"I think Ser Lannino would make a fine husband."
Alicent's voice was clear and unwavering. She hadn't noticed the subtle tension in her husband's expression as she offered her recommendation. "He's from a noble house, a dragonrider, and his character is spotless."
The small council had reached no agreement earlier that day, and Alicent knew that sharing her view now wasn't entirely innocent.
Viserys listened without interruption, then asked, tone deceptively casual, "Is that your thought, or is it Otto's?"
"It has nothing to do with my father."
Alicent shook her head, too quickly, perhaps.
Viserys gave a small nod and smiled faintly. "Lannino is... promising. But the match must be the right one."
His question had served its purpose: he'd wanted to see where Otto Hightower stood. Though Otto had voiced support in council, most of the other lords were opposed.
Their concerns weren't unfounded. Daemon, infamous for stirring trouble, would be sure to use any marriage alliance to reassert himself in court.
Otto, as Daemon's oldest and fiercest rival, wouldn't easily back a move that might return the rogue prince to power—so Alicent's opinion, fair or not, couldn't help but reflect her father's shadow.
"You're not wrong," Alicent said at last, picking at her fingernails. She steadied herself and added, "Rhaenyra's fond of dashing knights. She wouldn't consider a boy."
Her tone was firm.
Viserys looked at her, a little surprised by her resolve. It was rare to see her speak so plainly.
He chuckled then, waving the topic away. "No matter. The children will be back shortly. There's a welcome feast tonight."
Alicent nodded softly and lowered her gaze.
"Just speaking freely," Viserys murmured, giving her hand a light pat before rising and strolling out.
As he passed his beloved stone round table—each house carved into the shape of the realm—his gaze lingered on it, narrowing with thought.
That evening, the Red Keep glowed under firelight and candles. On the second floor of the great hall, dinner was being prepared.
Aemon arrived early, having washed and changed. Gunthor stood just behind him, ever silent, ever watchful.
Rhaenyra came later, her riding leathers traded for a cream-coloured gown. The soft golden light of the chandeliers played across her features, making her seem more radiant than usual.
Aemon admired her silently.
"Western girls mature quickly," he mused, propping his chin in one hand. "Will I grow that tall someday?"
A moment later, the doors creaked open.
Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stepped in and motioned for two knights to guard the entrance.
"Your Grace."
Aemon leapt to his feet, instinctively polite despite himself.
"Hah! No need for all that," Viserys laughed warmly, striding forward with Alicent at his side. His eyes locked onto Aemon. "Let your uncle have a good look at you."
Leaving Alicent behind, the king approached the table, almost gleeful.
Aemon blinked in confusion. He wasn't used to such affection.
Viserys peppered him with questions—about his travels, his mother, Runestone, even his appetite—before finally letting him go, visibly pleased.
Aemon exhaled in relief and reclaimed his seat.
Just as things began to settle, another figure entered the hall—tall, lean, dressed in a dark green doublet, hair neatly swept back. The sigil of House Hightower—an illuminated tower in flame—was stitched across his chest.
"Lord Otto," Viserys said, turning. "You've come."
"I was honoured to be invited," Otto replied with perfect courtly grace.
As Alicent's father and the king's Hand, his presence was more than customary.
Viserys glanced at the table, feigning mild confusion. "Aemon, your mother's not joining us?"
"She's resting. The travel's worn her down," Aemon replied smoothly.
"Ah, yes. She's never been one for silence—more of a warrior than a lady." The king smiled, but his eyes told another story.
Viserys still remembered how Lady Rhea had marched into court demanding her marriage to Daemon be annulled—and how he'd refused her time and again.
Their relationship had never recovered.
Alicent signalled for the food to be served. The dinner was informal by royal standards—only close family and Otto in attendance.
Viserys drank liberally and laughed often, toasting Otto and engaging Aemon with seemingly innocent questions about his life and interests.
Aemon did his best to follow, though he felt out of his depth. His mother had warned him there was no place for him in King's Landing. And yet here was the king, acting like they were long-lost kin.
He glanced sideways. What could a king want from me?
Then his gaze landed on Rhaenyra. She hadn't touched much of her food. She smiled when addressed but otherwise seemed distracted, withdrawn.
The bond between father and daughter is strained, Aemon observed. Could this dinner be about Rhaenyra's marriage?
He went pale.
They weren't siblings—but they did share a grandfather.
That's unthinkable. Right?
"Aemon, you've gone quiet."
The king's voice cut through his thoughts.
"N-No, I'm fine," Aemon stammered, waving his hands nervously. My father fights crabs in the Stepstones, and here I am, terrified of… marriage proposals.
Viserys raised a brow but didn't press.
His eyes roamed the room again—and settled on Gunthor, standing by the wall like a brooding statue.
It jogged a memory: Harrold Westerling had mentioned something earlier about a scuffle at the gate.
"Aemon," Viserys said, turning back, "you're eight now, aren't you? Have you begun your sword training yet?"
Aemon blinked. "Ah… no. Not yet."
Most noble boys in Westeros began training in arms by age six or seven. But Lady Rhea hadn't followed courtly norms. She'd left Aemon in the care of elderly maesters and septons—no real martial education to speak of.
Though she'd recently acknowledged him as her heir, training still hadn't begun.
"I thought as much," said Viserys, smiling. "That great brute behind you doesn't strike me as the teaching type."
He took another sip of wine. "I'll see to it that you're properly instructed. We'll make a knight of you yet—one your father and grandfather would be proud of."
"Truly?" Aemon said, sceptical.
"A king doesn't lie," Otto interjected smoothly.
Aemon glanced at him and caught something in the older man's gaze—too calm, too composed.
Otto's watching everything. Aemon remembered the long feud between Otto and Daemon and bit his lip. Is he eyeing me… as my father's son?
"Ser Harrold," Viserys said, raising his voice slightly, "would one of the Kingsguard be suitable for instruction?"
Harrold, taken aback by the sudden request, recovered quickly. "There are seven of us, Your Grace. While we each have duties, it's entirely possible to assign someone for the prince's instruction."
Aemon looked down at his plate.
Runestone never felt so far away.