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King Viserys rose from his seat, his goblet held high, silencing the hall with a gesture. "Lords and ladies of the realm! Tonight we celebrate the forthcoming union of House Targaryen and House Velaryon. Let us now invite Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor to open the dancing!"
A round of enthusiastic applause rippled through the hall as Rhaenyra kept her face carefully neutral. The moment had come—the first of many public performances she would need to endure with Laenor. She rose from her seat, accepting her betrothed's outstretched hand with poise.
"Ready, Princess?" Laenor asked, his voice low.
"As I'll ever be," she replied through her smile.
They descended from the high table together, advancing to the center of the hall where the musicians awaited. Servants had cleared the space, pushing tables aside to create a wide dancing area. Hundreds of eyes followed their every movement, and Rhaenyra was acutely aware of how this moment would be dissected in whispers and letters throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
The musicians began a stately tune—a traditional Valyrian melody appropriate for such an occasion. Laenor bowed, Rhaenyra curtsied, and then his hand was at her waist, maintaining a proper distance as they began the steps of the dance.
To Rhaenyra's surprise, Laenor moved with unexpected grace. His feet were sure, his posture impeccable, guiding her through the turns and steps of the complicated dance with confidence. For a man who had reportedly spent more time on ships and with his "friend" Joffrey than at court dances, his skill was remarkable.
"You dance well," she said, barely moving her lips.
"Mother insisted," he replied with a small smile. "She said no son of hers would shame House Velaryon on a dance floor."
"Lady Rhaenys is a wise woman."
"And formidable with a practice sword when I missed a step," Laenor added with a faint twinkle in his eye.
For the first time, Rhaenyra felt a genuine connection with her future husband. Not passion or desire, but something almost like camaraderie. Perhaps this marriage wouldn't be completely intolerable after all. At least they could present a united front to the world, each understanding the other's true nature. She supposed a marriage could always be a lot worse, like what King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne were trying to do with Viserra Targaryen.
The music swelled, and Laenor executed a perfect lift, raising Rhaenyra briefly before setting her down. The court gasped appreciatively, and Rhaenyra found herself genuinely smiling. Whatever else he might be, Laenor Velaryon was not going to embarrass her publicly.
As the final notes of the song hung in the air, Laenor spun her one last time before drawing her into a closing position. The hall erupted with thunderous applause. Rhaenyra's gaze swept the crowd, noting the approving nod from Lady Rhaenys, the calculating assessment from Queen Alicent, and the beaming pride on her father's face.
They bowed to the assembly before returning to the high table, their duty fulfilled.
"Well done," King Viserys boomed, clapping Laenor on the shoulder. "A fine display!"
"Indeed," Corlys agreed, raising his goblet to them. "You complement each other well."
If only he knew, Rhaenyra thought with private amusement.
The musicians struck up a livelier tune, and other couples began to move toward the dance floor. Lords and ladies from houses great and small, eager to be seen participating in the royal festivities, filled the space that Rhaenyra and Laenor had vacated.
Rhaenyra's attention was drawn to Daeron and Daenerys, who had risen almost immediately when the general dancing began. There was something different about them compared to the stiff formality of the other courtiers. They moved with a natural affinity that spoke of countless dances shared before, their bodies familiar with each other's rhythms.
Daenerys's silver-gold hair caught the light as Daeron spun her, Daenerys smiled brightly at her husband, and she was whispering something to him. His hand rested at the small of her back, his eyes never leaving hers as they moved in perfect harmony. They danced not for the crowd but for each other, seeming to forget they were in a hall full of strangers.
Rhaenyra found herself unable to look away. Daeron's movements were powerful yet controlled, his broad shoulders and narrow waist accentuated by the cut of his doublet. The white streak in his dark hair gleamed each time he turned, and the way his hands held Daenerys—sparked an unwelcome heat in Rhaenyra's core.
She imagined those hands on her own waist, those violet eyes looking at her with the same intensity he reserved for his wife. What would it feel like to be pressed against that chest? To feel the warmth of his breath against her neck as they moved together?
A familiar ache bloomed low in her belly, a sensation she hadn't experienced since that night months ago when her uncle Daemon had pulled her into that brothel, pressed her against a wall, and she had kissed him with a passion that still haunted her dreams. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, reaching for her wine goblet to cool the sudden flush that threatened to rise to her cheeks.
"You are thinking about him, aren't you?"
Rhaenyra turned to find Laena watching her with a knowing smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief. The Velaryon girl had moved to occupy Laenor's empty seat, her brother having been dragged into conversation with his father and Viserys.
"I don't know what you mean," Rhaenyra replied, schooling her features into regal indifference.
Laena laughed softly. "Come now, cousin. Your eyes haven't left him since he stepped onto the floor. I don't blame you—he cuts quite a figure."
"I was merely observing all the dancers," Rhaenyra insisted, though she knew the heat in her cheeks betrayed her. "It's expected of me as hostess."
"Of course," Laena agreed with mock seriousness. "And I'm certain you've been equally attentive to Lord Rosby's gout-hobbled shuffling and Lady Stokeworth's desperate attempts to keep her ancient husband upright."
Rhaenyra couldn't help but laugh at that. "You speak with a wicked tongue, Laena Velaryon."
"And you're transparent," Laena countered, leaning closer. "At least to me. It's perfectly natural, you know. Seven knows your betrothal to my brother is hardly a love match."
Rhaenyra glanced quickly to ensure no one was listening. "It would hardly be appropriate for the bride to be caught staring at another man during her wedding feast."
"Perhaps not," Laena conceded, "but you could at least learn to be more discreet about it." She sipped her wine, her eyes following Daeron and Daenerys. "Though I can't fault your taste. There's something about him, isn't there? Something more than just his handsome face."
"There is," Rhaenyra admitted quietly. "He speaks of the North and Essos as if he's truly known them, not just visited. And those eyes..."
"Valyrian to the core, despite everything else being Northern," Laena nodded. "A fascinating contradiction."
The music came to an end, and the dancers paused, bowing to their partners before separating. Daeron pressed a swift kiss to Daenerys's hand before releasing her, earning a smile from his wife.
"Watch this," Laena murmured, rising from her seat.
Before Rhaenyra could ask what she intended, Laena had descended from the high table and made her way directly to where Daeron stood. She leaned in close, whispering something in his ear, her hand resting lightly on his forearm.
Rhaenyra watched, transfixed, as Daeron's solemn face broke into a genuine smile. He nodded, saying something that made Laena laugh, then offered his arm to her as the musicians began another tune.
"What is she doing?" Rhaenyra muttered to herself, a strange cocktail of envy and admiration swirling in her chest as she watched Laena take Daeron's hand and move into the dance.
They made a striking pair—Laena with her classic Valyrian beauty and Daeron with his Northern solemnity brightened by that rare smile. Laena said something that made him laugh, the sound carrying even over the music, rich and unexpectedly warm.
Rhaenyra's eyes searched for Daenerys, finding her watching her husband dance with Laena. But unlike Rhaenyra, there was no jealousy in her expression—only fond amusement, as if she was well accustomed to women being drawn to Daeron and secure enough in his devotion not to mind. Rhaenyra looked back at her cousin and Daeron, the way the two were dancing. Daeron was quite good at it, he wasn't as good as Laenor, but he wasn't bad, and Rhaenyra found herself wondering how it felt if his hands were under her dress as they danced, the heat returned on the bottom of her belly, and she cursed herself quietly.
"Your cousin is quite forward," Daenerys's voice came suddenly from beside her, making Rhaenyra start slightly.
The silver-haired woman had approached the high table unnoticed and now stood beside Rhaenyra's chair, her violet eyes—so disturbingly similar to Rhaenyra's own—fixed on the dancing pair.
"Laena has always known what she wants," Rhaenyra replied, trying to keep her voice neutral.
"A valuable trait," Daenerys agreed, her gaze shifting to Rhaenyra. "Though sometimes what we think we want isn't what we truly need."
There was something in her tone that made Rhaenyra feel as though they were having two conversations at once—the spoken one and another, deeper exchange that she couldn't quite grasp.
"And what is it you think I want, Lady Daenerys?" Rhaenyra asked, unable to keep a challenging edge from her voice.
Daenerys smiled—not the practiced court smile of a noblewoman, but something more genuine and tinged with what might have been sadness. "The same thing all of us with the blood of the dragon want, Princess. Fire and freedom."
Before Rhaenyra could respond to this cryptic statement, Daenerys had gestured to the empty seat beside her. "May I?"
Somewhat taken aback by the presumption, but too intrigued to refuse, Rhaenyra nodded. Daenerys slipped gracefully into the chair, arranging her skirts with practiced ease.
"Your resemblance to me is... unsettling," Rhaenyra admitted, studying the other woman's features. "If I didn't know better, I'd think we were sisters."
"Perhaps in another life," Daenerys replied with that same enigmatic smile. "The blood of Valyria works in strange ways, Princess. Sometimes it echoes across generations, creating reflections of those who came before."
"You speak as if you've studied Valyrian bloodlines extensively."
"I've had cause to," Daenerys said simply. She glanced back at the dance floor where Daeron now spun Laena in a complicated turn. "Your cousin is quite taken with my husband."
"Laena has always been drawn to dangerous things," Rhaenyra observed. "Dragons, unpredictable weather at sea... mysterious men with Valyrian eyes."
Daenerys laughed. "Daeron would be amused to hear himself described as dangerous. He's always thought of himself as quite ordinary."
"No man who has ventured beyond the Wall and returned is ordinary," Rhaenyra countered. "Let alone one who carries Valyrian steel and has purple eyes."
"True enough," Daenerys conceded. "Though I sometimes think the most extraordinary thing about him is his heart." She turned those unsettlingly familiar violet eyes on Rhaenyra once more. "He sees the truth in people, Princess. The person beneath the title."
"A rare gift at court," Rhaenyra said, wondering why this conversation made her feel so exposed.
"Indeed," Daenerys agreed. "And rarer still among those who might sit the Iron Throne."
Rhaenyra stiffened slightly. "You speak boldly for someone newly arrived at court."
"Forgive me," Daenerys replied, though she didn't sound particularly contrite. "Where I come from, directness is valued over courtly manners."
"And where exactly is that?" Rhaenyra pressed. "You've been notably vague about your origins."
Something flickered in Daenerys's eyes—calculation. "A place both very near and very far from here, Princess."
Before Rhaenyra could demand a clearer answer to this riddle, the music ended, and Daeron was escorting Laena back toward the high table. Laena's cheeks were flushed with exertion and pleasure, her eyes bright as she laughed at something Daeron had said.
"Your husband is an excellent dancer, Lady Daenerys," Laena declared as they approached. "And full of the most fascinating stories about the lands beyond the Wall."
"He's a man of many talents," Daenerys agreed, rising from her seat. "Though dancing is one he rarely displays in public."
"Then I'm honored to have tempted him onto the floor," Laena replied with a playful curtsy.
Viserys welcomed them with a raised goblet. "Splendid! Absolutely splendid! You move as gracefully on the dance floor as I have heard you do in combat, Lord Daeron."
"Your Grace is too kind," Daeron replied, inclining his head respectfully. "Though I confess dancing requires a different sort of footwork than swordplay."
"Speaking of combat," Viserys leaned forward, his eyes bright with the enthusiasm he reserved for tourneys and feasts, "do you intend to participate in the wedding tourney? We have events planned for the next six days—jousting, archery, and of course, the grand melee."
"I had thought to observe rather than participate, Your Grace," Daeron answered. "Being a newcomer to court."
"Nonsense!" Viserys waved dismissively. "Fresh blood makes for the best competition. The realm's finest knights will be competing—Ser Criston Cole, Ser Harwin Strong, knights from Houses Corbray, Royce, and more. Surely a man with your experience would enjoy testing his steel against such worthy opponents?"
Something flickered in Daeron's eyes—a spark that Rhaenyra recognized as the warrior's hunger for challenge. His solemn face transformed with a small, confident smile.
"In that case, Your Grace, I would be honored to enter the melee."
"Excellent!" Viserys clapped his hands together. "We shall see if your skill matches the tales of your exploits."
"I believe I can offer a good account of myself," Daeron replied, with such quiet certainty that several heads turned in his direction.
"A good account?" Viserys chuckled. "Come now, Lord Daeron. False modesty ill becomes a man with a Valyrian steel blade. What do you truly expect of your performance?"
Daeron met the king's gaze directly. "I expect to win, Your Grace."
A surprised hush fell over their section of the high table. Such boldness bordered on arrogance—or foolishness. Ser Criston Cole had won every melee he had entered for the past three years. Ser Harwin Strong was called "Breakbones" for good reason. Yet here was this stranger, claiming victory before the tourney had even begun.
Viserys stared at Daeron for a moment before throwing his head back in delighted laughter. "By the Seven! I admire your confidence, Lord Daeron. Should you prove correct, I shall knight you myself on the field of victory."
Rhaenyra glanced at Daenerys. She expected her to be worried or express exasperation, but no, there was no worry in her eyes, as if Lady Daenerys was fully expecting her husband to win the Meele.
"You honor me greatly, Your Grace," Daeron replied. "Though I must confess, I've had opportunities to be knighted before and declined them."
"Declined knighthood?" Laenor spoke up, seemingly perplexed by the very notion. "Why would any man of martial skill refuse such an honor?"
"Where I come from, we measure a warrior by his actions, not his titles," Daeron explained. "But I would not refuse such an honor from Your Grace's hand," he added, nodding respectfully to Viserys.
Otto Hightower, who had been observing the exchange with calculating eyes, leaned forward. "You speak with remarkable confidence, Lord Daeron. Have you participated in many tourneys before?"
"None since coming south of the Wall," Daeron admitted. "Though I've faced opponents far deadlier than those found in tourney grounds."
"The melee is no mere game," Ser Criston Cole interjected from further down the table, his handsome face tightening with obvious displeasure. "Men have died even with blunted weapons."
"I'm well aware of the risks, Ser Criston," Daeron replied evenly. "As I'm sure you are of the glory."
Corlys Velaryon chuckled, clearly enjoying the tension. "It seems we're in for an interesting tourney. Not since the Tourney at Maidenpool, when Daemon Targaryen faced Ser Criston, have I anticipated a melee with such interest."
"You're familiar with that tourney, Lord Daeron?" Rhaenys asked, a hint of challenge in her voice.
"I've heard the tale," Daeron nodded. "Prince Daemon wielded Dark Sister that day, and was favored to win. Yet Ser Criston unseated him in the joust with a well-placed blow to the chest, then defeated him in the melee when the prince's temper got the better of him."
Ser Criston's expression darkened further at the reminder of his victory over the king's brother. Rhaenyra felt a twinge of irritation herself; she had always resented how Cole spoke of his triumph over her uncle.
"You seem well-versed in tourney history for someone who's never participated in southern contests," Alicent observed, her tone silky yet sharp.
"I find history instructive, Your Grace," Daeron replied smoothly. "Especially the history of combat. Many battles have been won or lost based on knowledge of past encounters."
"And what do you learn from the Tourney at Maidenpool?" Viserys asked, genuinely curious.
"That skill matters more than reputation, and that keeping one's temper is as important as keeping one's guard up," Daeron answered without hesitation.
Viserys nodded approvingly. "Well said! I look forward to seeing these principles applied in the melee." He turned to Laenor. "And you, Ser Laenor? Will you participate?"
Laenor shifted uncomfortably. "I... had not planned to, Your Grace. I prefer the sea to the tourney grounds."
"Quite understandable," Viserys said diplomatically, though Rhaenyra caught the brief flash of disappointment in her father's eyes. He had always valued martial prowess, and clearly found it lacking in her future husband.
"My brother's talents lie elsewhere," Laena interjected smoothly. "Though he is quite skilled with a blade when necessary."
Rhaenyra doubted this last assertion, but appreciated Laena's attempt to salvage her brother's dignity.
"Different men have different strengths," Daeron said, surprising Rhaenyra with his diplomatic contribution. "I've known skilled warriors who couldn't navigate a simple river, while the finest sailor I ever met could barely wield a dagger."
Laenor shot Daeron a grateful look. "Exactly so, Lord Daeron. I'll leave the glory of the melee to those better suited to it."
"Then it shall be my honor to fight in defense of this union," Daeron declared, raising his goblet. "To the forthcoming marriage of House Targaryen and House Velaryon."
The others around the high table raised their cups in response, though Rhaenyra noted the varying degrees of enthusiasm. Alicent's toast was perfunctory, while Otto Hightower's eyes remained coldly analytical above his raised goblet.
"Tell me, Lord Daeron," Corlys called from his place, "if you win this melee as you predict, what boon would you ask? Traditionally, the victor may request a favor from the crown."
A brief silence fell as everyone awaited his answer. Rhaenyra found herself holding her breath, though she couldn't have explained why.
"I would ask only for what I already have, Lord Corlys," Daeron replied, his gaze shifting briefly to Daenerys. "The privilege to remain at court for a time, in service to His Grace, should he desire it."
"A modest request for a predicted victory," Rhaenys observed.
"Perhaps Lord Daeron values experiences over possessions," Daenerys suggested, speaking for the first time since the tourney discussion began. "Some treasures cannot be held in one's hands."
"Wisely said, Lady Daenerys," Viserys nodded approvingly. "Though I would not have you leave court empty-handed should your husband triumph, regardless of his stated wishes."
The conversation shifted to the specifics of the upcoming tourney—the number of participants expected, the prizes for various events, reminiscences of tourneys past. Servants began discretely clearing tables as the hour grew late, and the musicians transitioned to slower, quieter melodies.
Rhaenyra found her attention drifting repeatedly to Daeron, studying his face as he conversed easily with her father. There was something about his confidence that didn't strike her as bravado or bluster. He spoke of victory not as a boast but as a simple statement of fact, and she found herself believing him despite the formidable competition he would face.
When their eyes met briefly across the table, she felt that same inexplicable spark of connection. It was as if they recognized something in each other—some shared quality or understanding that defied explanation.
This is dangerous, she thought, forcing herself to look away. Whatever game these mysterious strangers were playing, she could not afford to be drawn into it. Not with her position already so precarious, balanced between her father's favor and Alicent's ambitions for her half-brother.
And yet, as the feast began to wind down and guests started taking their leave, Rhaenyra found herself hoping that Daeron would indeed triumph in the melee. Not for his sake, she told herself, but for the pleasure of seeing Ser Criston Cole—who had once scorned her advances—humbled by this Northern stranger with Valyrian eyes.
At least, that was what she told herself as she caught one last glimpse of Daeron escorting Daenerys from the hall, his hand placed protectively at the small of her back.
Corlys and Rhaenys
The door to their chambers closed with a solid thud, and Corlys Velaryon immediately loosened the ornate collar of his doublet with a sigh of relief. Across the room, Rhaenys was already removing her elaborate hairpins, releasing her silver-streaked dark hair from its formal arrangement.
"Well," Corlys said, pouring two goblets of Arbor gold from the decanter that had been thoughtfully left for them, "that was an interesting evening."
"Indeed," Rhaenys agreed, accepting the wine he offered. "Though not for the reasons we anticipated."
Corlys settled into a carved chair by the hearth, stretching his long legs toward the glowing embers. "Our mysterious guests made quite an impression. The woman especially—her resemblance to Rhaenyra is uncanny."
"Too uncanny ," Rhaenys observed, taking the seat opposite him.
Corlys swirled the wine in his goblet, considering. "What if she's of Targaryen blood? Perhaps even ilegitimate?"
"Explain," Rhaenys prompted, her violet eyes narrowing.
"Your grandfather Jaehaerys sired seventeen children with Alysanne," Corlys pointed out. "I never knew him well, but some men can decide to lay with other woman when they feel their wife is not fulfilling her wife duties."
"Jaehaerys had many faults," Rhaenys interrupted a familiar bitterness creeping into her voice. "He passed over me for the throne despite my clear right of succession. He could be cold, rigid, and blind to the pain he caused. But he never broke his marriage vows to my grandmother Alysanne. This woman is either from Lys, where Valyrian features run strong, or she's a bastard of House Targaryen, but not descended from my grandfather."
"A bastard, then," Corlys mused. "Viserys himself has fathered a few, they say, though mostly in his youth. She seems too old to be his get. Perhaps Daemon's?"
"Possibly," Rhaenys conceded. "Though again, too old to be a recent indiscretion." She sipped her wine thoughtfully. "It hardly matters. Bastard or foreigner, she has no claim to anything. She's merely a curiosity—a pretty face that resembles our future gooddaughter."
"And yet Viserys seems quite taken with both her and her husband," Corlys observed. "Offering to knight the man himself should he win the melee!"
"About that," Rhaenys leaned forward, "what did you make of Lord Daeron's confidence? Do you believe he has the skill to back his claim?"
Corlys considered the question carefully, as he would any tactical assessment. "His demeanor isn't that of a braggart or fool. He speaks with the quiet certainty of a man who knows his capabilities. And that sword..."
"Valyrian steel," Rhaenys nodded. "From a supposed pirate. A convenient tale."
"Yet the blade is undeniably genuine," Corlys countered. "I've seen enough Valyrian steel in my travels to recognize it. And did you notice how he wears it? Not as an ornament or status symbol, but as a familiar tool."
"You think he's truly dangerous, then?"
"I think he's experienced," Corlys clarified. "Whether that makes him a threat depends on his intentions." He refilled their goblets. "Speaking of intentions, we should discuss how to use these newcomers to our advantage."
"How so?" Rhaenys asked, arching an eyebrow.
"The king favors them already. If Lord Daeron does well in the tourney, that favor will only grow. It might be worthwhile to cultivate their friendship."
"For what purpose?"
"Information, for one," Corlys explained. "New allies for another. The balance of power at court is precarious—Alicent's faction grows stronger daily. We need every advantage we can secure for Rhaenyra... and by extension, for our Laenor."
At the mention of their son, Rhaenys's expression shifted. "Speaking of Laenor, did you notice how he barely looked at his bride all evening? He wasn't even subtle about his attention to Ser Joffrey."
"I noticed," Corlys acknowledged with a grimace. "I've spoken to him about his duties. He understands what's required."
"Understanding and doing are different matters," Rhaenys said sharply. "He must bed her on their wedding night. There must be witnesses to the consummation. And he must continue to visit her bed regularly thereafter until she quickens with child. Without an heir, this entire alliance is meaningless."
"He will do his duty," Corlys insisted. "I've made the consequences of failure quite clear."
"And what of his... proclivities? Joffrey Lonmouth is a constant distraction."
"I've arranged for Ser Joffrey to be occupied with security duties during the wedding night," Corlys revealed. "And I've had a discreet word with the household staff to ensure that Laenor's chambers are not... accessible to visitors during certain hours."
Rhaenys nodded approvingly. "Good. It's not that I don't understand his nature. But kings and queens don't have the luxury of following their hearts. They must make heirs."
"As must their fathers," Corlys said with a suggestive smile, setting aside his wine and reaching for his wife's hand.
Despite her earlier irritation, Rhaenys laughed. "The Sea Snake still has appetite after all these years at sea?"
"The Sea Snake knows the value of a safe harbor," he replied, pulling her to her feet and into his arms.
Alicent and Otto
In the queen's chambers, the atmosphere was considerably less amorous. Alicent Hightower paced before the hearth, her green silk gown rustling with each agitated step, while her father, Otto, sat in contemplative silence, watching her with the patient calculation that had characterized his long tenure as Hand of the King.
"I don't like it," Alicent declared, not for the first time. "This woman appears from nowhere, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Rhaenyra, and immediately captures Viserys's interest? It's too convenient."
"Your concern is understandable," Otto acknowledged, "but perhaps overestimated. Even if she is of Targaryen blood—a bastard, perhaps—what claim could she possibly press? She has neither name nor standing."
"It's not about claims, Father," Alicent insisted. "It's about influence. You saw how Viserys looked at her—as if she were a ghost made flesh. Some echo of the bloodline he so reveres."
"Viserys is easily impressed by novelty," Otto said dismissively. "He'll tire of these strangers soon enough. Besides, the woman is married. Whatever fascination he might feel, it poses no threat to your position."
Alicent paused her pacing, one hand resting protectively over her swollen belly. "It's not my position I worry about. It's Aegon's." Her son—her golden-haired, perfect son—was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, regardless of Viserys's stubborn insistence on naming Rhaenyra his successor.
"Aegon's claim rests on the fundamental laws of inheritance," Otto assured her. "No mysterious woman with silver hair can change that. She's just a pretty face—nothing more."
"And her husband?" Alicent challenged. "What did you make of his claim about the melee?"
At this, Otto's expression grew more thoughtful. "That... bears watching. He either possesses extraordinary arrogance or extraordinary skill."
"And which do you think it is?"
"I'm inclined to believe the latter," Otto admitted. "He carries himself like a man who has seen true combat, not merely training yards. And that Valyrian steel blade..."
"Yes, the sword," Alicent frowned. "How does a supposed Northerner come to possess such a treasure? Such weapons are heirlooms of great houses, not trophies won from pirates."
"There are lost blades," Otto mused. "Orphaned during the Doom or subsequent conflicts. But you're right to be suspicious. The man is either not who he claims to be, or his past is considerably more complex than he's revealed."
"And Viserys offered to knight him!" Alicent exclaimed, resuming her pacing. "To elevate this stranger based on a tourney performance. It's unprecedented."
"It's mere pageantry," Otto countered. "A knighthood, even from the king's hand, grants no lands, no titles of consequence. If anything, it binds the man more closely to Viserys through obligation."
"Unless that was his aim all along," Alicent suggested. "To secure royal favor through martial display."
Otto considered this. "Not impossible. But to what end? If influence is his goal, there are more direct paths for a man of his apparent abilities."
"What if we arranged for him to face particular opponents in the melee?" Alicent suggested. "Ser Criston perhaps, or one of our other loyal knights. We could test his mettle, see if his confidence is warranted."
"Tampering with the melee matchups would be noticed," Otto cautioned. "And might backfire if our chosen champions fall to him. Better to observe for now. Let him show his hand before we play ours."
Alicent sighed in frustration. "I don't like waiting. Every day that passes, Rhaenyra's position strengthens. These strangers could tip the balance further in her favor."
"Or they could provide an unexpected advantage," Otto countered. "If the lord and lady are not who they claim to be, exposing them could embarrass Viserys and, by extension, Rhaenyra. But we need evidence before making accusations."
"So we watch and wait," Alicent conceded reluctantly.
"We watch and prepare," Otto corrected. "There's another aspect to consider. Did you notice the way Rhaenyra looked at Lord Daeron during their dance?"
Alicent's eyes narrowed. "I did. Like a cat eyeing a cake."
"Precisely. And just days before her wedding to Laenor Velaryon," Otto pointed out. "If she develops an attachment to this man—or he to her—it could complicate the Velaryon alliance."
"You think she would risk her betrothal for a passing fancy?"
"I think Rhaenyra has more of her uncle Daemon in her than Viserys cares to admit," Otto said carefully. "She follows her desires, often heedless of consequence. Remember the rumors about her and Daemon himself?"
Alicent's lip curled slightly. "How could I forget? Viserys told me to get out of the chamber for mentioning them."
"Yet he sent Daemon away, did he not?" Otto reminded her. "Even Viserys has limits to what he'll tolerate from his precious heir. If Rhaenyra were to act inappropriately with this Lord Daeron..."
"It would damage her standing with both Viserys and House Velaryon," Alicent finished, understanding dawning in her eyes. "So perhaps we shouldn't discourage any... attachment that might form."
"I wouldn't go so far as to encourage impropriety," Otto cautioned. "But neither should we rush to intervene. Sometimes the most effective strategy is to allow one's opponents sufficient rope with which to hang themselves."
Alicent nodded slowly, her mind working through the possibilities. "The wedding is still six days away. Much can happen in that time."
"Indeed," Otto agreed, rising from his seat. "Keep your eyes and ears open, daughter. Particularly regarding the lady Daenerys. Woman to woman, you might discern truths that would elude me."
"I'll have my ladies engage her in conversation," Alicent promised. "No one reveals themselves more honestly than when they believe they're among friends."
Otto kissed her forehead approvingly. "You've learned well. Now rest—both for yourself and your child."
As her father took his leave, Alicent moved to the window, gazing out at the moonlit courtyards of the Red Keep. Somewhere within these walls, the mysterious couple was settling into chambers granted by the king's own invitation. Their sudden appearance had introduced new variables into an already complex equation—one whose solution would determine not just Alicent's future, but that of her son, and all of House Hightower.
Whatever game these strangers were playing, Alicent was determined they would not win it at her expense.
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