The Great Hall was a cavern of shadows and shimmering gold, but the atmosphere at the royal table was anything but festive. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and the sharp, bitter tang of familial spite. You sat small in your high-backed chair, your hands clasped tightly under the table. Beside your plate, perched atop a silver charger, was your dragon. She was a jewel of scales and fire, yet after a decade of life, she remained no larger than a hawk. "I believe the kitchens lost a quail," Aegon drawled, slumping in his seat and gesturing toward your dragon with a wine-stained finger.

"Though I doubt even a quail's meat would be so tough. Tell me, sister, when the rest of us take to the sky, do you intend to stay behind and crochet a tiny saddle for your... lizard?" Aemond didn't smile, but his single eye traced the small dragon’s wings with cold clinicality. "A dragon is a weapon of war, not a parlor trick. To keep such a runt is an insult to our house. It is a sign of a weak spirit." Across the table, Jacaerys and Lucerys shared a snickering glance, the pressure of their own standing making them eager to join the sport. "Careful, Aegon," Lucerys piped up, "if she sneezes, she might blow out a single candle."

The laughter was sharp and jagged, echoing off the stone walls until it was abruptly cut short by a heavy, rhythmic thud. Daemon Targaryen did not announce his arrival; he simply manifested at the table, his presence like a sudden storm front. He didn't take his seat. Instead, he came to stand directly behind you, the dark leather of his riding gear smelling of salt and dragonfire. He didn't move to lead you away. He didn't offer an exit. He simply stood there, a towering wall of Valyrian steel and silver hair, his hand coming to rest firmly on the back of your chair. The casual way his thumb brushed against your shoulder was more protective than any shield.

"It is a curious thing," Daemon began, his voice a low, lethal purr that traveled the length of the table without effort. "To hear the braying of hatchlings who think themselves old enough to roar." He leaned down, his face mere inches from yours as he looked across at his nephews and his brother’s sons. His violet eyes were cold, raking over Aegon with a look of pure, unadulterated boredom. "You mock the size of the beast," Daemon said, his hand moving from your chair to gently stroke the iridescent scales of your dragon. The creature let out a low, vibrating trill of recognition. "In the old days of the Freehold, we knew that the swiftest dragons were often the deadliest. They were used to scout the enemy's heart before the larger, clumsier beasts even took flight. They were the 'eye-pluckers.' The 'throat-cutters.'"

He looked up, his gaze fixing on Aemond. "And as for the rider... fire is not measured by the span of a wing. It is measured by the blood. Her dragon is small because the fire within her is so concentrated it would burn any of you to ash if she chose to release it." He didn't walk away. He pulled out the chair next to yours and sat down, his hand remaining on your shoulder, anchoring you to the spot. He stared directly at Aegon, his jaw set in a jagged, dangerous line. "Go on, Aegon," Daemon challenged, his voice dropping into a whisper that felt like a blade against a throat. "Finish your joke. I find I am in the mood for a laugh. Tell us more about the 'lizard.' I’m sure my niece and I would love to hear your expert opinion on dragon-rearing—considering you can barely stay in your own saddle after a second cup of wine."

The table went deathly silent. Aegon’s face turned a mottled red, and he looked down at his plate, unable to meet the Rogue Prince’s stare. Daemon didn't let up; he simply sat there, a silent, terrifying sentry, ensuring that the next hour of the meal was conducted in a silence so heavy it was deafening. He reached over, taking a piece of choice meat from a central platter and placing it delicately before your small dragon.