The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a sea of shimmering silks, polished plate, and the heavy scent of roasted meats and expensive wine. To celebrate the union of House Targaryen and House Velaryon, Viserys had spared no expense. It was a wedding for the ages—and a powder keg waiting for a spark.
Among the esteemed lords and ladies sat an uninvited ghost: Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince sat with a calculated nonchalance, his presence a silent challenge to the King's peace. Viserys, in a display of weary magnanimity, had ordered a seat prepared for his brother rather than risk a scene that would mar his daughter's day.
The music was a long, melodious tapestry of harps and flutes. Guests drank deeply, their laughter echoing off the rafters as they called for the newlyweds to lead the dance.
Aegon sat perched on his cushioned chair, his eyes not on the dancers, but fixed with predatory focus on two men: Ser Criston Cole and Joffrey Lonmouth, the "Knight of Kisses" and paramour to Laenor Velaryon.
If memory served, Joffrey was about to make a fatal miscalculation. He would seek out Criston, looking for a sense of kinship or perhaps a shared secret—one low-born knight to another, both tethered to the royal couple by forbidden threads. But Joffrey did not understand the man he was approaching. To Criston, the white cloak was not just a garment; it was his soul. Having betrayed his vows for Rhaenyra only to be rejected when he offered elopement, Criston felt like a common whore—a clown who had traded his honor for nothing.
Aegon leaned forward. In the histories, there were two versions of this night: the tourney where Joffrey was mortally wounded, or the banquet where the blood was spilled on the rushes. Aegon was betting on the latter.
"What has captured your eye so intensely?" Alicent asked, a small, curious smile playing on her lips. She reached out, delicately peeling a shrimp and placing it on Aegon's plate. "Is there a lady in the crowd who has finally distracted you from your dragons?"
"If I could choose, I'd have Laena," Aegon said, offering a playful but pointed smile. "But as we know, Lord Corlys isn't in the habit of gifting his greatest assets to his rivals."
"Corlys would never agree," Alicent noted, her voice dropping. "That is Vhagar. The strongest living weapon in the world."
"I know." Aegon nodded, his gaze snapping back to Joffrey, who was weaving through the crowd.
Alicent followed his line of sight. When her eyes landed on the Knight of Kisses, her brow furrowed with a sudden, sharp unease. She turned back to her son, her voice hushed. "Aegon... tell me truly. What do you think of Helaena?"
Aegon blinked. Alicent seemed nervous, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "Helaena is wonderful. I like her a great deal—she's far more obedient than Aemond, at the very least."
Aemond, who was halfway through a mouthful of shrimp, looked up with a confused squint. He seemed to have heard his name through the din of the music, yet no one was looking at him.
Helaena, carefully de-shelling her own meal, didn't look up. "Dreamfyre is also very powerful," she said softly, almost to herself.
"Of course," Aegon agreed. "No one would be foolish enough to question the Blue Queen."
Helaena pursed her lips and returned to her shrimp. Alicent let out a long, secret sigh of relief; at least her eldest son showed no sign of the "preferences" that made Laenor Velaryon a liability.
"Then which House do you think would be a suitable match?" Alicent pressed.
Aegon tilted his head, calculating. "Does House Tyrell have a daughter of age? Or one close to it?"
Alicent's eyes brightened with immediate approval. "House Tyrell... yes. Highgarden would be a masterstroke."
The Tyrells of Highgarden ruled the Reach—the breadbasket of the Seven Kingdoms. Their wealth was second only to the Lannisters, but their ability to mobilize men was unmatched. If the Tyrells called upon the fleets of the Redwynes and the Shield Islands, they could rival the Royal Navy. More importantly, they could provide a counter-balance to the Velaryon's maritime supremacy.
If Rhaenyra was bound to the Sea Snake, Aegon needed to be bound to the Rose.
"After the festivities, I shall write to your grandfather," Alicent whispered. "Otto can go to Highgarden himself to find a girl worthy of you."
Aegon nodded. The position of his future Queen was a political lever, to be pulled only for maximum gain. Affection was a luxury; survival was the priority. He would need to do the same for Aemond and Daeron when the time came. As for Helaena... she was a Dreamer. Her path would be her own.
On the dance floor, the tempo shifted. Joffrey Lonmouth appeared to grow weary of the dance. He wiped sweat from his brow and began to weave toward the periphery—coincidentally, right toward the spot where Ser Criston Cole stood like a statue of white marble.
Aegon straightened in his seat, his fingers gripping the gilded arms of his chair. His pupils dilated.
"The show is about to begin," he whispered.