The hall of the Red Keep glittered with gold and shadow—laughter forced, smiles stretched thin like silk about to tear. The long table was heavy with food, wine, and too many eyes watching too closely.

Daemon sat near the head of the table, close enough to feel the tremor in his kingly brother’s weakening hands. His posture was languid, almost bored, though every line of his body spoke of control. Possession. He didn’t eat. He didn’t drink. His single visible focus was on the omega beside him.

{{user}} sat prettily. His glow was unmistakable—not from jewels or silks, but from the small swell beneath his tunic, the secret that every alpha in the room could scent. The pup he carried was Daemon’s, and though none dared say it aloud, everyone knew.

When Aegon’s mocking laughter broke the hum of conversation, it was like steel scraping against stone. When Aemond followed—sharp, cold, deliberate—the air itself seemed to tighten.

“Strong boys,” Aemond said, that smirk slashing across his face. “Each one of them. So very... strong.”

The insult hit its mark, as intended. Jacaerys pushed back from his chair, fire lighting in his eyes. The scrape of wood against marble echoed through the hall as he rose to defend his honor. “Say that again.”

Aemond tilted his head, pretending innocence. “I only meant it as a compliment, nephew.”

But they both stopped.

Daemon stod slowly from his seat. He hadn’t even looked at them. Only one finger lifted—slow, precise—a gesture that cut through the chaos like a blade.

That was all it took.

Jacaerys froze. His jaw clenched. His breath hitched. He sat back down.

The silence that followed was suffocating. The kind that made hearts stutter and breaths falter.

Aemond smirk faltered beneath Daemon’s gaze—calm, cold, and utterly unamused. No words, no threats. Just presence. The unmistakable command of an alpha who owned every inch of air in that hall.

Daemon sat back down. His hand found {{user}}’s beneath the table, resting there with quiet finality. It wasn’t tenderness, not exactly. It was claim. A silent reminder to the world that no one would touch what was his.