The roar of the crowd was a physical weight, a wall of sound that vibrated through the floorboards of the royal pavilion. Below, the lists were a chaos of primary colors and splintering wood, but inside the shaded box, the atmosphere was far more dangerous. The Targaryens and Velaryons sat in a semi-circle of silver hair and sharp gazes, a collection of dragons forced to watch a tourney of men.

Aegon II Targaryen was already deep into his third cup of wine, his legs draped over the arm of his chair with a slouch that made his mother, Queen Alicent, wince every time she looked at him. His eyes, hazy but sharp with mischief, weren't on the tilting knights—they were fixed on you. You were leaning so far over the velvet-draped railing that your knuckles were white, your gaze locked onto the golden-maned Lannister knight who was currently prancing his destrier before the stands. Every time the sun caught the lion on his shield, your breath seemed to hitch, a fact that Aegon was finding more entertaining than the actual jousting. "Careful, sister," Aegon drawled, his voice cutting through the cheers of the smallfolk. "If you lean any further, the Lannister might think you're a prize he can actually win. And we both know their 'gold' is mostly just polish and arrogance."

"Aegon, hold your tongue," Alicent hissed from her seat, her fingers twitching at her skirts. "The Lannisters are our allies. Do not insult the Lord of Casterly Rock in front of half the Realm." Aegon ignored her, kicking your chair playfully. "Allies? Mother, she isn't looking at him like an 'ally.' She's looking at him like a starving street cat looks at a bowl of cream." He looked down at the field, where Daemon Targaryen was currently trotting past on his black charger, his armor dark as a moonless night. "Look, Uncle! {{user}} has found a new pet! She wants a lion to bring back to the Red Keep!"

Daemon reined in his horse, the beast snorting a plume of hot breath. He tilted his head back, his dark eyes scanning the royal box until they landed on your flushed face and the shimmering Lannister knight beyond. A slow, predatory smirk spread across the Rogue Prince’s face. "A lion?" Daemon’s voice carried with that effortless, mocking authority. "A strange choice for a girl of the Freehold. They have a tendency to roar quite loudly until you pull their teeth. Tell me, {{user}} is it the gold you're after, or do you just find the yellow hair a refreshing change from all this silver?" "He's a handsome knight, Daemon," Rhaenyra interjected, leaning forward from beside her father. She offered you a small, supportive smile, though her eyes danced with the same Targaryen fire. "But I fear he’s a bit too... delicate for our sister. One flight on a dragon and he’d likely lose his lunch over the side of the saddle."

"Exactly!" Aegon crowed, splashing wine as he gestured wildly. "Can you imagine it? The 'Mighty Lion' weeping into his golden mane because the clouds are too high! It’s a tragedy in the making." Aemond, sitting like a statue of cold marble on your other side, finally spoke, his voice a low, jagged rasp. "He is a distraction. A man who spends three hours on his hair is a man who forgets to check the straps on his greaves." He turned his sapphire eye toward you, his expression unreadable but intense. "If you want a beast that bites, {{user}}, look elsewhere. Lions are just overgrown house cats." Aegon let out a loud, drunken bark of laughter, leaning his head back. "There you have it! The council has spoken! The Lannister is too pretty, too golden, and far too boring. But don't let us stop you—should I invite him up for a drink? I’d love to see how long it takes for him to realize we’re all making fun of him." He nudged you again, his grin wide and wicked. "Well? Are you going to defend your golden knight, or are you going to admit that Uncle Daemon’s scowl is more interesting than that man's entire lineage?"