Night descended upon King's Landing like a velvet curtain, and the Red Keep shone brightly beneath torchlight and crystal chandeliers.
To celebrate the fifth anniversary of his marriage, King Viserys I Targaryen hosted a grand banquet within the great hall. Noble houses from across the Seven Kingdoms were present, their banners displayed proudly, their whispers weaving quietly beneath the music and laughter.
At the head of the hall, Viserys sat upon the high seat, wearing a warm smile that rarely left his face during such occasions.
Beside him sat Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, dressed in a flowing black gown. Her silver hair was braided elegantly, her posture proud and composed. To the court, she was still the Realm's Delight—the king's firstborn child and the named heir to the Iron Throne.
Yet beneath her calm exterior, something sharp simmered.
The great doors opened once more.
Queen Alicent Hightower entered the hall, clad in a deep green gown that shimmered beneath the torchlight. At her side walked Prince Aegon Targaryen, dressed in a golden robe embroidered with the sigil of the three-headed dragon.
For a brief moment—
The hall fell silent.
Many eyes turned toward the Queen and her eldest son. Lords and ladies exchanged subtle glances, their expressions carefully neutral, yet their thoughts anything but.
Green and black.
Mother and daughter.
Eldest son and named heir.
The tension was invisible—but unmistakable.
Viserys, of course, felt it.
He was not a fool. He could sense the growing distance between his wife and his daughter, the unspoken rivalry that thickened the air whenever they stood in the same room.
Yet he was a man who hated conflict.
He wanted to compensate Rhaenyra for the loss of her mother.
And he did not wish to hurt Alicent, who had given him the sons he longed for.
So he did what Viserys always did.
He tried to smooth everything over.
Gold, jewelry, warm words, forced smiles.
A fragile peace, held together by denial.
Alicent approached Viserys first, gently kissing his cheek in greeting. Then she turned toward Rhaenyra, her expression calm and polite.
"My dear daughter," Alicent said softly, "today marks my fifth anniversary with your father. Perhaps you would offer us your blessings."
For a fraction of a second, Rhaenyra's smile stiffened.
But she recovered quickly.
"Happy fifth anniversary to you and Father," she said.
The words were proper.
Polite.
And utterly cold.
Yet Viserys laughed heartily, clapping his hands together in delight, as if he had not noticed anything amiss.
Aegon watched quietly from beside his mother.
Father really is good at deceiving himself, he thought.
"Father," Aegon said cheerfully, stepping forward. "I wish you and Mother eternal happiness and long life."
As he spoke, he produced a small gift box and opened it.
Inside lay a polished black obsidian gemstone, gleaming darkly under the light.
"I saw this gem and felt it suited you," Aegon continued. "Mysterious and powerful—just like Balerion."
Viserys froze for a moment.
Then his eyes softened.
Balerion.
The Black Dread.
The greatest dragon ever known, brought from Valyria by the Targaryens themselves. The mightiest of the three founding dragons, feared across the world.
And Viserys had been Balerion's final rider.
Though the dragon had been old and near death, Viserys had once flown above King's Landing upon his back—three final circles before Balerion passed away in the Dragonpit in 94 AC.
It was one of the few moments Viserys still took pride in.
"I like this gift very much," Viserys said warmly. "On your naming day, I will prepare something special for you as well."
He kissed Aegon's cheek and lifted him effortlessly into his arms, settling the boy on his lap.
Aegon pointed toward the table, his eyes lighting up.
"Father, I want some eel pie. Could you get me a piece?"
Viserys laughed softly.
He enjoyed this feeling—the sense that his family needed him, relied on him. It gave him the comforting illusion of harmony.
He carefully picked up a slice of eel pie and brought it to Aegon's mouth himself, feeding him without a second thought.
In that moment, Viserys did not notice Rhaenyra's clenched hands.
Rhaenyra had been the center of her father's world since childhood.
She had ridden a dragon at seven.
She had been adored, praised, cherished.
The Realm's Delight.
Everyone had revolved around her.
Until Aegon was born.
After that, everything changed.
The nobles who once flattered her shifted their loyalties overnight. Smiles turned toward Alicent. Praise followed Aegon.
As if he were already the heir.
Yet Rhaenyra was Princess of Dragonstone.
She was the named successor.
The Iron Throne was hers.
Her gaze hardened.
She glared at Aegon—only to find him already looking at her.
For an instant, Aegon smiled at her.
A strange smile.
Sharp.
Then, in the next heartbeat, his expression changed completely.
He tugged gently at Viserys's collar, his voice small and pitiful.
"Father," Aegon said, eyes downcast, "why don't you hug Sister too? She looks very angry. It's all my fault."
Viserys stiffened.
He turned toward Rhaenyra and saw the dark expression on her face. His brow furrowed.
Old memories resurfaced.
Queen Emma's difficult labor.
The impossible choice.
Her death.
The child who lived only one day.
Out of grief and guilt, he had named Rhaenyra his heir.
And she had never disappointed him.
Yet since Aegon's birth, she had changed.
Jealous.
Sensitive.
Unable to tolerate his affection toward others.
Meanwhile, Aegon—still a child—was gentle, cheerful, attentive.
Viserys's expression darkened slightly.
He pinched Aegon's soft cheek affectionately.
"She is already fourteen," he said dismissively. "She doesn't need me to hold her. Don't worry about it. What else would you like to eat?"
The tenderness in his voice was unmistakable.
Rhaenyra's fingers trembled.
A vein throbbed visibly at her temple as she stared at Aegon in silence.
Even if she told her father what she had seen—that smile, that provocation—he would never believe her.
Aegon was only a child.
And she was merely jealous.
That was how it would be seen.
Across the hall, in the shadows near a pillar, a thin young man watched everything unfold.
His eyes flickered thoughtfully as he observed the brief but decisive exchange between brother and sister.
He said nothing.
But he understood.
The seeds of conflict had already been sown.
And tonight—
One side had gained the upper hand.