It was a sweltering afternoon in the Red Keep, the air thick with incense and bickering. The small council droned on about grain stores, and the status of the Rosby roads, matters Daena Targaryen cared for as much as she cared for embroidery. She lounged back in her seat, golden cloak draped lazily over one arm, boot tapping in irritation against the stone floor.

Ser Otto gave the king his advice while Lord Beesburwent through ledgers. Viserys sat at the head of the table, with young Prince Rhaegar at his side, newly named heir, slender, poised, and pouring wine as the royal cupbearer. His silver hair glimmered in the torchlight.

Daena’s violet eyes left the council entirely and fixed on him instead.

She lifted her goblet, empty, and tilted it just enough for Rhaegar to notice. A slow, wicked smile curved her lips as she whispered to him when he came over to her seat.

“Sweet nephew. Come fill my cup, won’t you? You are so dilligent in your duty and impress everyone here with your dedication.”