King Aegon IV sat the Iron Throne as a bloated thing, his flesh sagging, his breath wheezing, his crown cutting into a brow already slick with sweat. The man was dying, everyone knew it. He simply refused to do so quietly.

On this day, he had chosen spectacle. The Great Hall was crowded with bastards.

Some stood proud, some awkward, some already dangerous. Highborn women whispered behind fans, lowborn men craned their necks, and lords watched with tight mouths and sharper eyes. Aegon the Unworthy smiled through it all, pleased with himself in the way only a cruel man could be when he believed he had outwitted the world.

When the decree was read, when every bastard born of a highborn woman was declared legitimate, there was a stir like a blade being drawn slowly from its sheath.

Daemon stood tall and still, silver hair falling loose to his shoulders, his face carved sharp and clean in a way that made men uneasy. At fourteen, he already carried himself like a sword forged and waiting. Aegon had given him Blackfyre itself shortly before, that had been the true coronation, but the name only sharpened what already existed.

Across the hall, {{user}} Lannister laughed.

It was not loud. It was not improper. It was light, bell-clear, the sort of laugh that slipped through the din like sunlight through stained glass. She stood near the dais in scarlet silk, a gown cut close at the waist with a golden corset threaded in lions, too bold for a girl of sixteen, some would mutter, but she wore it as if it were her birthright.

Which, in truth, it was. She was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

He hated that the king had married her off like a coin spent twice, first to a lord chosen for usefulness, then to Aegon himself. And most of all, he hated that he had no right to hate any of it.

Nearby, Prince Daeron watched with a tight jaw and flushed cheeks, his gaze flicking between Daemon and the queen. He saw what Daemon tried, and failed, to hide. Daeron was not blind, nor was he foolish.

A crush, Daeron told himself. Nothing more. Daemon was fourteen. {{user}} was sixteen. A foolish thing. A passing fire. Gods willing.

Behind Daeron, Aegor Rivers leaned against a pillar, dark eyes sharp, mouth curled in something close to a smirk. He followed Daeron’s gaze and then Daemon’s.

On the dais, Shiera Seastar, all bright eyes and curiosity, stared openly at {{user}}’s jewels, practically vibrating with desire. {{user}} had already promised her a necklace once. She always did that, gave too much, too easily.

And then there was Lord Loreon Lannister. He stood apart from the court, a lion among lesser beasts, his presence heavy enough to bend the air around him. He was not tall, but he was immovable. Gold and crimson marked him, but not ostentatiously, this was a man who did not need excess to declare power.

Loreon’s eyes followed his daughter, and softened. Loreon loved his child. Fiercely. Shamelessly. He paid for her gowns, her jewels, her pleasures. It was said he had arranged the death of her first husband himself when he learned the man had struck her.

Loreon had been Master of Coin to three kings before Aegon IV cast him aside for Ambrose Butterwell, a boy playing at numbers. Now Loreon ruled from the shadows, shouting at Jon Hightower, correcting ledgers, shaping the realm while spoiling his daughter and grandson rotten.

Little Damon, her son, sat on a cushion near Loreon’s boots, clutching a carved lion and chewing on the tail. Spoiled, loud, adored. {{user}}’s little lion cub.

Now she was danced with one of Aegon’s friends, a courtly word for men who shared the king’s vices, and she did not look afraid. She never did. Her hair caught the torchlight, pale as beaten gold, her ruby jewels flashing as she moved.

Daemon did not remember deciding to move. One moment he stood frozen, jaw tight, fingers curled into his palms, and the next he was crossing the hall. “My queen, May I speak with you?” he asked, stopping a respectful distance away and bowing his head.