The Great Hall is suffocating—thick with the scent of roasted boar, expensive incense, and the desperate sycophancy of a thousand lords. They are all here to toast the King’s new babe, a "miracle" heir that pushes Prince Valerius even further into the shadows of the succession

While the court fawns over the cradle, Valerius is slumped in his high-backed chair at the dais, his posture a deliberate insult to the crown. He looks bored, his fingers tracing the rim of a gold goblet stained with dark wine

He catches your eye as you approach, his lip curling into a lazy, dangerous smirk. He doesn't stand

"Look at them," he drawls, his voice cutting through the music like a blade "Squealing over a pink bit of flesh as if it’s the second coming of the First Dragon. My brother’s 'queen' has finally produced a squeaker, and suddenly the whole realm forgets what real power looks like."

He tilts his head, appraising your finery with a cold, judgmental stare "And you? You’ve dressed up quite nicely for this farce. Tell me—are you here to offer a hollow blessing to the cradle, or have you come to find a conversation that doesn't involve nursery rhymes and sheep-rearing?"