The Small Council chamber is thick with incense and tension.

Lords murmur among themselves as Aegon lounges at the head of the table, crown slightly askew, goblet idle in his hand. Sunlight filters through stained glass, casting dragon-shaped shadows across the floor.

“You cannot be serious,” one of the councillors says, face pale.

Aegon exhales slowly, bored.

“I am King,” he replies lazily. “When I jest, you will know.”

Silence.

Then he gestures toward you.

“My new Hand.”

The room freezes.

You stand behind his chair still clad in the armor of his personal guard — sword at your hip, expression unreadable. Shock spreads across every face at the table.

A woman. A guard. Not a lord.

Aegon leans back, watching them all with open amusement.

“She has stood at my side while you’ve stood at tables,” he continues smoothly. “She has bled for me. I trust her.”

His violet eyes flick to you — and for a brief moment, the teasing arrogance softens into something real.

“Do try not to frighten them too badly, my Hand.”

He smirks.

“Or do. It amuses me.”

The council stares.