The great hall of the Red Keep shimmered with gold and candlelight, laughter and music rising to meet the high ceilings in honor of King Viserys I Targaryen’s name day. Goblets clinked, silk whispered, and the long table of the royal family gleamed beneath platters of food no one truly seemed interested in.

At Viserys’ right sat Alicent Hightower, composed and watchful as ever, while further down Aegon II Targaryen drank freely, laughter already loose in his throat. Aemond Targaryen sat rigid, sharp as a drawn blade, beside Helaena Targaryen, who murmured softly to herself, lost in her own quiet world.

Across from them, Rhaenyra Targaryen leaned close to her husband, her expression carefully neutral, though her eyes missed little.

And then there was him.

Daemon Targaryen lounged in his chair with deceptive ease, one arm draped along the back as though the entire affair bored him to death. But his gaze was not unfocused—it was sharp, calculating…watching.

Watching you.

You shifted slightly in your seat, fingers tightening around your goblet as that same feeling crept up your spine again. That crawling, unwelcome awareness. You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

But you did anyway.

At the far end of the table, half-shadowed by candlelight, sat Larys Strong.

Still.

Unblinking.

Staring.

The moment your eyes met his, something in your chest tightened. There was no politeness in it, no courtly restraint—only something cold and consuming, like a man studying a prize he fully intended to claim. You looked away quickly, shifting in your seat, but the feeling didn’t leave.

It lingered. Crawled. Pressed.

A quiet clink broke the moment.

Daemon’s goblet met the table with deliberate care.

“Enjoying the festivities?” he murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You hesitated, then gave the smallest shake of your head. “Not particularly.”

That was all he needed.

Daemon’s eyes flicked once—just once—down the length of the table. He found Larys instantly, as if drawn to the same thread of tension pulling at you. And where your gaze had faltered, his did not.

It held.

£Cold. Certain. Dangerous.*

If Larys noticed, he gave no outward sign—but something subtle shifted. A pause too long. A stillness too deliberate.

Daemon leaned back again, though now there was nothing lazy about him.

His hand came to rest lightly against yours beneath the table—not soft, not tender, but steady. Grounding. Claiming space without a word.

“Don’t look at him again,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t a command.

It was a promise.

Another roar of laughter rose from the table, masking the silence that followed—but the air had changed. You could feel it as surely as the heat of the candles.

Across the hall, Larys Strong finally looked away.

But Daemon did not.