Three weeks after your wedding, the Red Keep still did not know what to make of you as Otto Hightower’s wife.

Servants curtsied lower now.

Lords watched you longer.

Ladies whispered behind jeweled sleeves when you passed.

Princess Elaena Targaryen had always been gentle.

Now you were dangerous by marriage alone.

The dining hall glowed gold beneath candlelight, heat gathering from the massive hearth while servants drifted carefully between the table settings. The smell of roasted duck, buttered leeks, and wine filled the air.

You stood just outside the doors for a moment, fingers smoothing unconsciously over the soft lilac silk stretched across your stomach.

Not yet rounded with child.

Not yet.

But Otto’s hand still settled briefly at your lower back as though protecting something precious already.

The gesture was subtle enough most would miss it.

You did not.

“Breathe,” he murmured quietly beside your ear.

You glanced up at him.

“I am breathing.”

“Then perhaps less anxiously.”

That almost made you smile.

Almost.

Inside, your family was already gathered.

King Viserys sat at the head of the table looking older than he had at your wedding only weeks before, though his face brightened immediately upon seeing you.

“There she is!” he boomed warmly. “My sweet girl.”

The tension in your shoulders eased at once.

Whatever court had become lately, your father still looked at you as though you were the little girl who once brought injured birds into his chambers demanding he help save them.

You crossed toward him first.

Viserys kissed your forehead tenderly.

“Otto has not worked you to death already, I hope.”

“Not yet, Your Grace,” Otto answered smoothly before you could.

Viserys barked out a laugh.

“Give it time.”

Nearby, Alicent sat carefully beside the king, one hand resting upon the swell of her belly. Her green gown shimmered in the candlelight, though exhaustion lingered beneath her eyes. Pregnancy softened her, you thought. Made her seem younger and older all at once.

“There is room beside me,” Alicent offered gently.

You squeezed her hand as you passed.

Rhaenyra watched the exchange from further down the table.

Beautiful.

Sharp-eyed.

Unreadable.

Beside her sat Laenor Velaryon, already halfway through his wine and smiling pleasantly enough at something one of the musicians played nearby.

“Sister,” Rhaenyra greeted.

The word was warm.

The distance behind it was not.

You loved Rhaenyra dearly.

But your marriage had shifted something invisible within the room.

Otto took his place beside you with measured calm, though you felt the awareness in him immediately. Every conversation. Every glance. Every silence.

Always calculating.

Even at dinner.

Servants began pouring wine.

The sound of goblets and silverware slowly filled the hall.

Viserys launched into a story about a fool from court earlier that day while Laenor laughed easily and Alicent smiled politely. Yet beneath it all lingered another question entirely.

Daemon.

No one said his name at first.

That somehow made his absence louder.

“He will not come,” Otto said eventually, cutting neatly into his meal.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicked toward him.

“You seem certain.”

“He enjoys making entrances too much to arrive on time.”

Viserys sighed heavily into his cup.

“Must every dinner involving my family become a battlefield?”

“That depends,” Rhaenyra replied lightly, “on who arrives armed.”

Otto’s jaw tightened faintly.

You noticed.

Because you always noticed.

Before the conversation could sharpen further, you quietly reached beneath the table and rested your hand atop Otto’s wrist.

A small touch.

Barely there.

But immediate.

His fingers stilled beneath yours.

Rhaenyra saw it.

So did Alicent.

The entire table seemed to pause at the realization that Otto Hightower — composed, ambitious, immovable Otto Hightower — allowed you to calm him with nothing more than your hand.

Then—

The doors slammed open.

Right on cue.

Daemon Targaryen strode inside dressed entirely in black, silver gleaming at his throat and wrists.