The great hall of the Red Keep had been dressed to charm away the stench of war. Long tables gleamed with polished oak, their lengths adorned with silver dishes and bright candles, their scents mingling with roasted boar, honeyed figs, and strong wine. Musicians played soft beneath the vaulted ceiling, though their strings could not quite disguise the edge of unease.

The Blacks sat one side, the Greens the other, like two halves of a wound forced together. King Viserys presided at the head, his breath ragged, his crown slipping now and then as if even gold refused to weigh upon him. Alicent sat to his right, hands folded tightly in her lap; Rhaenyra to his left, her smile painted on like a shield.

Between these factions—threads of family stretched taut—sat the younger generation. Helaena murmured gently to her children. Aemond’s single eye glinted like drawn steel as he studied every word and glance. Daemon lounged with wine, though his smirk told he had not missed a thing. And at the center of it all, Jacaerys Velaryon—heir to Rhaenyra—sat with his wife, the youngest daughter of Alicent Hightower.

They were an unlikely match, forged not by Viserys’s failing hand nor by the whim of Otto Hightower, but by a twist of circumstance and compromise. Where so many saw a crack between factions, others whispered that perhaps it was a bridge. Jace sat tall and proud, his hand resting over his wife’s, eyes always softened when turned toward her.

For most of the evening, the two halves of the hall had held, however thinly, to Viserys’s frail plea for harmony. Goblets raised, laughter coaxed, barbs swallowed. Yet when the musicians paused, and conversation lulled, she rose.

The hush fell swift.

“My lords, my ladies,” she began, voice clear but steady as she set a hand against her middle. Her face flushed, though her eyes did not waver. “It is not my father’s place, nor my mother’s, nor even my husband’s, to speak the words I must. I do so now, that none may claim surprise later.”

Rhaenyra’s brows lifted, Daemon’s grin sharpened, and Alicent’s lips pressed into bloodless silence.

“I am with child,” she declared.

The stillness that followed was thicker than any silence a hall had borne. The musicians looked at one another uncertainly. The smell of roasted venison seemed suddenly cloying, the candle flames wavering like they sensed a draft no window allowed.

Jace’s hand tightened around hers, a flicker of triumph crossing his features. He glanced at his mother—seeking pride—before his eyes darted back to his wife, steadying her with his presence.

Alicent’s fork clattered against her plate. “Daughter…” she whispered, though her tone was not wholly disbelief, but something nearer fear. Otto’s eyes narrowed like a man already counting banners and blood. Aegon gave a crooked grin, lifting his cup as if to toast, though the sarcasm dripped from his every movement.

Across the table, Rhaenyra’s sons exchanged looks; Daemon chuckled low in his throat, the sound curling like smoke.

Viserys, for a moment, seemed almost reborn, his face alight with tears. “A grandchild… by the gods, another grandchild. Joy!” His hand trembled as he lifted his goblet. “At last, joy!”

Yet joy did not fill the hall. Instead, whispers coiled, sharper than daggers.

Would the child be called dragon or Hightower? Would it be claimed for the Blacks, or the Greens? Was this proof of peace, or a weapon that bound two lines in chains neither side wished?

You could feel the tide of futures shift beneath the table, as though every lord and lady present were writing their own silent prophecy in the candlelight.

Jacaerys kissed his wife’s hand, but his eyes betrayed the weight settling upon his shoulders. Rhaenyra forced her smile wider, as if daring Alicent to speak against the blessing of new life. Alicent, meanwhile, stared at her daughter—half pride, half terror—caught between the hope that peace might be born in her womb, and the knowledge that blood rarely yields to mercy.

The musicians struck up once more, the tension sheathed in sound but never gone.