The Great Hall of the Red Keep had never been as radiant as it was tonight. Not for the feast celebrating Rhaenyra's birth, not for Daemon's return, not even for the wedding of the King and Queen themselves. The celebration marking the end of the Grand Tourney and the fiftieth year of King Jaehaerys's reign eclipsed them all.
Three hundred massive beeswax candles burned in the silver chandeliers, their dancing flames bringing the tapestries on the walls to life.
To the East, Aegon the Conqueror rode Balerion to incinerate Harrenhal in majestic fury.
To the West, Jaehaerys and Alysanne toured the Seven Kingdoms in tender unity.
To the North, the King, Aemon, and Baelon crushed the Dornish in the brutal Fourth Dornish War.
To the South, Baelon, Daemon, and the Rogue Prince led the royal and Velaryon fleets to shatter the pirates of the Three Daughters.
The candlelight reflected dragonfire and lances from the woven threads, kneading a century of Targaryen glory into the warm night.
Tables stretched from the doors to the foot of the Iron Throne, covered in scarlet velvet from the Arbor and laden with delicacies from across the realm.
Westerlands boars stuffed with apples and rosemary, their skin crackling gold.
Mountains of honeyed cherries and almond tarts from the Reach.
Smoked venison haunches from the North, wrapped in flatbread and served with cranberry sauce.
Lemon cakes dusted with gold leaf from across the Narrow Sea.
Even the silver platters were engraved with the three-headed dragon.
Minstrels played in the corners, the melody of harps and lutes mingling with the scent of ale, roasted fat, and expensive perfumes.
Lords conversed in clusters, the clink of silver goblets and laughter weaving a hymn of peace.
On the western side, Tymond Lannister clinked cups with Mathos Tyrell. The silver lion met the silver rose with a crisp ring.
"Lord Tyrell," Tymond said, his voice carrying the weight of Casterly Rock gold. "The vintage from the Reach is richer this year. Peace truly nourishes the soil."
Mathos smiled, tracing the rim of his cup. "And Lord Lannister's mines make the West ever wealthier. I hear the new mint at Ashemark is nearly complete?"
They shared a knowing smile. Behind them, Jason and Tyland Lannister chatted animatedly with Garlan Tyrell, discussing everything from jousting lances to Narrow Sea trade routes.
The younger generation was rowdier.
Brandon Stark had his arm around Borros Baratheon, raising a clay mug of Northern ale. "Borros! Next time I'm at Storm's End, we settle the axe debate!"
Borros slapped his back, laughing boisterously. "Done! I'll show you Northern wolves how hard Stormlands steel hits!"
Harmond Umber poured more ale, his rough face flushed with excitement. "If Prince Daemon were here, we'd make Myles Rivers split logs for sport!"
The Vale table was quieter. Yorbert Royce spoke in low tones with Lord Corbray, his eyes occasionally drifting to Rhea Royce.
She wore a gown patterned with bronze runes, clutching a handkerchief. Though her face was expressionless, her eyes held a deep, hidden exhaustion.
Lyonel Corbray and Harlan Hunter, usually with Daemon's retinue, sat with their families tonight, replaying the day's joust with wooden blocks. "That last move of the Prince's... using the opponent's force to flick the lance up... I still haven't figured it out."
Lyonel shook his head. "Even you, the sharpshooter, couldn't see it clearly? It was lightning fast."
Beneath the dais, Daemon held Gael's hand. Her palm was warm against his.
She still wore the crown of the Queen of Love and Beauty. Golden rose petals brushed her cheek, tickling slightly.
Mysaria and Johanna attended her, while Brienne and Lia Osgrey stood guard on either side.
"Look," Gael whispered, scanning the hall. "Everyone is happy."
Daemon followed her gaze. Rhaenys held Laena and Laenor, laughing with Jocelyn. Viserys held Aemma, while Rhaenyra dozed on his shoulder, clutching a half-eaten honey cake. Baelon stood at the edge of the dais, speaking with Lyonel Strong, his violet eyes full of relief.
"His Grace, the King! Her Grace, the Queen!" The herald's voice cut through the noise.
Music stopped. Lords rose. All eyes turned to the doors.
King Jaehaerys entered, leaning on his ruby scepter, supported by Queen Alysanne and Alicent Hightower. His silver hair was bound by a golden crown, and the gold dragons on his black robe shimmered in the candlelight.
Though his steps were slow, his majesty was undiminished. Every footfall seemed to echo in the hearts of his subjects.
Once the royal couple was seated, the lords bowed and resumed their places. The hall fell silent, save for the crackle of candles.
Jaehaerys cleared his throat. His gaze swept the hall, his voice raspy but undeniable. "My lords. My friends. My people."
He paused, looking at familiar and unfamiliar faces alike—veterans of his wars, young heirs, smallfolk representatives.
"Today, we celebrate not just the tourney, but the fiftieth year of my reign."
A low cheer rippled through the hall. Some raised cups. Jaehaerys raised a hand for silence.
"Fifty years ago, when I took the Iron Throne from Maegor the Cruel, the realm was drowning in blood and fear. Harrenhal still smoked. Dornish spears pointed at the Marches. Ironborn longships raided the Riverlands."
His voice softened. "Alysanne was with me. Your fathers and grandfathers were with me. House Baratheon held the Stormlands. House Lannister stabilized the West. House Stark quelled the North. House Tyrell brought life back to the Reach. Without you, without them, there would be no Seven Kingdoms today."
He looked at the grey-haired lords. "I remember defending Storm's End from pirates with Aemon, Baelon, and a young Boremund Baratheon. I remember forging swords in Lannisport with Lord Tymond's father. Now, Borros wields an axe, and Tymond guards the West."
Boremund Baratheon stood and bowed. "To serve the Dragon is the eternal honor of House Baratheon."
Tymond followed suit. "The West remains the Iron Throne's loyal vanguard."
Jaehaerys nodded, smiling. "This fifty years of peace is not my achievement alone. It belongs to the Iron Throne, its vassals, and its people. Tonight, I drink to this glory. To the Seven Kingdoms. To peace. To all of you!"
The lords raised their cups. "Long live the King!" Mathos Tyrell shouted first.
"Long live House Targaryen!" "Long live the Peace!" The cheers shook the candles.
As the noise subsided, Jaehaerys's face grew serious, his eyes regaining their old sharpness. "But peace and prosperity are never eternal. There are always those who despise our stability."
His voice rose. "The treacherous snakes of Dorne have never abandoned their envy of the fertile Stormlands and Reach. Last year, their envoys conspired with the Triarchy in the Stepstones. Early this year, their riders crossed the Marches and raided villages near Storm's End!"
The Stormlands table erupted. Even the steady Boremund turned red, fists clenched. "His Grace speaks true! Those sand snakes need a taste of dragonfire!"
Borros slammed the table. "I'll lead an army to Dorne and trample their sunspear into the dust!"
Mathos Tyrell frowned. Garlan added angrily, "The Dornish are indeed excessive. Our caravans were raided three times at Broken Arm last year."
Jaehaerys raised a hand to quell the noise. "More hateful still are the Ironborn! Their longships struck our shores twice this year. In spring, they raided Seagard, burning half the port. In summer, they attacked Lannisport. Though repelled, they burned nearly every merchant ship at the docks! The Tragedy of the Burning of Lannisport!"
Lord Jason Mallister of Seagard stood up, his silver eagle armor glinting. "Your Grace! The Ironborn are rampant! My fishermen cannot even leave port!"
Lord Farmman of Fair Isle stood too, trembling. "My daughter was nearly taken on the way to Casterly Rock! Those pirates should be burned to ash!"
At the Western table, Tymond Lannister's face was ice-cold. He gripped his cup until it warped, knuckles white. Beside him, Mathos Tyrell scooted away instinctively. The Lion of the West looked ready to kill. Jason and Tyland glared forward, the memory of Lannisport's burning still fresh.
The atmosphere in the hall turned heavy with anger and fear. Calls for fleets and dragons rose.
Jaehaerys spoke again, warmth returning to his voice. "Fortunately, my grandson, Little Daemon, was there during his tour."
All eyes turned to Daemon. He squeezed Gael's hand and stood, bowing to the King.
"When Seagard was attacked, Daemon arrived on The Cannibal with his cousin Big Daemon and his aunt Gael. With Caraxes and Dreamfyre, they burned the Ironborn ships. When Lannisport burned, he led the defense and drove them back, preventing a greater tragedy."
Jaehaerys looked at Daemon with pride. "Lannisport is the jewel of the West and the Sunset Sea. Its burning was a wound to the entire realm. Today, I do not speak to lament, nor merely to praise my grandson. I speak to tell you—my loyal vassals—that the Dragons of House Targaryen are always with you!"
His voice pierced every heart. "When Dornish snakes cross the borders, when Ironborn longships sail for your ports, when any enemy threatens you... the royal dragons will fly over your lands and burn them all for you—my faithful subjects!"
Deafening cheers exploded. Lord Mallister wept. Lord Farmman raised his cup. "Long live the King! Long live the Targaryens!"
Tymond Lannister's anger cooled into a satisfied smile as he clinked cups with Mathos Tyrell again—harder this time.
Daemon stood with Gael, bowing to the dais and the lords.
Gael's crown sparkled. Her eyes were full of pride.
Daemon gripped Blackfyre, feeling the warmth of her hand and the fervor of the lords. He made a silent vow. This peace... he would guard it with The Cannibal's fire and his sword.
The music started again, more spirited than before. Laughter returned, louder and warmer.
The clink of silver, the smell of roast meat, the dragon shadows on the walls... the feast reached its climax.
Night deepened. The Red Keep shone like a gem in the dark.
Lords drank and spoke of hope, unaware that at the edge of the dais, Prince Baelon and Lyonel Strong were whispering gravely. They knew the threats from Dorne and the Ironborn were far from over. This celebration was merely the prelude to war.
But for now, no one wanted to break the spell. Everyone was immersed in the glory of fifty years of peace, in the King's promise of protection.
Of course, the King wasn't finished speaking. A new storm was brewing, one that would sweep the coasts of Westeros, blow toward the Iron Islands and Dorne, and finally point straight across the Narrow Sea.