King's Landing
Laenor was ready for the feast, wearing a lavish sea-green velvet tunic intricately embroidered with black seahorse and wave motifs along the cuffs and mandarin collar. Over it, a flowing dark sea-green silk surcoat fell to his mid-thigh, edged with black cording and fastened at the neck with a silver seahorse clasp. Rings, chains, and elegant cuffs completed the ensemble, along with black boots of the finest leather.
Laenor shifted his gaze from the mirror to the room's window to watch the sunset. The day was over, dusk settling over King's Landing. The whole day had been spent hunting in the Kingswood—stags, boars, whatever game the lords could find. Only a select few high lords had been granted the privilege, and Laenor was among them, so he and his newest acquaintances enjoyed the chase across the forest.
He had already taken a quick tour through King's Landing the previous day, experimenting to see if being closer to the Sept strengthened the strange draining effect he had sensed. It did. But that was a matter for another time. That same tour had shown him how the city was overflowing—every corner filled, every tavern bursting, every merchant cursing lack of space. He had severely underestimated how many people would attend the feast; he had assumed the abrupt timing would keep numbers small. It seemed the lords were either too curious… or had nothing better to do this winter.
Laenor pushed open the door of his room and made his way toward the great hall of the Red Keep. It was a long walk from Maegor's Holdfast, where his family had been given apartments. He was nearing the end of the drawbridge—the only way into or out of the Holdfast—when a shout came from behind him.
Laenor turned to see Daemon Targaryen striding toward him with the same confident, borderline arrogant swagger he always carried.
"Why alone? Where are Lady Jaenara and Lucella? Have they abandoned you?" Daemon asked with a teasing smirk.
"The same way Lady Daena abandoned you. I saw her talking quite happily to Jaenara's brother, Maelon, this morning before we left," Laenor replied as they fell into step.
"What that Lyseni woman does is no concern of mine," Daemon said—though the flicker across his face betrayed him.
"I heard you hunted the most game today. Did you use magic?"
"If I had, there wouldn't be a single living creature left in the Kingswood. You seem to have forgotten my other talents—besides the mystical ones."
Daemon scoffed. "I haven't." Then, after a pause: "What do the Volantenes want?"
"What the Valarr wanted."
"Greedy cunts, all of them," Daemon said, anger cracking through his tone. "They behave like hounds who've scented blood."
"Well, give it two weeks more, and we'll have even more hounds snapping at our heels. Still baffling that Valyria is coming back," Laenor said with a snort.
Daemon grunted. "Not sure about the other gods, but the Valyrian dragon gods are certainly kind to Valyrians. Bringing back the whole Freehold… I wonder how the world will react. Seven hells, I wonder how Valyrians will react—coming back after two hundred years of their supposed death by burning."
"If I were in their place, I might start by moving out of the place that killed them the first time," Laenor commented dryly.
They talked a little more until they neared the doors of the great hall—when Daemon suddenly stopped. Laenor turned back, confused.
Daemon's voice was softer than he had ever heard it—earnest, grateful, almost uncharacteristically solemn.
"I am glad that our houses will stand united against whatever the future may hold," Daemon said.
The sincerity caught Laenor completely off guard.
Laenor turned fully toward him and nodded.
"You would find me no less pleased either."
Then he walked inside.
If he was being honest, Daemon's words surprised him far more than anything in the past week. Even Viserys wouldn't have expected something like that from the Rogue Prince.
As Laenor entered the great hall, he immediately felt dozens of eyes turn toward him. In return, he offered polite nods to those he had spoken to earlier—and more than a few smiled back warmly.
He reached the high table where his family sat with the Targaryens and Lord Strong. Only two seats remained—one at the far end near Lord Strong, and one between Rhaenyra and Laena.
Laenor, smiling broadly, chose the latter.
The sweet smiles from both women made it clear the feast would be far more enjoyable than he had anticipated.
"You two might want to drop some of that oversweetness from your pretty smiles," Laenor murmured quietly enough for only them to hear. "Before everyone realizes not all Valyrian dragonlords are inhumanly beautiful."
He raised his wine cup toward Daemon across the table.
"Look there, my lord—on your right," Rhaenyra whispered.
Laenor followed her gaze to the Volantenes, the Lyseni Lady Valarr among them.
"Yes. Should we smile at you like them? Would that be more to your preference?" Rhaenyra asked sweetly.
"Well, Lady Jaenara's smile is quite beautiful. I'd say go ahead—smile just like she does," Laenor replied with barely-contained amusement.
He didn't manage to hide it for long because Rhaenyra's boot promptly struck his leg under the table—hard.
"Come now, Princess. A lady of noble blood shouldn't behave so wildly. I'm your betrothed; you should take that into account before acting like some wildling beyond the Wall. It seems like you know nothing of etiquette, Rhaenyra." Laenor said with a grin. He almost laughed aloud at her expression but hid it behind a sip of wine.
"She wouldn't behave like that if you refrained from comparing her—a princess of the blood—to some seductress from the Free Cities," Laena said dryly.
Laenor still didn't know how, but Rhaenyra and Laena seemed to have no bitterness or rivalry between them—none of what he had expected. Not that he would complain. You don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
"Lady Jaenara is no seductress. She is from the Old Blood of Valyria…" While Laenor was occupied conversing with two ladies, many eyes across the hall were discreetly glancing at him, each with different intentions, some good and others not so much.
The ambitious Second Son
Otto had to smile as Luthor Tyrell made another jest about some stormlord and his utter lack of etiquette. If only his own daughter had been a little more competent, then he wouldn't be sitting here among these lesser lords. His place should have been at the High Table. Instead, someone who could not even control his own household now sat where Otto should rightfully have been.
He should never have come here—he had vowed not to. But now, with his office as Hand of the King stripped from him, Otto had little choice but to obey the commands of his brother. And it was not only his brother—both the Seneschal and His High Holiness had requested his presence at this feast, to see the task finished.
The task: the end of the Velaryon boy.
Otto was all too eager to see it done. Laenor Velaryon was no ally to him, nor would he ever be. If anything, the boy, soon to marry Rhaenyra, would become Otto's enemy—and an enemy far too dangerous to leave unchecked. Better to eliminate this foe before he could throw his considerable power behind Rhaenyra's ludicrous claim to the Iron Throne.
So here Otto sat, calling upon every connection he had painstakingly nurtured during his years as Hand, using them to slip poison—provided by the Seneschal and "blessed by the Seven," if His High Holiness was to be believed—into Laenor's cup.
But either the poison was not strong enough, or someone had blundered. Velaryon was enjoying the feast merrily, tearing into suckling pig even after drinking the full dose. Otto gritted his teeth. Why must the Seven curse him with incompetents who cannot accomplish even the simplest tasks?
He was chewing on his spiced beef in growing anger when he noticed movement at the High Table. The boy stood, excused himself, and began to walk away.
A thousand questions flashed through Otto's mind when he saw Laenor staggering slightly as he made his way toward the exit. The coughing—now that was promising. Otto immediately singled out Leo—one of the few men he could trust—and signaled him to follow, to confirm whether they had succeeded at last.
It seemed the Seven had not abandoned him yet.
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