As Prince Aegon's final words settled into the air, the vast banquet hall fell into a silence so profound that even the crackle of torches seemed intrusive.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the Greens erupted.
"Prince Aegon!"
"Prince Aegon!"
"Prince Aegon!"
The cheers rose like a breaking wave, noble voices overlapping into a thunderous chant. Cups were raised. Benches scraped back. Green cloaks swayed as their wearers surged to their feet, faces flushed with triumph and vindication.
Across the hall, the Blacks remained frozen. Their gazes cut toward the dais like drawn blades, sharp with disbelief and calculation. What little balance remained in the room shattered completely.
Prince Daemon stood rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles twitched beneath his skin. His breath came hard through his nose, eyes fixed on Aegon with a fury that bordered on delirium.
"Nonsense," Daemon roared at last, his voice raw with rage. "Utter nonsense! He is the traitor here. He is the one who commits treason. Seize him. Now!"
The Gold Cloaks nearest him hesitated.
They exchanged uneasy looks, hands tightening around spear hafts, eyes flicking between Daemon and the gathering strength around Prince Aegon. Obedience warred with survival.
Daemon's lip curled. "Did you hear me?"
They moved.
But they were already too late.
Gold Cloaks bearing green favors and the armored guards of House Hightower stepped forward in near unison, steel sliding free of scabbards. They formed a living wall at the foot of the steps, blocking every approach to Prince Aegon.
Their stance was tense but measured. They had orders to defend, not yet to slaughter.
Behind them, Prince Aegon's personal guards reacted without hesitation.
At the first sign of movement from Daemon's men, they reached for their crossbows.
The snap of drawn strings rang out, sharp and unmistakable.
Three bolts flew.
At such range, there was no room for mercy. Gold Cloaks fell screaming, bodies jerking as iron punched through mail and flesh. Blood splashed across the marble floor, dark and steaming.
The sight shattered restraint.
"Kill them!" a voice screamed from the Green ranks. "Protect Prince Aegon!"
The hall exploded.
Steel clashed against steel. Tables overturned. Noblemen shrieked and fled as disciplined chaos swallowed the space between the banners. Men crashed into one another, blades hacking at close quarters, the air thick with blood and panic.
Prince Daemon did not hesitate.
He carved a path forward like a man possessed.
One cut split a throat. Another buried deep in a chest. A third severed fingers clutching a sword. He moved with savage efficiency, eyes locked on a single figure above the carnage.
Aegon.
Daemon reached the foot of the steps, boots slick with blood. He looked up.
For an instant, his breathing slowed. His mouth twisted into something like a smile, wild and unhinged.
"Killing you," he said hoarsely. "will end this farce."
But Aegon did not retreat.
He stood straight upon the steps, shoulders relaxed, hands folded loosely before him. His expression was calm, almost thoughtful, as if he were observing a storm from behind thick glass.
"Many wish me dead," Aegon said quietly. "And yet here I stand. At the highest point."
Daemon snarled and surged forward.
Steel screamed through the air.
Daemon's instincts screamed with it.
He twisted aside just in time. Criston Cole's blade cut past his chest, close enough that Daemon felt the wind of it across his skin.
Criston did not press the advantage. He drew back, feet planted, shield angled, sword held steady.
"There is no passage here," Criston said, voice level.
Daemon stared at him, chest heaving. "Move."
Criston shook his head once. "You may not go up."
Daemon's laugh was brittle, edged with hysteria. "And if I refuse?"
Criston did not raise his voice. "Then you will not go up."
His pale green eyes never left Daemon's face, alert and calculating.
Daemon glanced past him once more.
Aegon was smiling.
Not broadly. Not mockingly. Just enough.
The expression struck Daemon like a slap.
Humiliation burned hotter than rage.
Without another word, Daemon attacked.
Their blades met with a shriek of steel. Sparks burst and scattered across the blood-slick floor. Daemon pressed hard, strikes brutal and relentless, forcing Criston back step by step.
But Criston wore full plate. Each blow that might have crippled another man rang harmlessly off steel. Criston gave ground with discipline, conserving his strength, waiting.
The fight raged amid the chaos, their movements sharp and purposeful even as bodies fell around them.
And then, suddenly, Daemon stood alone.
His remaining loyal Gold Cloaks lay strewn across the floor, motionless or dying. Green banners still stood. Green blades still moved.
Daemon's breath came ragged. Sweat streaked his face. His sword arm trembled with exhaustion and fury.
"Stop this," King Viserys shouted hoarsely, rising halfway from his seat. "Stop them!"
The Royal Guard surged forward at last. Rickard Thorne. Steffon Darklyn. Others followed, moving as one. They crashed into Daemon, dragging him down despite his snarling resistance.
Daemon fought like a trapped beast, spitting curses, straining against iron grips. At last they forced him face-down onto the marble, arms pinned.
Still he twisted his head.
His eyes found Aegon.
Aegon, who remained on the steps, untouched, and composed. His smile lingered, calm and distant, as if all of this were inevitable.
Daemon's vision blurred red.
Every passing second sharpened the truth. The longer Aegon stood there, the more dangerous he became.
Viserys's face darkened with fury and exhaustion. "Prince Daemon has drunk too much," he declared. "Remove him at once. This banquet is ended."
The words rang hollow, but they were all he had left.
As Daemon was hauled away, Viserys sagged back into his seat, anger and helplessness warring within him.
Otto Hightower, standing a respectful distance away, felt an unseemly urge to smile.
He had warned the king. Had begged him not to bind these factions together in celebration.
Now the Blacks lay broken in full view of the court.
Viserys suddenly coughed, violently. His face flushed red as his body shook with the effort.
"Father," Rhaenyra said urgently, rising to support him, one hand gripping his shoulder.
After a long moment, Viserys waved her off weakly. He turned his head toward Otto.
"See to our guests," the king said. "See that this… ends quietly."
Otto bowed. "As you command, Your Majesty."
At the Dragonpit, Helaena and Aemond arrived breathless.
They wasted no time.
Dreamfyre stirred as Helaena climbed into the saddle, silver-blue scales shimmering beneath torchlight. Nearby, Vhagar rumbled as Aemond mounted her vast back, his expression alight with fierce anticipation.
One by one, the dragons rose.
Dreamfyre lifted first, wings unfurling. As she prepared to take flight, she suddenly twisted her long neck toward the pit entrance and roared.
From the darkness below, Meleys emerged.
The Red Queen crawled forward, wings folding and unfolding as Rhaenys guided her into the open. Her face was tight with focus, eyes never leaving Helaena.
Helaena met her gaze.
Dreamfyre's tail lashed, blocking Meleys's advance.
Meleys roared in challenge.
Dreamfyre answered.
Then Vhagar loomed beside Dreamfyre, colossal and terrible. Aemond grinned, eyes bright, and gestured sharply toward Meleys, wordlessly asking if they should strike together.
Helaena shook her head at once, her movements quick and decisive.
No.
Block her. Do nothing more.
Aemond's grin faded. His mouth tightened with disappointment, but he obeyed.
The exchange sent a chill through Rhaenys.
In the sky, Meleys might have danced between them. On the ground, she would be crushed.
Rhaenys exhaled slowly.
There was no victory here.
She tugged the reins, turning Meleys back toward the Dragonpit's depths.
Only Vermithor or Silverwing could have stood against both Dreamfyre and Vhagar.
Meleys could not.
And so the Red Queen withdrew, her wings folding into shadow as the pit swallowed her whole.
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A/N:
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