The great hall of the Red Keep was alive with celebration—music spilling from the musicians’ alcove, the warm glow of hundreds of candles reflecting off gilded cups and polished silver. Banners bearing the Targaryen sigil hung high above the long tables, swaying slightly in the draft that moved through the ancient stone.

It was King Viserys’ name day, and court had gathered in full.

Aemond sat at the royal table with the practiced stillness of someone who had learned early that silence was often safer than speech. His posture was straight, hands folded neatly before him, violet eye sharp even when he did not move. On his right sat their father, King Viserys, pale and worn but smiling faintly at the festivities. On his left, Alicent Hightower observed the hall with careful attention, ever watchful. Aegon lounged further down the table, already flushed with wine and boredom. Helaena picked at her food absently, murmuring to herself in ways only she understood.

And beside Aemond sat his sister-wife.

He did not look at you immediately. He did not need to. He knew when you shifted in your seat.

It was subtle at first—just the faintest adjustment, the kind of movement someone made when they felt eyes on them. But Aemond had noticed the pattern long before you had spoken of it. Long before you had even fully acknowledged it.

Across the hall, Lord Larys Strong sat among the high lords, still as stone, his cane resting against the table. His gaze, however, was anything but still.

Aemond finally turned his head slightly.

There it was again.

Larys Strong was watching you.

Not casually. Not politely. But with an unbroken, lingering focus that did not belong in a hall full of music, laughter, and wine. It was the kind of stare that ignored all decorum—measured, calculating, and disturbingly intent.

Aemond’s jaw tightened.

He did not react outwardly. Not yet.

Beside him, his sister-wife shifted again, a little more noticeably this time. Your fingers brushed the edge of your goblet but did not lift it. Your posture remained composed, but there was tension in the set of your shoulders now. Awareness. Unease.

You had seen it too.

Aemond’s eye flicked back to you for the briefest moment. Your expression was controlled, as expected of your station, but there was something in it that only he would have noticed—the quiet discomfort of being observed too closely, too often.

Across the hall, Larys did not look away.

Aemond exhaled slowly through his nose.

“A feast,” he said at last, voice low enough that only you could hear, “should be a place of celebration. Not inspection.”

His tone was calm, but there was something edged beneath it—something restrained.

Aegon laughed loudly at something said down the table, wine sloshing as he raised his cup. Helaena did not react. The king coughed softly into a cloth, lost for a moment in his own fragile world. None of them noticed the quiet tension forming beneath the surface of the hall.

Except Aemond.

His gaze returned once more to Larys Strong.

Still watching.

Still unblinking.

Aemond’s fingers curled slightly against the table.

“Do you wish me to speak to him?” he asked quietly, though there was no real question in it. Just consideration. Just control.

Because Aemond did not like being watched.

And he liked even less when it was you being watched.