Composition

The opening night of nameday celebrations was always a sight to behold — something out of a fairy tale.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, the city came alive with the peal of bells ringing out from every tower.

Dozens of ships in the harbor unfurled their sails. Packs of peasants gathered along the main road, eager to catch a glimpse of the Lordly wagons and processions making their way towards the keep.

In the streets, revelers spilled out of taverns and alehouses, filling the air with the sound of raucous laughter and merry song.

From the slums of Fleabottom to the opulent mansions of the wealthy, the smell of roasting meats and freshly baked breads wafted through the air, mingling with the rich aroma of spiced wine.

As night fell, the glow of torches illuminated the city, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets.

Smiths put down their hammers, their soot-stained faces plastered with smiles. Weavers set aside their looms, their nimble fingers eager to help raise a toast to my good name.

Above it all, dragons soared through the sky, their wingspan casting shadows on the buildings below.

And as the last rays of sun disappeared from the horizon, the bells rang out once more, joyously welcoming in the night and the start of the festivities.

Everything — composed in the senses — an aurora of delight.

"It is with great pleasure that His Grace, King Viserys, announces the start of the royal nameday celebrations."

The Great Hall, which housed the Iron Throne, could host a banquet of a thousand people.

As such, Ser Harrold Westerling, the newly appointed Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, was struggling with his voice as he announced the entry of many prominent lords. His bald head drew beads of sweat.

"House Tully, with their lord, Grover Tully, Paramount of the Trident. Alongside his grandson and heir, Elmo Tully."

"House Tarley, with their lord, Alan Tarley, Sword of the Reach."

"House Bracken, with their lord—"

The prospect of the whole event had the potential to be unbearably tedious. My mind had wandered off when my mother nudged me, bringing me back to reality.

"Congratulations, My Prince. You are already a finer Knight than most."

Standing before our royal dining table was none other than Jason Lannister, Warden of the West. His striking emerald eyes resembled pools of jade, in stark contrast with his Lannister-red doublet.

Our Targaryen dining table was a grand and elegant gold rectangle on legs situated on a raised area in front of the Iron Throne. One had to ascend a set of stairs to address the King, a subtle yet powerful metaphor.

I call this area 'The Stand', because they always stand there awkwardly, hands behind back, trying their best to hold in their farts in front of the royal family.

Quickly, I put on my Princely smile.

"You honor me, my Lord. Thank you for making the journey."

"Nonsense, My Prince. The pleasure is mine. May I introduce you to my daughters?" Lord Lannister asked, gesturing to the three maidens standing behind him.

The sisters possessed the same luscious blonde hair as the goddesses, complemented by emerald green eyes and porcelain skin.

I examined them from head to toe, noting their order from the youngest to the eldest and shortest to the tallest.

Every one of them was more stunning than the last, their forced grins appearing as if they were about to get stuck on their faces forever, wooden stiff.

"Lannister beauty… The scrolls do it no justice."

My father beamed with delight. He never quite grasped how I played the game.

"Well done, Lord Jason," he said, addressing our guest. "You have raised truly exceptional daughters. Perhaps Prince Rhaenar could take them on a tour of our gardens on the 'morrow?"

Lord Jason's emerald eyes sparkled with victory.

"A tour with the Prince? You honor us greatly. What do you say, girls?"

In response, Lord Jason's daughters feigned a meek nod, some even blushing, though it was admittedly stuffy in the Great Hall that evening.

As I watched the sisters nod their heads up and down like puppets, I summoned all my willpower to flash a pleasant smile.

"It would be my pleasure."

With their hands covering their mouths, the sisters exchanged giggles and quickly scurried away, but not before throwing a few coy glances in my direction, whispering amongst themselves in a flurry of girlish excitement.

Once the Lannisters were out of earshot, my sister grumbled.

"*I* can give them the tour, Father," Rhaenyra said, "My brother needn't waste his time."

Mother chuckled, "Someone's jealous."

"I am not."

"Now now, my dear," Father said, "It's only courtesy."

Uncle Daemon leaned at the end of the table with his usual swagger and swirled the wine in his chalice with a scoff.

"Ah, the magnanimity of the Dragon, for refraining from severing the Lion's head from its body," he quipped with a smug smirk, his voice dripping with aristocratic disdain.

My sister smirked with him. I couldn't blame her. My uncle had a knack for lighting the fire in our hearts. His confidence in our family lineage was infectious.

However, that moment was short lived.

The endless stream of lords and their households that followed vied for my father's favor and showered me and my sister with insincere birthday praise.

One after another, they presented their sons and daughters, hoping to secure a betrothal with us.

Since I had been Knighted, they saw me as a man ready for marriage. And while Rhaenyra's competence was never in question, she too was subjected to discussions of potential betrothals. As my twin, if I was considered ready for marriage, then so was she.

We all cringed at these discussions: my mother, Rhaenyra, Uncle Daemon, and myself.

Only my father, with his unwavering patience for these poser affairs, earnestly welcomed every proposal and attempt to win our favor.

Old king Jaehaerys would have been proud. I would have taken a moment to pause and admire my father's unwavering composure and patience in handling these false displays of flattery if not for my fraying willpower.

The constant parade of potential suitors and their feigned courtesies made me feel like nothing more than a pawn in some royal game, and it took all of my self-control not to snap.

I watched as these lords, these "fathers," paraded their daughters around like show horses, adorned in luxurious silks and drenched with perfume - mere pawns to be married off for political gain.

And as much as I wanted to judge them, I knew deep down that I was no different.

"Or so they believe," I muttered involuntarily.

I knew the court's fake, scheming, and conniving political machinations were not enough to bring me down. I quickly learned that it was all just a game, and once you figured that out, it was easy to compartmentalize the bullshit.

No. Instead, it was the rare instances of genuine sincerity that left me taken aback

Lyonel Strong, Lord of Harrenhal and recently appointed Master of Laws, took the stand and kindly addressed my family.

With a solemn gaze, Lord Lyonel turned to the queen and spoke softly, "Please accept my deepest sympathies for your recent loss, Your Grace."

And I could hear my mother fight through her sorrow clogging her throat, "Your words are a balm to my grief, my lord. I thank you."

In that moment, a fierce rage, confusion, and overwhelming emotion coursed through me, narrowing my vision to a tunnel-like focus.

BAM!

I rose from my seat, my hands pressed firmly against the table, my nostrils flaring.

"Excuse me."

Wiping my hands with a cloth and then throwing it contemptuously on my plate, I excused myself from the table with the intention of getting some air.

As I was about to make my exit, Ser Harrold's voice boomed through the hall with a declaration that caught my attention.

A latecomer had arrived, one that was fashionably late. Adorned with the bronze, rune inscribed armor of her ancient culture.

"House Royce, and their liege, Rhea Royce," Ser Harrold announced.

I couldn't help but feel a sense of surprise and satisfaction as I heard Ser Harrold include the detail I had specifically reminded him to mention. Despite being recently named Lord Commander, he showed his sharpness and attention to detail at something I only mentioned to him in passing.

"Lady of Runestone," Ser Harrold continued, parroting my words

"Wife of Prince Daemon Targaryen"

I swivelled around to see how Uncle Daemon would react. The expression on his face was priceless: a mix of anguish, anger, and awkwardness.

It was clear that he was not amused, but to me, it only made the prank all the more satisfying.