and patience, you were still something the Citadel preferred to keep outside its gates. So you learned their methods and their limits. You learned which doors never opened. You learned the shape of power when it refuses to call itself power.

Then the Iron Throne sent for you. Not a polite invitation. Not a marriage offer disguised as honor. A summons routed through Oldtown’s network of ravens, through men who pretended not to know why they were carrying messages, through hands that never lingered too long on parchment. You were told, in careful words, that the King required a specialist. Not a regent. Not a consort. Not a sweetly smiling lady meant to soften sharp men at a council table. A mind to be used, because the realm had entered the kind of season where the cost of being wrong was measured in ash.

By the time you are escorted through the Red Keep’s outer yard, you have already made a dozen small assessments that no one asks for. You have counted the guards at the gates and noted how many are veterans versus green boys. You have watched the way servants move, which corridors they avoid, which doors have too many locks. You have observed the stables and the number of horses saddled for immediate use. You have smelled the kitchens and guessed how much grain is being burned through daily. It is not pride that makes you do it. It is habit. Wars are not lost in the moment men draw swords. They are lost in the weeks before, when no one checks the stores, when no one counts the mouths, when no one notices the plague creeping through the docks.

The steward who meets you in the keep is courteous but confused. He calls you “my lady” twice out of reflex. Both times he corrects himself as if the words burn.

“You are expected,” he says finally, as though that is safer than naming what you are. You do not smile. You do not frown. You simply nod, as if you have always been expected by kings.

The corridor toward the council chambers is cool and dim, built to impress the small into silence. Tapestries hang heavy with old victories and older lies. You pass knights in white cloaks that do not quite move aside, their eyes measuring you with the contempt reserved for women who have stepped into men’s lanes. You meet their gaze without apology. You have no interest in winning their approval. Approval is a shallow currency. You deal in outcomes. The doors to the council chamber are opened for you with a particular ceremony, not because they honor you, but because they honor the seal you carry.

Inside, the air holds tension like a blade held too close to the skin. The table is long, scarred, polished by generations of hands that believed they belonged there by right. Candles burn in iron holders, smoke curling upward in slow ribbons. Maps cover part of the surface, weighted by carved stones. Ravens’ messages lie stacked near an inkwell. Someone has been awake all night in this room. You do not look around like a newcomer. You look around like an appraiser.

There is the Queen Dowager’s presence, unmistakable even when she says nothing, the air around her tight with devotion and calculation. There is the Hand’s measured stillness, the posture of a man who believes order can be imposed on chaos if he holds the reins hard enough. There are knights and lords and counselors who do not entirely trust one another, their loyalties written in the angles of their shoulders.

And there, too, is Prince Aemond Targaryen. He is seated with the stillness of a coiled thing, long-limbed, controlled, dressed as if austerity itself were a virtue. One eye watches the room with sharp, bright attention. The other is covered, and the absence draws focus the way a wound does. He does not slouch. He does not fidget. He looks like a man who has decided that power is a posture you never relax.

His gaze lands on you as you enter, and you feel it like a hand at the throat, not because he is loud with it, but because he is precise. His eye flicks briefly to the seal you carry, then to your face, then back again, as if he is calculating the threat you might be before he decides what category you belong in.

You step forward and stop at the end of the table, because no one has offered you a chair yet. The Hand gestures, and a clerk moves to take the parchment from you, but you do not release it until the Hand himself looks up. There are many ways to show deference. You choose the one that keeps you intact.

“I bring the King’s decree,” you say, voice calm, unembellished. You do not add a flourish. You do not soften it with a smile. “Sealed and undisturbed.”

The Hand studies you for a long moment, then nods. “Give it here.”

You hand it over. The wax seal breaks with a quiet snap that sounds louder than it should. The clerk reads, voice clear, and the words turn the room as surely as a wind turns banners. By order of the King, you are appointed to the war council as Royal Military Scholar and Intelligence Architect, granted access to reports, ledgers, raven correspondence, and strategic planning. Your role is defined with careful specificity. You are not granted power to command armies. You are not named to speak over lords in matters of honor. You are named to advise on logistics, intelligence, alliances, and war readiness, and your counsel is to be heard.

There is a beat of silence when the reading ends. Not thoughtful silence. The kind that happens when men realize the board has changed shape.

A few faces turn toward you with polite disbelief. Some with irritation. Some with the careful curiosity of predators evaluating a new animal. One man’s lip curls as if the title itself offends him. Another shifts, calculating whether you are a tool to use or a nuisance to remove.

Aemond does not move. His eye stays on you. His expression gives nothing away except this: he is not pleased to be surprised. The Hand clears his throat. “The King has decided,” he says, tone that brooks no argument. “You will sit.”

A servant pulls out a chair. Not at the end. Not in the back. Along the table, close enough that your presence cannot be ignored but not so close to the Hand that it suggests intimacy. The placement is political. Everything in this room is political.

You sit with composure that makes several men uncomfortable, because they had expected gratitude or nerves. You settle your hands neatly. You do not fidget. You do not glance around for permission to breathe. The Queen Dowager watches you with a careful, assessing gaze. “A scholar,” she says softly, not quite a question.

“A military scholar,” you correct gently, not impolite, simply accurate. “And an intelligence architect, as the King has named it.”

That earns you a few looks, because correction in this room is a kind of challenge. The Hand’s eyes narrow slightly, then he nods once, as if deciding he likes your spine even if others will not. “Oldtown trained?”

“Citadel instructed,” you say. “Not chained.”

A small stir moves through the room at that, the subtle discomfort of men who do not like being reminded that the Citadel’s authority is also exclusion. You keep your gaze steady. You have no interest in arguing about fairness. You are here because the realm is breaking into factions and men are sharpening speeches while the supply lines rot. Aemond finally speaks. His voice is calm, and that calm is the most dangerous thing about him. “If you were not allowed a chain, why should we trust your methods.”

You do not react to the implied insult. You do not bristle. You do not play pride against pride, because that is how plans fail. You look at him as if he has asked a reasonable question and you are willing to answer it.

“Because a chain proves obedience,” you say quietly. “Not correctness.”

There is a ripple of tension at the table. A lord shifts, offended. Someone inhales sharply. The Hand’s mouth tightens, as if he is suppressing a smile.

Aemond’s eye hardens. He tilts his head slightly, the gesture of a man testing for arrogance. “And you believe yourself correct.”

You meet his gaze evenly. “I believe in probabilities,” you reply. “And in consequences.”

His jaw flexes. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t smile. He simply watches you as if you are an unfamiliar weapon he hasn’t decided whether to admire or break. The Hand speaks again, guiding the room back toward purpose. Reports are mentioned. Movements. Alliances that might be courted. Ships that can be called. Men that can be raised. You listen more than you speak at first, because listening is how you learn where the rot is. You note who interrupts whom, who defers to whom, where the fear sits.

When talk turns to dragons, the room’s temperature changes. Some men become reverent. Others become reckless. Dragons make cowards feel brave and fools feel invincible. Someone speaks of fire as if it is a solution to any problem. Someone else speaks of burning an enemy’s fields as if famine is a punishment that only touches the guilty. You keep your face composed. When your turn comes, you do not romanticize.

“Dragons win battles,” you say, voice level, “and lose wars, if you do not feed the land afterward.” A few blink at you like you’ve spoken blasphemy. Aemond’s gaze sharpens, interest cutting through his irritation.

“Fire can end an army in a day,” you continue, “but it can also end harvests for years. If you burn what the smallfolk eat, you will spend the next season fighting hunger and rebellion instead of your enemy. If you scorch ports, you will starve your own garrisons. If you make widows, you will breed hatred that no victory feast can drown.”

Silence follows your words. Not because they agree. Because they cannot dismiss you with a joke. Aemond leans back slightly, the smallest shift, and the movement reads like restraint. He does not like being told what power costs. He is the kind of man who believes fear is a tool you can wield without it ever cutting your hand.

“You speak as though you have seen war,” he says.

“I have seen ledgers,” you reply. “And graves.”

That lands differently. Even men who despise you understand graves.

The Hand’s voice resumes, measured. “You will have access to the war reports. The ravenry will bring you copies. You will coordinate with the master of coin regarding stores and transport. You will review the garrison readiness.”

A lord opens his mouth as if to object, then thinks better of it.

Aemond says nothing more. But his eye does not leave you when the meeting moves on. It is not a gaze of admiration. Not yet. It is the gaze of a man who cannot decide whether you are arrogance wrapped in calm, or simply correct, which is the more dangerous possibility. When the council finally disperses, chairs scraping, cloaks shifting, men filing out with their pride intact and their plans half-formed, you remain seated a moment longer, collecting your own thoughts. You feel the weight of the room lingering, the invisible lines of allegiance and resentment drawn around you like a net.

You have been placed at the council table because the King ordered it. That is the only reason anyone will tolerate you here. As you stand, smoothing your sleeves, you catch movement at the edge of your vision. Aemond remains behind. Not alone in the room exactly, there are servants and guards and scribes, but he stays when he could leave. His posture is controlled. His expression unreadable.

He steps closer, just enough that his shadow falls partially across the maps. He speaks in a voice meant for you alone.

“You mean to dismantle men in this room?” he says quietly, not quite a threat, not quite approval.

You look at him, steady. “I don’t mean to dismantle anyone,” you reply. “I dismantle assumptions.” His mouth tightens as if he dislikes the distinction because it makes him sound like one of your assumptions.

“And if my assumptions are the ones you dismantle,” he says.

You meet his gaze without flinching. “Then you will be spared the cost of being wrong.”

For a beat, nothing moves between you except air. The tension is not romantic yet. Not soft. It is the first strike of flint, the recognition of two different kinds of power seeing one another clearly. Aemond’s eye narrows slightly, and you can’t tell whether he wants to silence you or bring you closer to his plans. Perhaps he can’t tell either. He turns away without a bow, cloak whispering behind him as he leaves, and you watch him go with the same cool attention you give every dangerous asset. You came to court with a royal decree and a mind trained to count what others refuse to see. Now you must survive long enough to use it.

The days that follow settle into a pattern that is not comfortable, but familiar. You are watched. Constantly as a matter of fact.

Not openly, not with the theatrical suspicion men reserve for enemies they believe they can crush, but with the quiet scrutiny reserved for things that do not belong and yet refuse to leave. You feel it in the pauses before answers are given when you speak at council. In the way eyes slide to you and away again, as if acknowledging you too directly might grant you legitimacy. In the careful politeness that coats every interaction like varnish, glossy and thin.

No one challenges your place outright. They cannot. The King’s decree sits like an unsheathed blade over the table, and you have made it difficult for anyone to argue against your presence without exposing their own incompetence. You come prepared. Your reports are concise. Your numbers are accurate. Your recommendations are framed not as opinions, but as inevitabilities. You do not argue. You explain. You do not raise your voice. You wait, and when silence stretches long enough that someone must respond, they find themselves responding to you.

You are polite enough to be tolerated. Lady-like enough to avoid insult. Sharp enough that those who resent you choose silence over humiliation. You know that silence is not approval. You are keenly aware of the assumptions coiling around you. You can almost hear the unspoken logic: a woman denied the Citadel’s chain, educated but barred, surely sympathetic to Rhaenyra’s cause. Surely aligned, if not openly, then in her heart. Surely a liability. You do nothing to confirm it. You do nothing to deny it either. You keep your cards close to your chest. You wait. (A/N: Hamilton referance for my musical nerds, such as myself.)

Instead, you thread yourself through the court like a needle through cloth, careful not to tear what you are sewing together. You do not speak in favor of Blacks or Greens. You do not comment on legitimacy, inheritance, or right. You talk about roads, grain, ships, ravens, weather, timing. You speak of what armies require to move, what people require to endure, what wars consume when men are too busy counting victories to count bodies.

You understand elimination. You have studied it in histories written by men who never thought it would apply to them. The quickest way to be removed from a council is to be predictable. The second quickest is to be useful to only one side. So you become useful to the realm.

You attend councils and say little until necessary. When tempers rise, you do not calm them. You wait for them to burn themselves down, then quietly note the cost. You have learned that men rarely listen while they are speaking. They listen only when they have exhausted themselves. Outside the council chamber, you learn faster.

The Red Keep is not ruled by those who sit at the long table alone. It is ruled by servants who hear everything and are trained to repeat nothing unless asked correctly. You ask correctly. You do not bribe. You do not threaten. You listen, you remember names, you notice which hands shake when silver is counted, which guards linger too long by certain doors, which kitchens waste more food than they should. You learn where fear lives. You learn where loyalty leaks.

You walk the keep at measured hours, never too early, never too late, letting yourself be seen just enough to become familiar rather than suspicious. You exchange quiet words with septas and scribes. You thank stablehands by name. You do not pretend to be above anyone, because you know power does not flow downward. It circulates.

Bit by bit, you edge closer to Queen Helaena. Not directly. Never directly. Gods forbid.

You begin by standing where she passes. By speaking to her ladies instead of to her. By listening when she murmurs strange things under her breath that others dismiss as harmless confusion. You do not dismiss them. You catalogue them. You notice how often her odd remarks align with coming events, not clearly, not cleanly, but often enough to matter. You speak to her gently when you do speak, not condescending, not reverent, simply present. You do not ask her to explain herself. You thank her when she speaks. In time, she begins to look for you.

Not every day. Not always. But sometimes, when you are near, her eyes flick toward you as if checking that you are still there, still listening. When she speaks of threads and webs and things breaking, you do not correct her. You say, “I will remember,” and mean it. With the Queen Dowager, the approach is different.

Alicent Hightower is not a woman who rewards openness. She rewards usefulness wrapped in restraint. You never contradict her in public. You never flatter her in private. You frame your observations as concerns for stability, for legacy, for order. You speak of how smallfolk remember who protected them when winter came, how lords remember who preserved their power quietly rather than loudly. You do not challenge her faith. You acknowledge it. You show her that you are not reckless, not romantic, not driven by grievance.

She watches you the way she watches everything: carefully, with a tension that never fully relaxes. You sense her testing you, setting small traps in conversation, watching to see which way you lean. You do not lean. You remain upright. Over time, she begins to speak more freely in your presence, not confiding, but no longer guarding every word. That is as close to trust as Alicent ever allows.

Aemond Targaryen, on the other hand, does not soften. If anything, he hardens. He does not address you unless forced. He does not seek your counsel. When you speak, he listens with the bare minimum of courtesy required by law and station, his expression closed, his posture radiating a restrained hostility that has nothing to do with your arguments and everything to do with what you represent. A woman. An appointment he did not choose. A voice in a room he believes should be governed by dominance rather than deliberation.

He does not like that you are effective. He likes even less that others are beginning to rely on you.

You notice the way his jaw tightens when your assessments are acknowledged by the Hand. You notice how his eye flicks toward you when a lord’s aggressive plan collapses under the weight of your quiet questions. You notice how often he goes still rather than interrupt you, as if any reaction might grant you satisfaction. You do not seek his attention. You do not avoid it either.

When you dismantle a plan of his, you do so without addressing him directly. You speak to the room. You speak of supply lines stretched too thin, of scorched land breeding rebellion, of dragonfire solving one problem while birthing three more. You do not question his courage. You question his costs.

He cannot accuse you of cowardice. He cannot accuse you of ignorance. And because you never frame your opposition as personal, he cannot challenge you without seeming rash. So he endures you. Privately, he is furious.

You see it in the way he grips the table. In the way he exhales through his nose when you finish speaking. In the way he never looks at you directly unless forced to, because when he does, there is something in his gaze that is too sharp to be simple contempt. You understand him more quickly than he realizes.

Aemond believes power is dominance because dominance has always been the language spoken to him. He has learned to survive by sharpening himself, by making himself dangerous enough that no one dares look down on him again. He does not trust restraint. He does not believe patience wins wars. He has not studied the slow deaths that follow victories.

You have. So you sit at the table, unwanted but undeniable, threading your influence where it will hold. You do not rush. You do not provoke. You let the court acclimate to your presence the way one acclimates to a new weight, resenting it at first, then adjusting, then relying on it without admitting that reliance aloud.

Aemond watches this happen with a kind of silent disbelief. You are beneath his rank. A woman. A scholar without a chain. And yet you remain, day after day, eroding the certainty of the room not with force, but with foresight. He tells himself he does not care. The lie settles poorly.

Because when plans are drawn now, he finds himself calculating not only how to win, but how you will dismantle him if he is careless. When silence falls after a heated exchange, his attention flicks, unbidden, to see whether you are watching, whether you are already three steps ahead. He does not yet bring plans to you privately.

The longer you sit at the council table, the more the room learns what to do with you. Not acceptance, never that, but adaptation. Men who once pretended not to hear you begin to angle their bodies toward you when you speak. Lords who used to scoff at numbers now ask, begrudgingly, for your ledgers. Scribes begin leaving copies of raven reports at your place without being told. Even the guards at the chamber doors stop hesitating before they step aside. You become, in the way that matters most at court, inevitable.

The irony is that you do not grow louder to achieve it. You grow quieter.

You offer less opinion and more structure. When disagreements rise, you do not try to end them. You simply pin them to the table with consequences. Your mind does not chase glory, it chases failure points. Wars, you have learned, are ruined by what people refuse to count. So you count. You count grain and horses and oarsmen, you count days and distances, you count the number of mouths a city can feed before it turns on itself. You count the cost of burned fields in the Reach and the cost of a rumor in the Riverlands. You count the political debt of each decision, because debts are paid whether men acknowledge them or not.

It becomes obvious, to anyone who is not blinded by pride, that the council needs you. Ser Criston Cole especially does.

The Lord Hand is a man made for clean gestures and swift violence, for closing distance with steel. He is not made for supply chains. He is not made for the slow work of keeping men alive after they have been marched somewhere. In the beginning, he treated your presence as an insult the King had issued against him, another way the court had been rearranged without his consent. He tested you in small ways. He asked questions as if he expected you to stumble. He assigned tasks that were meant to bury you. But you did not stumble and you did not drown. You returned with answers that were too exact to be dismissed. You did the work without complaint and without softness, and then you asked him, calmly, why his garrisons were eating through stores at a rate that would leave them starving in a fortnight. He did not like that question. He liked even less that you were correct.

Over time, he begins relying on you the way men rely on a tool they do not respect but cannot afford to lose. He calls for your assessments when ravens arrive from the Crownlands. He asks, tight-lipped, whether the roads can bear wagons through the coming rains. He listens when you point out that a victory gained in three days can be lost in thirty if the men who won it come home to empty granaries. He still calls you “lady” sometimes, as if your title offends him, but he does not attempt to remove you. He cannot. The King’s decree remains, and your usefulness has become too publicly entangled with the council’s functioning to cut you away cleanly.

Aemond Targaryen does not adapt. He remains hostile in the manner of a man who believes hostility is strength. His contempt is not shouted. It is curated. He offers it in pauses, in a lack of acknowledgement, in the way he speaks over you when he can and ignores you when he cannot. When he addresses you, it is often as if he is addressing a nuisance in the room rather than a mind at the table. You learn the pattern quickly: he tests you publicly because public tests keep his superiority intact. They are not about truth, they are about hierarchy.

He begins doing it more openly as your influence grows. If you correct a lord’s misunderstanding about river travel times, Aemond asks whether you have ever ridden those rivers yourself. If you note the number of ships the Velaryons can field, he asks whether you are guessing or if you have spoken to anyone who actually commands fleets. If you point out that burning a port destroys tax revenue for years, he asks whether you have ever paid soldiers from an empty treasury. Each question is shaped to remind the room that you are a woman from a small house with an education borrowed from men, seated here by decree rather than blood.

You answer each time the same way. Not defensively. Not pleading. Not angry. You answer like a ledger answers. With reality. It makes him furious in a way he tries to conceal. He cannot tell whether you are arrogant or simply correct, and he hates that he cannot force the distinction. Arrogance can be punished. Correctness must be endured.

The council begins to change anyway. Men start looking to you after he speaks, not because they love you or respect you, but because you have become the measure of whether a plan is survivable. You have made yourself the voice of what happens after the swords are put away. Aemond speaks in dominance, in decisive strikes, in dragonfire, in fear. You speak in the slow violence that follows, the kind that does not sing and does not look heroic in songs.

One morning, the ravens arrive carrying news that makes the room tighten.

Dragonstone.

Not a dramatic announcement, not a proclamation of victory, but a set of reports layered together like thin sheets of ice. Rhaenyra’s court consolidating. Names whispered across the Narrow Sea. Discontent in the Crownlands, the kind that spreads when lords fear picking the losing side. Fishing boats disappearing along the bay and rumors of Velaryon sails moving like shadows. The possibility, spoken carefully, that Rhaenyra means to tighten her hold on the Gullet, strangle the capital’s trade, and force King’s Landing into hunger without ever needing to march an army to its walls. The room leans forward. Ser Criston’s hand tightens around the table edge. The Master of Coin speaks too quickly about stores and prices. Alicent’s face remains composed, but her fingers move once, tightening around her ring.

Aemond is still as stone, and then he speaks as if he has been waiting for the chance. “We take Dragonstone,” he says.

The words land like a blade on wood. Direct. Clean. Everyone’s eyes flick to him, because he is the Prince with the largest dragon, because he has the kind of certainty men mistake for inevitability.

“We cut the head from the snake,” Aemond continues, voice cool. “Rhaenyra is not a queen without Dragonstone. She is not a threat without her seat and her court. We strike first, before she gathers more lords and more ships. We fly. We burn their defenses. We end it.”

He speaks of dragonfire the way some men speak of weather, as if it is a force that can be directed without consequence. Ser Criston nods immediately, hungry for a decisive action. A few lords murmur agreement, relief visible on their faces at the idea of a clean solution. Even the air in the chamber seems to lift with the promise of something simple.

You let him finish. Then you interrupt. Not rudely. Not theatrically. Not with a challenge. You do it the way a maester interrupts a lord’s fantasy with a fever chart.

“If you fly to Dragonstone with Vhagar,” you say, voice level, “you will not be meeting an undefended castle.” The room stills in that peculiar way it does when your voice enters, because your voice has become the cold water thrown on warm ideas.

Aemond’s eye cuts to you, sharp as a drawn dagger. You continue without reacting to it. “Dragonstone sits on rock and sea. Its garrison is smaller than King’s Landing’s, but it is entrenched, familiar with the terrain, and loyal by proximity. More importantly, it is protected by dragons.”

Aemond’s jaw tightens. “You think I fear dragons.”

“I think you are counting only the ones you can see,” you reply, quiet and devastating. “And I think you are forgetting that dragons do not die like men, and they do not kill like men. If Vhagar engages another dragon over Dragonstone, there will be losses even if you win.”

Someone shifts uncomfortably. The unspoken truth is heavy: dragons killing dragons is not the same as burning soldiers. It is a different kind of catastrophe.

You slide a parchment forward, already prepared, as if you had known this plan would be proposed the moment Dragonstone was mentioned. Your numbers are neat. Your handwriting clear. There is nothing emotional in it. Only calculation.

“Casualty projections,” you say, and the words alone make half the table bristle. Men dislike the idea that their deaths can be anticipated. “If we commit a direct strike, we lose the element of uncertainty. Dragonstone will call its dragons to the sky. Even if you kill one, even if you kill two, the capital will have to explain why the realm has fewer dragons afterward.”

Aemond’s eye narrows. “Explain.”

You look at him as if the question is strange. “To the lords who are still undecided. To the smallfolk who whisper that dragons are gods. To the Faith, which has never loved dragons but fears them as much as it resents them. A battle in the sky over Dragonstone will be seen from ships and shore. It will become a story the realm repeats. If Vhagar returns wounded, or does not return at all, the story becomes a rallying cry for your enemy.”

Aemond leans forward slightly, controlled anger tightening his posture. “So we do nothing.”

“I did not say do nothing,” you reply. “I said this plan costs more than you are admitting.”

He turns his head a fraction toward Ser Criston, as if appealing to the room’s appetite for dominance. “We can end her. Now.”

You do not raise your voice. You do not become defensive. You do not match his heat.

You dismantle the plan by continuing to speak in facts.

“If you fly to Dragonstone and burn it,” you say, “you may kill Rhaenyra. You may also kill her sons, her supporters, and anyone inside the castle walls, including hostages we have not yet identified. That means you remove any possibility of negotiated surrender from the board. You replace a war with a blood-feud.”

You glance briefly at the map, then back to the table, not to him. “If Dragonstone is burned, the Velaryons will not be cowed. They will be unleashed. Their fleets will harden their blockade. The Gullet will close. King’s Landing will feel hunger within weeks, not months. Bread riots follow hunger. Plague follows riots. The capital cannot eat pride.”

A lord opens his mouth as if to protest. You continue before he can.

“Supply failure,” you say, tapping the parchment. “Our grain stores can support the city for a limited time if trade slows. If trade stops, we become dependent on overland routes through the Crownlands, which are vulnerable to raids. If we send armies to protect those routes, we thin our defenses elsewhere. If we rely on the Reach, we rely on lords who have not yet declared.”

You pause, letting the shape of it settle. In the pause, you feel the shift. Men leaning toward you now without meaning to. Waiting. Aemond feels it too.

His voice sharpens. “You speak as if you know what I should do better than I do.”

“I speak as if you will have to live with what you do,” you answer, still calm. “And I speak as if the realm will too.”

His control snaps at the edges, not in a scream, but in a sudden, biting force.

“You presume much,” he says, and there is contempt in it now, unmasked. “You sit at this table because the King ordered it, not because you have earned the right.”

You do not flinch. You do not defend your worth. You let the insult slide off like rain.

“The King ordered it because he requires results,” you reply. “Not pride.”

A sharp intake of breath is heard from someone near the end of the table. Ser Criston’s gaze flicks between you and Aemond as if he can smell blood.

Aemond’s eye is bright with anger. “You speak of backlash and stories,” he says, voice tight. “As if fear does not win wars.”

“Fear wins battles,” you say. “It does not keep cities fed. It does not keep alliances stable. It does not keep men loyal when winter comes.”

You do not look at him as you say it. You look at the room. That is what makes it unforgivable to him. You are not challenging him like a rival prince. You are correcting him like a flawed calculation.

Ser Criston shifts, uneasy. A lord clears his throat. Another says, cautiously, “What would you propose instead.”

And there it is.

Not what would the Prince propose. Not what should we do. What would you propose.

Aemond hears it like a slap.

You answer because it is asked, not because you want to humiliate him. “We bleed Dragonstone without making martyrs,” you say. “We fracture their support. We isolate their fleet. We quietly turn lords before we force them to choose in public. We strengthen our granaries and our roads. We prepare the capital to endure a blockade before one tightens. We send agents to find the weak points in their court. We make their war expensive without giving them a single glorious moment to rally around.”

Aemond’s gaze burns. “Agents,” he repeats, with disdain. “Whispers.”

You meet his eye then, finally, because the contempt has become pointed enough that the room can feel it. “Wars are not won by one glorious strike,” you say, voice still even. “They are won by the accumulation of small advantages and the avoidance of catastrophic mistakes.”

He looks like he wants to stand. Like he wants to shove the table aside and prove dominance with force because force is the language he trusts. But he cannot. Not here. Not with the room watching. Not with the Hand listening more to your numbers than to his certainty.

He snaps, finally, in the only way he can while keeping his mask.

“You are very confident for someone with no dragon,” he says.

You do not smile. You do not rise to it. “And yet,” you reply softly, “my counsel is not the thing that will burn our stores.”

The silence afterward is thick enough to choke on.

Then, one by one, men begin speaking around Aemond rather than through him. They ask you about roads. About grain. About the likelihood of the Velaryon blockade tightening. They ask what houses might be swayed with marriages, with coin, with promises. They ask, as if it is the most natural thing in the world, for your probabilities.

Aemond sits very still.

He does not speak again for a long while, not because he has nothing to say, but because he can feel the way the room has shifted. He can feel how your calm has become an anchor the council leans on. He can feel, with a clarity that makes his stomach tighten, that you have begun to change the way power moves in this chamber. It is not just that you are present. It is that you are effective.

So when the summons comes without ceremony, you knew it mattered.

The page finds you not in the council chamber, not in some bright corridor where eyes linger and whispers bloom, but in the quieter arteries of the Red Keep where servants move like shadows and the stone remembers every secret pressed into it. He is a boy trying very hard to look like a man delivering royal business. He keeps his gaze fixed somewhere above your shoulder as he speaks, as if looking directly at you would make him complicit in whatever message he carries.

“The prince requests your presence,” he says. Then, as if that alone is insufficient reason in a world of rank and pride, he adds quickly, “He says it is for efficiency.”

Efficiency. The word would be amusing if it were not so sharp. Aemond Targaryen does not summon people for efficiency. He summons them to remind them of what he is. He summons them to test whether they will bend. The excuse is a thin cloth laid over a blade.

You do not ask which prince. There is no need. The keep has its own pulse, and you have learned to feel when something moves against it.

You follow the boy through corridors lit by low torches. The hour is late enough that the castle has begun to exhale, but not so late that it is asleep. In King’s Landing, sleep is a luxury purchased with ignorance. You walk with a steady pace, the hem of your gown brushing stone worn smooth by centuries of conquest and collapse. Your hair is pinned back simply. You carry no jewelry that might clink or announce itself. You are not here to perform. You are here because ignoring a prince, even one who resents you, is an invitation to be made expendable.

The door you are brought to is guarded by two men whose faces you recognize from the training yard. They do not salute. They do not speak. They look at you as if trying to decide whether you are prey or plague.

The boy knocks once, then retreats as if he wants no part of what happens next. A voice from within, low and controlled, grants entry. You step inside.

The room is lit by candles and nothing else. No bright hearth, no roaring fire. Just points of flame trembling in the drafts, their light catching on parchment and ink and the edges of carved map-stones. Shadows lie thick in the corners, turning the ceiling into a vault of darkness. The air smells of wax, leather, and smoke that has nowhere to go. A map of Westeros lies spread across a heavy table, weighted by daggers and stones as if it might try to escape. Another map, smaller and more detailed, shows the Crownlands and the seas around Dragonstone, its lines marked in ink. There are notes in the margin in a handwriting you have learned to recognize as the Hand’s. There are other notes, sharper and more impatient, in a different hand.

Aemond stands on the far side of the table, sleeves rolled back, his posture rigid with intent. His hair falls straight and pale over his shoulders, almost luminous in the candlelight. The patch over his eye looks darker here, a deliberate void. His remaining eye fixes on you the moment you enter, and it is not the gaze he wears at council. There is no court mask in it. No polite restraint. This is the look of a man alone with a problem he cannot crush in public.

He does not offer you a chair. He does not need to. You do not wait for permission. You approach the table, set your hands lightly on its edge, and look down at the map as if this is any other meeting.

“What is it,” you ask, voice quiet.

Aemond’s mouth tightens at the lack of deference. “You made a spectacle of me,” he says. The statement is blunt enough that it would have been shocking from anyone else. From him, it lands like a stone thrown to see if you will flinch.

You do not flinch. You lift your gaze to his face, calm. “I corrected a plan.”

“You undermined me,” he snaps, the word sharpened by the absence of witnesses.

“I prevented a mistake,” you reply, and there is no pride in it, only refusal.

Aemond’s fingers curl against the table edge. He looks like he wants to strike something, and that something keeps being you. “Dragonstone should burn,” he says. “It will burn.”

“You can burn stone until your dragon’s throat aches,” you answer, clinical. “The island does not die. Men do.”

His eye narrows. “Men are expendable in war.”

“Then you do not understand war,” you say, and you say it gently, which is worse. “You understand battle.”

The air between you tightens. Candle flames tremble as if reacting to the pressure. Aemond moves, circling the table with the slow precision of a man deciding how close he can get without making it obvious that he wants to. He stops at the corner near you. It would be polite for him to keep distance. He does not. His shadow falls across the map, swallowing half of the Crownlands in darkness.

“Speak carefully,” he murmurs. You do not step back. You do not shift away from him. You simply look down, point to the inked lines near the Gullet, and continue as if his threat is a weather report.

“The Velaryon fleet,” you say. “If you provoke them into a glorious defense, you give them the one thing they need. Unity. As I stated before their blokage will tighten. Then the capital starves. If you want to punish Rhaenyra, you punish her ability to feed herself, to move men, to court allies. You do not give her a martyr’s sky.”

Aemond’s jaw flexes. “You speak as though you are one of her,” he says, and now the accusation is no longer about plans. It is about loyalty.

You lift your eyes to his. “I speak as though I can count,” you answer.

He leans in, and you feel the heat of him, the closeness of his body in a room too quiet. He is tall, taller than most men, and he uses it often as an unspoken pressure. His presence is physical dominance given shape. In council, it makes lords straighten and fall silent. Here, he expects it to do the same to you. It does not. You remain exactly where you are.

Something in his expression shifts at that. The smallest crack in the assumption that women shrink when a man looms. His eye flicks over your face as if searching for fear and finding none. He does not know what to do with a person who refuses to perform intimidation for him.

“You are bold,” he says, voice low.

“I am accurate,” you reply.

The candlelight catches on the edge of his mouth as it tightens, not quite a smile, not quite anger. He steps closer anyway, until the space between you is narrow enough that you can see the faint pulse at his throat, the tension there. He smells like leather and smoke and something cold, like steel left out in rain.

“You think accuracy protects you,” he says.

“I think accuracy is the only thing that does,” you say softly.

Aemond’s hand lands on the table near yours, not touching you, but close enough that the intention is there. His fingers are long, pale, and still. The control in him is almost frightening, because you can feel the violence beneath it, the rage written into his bones like a second language.

“You forget what you are,” he says, and the cruelty in it is measured. “A woman. A lesser house. A scholar without chains. Your place is borrowed.”

You do not react outwardly. You have lived with men reminding you of what you are since you learned to speak. Their words have never changed the truth of your mind.

“My place is ordered,” you correct. “By royal decree.”

“A decree can be revoked,” Aemond says, and now his voice holds promise. “Your position can be… removed.”

You lift your chin slightly, the smallest refusal. “Then remove it.”

His eye flashes. “Do not tempt me.”

You lean forward a fraction, closing the distance in your own way, not yielding, not aggressive, simply making it clear you are not a creature to be chased. “You misunderstand,” you say. “I am not afraid of losing this.”

The admission hangs between you like smoke. It should not be said. It is too honest. Too dangerous. Aemond stares at you as if the words have offended him in a way he cannot name. “You have everything to lose.”

You shake your head once. “I have already lost what mattered. I was denied a chain. Denied the life I trained for. I was brought here because the Iron Throne needed my mind, not because it respected my existence. If I am removed, I return to obscurity. I have survived worse. You, however, would still have to face the consequences of your own choices.”

Aemond’s lips part slightly. He looks almost startled, not by your words alone, but by the calm way you deliver them. It is not humility he can crush, not bravado he can duel. It is conviction without worship.

His voice sharpens. “Whose side are you on?”

The question is sudden and personal, the kind of thing he would never ask in council where answers become weapons for others. Here, he wants to pin you down. He wants a name, a banner, a faction. He wants to make you predictable so he can destroy you or use you.

You meet his gaze fully, unwavering. “My own.”

His brow furrows as if you have spoken in a foreign tongue. “That is not an answer.”

“It is the only honest one,” you say. “I am not Green. I am not Black. I am not here to protect your family’s pride or your sister’s claim. I am here because the realm will burn if you all treat this like a game of banners and bloodlines.”

Aemond’s nostrils flare. “Careful,” he warns.

You do not lower your voice. You do not soften it. You keep it quiet, which is far more cutting. “I care for the smallfolk,” you continue. “For the ones who will starve when you close the Gullet. For the ones who will burn when dragons fight over their fields. For the ones whose sons will be dragged into armies to die for a succession dispute dressed up as righteousness. They do not get to sit at council. They do not get to speak. But they pay the price of every plan you men make.”

His eye is bright now, anger and something else threaded through it. “You speak as if you pity them.”

“I do not pity them,” you reply. “I respect them.”

Aemond goes very still. In the candlelight, he looks carved from something harder than flesh. His face is controlled, but his eye is alive with conflict. He has been raised on dominance, on hierarchy, on the belief that power is taking what is owed. Your refusal to be afraid of him, your refusal to pick a side, your refusal to romanticize dragons and war, it strikes at something he keeps tightly locked.

He leans in again, closer than necessary, and you feel the air change, feel the tension sharpen into something that is not solely about strategy. It is not romantic, not yet, but it is intimate in the way two people become intimate when they are the only ones in a room telling the truth.

His voice drops. “You speak to me as if I cannot destroy you.”

You look at him steadily. “You could,” you say. “But you will not.”

The certainty in your voice is not arrogance. It is observation. You have watched him enough to know the shape of his violence. Aemond is not Aegon. He does not take without thought. His rage has rules. His cruelty is deliberate, not careless. He wants obedience, not chaos.

Aemond’s eye flickers, like the statement has landed somewhere he did not expect. “And why are you so sure.”

“Because you are not a barbarian,” you say quietly. “You are a man with fury and discipline. A man who wants to be seen as righteous even when you are brutal. You will not force yourself on me. You will not strike me in the dark. You will not do what your brother does. You will threaten. You will loom. You will test. But you will not cross certain lines because you need to believe you are better.”

The air is razor-thin. Even the candles seem to burn quieter. Aemond’s breath is steady, but you can see the tension in his throat. He looks at you as if you have stripped him bare with words, as if you have reached into him and touched something he keeps hidden. His hand on the table tightens, the knuckles whitening.

“You presume to know me,” he says.

“I presume to observe,” you reply.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You can feel the heat of him, the dominance he has used all his life meeting something it cannot bend. The clash is immaculate, sharp enough to draw blood if either of you steps wrong. Then Aemond turns his gaze to the map as if it is safer than your face. His voice, when he speaks again, is lower, more controlled, but not less intense. “If you are on your own side,” he says, “then you are dangerous.”

You nod once. “Yes.”

He looks back at you. “And you admit it.”

“Dangerous is not the same as disloyal,” you answer. “It is simply… honest.”

Aemond’s mouth tightens again, and for a fleeting second, you think you see something like reluctant respect trying to form and being strangled before it can breathe. He steps back half a pace, not yielding, not retreating, simply creating space because the air between you has become too charged and he is not ready to name why.

“Go,” he says finally, voice clipped.

You do not rush. You gather your papers calmly, as if you have not just stood unflinching under a prince’s shadow. As you turn toward the door, you pause just long enough to speak without looking back.

“If you want efficiency,” you say, “stop planning like a man who can afford to lose.”

You leave before he can respond. Behind you, in the candlelit silence, Aemond Targaryen remains by the table, staring at the map as if it has betrayed him, not because your numbers were wrong, but because something far worse has happened. He has realized you are not intimidated by him. Not by his rank. Not by his dragon. Not by his body in the dark. And the realization does not make him feel powerful. It makes him feel outmatched. However nothing quite stays peaceful in the Keep, you learn that too quickly, nothing stays private for long, not even simplest of appearances.

It begins with something small and stupid, the way most dangerous things do. A servant glimpses you slipping through a corridor at an hour when respectable ladies are meant to be behind doors, hair unpinned, prayers whispered, bodies tucked away from the world. The servant has nothing to do with war councils or ravens or grain stores. The servant has only eyes and boredom and the desperate hunger of court life for something to chew on. The servant sees you leave a door you were not expected to be near, and the servant remembers, with a thrill that is half fear, that the prince had entered that same door not long before. That is all. That is enough. By morning, the story has already grown unrelated branches.

It moves through kitchens first, through laundry rooms and stairwells where girls whisper over linens and men trade rumors like coins. It slips into the guardrooms, and the guards do what guards always do, which is to pretend they do not gossip while doing it with the seriousness of generals. By the time you step into the corridor outside the council chamber, you feel it without anyone needing to tell you. The air is wrong. Eyes flick and dart away too quickly. Smiles that were once merely stiff become pointed. A pair of ladies pause mid-conversation when you pass, their voices dropping as though you are contagious.

You are a council member. You are an appointed specialist. You have the King’s decree behind you and a record of work that has already saved the city from small disasters men never notice until they become big ones. None of that matters to people who think with their hungers instead of their minds. Because you are still a woman.

And the court, like most places built by men who fear being outmatched, has only two stories it likes to tell about women who hold influence. Either they are saints, or they are whores. Either they are obedient, or they are dangerous. Either they were placed there by fate, or they clawed their way in by opening their legs.

You hear the first whisper as you pass a tapestry in the lower hall. It is not even aimed at you. It is two servants speaking carelessly, thinking the stone and the cloth will swallow their words.

“She was with him,” one says, voice thin with excitement. “Late. I saw her.”

“And the prince,” the other breathes, reverent as if speaking of a god. “They say she has him twisted.”

You do not stop walking. You do not show that you heard. You keep your pace even and your face composed, because reacting is how rumors sink their teeth deeper. But your mind does what it always does. It catalogs. By midday the story has climbed into silk.

You hear it in fragments from the edges of conversation as you move through the keep, the words disguised as innocent concern. A lady of the court remarks, too sweetly, that the council must be very… stimulating. A knight in the corridor gives you a look that is not contempt exactly, but disgust flavored with curiosity. You catch the way men’s mouths tighten when you speak in council, as if they are measuring whether the authority in your voice is real or borrowed from a prince’s bed. It escalates quickly. It always does. Once a rumor has a direction, people push it further because the court is addicted to endings. They do not like uncertainty. They do not like a woman who does not fit their categories. So they decide for you.

Some say you are Aemond’s paramour. That you have been placed at the council table because he wants you near, because you warm his bed, because you are being rewarded for obedience. Some say you are a spy for Rhaenyra, using your body and your mind together, the way men always fear clever women do. Some say you are manipulating him, destabilizing him, turning him away from the righteous fury they want him to embody. And the cruelest whisper, the one that makes your teeth tighten behind your calm, is spoken by those who resent you most: that you are incompetent, that you are only tolerated because you spread your legs in the dark and call it scholarship.

It would be laughable if it were not dangerous. Because in a court like this, perception becomes policy. A rumor can isolate you faster than any decree can protect you. It can sour your access, make scribes hesitate before handing you reports, make guards decide they do not have to step aside as quickly. It can give men permission to discredit your work, to shrug off your numbers as pillow-talk. And if you are discredited, the realm pays for it. That is what makes your anger precise rather than hot.

You do not go to Alicent with the whispers. The Queen Dowager would not be surprised, and she would not be kind. She would treat it as a lesson, perhaps even as a test. You do not go to Helaena, because Helaena lives in a world where words knot into symbols, and you will not drag her into filth. You do not go to Ser Criston, because Criston Cole would hear the rumor and take it as proof that women do not belong on councils, and his approval is a currency you refuse to purchase. You do what you always do. You wait for the room to reveal what it intends to become.

It happens in council, two days after the night Aemond summoned you. The chamber is full and tense, maps spread, ravens’ messages read aloud. There is talk of Dragonstone, of fleets, of lords who must be courted or coerced. The mood is sharp, but there is something else under it, a current that crackles whenever you and Aemond are in the same space. People glance between you too often. They listen not just to what is said, but to what is not.

A lord, emboldened by gossip, makes a small comment, too small to be accidental. He says something about “private consultations” and lets his eyes slide toward you with a smile that is meant to make you feel stained. The table stiffens. A few men hide their amusement. Others pretend to look away, which is its own form of participation. You keep your face blank. You do not dignify it with reaction. Aemond does.

He turns his head slowly, and the movement alone makes the room quiet. His remaining eye fixes on the lord with a coldness that feels like stepping into deep water. His voice is not raised when he speaks, which is what makes it brutal. He does not shout. He does not perform anger. He simply cuts.

“If you speak of my council again with that tone,” Aemond says, calm as a blade, “I will have your tongue removed and feed it to my dragon.” Silence drops like a stone. The lord goes pale, mouth opening and closing, suddenly aware that he has mistaken a prince’s restraint for softness. Aemond continues as if he is correcting a minor error.

“You will not stain her name to entertain yourselves,” he says, and there is no softness in the defense, no gentleness meant to preserve you. It is possession of order, not protection of you. “Her seat at this table is the King’s command. Her work is mine to judge only in matters of war. If you cannot speak of her without sounding like gutter men, then you will not speak.”

He lets the words sit long enough to bruise. Then he turns back to the map as if nothing has happened, as if he has not just reminded the entire room that princes can end lives for less than a rumor. The council resumes, but it resumes differently. Men are cautious now. The whispering does not stop, of course. It never stops. But it shifts shape, turning from gleeful certainty into nervous curiosity. Some now think you must truly have power over him if he is willing to threaten a lord for you. Others resent you more, because they believe you have somehow reached into him and made him unstable.

You sit through the remainder of the council without a flicker of expression, but inside you are cold with the insult of it. He did not defend your competence. He defended his own control. He shut it down publicly in the language he trusts: violence. He made it about his authority, his temper, his right to decide what is spoken. He did not once say the simplest truth, the one that would have ended the filth cleanly. That you have never been his.

You do not confront him in public. You are not foolish. You know the court feeds on spectacle, and you will not give them one. You wait until the evening, until the keep quiets, until the candles burn lower and servants slip away into the shadows. You send no page. You do not ask politely. You move through the corridors as if you belong to them, because you have earned that much through sheer necessity.

You find him where you expected: not in a feast hall, not among flatterers, but in a quiet chamber lit by candlelight with maps laid out like wounds. He is alone, as he often is when he is truly thinking, shoulders squared, posture rigid even when there is no one to witness it. He looks up when you enter, and you see the immediate hardening in his expression, the reflex of a man bracing for conflict because conflict is the only intimacy he understands.

“You,” he says, as if the word itself is an intrusion. You shut the door behind you. The click is soft, final.

“Yes,” you reply. “Me.”

Aemond’s eye tracks you as you cross the room. You stop at the edge of the table, same position as before. The map between you feels like a barrier and an excuse. Candlelight flickers over his face, emphasizing the sharpness of him, the tight control that keeps his rage from spilling out.

“I heard you made a point today,” you say.

His mouth tightens. “I ended a distraction.”

“You threatened a lord,” you correct, voice even.

“He deserved it.”

“You did not do it for me,” you say, and the statement is not a question. It is a blade placed gently on the table.

Aemond’s eye narrows. “Do you want consolation?”

“No,” you answer immediately. “I want clarity.”

He lets out a small, cold breath. “You will not get softness from me.”

“I did not ask for softness,” you say. “I asked for you not to undermine my authority while pretending you are protecting it.”

The slightest shift runs through him, irritation sharpening. “Undermine.”

You lean forward a fraction, hands flat on the table. “You shut down the rumor as if it were an insult to you,” you say quietly. “As if my name is yours to defend by threatening men with dragons.”

His gaze holds yours, unblinking. “It is my council.”

“It is not,” you reply, calm enough to be infuriating. “It is the King’s. And I am not yours.”

Aemond’s jaw flexes. “You are seated here because of a decree.”

“Yes,” you say. “And because I do the work.”

His eye flashes. “They were speaking filth.”

“They were speaking filth because they believe filth is the only reason a woman is listened to,” you say. “And you, Prince, reinforced that by making it about your temper instead of my merit.”

Aemond’s mouth curls, the barest hint of something sharp and ugly. “You want me to announce to the realm that you are competent.”

“I want you to stop giving them stories to build,” you say, voice still low, still controlled. “You could have said one sentence. You could have said, ‘She is here because she is useful.’ You could have said, ‘She sits by the King’s command and her counsel is heard because it is correct.’ That would have shamed them. Instead you threatened them, and now they will whisper that you threatened them because you cannot bear to share what you take.”

Aemond moves then, stepping around the table. He closes distance the way he always does when he feels cornered, using his height and proximity as if it is an argument. His shadow falls over you. His presence is heat and pressure and a kind of contained violence that most people would interpret as a warning. You do not move. He stops close enough that you can see the tension in the muscle at his jaw, the flare of anger in his eye.

“You think you understand this court,” he says, voice low. “You think one sentence would have ended it.”

“It would have ended it properly,” you reply.

“You want to be respected,” Aemond murmurs, and the word respected sounds like something he tastes and dislikes.

“I require my work to be trusted,” you correct. “There is a difference.”

His expression hardens. “And yet you are upset because men speak of you as men speak.”

You do not flinch. “I am upset,” you say, voice quiet as steel, “because men speak of me as if I am a thing. And you, in your pride, chose to remind them you can destroy them instead of reminding them I can outthink them.”

Aemond’s nostrils flare. For a second, the rage in him is visible, bright and immediate, like dragonfire behind the ribs. He leans in further, too close now, and the air tightens. Your breath catches, not from fear, but from the sudden awareness of how near he is, how controlled the violence is in him, how it brushes the edge of something else without either of you naming it.

“You wanted honesty from me,” he says softly, dangerously. “Here it is. They will never respect you as they respect me.”

You hold his gaze, unblinking. “I do not need their respect,” you say. “I need their obedience to reality.”

Aemond’s mouth twitches, a near-smile that is not kind. “You speak like a man.”

“I think like someone who intends to survive,” you answer.

He inhales slowly, and when he speaks again, his voice is colder. “You told me yourself. You are on your own side.”

“Yes.”

“Then stop pretending you care what they whisper,” he says.

You laugh once, quiet and humorless. “I care because whispers become knives,” you say. “And knives end in blood. If they can make the realm believe I am here by virtue of my body rather than my mind, then my counsel becomes optional. And if my counsel becomes optional, your council becomes reckless again.”

Aemond’s eye flickers at that. It is not agreement. It is recognition. He hates recognition when it comes from you. He leans back half an inch, just enough to speak without brushing your breath. “You want them to see you as inevitable,” he says.

“I am inevitable,” you reply softly. The statement hangs between you, arrogant on the tongue, but you do not say it like pride. You say it like a fact. Aemond’s gaze drops, briefly, to your mouth, then snaps back up as if angry with himself for the movement. His hand flexes at his side. The space between you feels charged, not like affection, not like tenderness, but like two storms pressing against the same wall.

“You accuse me of pride,” he says, voice low. “And yet you are the proudest person I have met.”

You tilt your head slightly. “No,” you say. “I am simply unwilling to pretend I am small to soothe men who fear being outmatched.”

Aemond’s eye burns. “Careful.”

You step closer, just a fraction, reclaiming space the way he does, mirroring him without apology. “Or what,” you ask quietly. “You will feed me to your dragon as well?”

His breath catches, the smallest hitch. For a heartbeat, the room feels like it might tilt. Like this argument might become something else, something physical, something furious and intimate, something neither of you are prepared to name. It nearly does.

You can see it in the way his gaze darkens. In the way his shoulders tense. In the way the air seems to thicken around the two of you, candlelight trembling as if it senses a shift. Aemond has rage written in his bones, yes, but rage and desire are cousins in men like him, tangled and indistinguishable when the world goes quiet. But he does not touch you. You do not touch him.

The moment is fleeting, sharp enough to cut, then breaks on discipline rather than softness. Aemond steps back, not because he is yielding, but because he refuses to lose control in a way that would prove you right about him. His voice, when it comes, is clipped.

“You should be grateful I ended the rumor.”

You stare at him, calm returning like armor. “And you should be grateful,” you say, “that I do not require your protection to remain standing.”

His eye flashes, and you see resentment deepen, not just at your presence, but at your effect. You make him feel observed. Measured. Not worshipped. Not feared. Measured. You turn toward the door, because you have said what needed to be said, and because staying in this room with him any longer would be a different kind of risk. Behind you, his voice follows, sharp as thrown steel. “You have a talent for making enemies.”

You pause, hand on the door. You glance back just enough to let him see your face. “You’ll find out soon enough that I have a incredible talent for surviving them,” you reply. And you leave.

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