After a forbidden night with Ser Criston Cole, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen is forced by her father, King Viserys, to drink the moon tea and protect her honor. To shield her image further, she weds Ser Laenor Velaryon, and together they move to Drift...
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Present Time
Red Keep, King's Landing
"Seriously, girls, it's just dinner!" Dahlia exclaimed, watching Hermione, Luna, and Angelina dart around the chamber like frantic hens, rifling through wardrobes and trunks. "I don't think there's any need to dress so formally." Her gaze settled on Angelina, who was triumphantly holding up a long black gown as if it were spun from Valyrian steel itself.
"What do you mean no need?" Angelina shot back, clutching the dress to her chest as though it were a holy relic. "We're in a castle, surrounded by kings, princes, and highborn families. This is the perfect choice of attire."
Dahlia blinked at her as if she'd lost her mind.
"I'm with Dahlia on this one, Angie," Hermione said, siding firmly with her Queen. Her tone was brisk, but her brow was knit with thought. "It's not a feast or a tourney ball—it's dinner. And we're already under scrutiny. If anything, Dahlia should present herself in our fashion, not dress to appease a society that—at first glance—reeks of medieval sexism and prejudice."
Angelina rolled her eyes heavenward, muttering something about hopeless causes.
The invitation itself had taken them all by surprise. Servants of the Red Keep had appeared at their chambers not long before, bowing stiffly as they conveyed King Viserys's request that Queen Dahlia and her entire retinue join him and the royal family at table.
None of them knew the true motive behind this invitation. Some suspected diplomacy. Others—caution. But most presumed the King was trying to win favor with his granddaughter by extending his welcome to those she called her people.
"I think Hermione is right," Sirius said suddenly from the doorway, making all three girls jump. None of them had noticed him standing there, his shoulder resting lazily against the frame. "The best way to make an impression—whether good or questionable—is to walk in as ourselves, with our fashion, our traditions. Believe me, this place reeks of chains." His eyes darkened as his voice dropped. "Just looking at the Hand of the King and the Queen Consort sent a shiver through me. For a moment, I felt like a boy again in House Black, living under Grandfather Arcturus's cold rule... with Mother's shouts and those damned prejudiced glares."
The room went still. Dahlia tilted her head slightly, studying the shadow that crossed her godfather's face.
"So... what, we just trample over their traditions?" Angelina asked, incredulous, still clutching the dress as if unwilling to surrender.
"No," Sirius said, sharp enough to cut the air, before softening with deliberate weight. He stepped further in, fixing his gaze on the three young women. "We show our manners. We show our culture. And we walk in as if this were our own hall, our own hearth. An ordinary day. Because that's the point—this is who we are. Not who they want us to be."
