# The Red Keep - Queen's Chambers, 105 AC
The afternoon sun slanted low through the colored panes of Queen Aemma's chambers, the light breaking against the leaded glass into shards of ruby, emerald, and sapphire that sprawled across the flagstones like the spilled treasure of some dragon's hoard. The air was heavy with the perfume of fresh-cut roses, heather, and a scattering of crushed mint leaves, but beneath the sweetness lurked another scent, faint and medicinal—the sharp tang of boiled herbs and poultices, the sort of concoctions the maesters were forever insisting upon when women quickened.
The chamber itself was less a queen's retreat than a fortress of pillows. Silk cushions of Arryn blue and Targaryen black-and-red lay heaped upon divans, chairs, and even the floor, contrived to cradle a body grown cumbersome with child. Silver trays of steaming infusions stood on low tables, alongside platters of sugared fruits and candied nuts that Aemma had scarcely touched. She sat enthroned not on the Iron Chair, but upon one of down and silk, her pale blue gown arranged carefully about her swollen belly. At four-and-twenty she was still fair, with hair like beaten silver-gold and eyes the violet shade of the Targaryens. Yet the strain showed—tiny creases at the corners of her mouth, the way she rubbed her back when she thought none were looking, the fatigue that no amount of flowers could quite disguise.
Still, when the doors opened, she brightened as though a torch had been lit. "My darlings," she called, her voice warm as a hearthfire, though a touch frayed at the edges. "Come here to me. I have been counting the minutes until you returned from your flying lesson."
Rhaenyra all but flew across the chamber, skirts of pale lilac tangling about her ankles, her braid half-unravelled from the wind. She was nine, bold as a storm, quick to laugh and quicker to speak, and though her father's courtiers whispered that her tongue was too sharp for a maid so young, Aemma had never once tried to dull its edge. She knelt at once beside her mother's chair, her bright eyes searching her mother's face with earnest concern. "Mama," she whispered, soft for once, careful in her movements as if afraid the wrong gesture might bring pain. "Are you well today? Any better?"
"Much better now," Aemma said, smiling as she gathered her daughter's hand into her own. It was the sort of reply a mother gave when the truth would not do, and Rhaenyra, for all her cleverness, was still young enough to let herself be comforted by it. "Tell me of your flight. I could hear Syrax calling from here—she sounded very pleased with herself."
"Pleased?" came Jaehaerys's dry voice, a shade too knowing for his eight years. He approached at a measured pace, green eyes assessing, the very image of a boy who had been told too many times he was thoughtful beyond his years and had decided to lean into it. Broad of shoulder even now, he carried himself with a quiet assurance that might have looked solemn if not for the faintest twitch of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Syrax was not pleased, Aunt. She was preening. There is a difference. And it is no wonder—Rhaenyra's been teaching her tricks that would make the dragonkeepers piss themselves if they saw."
Rhaenyra tossed her braid over her shoulder, indignant. "They're not tricks. They're maneuvers. Uncle Daemon says a dragonrider who cannot fight is as useless as a knight who cannot lift his sword."
"And Father also says half the council are milk-sop lickspittles unfit to wipe his boots," Jaehaerys returned with a shrug. "Not all his sayings are pearls of wisdom."
Rhaenyra shot him a glare, her mouth opening with the promise of a retort, but Aemma chuckled first—a sound warm enough to cut through the tension like summer sun burning away morning fog.
"Daemon never did learn to hold his tongue," the queen said, leaning back against her cushions. "And I suspect he never will. But there is sense in him, beneath the bluster. Better to learn to fight now than to find yourself lacking when the world calls it of you."
"There!" Rhaenyra cried triumphantly, spinning back toward her cousin. "Mama agrees with me."
"She is being diplomatic," Jaehaerys countered, folding his arms. "Aunt Aemma knows better than anyone that it is wiser not to upset Uncle Viserys with tales of my Father's… lessons. Not unless you want him red in the face and storming about the chamber like one of the gargoyles from the Dragonpit come to life."
Aemma covered her mouth to hide a laugh, though her eyes betrayed her amusement. "Your Uncle does not storm," she said mildly.
"He paces," Jaehaerys allowed, "but very loudly."
Rhaenyra giggled. "And mutters. Always muttering."
"Half the mutters are curses in High Valyrian," Jaehaerys said, "and the other half are about the Small Council."
"See?" Rhaenyra grinned up at her mother. "If Father mutters, then why can't we? I shall mutter in High Valyrian, and Jaehaerys can mutter about the Small Council. It would make us true Targaryens."
"You are true Targaryens already," Aemma said softly, her smile touched with both pride and sorrow. She reached out, smoothing Rhaenyra's unruly hair with one hand even as her eyes lingered on Jaehaerys, so serious for one so young. "Too true, perhaps."
Jaehaerys met her gaze with a look that was almost solemn—though he spoiled it a moment later with a crooked grin. "I suppose if Rhaenyra insists on showing off, it's my duty to make certain she doesn't fall from the sky and break her neck. Someone has to be the sensible one."
"You?" Rhaenyra burst into peals of laughter, the sound filling the chamber. "Sensible? You spent half the flight trying to make Vermithor chase shadows!"
"They looked like dragons," he protested.
"They looked like clouds."
"Clouds shaped like dragons," he insisted, entirely unruffled.
"Enough, the both of you," Aemma said, her laughter breaking into a cough she smothered quickly with her hand. When she looked back at them, her smile was still there, though fainter. "You are a matched pair, you two. Seven save me when you are grown."
Aemma shifted carefully upon her chair, silk rustling, one hand moving to her belly where the babe stirred within. The motion was small, almost hidden, yet her face tightened for an instant before the practiced mask of serenity returned.
"Ah," said Jaehaerys, who had been watching her with unnerving focus. His green eyes narrowed, sharp as a hawk's. "There it is again."
Aemma gave him a look half-wary, half-wry. "There what is, sweetling?"
"The lie," Jaehaerys said simply. "The face you wear for the courtiers. And the maesters. And Uncle Viserys, when he worries himself sick. You're in more pain than you let on."
Rhaenyra, curled against her mother's chair like a cat at its hearth, gasped. "Jae!"
But Aemma only studied her nephew, violet eyes soft with both exasperation and reluctant admiration. Gods, but the boy saw. Too much for one so young. "Some pain," she admitted at last, her voice quieter than before. "This pregnancy has been… different. Harder. The maesters tell me the child is larger than you were, Rhaenyra. That boys take more from their mothers." Her hand shifted protectively over the swell of her belly. "Sometimes I wonder if something is not quite as it should be."
"The maesters don't know everything," Jaehaerys said, blunt as a mace blow, yet oddly reassuring. "They understand leeches, bleeding, poultices. They do not understand you. They never will. And I'd wager they've been whispering to Uncle Viserys about heirs, haven't they? Making him think this child must be a son, for the sake of the realm?"
The question cut so neatly to the marrow that Aemma blinked. Even Rhaenyra fell still, her laughter and fidgeting forgotten.
"How did you…" Aemma trailed off, then sighed. "Yes. There have been talks of succession. Of clarity. Of duty. Always duty."
"Duty makes poor medicine," Jaehaerys said. "Stress feeds on the body like rot feeds on wood. The more anxious Uncle Viserys becomes, the more it weighs on you, and the more difficult the birth will be." He paused, then added almost lightly: "Politics and childbirth mix about as well as wildfire and a candle."
Rhaenyra frowned, confusion shading into fear. "Is the babe in danger, then? Is Mama?"
"All births are dangerous," Jaehaerys said with careful honesty, not cruel but unflinching. "But Aunt Aemma is strong, and so is the child. The danger lies not in their bodies, but in everyone else meddling where they shouldn't. The mother comes first. Always."
He moved closer, holding out his hands as if asking permission. "May I?"
Aemma hesitated only a breath, then nodded. There was something uncanny about the boy, yes—but also something soothing. She had learned to trust him, as strange as that trust sometimes felt.
Jaehaerys laid his small palms gently upon the curve of her belly, closing his eyes. His face grew still, the way it sometimes did—as if listening to music only he could hear. When he spoke, his voice was softer, deeper, with a resonance beyond his years.
"Heartbeat strong," he murmured. "Active, restless. The position is poor for comfort, but not for survival. It will be hard, yes, but not hopeless. If all remain calm." His eyes opened, clear and old all at once. "You and the babe are well, Aunt. Do not let them convince you otherwise."
Aemma exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, relief shining through the weariness etched on her face. "How can you possibly know such things?" she whispered.
Jaehaerys only shrugged. "Sometimes I just… do. The same way I know Uncle Viserys will be a good father whether the child is a son or daughter. The same way I know Rhaenyra will be queen one day, no matter what any law of succession claims."
Rhaenyra's head snapped up, violet eyes blazing with sudden fire. "Truly?"
"Truly," Jaehaerys said, the corners of his mouth quirking into a grin. "And not just a queen, Cousin. The queen. One who'll make the realm remember her name. Seven save us all."
Rhaenyra beamed, preening like Syrax herself. "I knew it."
"Don't let it swell your head too much," Jaehaerys teased. "You'll need a new saddle for Syrax if it does."
"She likes me just as I am," Rhaenyra shot back, sticking out her tongue before turning to her mother. "Did you hear, Mama? He said I'll be queen!"
Aemma laughed, a sound rich and weary and tender all at once. "I heard, sweetling. And if my nephew has the Sight, then perhaps we should start preparing you for crowns instead of court dances."
"Crowns and dragons," Rhaenyra corrected, chin high.
"Crowns and dragons," Aemma agreed indulgently. She stroked her daughter's hair, her smile softening. "Still, eight-year-old princes and nine-year-old princesses should not spend all their hours speaking of succession and omens. Let us have some small joys yet."
"Ordinary children can afford ordinary joys," Jaehaerys said with a kind of wry solemnity. "We cannot. But—" he leaned back, hands clasped behind his head with the careless ease of a knight after a tourney—"that doesn't mean we can't steal moments like this. Sitting here. Talking. Remembering we're family first, Targaryens second."
"You're very strange, Cousin," Rhaenyra said, wrinkling her nose, though affection shone clear in her voice.
"And you're very loud," Jaehaerys countered smoothly.
"Better loud than brooding."
"Better brooding than reckless."
"Better reckless than boring."
Aemma only shook her head, laughter spilling despite herself. Gods, but she loved them both. "Seven help me," she said, smiling faintly as the babe stirred once more within her. "When you two are grown, you'll either rule the world… or set it aflame."
"Speaking of caring about each other," Rhaenyra declared suddenly, her tone bright and deliberate, as if she meant to sweep away all talk of pain and succession by force of will, "you should have seen Alicent Hightower's face this morning. Gods, Mama, she turned positively green when Syrax went into the inverted spiral under Vermithor. She looked ready to lose her breakfast right there in the yard. I think she's starting to reconsider whether dragon-riding is meant for proper ladies at all."
Aemma's laugh was soft, though colored with sympathy. "Poor Alicent. She is a thoughtful girl, careful in all things. Your acrobatics in the sky must look to her like some elaborate bid for early widowhood." She shook her head with mock despair. "From a mother's view, I can hardly fault her."
"It isn't reckless," Rhaenyra protested, violet eyes flashing. "It's training. Syrax knows me better than any horse knows its rider. She would never let me fall." She lifted her chin, all defiance and pride. "The danger would be in not learning while I am young and limber, before my body grows stiff with age."
"That's Father's philosophy exactly," Jaehaerys drawled from where he leaned against a carved pillar, arms crossed, one ankle cocked over the other with a casual poise that sat oddly upon an eight-year-old frame. His green eyes gleamed with sardonic amusement. "Though I suspect his notion of 'proper training' is somewhat different than you dangling upside-down from a saddle at full dive."
Rhaenyra whipped around, braid swinging. "I wasn't dangling."
"You were dangling."
"I was performing a controlled maneuver."
"A controlled maneuver that made Alicent look ready to faint into her septa's arms," Jaehaerys countered smoothly. "If that's control, Cousin, I dread to see what chaos looks like."
Aemma pressed her hand over her lips to stifle her laughter. "Your father has never been one to let conventional wisdom restrain necessity," she said, warmth softening the words. "But I must admit—his unorthodox ways seem to have borne fruit in you both. The dragonkeepers may despair, but I cannot deny you are growing… capable."
"Glorious," Rhaenyra corrected, throwing herself onto a heap of cushions with theatrical flourish. "The songs will say so one day."
"Or the epitaphs," Jaehaerys muttered, low enough to earn him a playful kick in the shin from his cousin. He took it with a grunt and a smirk, as if daring her to try again.
Aemma shifted once more, exhaling relief as the child inside adjusted. Her fingers lingered against the curve of her belly, protective even in moments of ease. "Tell me, then," she said, seizing the moment to turn the talk from aerial stunts to lighter things. "I hear hammers and trumpets all morning, yet the maesters keep me cloistered here like a cloistered novice. What progress with the tourney?"
Rhaenyra sprang upright at once, face alight. "Oh, Mama, it's splendid! Father has gone to such lengths. Great pavilions sewn in every house's colors—Lannister crimson, Baratheon gold, Martell orange blazing like the Dornish sun. There'll be mummers and musicians from Lys and Braavos, feasts enough to make even Lord Corlys loosen his purse. Jousts, melees, archery, all grander than anything since Aegon's Conquest."
"Magnificent, no doubt," Jaehaerys said, though his tone was more measured. He unfolded his arms, pushing off from the pillar. "But not only magnificent. Political. The banners gathered are as carefully chosen as the tilts themselves. Lord Otto has been bending half his spine toward the Iron Bank's envoys—far more than courtesy demands. Either debts are owed, or negotiations are underway. And those Pentoshi merchants skulking about? Their cargo manifests don't match their presence here."
Aemma's brows arched, surprise and interest mingling. "You have been watching closely, nephew."
"I'd be blind not to," Jaehaerys replied, utterly matter-of-fact. "When lords who spend half their lives spitting at each other's gates suddenly come to sup at the same table, it means either peace… or knives hidden under the roast."
Rhaenyra leaned forward, eager as a pup. "Do you think there'll be trouble? A plot? Some secret alliance?" She looked almost hopeful, violet eyes wide with the thrill of imagined danger.
"Trouble?" Jaehaerys echoed with dry amusement. "At a royal gathering? That's like asking if there'll be wine at a Lannister feast." He shrugged, but his gaze was intent. "The only question is whether it will be the usual mutterings and maneuverings—or something more. Uncle Viserys has been restless of late, very focused on security. That could be worry without cause… or cause without admission."
"Seven save us," Aemma murmured, though not without a small smile. "I had hoped to hear of pageantry, not plots. You sound like an old spymaster, Jaehaerys, not a boy of eight summers."
Jaehaerys grinned, wolfish. "Better a spymaster than a fool."
"Better a dragon than either," Rhaenyra interjected, puffing her chest.
"Better a quiet dragon than one who screeches every thought she has to the heavens," Jaehaerys shot back.
Rhaenyra hurled a cushion at his head. He caught it one-handed and tossed it lazily back at her with the air of a knight returning a gauntlet after a challenge.
Aemma shook her head, laughter spilling despite herself. "Seven help me, you two will either save this family… or reduce it to ashes." She leaned back against her cushions, her hand again cradling her belly as if to shield the life within from all the storm that swirled around them.
The door swung open with a faint groan of oiled hinges, and in slipped a servant in pale livery, balancing a silver tray heavy with steaming cups, sugared dates, and a small flagon of watered wine. She moved with the quiet precision of long practice, her curtsy so deep and fluid that not a single drop spilled from the cups.
"Your Grace," she said softly, her eyes fixed on the floor. "His Grace the King seeks leave to visit you here in your chambers, if it please you. He would speak with you regarding the morrow's arrangements, and to be certain all is prepared for your comfort."
Aemma's tired mouth curved with fond amusement, though her voice was still queenly in its authority. "Tell His Grace that his leave is granted. I will receive him here. He knows well enough that I cannot be climbing half the keep whilst carrying his child."
The servant bobbed her head. "At once, Your Grace." With that, she retreated, the door closing softly behind her.
Aemma turned back toward the children, her violet eyes sharp despite the weariness in her face. "Well then," she said, shifting a cushion behind her back with a wince that she tried to disguise as nothing more than a stretch, "it seems we have a few moments yet before your father arrives. Best we use them wisely."
That tone—the one that meant a lesson was coming—had Rhaenyra stiffening even before her mother's next words.
"There is something we must speak of, daughter. About tomorrow's tourney, and about the eyes that will be upon you."
"The succession question," Jaehaerys said at once, his green eyes narrowing as though he'd pieced together the entire board of a cyvasse game from one opening move. "The realm will be watching to see whether Uncle Viserys presents Rhaenyra as a daughter merely, or as something more. And with the child you carry…" He glanced at Aemma's belly, the faintest flicker of solemnity touching his usually unflappable expression. "If it be a boy, all shall read the signs as the heralding of an heir."
"Seven save me, Jaehaerys," Aemma said, though not without a trace of pride at his acuity. "You sound thrice your years when you speak so."
He shrugged one broad shoulder, that boyish smirk flickering back into place. "Someone has to keep the lords honest. And let us not pretend they won't be sniffing about like hounds on a fresh carcass the moment they think they smell a shift in power."
Rhaenyra rolled her eyes with all the drama of a girl of nine. "You always make everything sound like war, Jae."
"Often enough, it is," he replied, unruffled. "Just with more wine and fewer swords. Usually."
Aemma lifted her hand, quieting their bickering before it could spiral. "Your cousin is not wrong, Rhaenyra. And neither are you. There will be knights breaking lances, banners flying, music and merriment enough to dazzle. But beneath the pageantry, everyone will be watching. Watching your father. Watching me. Watching you."
Rhaenyra wrinkled her nose, more irritated than frightened. "Watching me? I'm only nine. I'm not the heir. Everyone knows the babe you carry is the one they'll call heir if it's a boy."
Aemma's smile was soft, almost sad, though her tone remained firm. "Just so. Which is why you must comport yourself as befits the elder sibling to a future King. You will not be heir, Rhaenyra, but you will be sister to the heir, and that is no small role. The lords will look for how you carry yourself. Some will hope to see vanity or jealousy in you, and whisper that a girl denied her birthright cannot be trusted. Others will judge whether you are fit to guide, protect, and steady a brother who may yet sit the Iron Throne."
Rhaenyra bit her lip, chewing the words like a tough piece of bread. Her defiance flared, then faltered. "So I must smile and curtsey and behave like a proper lady, while all the knights get to fight and show their valor."
"You must smile and curtsey," Aemma said, though her tone softened with a mother's warmth, "and show your valor in other ways. A true lady's strength lies not in lance or sword, but in wit, in grace, in knowing when to hold her tongue and when to speak with fire."
"And if she cannot?" Rhaenyra asked, her eyes bright with challenge.
"Then she had best learn quickly," Jaehaerys said, grinning wolfishly. "Else the wolves, lions, and krakens eat her alive."
Rhaenyra threw him a glare sharp enough to cut. "Easy for you to say, you get to be clever and loud without anyone caring."
"Not true," Jaehaerys countered. "Everyone cares. They just don't dare say so, because I look like I could break their arms if they annoy me." He flexed one of those already-broad-for-his-years shoulders with comic exaggeration.
That drew a laugh from Aemma despite herself, though it turned into a wince as the child shifted within her. She placed a protective hand over her belly, her gaze softening. "Listen to me, both of you. The realm is full of eyes, sharp as daggers. But do not let that frighten you. If you remember nothing else tomorrow, remember this: be kind when you can, firm when you must, and always true to yourselves. That is what will be remembered long after the banners come down and the lists are cleared."
Jaehaerys tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. "So… if I see Lord Beesbury trip over his own robes, I should be kind enough not to laugh, firm enough not to help him up, and true enough to myself to tell everyone later exactly how funny it was?"
"Jaehaerys," Aemma scolded, though her lips twitched.
"Depends," Rhaenyra said, her smirk breaking through. "If Alicent is nearby, you should definitely laugh loud enough for her to hear."
That had them both in a fit of giggles by the time the knock came at the door—a single, authoritative rap that needed no herald to announce who sought entrance.
"The King," Aemma murmured, straightening her shoulders despite the weight of the babe pressing against her ribs. She cast one last glance at her daughter, her nephew, her heart full of both pride and foreboding. "Remember what I said, my loves. Tomorrow is not just a tourney. It is a stage. And you both must play your parts well."
The door opened, and King Viserys Targaryen entered.
"My loves," came the King's voice through the oaken door, rich and sonorous but softened by the worry of a husband. The latch lifted, and Viserys Targaryen entered not with the majesty of a dragonlord descended from conquerors, but with the brisk, anxious stride of a man whose queen carried both his heart and his hopes.
At eight-and-twenty he was still comely, his silver-gold hair falling in soft waves to his shoulders, his lilac eyes bright as molten amethyst. Yet the weight of kingship pressed on him; new lines carved themselves beside his mouth and brow, and his shoulders carried more of the realm than he cared to admit.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything of great import?" he asked lightly, though his gaze went first to Aemma, measuring her comfort before all else.
"Never, my heart," Aemma answered, her smile weary but radiant as she extended her hand. He was at her side in three strides, folding her fingers into his own. "We were only speaking of tomorrow—the pageantry, the stares, the burdens each of us must bear."
Viserys lowered himself into the chair beside her, every motion marked by careful restraint, as if too sudden a movement might jar her fragile peace. "Ah, yes. The masks we wear for the realm, when our truer concerns lie here." His free hand gestured faintly toward her belly. "It has been much the same with me these past weeks—struggling to weigh the revels demanded of a king against the fears that gnaw at a husband."
His eyes, bright and soft both, flicked toward the children. He found Rhaenyra with her chin lifted in the proud defiance of nine years, and Jaehaerys watching him with the still, measuring intensity of one far older than eight. Viserys's smile curved wryly. "Though I suspect we might spare the two of you the dullness of council talk and keep this hour lighter. In fact, I came bearing tidings—news that has arrived this afternoon and will shape our evening."
"The letter from Pentos," Jaehaerys said, his tone matter-of-fact, as though he were noting the weather.
Viserys blinked, then barked a surprised laugh. "Seven hells, boy. Must you steal my thunder before I've even unrolled the parchment?"
Aemma's brows lifted. "How do you come by such knowledge, Jaehaerys?"
He only shrugged, broad shoulders shifting with casual ease. "You keep your ears open, your mouth shut, and you'll learn more than most men twice your age. The castle hums if you know how to listen. Besides, Lord Otto speaks loudly when he thinks no one is near."
Rhaenyra smirked, delighted to see her cousin nettle her father. "You ought to tell him to whisper more, Jae. Or start charging him rent for living in your head."
"Careful, cousin," Jae drawled, smirk tugging at his mouth. "I've been told my head is a rather dangerous place to live."
Viserys let out another laugh, though there was a trace of unease in it. "Gods, you sound more like Daemon with every passing day. I'll not have two of him to keep in line."
"Wouldn't that be fun?" Rhaenyra's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Two Uncle Daemons, and Syrax teaching Caraxes to dance."
"Fun for you," Aemma cut in, a hand pressed absently to the swell of her belly. "The rest of us would be driven to madness."
Viserys kissed her knuckles. "As if I am not already, my love."
Rhaenyra leaned forward eagerly. "But is it good news or bad? From Pentos, I mean. You always make everything sound like a riddle."
"Not riddle," Viserys corrected gently. "Simply… layered. Complex. The sort of tidings that bring both opportunity and peril, depending on how we meet them. But—" he lifted a hand, forestalling further questions "—that is talk for another chamber, and another hour."
He turned his full attention back to Aemma, his expression softening, the worry lines easing though never quite vanishing. "The maesters tell me the day has been taxing. Tell me it is not so, Aemma. Tell me they exaggerate, as they often do."
"No more taxing than to be expected," Aemma replied, her voice calm but edged with honesty. "Your nephew has been a greater comfort than all their poultices and potions. He has seen more clearly than men thrice his age."
Viserys glanced at Jaehaerys with raised brows. "And what wisdom does our little maester possess, then?"
"That the babe is strong, the mother weary, and that all the rest—gender, timing, succession—matters less than her health," Jaehaerys said plainly, green eyes unblinking. "A living queen gives you heirs still to come. A dead one gives you only ashes."
A hush followed his words, heavy as stone.
Viserys sat very still, the weight of it pressing on him. At last he let out a breath he had not realized he'd been holding. "By the gods, Jae. You strip the truth so bare it leaves a man shivering. And yet… I cannot deny the sense in it."
"Children see truths adults bury," Rhaenyra chimed in, smug at being allowed the last word. "Though Jae sees a little too much for my liking."
"Perhaps," Viserys said, his voice low now, "but if he sees too much, better it be used with care. That is the true question: what we do with gifts that confound tradition. How do we balance their worth with a realm that mistrusts anything it cannot name?"
"You use them carefully," Jaehaerys answered without pause, the words hard as hammered iron. "With purpose, not pride. Wisdom before ambition. Power's only worth is in service, else it devours all."
The chamber grew still again, the children's voices echoing with a gravity beyond their years.
It was then that a knock sounded at the door, brisk and official. Ser Harrold Westerling entered, tall and straight as a spear, his white cloak flowing behind him. His face bore the gravity of duty, though his voice remained steady.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing to Viserys, "forgive the intrusion. Lord Otto begs your immediate attendance in the council chamber. There are… complications that must be resolved before tonight's feast."
"Complications?" Aemma's hand tightened over Viserys's. "Tell me they do not touch tomorrow's celebrations."
Viserys frowned, but Jaehaerys spoke before he could. The boy's voice was quiet, almost too quiet.
"They touch everything," he said. "Tonight will decide whether tomorrow is feast or funeral."
The words seemed to linger in the air like smoke, bitter and prophetic. Even in the warmth of the afternoon sun, Aemma shivered, and Viserys—for all his kingly bearing—looked very much a man staring into shadows he could not banish.
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