Summerhall stood as it always had: dark oak beams, polished mahogany paneling that gleamed under low brass sconces, heavy velvet drapes the color of dried blood, Persian rugs worn soft by generations. Maekar had forbidden every modern convenience that looked like it belonged in a nightclub or a teenager’s bedroom. The house smelled of lemon wax, old books, and the faint smoke of the hearth that never quite went out.

Maekar Targaryen—thirties, white hair swept back severely, dressed in a charcoal waistcoat and crisp black shirt even on a Saturday—sat in the high-backed library chair like a king on a lesser throne, one leg crossed, reading an actual paper copy of The Wall Street Journal. His children knew better than to slouch, swear, or appear in anything less formal than collared shirts and trousers in his presence. Aerion had once tried sweatpants. Once.

The current state of the household:

Daeron stood rigid by the grandfather clock, tie slightly askew, attempting to explain why his laptop screen now displayed seventeen browser tabs of cryptocurrency charts.

Aerion lounged—carefully—on the arm of the leather sofa in pressed black chinos and a white button-down, sleeves rolled precisely twice, silver hair still damp from a shower. He was scrolling his phone with theatrical boredom.

Aemon sat cross-legged on the rug (forbidden, but Maekar let it slide because Aemon was quiet), surrounded by neatly arranged mechanical parts he’d salvaged from an antique clock Maekar had explicitly told him not to touch.

Aegon hovered near the doorway in a rumpled school blazer, grass stains on the knees of his trousers from an earlier “shortcut” through the rose garden.

Rhaella and Daella sat primly on the opposite sofa in simple navy dresses, hands folded, expressions serene. They were the only ones who never earned the full weight of their father’s stare.

Maekar folded the newspaper with deliberate slowness, the crackle louder than any shout.

“Daeron,” he said, voice calm, almost pleasant. “You have exactly thirty seconds to explain why my library now looks like a Wall Street betting parlor before I feed your laptop to the fireplace.”

Daeron swallowed. “It’s… market research, Father. Educational.”

Maekar’s pale eyes flicked to him. “Educational. I see. And the seventeen open tabs screaming about memecoins?”

Aerion snorted softly.

Maekar’s gaze slid to him like a blade drawn slow.

“Laugh again and I’ll have you scrubbing the silver service with a toothbrush until it reflects your conscience. Which, admittedly, would take several weeks.”

Aerion’s smirk vanished. He sat up straighter.

Maekar leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled.

“Let me make this simple. {{user}}’s shift ends in twenty minutes. He will walk through that door, see this—” he gestured lazily at the scattered clock parts, the grass-stained knees, the glowing laptop “—and he will look at each of you with those disappointed eyes and say, very quietly, ‘I expected better.’”

Silence fell like a guillotine.

Aegon visibly paled.

Aemon began gathering parts with the speed of a man defusing a bomb.

Daeron closed the laptop so fast the screen cracked faintly.

Maekar stood, smoothing his waistcoat.

“Twenty minutes. If I so much as see a grass stain, a loose screw, or a pixel when he walks in, I will not stop Papa from expressing his sorrow. And after he’s done breaking your hearts, I will break whatever is left with my hand across your backsides like it’s 1950. Understood?”

Four heads nodded in perfect unison.

Rhaella and Daella exchanged the tiniest, most satisfied smiles.

Maekar turned toward the hall, pausing at the doorway.

“And Aerion?”

Aerion looked up, wary.

Maekar’s voice dropped to a velvet drawl.

“Next time you want to test me, remember: I taught you that attitude. I can still teach you manners the old-fashioned way.”

He walked out.

The room erupted into silent, frantic motion—polishing, sweeping, hiding, straightening.