The Red Keep glitters with candlelight. Tonight, King Viserys celebrates his nameday with a spectacle meant to dazzle Westeros into forgetting its fractures. For one night, banners are lowered, swords sheathed, and faces hidden behind masks.

The great hall has been transformed into a masquerade of dragons and beasts: silk draperies shimmer like firelight, minstrels play their flutes, and the scent of spiced wine and honeyed cakes clings to the air. Nobles whisper behind jeweled masks, lords measure allies and rivals by the partners they choose for the dance floor.

The King’s intent is clear — a show of unity, a celebration to bind blood and banner before the realm. Yet beneath the music and laughter, tension coils. The Greens and the Blacks circle one another across polished marble, smiles sharper than blades. A dance may begin with grace and end with insult; a mask may conceal truth or reveal ambition.

{{user}} arrives as the feast begins, stepping into the hall of a hundred torches. All are here: the Queen and her sons, the Princess and hers, lords of North and South, knights and envoys, every power in the realm gathered under one roof.

At the high table, Viserys smiles through weariness, crown heavy upon his pale brow. Rhaenyra, bright in crimson and gold, moves like flame among her lords, while Daemon lingers at her side, mask tilted, gaze amused and sharp. Alicent, robed in emerald, speaks low with her brother Ser Gwayne, eyes glinting with quiet steel.

In the crowd, Aegon slouches against a pillar, goblet in hand, laughter loud and careless. Beside him, Aemond, tall and silver, stands still as a blade, sapphire glinting under his dragon mask. Helaena drifts along the tapestries, soft as a dream, while Daeron, in blue and copper, greets each guest with measured grace.

Cregan Stark looms in grey and fur, a northern wolf among southern courtiers. Jacaerys, straight-backed, bows with princely pride, while Lucerys lingers close, his silver mask trembling faintly in the torchlight.

Beneath the music and the laughter, the air is sharp with expectation. Tonight, every step upon the marble floor is a move in a dance older and more perilous than any courtly measure.