At night, in the great banqueting hall of the Red Keep.
The frescoes along the walls depicted Aegon the Conqueror and his two sister-wives, as well as Aenys I, Maegor I, and Jaehaerys I—the kings of House Targaryen, gazing down in painted judgment.
Candleflame flickered restlessly in silver candelabra, and the long table was draped in deep crimson velvet.
Viserys I sat upon a high-backed chair specially padded and placed upon the dais, his black brocade cloak hanging loosely over his wasted frame. His breathing was shallow, his posture frail.
Beside him, Aegon was wholly absorbed in cutting into a piece of beef drowned in sauce, his pale silver hair falling forward, nearly veiling his eyes.
Below Aegon sat Aemond, clad in ink-black, his silver hair tightly bound at the back of his head. Candlelight cast a sharp, angular shadow across his young face. He reclined slightly to the side, the food before him untouched.
Helaena sat nearby, eating quietly.
At the doors stood Ser Criston Cole and Ser Rickard Thorne, standing watch.
From time to time, Helaena smiled faintly and whispered something to her father, Viserys.
Across the table sat Rhaenyra's three sons in order.
Jacaerys sat beneath his mother, a black patch covering his left eye. His remaining right eye occasionally flicked toward Aemond, filled with barely restrained resentment. Lucerys and Joffrey sat close beside him, holding their breath as if afraid to move.
The serving girls moved nervously, hands trembling as they rearranged plates and cups.
"…Recently," Viserys said at last, his voice low and tired,
"I have heard certain rumors."
His gaze shifted to Otto Hightower.
The Hand of the King immediately set aside his knife and fork and inclined his head.
"Your Grace, they are nothing more than idle talk—discontented lords gossiping about family trifles…"
Viserys's heavy eyes passed slowly over the faces of every child at the table.
"Dragons may snarl and bite," he said,
"but they must never kill one another."
Rhaenyra immediately inclined her body, folding her hands over her abdomen, her posture flawless and respectful.
"Your Grace speaks wisely. Precisely because these rumors wound so deeply, I beg that you publicly affirm Jacaerys's rights before all tomorrow."
She turned her gaze toward her one-eyed son, a gentle maternal light shining in her eyes.
"If you personally name the heir to the Iron Throne, many needless suspicions will naturally fade."
The hall fell silent.
Queen Alicent's face tightened. Otto stared down into the trembling reflection within his cup.
Aegon's knife did not pause for even a moment.
Aemond lifted his gaze calmly, surveying the table.
As for the others—Daemon drank his wine slowly, unhurried. Jacaerys straightened his back, while Lucerys and Joffrey held themselves rigid with tension.
In the candlelight, the three boys' hair appeared a common brown, their eyes equally plain.
Viserys had never formally confirmed Jacaerys as heir—and this was precisely why.
"Succession…"
He finally spoke, his voice dry.
"Give me time to consider."
A flicker of shadow crossed Rhaenyra's eyes, but she smiled once more.
"Your Grace is ever thoughtful. I was merely anxious."
Then she glanced toward Helaena opposite her and turned back to the king.
"Still, Jacaerys will turn eleven next month."
"As for his marriage to Helaena, I had thought that when he reaches thirteen, a formal betrothal ceremony might be arranged."
"This union would strengthen the bonds of our family."
Alicent's face drained of color in an instant.
She looked at Viserys, lips parting slightly, throat tightening—yet no sound came.
Viserys glanced at Helaena, who kept her gaze lowered as always, then at the silent Jacaerys, and slowly nodded.
"The betrothal may be discussed again when Jacaerys turns thirteen," he said.
"If, at that time… all matters are deemed suitable."
"Thank you, Father," Rhaenyra said with a smile, her eyes flicking toward the pale queen across from her.
Aemond raised his head. His gaze swept across Rhaenyra and her sons.
"For instance," he said evenly,
"cuckoos. I find them fascinating—laying their eggs in another bird's nest, letting others raise their young."
Jacaerys's single eye widened instantly. Lucerys and Joffrey stared at Aemond in disbelief.
"What do you mean by that?!"
Jacaerys shot to his feet, slamming his hands on the table.
Aemond let out a soft, humorless laugh.
"Oh? I was merely speaking casually. Did someone take it personally?"
"Or is it that some people are… overly sensitive?"
The words were little short of pointing a finger and cursing.
Daemon lifted a hand, motioning Jacaerys to sit. The smile vanished from his face, a sharp glint flashing in his violet eyes.
The air in the hall froze.
Servants hurried forward, trembling, to replace a dish.
A young maid carried in a massive silver platter—upon it lay a roast suckling pig, golden and crisp, an apple stuffed in its mouth, fat gleaming in the candlelight.
At that moment—
Lucerys glanced at the roasted pig, then at Aemond, some thought flickering across his face. He failed to suppress a quiet snort of laughter.
The sound was soft—but in the dead silence, it was like a stone dropped into still water.
Aemond appeared not to hear.
Calmly, he took up the sharp carving knife the maid had left at the edge of the platter. The blade was long and narrow, its cold gleam unsettling.
He did not cut into the ribs or the legs.
With a precise turn of the wrist, the blade slid cleanly through the joints of the piglet's neck.
Aemond lifted the pig's head with one hand and turned toward Lucerys.
"Here," he said.
"Lucerys."
With a slight flick of his wrist, the pig's head traced a short arc through the air.
Thud.
It landed squarely on the empty plate before Lucerys.
The head lay askew, its scorched mouth twisted into a grotesque smile, the apple between its teeth seeming almost mocking.
Aemond set the knife aside, took a napkin, and slowly wiped his fingers clean. Then he smiled.
"Eat well," he said lightly.
"Like your uncle. I wish you… to grow strong. Quickly."
"Strong."
Alicent clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
The last trace of a smile vanished from Otto Hightower's face.
The blood drained from Rhaenyra's features. Daemon slowly lowered his cup, violet eyes narrowing as they fixed upon Aemond.
Lucerys stared at the pig's head beside him, his young chest heaving as rage surged and fell within him.
The servants stood frozen, scarcely daring to breathe.
Only the candleflames continued to flicker restlessly, reflecting terror, fury, and fear across every face in the hall.