The morning light fell through the high windows of the throne room, creating long shadows over the endless swords melted together to form the Iron Throne.

Baelor sat atop the throne, his posture relaxed, though Genna knew better. His fingers twisted the golden ring on his hand—one with a dragon and a lion entwined. A frown pulled at his lips, his foot bouncing against the floor, the sharp clicks echoing through the open chamber. The curls of his Hightower hair fell forward over his forehead, shifting whenever he moved.

Genna stopped in the doorway. Her fingers traced the fabric of her yellow gown, her palm pressing lightly against the belly as if seeking calmness. She should not be here, she knew, but something about Baelor—something about the way he sat upon the throne as if it already belonged to him—made her uneasy. She swallowed; her voice nervous when she finally spoke, "Baelor?"

His gaze lifted from the floor, his eyes focusing on where she stood, "it is a sick thing, is it not? To have her parade around the Keep with those plain sons of hers, expecting us to bow our heads simply because she is father's daughter."

Genna hesitated before stepping forward, closing the heavy doors behind her, "I do not think it is right for you to be up there," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Baelor did not move. He barely blinked. His sleeve bore the mark of a careless moment—a thin tear in the dark green doublet, where one of the throne's jagged blades had cut through the fabric. He did not seem to care.

"In truth, Genna," he said, his voice softer now, yet no less dangerous.

She halted at the first step leading to the throne, her fingers curling against the silk of her gown, "I do not know what you expect me to say."

Baelor tilted his head, watching her with something unreadable in his gaze, "the truth, Genna. For once in your life, speak the truth to me."

A pause.

She bit the inside of her cheek, "the truth about what? About you? About Princess Rhaenyra's children?"

His foot tapped against the floor again, slow, "about everything. I have never once heard your opinion on matters."

Before she could reply, he extended a hand toward her, fingers beckoning, "come here, please."

Genna shook her head, "I do not think it would be wise, Baelor."

A sharp sigh escaped his lips as he pulled back his hand, "then what do you think would be wise?"

"For you to not sit on it," she said quickly, too quickly.

Baelor exhaled through his nose, his fingers now tracing the hilt of a sword in the throne, "it will belong to me one day, will it not? At least I can get used to it."

Genna turned slightly at the distant sound of movement in the hallway. She glanced over her shoulder, but the doors remained shut. She whispered a silent prayer to the Seven that no one had seen them like this—her husband perched atop the throne like a king already crowned. Turning back, she met his eyes again.

"The line for it is a long one," she reminded him gently.

Baelor let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head, "not really."

Genna frowned, "but it is. It goes to Princess Rhaenyra and all her—"

"The throne does not belong to Rhaenyra first," he interrupted, his voice calm.

"But she is the King's firstborn."

"And my brother is the King's firstborn son," Baelor corrected, the weight of his words settling between them.

Genna pressed her lips together, releasing a slow, shaky breath through her nose before speaking again, "you asked for my opinion, and my opinion you have."

Baelor leaned back against the throne, his movement careless, and a sharp blade hidden among the iron and steel nicked the fabric of his doublet, slicing into his skin. He did not flinch, did not acknowledge the fresh wound. Instead, he simply observed her.

"I thought you might share the same opinion as me," he admitted, his voice tinged with something almost disappointed.

"And I thought an opinion was something a person formed on their own," Genna replied, her tongue sharper than she intended. Her mother's voice echoed in her mind—be quiet, do not argue with your husband—and her stomach twisted in fear at her own boldness. Her lips parted, ready to take it back, to smooth over her words with an apology.

But before she could, Baelor chuckled.

"No, no," he mused, "do not apologize. You finally said something other than what you were taught to say."

Genna's heart pounded in her chest: did she just anger him?

Baelor finally pushed himself off the throne, his boots clicking against the swords as he descended the steps. He was a man wrapped in contradictions—sharp yet smooth, cold yet burning, calculated yet unpredictable.

"Mayhaps," he murmured, his tone taunting, "the lion has finally learned something from the dragon."

Genna hated it. Hated how small she felt under his gaze; how powerless she was in the face of a man who knew exactly what he wanted. Even now, blood from his new cuts stained his clothing, old scars lingered like echoes of past battles, and yet he still walked like a conqueror, like a man who already believed himself king.

She forced herself to hold her ground, "mayhaps."

Baelor stopped before her. His palm, warm despite the chill of the throne room, pressed against the curve of her belly.

"The babe?" he asked.

"Grand Maester says everything is moving normally," Genna replied, her voice quiet. Her eyes flickered downward—to his wrist. A burn.

Baelor hummed, brushing his thumb over her gown, "does he know if the babe is a boy or not?"

Genna shook her head, "he said the Maesters track such things by the calendar, but he has said nothing of it yet."

Another hum. Then Baelor withdrew his hand, his gaze lingering on her for a beat longer before he reached up, cradling her cheek with surprising gentleness. He leaned in, pressing his lips to her skin, warm and fleeting.

Pulling away, he muttered, "I shall see him later."

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "and I think you should not be present at the petition today. To rest, I mean."

Genna nodded obediently, "of course."

Baelor clasped his hand over her belly once more before stepping back, his presence slipping away like a ghost into the dim corridors of the Keep. Genna remained where she stood, staring after him, her fingers aching with the urge to twist together until the pain grounded her. Her gaze flickered to the throne once more, its jagged blades glinting in the morning light. Cold, cruel, unyielding. Baelor would not stop. Not until he sat upon it for good.

With a shiver sliding down her spine, she turned on her feet and hurried out of the throne room, wanting to disappear in her chambers, the girls soon following once their studies are done. But, Genna never had much luck in the Keep.

"Lady Genna!"

The high-pitched voice made her stop in the already crowded hallway and the moment she turned around; she regretted it. Myna stood in the midst of the busy hallway, her dark green gown falling perfectly around her. Her long brown—almost black—hair framed her face in soft waves. A pleasant picture, a friendly one. But there was something in the way she smiled that put Genna on edge.

"My lady," Myna greeted, dipping her head ever so slightly.

Genna's fingers curled instinctively, cracking a knuckle as she pressed her other hand protectively over her bump, "lady Myna."

A gentle hum, a small tilt of the head, "I was wondering if mayhaps you have free time today?"

She hesitated just enough to appear uncertain, "I mean—I do not know if you are to be present at the petition in the throne room, but if you are not, I would love to invite you for tea. In the gardens."

Genna's gaze flickered away, her brows furrowing, "I do not think that would be a good idea."

Myna let out a small, breathy laugh, a sound that carried more warmth than sincerity, "oh, but please, my lady. Just once. Then—if you never wish to speak with me again, I swear I shall not trouble you. I only wish to speak to you. Just a little."

Genna hesitated. She did not wish to speak to Myna now or later. But obedience had been drilled into her from the moment she was old enough to hold her head high. And obedience meant yielding, even when every bone in her body told her to resist.

Letting out a breath she had not realized she was holding, Genna nodded stiffly, "alright. I must return to my girls first, but after—"

Myna's face brightened, a flicker of satisfaction flashing in her eyes before her smile turned soft again, "yes! Yes, of course, my lady," she gushed, her enthusiasm just a touch too eager, "whenever you wish. I shall have the tea prepared. To the gardens, then?"

Genna nodded, already stepping away, "to the gardens, yes."

Myna's voice followed her, warm and lilting, "thank you, my lady. Truly. This means so much to me."

Genna did not turn back.

Before the clock announced another hour, Genna moved through the gardens, the scent of wild roses and cranberries carried by the spring breeze. A few servants were already picking the red fruit from the bushes as she passed, offering the young girls small smiles, though they barely reached her eyes. She wished she had said no to Myna's invitation.

The other woman was already standing when Genna arrived, her dark green gown flowing around her as she stepped closer to the table with a smile, "my lady! Thank you for coming."

Genna returned the courtesy with a small, wary smile, moving toward the table draped in yellow cloth. A tea set and pastries were arranged neatly atop. She pulled out a chair and sat, adjusting her dress as one hand rested over her growing belly.

Myna followed swiftly, barely sitting before reaching for the kettle, "the servants told me the Maester said you are to drink ginger tea," she said smoothly, pouring the steaming liquid into Genna's cup, "so that was what they brought. I hope it is to your liking."

Genna studied her for a moment before nodding, "I do like it. Thank you."

Myna placed the kettle down and reached for a white plate, pulling it between their teacups, "I, uhm, also heard that you like lemon cakes," she added, "so I asked the cooks to make some especially for you."

Genna's eyes flickered over the sweets, a slow frown tugging at her brow, "you heard that from my husband?"

"No," Myna let out a soft, breathy chuckle, wiping her palms against her skirts as if nervous, "no, surprisingly from Aemond."

Genna's head snapped up. Aemond? Her stomach twisted. What in the world would make Aemond Targaryen aware of something as strange as her cravings? Baelor, she would half expect—but Aemond?

Her throat felt dry as she forced herself to reply, "I do like them, yes. Thank you."

Myna smiled, watching her too closely, "of course."

A quiet stretched between them, the air thick with something unspoken. It was Genna who broke it first. She bit her lip before murmuring, "I... I am truly sorry for your loss."

Myna's smile faltered as her hands dropped to her lap, fingers twisting one of her many rings, "thank you, my lady. It seems the gods were not in my favour."

"Yes," Genna agreed, the words coming out carefully, "the Seven often show cruel fates to people."

Myna took a breath, her expression shifting into something more vulnerable, "I did..." she hesitated, choosing her words, "I did want to explain myself, my lady. If you are willing to hear me out."

"I do not need your explanations," she said, quicker than intended, "what was done is done, and what will be done shall be done. I am not the master of my fate, nor am I the master of Baelor's. Or yours, for that matter."

"No, no, my lady," Myna urged, her voice almost pleading, "please. You must hear me."

Something in the way she said it made Genna pause.

For the briefest moment, she turned her head over her shoulder, thinking she heard her daughters. But the entrance to the gardens was empty. By the time she looked back, Myna had already begun speaking.

"My mother died giving birth to me," she said softly, her gaze distant, "and I never knew my father. A woman took me in—she had known my mother, or so she claimed. I later found out my mother worked for her. When I was old enough, she said she could find me work," Myna exhaled, as if steadying herself, "she sent me to King's Landing."

There was a beat of silence before she continued, voice dropping.

"I thought she meant something else. Anything else, really. But she sent me to the Street of Silk. And I did not understand what it was—not then. Not until she introduced me to Marya."

"I did not have a name until she saw me," Myna continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "she looked at me and said I would make much money for her. She named me Myna. Before that day, I did not know what to call myself."

Genna swallowed, her grip tightening over the curve of her stomach.

Myna's hands clenched in her lap as she went on, "on my eighteenth name day, Marya said she had a special guest for me—a gift. It was Baelor. I did not know who he was or why he was so important. They always spoke of the Targaryens, but always of silver hair and violet eyes. He did not have the silver hair. Only his eyes."

Genna's fingers curled against her skirts.

"I had to give Marya every coin I earned," Myna murmured, her voice trembling, "but Baelor would leave more behind for me, in secret."

"I know I did awful things, my lady," Myna said finally, daring to glance up, "but I was only trying to survive. And then Baelor—he had this idea. That I could leave. That I could live a good life, far from Marya, far from the Street of Silk. And I said yes because—" she sucked in a breath, "because I did not think. All I wanted was to see my mother's green doors again."

Myna let a single tear slip down her cheek, catching the light just enough. Genna felt her pulse in her ears.

"I did not know he was already wed to you. That you had given birth to your twins," Myna sniffed, brushing a sleeve under her nose, "I never left that place. No one spoke of politics to me. Not to the girl no one spoke to at all."

Genna exhaled slowly. She wanted to be angry—should have been angry. But Myna's words, they worked. It chipped at the armour Genna had wrapped around herself. Myna had been used, discarded, forced to make impossible choices. Why had Aemond spoken of her cravings? Why did Myna reach for her now, after all this time? But before Genna could find her voice, a familiar, bright one cut through the air.

"Mother, mother, mother!"

Genna barely had time to blink before her daughter rushed to her side, eyes alight with excitement. Myna swiftly wiped her face, composing herself in seconds.

"Yes, sweetling?" Genna asked, brushing a hand over Alyssa's cheek.

"Can I go see Visenya, please?"

Genna smiled softly, but her thoughts still lingered on the conversation before, "and where is your sister, sweet girl?"

"With Septa Mordane," Alyssa replied eagerly.

Genna arched a brow, "did you run away from your studies again?"

"It is not my fault she is a bore," Alyssa pouted.

With a sigh, Genna rose from her chair, "let us see Visenya, then."

Alyssa eagerly grabbed her hand. Genna turned back to Myna, "I thank you for the tea, my lady."

Myna dipped her head, eyes glistening in the sun, "I thank you for hearing me, my lady."

The air in the dimly lit chamber was thick with the scent of burning torches and damp stone. Myna moved quietly, the hem of her dark green gown just barely brushing the ground as she approached the figure seated near the fireplace. Lord Larys Strong did not turn to greet her, nor did he need to.

"You took your time," he murmured, fingers methodically tapping against the armrest of his chair.

Myna exhaled, a slow, controlled breath as she lowered herself onto the cushioned stool across from him, "I had to be careful. She is not as naive as you made her seem."

Larys smiled at that, a small, knowing curve of his lips, "no, I imagine she is not. She is married to Baelor Targaryen, nonetheless. But even the strongest minds are soft in the right places. And you, dear Myna, know where to press."

Myna tilted her head, watching him through thick lashes, "I wove the story you gave me, added touches of my own. She hesitated, but I could see it—the doubt, the sympathy. I planted the seed. It will grow."

Larys finally turned his head, the dim firelight catching in his dark eyes, "and what of Prince Aemond?"

Myna hesitated, though she masked it well, "I told her about how he knows of her cravings. Something I doubt Baelor even knows. It unsettled her, though she didn't say it out loud."

A satisfied hum escaped Larys as he leaned forward, resting his chin atop his fingers, "interesting."

Myna smirked slightly, but it did not reach her eyes, "you still have not told me why you are so interested in her."

Larys studied her in silence for a moment, as if debating whether to indulge her curiosity. Then, ever so lightly, he said, "because the most dangerous players are the ones who do not yet know they are playing."

Larys let the silence stretch before he rose, stepping closer, his shadow swallowing hers, "you did well. Continue to gain her trust. When the time comes, we will see just how much we can make her believe."

Myna inclined her head, masking the way her pulse quickened. She had always known how to twist a man around her finger, how to survive by making them think she was nothing more than a desperate girl clinging to a dream. But Larys was different. He saw too much. And she had the gnawing sense that, no matter how deep she played the game — she would never be as many steps ahead as he was.