The royal dining hall buzzed with the soft hum of conversation as the Targaryen and Velaryon families shared breakfast. Silver platters gleamed under the morning light, laden with fruits, freshly baked bread, and steaming meats. The seven-day tourney was soon to begin, and King Viserys, seated at the head of the table, appeared eager to revel in the anticipation.

For him, this event was more than a celebration of his reign—it was an opportunity to showcase Vensalia Vakriyoma to the realm. The girl’s lineage, ancient and pure, was the perfect symbol of Valyrian strength and the Targaryen legacy.

Vensalia sat with quiet composure, her silvery hair with red streaks glinting in the sunlight. Beside her, Aemond focused on his plate, trying his best to appear nonchalant. But the slight pink in his cheeks betrayed his nerves. Across the table, Aegon leaned lazily in his chair, his goblet of wine tilted precariously, and his smirk as sharp as ever.

“Well,” Aegon drawled, his tone laced with a playful arrogance, “since everyone’s so taken with Vensalia, why not save us all the trouble and marry her to me?”

The table fell silent, forks pausing mid-air. Alicent’s lips thinned into a hard line, her eyes darting to her eldest son in disapproval. Aemond stiffened, his gaze dropping to his plate, while Vensalia’s expression remained calm, though the corner of her lips twitched in amusement.

King Viserys, to everyone’s surprise, laughed heartily. “Ah, Aegon,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Always with the jokes. Perhaps you’ve taken a liking to her, hmm? A little crush, maybe?”

Vensalia, never one to shy away from a challenge, turned her gaze to Aegon, her voice smooth and unwavering. “As flattering as your offer is, Aegon,” she said, a faint smile gracing her lips, “I’m afraid being the firstborn isn’t enough to sway me.”

Her eyes shifted deliberately to Aemond, who froze in his seat. “I want Aemond.”

Aegon’s smirk faltered, and he choked slightly on his wine, coughing as he tried to regain his composure. Laughter rippled around the table, and even Rhaenyra couldn’t hide her grin.

“Now that’s a decisive answer,” Viserys said with approval, his eyes twinkling as he glanced at Aemond. “And what say you, my boy? Do you agree with Vensalia’s choice?”

Aemond’s ears turned crimson, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “I...” he began, his voice quieter than usual. “I wouldn’t disagree.”

Vensalia smirked, pleased by his response, while Aemond buried his face in his cup to hide his embarrassment.

The meal continued with a renewed energy, though Alicent’s expression remained strained. She stabbed her fork into a piece of fruit with more force than necessary, her mind racing. How could Viserys entertain such notions so casually?

The king, however, seemed more amused than ever. “You know,” he mused aloud, leaning back in his chair, “since Vensalia is so certain about Aemond, why not formalize things a bit? An engagement—nothing rushed, of course, but a promise for the future.”

Alicent stiffened, her fingers tightening around her goblet. “Your Grace,” she interjected, her voice carefully measured, “surely such decisions should be discussed in private. They are both still children.”

“Nonsense,” Viserys said with a dismissive wave. “What harm is there in speaking openly among family? Besides, it’s only an engagement. There will be plenty of time to prepare for a proper union.”

Vensalia’s gaze remained steady, her expression calm as she considered the proposal. “If Aemond agrees,” she said after a moment, her voice soft but firm, “then I see no reason to refuse.”

All eyes turned to Aemond, who was clearly struggling to form a coherent response. He nodded quickly, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. “Yes,” he murmured, his cheeks blazing red.

Viserys beamed, his smile widening. “Excellent! It’s decided, then.”

Across the table, Rhaenyra saw an opportunity to interject. “If we’re speaking of unions,” she began smoothly, “perhaps we should consider future alliances as well. If Jacaerys were to have a child—”

“Stop,” Vensalia interrupted, her voice gentle but commanding. She looked directly at Rhaenyra, her pink eyes sharp. “My children will choose their own partners. I will not force them into matches for politics or power.”

The room fell silent, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Viserys nodded approvingly, his expression thoughtful. “A wise sentiment,” he said, his tone reflective. “Perhaps that is the way of the future.”

Rhaenyra’s smile faded slightly, and she returned to her plate without another word.

---

As the meal progressed, Aemond found himself stealing glances at Vensalia, his shyness evident in the way he quickly looked away each time she caught him. Noticing his discomfort, Vensalia leaned closer, her voice low so only he could hear.

“You look cute when you’re flustered,” she whispered, her smirk teasing.

Aemond immediately began coughing, his face now as red as the berries on his plate. Vensalia giggled softly, a rare and genuine sound that made Aemond’s heart race.

Across the table, Aegon watched the exchange with a mixture of amusement and something else—something almost akin to envy. He leaned back in his chair, tilting his goblet lazily, but his eyes remained on Vensalia.

Viserys, oblivious to the undercurrents of tension, seemed utterly pleased. He watched Vensalia and Aemond with a fatherly pride, his heart swelling at the sight of their growing bond. In his mind, Vensalia was not only a brilliant addition to their house but also the reason he still had the strength to rule.

“She is the future,” he murmured to himself, a soft smile on his lips. “Their wedding will be grand—fit for the history books.”

Rhaenyra, meanwhile, was lost in her own thoughts. She didn’t fully trust Vensalia—her poise and power were too carefully controlled—but there was no denying the value of her bloodline. If she could ensure that Vensalia’s children were tied to her own lineage...

Alicent sat rigidly in her chair, her nails digging into the polished wood of the armrests. Her father, Otto Hightower, was not here to guide her, and without his support, she felt cornered. Everyone seemed to be on Vensalia’s side, blinded by her charm and abilities.

But Alicent was not without her own resolve. She would find a way to protect her children, even if it meant going against Viserys’s wishes. For now, however, she remained silent, her eyes cold as she watched Vensalia interact with Aemond.

As the meal drew to a close, the tension in the room slowly began to dissipate. Vensalia leaned back in her chair, her plate nearly empty, and exchanged a glance with Aemond. Despite the pressures of the conversation, she felt at ease.

Aemond, though still flustered, found himself smiling faintly. For the first time in a long while, he felt a sense of hope—one he hadn’t expected to find in someone like Vensalia.

Across the table, Viserys raised his goblet, a gesture of celebration. “To family,” he declared, his voice warm. “And to the future.”

The others raised their glasses in response, though not all with equal enthusiasm. Vensalia met Viserys’s gaze and nodded, her expression serene.

For now, at least, the future seemed bright.

---

The royal box in the tourney grounds was adorned with banners bearing the sigils of the Targaryens and Velaryons, fluttering gently in the breeze. The crowd roared with excitement as knights clashed in the arena below, their lances shattering into splinters as they fought for glory and recognition. The scene was vibrant, a spectacle of color and sound, but in the royal box, a quieter drama played out.

Vensalia sat with the same poised composure she always carried, yet there was a hint of mischief in her demeanor. To her right was Aemond, whose typically stoic nature softened whenever he was near her. To her left was Helaena, the quiet dreamer, her gaze flitting between the arena and the delicate moth she cradled in her hands.

“Look at that one,” Vensalia whispered to Aemond, pointing discreetly at a knight struggling to lift his lance after a heavy blow. “He’s already lost the fight before it even begins.”

Aemond suppressed a chuckle, his lips twitching into a rare smile. “If he’s struggling now, imagine what’ll happen when he faces Ser Harwin Strong.”

“Harwin might accidentally flatten him,” Vensalia quipped.

The two exchanged glances, their laughter bubbling under the surface. Helaena, her attention divided between their conversation and her moths, offered a small giggle. “Perhaps he should have stayed home,” she murmured, her voice soft but amused.

Vensalia smiled at Helaena, her tone teasing but kind. “You’re right, Helaena. Maybe his true calling is gardening, not jousting.”

Their laughter, though quiet, seemed to ripple through the box. Aemond and Vensalia leaned closer, their shared humor forming a bond that felt natural and effortless. Alicent, seated a few chairs away, side-eyed the group with barely concealed irritation. Her gaze lingered on Vensalia, who seemed all too comfortable, her influence over Aemond growing with each passing day.

On the other side of the royal box, Rhaenys and Corlys Velaryon exchanged a knowing look. Neither spoke, but their expressions betrayed their thoughts. They were intrigued by Vensalia—her origins, her composure, her sharp mind. Her lineage, though veiled in mystery, seemed almost too perfect, too conveniently aligned with the Targaryens’ ancient legacy.

“She’s clever,” Rhaenys finally murmured under her breath, leaning toward her husband.

“And dangerous,” Corlys replied quietly.

“But also an opportunity,” Rhaenys added, her voice thoughtful.

Laenor Velaryon, seated near his parents, was less preoccupied with caution and more curious about Vensalia herself. He watched her interactions with Aemond and Helaena, noting her ease in navigating their personalities. Her laughter was genuine, her wit sharp, and there was an air of confidence around her that piqued his interest.

“I’ll speak with her later,” he said to no one in particular, though Rhaenys heard him and raised an eyebrow.

“Be careful,” she warned.

In the shadows of the royal box, Rhaenyra Targaryen sat distant and quiet. Her sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, whispered excitedly about the tourney, occasionally sneaking glances at Vensalia. But Rhaenyra remained detached, her mind turning over the possibilities that Vensalia’s bloodline could offer.

She didn’t trust the girl—there was something too calculated about her charm—but the potential of weaving her lineage into her descendants was an opportunity she couldn’t ignore.

Vensalia, sensing the many undercurrents of tension and curiosity around her, remained calm. She acted as if oblivious to the scrutiny, though she was acutely aware of every glance, every whispered conversation. She leaned slightly forward, turning to King Viserys, who was seated prominently in the center of the box.

“Your Grace,” she began, her tone polite yet curious. “I’ve been wondering about your youngest son, Daeron. Why isn’t he here with us?”

Viserys looked up from his goblet of wine, surprised but not displeased by the question. “Daeron is in Oldtown,” he explained. “He’s with his grandfather, Otto Hightower. The arrangement has suited him well so far.”

Vensalia tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful. “I see. But don’t you think it might be time for him to return? He must miss his family, and surely he should have the chance to learn about his heritage firsthand—to see the dragons, to understand the history of House Targaryen.”

The suggestion was delivered casually, but it carried a weight that hung in the air. Viserys leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered her words.

“You make a fair point,” he said after a moment, stroking his beard. “Daeron is of the blood of the dragon. He should be here, among his kin.”

Alicent’s hand tightened on the armrest of her chair, her knuckles turning white. She opened her mouth to protest, but Viserys raised a hand, silencing her before she could begin.

“Vensalia is right,” he said firmly. “It’s time for Daeron to return to King’s Landing. I’ll send for him immediately.”

Alicent’s breath hitched, her frustration barely contained. Her eyes darted to Vensalia, who sat serenely, her expression unreadable. To Alicent, it felt like a direct challenge, as though Vensalia were purposefully undermining her authority.

---

The crowd in the arena roared again, drawing everyone’s attention momentarily. Another knight had been unseated, and the victor raised his arms triumphantly. Vensalia clapped politely, though her focus remained on the dynamics within the royal box.

Aemond leaned closer to her, his voice low. “You have a way of getting what you want,” he remarked, half-admiring, half-curious.

She glanced at him, her lips curving into a small smile. “It’s not about getting what I want,” she said quietly. “It’s about doing what’s best for the family.”

Aemond didn’t reply, but the words lingered with him, resonating in a way he didn’t fully understand.

In another corner of the box, Laena Velaryon and her husband, Daemon Targaryen, exchanged a quiet conversation. Unlike the others, they had chosen not to attend the tourney, finding more value in observing from a distance.

“She’s playing a dangerous game,” Laena said softly, her eyes fixed on Vensalia.

Daemon smirked, his expression one of faint amusement. “Isn’t that what we all do? The question is whether she’s skilled enough to win.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Laena replied.

The couple shared a glance, their unspoken agreement clear. They would speak with Vensalia after the tourney, to gauge her intentions and perhaps uncover the truth behind her carefully constructed facade.

As the knights continued to battle below, the atmosphere in the royal box remained thick with unspoken tension. Vensalia, however, seemed entirely at ease, her demeanor unshaken by the swirling emotions around her.

She leaned slightly toward Aemond again, whispering another joke about the knights’ clumsy movements. Aemond chuckled, his usual reserve slipping away as he let himself enjoy the moment.

Helaena, too, seemed more relaxed, her quiet laughter a soft counterpoint to the roar of the crowd. She watched her moth flit gently around her hand, occasionally glancing at Vensalia and Aemond with a small, contented smile.

Alicent, meanwhile, sat stiffly in her chair, her mind racing. She felt as though the walls were closing in, her influence slipping further with each passing moment. She glanced at Viserys, who was beaming at Vensalia’s suggestion, and then at her children, who seemed utterly captivated by the girl.

Her frustration boiled beneath the surface, but she forced herself to remain composed. If she were to act, she would need to be careful. For now, she would wait, watching and planning, even as the world around her seemed to shift in Vensalia’s favor.

---

The main hall of the Red Keep was alive with celebration, yet Vensalia Vakriyoma found the atmosphere stifling. The clinking of goblets, the laughter of nobles, and the undercurrent of schemes that laced every interaction wore on her patience. Despite her irritation, she kept her composure, a serene mask firmly in place as she navigated the sea of Targaryen and Velaryon politics.

At eleven years old, she was a stark contrast to the other children present. While they dashed about, their voices shrill and manners questionable, Vensalia exuded an air of maturity that left many mothers in quiet envy.

“She’s a child,” one noblewoman whispered, her tone tinged with bitterness. “How can she carry herself like that? My son can’t even sit still for a meal.”

“Or keep his hands clean,” another muttered, glaring at her own son, who was currently chasing his sister around a table.

Fathers, meanwhile, saw opportunity. They nudged their sons forward, whispering encouragements to approach the poised young girl. Yet, as the boys took hesitant steps, they were immediately deterred by the figure standing protectively at her side—Prince Aemond Targaryen.

Aemond was a wall of quiet strength, his sharp features set in a stoic expression. His blue eyes scanned the room with calculated precision, and his posture made it abundantly clear that anyone daring to disturb Vensalia would regret it.

The young boys, intimidated by his presence, quickly retreated, murmuring excuses to their disappointed fathers.

One boy whispered, “I’d rather face my father’s scolding than Prince Aemond’s glare.”

Another nodded in agreement. “Did you see his dagger earlier? He doesn’t even need to use it. That stare is enough to kill.”

Unfazed by the failed attempts to approach her, Vensalia remained by the banquet table, sampling the array of sweets and drinks. She reached for a slice of honey cake, her fingers brushing against Aemond’s as he instinctively handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said with a small smile.

Aemond’s cheeks turned faintly pink, though he quickly masked it by looking away.

As Vensalia nibbled on her cake, she glanced around the room. Helaena was nowhere to be seen, which wasn’t unusual. She likely retreated to the gardens, drawn by the comfort of her moths and other insects.

“She’s better off out there,” Vensalia thought, a soft smile tugging at her lips. She had always respected Helaena’s need for solitude and saw no reason to disturb her.

From across the hall, Daemon Targaryen’s sharp gaze landed on Vensalia. His curiosity had been piqued ever since she’d gifted him and Laena a collection of old Valyrian texts. In those pages, he and Laena had found whispers of Velaryon secrets—knowledge long buried or intentionally obscured.

He stepped forward, his intentions entirely academic, but before he could reach her, Aemond moved.

The younger prince shifted just slightly, but it was enough to block Daemon’s path. Aemond’s glare was icy, his disgust evident as if he were silently accusing Daemon of something far less innocent.

“You’re pathetic for trying to approach her,” Aemond’s expression seemed to say.

Daemon’s lips twitched, a mixture of annoyance and amusement flashing across his face. He hated being challenged, especially by someone younger than him, a hightower boy.

“You’re going to regret that look one day, boy,” he muttered under his breath.

Before Daemon could escalate the situation, Laena intervened. She placed a calming hand on his arm, her eyes twinkling with barely concealed laughter.

“Let it go, Daemon,” she said, her voice soft but firm.

“He’s insufferable,” Daemon replied, though he stopped in his tracks.

“And you’re not?” Laena teased, arching a brow. “Come now, don’t make a scene. Not tonight.”

Daemon sighed, relenting with a grumble.

Seated near the center of the room, Rhaenyra Targaryen watched the scene unfold with a simmering jealousy she struggled to contain. Her goblet of wine remained untouched, her hands gripping its stem tightly as her gaze darted between Daemon and Laena.

“It should have been me,” she thought bitterly. She had dreamed of marrying Daemon, of securing their union and the power it would bring. Instead, Laena had claimed him, and now they shared a bond that Rhaenyra could only envy.

Laenor Velaryon, seated beside her, noticed her tension. He sighed quietly, understanding her feelings but growing increasingly weary of them. His respect for Rhaenyra had waned over time, replaced by a cautious concern for his sister Laena.

“She’ll never let it go,” he thought, his gaze flicking between his wife and Daemon.

Unaware of—or perhaps simply ignoring—the tension she inspired, Vensalia continued her quiet assessment of the room. Her sharp eyes missed little, from the envious glances of the noblewomen to the hesitant admiration of their sons.

She noted Daemon’s retreat and Laena’s calming influence with mild interest, filing the interaction away for later consideration.

When Aemond handed her a goblet of spiced wine—barely warmed and diluted to be suitable for someone her age—she accepted it with a grateful nod.

“You’re attentive,” she remarked softly.

Aemond’s blush deepened, but he said nothing, focusing instead on the room around them.

As the evening wore on, the undercurrents of tension became more pronounced. Rhaenyra’s jealousy simmered, her mind racing with thoughts of how to reclaim the power and attention she felt slipping away.

Laenor watched her with a growing sense of dread, his worry for Laena overshadowing any other concern.

Meanwhile, Daemon remained in the corner, his annoyance with Aemond tempered by Laena’s calming presence. He resolved to approach Vensalia another time, when the protective prince wasn’t hovering.

Vensalia, for her part, remained a picture of composure, her irritation carefully hidden beneath a veil of politeness. Yet, as she took another sip of her drink, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction.

She had seen the dynamics at play, the subtle alliances and rivalries that shaped the court. And while she was still a child by most standards, she understood the game better than many of the adults around her.

For now, she allowed herself a small indulgence—a piece of candied fruit that melted on her tongue—as she stood beside Aemond. His quiet presence was a comfort, a steady anchor in the ever-shifting tides of Targaryen and Velaryon politics.

And though the celebration continued late into the night, Vensalia felt a quiet confidence. She was exactly where she needed to be, playing a game she was destined to win.

As the main hall was alive with the hum of conversation, laughter, and the clinking of goblets. Vensalia Vakriyoma moved with practiced grace from one table to the next, her sharp eyes gleaming as she examined the array of desserts, foods, and drinks. Every time she lingered near a table, tasting something new or savoring a familiar flavor, Aemond Targaryen was never far behind.

His presence was constant, like a silent shadow that both reassured and protected her. He didn’t hover awkwardly or intrude on her space; instead, he positioned himself just close enough to deter unwanted attention.

As she selected a small tart from the table, a group of young boys, likely encouraged by their fathers, gathered the courage to approach her. One of them, no older than twelve, stepped forward, his cheeks flushed and his posture uncertain.

Before he could utter a word, Aemond’s gaze locked onto him—a silent but unmistakable warning.

The boy froze in his tracks, his confidence evaporating under the weight of Aemond’s glare. He quickly turned on his heel, retreating to the safety of his friends.

Vensalia glanced at Aemond and suppressed a smile. “You’re scaring them off again,” she said softly, her tone holding a hint of amusement.

“They shouldn’t bother you,” he replied simply, his voice low but firm.

“And what if I want them to?” she teased lightly, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Aemond faltered, his ears tinged pink. “Then… then they should still behave properly.”

Her laugh was soft but genuine, a sound that Aemond found himself wanting to hear more often.

As Vensalia moved to another table, a group of noble mothers approached her, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and admiration.

“How is it,” one of them began, her voice dripping with awe, “that you carry yourself with such grace at your age? My children are still throwing tantrums and acting like they’re half their years.”

Vensalia paused, her mind flickering to memories of her past life. She recalled the television dramas she’d watched, filled with depictions of noble families and their intricate social dynamics. The way they spoke, the poise they displayed—it had all left an impression on her.

Summoning her practiced composure, she offered a polite smile. “In my family,” she began, “we’re taught from a young age to value respect, manners, and gratitude. It’s seen as essential to becoming a well-rounded individual.”

Her words were carefully chosen, her tone humble yet firm.

The mothers exchanged looks, nodding in approval. “If only our children were raised with the same discipline,” one muttered, casting a disapproving glance toward a boy who was currently wrestling with his younger sister over a piece of cake.

Vensalia, sensing their frustration, quickly added, “But children are children. It’s normal for them to act out or be a little unruly. That’s part of growing up, isn’t it? I’m sure they’ll find their way in time.”

Her words, though simple, were disarming. The mothers found themselves smiling, their frustrations momentarily eased.

“You’re very wise for your age,” another said. “I hope my daughter can learn to be more like you.”

From across the room, Alicent Hightower watched the scene unfold, her expression carefully neutral. To an untrained eye, she seemed composed, but those who knew her well would have noticed the tension in her posture, the slight clench of her jaw.

She couldn’t ignore the way Vensalia was effortlessly drawing people to her. The girl was poised, intelligent, and, most annoyingly, likable. Even the noble mothers, who were often critical and prone to gossip, seemed captivated by her.

“She’s gaining allies,” Alicent thought, her mind racing. “And she’s doing it without lifting a finger.”

Alicent’s instincts told her that Vensalia wasn’t just a child trying to fit in. No, there was strategy in her every move, and that made her dangerous.

“I need to act,” she thought, her resolve hardening. She would write to her father, Otto Hightower, as soon as the celebration ended. He would know what to do, how to handle this growing threat.

As the evening wore on, Vensalia continued to move gracefully through the hall, her sharp mind cataloging every interaction. She saw how Alicent’s eyes followed her, the barely concealed disdain lurking beneath her polished exterior.

“She’s threatened,” Vensalia thought, hiding a smirk behind her goblet of spiced cider. “Good. Let her be.”

Aemond’s unwavering presence remained a source of comfort, and she appreciated how he seemed content simply to be near her. At one point, she noticed him subtly shifting to place himself between her and a particularly loud group of boys.

“You’re always on guard,” she remarked quietly, looking up at him.

“Someone has to be,” he replied, his tone earnest.

She couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you, Aemond.”

The simplicity of her gratitude made his heart swell, though he only nodded in response.

The hall buzzed with activity, but beneath the surface, tensions simmered. While the nobles celebrated, alliances were quietly forming, and rivalries were taking shape.

Alicent’s mind was consumed with thoughts of her father. She needed his advice, his influence, to counteract Vensalia’s growing popularity.

Meanwhile, Aemond’s focus never wavered from Vensalia. He didn’t care for the politics or the whispers that followed her; he only cared that she was safe.

Vensalia, for her part, played her role perfectly. She was charming but not overly so, humble without being meek. She navigated the evening with the ease of someone who had lived this life before—because, in a way, she had.

As the night drew on, she allowed herself a moment of quiet satisfaction. The celebration was far from over, but already, she could see the seeds she had planted beginning to take root.

Let them whisper, she thought. Let them scheme. In the end, it will all fall into place.

---

The grand hall was alive with muted chatter, the clinking of goblets, and the hum of conversation. Yet for Vensalia Vakriyoma, the energy of the evening was wearing thin. She sat at her table, her expression carefully composed, though a spark of boredom flickered in her gaze as she watched the noble couples take to the center of the hall to perform yet another traditional dance.

The movements were precise, deliberate, and predictable. Spinning, walking, holding hands, back and forth, changing partners, and then repeating. It was all so... dull.

Vensalia stifled a sigh, resting her chin on her hand as she watched the procession. “Is this truly all they do at celebrations?” she wondered silently.

Across from her, Aemond Targaryen’s sharp eyes caught the subtle downturn of her lips. He knew Vensalia well enough by now to recognize her subtle cues of frustration, even when she masked them with her noble composure.

Without a word, Aemond rose from his seat and walked over to the dessert table. His movements were purposeful as he selected her favorite treats—a delicate assortment of pastries, candied fruits, and small cakes—and returned to her side.

He set the plate down in front of her. “Here,” he said softly.

Vensalia’s face brightened immediately, a genuine smile replacing her earlier boredom. “Thank you, Aemond,” she said, her voice warm. She picked up one of the pastries and took a bite, savoring the sweetness.

Aemond felt a quiet sense of satisfaction as he watched her enjoy the desserts. For a while, the monotony of the evening seemed to fade, and Vensalia appeared content.

The dance floor gradually cleared, and the nobles returned to their tables, engrossed in conversation and desserts. A few couples remained, absorbed in their discussions as they moved slowly to the music.

But then, the music shifted.

The new melody was livelier, its rhythm sharper and more dynamic. Vensalia’s ears perked up, and a spark of excitement lit up her eyes. Finally, something interesting.

“Finally,” she murmured under her breath, setting her goblet down and rising from her seat.

Aemond looked up at her, curious. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached into her silver-crimson dress, carefully removing the concealed chain scythe hidden beneath its layered fabric.

The nobles gasped as Vensalia stepped into the center of the hall, the gleaming weapon in her hands catching the light. Those who had witnessed her performance during Aemond’s nameday recognized the strange implement, their expressions shifting from confusion to eager anticipation.

The newcomers, however, were taken aback. Whispers spread like wildfire among the crowd.

“What is she doing with a weapon?”

“Is this some sort of performance?”

“What is that girl doing?”

The music started again, and Vensalia began to move.

Her dance was unlike anything they had seen before—a seamless blend of classical grace and contemporary energy. Her movements were fluid yet powerful, her body twisting and turning in perfect harmony with the rhythm.

The chain scythe became an extension of her, slicing through the air with precision as she twirled and spun. The blade’s metallic glint added an edge of danger, while the trailing chain created intricate patterns that seemed to weave a story of their own.

The hall fell silent as all eyes were drawn to Vensalia. The Targaryens and Velaryons watched with rapt attention, their expressions ranging from awe to admiration.

King Viserys leaned forward in his seat, his face alight with delight. “What a strange yet beautiful dance,” he murmured to Alicent, who sat stiffly beside him.

Aemond, meanwhile, was utterly transfixed. He had seen her perform before, but this felt different—more dynamic, more daring. His heart raced as he watched her glide across the floor, her every move exuding confidence and control.

Even Helaena, who came back after having her own time in the gardens and is now on the royal table, usually lost in her own world, looked up from her seat, her eyes wide with fascination.

As the music built to its crescendo, Vensalia’s movements became faster, more intricate. The scythe danced with her, its blade and chain creating a mesmerizing display of light and shadow.

When the final note rang out, she ended with a graceful bow, the chain scythe resting against her side.

For a moment, there was silence. And then, the hall erupted into applause.

Nobles rose to their feet, clapping enthusiastically. Some cheered, others exchanged amazed whispers.

King Viserys beamed, clapping heartily. “Remarkable!” he exclaimed. “What a unique and extraordinary performance! It must be a tradition from her family’s culture.”

Vensalia straightened, her expression calm but her heart racing with exhilaration. She returned to her table, where Aemond was still sitting, his mouth slightly open in astonishment.

When she reached him, she leaned down and placed a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for the desserts,” she said, her tone teasing.

The touch snapped Aemond out of his daze, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson. He stammered something unintelligible, his usual composure completely shattered.

Vensalia laughed softly, a sound that sent his heart racing all over again. She took her seat beside him, picking up another dessert as if nothing had happened.

The performance had left its mark on everyone.

Daemon Targaryen, who had been leaning lazily against a pillar, now stood straighter, his expression one of genuine intrigue. “The girl’s got skill,” he muttered to Laena, who nodded in agreement.

Rhaenyra, however, watched with narrowed eyes, her mind already spinning with thoughts of how to use Vensalia’s talents to her advantage.

Alicent, on the other hand, was seething internally. She forced a polite smile, but her grip on her goblet was tight. “She’s drawing too much attention,” she thought bitterly. “This... this girl needs to be controlled.”

Meanwhile, the nobles continued to chatter excitedly, praising Vensalia’s performance.

As the celebration carried on, Vensalia remained at her table, her energy renewed. She glanced at Aemond, who was still struggling to regain his composure.

“You should dance with me next time,” she said playfully.

“I—I don’t think I could keep up,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her laughter filled the space between them, warm and genuine. For a moment, the noise of the hall faded, and it was just the two of them.

And though the night was far from over, Vensalia knew she had made an impression that would not be forgotten.

---

The final day of the tourney was a grand affair, with banners waving in the wind and the smell of roasted meats wafting through the air. The sun hung high in the sky, casting its golden light over the bustling arena as the last of the knights prepared for the closing jousts. Nobles filled the stands, their voices a symphony of excitement and anticipation.

But in the royal box, a different tension brewed.

The festivities were momentarily paused as King Viserys stood to address the gathered nobles and commoners. His voice, though weathered, carried with authority as he spoke of tradition, legacy, and unity. The crowd hung on his words, their excitement shifting to hushed reverence.

“And now,” Viserys announced, his tone taking on a note of triumph, “I have joyous news to share with you all. As a symbol of our house’s strength and the enduring bonds of Old Valyria, I am pleased to announce the betrothal of my son, Aemond Targaryen, to Lady Vensalia Vakriyoma.”

The crowd erupted into applause. Nobles cheered, and even the common folk, who had heard whispers of Vensalia’s grace and intelligence, seemed to celebrate the union.

In the royal box, Aemond and Vensalia exchanged a glance. Aemond’s usual stoic demeanor softened, his eyes glimmering with genuine happiness. Vensalia smiled back at him, her composed expression betraying the excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

Beside Viserys, Alicent Hightower’s hands tightened on the arms of her chair. Her carefully crafted mask of poise threatened to crack as she processed the king’s words.

Engaged? To that girl?

She felt her chest tighten, a sense of despair creeping in. This was the worst possible outcome. Her plans for her children’s futures—her hopes of consolidating power through carefully arranged marriages—were crumbling before her eyes.

Aemond’s engagement to Vensalia meant he would be bound to the Vakriyoma family, a lineage she still didn’t fully trust. And worse, it left her last option—marrying Aegon and Helaena to each other—off the table.

Viserys had already refused the idea, deeming it unnecessary and dismissing her concerns. She felt powerless, adrift in a storm she could no longer control.

I need Father, she thought desperately, her mind racing. Otto Hightower had always been her anchor, her guide. She needed his advice, his schemes, his ruthlessness. She needed a way to remove Vensalia from the picture.

But for now, she could do nothing. The applause rang in her ears, each clap like a hammer driving nails into the coffin of her plans.

When the crowd finally quieted, King Viserys concluded his speech with a radiant smile. “Let this union be a testament to the strength of House Targaryen and the enduring legacy of our ancestors. Together, my son and Lady Vensalia will shape the future of our house.”

As the cheers subsided, Aemond and Vensalia stepped forward, their hands brushing ever so slightly. Aemond, uncharacteristically bold, took her hand in his. His grip was firm but gentle, and Vensalia squeezed back in silent affirmation.

They bowed to the crowd, their expressions reflecting the happiness they shared. For a moment, the world seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them standing together as equals and partners.

After the tourney concluded, the royal family returned to the castle for the final feast. The grand hall was alive with chatter and laughter, but Vensalia and Aemond had other plans.

Slipping away from the celebration, they ventured outside the castle walls, where the air was fresh and the noise of the festivities was but a distant hum.

They found themselves in a quiet grove, the golden light of the setting sun filtering through the trees. A small stream bubbled nearby, its soothing sound adding to the serenity of the moment.

Vensalia sat on a low stone bench, her crimson gown pooling around her. Aemond stood beside her, his usual stoic expression replaced by a rare softness.

“I didn’t think Father would announce it so soon,” Aemond admitted, breaking the comfortable silence.

Vensalia looked up at him, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Did you not want it announced?”

“No,” he said quickly, his cheeks tinged with pink. “I mean, yes. I just… I didn’t expect it.”

She laughed softly, her voice like a melody. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

Aemond frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. “At what?”

“Talking about your feelings,” she replied, her tone light.

He huffed, crossing his arms. “Perhaps not. But I mean what I say.”

Vensalia’s smile softened. “I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their future pressing down on them. Despite their youth, both understood the significance of their engagement. It wasn’t just a union of two people—it was a union of two houses, two legacies.

“I’m glad it’s you,” Aemond said suddenly, his voice quiet but steady.

Vensalia looked at him, her gaze searching his face. She saw sincerity in his eyes, a vulnerability he rarely showed.

“And I’m glad it’s you,” she replied, her voice equally soft.

Aemond sat down beside her, the space between them barely a hand’s width. He hesitated for a moment before speaking again.

“You know, I don’t care what the others think,” he said. “About you. About us.”

Vensalia raised an eyebrow. “You’ve noticed the whispers, then?”

“Of course,” he said, his tone firm. “They can whisper all they like. It changes nothing.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re quite determined, aren’t you?”

“I have to be,” he said simply.

Vensalia reached out, placing a hand on his. “And that’s why you’ll be a great partner, Aemond. We’ll face it all together.”

Her words seemed to steady him, and for the first time in a long while, he felt truly at ease.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the grove in shades of gold and amber, Vensalia and Aemond sat side by side, lost in their own thoughts.

The engagement had been announced, their future sealed in the eyes of the court. But for now, they had this moment—a quiet reprieve from the chaos of courtly life, a chance to simply be two young souls finding solace in each other’s company.

And as the stars began to twinkle in the night sky, Aemond couldn’t help but think that, with Vensalia by his side, the future seemed just a little brighter.

The atmosphere of the outskirts of King’s Landing was a quiet contrast to the tense energy that had built up in the last few days. Vensalia and Aemond had decided to take a brief respite from the political drama that surrounded them. Gazaro, Aemond's massive black dragon, flew overhead, his massive wings cutting through the air with a rhythmic force. Silva, Vensalia’s sleek silver dragon, trailed just behind him, her wings gliding effortlessly through the wind.

Vensalia took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, feeling the coolness of the breeze brush against her skin. But that peace was short-lived, for suddenly Gazaro's loud, powerful roar shattered the calm. Vensalia’s attention snapped to him, and she could see his wings flapping erratically, his eyes wide with urgency.

“He’s restless,” Aemond muttered, glancing at his dragon with concern.

Vensalia nodded, her own dragon following Gazaro’s sudden urgency. “Something’s not right.”

Gazaro’s movements were erratic as he landed with force, his claws scraping the ground. His roars continued, as if calling them to action. He was more than just a dragon; he was a force that could not be ignored.

Without further thought, Vensalia and Aemond quickly mounted their dragons. Silva followed the lead of her son, her presence as calming as always, but Gazaro seemed agitated, almost panicked. The two dragons took off, speeding toward the castle, a cloud of dust and wind swirling around them as they made their way to the dragon pit.

When they finally reached the dragon pit, the sight that met them filled Vensalia with concern. Dreamfyre, the majestic dragon of Helaena, lay on the ground, her massive form visibly strained. Her sides heaved in pain, and her breathing was shallow.

Helaena stood at her side, her hand gently resting on Dreamfyre’s scales. Her face was drawn, the lines of worry deeply etched into her expression. She was murmuring soothing words to her dragon, but there was an obvious panic in her eyes.

Vensalia dismounted quickly, followed by Aemond, his face just as filled with concern. “Helaena,” Vensalia called, her voice soft but steady, “What happened to Dreamfyre?”

Helaena turned, her eyes wide and filled with worry. “She’s in pain,” she said quickly. “We were in the midst of her laying eggs, and suddenly she roared in pain. I don’t know what’s happening. She… she can’t seem to lay them all, and I don’t know how to help her. Dreamfyre is in so much pain, I’m afraid something is wrong.”

Vensalia’s eyes quickly moved to Dreamfyre’s bulging stomach, the pain in the dragon’s expression evident. It was clear that something wasn’t right, and the situation had escalated far beyond what Helaena was able to manage alone.

Without wasting any time, Vensalia approached the dragon. She placed a hand on Dreamfyre’s side, her other hand slowly weaving the shadows of her umbrakinesis to feel through the dragon’s body. Dreamfyre’s scales were warm beneath her touch, but there was a tension in the dragon’s body—an obstruction. Vensalia’s eyes narrowed in concentration as she reached deeper, feeling the dragon’s internal pain.

The shadows twisted around her hands, probing deeper into Dreamfyre’s body. Her face tightened with concentration. She could feel the eggs—fifteen of them—still trapped inside the dragon’s womb. Dreamfyre had been unable to lay them, and her body was now fighting against the pressure. It was clear that without help, both the dragon and the eggs would be at risk.

“Fifteen eggs,” Vensalia whispered under her breath, her eyes meeting Aemond’s.

Aemond’s gaze flickered from Dreamfyre to his dragon, Gazaro. The black dragon stood nearby, his eyes wide with concern as he paced restlessly, his massive wings flaring now and then. There was a mix of pride and worry in his eyes. Gazaro, too, could sense that something was wrong, and despite the pride he took in his bond with Aemond, he too understood that this was a life-or-death situation.

“What’s going on?” Aemond asked, his voice tight with a mixture of urgency and confusion. “Can you help her?”

Vensalia’s face softened, but her voice was steady. “I need to help her give birth. Dreamfyre can’t do it alone. I’ll use my magic to guide the eggs out.”

Helaena’s eyes widened, shock and fear flashing across her face. “What are you—?”

“I’ll help her,” Vensalia said, cutting through her hesitation. “But you need to comfort Dreamfyre. She needs you, Helaena. Stay calm, talk to her, guide her through this.”

Helaena took a deep breath and nodded, though her hands trembled slightly as she returned to Dreamfyre’s side. She spoke softly to the dragon, her words a mix of comfort and quiet desperation. Dreamfyre’s eyes flickered to her, the pain still evident, but there was some relief in her gaze as Helaena continued to speak.

Vensalia turned her attention back to the task at hand. She closed her eyes, feeling the shadows wrap around her hands as they dove deeper into Dreamfyre’s body, trying to coax the trapped eggs out. One by one, she began to ease them from the dragon’s body, her magic working gently but firmly to guide them through the birth process. It wasn’t easy—each egg was a battle, but she could feel Dreamfyre’s pain easing with each successful birth.

The first egg—bright red, almost glowing—slid free, landing softly beside the dragon. Vensalia continued, focusing her energy, her magic surrounding each egg as it passed through. The second came out, a golden hue radiating from it. Then a dark blue, followed by a shimmering white. Each egg, a unique and vibrant color, marked the diversity of Dreamfyre’s offspring.

Aemond stood off to the side, watching in awe as Vensalia worked. He could see the strain on her face, but there was also determination. He knew that his dragon, too, had sensed the gravity of the situation. Gazaro’s eyes burned with pride, and yet he could also see that the dragon was worried for Dreamfyre.

With every passing second, the bond between the dragons and their riders grew clearer. This was not just a simple birth; it was a reminder of the deep connection they all shared with their dragons—an unspoken bond that transcended bloodlines and traditions.

As the last egg—a dark violet—slid free from Dreamfyre’s body, Vensalia let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She collapsed to one knee, exhaustion flooding through her. The task had been difficult, and the strain had drained much of her energy. But the sense of relief was palpable.

Dreamfyre let out a soft, contented roar, the dragon’s body finally at ease. Her breathing slowed, and Helaena smiled through her own exhaustion as she stroked Dreamfyre’s head. “Thank you,” Helaena whispered, her voice barely audible.

Vensalia managed a tired smile, still on one knee. “It’s over. She’s safe now.”

Aemond stepped forward, his expression one of awe and gratitude. “You saved her. And the eggs.” His voice was soft, full of wonder. “Thank you.”

Vensalia looked up at him, her smile weary but genuine. “It was nothing. Just doing what needed to be done.”

Aemond met her gaze, his pride in her evident. He took a step closer, then extended a hand to help her up. As she rose, he gave her a small smile. “You’re something else, Vensalia. I owe you everything.”

Vensalia chuckled softly, though there was a hint of embarrassment in her voice. “No need for that. I’m just glad it worked.”

Together, they looked down at Dreamfyre and the fifteen newly laid eggs. The dragons had weathered a storm, but they were safe now. And for Aemond and Vensalia, it was another reminder of the power and bond they shared with their dragons, a bond that nothing could sever.

As they stood in the dragon pit, surrounded by the stillness of the aftermath, Vensalia felt a quiet peace settle over her. Despite all the chaos, despite the jealousy of the other Targaryens and the politics that constantly swirled around them, there was a certainty in her heart: this was where she was meant to be. With Aemond. With her dragons. And together, they would face whatever came next.