The great hall of the Red Keep glittered with gold and firelight, every surface alive with the flicker of celebration. Musicians played bright, lilting tunes for King Viserys’ name day, their melodies weaving through the hum of noble voices and clinking goblets. Servants drifted between tables like ghosts, pouring wine, refilling plates, ensuring nothing dared interrupt the illusion of perfection.

At the high table, Aegon lounged in his seat with practiced indifference, one arm slung lazily over the carved back of his chair. A goblet of wine rested loosely in his hand, though his attention had long since drifted from the feast before him. His father spoke—something about legacy, about dragons, about the strength of their house—but Aegon barely heard a word of it.

Because across the table, something else had caught his eye.

Again.

His gaze flicked, sharp and deliberate, toward Lord Larys Strong.

The man sat still—too still—his posture composed, his expression unreadable. But his eyes… his eyes betrayed him. They lingered. Fixed. Unblinking.

On you.

Aegon’s jaw tightened slightly, the only outward sign of the irritation beginning to coil in his chest. He had noticed it once before and dismissed it. Twice, and it became a curiosity. But now? Now it was a pattern.

And he did not like patterns he did not control.

Beside him, you shifted.

It was subtle—anyone else might have missed it. The faint adjustment in your seat, the way your fingers curled slightly against the fabric of your gown, the almost imperceptible tension in your shoulders. But Aegon noticed. He always noticed you.

His gaze softened for a fraction of a second as it flicked to your face, catching the unease you tried so carefully to hide. And then it hardened again as it slid back to Larys.

Still staring.

Still watching.

Hungry.

Aegon let out a quiet breath through his nose, slow and controlled, though the grip on his goblet tightened just enough to whiten his knuckles. He tilted his head slightly, studying the man now with open scrutiny, daring him—daring him—to look away.

Larys did not.

The audacity of it sent a spark of something darker through Aegon’s chest. Not quite anger—not yet. But close. Possessive. Sharp.

His tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek before he leaned ever so slightly closer to you, his voice low enough that it would be swallowed by the music and laughter around you.

“Do you see it,” he murmured, not looking at you, his eyes still locked on Larys. “Or am I the only one being insulted at my father’s own table?”

His fingers, idle a moment ago, shifted now—just enough to brush against yours beneath the table. Not gentle. Not soft. A quiet claim.

A warning.

Because whether Larys Strong understood it or not—

Aegon had noticed.