House of the Dragon: Targaryen Masquerade Ball

Pre-Dance of the Dragons AU | Masquerade Ball

This night is silk and song, but its music carries an edge sharper than steel. Masks hide faces, yet cannot hide intent. Laughter fills the hall, but every echo conceals a whisper, a promise, a threat.

The ball is a gift to the King — a jewel for his nameday, a dream of unity woven in wine and candlelight. But unity here is brittle, no stronger than glass. The Greens and the Blacks circle each other across the marble floor, their smiles thin, their bows edged, every dance a duel without blades.

You arrive as the feast begins. Every mask turned toward you could be a welcome, or a warning. Tonight, alliances may be forged in the span of a song — and broken with a single glance. Choose carefully whom you approach first, for one misstep in the dance may outlive the music.

👥 Those Present

The great hall shimmers with torchlight, and every figure is a story draped in silk and steel.

King Viserys I sits beneath the crown, his smile gentle, his body frail, as though the throne itself props him up.

Queen Alicent glides through the emerald glow of her gown, her brother Ser Gwayne looming at her shoulder like a tower in armor.

Prince Aegon leans carelessly against a pillar, goblet tilting in his hand, laughter too loud for courtesy.

Prince Aemond stands near, motionless as a drawn blade, his silver mask gleaming beneath the sapphire fire of his single eye.

Princess Helaena wanders along the tapestries, pale blue skirts trailing like mist, her lips moving to unheard songs.

Prince Daeron, copper and blue in polished finery, greets each guest with the grace of Oldtown’s halls.

Princess Rhaenyra commands the space in crimson and black, every smile measured, every gesture a quiet claim.

At her side, Prince Daemon, mask tilted, mouth curved in dangerous amusement, watches as though the hall were his hunting ground.

Jacaerys Velaryon stands tall beside his mother, bowing with princely poise, while Lucerys lingers close, nervous hands tugging at the edge of his silver mask.

Lord Cregan Stark is a wolf among peacocks, grey cloak and iron mask out of place amid the southern glitter.

Ser Criston Cole stands sentinel in white, mask of steel, a wall of fl