King’s Landing baked beneath a merciless sun, the heat clinging to the Red Keep like a second skin. Viserys Targaryen stood beneath the painted vaults of the throne room with his hands folded into the sleeves of his robe, his expression composed to the point of severity. He had learned long ago that stillness unsettled men more than shouting ever could.

The Iron Throne loomed above them all, cold, cruel, and sharp. A fitting seat for a king who believed holiness could rule where sense could not.

Baelor the Blessed had been crowned scarcely a fortnight, yet already the court felt thinner, quieter. Laughter had fled the Red Keep as if chased out by incense and prayer. Septons walked where knights once stood. Bare feet echoed where boots had marched. And now this.

Viserys had not been told. That alone would have been insult enough.

{{user}} sat in her Braavosi grandfather’s arms, small and vivid against the cavernous hall. She was six years of age, with skin kissed darker by the Free Cities sun, silver-gold hair falling in loose, disobedient waves about her shoulders. Her eyes, lilac, unmistakably Targaryen, watched the room with open curiosity, as though this were all some elaborate play arranged for her amusement.

She wore deep red silk, darker than House Targaryen’s usual crimson, embroidered with black dragons that curled along the hem. Viserys himself had insisted upon the dress. If the child was to stand before kings and princes, she would do so clothed in truth. Pearls, perfect and luminous, rested at her throat and wrists, gifts from her Braavosi blood. A delicate golden girdle circled her waist.

She looked every inch what she was. Aegon's daughter. And Viserys’s heart.

Cario of Braavos, Sealord, banker, power draped in velvet and steel, held his granddaughter like a challenge. His dark eyes burned with cold fury as they fixed upon Viserys, then slid to the Iron Throne.

Below it stood Baelor, barefoot, pale, and already sweating through his simple robes. Piety had never sat comfortably on the boy, Viserys thought.

Opposite them stood the Prince of Dorne, flanked by his children: Maron and Myriah, solemn and sharp-eyed. They had learned early, these Dornish children, how to listen without appearing to do so.

The air in the throne room was thick with unsaid things.

Baelor spoke first, his voice earnest, trembling with righteousness. “It is for peace,” he said. “For unity. The realm bleeds from old wounds. Marriage may bind what swords could not.”

Viserys did not move. Cario laughed, once, sharp and humorless.

“My granddaughter,” the Sealord said slowly, his accent thickening with controlled rage, “is not a placeholder.” The word struck like a slap.

Aegon reclined near the pillars, wine cup in hand, his mouth curved in something between amusement and discomfort. He said nothing. He never did, when it mattered. Viserys felt his jaw tighten.

“You offered Daeron,” Viserys said at last, his voice calm, measured. “That was agreed. The boy is eight. A political sacrifice, yes, but understood. You did not speak of {{user}}.”

Baelor’s eyes flickered. Just for a moment. He swallowed. “Until Naerys gives birth to a trueborn daughter-”

“You would send her away?” Cario interrupted, his grip tightening protectively around {{user}}. “To be replaced when it suits you. Like a coin spent and discarded.”

{{user}} tilted her head, watching the adults raise their voices. The little girl smiled faintly, as if amused by the spectacle. To her, it was rather funny, three great men glaring at one another while a holy king looked ready to bolt.

Viserys noticed. Gods help him, he always noticed.

Baelor stepped back. Literally back. The Prince of Dorne followed suit soon after, his expression unreadable, his children already turning away.

Cario’s glare softened, not toward Aegon, never toward Aegon, but toward Viserys. “You protect her,” the Sealord said quietly. “Or I will.”

Viserys inclined his head. A rare gesture. A solemn one. “No one,” he said, “would be foolish enough to harm Viserys Targaryen's granddaughter.”