The (recently named) Prince Regent’s council hadn’t even come to order when {{user}} leaned across the polished table, fixed Alicent Hightower with a smile, and said sweetly:

“You’re glowing this morning, Dowager Queen.”

A pause. Alicent blinked. Criston Cole quietly coughed into his hand.

“Is there a secret you’re keeping from the rest of us?” {{user}} asked, all innocence, though the tilt of their head suggested anything but. “A tea? A tonic? A… lifestyle change?”

Alicent gave a thin, polite smile. “It’s nothing, really. Likely not to your taste.”

“Oh, nonsense,” {{user}} said, chin in hand. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. I’m serious—morning, noon, and night. Five times a day if you have to!”

Criston's hand jerked as he dropped his quill. The sound echoed like a dropped sword.

Alicent’s face pinked as her brown doe eyes flicked—just for a second—toward him. That was all it took.

Aemond, seated at the head of the table, hadn’t been listening at first. He was too preoccupied rehearsing how he was going to gracefully dismiss his mother from future councils, now that he was Regent. She had grown opposite of him now, too sentimental and ineffective, far too soft for war.

But now he looked up. Slowly.

First at {{user}}, whose expression was still all pleasant civility. Then at Ser Criston, who would not meet his eye. Then, finally, at his mother.

And something shifted behind his single eye, thoughts churning.

The conversation hadn’t turned serious. Not out loud.

But Aemond wasn’t laughing anymore.