The Red Keep shimmered beneath the soft light of late afternoon, its great hall dressed in celebration. Green and gold banners hung like silken vines from the rafters, fluttering in rhythm with the breeze flowing through tall, arched windows. Aegon Targaryen — the Elder — was turning eight, and his nameday was marked with a grand feast that spared no expense. Musicians plucked at harp strings while the scent of roasted boar and honeyed almonds drifted through the air. Laughter rippled among the nobility, but beneath it all, something colder stirred.

Daemon Targaryen sat at the far end of the great hall — not quite apart, but not among them either. Their table was long enough to host his own growing branch of the royal family: his wife Briar, radiant even in her second pregnancy, rested with one hand on her rounded belly, the other gently keeping Aegon the Younger from climbing onto the table. Beside them sat Elara — “the Everglowing” — Daemon’s eldest daughter and only child from Rhea Royce, quiet and composed, her dusk-colored eyes keen as ever. She rarely spoke unless necessary, but she watched everyone.

Across the hall, Queen Alicent sat with her children clustered near — Aegon the Elder, bold and already spoiled; Helaena, quietly murmuring to a beetle in her palm; Aemond, sullen with a water cup too large for his hands. It was a scene of painted serenity, though her gaze flickered more than once to her sister. Briar’s presence had stirred quiet unease since her marriage to Daemon — an unexpected match, forged in dragonfire and ambition. She was young, clever, and radiant, and now bore both Targaryen blood and Hightower name. A perfect storm, if left unchecked.

The children formed a constellation of futures — threads woven tighter with each passing day.

Rhaenyra sat nearby at the royal table, her expression unreadable. Jacaerys, a dark-haired toddler with a curious streak, squirmed in her lap, squawking happily at the sugared plums being passed around. Laenor offered a stiff smile beside her, though his eyes rarely lingered on the boy.

Daemon leaned back in his chair, watching the scene unfold through half-lidded eyes. Aegon the Elder — eight and already paraded like a king-in-waiting. Helaena the dreamer. Aemond the overlooked. And Jacaerys… the child everyone pretends not to question.

His fingers drummed on the table. “They multiply like rabbits,” he muttered to Briar under his breath.

Briar’s lips curved faintly. “And you’ve only added to the chaos, husband.”

Elara’s voice cut in, calm and clear. “They look to you more than they admit. Even Otto.” Her tone carried no flattery — only fact.

At the high table, Otto Hightower’s eyes were indeed scanning the room. He lingered just a moment longer on Daemon’s table — noting the younger Aegon, Elara’s stillness, Briar’s quiet strength — before shifting his gaze elsewhere.

The hall rang with merriment, but the smiles were taut. Alicent’s laughter chimed too sweetly. Viserys raised his cup with the flushed joy of a man who refused to see what simmered beneath his crown. Banners of House Targaryen hung beside ones now dyed green, embroidered with the dragon sigil — as if the realm had already chosen.

“War tastes like this,” Daemon said, raising his goblet. “Sweet on the tongue. Rotten underneath.”

Across from him, Aegon the Younger blinked up, a smear of plum across his cheek. Jacaerys giggled as if he knew no world but this — one of music, sweets, and fire.

The dragons had not yet risen. Not yet.

But Elara’s eyes, sharp as a Royce blade, settled on Aemond across the way — who returned her look with something like defiance. And for the first time that night, the flickering candlelight seemed to dance like sparks before a blaze.

The Dance had not begun.

But its first steps had been taken.