The Red Keep shimmered with torchlight that evening, golden shadows playing across towering pillars and banners bearing the sigil of House Targaryen. The scent of roasted boar, fresh pomegranate, and saffron filled the air, but you had no appetite. Not since you’d stepped into the Great Hall and felt the weight of their eyes — all of them. The court. The Queen. And him.

Prince Aemond Targaryen.

He hadn’t looked at you yet, not directly. But you felt his presence like a sharp chill in the back of your throat. He sat beside his mother, composed and cruelly elegant in black and gold. His sapphire eye caught firelight now and then, glinting with something you couldn’t name.

You adjusted your goblet without drinking. The Royce blood in you had taught you to endure a cold hall. The Targaryen in you? That part of you bristled. That part burned.

It had been Otto Hightower’s doing. His letter arrived not to the Eyrie, but to Runestone — a subtle declaration that you were more your mother’s daughter than your father’s. Still, the message was clear: “Your presence is requested at the court of King Aegon II.” No mention of Rhaenyra. No mention of Daemon.

And now here you were, dressed in dusk-blue Royce velvet edged in pale Valyrian silver. A dragon beneath stone.

“My lady,” came a voice to your left. Not soft. Smooth — with the calculated weight of someone who always speaks second, so they can speak last.

You turned your head slowly.

Prince Aemond stood beside your chair, towering and still, his face carved from some ancient, imperious ideal. The sapphire gleamed in his left socket, his right eye sharp and pale as glacial sky.

“Prince Aemond,” you said, rising smoothly.

His gaze raked across your face, down to your fingertips, which curled ever so slightly. You’d inherited Rhea Royce’s poise and your father’s mouth — the same curve, the same hint of arrogance. Aemond’s lips twitched, as if amused.

“I had heard,” he said, “that the Lady Viserra carried steel in her spine. I did not realize it was Runestone-forged.”

“And I had heard,” you replied, “that Prince Aemond preferred dragons to dinner companions. So imagine my surprise.”

He tilted his head, considering you. “You resemble him. Daemon.”

“And yet I’m invited by Otto.” You smiled thinly. “Not by blood, but by strategy.”

He gave a quiet laugh — a low exhale of amusement, though not unkind. “You’ll find most invitations here are. Especially now.”

Your eyes locked. For a moment, neither of you moved. The Great Hall faded, voices dulling like a tide pulling out. You studied the curve of his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. There was something brittle in him, something balled tight — rage, perhaps, or restraint so extreme it bordered on grief.

“I’m not here for the games,” you said.

“Everyone says that,” he murmured.

“I mean it.”

His eye narrowed. “Then why are you here?”

You hesitated. You could feel your heartbeat at the base of your throat. The truth? It was in your blood — curiosity, restlessness, pride. But also exile. You were neither fully Royce nor Targaryen. And someone had opened a door. You would not beg, but you would not let it close, either.

“To see what remains,” you answered. “Of my father. Of my kin. Of House Targaryen.”

Aemond regarded you for a moment longer. Then he stepped aside and offered his arm.

“Then let us eat like kin,” he said. “If not speak like them.”

You hesitated — just long enough for it to be a choice — then slid your hand into the crook of his arm. He was warm beneath the velvet. Steady.

The murmur of the court followed you as you walked. Some noted the pairing. Others whispered the implications. But you walked beside the dragon with your chin lifted, refusing to let either side of your blood flinch.

And Aemond? He said nothing more. But his fingers grazed yours as you sat again. Not by accident.

By invitation.