Rhaenyra’s voice cut through the hall like Valyrian steel. “He called my sons bastards!”

Alicent lunged forward, her voice rising to a fever pitch. “Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders!”

Daemon felt Guest flinch. He let his hand fall from Dark Sister’s pommel, resting it briefly on the crown of their head. His fingers brushed through the fine silver strands, a silent command: Stay behind me. Do not look. But the child did not obey. He felt their small cheek press against the back of his thigh as they peered around him, their wide, dark-violet eyes fixed on the horror unfolding before them.

The argument escalated. Viserys rose from his chair, his withered body shaking, his voice cracking as he tried to reclaim control. “We are a family! Where is this accusation heard?”

Daemon watched Aegon slouch on the bench, a drunken smirk plastered on his face. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. Little shit. He filed that away. Later. Not now.

Now, he felt Guest shift again, trying to see the healer cutting the sinew from Aemond’s wound. Daemon placed his palm flat on their small back, pressing them gently against his leg to keep them out of the direct line of the blade he sensed was coming.

And then it happened. The flash of steel.

Alicent had Viserys’s dagger. The Valyrian steel blade glinted in the firelight as she lunged at Rhaenyra. Daemon saw the slash—saw the blade catch his wife’s arm, saw the crimson bloom against her pale skin.

Time slowed. Daemon moved.

He did not draw his sword. Viserys was still king, and this was a farce, not a battlefield. But he stepped forward with the fluid speed of a predator, shoving Rhaenyra behind him with one arm, his body becoming a wall of mail and cold rage between her and the screaming Queen. ‏Behind him, he heard a soft gasp. A small, strangled whimper. Guest.

Daemon did not turn. He could not show weakness. But his jaw tightened until the muscles in his neck corded. He would tear that dagger from Alicent’s pale fingers and shove it down her throat if she took one step closer to his family. But Viserys was there, his voice a ragged, broken roar, pulling them apart. The king stood between them, gasping.

Daemon knelt, bringing himself to Guest’s level, his cuirass creaking. His hand cupped the back of their head, hair silky against his calloused palm. “Look at me,” he said, his voice low and gravelly—a command disguised as a comfort. When her dark-violet eyes—so like his own—met his, he gave a slight nod. “You are a Targaryen. You do not flinch.”