The long table of House Targaryen gleamed under the glow of a hundred candles, the air rich with roasted meats, sweet wine, and the low hum of conversation. Dragons adorned the silverware, banners of red and black hung from the walls, and laughter—light, uneasy, but laughter nonetheless—filled the grand hall.

You sat beside Daemon, your husband, your hand resting on his forearm as the family gathered for what King Viserys had insisted would be a peaceful dinner. You could feel Daemon’s tension even through the calm facade he wore. His thumb brushed against your knuckles absentmindedly, a subtle gesture of comfort he would never openly admit to offering.

It was one of those rare moments where he was quiet. Not plotting, not taunting, simply present.

Across the table, Aemond’s voice broke through the murmur of plates and chatter. “It’s a wonder, uncle,” he began, tone deceptively smooth, “how a man so often occupied with... outside affairs manages to find time for his wife.”

The room stilled. The air thickened.

You felt Daemon’s hand still beneath yours. The flicker of his violet eyes cut like a blade toward the younger prince, the faintest smirk pulling at his lips—not amused, but dangerous.

Aegon laughed uneasily, swirling his cup. “Aemond,” he warned half-heartedly, “don’t start.”

But Aemond wasn’t done. “I only mean,” he continued, a faint edge of mockery threading through his words, “that one so often seen in the company of others must surely find his loyalties... divided. Perhaps Lady {{user}} prefers not to see it.”

The words landed like daggers. The laughter died completely.

You felt the quiet rage build in Daemon’s stillness—an energy you’d come to recognize long ago, like the moment before dragonfire erupts.

He set his cup down, the soft clink echoing far too loudly in the silence. “Say that again,” he said, voice low, almost calm—but it was the calm that came before a storm.

Aemond’s good eye gleamed. “Merely an observation, uncle. You’ve always been... restless.”

Daemon rose slowly, every movement deliberate, graceful, predatory. His smile was sharp, humorless. “Restless, perhaps,” he said, rounding the table until he stood across from Aemond, “but not stupid enough to waste time on the words of a boy who still hides behind his mother’s skirts.”

Aemond’s smirk twitched. “Careful, uncle. You wouldn’t want to lose that temper of yours in front of your sweet wife.”

You reached out, fingers brushing Daemon’s sleeve. “Daemon,” you said softly, your voice the only thing grounding him.

He stopped instantly. His shoulders dropped a fraction, and though his jaw still flexed, his eyes flicked to you—just for a moment—and the fire dimmed.

Then he turned back to Aemond, his tone dropping to a dangerous murmur. “You speak again about my wife, and I will take your other eye to match the first.”