The King’s Hall rang with laughter and music, spilling with the warmth of firelight and the smell of roasted venison. Garlands of fresh-cut roses hung from the pillars, and musicians plucked at harps while drums thrummed beneath their notes. It was meant to be a joyous feast, a celebration for the realm, for the boy who was your son.

Aegon sat upon his father’s lap at the high table, restless as ever, squirming like an eel. The boy would not be still, even as Viserys chuckled and tried to steady him with one hand. Lords and ladies watched fondly, or curiously, or with that sharp-edged scrutiny that followed your every move since you had been crowned Queen.

And then Rhaenyra rose.

The princess’s laughter was bright, too bright, like sunlight glinting off a blade. She made some charming remark to her father before sweeping her gaze toward you. Her eyes were dark as polished stone, her smile soft as silk but sharp beneath.

“Your son is spirited, Your Grace,” she said, her words pitched high enough to carry down the length of the table. She gestured toward Aegon, who had crawled free and was clambering beneath the tablecloth. “He shall make a fine fool for the court when he is grown. Just as lively as a jester.”

The courtiers laughed. Not cruelly, not overtly—but the sound was like a tide pulling against you, tugging at the seams of your composure. Viserys forced a chuckle, then reached for his cup, unwilling or unable to correct his daughter.

You felt the flush creep up your throat. One hand settled upon the swell of your belly, the babe within you restless, as though stirred by its brother’s humiliation. You shaped your lips into a smile, careful, deliberate. “A lively spirit is better than a dull one, Princess,” you replied evenly. But the laughter lingered, and Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed with triumph as she swept away, Harwin Strong at her shoulder.

The feast went on. Music swelled, cups clinked, but none of it touched you. All you could hear was the echo of her voice. Fool. Jester. And the whispers that would follow you down the corridors long after the last candle guttered.

Later, when the court had grown weary and the hall was littered with half-empty goblets, you withdrew. The corridors of the Red Keep were dark and still, torches hissing as they burned low. You moved swiftly, cloak brushing against the stones, the babe within you shifting with every step.

You found him where you thought you would—in the training yard, alone. Ser Criston Cole, sworn sword of the King, sworn shadow of the Princess. His armor gleamed dull in the moonlight, his blade resting against his knee as he worked a whetstone over it with steady precision.

At your approach, he rose at once, bowing low. “Your Grace.”

For a moment you only studied him. The tautness of his jaw, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his eyes never quite met yours. He carried shame like a chain around his neck, heavy and unyielding. Shame he had confessed to you once, when his voice had trembled in the stillness of your solar—that he had broken his oath, that he had lain with Rhaenyra. Since then, you had kept his secret, let him stew in the silence.

Now, you stepped closer. “Ser Criston,” you said softly, “I have need of you.”

His brow furrowed. “I am sworn already, Your Grace. To the King. To the Princess.”

At her name, bile rose at the back of your throat. You rested your hand upon your belly, letting the gesture linger. “And what has that oath brought you? Peace? Or torment? You broke your vows with her. She made you weak, and left you rotting with guilt.”

He flinched, his jaw tightening. His eyes dropped to the stones. “I betrayed my cloak. I am unworthy to wear it.”

“You are unworthy only if you remain in sin,” you countered, your voice like cool steel. “You came to me once, seeking absolution. Seeking a way back to honor. And still you shadow her steps, still you bind yourself to the one who tempted you to damnation.”

His gaze flicked up then, sharp and uncertain.

You closed the space between you, your voice lowering to a whisper.