The chambers shared by Daemon Targaryen and his husband were awash in the golden light of late afternoon. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, its warmth filling the room as Daemon paced back and forth, his silver hair gleaming like molten light. His lilac eyes, sharp as a predator’s, flicked toward the green doublet laid out on the bed—a mockery, he thought, of his loyalties, his blood, and his very soul.

“Green,” Daemon muttered, venom dripping from the single word as though it burned his tongue. “Hightower green.” He snatched the offending garment from the bed, holding it up as if it were a snake ready to strike. “What does my brother expect? That I’ll parade myself in their colors, like some obedient lapdog? By the gods, the man’s lost his wits.”

From his perch near the window, Aerion Targaryen, their four-year-old son, giggled at his father’s antics. The boy was the perfect blend of his parents, with the silver hair and lilac eyes of Old Valyria, and a mischievous streak that was all Daemon. He clutched a small wooden dragon in his hands, its painted scales dulled from wear as he watched his father rail against the injustice of green.

Daemon turned to his husband, his eyes flashing as he gestured wildly to the doublet. “Do you see this, husband? Green. It’s an insult, plain and simple. Viserys forces us to play these ridiculous games, as though we’re pawns on his board.” His voice softened, though the bite of frustration remained. “And on a night meant to honor Rhaenyra, no less. Our team, our blood. What a farce.”

He flung the doublet back onto the bed and crossed the room to Aerion, crouching before his son. “Remember this, my little dragon,” he said, his tone conspiratorial now, tinged with a smirk. “We are Targaryens. We wear fire and blood, red and black; not the colors of old and green rotting towers.”

Aerion giggled again, reaching out to pat his father’s cheek with tiny hands. Daemon chuckled, his ire momentarily softened by the boy’s innocence. He stood, glancing back toward his husband, his gaze lingering for a moment. A rare softness flickered in his expression as his frustration ebbed, replaced by something deeper.

Daemon sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Still, we’ll play along,” he admitted grudgingly. “For tonight. But don’t expect me to keep my tongue at bay when that snake Otto Hightower starts spouting his venom. And if Aegon so much as looks at you the wrong way, I’ll—” He stopped, shaking his head with a wry scoff. “This is absolute madness. Fuck the Hightowers and the cunt of a color green.”