The door clicked shut, a sound as final as a tomb sealing. Cayla stood frozen in the center of the prince's chamber, her scripted lines forgotten in the chasm of his silence. She had braced herself for a lecherous grab, a drunken slur, the kind of clumsy advance she knew how to deflect with a simper. She had not prepared for this quiet, unnerving stillness. The prince merely looked at her, his lilac eyes seeing past the thin green silk, past her poised body, and directly into the trembling machinery of her fear.
He did not speak. He walked past her, back to the window where the last sliver of sun gilded the Green Fork. He picked up his half-finished cup of wine from the sill, took a slow sip, and finally turned his gaze back to her.
"The chamber is comfortable, my lady," he said, his voice calm, conversational, as if they were still in the hall. "But your dedication to my comfort is… noteworthy. Tell me, was it Lord Frey's idea, or Lady Serena's?"
The question, so bluntly and accurately aimed, stole the air from her lungs. Her rehearsed plea died on her lips. She could only stare, her mouth pressed together.
Aegon set the cup down. The soft clink was unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "The feast was well-orchestrated. The proud betrothed, the teasing kin, the beautiful, overlooked niece presented just so. And then, the final piece delivered to my chambers like a course of venison." He took a step toward her, not with threat, but with the deliberate pace of a scholar examining a curious specimen. "They told you to get a Targaryen bastard in your belly, didn't they? To tie my blood to your house, no matter the cost to you."
Cayla flinched as if struck. The directness of it was a violation, laying bare the ugly truth her aunt had wrapped in silken words of duty and family glory.
"My prince, I…" she stammered, her voice a broken whisper. "I only wished to… to serve…"
"Service," Aegon repeated, the word rolling off his tongue as if he were tasting a strange new spice. He was close now. He didn't touch her. He simply stood, his presence filling the space between them, his eyes holding hers. "They use that word, don't they? To make a transaction sound like an honor. To make a whore feel like a princess." He let the ugly word hang in the air, watching it land, watching the shame bloom hot on her cheeks. "Tell me, Cayla Frey, what happens to you if you fail in this service? You return to your oaf of a knight, who will forever wonder if the dragon tasted his prize first? You live as a reminder of an overreach, a daughter of a grasping house that tried and failed?"
Each question was a needle, piercing the fragile bubble of her resolve. Tears, hot and unbidden, welled in her eyes. She looked away, toward the door, suddenly desperate to escape this dissection.
"Look at me," Aegon said, his voice soft yet leaving no room for disobedience.
She forced her gaze back to his. The lilac depths were not cruel, but they were mercilessly clear.
"They have placed you in a path where you cannot win," he continued, his tone dropping into a confidential, almost sympathetic murmur. "Succeed, and you are the vessel for a bastard, your value spent in a single night, your future tied to a prince who may never look your way again. Fail, and you are the girl who was not even good enough to be a whore for a dragon. They risk nothing. You risk everything."
A sob escaped her, a ragged, helpless sound. The carefully constructed facade of the seductress crumbled into dust, leaving only a terrified, used girl in its place. She wrapped her arms around herself, the thin silk suddenly feeling as flimsy as cobwebs.
"I have no choice," she whispered, the truth finally wrenched from her.
"There is always a choice," Aegon countered, his voice still that low, hypnotic hum. "It is merely a question of seeing the board more clearly than your opponents." He finally moved, but not to grab her. He gestured to the high-backed chair near the hearth. "Sit."
It was not a request. Dazed, Cayla obeyed, sinking into the hard wood, her body trembling. Aegon did not sit. He leaned against the table, folding his arms, a picture of calm analysis.
"Your family seeks influence. A connection to the Iron Throne. They believe a babe is the only way to forge that chain." He paused, letting the implication settle. "They are thinking like smallfolk, bargaining for trinkets. They do not understand the value of a more subtle asset."
He studied her, his gaze traveling from her magnificent red hair, down her tear-streaked face, to the shape of her body that she had been ordered to display.
"You are beautiful. That is a fact. But beauty is common. Loyalty, discretion, and a mind that can learn… these are the currencies of power." He tilted his head. "What if you could have the prestige of the prince's favor without the ruin of his bastard? What if you could stand taller in your own house, not as a discarded tool, but as a valued agent? What if the connection they crave was not a one-night gamble, but a… sustained alliance?"
Cayla's mind, fogged with fear and shame, began to clear, pulled by the compelling rhythm of his words. He was painting a picture she had never dared to imagine.
"What… what do you mean, my prince?"
"I mean," he said, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to sink directly into her soul, "that you will leave this room tonight untouched. Your maidenhead remains, a gift I return to you. But from this night forward, you will be mine. Not in body, but in spirit. You will be my eyes and ears at the Twins. You will be the one who holds the prince's confidence. You will act as my lover, with all the privilege and standing that implies. You will have my protection, my favor. Your standing within House Frey will soar, because you will have secured what they truly wanted: the enduring attention of a dragon."
The vision he painted was dazzling. To be the prince's acknowledged favorite, to command respect, to be free of the shame of this failed seduction… it was more than she had dreamed.
"And in return?" she asked, her voice steadier, a spark of desperate hope igniting in her green eyes.
"In return," Aegon said, his eyes glinting, "your loyalty is to me, and me alone. You will tell me everything of use that passes through this bridge. Your uncle's dealings, your aunt's schemes, the whispers from the Riverlands and the North. You will do as I say, when I say it. And this arrangement… this truth… is a secret that will remain forever between us."
He pushed off from the table and stood before her. He did not kneel, but he lowered his head to bring his eyes level with hers. The intensity in them was overwhelming.
"Do you understand the stakes, Cayla?" The sympathy was gone, replaced by a cold, hard edge. "If you breathe a word of this to your uncle, your aunt, your septon, or your gods… if you ever try to use this secret against me… the consequences will be swift and absolute." He let the silence stretch, allowing her to imagine what a dragon's wrath might look like. "I am a Targaryen. My name is my shield. I will deny it all. And who will the world believe? A prince of the realm, a pyromancer, a dragonrider or…the daughter of a bridge lord caught in a lie, trying to salvage her honor? You will be ruined, cast out, and forgotten. Your family will discard you to save themselves from my displeasure. You have everything to gain by playing this part, and everything to lose by breaking faith."
It was not a threat delivered in a shout, but a cold, simple statement of fact. It was more terrifying than any rage.
He was offering her a crown of gilded lies, and the fall from it would be into an abyss.
Cayla looked up at him, at this boy who wielded power like a master swordsman wielded a Valyrian steel blade; with precision, not brute force. He had seen her vulnerability, not as a weakness to be exploited for pleasure, but as a lever to be pulled for lasting control. In the span of minutes, he had dismantled her world and offered her a new, more dangerous, more glorious one.
She had come here as a pawn. He was offering her a role as his trusted ally. The cost was her autonomy, her truth. The reward was power.
Her heart hammered, no longer with fear, but with a terrifying, thrilling resolve.
"I understand, my prince," she said, her voice low but clear. "The secret is mine to keep. And I am yours to command."
Aegon's lips curved into a faint, genuine smile. It transformed his face, making him look both older and more dangerously beautiful. He reached out and, with a startling gentleness, used his thumb to wipe a lingering tear from her cheek. The touch was electric, a brand of ownership far more intimate than the groping she had expected.
"Good," he murmured. "Then we understand each other."
He straightened up, his manner becoming practical. "Now, you cannot leave looking as you did when you arrived. The disappointment would be too plain on your face." He walked to the washbasin, wet a cloth, and brought it to her. "Clean your face. Your eyes are red."
She took the cloth, the cool water a shock against her heated skin. She dabbed at her eyes, composing herself under his watchful gaze.
"When you return to your chambers," he instructed, his tone now that of a director to an actress, "you will look… thoughtful. A little overwhelmed, but satisfied. You will imply, without saying, that you have pleased your prince. That a connection has been forged. You will speak of my… generosity. Let them draw their own conclusions. Let them believe what they want to believe. Your new influence begins now."
Cayla stood, handing the cloth back to him. She felt different. The trembling had stopped. A new mask, far more complex than the last, was settling into place.
"Yes, my prince."
He walked her to the door, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. A possessive, guiding touch. He opened it just a crack, checking the corridor.
"It is clear," he whispered. He turned her to face him one last time. "Until tomorrow, Lady Cayla. In the hall, you will look at me not with fear, but with a secret knowledge. A shared confidence. Can you do that?"
She met his lilac eyes and, for the first time, did not look away. A slow, subtle smile touched her lips. "Yes, my prince."
"Then go," he said softly. "And dream of the future we will build."
She slipped out into the cold, dark corridor, pulling the shawl over her head. As she hurried toward the safety of her own room, her mind was not on the taste of a man or the feel of his hands, but on the sound of his voice, the power of his words, and the dazzling, terrifying prison of gilded promises he had built around her. He had not taken her body. He had annexed her will.
And to her own surprise, she found the bargain more thrilling than any seduction.
Back in his chamber, Aegon closed the door and returned to the window. The Twins were dark sentinels against a star-flecked sky. A faint, satisfied smile played on his lips. The [Manipulator]'s craft had worked to perfection. He had not just avoided a trap; he had stolen the bait and turned it into a loyal hound. The Freys thought they were fishing for a dragon. They did not realize the dragon was now the fisherman, and he had just hooked one of their own.
***
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