The long banquet tables in the throne room were overflowing with roasted meats, golden breads, and gleaming platters of fruit. Thick candles flickered atop iron stands, their warm glow reflecting off polished helms, embroidered silks, and the nobles' carefully arranged smiles. The scent of spiced wine and roasted boar drifted heavily across the hall, mixing with laughter that was far too loud to be sincere.
For Damian Thorne, the feast was nothing but a noisy, tedious spectacle.
To the nobles of Westeros, however, the banquet was a battlefield—one where every step, every smile, and every word could be used as a weapon or a shield. They hovered about him like moths around flame, eager to deliver empty praise. Damian, seated beside King Viserys, paid them no mind. His fingertips tapped softly against the rim of his gold-inlaid goblet, the crisp clink sounding far too sharp in the tense silence that surrounded him.
Each tap made nearby nobles stiffen.
They did not know whether the sound meant impatience, irritation, or simple boredom—and the fact that they could not tell frightened them even more.
Across the hall, Laenor Velaryon felt his chest tighten.
His gaze kept drifting toward the dark-haired man seated beside the King. Each time Damian Thorne's unfathomable brown eyes met his, Laenor felt as if an icy blade had pressed against his skin. His hands trembled around his goblet. His collar was soaked with sweat.
His father.
His mother.
His sister.
The fate of the entire Velaryon family—rested in that man's hands.
Ser Joffrey Lonmouth leaned in, whispering something meant to reassure him, but the words reached Laenor's ears as nothing more than a faint hum, swallowed by the roar of his anxiety.
Finally, he could no longer sit still.
Laenor rose abruptly, clutching his goblet as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. The hall quieted instantly. Every passing noble paused mid-step, eyes following him with a mixture of pity, curiosity, and thinly veiled amusement.
His shoes felt heavy, as if each step dragged him deeper into a nightmare. Yet somehow, he reached the space in front of Damian Thorne.
"Your Majesty…" he croaked, his throat painfully dry.
His voice cracked. He swallowed, forcing himself to breathe.
"I… I wish to ask… about my family…"
The words tumbled out in fragments, barely coherent.
Damian did not even look up.
He finished his wine, set down his empty goblet with a crisp tap, and answered in a tone utterly devoid of warmth.
"The terms have been decided," he said. "King Viserys will ransom his kin—Daemon, Rhaenys, and your sister… Laena."
Laenor's pulse froze.
Three names.
One was missing.
His father.
Corlys Velaryon—Lord of the Tides, the Sea Snake—had not been mentioned.
A chill raced up Laenor's spine.
"Then… what about my father? Lord Corlys, he—"
A gentle hand touched his arm, halting his words.
"Laenor."
Rhaenyra's calm voice cut through his panic like the edge of a blade.
At some point, she had risen from her place and come to stand beside him. Her presence alone was enough to silence him. She gave him a look that was neither hostile nor kind—simply firm.
"His Majesty has traveled far," she said, lifting her goblet in a polite toast toward Damian. "We should honor him, not pester him with matters already concluded."
Laenor stared at her. His lips moved, forming silent protests, but he swallowed them under her steady gaze.
She knows.
She agreed.
She accepted the King's decisions.
Laenor felt his heart sink.
Long before Damian Thorne arrived in King's Landing, Viserys had summoned Rhaenyra for a private discussion in his study. He had explained the consequences of the Velaryon actions, his vision for their house's future, and the necessity—however unsavory—of forming new alliances.
Rhaenyra had listened in silence.
Their political marriage had brought her little happiness—only obligations, expectations, and the weight of tradition. She had grown distant from Laenor long before this moment.
And now, a new Dragonlord had stepped onto the stage.
Ancient blood.
Overwhelming power.
A man who controlled dragons not through legacy, but through sheer might.
Viserys's proposal had been shocking… but it had also offered Rhaenyra a chance she had never considered possible.
A future not bound by a failing marriage.
A future with a man whose strength could shield her claim.
In the end, she had agreed.
Now, here at the banquet, she walked to Damian Thorne with carefully measured grace.
This feast marked her first true encounter with the man who had shaken half the world of Essos.
She tried to hold herself with dignity—the heir to the Iron Throne, confident and proud. But Damian's lack of interest pierced her composure like cold wind.
When she lifted her goblet to toast him, Damian clinked his cup against hers only out of politeness. His gaze didn't linger on her; it passed through her, distant, as if he were thinking of something—or someone—far beyond the walls of the Red Keep.
Rhaenyra's stomach twisted.
All her life, she had been the one who looked down on others—courtiers who flattered her, lords who sought her hand, knights who knelt to earn her favor. She had never imagined she would be the one ignored.
The man before her stood at a height she could not reach.
His power.
His dragons.
His empire.
His presence alone overshadowed everyone else in the hall.
Attempting to steady her breath, Rhaenyra forced herself to speak.
"I heard that in Old Valyria," she said, her voice controlled but tight, "Dragonlord families practiced… polygamy."
Damian finally looked at her.
His calm eyes met hers, and she felt as though he could see her fears, her ambitions, and her heart all at once. She had never felt so exposed.
"That was the only way," Damian replied, his tone gentle but unyielding, "to ensure the survival of their bloodline and the growth of their people."
"But… the teachings of the Seven—"
Rhaenyra could not stop herself. She had been raised with those beliefs. They were ingrained into her.
Yet Damian's lips curved into a faint, almost indifferent smile.
"Look at your House Targaryen."
His words were soft.
But they landed with the force of a falling tower.
"You have ruled Westeros for over a century," he continued, "and yet your numbers dwindle. And dragons—your proudest legacy—circle Dragonstone without riders."
Rhaenyra's breath caught.
Every word was a truth she didn't want to face.
"Dragonlords claim to be gods walking among mortals," Damian said quietly. "Why then do they bow to mortal gods?"
Rhaenyra froze.
The hall felt colder.
He was right.
Terribly right.
From afar, King Viserys watched them speak, his heart easing for the first time in months. He saw potential—hope, even—in this new bond being formed.
Perhaps his decisions had not been in vain.
The feast eventually ended, and the following morning, Damian Thorne departed the Red Keep with Rhaenyra by his side. They traveled to the Dragonpit, where Syrax—her great yellow dragon—awaited.
Her dragon would be the measure of Damian's power.
But behind them, inside one of the grand halls, an emergency session of the small council was convened.
King Viserys sat heavily at the head of the table, the weight of his crown visible in the lines of his face. Laenor Velaryon was summoned and now stood alone in the center of the room.
He looked lost.
"Laenor," Viserys said, his voice far sterner than usual, "I hereby inform you that your betrothal to Princess Rhaenyra is annulled."
Laenor's knees weakened.
He didn't love Rhaenyra—but their marriage had been the Velaryon family's key to the Iron Throne, their greatest political achievement.
"Your Majesty… this is not proper!" Laenor protested desperately. "The betrothal was arranged by you. The kingdom—everyone—already knows—"
"Proper?"
Viserys slammed his hand on the table, rising to his feet.
His pale, sickly face was flushed with anger.
"Corlys Velaryon unilaterally provoked a war with the eastern empire," the King thundered. "He dragged House Targaryen into the mud without a single thought! Did he care about propriety then?!"
Laenor took a step back.
"Because of his arrogance," Viserys continued, his voice shaking with fury, "the royal family lost three dragons. Three dragonriders were captured. The honor of House Targaryen suffered its worst humiliation in generations!"
Silence filled the chamber.
Viserys's shoulders trembled with the intensity of his emotion. He stared down at Laenor—no longer with frustration, but with cold judgment.
"For the damages your house has caused," the King said, "the Velaryon family will compensate the Crown with adequate assets. And as for your engagement…" His
eyes hardened.
"You are no longer worthy."
He paused.
Then spoke the final blow.
"Annulled."
The word echoed like the toll of a funeral bell.
Laenor's last shred of hope crumbled.
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