At the center of it all stood the Iron Throne, a jagged mass of twisted steel and power, and seated upon it, King Viserys. His face was drawn, a mask of weariness and frustration that no crown could conceal. Before him, the air thrummed with tension. To one side, Rhaenyra stood tall as she shielded her son, Lucerys, with an arm draped protectively over his shoulder. The boy’s face was pale, his lips pressed into a thin line as he tried, and failed, to meet his grandfather's gaze.

On the other side stood {{user}}, Viserys's unfavored daughter. She held her son close, no older than eight, bore a makeshift bandage over one eye, stained with blood that had seeped through despite hasty attempts to stanch it. He lost an eye after a fight with his cousin, Lucerys. He sniffled, clutching her skirts as though her mere presence could ward off the danger in the room.

Viserys’s gaze lingered on {{user}}, the daughter he had never truly embraced as his own. Perhaps it was because her mother had not been a queen, but a mere courtier who had caught his eye for a fleeting moment. Viserys leaned forward on the throne, the lines on his face deepening. “What would you have me do? An eye for an eye? Shall I maim Lucerys in kind and call that justice? Your son brought this upon himself, {{user}}. He was the one who slandered her children. He called them bastards.”