After the introductions were exchanged, the atmosphere in the royal pavilion began to ease, though the undercurrents of political tension still lingered beneath the flowery chatter.
The noblewomen, most of them from Reach and Oldtown houses, began their customary ritual of gossip and subtle maneuvering. Seated with Queen Alicent, they passed stories back and forth like daggers hidden in silk.
Only Rhaenyra stood awkwardly on the periphery, her presence politely ignored. Her eyes scanned the room, but no invitation to join the circle came. Not even from Alicent.
Aemond observed the scene with growing awareness. The embroidery on the dresses, the sigils on their jewelry—House Redwyne, Hightower, Beesbury. The camp was crawling with Oldtown loyalists.
An elder Lady Redwyne, draped in fine green velvet and cradling a pug in her arms, launched into a grim tale. "They say Lord Stivon's ship was waylaid off the Stepstones. His daughter, Lady Jeyne, was taken."
Alicent's brow furrowed. "Taken? What of her?"
"Likely sold to a Lyseni brothel," the old woman replied coolly, sipping her wine as though she spoke of the weather.
A hush fell over the circle.
Aemond, seated near Alicent's knee, yawned. Boring. The usual whispers of scandal, and always at someone else's expense.
"Excuse me," came a new voice.
Everyone turned.
Leaning on a cane and dragging a twisted foot behind him, Larys Strong entered the tent with a polite smile.
"My lords and ladies," he said softly, "the gods did not bless me with a hunter's vigor, so I seek the company of kinder pursuits."
Alicent gestured to the empty chair beside her. "Ser Larys, join us. You're always welcome here."
Her tone was gentle, even warm—still early in their acquaintance, before politics would turn courtesies into chains.
"This is Larys Strong," she said for the others' benefit. "The youngest son of Lord Lyonel Strong, Master of Laws."
Larys bowed his head humbly. "I thank you, Your Grace."
He settled in with a stillness that belied his cunning. Though plain-faced and hunched, his gaze missed nothing.
Aemond studied him curiously. That's the one they call Clubfoot. I'll need to keep an eye on him. For all his quiet demeanor, Larys would one day shape fates with whispers and ashes.
Just as the conversation turned again to piracy along the Stepstones, another disruption stirred the tent.
A sudden rustle of silk and a flash of silver-gold hair swept past the flaps.
Aemond sat up straight. So did Rhaenyra.
A tall, striking young woman entered the pavilion, flanked by a small entourage of noble youths. She was radiant—her wavy, silver-blonde hair cascading to her waist, her violet eyes shimmering with confidence.
"Laena!" Rhaenyra gasped, stepping forward as though a long-lost sister had returned from sea.
Laena Velaryon, daughter of Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen—the Queen Who Never Was—greeted Rhaenyra with an embrace that drew every gaze in the room.
Laena had grown into her beauty, and then some. At fifteen, she was already statuesque, her posture regal, her smile magnetic. There was no mistaking the Valyrian fire in her blood.
And above all, she was a dragonrider.
She had claimed Vhagar, the mightiest of the living dragons, when she was scarcely twelve—a feat whispered about in awe across the Seven Kingdoms.
Aemond stared in stunned silence. His thoughts scattered.
She rides Vhagar... That means she could squash every man here with a flick of her dragon's wing.
Rhaenyra's joy was visible. "What are you doing here? You weren't meant to arrive until the tourney!"
"Laena came with her father's blessing," one of the noble ladies offered, half in admiration, half in apprehension.
"I traveled by ship," Laena said smoothly, her tone neither haughty nor meek. "I hope I've not interrupted."
Viserys, seated nearby, glanced toward her with surprise that quickly shifted to careful neutrality. The presence of a Velaryon at the royal hunt was no small thing.
But Rhaenyra was delighted.
She guided Laena to sit beside her, and the two of them quickly became the tent's centerpiece. A noblewoman moved without being asked, surrendering her chair.
Laena accepted with a gracious nod and folded herself elegantly onto the cushion.
"My apologies for arriving late," she said. "But I heard there was a celebration worth attending."
A ripple of laughter followed.
Despite her modesty, Laena's arrival changed the tone of the gathering. Conversation shifted. Tension faded. Even Alicent smiled, though the expression was tight.
But not everyone was pleased.
One of the elder ladies near Alicent, a cousin of House Hightower, took a long sip from her goblet and then asked pointedly, "And what are your thoughts on the war in the Stepstones, Princess?"
Rhaenyra blinked. "I—pardon?"
The old woman leaned in. "Your dear uncle Daemon leads the charge, does he not?"
The air stilled. Rhaenyra faltered. "I… haven't seen Daemon in years."
"But you replaced him as heir, did you not?" the woman pressed.
There it was—subtle no longer. A public jab at her legitimacy.
Rhaenyra stiffened, searching for a polite escape.
Alicent opened her mouth, perhaps to change the subject.
She never got the chance.
Smash!
A goblet flew across the tent, crashing at the old woman's feet and shattering into shards.
The entire tent froze.
Aemond stood, his face a mask of fury, a second goblet already in hand.
"Old hag," he growled. "You speak too much."
"Aemond!" Alicent gasped.
But he was already moving.
With a speed that startled even the guards, Aemond hurled the second goblet. It missed her head by inches, splattering wine across her dress.
"You think you can insult my father? Daemon Targaryen fought that war so you could still sip Arbor gold like a pampered goose!"
"Guards!" someone cried.
But no one moved.
The room was too shocked. Aemond stalked forward, fury in every step.
"Say one more thing about my uncle, and I'll cut out your tongue and send it to Driftmark in a wine bottle!"
Alicent leapt to her feet. "Aemond, stop this madness!"
But he didn't.
He picked up a half-full wine bottle, smashed it on a pillar, and pointed the jagged edge toward the now-pale old noblewoman.
"Maybe if we open your skull," he sneered, "we'll see the rot that made you say something so vile."
"Aemond Targaryen!" Viserys roared from across the tent, finally intervening. "Enough!"
The silence that followed was deafening.
The bottle dropped from Aemond's hand and rolled across the floor.
Wine, glass, and blood pooled together at the woman's feet. Her dress was stained, her cheek grazed by a flying shard.
Everyone was too stunned to speak.
Even Alicent was speechless.
Rhaenyra, for the first time in a long while, stared at Aemond not with confusion or amusement—but something akin to awe.
Laena's eyes flicked between them all, lips parted in a small, knowin
g smirk.
Whatever storm had begun to brew in the royal family, it had just broken through the clouds.
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