~129 A.C~
King's Landing

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THE RED KEEP
The grand feasting hall of the Red Keep was bathed in the flickering glow of countless torches and candelabras, their flames casting long shadows over the richly adorned chamber. Tapestries of Targaryen colors hung from the walls, their intricate embroidery illuminated by the golden light. The air was thick with the aroma of roasted meats, spiced wine, and honeyed fruits, yet beneath the surface of revelry lingered an undeniable tension, palpable even to the servants moving soundlessly between the tables.

King Viserys Targaryen, gaunt and weary, yet determined, sat at the head of the long oaken table, clad in his finest robes of black and red, his crown slightly askew atop his thinning silver hair. He had ordered this dinner to unite his divided house, to mend the rift between his beloved daughter Rhaenyra and his wife, Alicent. His labored breathing and tired eyes betrayed his frailty, but his presence alone commanded the attention of all.

To his right sat Queen Alicent Hightower, ever poised in her emerald-green gown, the color a silent declaration of her faction. Her auburn hair was meticulously braided, her expression one of quiet restraint as she sat beside her father Otto Hightower and her children—Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena—each of whom bore their own emotions about the night's events. Prince Daeron, the youngest and yet most victorious, was seated with a quiet confidence, his recent triumph at the tourney still fresh in his mind. His sapphire cloak, the symbol of his victory, was draped proudly over his shoulders as he occasionally stole glances toward Princess Vellena Velaryon.

On the king's left sat Princess Rhaenyra, regal in deep red and black, her Valyrian heritage evident in the proud tilt of her chin. Beside her, Prince Daemon lounged with his usual air of dangerous amusement, sipping from his goblet while his sharp eyes watched the table like a dragon assessing its prey. Rhaenyra's sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, sat beside them, the former exchanging measured glances with Prince Aemond across the table, the memory of past grievances simmering beneath the surface.

Further down the table, Baela Targaryen, Daemon's fierce and spirited daughter, sat beside Lucerys, her silver-gold curls cascading down her back. Though close in age, Baela had always been the more outspoken, and her presence beside Luke was one of quiet support. Next to her, Jocelyn Velaryon, daughter of Rhaenys and Corlys, sat in a gown of sea-blue, her dark eyes watchful as she listened to the conversations around her. On Luke's other side, Rhaena Targaryen, Baela's twin, sat between Luke and her father, her posture more reserved but her gaze flickering toward her sister and aunt with warmth.

At the center of it all was young Princess Vellena Velaryon, the newly crowned Queen of Love and Beauty, sat beside her newly betrothed Daeron. Clad in a gown of deep blue and silver, the colors of House Velaryon, she was the picture of noble grace, though her violet eyes darted cautiously between the two feuding factions. The weight of her betrothal to Prince Daeron was fresh, and though he had honored her in the lists, their future together was still a realm of uncertainty.

The mood at the table was light enough, but a tension lingered just beneath the surface as Jacaerys, Lucerys, Baela, Rhaena, and Jocelyn sat together, their voices soft amid the hum of distant conversation. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting warm light on the young faces gathered around. Jacaerys, ever the gentleman, leaned forward slightly, a faint smile on his lips as he looked at Jocelyn, who sat a little apart from the others, her fingers nervously fiddling with the edge of her sleeve.

"Jocelyn," Jacaerys began, his tone soft and open, trying to draw her in without overwhelming her, "I wanted to thank you again for the favor you gave me at the tourney. It was a kind gesture."

Jocelyn's cheeks flushed a deep crimson, her dark eyes flicking down to her lap as though she could hide beneath the table. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "It was nothing, really," she mumbled, clearly uncomfortable with the attention but too polite to brush him off entirely.

Baela, ever the curious one, raised an eyebrow and leaned over toward Jace, her voice tinged with mischief. "It didn't look like 'nothing' to me," she teased lightly. "A little too much excitement for such a simple favor."

Jacaerys chuckled, not at all put off by his stepsister's playful jab. He gave her a quick glance but his focus remained on Jocelyn, hoping she would feel at ease. "I suppose I did want to get a rise out of someone, though not the one I expected." His smile softened. "But I didn't mean it as you might think. I just wanted to be kind."

Jocelyn's gaze finally lifted, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment before she looked away again. The smallest of smiles tugged at her lips. "You were kind," she replied softly. "I... didn't expect it, but I was glad to do it."

Lucerys, sensing the subtle tension in the air, leaned in slightly, his expression gentle. "It wasn't a bad thing to do," he added with a nod, trying to make Jocelyn feel comfortable. "Jace does things like that sometimes... tries to make people feel welcome."

Baela smirked at her stepbrother. "You make people feel something, that's for sure," she said, but her teasing was more affectionate than mocking. "Just don't go picking fights with everyone, Jace. The tourney's already over."

Rhaena, who had been quietly listening, smiled in a way that was almost shy, yet warm. "It's nice of you, Jacaerys. I think Jocelyn appreciates it." Her voice was soft, but there was an unmistakable kindness in it as she glanced at Jocelyn, her gaze filled with understanding.

Jocelyn's eyes softened at Rhaena's words, though she still seemed a little unsure. She cleared her throat and slowly looked back at Jace, meeting his eyes for a little longer this time. "I—I just don't know what to say. It's not easy for me, being at such a large table with so many people."

Jacaerys nodded sympathetically, his voice full of quiet sincerity. "You don't have to say anything more, Jocelyn. I just wanted you to know that I appreciate it. Ignore half of the table and it'll be alright"

The others fell into a companionable silence for a moment, each of them keenly aware of how delicate the conversation was, and how rare it was for Jocelyn to open up like this. The warmth in the room seemed to grow slightly, the firelight reflecting in their eyes. Even Baela, who had once prided herself on teasing and stirring things up, looked quietly supportive of the moment.

Baela leaned back in her chair, the mischievous edge to her voice softening as she glanced at her brother. "Well, it seems you can be nice when you want to be," she teased lightly, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Jacaerys gave her a look, but it was more resigned than defensive. "It's not always about what I want, Baela. Sometimes... people just need a little kindness. And just so you know, I'm always nice with ladies"

From the other side of the long feasting table, Princess Vellena Velaryon sat in silence, her goblet resting untouched between her fingers as her gaze lingered on the small group gathered across from her. Jacaerys, Lucerys, Baela, Rhaena, and Jocelyn sat close together, their voices low but warm, their laughter occasional but easy. But it was the way Jacaerys leaned in toward Jocelyn, the way he spoke to her so gently, that made something coil tightly in Vellena's chest. She didn't understand why, but she hated watching them talk.

Jocelyn was quiet, shy, barely speaking above a whisper, and yet Jacaerys looked at her with something that Vellena could not quite place. Interest? Amusement? A desire to protect? She could not tell, but whatever it was, it bothered her more than it should have. Jocelyn had always been kind, always withdrawn, but now, under Jace's attention, she was smiling, her voice soft but steady. Vellena's fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet, and she quickly averted her gaze, feeling foolish for even caring.

Beside her, Daeron Targaryen sat with quiet poise, his presence steady, a contrast to the storm unexpectedly brewing in her mind. He had noticed her distraction, the way her violet eyes had clouded with some unspoken thought, but he did not press. Instead, in a voice as smooth as the silk of his sapphire cloak, he simply asked, "Would you like something to drink?"

Vellena blinked, startled, as though shaken from a trance. For a brief moment, she felt disoriented, as if waking from a dream she could not recall. Her gaze shifted to Daeron, his face calm, his expression respectful, giving no indication that he had caught her staring or noticed the tension she barely understood herself.

She exhaled softly, then let a small, almost weary smile cross her lips. "I would have some wine," she said, her voice quieter than usual.

Daeron inclined his head slightly, reaching for the nearest pitcher and pouring her a generous serving of rich red wine. He said nothing more, did not pry, did not tease, only ensuring her cup was full before returning to his own. It was a simple kindness, an effortless act of courtesy, but for some reason, it grounded her.

Vellena took a slow sip, feeling the warmth of the wine spread through her, and when she glanced back across the table, she forced herself to ignore the way Jacaerys and Jocelyn continued their conversation. Instead, she turned her focus to Daeron, offering him another small, genuine smile.

As the last of the wine was poured and the final dishes were placed upon the long oaken table, Queen Alicent Hightower cleared her throat softly, drawing the attention of those seated around her. The flickering candlelight cast warm shadows across her composed face, but there was a quiet firmness in her expression as she folded her hands neatly before her.

"Prayer before we begin?" she asked, her voice gentle yet carrying the weight of expectation.

A brief silence fell over the table. The Hightowers-this was custom to them, second nature. Aegon shifted lazily in his seat, Aemond remained impassive, and Daeron, ever composed, simply inclined his head in silent acceptance. Helaena, in her own world, murmured something under her breath, her gaze distant.

But across the table, the Targaryens from Dragonstone hesitated. Rhaenyra blinked, her brows lifting ever so slightly in mild surprise. Jacaerys and Lucerys exchanged a quick glance, uncertain. Baela and Rhaena, seated near their father, looked similarly puzzled but said nothing. Jocelyn, seated between them, remained quiet.

Daemon, seated at Rhaenyra's side, smirked faintly, his violet eyes glinting with something close to amusement as he studied his wife. His fingers drummed once against the wood of the table, as if resisting the urge to make some sharp remark, but for once, he held his tongue.

On Dragonstone, they did not pray before meals. The Targaryens, descended from Old Valyria, had little use for the customs of the Seven. They honored their dragons, their blood, their history—but not the gods of the Andals, not in the way the Faithful did. It was not a part of their daily life.

But King Viserys, weary and frail at the head of the table, stirred slightly at Alicent's words, his gaze flickering toward his daughter and her family. "Yes"

Rhaenyra saw it. And so, with a small nod, she folded her hands together, bowing her head ever so slightly. One by one, her sons followed, their movements hesitant but obedient. Baela and Rhaena, though uncertain, did the same. Even Daemon, after a moment of pointed stillness, gave the barest tilt of his chin and rested his hand over his goblet, playing along with an ease that was almost theatrical.

Satisfied, Alicent closed her eyes and began the prayer, her voice soft yet steady, murmuring words of gratitude to the Seven—thanking the Father for his wisdom, the Mother for her mercy, the Warrior for their strength, the Crone for her guidance.

"May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love."

"May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long."

"And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest."

Across the table, Daemon Targaryen let out a quiet, breathy chuckle. It wasn't loud, nor was it overtly mocking, but it was enough. A smirk curled at the edges of his lips as he tilted his goblet slightly, as if to toast to the late Vaemond himself.

King Viserys shifted weakly in his seat, the movement slow and labored, but there was determination in the way he straightened his frail body. His breath was uneven, and his once-strong hands trembled slightly as he reached for his goblet. The conversation had dulled into quiet murmurs around the table, but as he sat up, all eyes turned toward him.

"How good it is... to see you all tonight... together."

Rhaenyra watched her father closely, concern flickering in her gaze, while Alicent instinctively leaned forward, as if ready to assist him should he falter. But Viserys, ever the king, would not be coddled. Not tonight.

"This is an occasion for celebration, it seems"

With great effort, he raised his goblet, his voice hoarse but carrying the weight of his love for his family.

"To my grandson, Lucerys," he said, pausing to take a shallow breath. "Betrothed now to
Baela, securing the strength of House Velaryon and the legacy of Driftmark."

Lucerys, caught slightly off guard, blinked before straightening in his seat.Baela, sitting between him and Jocelym, lowered her gaze, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her own goblet. She had always known this match was expected, but hearing it spoken so publicly made it all the more real.

The hall was quiet for a moment, and then Viserys continued, his tired eyes shifting to where Vellena sat beside Daeron. His granddaughter—so young, yet already carrying the weight of expectation upon her delicate shoulders. And Daeron, his youngest son, the golden child of the family, poised and ever respectful.

"And to my granddaughter, Vellena," Viserys said with effort, his voice thick with emotion, "who has been honored this day by Prince Daeron, the champion of the tourney. May this betrothal bring peace and prosperity to our house."

Vellena, who had been picking at the stem of her goblet, quickly lifted her head. She felt the weight of her grandfather's gaze, and though her heart still felt tangled from earlier, she managed a soft, graceful smile. Beside her, Daeron inclined his head slightly, ever the picture of chivalry.

"A toast to the young Prince and Princess... and their betrothed. Hear, hear!"

"Your little brother's betrothed, your little sister is betrothed... but you, nephew?" Aegon smirked, swirling the wine in his goblet lazily. "What do you know of women?"

Jace's grip on his own goblet tightened, his knuckles white against the silver. He inhaled slowly through his nose, trying to keep his face impassive, but the taunt struck deeper than he would have liked. Because in that moment, he did know. More than Aegon likely expected.

The memory of Tyrosh came unbidden—of the Stepstones, the war, the victory. And then, in the aftermath, the pleasure house draped in silks of gold and red, the scent of myrrh thick in the air, and her. Mya. Not deflowered by any other man yet. Dark-eyed, fiery hair, warm-skinned, and gasping so softly as he tasted her, then she had pulled him down with her, showing him the ways of pleasure in a way no noble lady ever could. But that is the past and will forever remain in the past.

Jacaerys exhaled sharply through his nose, composing himself. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward Aegon, his lips curling into a smirk. His voice was low, just for him.

"I know," he whispered, his tone rich with satisfaction, "I should lick before shoving inside."

Rhaenyra, mid-sip of her wine, choked violently, barely managing to catch the spill as she coughed into her goblet.

Daemon, seated beside her, looked stunned for a moment—his brows raised, mouth slightly open—but then, the corner of his lips twitched into something dangerously close to pride.

Jocelyn, poor, innocent Jocelyn, sitting just across from Jace, went stiff as a board. Her eyes were huge, her face burning red as she stared at her cousin with the expression of someone who had just questioned every life choice that had led her to this moment. For a brief second, she looked as if she longed to be anywhere else—Storm's End, the Vale, even the Silent Sisters—anywhere but here.

Aegon, for his part, was not expecting that. His jaw dropped, his goblet pausing mid-air. He blinked at Jace as if seeing him for the first time, his mind scrambling for a response. But there was none. So, after a moment of stunned silence, he just let out a huff, rolled his eyes, and turned back to his meal, shoving a piece of roasted boar into his mouth.

"It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table.
The faces most dear to me in all the world... yet grown so distant from each other... in the years past." Viserys continued his speech unaware of the tensions already building at the table.

He took off the mask that covered half of his face to show himself maybe for the last time.
"My own face... is no longer a handsome one... if indeed it ever was. But tonight... I wish you to see me... as I am. Not just a king... but your father. Your brother. Your husband... and your grand sire. Who may not, it seems... walk for much longer among you."

His breathing grew heavier with each word "Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts.
The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown... then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly," he fell back into the chair with the mask clutching in his hand.

Rhaenyra, still standing halfway out of her seat, exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Her father's plea echoed in her mind—his desperate wish for unity, for peace. He had done everything in his power to bring them together, even in his weakest state.

And so, despite the tension that had festered for years, despite the old wounds and new, Rhaenyra picked up her goblet and rose fully to her feet.

The movement drew all eyes to her. Jace and Luke straightened in their seats. Daemon turned his head slightly, watching her with quiet interest. Across the table, Alicent stilled, her brows knitting slightly, unsure of what was to come.

Rhaenyra inhaled, then lifted her cup higher.

"I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood... more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with... unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude... and my apology."

Alicent's lips parted slightly, something unreadable flickering in her expression.

Rhaenyra met her eyes across the table, and though there was history between them—years of pain, of broken friendship—there was also truth in her words.

"Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers... and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow."

Then, with measured grace, Alicent stood. She did not look away from Rhaenyra as she lifted her goblet in turn.

"I raise my cup to you... and to your house. You will make a fine queen."

The tension that had loomed over the table did not vanish entirely, but for the first time in a long while, there was something fragile, something almost hopeful between them.

Aegon rose from his seat with deliberate laziness, goblet in hand, making his way around the long table toward the pitcher of wine. His movements were slow, unhurried, as if the entire evening had been nothing but a dull amusement to him. But as he reached the other side of the table, he paused—right between Baela and Jocelyn.

Jocelyn stiffened at his sudden proximity, instinctively pulling her hands into her lap. Baela, ever perceptive, narrowed her eyes slightly but said nothing—yet.

Aegon leaned down ever so slightly, lowering his voice so only Jocelyn could hear. His breath was warm, tinged with wine, and his words were laced with drunken arrogance.

"I must say, I have never seen someone as beautiful as you, Lady Jocelyn." His tone was sweet, but the smirk curling at his lips was anything but. "It is a pity, truly, that you have no husband. No one to warm your bed, to see to your... needs."

Jocelyn's fingers curled into her skirts, her throat tightening. She willed herself to remain composed, though she felt Baela's presence tense beside her.

Aegon took a sip from his goblet, then turned his head slightly—just enough to glance at Vellena. His niece sat across the table, completely unaware, focused instead on her conversation with Daeron. Aegon's smirk deepened before he leaned in again, his breath ghosting against Jocelyn's ear.

"And if my brother Daeron won't satisfy my dear niece," he murmured, "I certainly will."

The words sent a hot rush of disgust through Jocelyn, but before she could recoil, before Baela could react—

A sudden, violent slam shook the table.

Jacaerys had risen, his palm striking the wood so forcefully that goblets rattled, wine sloshing over the rims. The sharp, echoing crack of impact silenced the entire room.

Every head turned toward him.

Daemon leaned forward in his chair, a slow smirk playing on his lips, his gaze flicking between his stepson and his drunken nephew. Rhaenyra, meanwhile, stared at Jace with veiled concern, her goblet hovering mid-air.

Vellena swallowed meeting her brother's furious gaze, which slightly calmed at the sight of her. With a sharp exhale, Jace took his cup and raised it in the air and spoke with a forced smile.
"To Prince Aegon and... Prince Aemond.
We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth.
And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family's good health, dear uncles."

Then, his eyes shifted, finding Vellena where she sat beside Daeron. His sister—his sweet, golden-haired sister, who still did not seem to realize the weight of what was happening around her. His smile softened, just a fraction, as he raised his goblet higher.

"And to my sister, Vellena," he said, his voice gaining strength. "Who, on this day, has reached her sixteenth nameday—her maturity. May you be blessed with many more years of happiness and health."

Vellena, who had tensed slightly during the earlier exchange, now blinked, caught off guard. She looked at her brother for a moment, studying his expression, before offering a small, graceful smile. "Thank you, Jace," she said softly, raising her own goblet in return.

Jace's gaze flicked to Daeron. The golden prince. The beloved son. Jacaerys had never hated Daeron. He had never thought of him much at all—until now. Until he had been promised to Vellena. Until he had been placed in Jace's path as yet another piece of this endless game.

Jace met Daeron's gaze, his smile never faltering.

"And to her betrothed," he continued, voice smooth as silk. "My dear uncle, Prince Daeron. May he return safely to Oldtown on the morrow."

May he return safely—if I let him.

Daeron, ever composed, inclined his head in polite acknowledgment. "Thank you, Jacaerys"

They drank. Jace's wine was rich and dark, but it tasted of blood on his tongue.

The air remained thick with tension as Jace took his seat once more, his goblet still in hand. Conversations murmured back to life, though some at the table continued casting wary glances between him and Aegon.

Then, in the midst of it all, sweet Helaena Targaryen—ever dreamy, ever lost in thoughts no one else could follow—lifted her goblet.

"To Vellena and Baela," she said, her voice soft but clear.

The attention at the table shifted toward her. She smiled faintly, her expression distant, yet sincere as she glanced between her young nieces. "You will both be married soon. A great change, but not so bad, truly."

Baela and Vellena exchanged glances, the former tilting her head slightly in curiosity while the latter simply offered a polite smile.

Helaena took a small sip of her wine, then continued, almost absently, "The husband mostly ignores you... except when he is drunk."

Aegon stiffened beside her, his goblet halting mid-air.

Baela's eyes widened slightly, and Vellena blinked, unsure if she had misheard. Across the table, Alicent's face froze in an expression of tightly restrained horror, her hand clenching against the stem of her cup.

Daemon let out a soft, amused snort, while Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, fighting a smirk. Even Jace, despite the storm still brewing in his chest, could not help but glance toward his uncle Aegon with barely concealed satisfaction.

Everyone at the table started laughing and clapping for Helaena.

Helaena, entirely unbothered, simply smiled as she sat back down, folding her hands in her lap as if she had just offered a perfectly ordinary toast.

As the laughter gradually subsided, Daemon leaned slightly toward Rhaenyra, murmuring with a smirk, "I quite like her."

Rhaenyra sighed, shaking her head but smiling nonetheless. "I always have."

King Viserys, still reclined in his chair but watching the scene unfold with tired yet contented eyes, let out a breath. A small, wistful smile graced his lips as he lifted a hand weakly.

"There should be music," he murmured, his voice hoarse but resolute.

The servants, quick to obey, signaled to the musicians at the far end of the hall. Within moments, the soft, lilting notes of a lute filled the air, followed by the gentle harmony of a harp. The melody was light, a tune meant for feasting and dancing.

As conversation resumed, Jacaerys stood from his seat. He moved slowly, deliberately, his goblet now forgotten. With every step, he could feel Aegon's gaze burning into him, but he paid it no mind.

Stopping beside Helaena, he extended his hand in silence, offering her a soft, warm smile.

The princess blinked up at him, clearly surprised. For a brief moment, she hesitated—then, as if pulled by some unseen force, she placed her delicate hand in his.

Jace curled his fingers gently around hers and, without a word, led her toward the open space before the hearth where dancing was meant to be had.

Aegon's goblet froze halfway to his lips, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Across from him, Aemond sat utterly still, his one eye locking onto his sister's hand in Jace's as they moved away from the table.

The two brothers exchanged a glance—sharp, cold, unreadable.

Jace did not look back at them.

Helaena followed him easily, her steps light, her expression unreadable as she studied her nephew. She had not expected this, nor did she quite understand it.

King Viserys, feeling too ill, had been taken back to his chambers.

Then, the roasted pig was brought forth.

The servants carried it carefully, placing it right before Prince Aemond. Its golden-brown skin glistened under the candlelight, its rich aroma filling the hall. But what caught the attention of those near enough to see—what made Lucerys stifle an immediate, ill-advised chuckle—was that the pig was missing an eye.

A cruel trick of butchery, or perhaps the work of an unwitting kitchen hand, but to Luke, it was unmistakable. A pig with one eye.

A memory flashed—of boys younger, more reckless, of childish pranks in the Dragonpit. Of "The Pink Dread."

Lucerys bit his lip, but the laughter slipped through—a quiet, amused breath that he barely contained behind his goblet.

Across from him, Aemond heard it. Felt it.

The sound ignited something deep within him, something that had been simmering beneath his carefully maintained composure all evening. The laughter of a boy who had taken something from him and never paid the price.

Aemond's grip tightened around his cup. His jaw clenched.

Then, without warning, his fist came down, slamming against the table.

"Final tribute. To the health of my nephews: Jace... Luke... and Joffrey and of my dear niece: Vellena. Each of them handsome, wise... hm... strong. Come... let us drain our cups to these three...Strong boys and to their witch sister"

Jace stopped his dance with Helaena turning around to meet Aemond's gaze, his fists clenching at his sides.
"I dare you say that again"

As if on cue, Daeron straightened in his chair, his face impassive but his posture alert. Vellena's eyes narrowed, violet irises flashing with something sharp, something dangerous that no one at the table had seen from her before.

She rose to her feet, her movements fluid, but there was a steel in her spine now, an edge that hadn't been there before. Her hand, still holding her goblet, clenched tightly around it, but her gaze—her gaze was locked on Aemond.

"YOU LEAVE MY BROTHERS OUT OF THIS, UGLY BITCH!" Vellena snapped pushing Aemond backwards but he merely faltered.

"You must give me your eye, whore" Aemond growled before he pushed her down into the floor then his cheek made contact with Jace's fist.

The tension in the room snapped like a taut rope, and it all happened so quickly.

Aegon, ever the instigator, had seen enough. His patience with the evening—and with Jacaerys, Lucerys, and their antics—had worn thin. His temper flared in a flash, and before anyone could react, he reached out, grabbing Lucerys by the collar and slamming his nephew's head hard onto the table.

The sound of the impact was sharp and loud, echoing through the hall like a thunderclap. Lucerys groaned, his hands flying to his forehead as the sudden pain sent a shockwave through him. His goblet tipped over, spilling wine across the table.

Daemon strode forward, his expression cold and unreadable, positioning himself between Aemond and Jace as if to ward off any further violence. His hand folded to the front—an unspoken but unmistakable warning to both his nephews and anyone who dared challenge the fragile peace that remained. His presence was enough to halt Aegon's rage for the moment.

At the sight of her brother in pain, Vellena's blood ran cold. Her face contorted with rage, her eyes blazing. Without a second thought, she grabbed a nearby cup of wine, her grip so tight the glass threatened to shatter. In one swift, decisive motion, she stood up and poured the entire contents over Aegon's head.

The wine splashed through his hair, staining his face and tunic with deep red. Aegon froze for a moment, his mouth half-open in surprise.

Daemon's eyes flicked to each of them, his gaze lingering on Aegon. "Enough," he said, his voice low and dangerous. It was not a request—it was a command.

Aemond hummed before walking off, Daemon turned towards Rhaenyra with a chuckle.
Rhaenyra sent all the children to their beds highly disappointed in their behavior.
The dinner, meant to heal wounds, had only served to deepen them.

NEW CHAPTER!
I know I promised a surprise, but it will be in the next chapter because this chapter is already too long😭
Love y'all. Thank you for the support
Hope you enjoy it<333