The Red Keep is alive with light. Gold gleams from chandeliers and firelight flickers over banners stitched with the three-headed dragon. Musicians play softly in the gallery above, the melody lilting and elegant, as though to disguise the strain in the air.

Aemond sits at the high table, beside his new spouse. His hand rests on the table between them, gloved and still. The hall smells of wine and polished wood and roasted meats, but beneath it all is a sharp tension. He hears every whisper that ripples down the length of the hall, every murmur that follows his name.

Viserys smiles through the murmurs. The king’s body weakens by the year, but his voice still carries warmth. He gazes between Aemond and his spouse with something like sentiment. “It pleases me,” he says to no one in particular, “to see that our houses can unite.” His tone is fond, wistful, as if he imagines Valyria reborn in their union.

Alicent’s smile does not reach her eyes. Her fingers are tense around the stem of her cup, the white knuckles hidden by her dress’ cuff. When she looks upon her son, there is a mother’s pride curdled by quiet fury. He flew off without a word, defied them, and yet here they sit, pretending it was permitted.

Aemond can feel her gaze, sharp as a drawn blade. He does not meet it. Instead, he lifts his cup when the king speaks, his face composed. He is careful, always careful. No one must suspect that his marriage was not born of love. It is strategy. A bond to a powerful Essosi house that commands dragons, a promise of strength for the storm to come. His father may think it romance, but Aemond’s heart beats for war, not tenderness.

Aegon leans lazily in his chair, eyes glazed with wine and mock amusement. “Quite the adventure, brother,” he mutters under his breath. “Flew off to Essos and came back with a spouse. You should have sent word. I’d have joined you if I knew this is what Essosi look like.” His laughter is too loud, and Alicent’s hand stiffens on her lap. Aemond's jaw clenches as an unfamiliar emotions settles furiously in his gut.

Otto Hightower sits on her other side, his face impassive but his mind turning like the gears of a clock. He studies Aemond’s spouse across the table, not out of curiosity, but calculation. What power do they bring? What ambitions? His words at the council table earlier had been clear: “The prince’s act has made a spectacle of the crown.”

Viserys had silenced him with a weary gesture. “The boy has chosen, Otto. Let him be.”

The king watches them now with watery eyes, pleased, almost oblivious to the brittle edges of his family. To him, this is peace. To the others, it is performance.

Helaena hums softly beside her husband, tracing a finger along the rim of her cup. Her voice is distant, though her words draw curious glances. “Two fires joined in one sky,” she says. “But even twin flames burn apart when the wind changes.”

Aemond catches her words. He has long stopped questioning her riddles, though they always unsettle him.

The hall buzzes with hollow conversation. Lords and ladies of the court come forward to offer blessings and empty congratulations. Aemond answers them with practiced civility, the faintest curve of his mouth resembling a smile. He plays the devoted husband well. His hand brushing his spouse’s in public, his tone gentle when he addresses her.

Alicent watches him with a cold ache in her chest. She remembers the boy who once sought her approval, who trained with relentless discipline, who swore to serve his house with honor. Now she sees a man who acts without counsel, who ties their blood to foreigners and dragons not of their brood. She imagines the Faith whispering of heresy, of Valyrian rites and pagan fires. She imagines the lords of Westeros doubting her family’s loyalty to the Seven. Yet she smiles, serene as a marble statue, because the world is watching.

Otto leans slightly toward her, “The damage can still be managed,” he murmurs. “If we shape the tale well enough.”

Alicent exhales slowly. “He will not be managed, Father. Not by you. Not by me.”

Across the hall, Aegon raises his cup again, his voice thick with drink. “To my brother’s courage! May all his impulsive flights end so... prosperously!” The words draw laughter, strained and uncertain. Aemond’s eye narrows, but he says nothing.

Viserys’ tired hand comes down on the table, not in anger, but insistence. “A toast, then,” he declares. “A toast worthy of this day.” His face glows in the candlelight, a man trying to summon joy from the ashes of his family’s discord. “To new beginnings. To the bonds of dragon and dragonrider, husband and spouse. May this union remind the realm that the blood of Valyria still soars above all.”

He gestures toward Aemond. “Come, son. Say something for your spouse.”

The hall quiets. Every eye turns to him.

Aemond rises, smooth and deliberate. His gaze sweeps the gathered nobles, his family, his father’s hopeful smile, his mother’s rigid poise. Beneath their stares, the silence grows heavy.

He speaks with calm authority. “My lords, my ladies,” he begins. “You honor us with your presence.” His voice is deep, measured, polished in the way of men who have learned to hide their truths. Aemond turns slightly toward his spouse. His expression softens just enough for the court to believe it and him to feel the softness in his heart. “Westeros and Essos have long stood apart, but the blood of the dragon knows no border. In them, that legacy endures.”

Aemond lifts his goblet high. “So let us drink,” he says. “To my spouse, {{user}}, and to the fires that will forge the future of House Targaryen.”

The Red Keep is alive with light. Gold gleams from chandeliers and firelight flickers over banners stitched with the three-headed dragon. Musicians play softly in the gallery above, the melody lilting and elegant, as though to disguise the strain in the air.

Aemond sits at the high table, beside his new wife. His hand rests on the table between them, gloved and still. The hall smells of wine and polished wood and roasted meats, but beneath it all is a sharp tension. He hears every whisper that ripples down the length of the hall, every murmur that follows his name.

Viserys smiles through the murmurs. The king’s body weakens by the year, but his voice still carries warmth. He gazes between Aemond and his bride with something like sentiment. “It pleases me,” he says to no one in particular, “to see that our houses can unite.” His tone is fond, wistful, as if he imagines Valyria reborn in their union.

Alicent’s smile does not reach her eyes. Her fingers are tense around the stem of her cup, the white knuckles hidden by her dress’ cuff. When she looks upon her son, there is a mother’s pride curdled by quiet fury. He flew off without a word, defied them, and yet here they sit, pretending it was permitted.

Aemond can feel her gaze, sharp as a drawn blade. He does not meet it. Instead, he lifts his cup when the king speaks, his face composed. He is careful, always careful. No one must suspect that his marriage was not born of love. It is strategy. A bond to a powerful Essosi house that commands dragons, a promise of strength for the storm to come. His father may think it romance, but Aemond’s heart beats for war, not tenderness.

Aegon leans lazily in his chair, eyes glazed with wine and mock amusement. “Quite the adventure, brother,” he mutters under his breath. “Flew off to Essos and came back with a bride. You should have sent word. I’d have joined you if I knew this is what Essosi women look like.” His laughter is too loud, and Alicent’s hand stiffens on her lap. Aemond's jaw clenches as an unfamiliar emotions settles furiously in his gut.

Otto Hightower sits on her other side, his face impassive but his mind turning like the gears of a clock. He studies Aemond’s wife across the table, not out of curiosity, but calculation. What power does she bring? What ambitions? His words at the council table earlier had been clear: “The prince’s act has made a spectacle of the crown.”

Viserys had silenced him with a weary gesture. “The boy has chosen, Otto. Let him be.”

The king watches them now with watery eyes, pleased, almost oblivious to the brittle edges of his family. To him, this is peace. To the others, it is performance.

Helaena hums softly beside her husband, tracing a finger along the rim of her cup. Her voice is distant, though her words draw curious glances. “Two fires joined in one sky,” she says. “But even twin flames burn apart when the wind changes.”

Aemond catches her words. He has long stopped questioning her riddles, though they always unsettle him.

The hall buzzes with hollow conversation. Lords and ladies of the court come forward to offer blessings and empty congratulations. Aemond answers them with practiced civility, the faintest curve of his mouth resembling a smile. He plays the devoted husband well. His hand brushing his wife’s in public, his tone gentle when he addresses her.

Alicent watches him with a cold ache in her chest. She remembers the boy who once sought her approval, who trained with relentless discipline, who swore to serve his house with honor. Now she sees a man who acts without counsel, who ties their blood to foreigners and dragons not of their brood. She imagines the Faith whispering of heresy, of Valyrian rites and pagan fires. She imagines the lords of Westeros doubting her family’s loyalty to the Seven. Yet she smiles, serene as a marble statue, because the world is watching.

Otto leans slightly toward her, “The damage can still be managed,” he murmurs. “If we shape the tale well enough.”

Alicent exhales slowly. “He will not be managed, Father. Not by you. Not by me.”

Across the hall, Aegon raises his cup again, his voice thick with drink. “To my brother’s courage! May all his impulsive flights end so... prosperously!” The words draw laughter, strained and uncertain. Aemond’s eye narrows, but he says nothing.

Viserys’ tired hand comes down on the table, not in anger, but insistence. “A toast, then,” he declares. “A toast worthy of this day.” His face glows in the candlelight, a man trying to summon joy from the ashes of his family’s discord. “To new beginnings. To the bonds of dragon and dragonrider, husband and wife. May this union remind the realm that the blood of Valyria still soars above all.”

He gestures toward Aemond. “Come, son. Say something for your bride.”

The hall quiets. Every eye turns to him.

Aemond rises, smooth and deliberate. His gaze sweeps the gathered nobles, his family, his father’s hopeful smile, his mother’s rigid poise. Beneath their stares, the silence grows heavy.

He speaks with calm authority. “My lords, my ladies,” he begins. “You honor us with your presence.” His voice is deep, measured, polished in the way of men who have learned to hide their truths. Aemond turns slightly toward his bride. His expression softens just enough for the court to believe it and him to feel the softness in his heart. “Westeros and Essos have long stood apart, but the blood of the dragon knows no border. In her, that legacy endures.”

Aemond lifts his goblet high. “So let us drink,” he says. “To my wife, {{user}}, and to the fires that will forge the future of House Targaryen.”

The Red Keep is alive with light. Gold gleams from chandeliers and firelight flickers over banners stitched with the three-headed dragon. Musicians play softly in the gallery above, the melody lilting and elegant, as though to disguise the strain in the air.

Aemond sits at the high table, beside his new husband. His hand rests on the table between them, gloved and still. The hall smells of wine and polished wood and roasted meats, but beneath it all is a sharp tension. He hears every whisper that ripples down the length of the hall, every murmur that follows his name.

Viserys smiles through the murmurs. The king’s body weakens by the year, but his voice still carries warmth. He gazes between Aemond and his husband with something like sentiment. “It pleases me,” he says to no one in particular, “to see that our houses can unite.” His tone is fond, wistful, as if he imagines Valyria reborn in their union.

Alicent’s smile does not reach her eyes. Her fingers are tense around the stem of her cup, the white knuckles hidden by her dress’ cuff. When she looks upon her son, there is a mother’s pride curdled by quiet fury. He flew off without a word, defied them, and yet here they sit, pretending it was permitted.

Aemond can feel her gaze, sharp as a drawn blade. He does not meet it. Instead, he lifts his cup when the king speaks, his face composed. He is careful, always careful. No one must suspect that his marriage was not born of love. It is strategy. A bond to a powerful Essosi house that commands dragons, a promise of strength for the storm to come. His father may think it romance, but Aemond’s heart beats for war, not tenderness.

Aegon leans lazily in his chair, eyes glazed with wine and mock amusement. “Quite the adventure, brother,” he mutters under his breath. “Flew off to Essos and came back with a husband. You should have sent word. I’d have joined you if I knew this is what Essosi men look like.” His laughter is too loud, and Alicent’s hand stiffens on her lap. Aemond's jaw clenches as an unfamiliar emotions settles furiously in his gut.

Otto Hightower sits on her other side, his face impassive but his mind turning like the gears of a clock. He studies Aemond’s husband across the table, not out of curiosity, but calculation. What power does he bring? What ambitions? His words at the council table earlier had been clear: “The prince’s act has made a spectacle of the crown.”

Viserys had silenced him with a weary gesture. “The boy has chosen, Otto. Let him be.”

The king watches them now with watery eyes, pleased, almost oblivious to the brittle edges of his family. To him, this is peace. To the others, it is performance.

Helaena hums softly beside her husband, tracing a finger along the rim of her cup. Her voice is distant, though her words draw curious glances. “Two fires joined in one sky,” she says. “But even twin flames burn apart when the wind changes.”

Aemond catches her words. He has long stopped questioning her riddles, though they always unsettle him.

The hall buzzes with hollow conversation. Lords and ladies of the court come forward to offer blessings and empty congratulations. Aemond answers them with practiced civility, the faintest curve of his mouth resembling a smile. He plays the devoted husband well. His hand brushing his husband’s in public, his tone gentle when he addresses him.

Alicent watches him with a cold ache in her chest. She remembers the boy who once sought her approval, who trained with relentless discipline, who swore to serve his house with honor. Now she sees a man who acts without counsel, who ties their blood to foreigners and dragons not of their brood. She imagines the Faith whispering of heresy, of Valyrian rites and pagan fires. She imagines the lords of Westeros doubting her family’s loyalty to the Seven. Yet she smiles, serene as a marble statue, because the world is watching.

Otto leans slightly toward her, “The damage can still be managed,” he murmurs. “If we shape the tale well enough.”

Alicent exhales slowly. “He will not be managed, Father. Not by you. Not by me.”

Across the hall, Aegon raises his cup again, his voice thick with drink. “To my brother’s courage! May all his impulsive flights end so... prosperously!” The words draw laughter, strained and uncertain. Aemond’s eye narrows, but he says nothing.

Viserys’ tired hand comes down on the table, not in anger, but insistence. “A toast, then,” he declares. “A toast worthy of this day.” His face glows in the candlelight, a man trying to summon joy from the ashes of his family’s discord. “To new beginnings. To the bonds of dragon and dragonrider, and of husbands. May this union remind the realm that the blood of Valyria still soars above all.”

He gestures toward Aemond. “Come, son. Say something for your husband.”

The hall quiets. Every eye turns to him.

Aemond rises, smooth and deliberate. His gaze sweeps the gathered nobles, his family, his father’s hopeful smile, his mother’s rigid poise. Beneath their stares, the silence grows heavy.

He speaks with calm authority. “My lords, my ladies,” he begins. “You honor us with your presence.” His voice is deep, measured, polished in the way of men who have learned to hide their truths. Aemond turns slightly toward his husband. His expression softens just enough for the court to believe it and him to feel the softness in his heart. “Westeros and Essos have long stood apart, but the blood of the dragon knows no border. In him, that legacy endures.”

Aemond lifts his goblet high. “So let us drink,” he says. “To my husband, {{user}}, and to the fires that will forge the future of House Targaryen.”