I wake with a start, the memory of burning flesh and dragon fire still searing my mind. But the pain is gone, replaced by the softness of silk sheets and the distant sound of my mother's shrill voice. I'm in my nursery, the one I occupied before Aemond was born. My hands—small, chubby, unmarked by battle—clutch the covers. The gods have granted me a second chance.

Through the door, I hear my grandfather's smooth, calculating voice. "...must ensure he bonds with his Hightower heritage, not the Targaryen filth..."

My mother's response is barely audible. "He's just a babe..."

"A babe who will be king, Alicent. Start acting like a queen and a Hightower."

Fear courses through my tiny body. I know what comes next if I stay. The manipulation, the isolation from Rhaenyra, the slow poisoning of my mind against my own family. The Dance of the Dragons. The deaths. The destruction.

But I'm not that Aegon anymore. I slide out of the massive crib, my legs unsteady but determined. The nursery door is slightly ajar, light spilling through. I can hear more voices now—servants moving about, the clink of armor. A Kingsguard stands outside.

I have to reach Rhaenyra. She's my only hope. But how? If I'm caught running to her apartments, Otto will ensure I never get another chance.

My heart pounds in my chest as I move toward the door, tiny hands trembling. The future of House Targaryen rests on the next few moments.