The golden halls of Casterly Rock had been transformed into a fever dream of Valyrian nostalgia, a sight so surreal it had rendered the usually talkative Targaryen delegation into a stunned, simmering silence. The "Golden Boy" of House Lannister had not just spent a fortune; he had liquidated a mountain’s worth of gold to recreate the glory of an empire that had been dead for centuries, all to honor the woman he had won.

From the elevated gallery, Aemond Targaryen stood like a statue carved from obsidian, his single sapphire eye tracking your every move in the Great Hall below. You were too far for him to reach, separated by a sea of cheering commoners, dancing nobles, and the sheer scale of the Lannister’s grandiosity. What galled Aemond the most wasn't the wealth—it was the clothing. Instead of the heavy crimson velvets of the West, your husband had commissioned master weavers to create traditional Valyrian garments for you both. You stood on the central dais in shimmering, gossamer silks of deep charcoal and dragon-blood red, your silver hair braided in the ancient, intricate patterns of the Freehold. Beside you, the Lannister Lord wore the same, surrendering his own house colors to don the attire of your ancestors—a submissive, adoring gesture that felt like a slap in the face to every "true" dragon in the room.

"Look at that," Aegon muttered from behind a massive golden chalice, his voice thick with a mix of awe and bitter jealousy. "He’s even dressing like us now. He’s turned the Rock into a second Dragonstone just to make her smile. It’s disgusting. It’s... it’s expensive." "It is a mockery," Aemond hissed, his hand white-knuckled on the stone railing as he watched the Lannister lean in to kiss your hand, the light of ten thousand candles reflecting off your shared Valyrian silks. "He thinks he can buy our history. He thinks if he puts on our clothes and burns our incense, he becomes one of us." Down on the floor, the common people—beggars, smiths, and merchants invited from the streets of Lannisport—were weeping and cheering at the sight of the "Dragon Queen" and her Golden Lion. The Lannister Lord had opened his doors to everyone, turning a royal wedding into a populist festival of worship.

Daemon Targaryen leaned against a pillar nearby, his eyes narrowed as he watched the spectacle below. "A Lannister supporting our traditions," he remarked, a dangerous, mocking tilt to his head. "He’s cleverer than he looks. He knows he can’t make her a lion, so he’s trying to become a dragon himself. Look at how he looks at her, Aemond. He doesn't see a political alliance. He sees a goddess." "He sees a prize!" Aemond snapped, his gaze never leaving your distant figure. You looked happy, or at least content, surrounded by a warmth that the cold halls of the Red Keep had never offered. The distance between the gallery and the floor felt like an ocean. "He’s parading her like a relic. He’s invited the whole world to watch him play-act as a Dragonlord." Rhaenyra sighed softly, her eyes fixed on the way your husband adjusted your cloak with a tenderness that was painfully visible even from the heights. "He’s giving her the world, Aemond. He’s showing the Realm that to love a Targaryen is to honor the blood of the dragon above all else. Even his own pride."

Aemond didn't answer. He watched as the music swelled—a haunting, Valyrian melody played on harps of Lannister gold. You were down there, a vision of their lost home, being worshipped by a man who had turned his entire kingdom into a shrine for you. "Enjoy your theater, little lion," Aemond whispered to the empty air, his eye burning with a dark, possessive fire. "Wear our silks and speak our tongue. But when the candles burn out, she is still my twin. And no amount of gold can change the blood that flows beneath those pretty clothes."