The last silver motes of magic still clung to the rafters like cobwebs woven from moonlight when a knock at the chamber door disturbed their private wonder. It was not the nervous rapping of a page, nor the imperious pounding of a knight demanding entry, but the steady, practiced rhythm of a man who knew precisely how much authority he wielded—and how much he did not.
Garrett entered with his usual careful humility, face lined by years of service and the unglamorous burden of delivering tidings no one wished to hear. He bowed, but not so deeply that his joints would complain later, and his voice carried the polished neutrality of a courtier who had long ago mastered the art of surviving in a house filled with dragons.
"Your Grace," he said, directing himself toward Daemon first, "His Grace the King has commanded the Small Council assemble at once. Lord Otto insists all members attend within the hour."
Daemon's eyebrows rose with theatrical surprise. "Within the hour? How wonderfully urgent of dear Otto. Did he specify whether we should arrive breathless with haste, or merely fashionably frantic?"
"The Hand was quite emphatic about punctuality, Your Grace," Garrett replied with the sort of diplomatic understatement that had kept him alive through three different royal temperaments.
"I'm sure he was," Daemon drawled, examining his fingernails with elaborate disinterest. "Otto does so love his schedules. Probably has the minutes of tomorrow's breakfast already drafted in triplicate."
A pause, deliberate, as Garrett's eyes flicked toward Jaehaerys with subtle weight. "And Your Grace, the King requires you in your capacity as Prince Daemon's page. Full regalia. His Majesty was most insistent that proper ceremony be observed."
Jaehaerys, who had been leaning against the window with the casual confidence of someone who owned whatever room he occupied, turned his head slowly. His green eyes caught the lamplight like emerald fire. "Full regalia for a page?" His voice carried the low, rumbling quality of distant thunder. "How delightfully transparent. What's next—requiring the stable boys to wear crowns?"
"Now, now," Daemon said with a grin that was all teeth and no warmth, "Otto simply appreciates pageantry. Nothing says 'legitimate royal business' quite like making a boy dress up like a doll and stand very, very still."
Rhea, who had been quietly observing from her seat with the practiced stillness of a woman who'd learned to listen before speaking, set down her wine cup with a crystalline clink. "How thoughtful of the Hand to ensure proper ceremony." Her tone could have frosted windows in summer. "I'm sure it has nothing whatsoever to do with reminding everyone present exactly who they're looking at when they see the boy."
"Perish the thought," Daemon said, his voice dripping with mock innocence. "Otto would never engage in such subtle manipulation. He's far too direct for that. Next you'll suggest he times his councils to coincide with convenient distractions."
Jaehaerys pushed off from the window, his movement fluid and purposeful, like a predator that had finally decided which direction to hunt. The Valyrian steel ring on his finger pulsed faintly, as if echoing his mood. "Let me hazard a guess—our Pentoshi friends arrive at dawn, the council convenes before most of the city's awake to pay attention, and by the time anyone thinks to ask uncomfortable questions, whatever's been decided will be fait accompli."
"You wound me with such cynicism, my boy," Daemon said with exaggerated hurt. "Surely you don't think Otto would orchestrate events to minimize inconvenient opposition?"
"Father," Jaehaerys said with a grin that could have melted steel, "I think Otto would orchestrate his own funeral if he thought it would give him tactical advantage at the wake."
Gunthor, who had been maintaining his customary silence in the corner like a mountain that had learned manners, rumbled out a laugh that seemed to start somewhere near his boots. "The lad's got the right of it. Otto's the sort who'd schedule a surprise attack and send out invitations."
"With calligraphy," Rhea added dryly. "And refreshments."
Daemon's smirk flickered, then faded into something sharper, colder. The boyish rogue became, in a heartbeat, the general who had bloodied the Stepstones. "Within the hour," he repeated, too lightly. "Our diligent Hand must be worried I'll remember something inconvenient if left too long with my thoughts. Either that, or he means to dazzle our Pentoshi friends before anyone else has time to sharpen their objections."
"Both," Jaehaerys said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. The gesture made his shoulders seem even broader, if that were possible. "This isn't a council, it's a stage play. Every man strutting, every woman smiling, every word rehearsed. The only question is whether we're players or audience."
"Oh, we're definitely players," Rhea said, rising with the fluid grace of someone who'd learned to move like water when necessary. "The question is whether we're following Otto's script or writing our own."
Daemon barked a laugh, quick and sharp as breaking glass. "Then let us dress for the mummer's show, hm? Garrett—bring out my ceremonial leathers. The black ones. Enough steel to stop a knife, polished enough to blind Otto when the torchlight catches."
"The ones with the dragon clasps, Your Grace?" Garrett asked, already anticipating the answer.
"The very ones. If we're going to make Otto grind his teeth, we might as well give him something worth the effort."
"And the boy?" Garrett inquired with the sort of careful neutrality that suggested he already knew this answer would be entertaining.
"The boy," Daemon said grandly, gesturing toward his son with the flourish of a man presenting a prize stallion, "shall wear whatever makes Hightower grind his teeth loudest. Gold, black, the dragon rampant—something that screams 'Targaryen heir' so loudly it drowns out whatever sermon Otto has prepared."
Jaehaerys tilted his head with the sort of smile that probably made sensible people reconsider their life choices. "I'm thinking the black doublet with the silver dragons. The one that makes me look less like a page and more like someone who could snap Otto's Hand pin in half without particularly trying."
"Subtle as a war hammer," Gunthor observed approvingly. "I like it."
"Subtlety is overrated," Jaehaerys replied. "Besides, if Otto wants ceremony, let's give him ceremony he'll remember. The sort that makes him wonder if he's made a tactical error."
Rhea stood, smoothing her skirts with brisk efficiency. "While you boys plan your fashion statements, I'll see to my own preparations. Aemma will not stand alone on the morrow, whatever the outcome. If Otto means to cut her thread short, he will find her tangled in more than he expects."
She moved toward the door with purpose, but Daemon's voice stopped her before she could reach it. "Not so fast, wife. There are gifts yet undelivered, and frankly, your exit timing could use work. Far too dignified. Where's the dramatic flair?"
Rhea turned back with one eyebrow raised in the sort of expression that had probably ended kingdoms. "Dramatic flair? From me? Daemon, I leave the theatrics to those with the temperament for it. I prefer substance."
"Substance is all well and good," Daemon said, crossing to the chest with the sort of casual elegance that made simple movements look choreographed, "but sometimes a little theater is exactly what's needed."
He lifted two pieces of Valyrian steel from their silken wrappings, each catching firelight like molten stars. The metal seemed to hum with its own inner light, as if the ancient fires of Old Valyria still burned within.
"For Rhaenyra," he said, holding up a locket delicate as spider's silk, its twin dragons twining as if in eternal flight. "She'll be serving cups during the council—harmless little role, they think, though it puts her ears in every corner of the chamber. A fine chance to slip her something that says: you are seen, you are claimed, you are protected."
Jaehaerys examined the piece with the sort of careful attention he usually reserved for weapons or battle plans. "Beautiful work. The dragons look like they might take flight at any moment. She'll understand the message."
"And this," Daemon continued, lifting a bracelet sturdy yet graceful, shaped in scales and waves as though Driftmark's seas had whispered into the smith's forge, "for Laena. Corlys' ship should make harbor by dawn if the winds hold. This reaches her before she sets foot in the Red Keep proper. Another reminder, subtle as a storm, of where true loyalties lie."
"Subtle as a storm," Rhea repeated with amusement. "That's practically a family motto at this point."
Gunthor shifted his considerable bulk, the movement making his armor creak softly. "Pretty gifts," he rumbled, "but gifts come with expectations. The girls will know what they mean."
"That's rather the point," Daemon said with satisfaction. "Nothing says 'we're serious about this alliance' quite like Valyrian steel jewelry with obvious symbolism."
Jaehaerys took both pieces, handling them with the careful respect due ancient artifacts of unimaginable value. The metal seemed to recognize him, growing warmer beneath his touch, the inscribed dragons seeming to shift and move in the lamplight. "They'll see the gifts for what they are. Not ornaments. Promises. Shields, hidden in plain sight."
"And weapons, if necessary," he added after a moment, his voice carrying the sort of matter-of-fact tone most people reserved for discussing the weather.
Daemon tilted his head, violet eyes sharp as glass, studying his son with the sort of intensity usually reserved for battle plans or particularly complex problems. "Aye. And promises weigh heavier than steel when wielded correctly. The question is—do we bind them with gifts, or chain them with expectation?"
"Both," Jaehaerys said without hesitation, meeting his father's gaze with equal intensity. "Bonds and chains aren't mutually exclusive. The trick is making sure everyone involved understands the difference between willing alliance and coercion."
"And if they don't?" Rhea asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
Jaehaerys' smile could have cut glass. "Then we explain it to them. Thoroughly."
"With visual aids, if necessary," Gunthor added helpfully.
"That way," Jaehaerys continued, "when the bards sing, no one can claim they weren't warned. Fair warning is a courtesy we can afford to give. Once."
Daemon laughed, the sound sharp and delighted. "Listen to him, Rhea. Twenty years old and already talking like a king who's actually read the histories instead of just collecting the crowns."
"I wonder where he gets that from," Rhea said dryly. "Certainly not from his father, who would never overthink a simple political maneuver."
"I don't overthink," Daemon protested with mock indignation. "I think exactly the right amount. It's everyone else who underthinks."
"Of course," Rhea agreed with the sort of patient tone usually reserved for small children and large dogs. "My mistake."
Gunthor, who had been quiet during this exchange, suddenly shifted his weight forward, his hand coming to rest on his sword pommel with the unconscious habit of a man who'd spent decades expecting trouble. "The boy will need watching," he rumbled, his voice carrying the sound of gravel in motion. "Crossbows don't care for prophecies, and poison doesn't respect dragon blood."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Daemon's expression shifted from amused to coldly calculating in the space of a heartbeat.
"Too true," Rhea said, her own voice taking on an edge that suggested steel beneath silk. "Magic won't stop a quarrel from the shadows, or a cup sweetened with tears of Lys. And Otto's not the sort to leave things to chance if he can help it."
"Now that," Jaehaerys said with the sort of grin that would have made wolves nervous, "is the most sensible thing anyone's said all evening. If they want to play games, let's make sure we know all the rules."
Daemon waved a hand, the gesture half-dismissing, half-acknowledging the concern. "Ser Gunthor will attend us at the council, as sworn sword to my page. Perfectly proper. Perfectly useful. Otto can hardly object to appropriate security measures."
"And after?" Gunthor asked.
"After, we'll ride with the Gold Cloaks through the city. A prince, his heir, his sworn sword, seen by every fishmonger and cutpurse. Visible. Accountable." Daemon's smile turned predatory. "Untouchable."
"Public theater again," Jaehaerys observed with approval. "But theater with teeth. If trouble comes, we're in position to bite back. Hard."
"And publicly," he added with satisfaction. "Nothing quite like an audience to discourage poor decisions."
Rhea snorted, though whether from amusement or exasperation was unclear. "You two sound as if you've rehearsed this farce. Tell me, which of you is the playwright, and which the actor too vain to stick to his lines?"
Daemon grinned, the expression absolutely wolfish. "Both parts, naturally. I'm a man of many talents. But my son makes a fine understudy when the role calls for someone who can actually remember his lines."
"Understudy?" Jaehaerys shot back, one eyebrow rising to match his father's expression. The gesture made him look less like a young man and more like a force of nature that had learned to wear human form. "I don't play bit parts, Father. If I'm in the play, I'm rewriting the script. And probably the ending."
"Preferably to something that doesn't end with everyone dead," Rhea added pointedly.
"Where's the fun in that?" Daemon asked with exaggerated disappointment.
"Survival," Gunthor rumbled with the sort of pragmatic wisdom that came from actually fighting battles rather than just planning them. "Survival's fun. Keeps you around for the next fight."
He chuckled, low and booming, shaking his massive head as if he'd just watched two dogs squabble over the same bone. "As long as no one forgets their lines, we'll manage. But if tomorrow's tale is to be remembered, better it end in celebration than in widows' wails."
"Widows' wails are so depressing," Jaehaerys agreed solemnly. "All that black clothing and ceremonial sobbing. Much better to have victory feasts and celebratory drinking."
"With better music," Daemon added. "Funeral dirges are terrible for morale."
Rhea looked between the three of them with the expression of someone who'd found herself surrounded by children with access to sharp objects. "I cannot believe I'm related to any of you."
"By marriage only," Daemon reminded her helpfully. "You can always claim temporary insanity."
"Temporary?" she replied. "Daemon, I've been married to you for over twenty years. Any insanity at this point is clearly permanent."
Gunthor's booming laugh filled the chamber. "Lady Rhea's got the right of it. Takes a special kind of courage to stay married to a Targaryen prince. Or a special kind of madness."
"Why not both?" Jaehaerys suggested cheerfully.
Daemon clapped his great hand on the knight's shoulder with enough force to stagger a smaller man. Gunthor didn't even sway. "Don't fret, Gunthor. The best celebrations involve a touch of fire and blood. Family tradition."
"Family tradition," Rhea echoed dryly, pinching the bridge of her nose with the gesture of someone who'd had this conversation before. "I'd settle for family survival. Novel concept, I know, but perhaps worth considering."
"Survival's important," Jaehaerys acknowledged magnanimously. "But so is making sure people remember why they shouldn't cross us in the first place. Deterrence through reputation has its merits."
"As does deterrence through visible consequences," Daemon added with the sort of smile that made intelligent people reconsider their career choices.
"You're both terrible," Rhea informed them without heat. "Absolutely terrible. And completely impossible."
"Thank you," father and son said in unison, clearly taking this as a compliment.
Jaehaerys raised his hand, the dragon-ring catching the last of the firelight, the metal seeming to pulse with its own inner fire. "Tomorrow will be remembered, whether for triumph or tragedy. Songs will be sung, lies will be told, truths buried or unearthed. Better we make certain we're the ones writing the verses."
His voice carried the sort of quiet confidence that belonged to someone who'd never met a challenge he couldn't overcome through some combination of intelligence, determination, and sheer bloody-minded stubbornness.
Daemon's grin widened, sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. "Then let's give them something worth singing of. Something with enough drama to keep the bards busy for generations."
"And enough truth to make the historians weep," Jaehaerys added with satisfaction.
"Drama and truth," Rhea mused. "A dangerous combination in the hands of Targaryens."
"The best kind," Daemon agreed cheerfully.
And with that, the chamber began to empty, the great game of kings and kingdoms calling them back to their roles. But for just a moment, in the fading firelight, they had simply been family—terrible, impossible, absolutely unstoppable family.
The silver motes of magic finally faded from the rafters, leaving only the faint scent of steel and starlight where dreams of dragons had once taken wing.
—
# The Small Council Chamber - The Red Keep, 105 AC
The circular chamber of the Small Council breathed with the weight of centuries, its walls bearing witness to decisions that had shaped kingdoms and toppled dynasties. Tall windows let in the pre-dawn light, casting long shadows across the polished table where the painted wooden balls sat in their traditional positions—each one marking a seat of power, each painted with the sigil of the office it represented.
The great table dominated the space, carved from a single massive oak and polished to mirror brightness by generations of careful tending. Around it, high-backed chairs waited in precise arrangement, their leather worn smooth by the posteriors of lords and masters who had served the Iron Throne through war and peace alike.
Already present were those council members who had learned, through experience or instinct, that arriving early provided opportunities unavailable to those who merely appeared on time.
**Lyonel Strong**, the Master of Whispers, sat with the patient stillness of a man accustomed to listening more than speaking. His weathered face bore the careful neutrality that marked those who trafficked in secrets, and his eyes—sharp as a hawk's despite his advancing years—missed nothing as they catalogued every gesture, every expression, every subtle shift in posture from his fellow council members.
**Lyman Beesbury**, the Master of Coin, hunched over a collection of ledgers with the focused intensity of a man who found comfort in numbers and columns that, unlike people, rarely lied outright. His ink-stained fingers moved with practiced precision as he made final notes, clearly preparing for whatever financial discussions the morning might bring.
**Archmaester Mellos** occupied his seat with the dignity befitting his office, his gray robes immaculate and his chain of office gleaming in the morning light. The Valyrian steel links caught and reflected the illumination like captured starlight, marking him as a scholar of the highest order. His pale eyes held the patient authority of someone accustomed to being the most educated person in most rooms.
**Princess Rhaenys Targaryen** commanded attention simply by existing in the space. Even seated, she radiated the sort of unconscious authority that came from dragon blood and decades of navigating the treacherous waters of court politics. Her dark hair was arranged in the complex braids favored by Targaryen women of rank, and her violet eyes held depths that spoke of intelligence tempered by hard-won wisdom.
Near the great table, **Princess Rhaenyra** moved with the fluid grace of someone born to serve at royal functions, her small hands managing the heavy silver pitcher with surprising skill. At nine years old, she had already mastered the art of being simultaneously invisible and utterly present—a talent that would serve her well in years to come. Her cupbearer's livery was immaculate, and her violet eyes bright with the sort of intelligent curiosity that marked her as her father's daughter.
The great oak doors opened with their characteristic groan of ancient hinges, and three figures entered with the sort of purposeful stride that suggested they were accustomed to commanding attention wherever they went.
Prince Daemon Targaryen swept into the chamber like a force of nature barely contained within human form. His ceremonial leathers were polished to mirror brightness, the dragon clasps at his shoulders catching the light like captured flame. Dark Sister hung at his hip with casual elegance that somehow managed to suggest both decoration and deadly serious business. His silver hair was swept back from his face, revealing features that belonged on ancient coins—sharp, aristocratic, and marked by the sort of dangerous intelligence that made smart men nervous and fools overconfident.
Behind him came Prince Jaehaerys, and even those accustomed to his presence felt the subtle shock of encountering someone who seemed to carry more weight than his years should allow. The black doublet with its silver dragon embroidery fit him perfectly, emphasizing shoulders that were already broad for his age and a bearing that spoke of unconscious authority. The Valyrian steel ring on his finger caught the morning light, its tiny dragon seeming to shift and move with each gesture.
Ser Gunthor Royce brought up the rear, his massive frame making even the spacious council chamber seem slightly smaller. Bronze-studded mail gleamed beneath his surcoat, and his weathered face bore the expression of a man prepared for anything from diplomatic discourse to immediate violence—and equally comfortable with either possibility.
"My lords, my lady," Daemon said with a bow that managed to be simultaneously respectful and subtly mocking, as if he were acknowledging forms he found necessary but not particularly meaningful. "I trust the morning finds you all in excellent health and prepared for whatever surprises our dear Hand has in store for us today."
His violet eyes swept the chamber with predatory interest, cataloguing who was present and—perhaps more importantly—who was not. "Though I confess curiosity about the timing of this gathering. Dawn councils have a certain... urgency about them that suggests our business may be more pressing than usual."
Princess Rhaenys inclined her head with the sort of regal grace that reminded everyone present why the realm had once seriously considered crowning her instead of Viserys. "Prince Daemon. Prince Jaehaerys. Ser Gunthor." Her voice carried the authority of someone born to rule, tempered by the wisdom of someone who had learned that ruling and reigning were different skills entirely. "Your presence is most welcome, particularly given the... complexity of today's agenda."
Her violet gaze lingered on Jaehaerys with the sort of shrewd assessment that had made her legendary among the realm's political players. "Young prince, you continue to grow at an alarming rate. Soon you'll be taller than your father, and gods help us all then."
"Height has its advantages," Jaehaerys replied with that crooked smile that could charm or unnerve depending on the recipient, "though I've noticed that wisdom and good judgment seem to be distributed independently of physical stature. Some of the wisest people I know could use stepladders to reach high shelves."
Archmaester Mellos chuckled, a sound like parchment rustling. "Well observed, young prince. The Great Library of the Citadel is filled with scholars who require assistance reaching the upper shelves, yet their minds soar higher than dragons."
"And some of the tallest men I've met," Jaehaerys continued with pointed glance toward certain absent council members, "seem to have difficulty seeing beyond their own noses, despite their advantageous perspective on the world."
Lyonel Strong's mouth quirked upward in what might have been approval. As Master of Whispers, he appreciated subtlety in all its forms—particularly when it came wrapped in apparent innocence.
Daemon moved to claim his seat at the table, his movements carrying the sort of casual arrogance that had been making people nervous for decades. "Speaking of advantageous perspectives," he said, settling into his chair with feline grace, "I trust everyone has had opportunity to review whatever materials our Hand deems relevant to this morning's discussions?"
"Materials?" Lyman Beesbury looked up from his ledgers with the sort of confusion that suggested this was the first he'd heard of any preparatory reading. "I was given no materials to review. Was I supposed to receive something? Because if there are financial implications I haven't been briefed on..."
"Peace, Lord Beesbury," Princess Rhaenys said with gentle authority. "I suspect Prince Daemon is fishing for information about what exactly we've been summoned to discuss. A reasonable curiosity, given the unusual timing and the... atmosphere of urgency that seems to surround today's gathering."
Jaehaerys moved to stand beside his father's chair, his position allowing him to observe the entire chamber while remaining technically in the shadows—a page's proper place, though something in his bearing suggested he was considerably more than mere decoration.
"If I may," he said with the sort of careful politeness that somehow managed to command attention despite its modest phrasing, "before Their Graces and Lord Otto arrive, I have a small matter of family business to attend to."
He reached into his doublet and withdrew a small silk-wrapped package, handling it with the care due to something precious beyond measure. "Rhaenyra," he called softly, his voice carrying just enough authority to make it clear this was not a request.
The young princess approached with quick, light steps, her curiosity evident in every line of her body. When she was close enough, Jaehaerys carefully unwrapped the package to reveal the Valyrian steel locket, its twin dragons catching the morning light like captured starfire.
"A gift," he said simply, his voice warm with genuine affection, "from Father, but delivered with love from your cousin who thinks you deserve beautiful things and the protection they represent."
Rhaenyra's breath caught as she saw the locket, her violet eyes widening with wonder. "Oh," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Oh, Jae, it's... it's magnificent. The dragons look like they're about to take flight."
"That's rather the point," Jaehaerys replied with a grin that transformed his usually serious features. "May I?"
At her eager nod, he lifted the chain over her head, settling the locket against her chest where it seemed to pulse with its own inner warmth. The moment the Valyrian steel touched her skin, something shifted—her posture straightened slightly, her eyes grew brighter, and an almost imperceptible aura of confidence seemed to settle around her like a cloak.
"It suits you perfectly," he observed with satisfaction. "Wear it always, Cousin. In times of joy and times of trial. It carries with it the protection of our house and the love of your family."
The watching council members exchanged glances that spoke volumes about the political implications of such a gift. Valyrian steel was beyond precious—it was legend made tangible, power wrought in metal that could not be forged again in all the world.
"Such generosity," Archmaester Mellos observed with the sort of careful neutrality that suggested he was calculating costs and implications with scholarly precision. "Valyrian steel jewelry is... unprecedented. Extraordinarily valuable."
"Extraordinary situations call for extraordinary gestures," Daemon replied smoothly, his violet eyes holding a challenge that dared anyone to question his family's choices. "My daughter—for Rhaenyra is my daughter in all but blood—deserves protection worthy of her station and her potential."
Princess Rhaenys studied the exchange with the sharp attention of someone who understood that gifts of such magnitude carried messages beyond their material value. "Indeed," she said thoughtfully. "Such protection will serve her well in the years to come."
Jaehaerys turned toward Princess Rhaenys, producing another silk-wrapped package from his doublet. "And speaking of protection and family bonds," he continued with the sort of diplomatic smoothness that would have impressed seasoned ambassadors, "I have something to show you, Princess, that I hope you'll find... relevant to your daughter's future welfare."
He unwrapped the Valyrian steel bracelet with the same reverence he'd shown the locket, letting the scales and wave patterns catch the light in shifting displays of metallic artistry. The craftsmanship was extraordinary—each scale individually wrought, the wave patterns flowing like frozen water, the entire piece radiating the subtle power that marked true Valyrian steel.
"For Laena," he explained, his voice carrying the weight of formal negotiation despite his youth. "A symbol of alliance, protection, and the bonds that will unite our houses in the years to come. I trust you'll find it... suitable for your daughter's station?"
Princess Rhaenys accepted the bracelet with hands that remained perfectly steady despite the magnitude of what she was holding. Her fingers traced the intricate patterns with the sort of reverent attention that such craftsmanship deserved.
"Suitable," she repeated with a slight smile that held depths of political calculation and genuine appreciation. "Young prince, this is beyond suitable. This is... declaration. Statement. Promise writ in metal more precious than kingdoms."
Her violet eyes fixed on his with new respect. "Laena will understand its significance. As do I. House Velaryon accepts this gift in the spirit it's offered—as symbol of alliance, protection, and shared purpose."
"Shared purpose indeed," Lyonel Strong murmured, his whisper-master's instincts recognizing the broader implications of what he was witnessing. "Though I confess curiosity about the timing of such... diplomatic gestures."
"The timing," Jaehaerys replied with perfect composure, "is exactly right for what's to come. Sometimes the most important statements are made in private, between family, before the formal ceremonies and public declarations."
He straightened to his full height—impressive for his age—and his green eyes held depths that seemed far too ancient for someone who had seen barely eight summers. "Besides, true alliances are built on personal bonds as much as political necessity. Better to establish those bonds properly than to rely solely on parchment and promises."
Daemon's expression was one of paternal pride mixed with tactical appreciation. "Well spoken, my boy. Though I hope our esteemed colleagues won't take offense at such frank discussion of political realities. We wouldn't want to suggest that anyone present was anything less than perfectly straightforward in their motivations."
"Perish the thought," Lyman Beesbury said with dry humor that suggested the Master of Coin had more wit than his usual focus on numbers might indicate. "After all, we're all here to serve the realm's interests, regardless of our personal feelings or house loyalties."
"Naturally," Princess Rhaenys agreed with the sort of bland politeness that could mean anything or nothing. "Though I suspect the realm's interests may prove more... complex than usual, given what I understand about today's agenda."
"You've been given details about the agenda?" Daemon asked with sharpened interest.
"Hints," she replied carefully. "Suggestions. Implications that require... interpretation."
The great doors groaned open once again, and the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the chamber. The moment of private family business was ending, and the formal machinery of governance was about to resume its ancient function.
"Positions, everyone," Daemon murmured with the sort of casual authority that came from years of attending such gatherings. "The performance is about to begin."
Jaehaerys moved to stand behind his father's chair, his hands clasped behind his back in the proper posture for a page. But something in his bearing suggested he was prepared to be considerably more than decoration if circumstances required it. The ring on his finger pulsed once with inner light before settling back to the appearance of simple jewelry.
Rhaenyra took her position near the sideboard, the locket warm against her chest, her entire demeanor subtly transformed by the knowledge that she wore protection wrought by dragonfire and shaped by masters whose like would never be seen again.
Princess Rhaenys carefully tucked the bracelet into her sleeve, though not before letting the light catch its surface one final time. The message had been delivered and received—House Velaryon and House Targaryen were bound by more than marriage negotiations and political necessity.
The stage was set, the players in position, and the great game of thrones prepared to resume its ancient dance. But now, thanks to gifts of steel and fire and family love, some of the dancers wore armor that could not be seen but might well prove to be their salvation when the music turned dark and the steps grew dangerous.
Outside the chamber, the sound of voices grew closer—King Viserys with his careful authority, Otto Hightower with his measured precision, Ser Ryam Redwyne with his solid dependability. The moment of private preparation was ending.
"Let the show begin," Daemon murmured, his violet eyes bright with anticipation of whatever chaos the morning might bring.
And in the growing light of dawn, ancient steel pulsed with inner fire, family bonds grew stronger than political calculation, and the future began to take shape in ways that no one—not even prophetic princes with impossible green eyes—could fully foresee.
The Dance was still years away, but the music had already begun.
---
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