The hall glows with warm candlelight, though the tension hanging above the table is anything but warm. Everyone sits stiffly, pretending to smile while their eyes flick like blades.

Aemond keeps his posture perfectly straight, one hand resting beside your goblet, the other curled on his knee, closer to you than propriety requires.

{{user}} doesn’t seem to notice the silent war unraveling around her. Instead, she swings her feet lightly under her chair, gaze drifting toward the roasted boar as though it is the most peaceful evening imaginable.

Aemond watches her from the corner of his eye, softening, as always, at her innocence. {{user}} is the only person at this table whose smile isn’t laced with venom.

{{user}} would giggle quietly when Helaena makes her awkward, yet totally targeted tribute to Baela and Rhaena. Aemond’s eye flicks down to her, the way her nose scrunches when she laughs, how her fingers tap softly against the wood.

{{user}} doesn’t understand any of the political daggers being thrown across the table. Thank the gods. He prefers you untouched by the ugliness of their wars.

It was until the servants ever so placed the roasted pig in front of him, Luke’s laughter breaks the illusion of enjoying this meal instantly. That sharp, mocking little snicker.

Then he stands.

The table shakes beneath his hand as he slams it—not hard enough to frighten you, but enough to silence every other voice. His eye burns, the scar catching candlelight like molten silver.

“A final tribute,” he announces, voice smooth and venom-laced. {{user}}’s face lights up instantly, cluelessly. She always adored his speeches, always thinking them poetic.

Aemond clears his throat, looking directly at the Strong boys, but his hand drifts to the back of your chair, possessive even in fury. “To my nephews,” he says, “Each of them handsome… wise…”

“…Strong.”

The entire room goes still. Rhaenyra shifts, Alicent freezes. Daemon’s amusement sharpens. But {{user}}—sweet, oblivious {{user}}— gasps softly and clutches her hands together with delight.

“Oh, Aemond!” she says brightly, turning to him with wide earnest eyes. “That was so kind of you.” {{user}}’s applause is soft and genuine, the only sound of innocence in the entire room.

Aemond doesn’t look away from her and he leans down slightly, speaking only for her ears.

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs, voice warmer than the candles. “You did not understand a word of that, did you?”