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The torches lining the walls of the Red Keep’s Great Hall burned low, their flickering light casting grotesque, ever-changing shadows across the assembled nobility. The air hung thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced wines, and the subtle metallic tang of intrigue that permeated every royal gathering in King’s Landing.

At the high table, King Viserys Targaryen presided over the revelry with his characteristic genial oblivion, his silver-gold stubble glistening with grease from the evening’s centerpiece — a massive boar that had been roasted whole, an apple stuffed in its mouth as if in mockery of the court’s own false smiles. His laughter boomed across the hall, loud and untroubled, the sound of a man who either didn’t see or chose to ignore the enmity festering within his own family. 

To his immediate right sat Princess Rhaenyra, the Realm’s Delight, though there was little delightful in her watchful gaze tonight. The flickering torchlight caught in her violet eyes, turning them into chips of amethyst as she surveyed the hall with the calculating patience of a dragon observing its territory. Her fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns on the stem of her goblet. She wore black silk threaded with rubies — the colors of House Targaryen — but where her father’s garb spoke of celebration, hers seemed a quiet declaration of war.  

On the king’s left lounged Prince Daemon, his lean frame draped carelessly over his chair in a manner that would have drawn censure from the court etiquette masters had anyone dared reproach the Rogue Prince. His smirk was as much a part of him as Dark Sister at his hip. His silver hair, unbound in deliberate defiance of court fashion, fell loose around his shoulders.  

“Tell me, my dear,” Daemon said suddenly, his voice cutting through the murmur of conversation, “do you think the cooks seasoned this boar with loyalty or just the usual spices? It’s hard to tell these days.”

Rhaenyra didn’t so much as blink before responding, her voice carrying just enough to be heard by those nearest. “If it were loyalty, Daemon, it would be far rarer — and far less palatable to some at this table.” Her gaze flicked meaningfully toward the lower tables where the House Hightower sat, their green silks standing out amidst the sea of black and red like emerald serpents coiled to strike.  

Viserys, blissfully unaware of the undercurrents, swallowed a mouthful of meat and beamed. “Excellent flavor! A fine hunt, wasn’t it, Lord Hand?”

Otto Hightower, seated just far enough from the royal family to maintain plausible deniability but close enough to ensure his voice carried, inclined his head with practiced deference. “Indeed, Your Grace. Though I daresay the real game is not in the forest, but in this very hall.” His eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, flicked toward Daemon with deliberate provocation.  

The prince’s grin only widened. “Ah, Lord Otto! Ever the poet. Tell me, do you rehearse these little barbs in your chambers before dawn, or does the Seven simply grant you the gift of sounding perpetually disappointed?”

A ripple of laughter traveled through the nearby lords, though it came in distinctly different tones — the Velaryon family mirth genuine and raucous, the Hightower allies’ laughter thin and forced. Lord Jasper Wylde choked on his wine, while Lord Lyman Beesbury’s shoulders shook with silent amusement behind his hand.  

Rhaenyra took a slow sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving Otto’s face. “Careful, Daemon. Lord Otto might write another strongly worded letter to Oldtown about your unbecoming conduct. We wouldn’t want to trouble the maesters with too much ink wasted on your exploits.”

The Hand’s smile was thinner than the parchment he so favored. “Princess, I assure you, my letters are merely reports of fact. If Prince Daemon finds them unflattering, perhaps he should consider adjusting the facts to better suit reality.”

Daemon clutched his chest in mock horror, the picture of wounded nobility. “Adjusting facts? My dear Lord Hand, are you suggesting I lie? I’m wounded. Truly.” He turned to Viserys with exaggerated pleading. “Brother, defend my honor! Tell them I am a paragon of virtue and restraint.”

Viserys, mid-bite into a honeyed pear, blinked owlishly before waving a greasy hand. “Hmm? Oh, yes, Daemon is... well, he’s something, isn’t he?”

Rhaenyra’s sudden snort of laughter into her cup drew several surprised glances from nearby courtiers. The sound was so unexpected that even Ser Harrold Westerling, standing stoically behind the king’s chair, cracked the barest hint of a smile beneath his white mustache.  

Daemon sighed dramatically, flopping back in his chair with the air of a man profoundly wronged. “Such faith my king has in me.” He leaned forward again, resting his chin on one hand like a mischievous child. “But come, Lord Otto, let us speak plainly for once. You think me reckless, don’t you?”

Otto folded his hands neatly before him, the very picture of composed statesmanship. “I think, Prince Daemon, that the realm requires stability above all else. Fire and blood make for stirring songs, but they do not fill granaries or ensure peaceful succession.”

“Peace?” Daemon laughed sharply. “Ah yes, that glorious peace where men like you whisper in corners and call it governance. Tell me, my lord, when you dream at night, do you see yourself as the power behind the throne, or simply the hand that guides the puppet?”

The temperature in the hall seemed to drop several degrees. Several conversations at nearby tables died abruptly as ears strained to catch every word of the exchange. Lady Redwyne nearly upended her wine in her haste to lean closer, while Lord Staunton suddenly found his fingernails utterly fascinating.  

Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed with dangerous amusement. “Lord Otto prefers the quieter arts, dear husband. Knives in the dark, ink on parchment... much cleaner than dragons, aren’t they? No mess, no noise — just a quick death, hidden behind a smile — gone before you even knew to scream.”  

Otto’s expression remained smooth, but those sitting nearest might have noticed the way his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his cup. “Princess, I serve the realm. If that requires... subtlety, so be it. Not all battles need be fought with flame and fury.”

Hearing that Daemon raised his goblet in a mocking toast. “To subtlety then — the last refuge of men who lack the courage to speak plainly and act boldly.”

The silence that followed was so complete one could have heard a pin drop in the far corners of the hall. Even the servants had frozen in place, their trays of delicacies momentarily forgotten. The tension hung thick, until —  

Viserys cleared his throat with forced joviality. “Now, now, let us not spoil a fine meal with... debate.” He reached for another quail leg with slightly too much enthusiasm, grease dripping onto the fine Myrish lace of his sleeve.  

Rhaenyra arched a single, elegant brow. “Why not, Father? A little debate keeps the court sharp. Otherwise, we might all grow as fat and content as the boar.”

Daemon’s grin turned wolfish. “And we wouldn’t want that, would we? After all, fat boars end up on the table.” His eyes locked onto Otto’s with deliberate provocation. “Or in the dirt.”  

The threat, wrapped though it was in courtly banter, landed with the weight of a warhammer. Several lords gasped audibly. Ser Criston Cole’s hand twitched toward his sword hilt before he caught himself. Even the ever-composed Queen Alicent, seated beside her father, went pale beneath her auburn curls, her fingers flew faster across the prayer beads now — as if the Seven themselves could protect her from the rogue prince’s mockery.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until —  

A sudden crash from the servants’ entrance shattered the moment. A kitchen boy had dropped an entire tray of lemon cakes, the porcelain shattering loudly across the flagstones. The court’s collective gaze swung toward the noise, and like that, the spell was broken.  

Viserys seized the opportunity with both hands. “Ah! Music! Where are our minstrels?” He clapped his hands with forced cheer. “Let us have some proper entertainment!”

As the musicians struck up a lively tune, the tension in the hall eased by degrees. Conversations resumed, though many eyes still darted toward the high table. Daemon leaned back, the picture of contentment, while Rhaenyra returned to her wine with a small, satisfied smile.  

Otto, for his part, maintained his composure with the skill of decades at court. But those sitting nearest to him might have noticed the way his knuckles whitened around the stem of his goblet, or how his jaw clenched just slightly tighter than usual.  

As the feast wore on and the wine flowed more freely, the court’s attention turned to the dancing that had begun in the center of the hall. Lords and ladies swirled in intricate patterns, their silks and velvets flashing in the torchlight like so many brightly-plumed birds. The earlier tension was forgotten — or at least carefully ignored — by most.  

***

The hour had grown late when Daemon found Rhaenyra on a secluded balcony overlooking the city. The sounds of merriment from the hall were distant here, replaced by the quiet hum of King’s Landing at night — the occasional shout from a tavern, the distant clatter of hooves on stone, the ever-present murmur of a city that never truly slept.  

The princess stood with her back to him, her silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. The night breeze carried the faint scent of her perfume — something exotic and faintly spicy, reminiscent of the eastern markets of Lys.  

“You enjoyed that,” she said without turning, her voice carrying clearly in the quiet night air.  

Daemon leaned against the balustrade beside her, close enough for conversation but far enough to maintain propriety — should anyone happen upon them. “And you didn’t?” He plucked a loose thread from his sleeve, his movements deliberately casual. “I saw you laughing into your cup when Viserys called me “something.”  

Rhaenyra exhaled through her nose, her gaze fixed on the distant glow of hearth fires across the city. “Otto won’t forget tonight. That was your intention, wasn’t it? To provoke him?”

Daemon shrugged carelessly. “Let him seethe. A man who fears words is no true threat to dragons.” He turned to face her fully now, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “But you know as well as I that this game won’t end with words. He’s already moving against you — he means to shove his grandson onto the throne.”

Rhaenyra finally turned to look at him, a ghost of a smile playing about her lips. “Foolish of you to think I haven’t noticed.”

“At least I am a charming fool,” he corrected, grinning.  

As ever, Rhaenyra could not resist — reaching out, she pulled Daemon to her. The silk of her gown touched the velvet of his doublet. For a long moment they stood together, savoring the rare absence of watching eyes. Then Rhaenyra’s expression sobered, and the moment passed.  

“He’ll move against you too, you know,” she said quietly. “Not openly, but—”

“But in the ways he knows best,” Daemon finished. “Whispers. Letters. Carefully placed rumors.” He made a show of examining his nails. “I welcome the challenge. Let him try to unseat me from Dragonstone. I’d enjoy watching him try.”

Rhaenyra studied him for a long moment, “You always did enjoy playing with fire.”

Daemon met her gaze squarely, his violet eyes glinting in the dim light. “With fire — yes. But where is the flame in Otto Hightower? The man is made of damp parchment. He fancies himself a master of courtly intrigue, of crafting letters, of hiring spies. While I, in his eyes, am but a brute who swings a sword and burns the world atop a dragon,” Daemon declared, with the certainty of a man who had already claimed victory.  

“Oh, that he does, alas,” Rhaenyra conceded.  

“Then mark my words, my love — I have outplayed him all the same.”

Rhaenyra gazed at him in surprise. But Daemon only smiled, sharp and cunning.  

“How exactly you outplayed him, I suppose I shall learn in due time,” Rhaenyra sighed, the ghost of a smile playing upon her lips — for when Daemon Targaryen moved in shadows, even she could not predict what flames would follow.

Somewhere in the distance, a dragon roared — whether Caraxes or Syrax, it was impossible to tell.

Rhaenyra turned back toward the hall, the moment broken. “Come. We should return before they send out search parties.”

“As my princess commands.” came the reply, as Daemon offered his arm with exaggerated gallantry.

***

As they reentered the hall, the warmth and noise washing over them like a wave, neither noticed the pair of keen brown eyes watching from the shadows. Alicent Hightower stood half-hidden behind a pillar, her fingers worrying at the fabric of her gown. The look she gave the two Targaryens was unreadable — but the way her gaze flicked toward her father, deep in conversation with Lord Strong, spoke volumes. Father and daughter still clung to their parchment plots and whispered schemes, weaving shadows against the king’s chosen heir and her consort.

As the hour grew late and the last of the guests began to depart, King Viserys, now deep in his cups, raised his goblet one final time.  

“To family!” he declared, his voice slurring slightly. “May we always stand united!”

A beat of silence. Then, as one, the court raised their cups in response.  

“To family!”

The chorus rang out, bright and hollow. Smiles were plastered on every face — Rhaenyra’s cool and knowing, Daemon’s sharp with amusement, Otto’s thin and calculating, Alicent’s tight with unspoken tension.  

Viserys beamed, blissfully unaware of the irony.  

As the toast ended, Daemon leaned toward Rhaenyra, his voice barely above a whisper. “United. Now there’s a jape worthy of a fool.”  

“Careful, Daemon. Fool he may be, but he is still my father and our king,” Rhaenyra chided, swatting his chest with feigned reproach.  

“Aye, that much is true,” Daemon conceded, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “Yet it does not make him any less a fool.”

***

The heavy oak door of Otto Hightower’s private chambers slammed shut with a satisfying thud. The moment he was alone, the carefully composed mask of the ever-diplomatic Hand of the King cracked like thin ice.  

“Damn them all,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his fingers curling into fists so tight his signet ring bit into flesh. The parchment-strewn desk before him bore the brunt of his fury as he swept an arm across it, sending ink pots, quills, and half-written letters crashing to the floor in a cacophony of frustration.  

A knock at the door.  

“My lord?” came the tentative voice of his steward.  

Otto drew a shuddering breath, straightening his doublet with sharp, precise movements. “Enter.”  

The steward peeked in, eyes widening at the destruction. “Shall I... summon the maids to clean, my lord?”

“No.” Otto’s voice was ice. “Leave me. And send for Larys Strong. At once.”

As the door closed again, Otto moved to the sideboard and poured himself an unusually large measure of Dornish red. The first swallow burned, but he welcomed it — anything to wash the bitter taste of tonight’s humiliations from his mouth.  

That insolent, preening dragon prince. That sharp-tongued princess with her mocking violet eyes. And worst of all, Viserys — blind, foolish, useless Viserys with his drunken toasts to unity while vipers coiled around his throne.  

The wine goblet trembled slightly in his hand.  

A knock sounded at the door, followed by the faint creak of hinges as it swung open. Then — uneven footsteps and the rhythmic tap-click of a cane.

"You called for me, Lord Hand?"  

Otto didn’t turn. “Tell me, Larys. How many servants in the Red Keep owe you favors?”

The Clubfoot’s smile was audible in his voice. “Enough.”  

“Good.” Otto finally turned, his face a mask of calm fury. “Then let us discuss how many ears we need in Dragonstone. How many of your little birds can we place in Daemon’s household?”

Larys made a show of considering, tapping his cane thoughtfully. “Ah. That might prove... problematic.”  

“How so?”

“It appears Prince Daemon has been quite busy lately.” Larys’ smile turned apologetic. “All of my usual contacts on the island now report to him. At triple their usual rates, I’m told.”  

Otto’s cup froze halfway to his lips. “All of them?”

“Every last one.” Larys sighed. “He even sent me a note thanking me for training them so well. With a rather crude drawing of a dragon, if memory serves.”  

The goblet hit the wall with a metallic clang, spraying wine across the Myrish tapestry Alicent had gifted him last nameday. Otto’s usually pale complexion flushed an ugly red.  

“That arrogant, preening—”

“Indeed,” Larys agreed mildly. “Though one must admire his thoroughness. He’s even recruited the kitchen scullions. Apparently, he pays them more than I do, and those who find it insufficient get acquainted with the prince’s dragon.”  

Otto’s eye twitched. A vein pulsed at his temple. For the first time in his decades at court, words failed him.  

Larys cleared his throat. “Shall I attempt to cultivate new sources?”  

“Do it,” Otto ground out. “And Larys? No one is to know of this. No one.”  

“Of course, my lord.” Larys bowed, the picture of deference. As he turned to leave, he paused. “Oh, and you might want to know — Daemon’s latest shipment of spies included your new cupbearer. The quiet one with blond hair?”  

And so it turned out Otto himself had been watched all along... A choked sound escaped his throat, “Bloody hells!”

“Seems Daemon has a taste for letter games after all — not just swordplay.” observed Larys, lingering in the doorway for another moment. “And yet… The Rogue Prince with a quill is twice as dangerous as with a blade — at least you see the sword coming.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Otto Hightower alone with his fury and a growing suspicion that somewhere on Dragonstone, Daemon Targaryen was laughing himself sick.