The throne room of the Red Keep had rarely been so silent.

Even the whisper of silk and armor seemed too loud beneath the towering presence of the Iron Throne.

The gathered lords and ladies of court stood arranged in tense rows, their attention fixed upon the frail figure of King Viserys I Targaryen seated upon the throne. Age and illness had hollowed him, yet the weight of the crown still rested upon his brow.

Today’s council had been called to determine the future of Driftmark… and the legitimacy of the sons and daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen.

You stood beside your betrothed, Aegon II Targaryen. The prince’s hand rested firmly against the small of your back, fingers splayed in a quiet show of possession and protection. His grip was warm, steady—grounding. Anyone watching could see the subtle shift in his stance whenever someone’s gaze lingered too long on you.

Your brothers, Lucerys Velaryon and Jacaerys Velaryon, stood several paces ahead with your mother.

Then the king’s tired voice carried through the hall.

“Lucerys Velaryon… shall be named heir to Driftmark.”

A ripple moved through the court.

*And then—£

Outrage.

Vaemond Velaryon stepped forward, his fury barely contained.

“They are no true Velaryon,” he spat. “And certainly no nephew of mine.”

Beside you, Aegon felt it instantly—the way your body stiffened beneath his hand. The subtle tightening of your shoulders. The slight hitch in your breathing.

He leaned closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“It is alright, my love.”

His thumb brushed lightly against your back in reassurance.

But Vaemond was not finished.

“You may run your house as you see fit,” he said, turning toward the throne. “But you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides.”

Then he turned.

His gaze landed on your brothers.

“And gods be damned,” he continued, voice rising with venom, “I will not see it ended on account of this—”

He stopped.

Across the room, Daemon Targaryen stood like a coiled blade, violet eyes burning with quiet murder.

“Say it,” Daemon murmured darkly.

Vaemond did.

“Her children… ARE BASTARDS!”

Gasps erupted through the hall.

“And she—” he pointed toward your mother with cruel finality, “—is a whore.”

The room froze.

King Viserys struggled to his feet, trembling as he reached weakly for the dagger at his side.

“I… will have your tongue for that.”

But he never got the chance.

Steel flashed.

In a blur of movement Daemon stepped forward, his sword cutting clean through flesh and bone.

Vaemond’s head struck the floor with a sickening thud.

You gasped sharply, both hands flying to your mouth.

Before you could even process what had happened, Aegon moved.

His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you firmly behind him as his other hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. His body became a shield between you and the fallen corpse, instincts taking over before thought ever could.

The room erupted into chaos—shouts, scraping armor, horrified whispers.

But Aegon did not move.

He only tightened his grip on you, his jaw clenched as he watched Daemon.

The rogue prince calmly walked toward the body, nudging the severed head with the tip of his boot. Then, with casual cruelty, he sliced away the lower portion of the jaw—tongue still attached.

Vaemond’s body collapsed heavily beside it.

Daemon wiped his blade.

“He can keep his tongue.”

Silence followed.

Aegon exhaled slowly, tension rolling through his shoulders before he turned slightly, glancing back at you. His hand came up gently to cup the side of your face, making sure you were unhurt, his voice low and rough.

“Do not look, love.”

But his other hand never left the hilt of his sword.

Just in case.