Chapter Text
The private dining room, buried deep within the residential wings of the royal palace, was designed to simulate intimacy, which only made it feel more like a cage.
Unlike the grand banquet halls of the upper tiers—vast, echoing spaces carved from cold, light-absorbing obsidian and built to intimidate foreign dignitaries—this room was lined with heavy, dark wood imported from conquered worlds. It was supposed to feel warm, a sanctuary for the bloodline. Instead, the rich paneling just seemed to absorb what little light the low-hanging chandelier offered.
The long table, carved from a single slab of polished grey stone, was set for only four. It was supposed to be a quiet family dinner to mark the Crown Prince’s triumphant return from the western galactic front. Instead, the silence hanging over the room was suffocating, heavy with the stench of roasted meat and unspoken resentment.
King Vegeta III sat at the head of the table, the undisputed center of gravity in the room. He cut his meat with precise, heavy strokes, the silver knife scraping rhythmically against the porcelain. He wore his full ceremonial regalia, the gold-trimmed crimson cape draped over the back of his chair like a bloodstain.
To his right, Tarble was quietly scrolling through a Stark-class data tablet. The younger prince’s fingers moved in a frantic blur, his expression growing increasingly tense as the blue light of the screen reflected in his wide eyes. He hadn't touched his food; his glass of water remained entirely full.
Opposite Tarble sat Kakarot.
To anyone else, the low-born Saiyan turned royal consort looked perfectly at ease. He eat his food with a practiced, casual indifference, moving a piece of root vegetable around his plate. He had deliberately chosen a simple dark tunic for the evening—no royal gold threading, no stiff, suffocating collars of the high court. It was a subtle, silent rebellion, a reminder that though he lived in the palace, he belonged to the barracks.
Vegeta sat directly across from his father, occupying the seat at the foot of the table. He had removed his battle armor, a rare concession for a family dinner, and wore only his dark blue, skin-tight under-suit. He looked immaculate, his posture rigidly straight, his sharp features completely devoid of emotion. He looked utterly bored by the domestic setting, his mind clearly still orbiting the battlefields of the Kanassan system.
"The public reports from the Kanassan campaign are glowing, Vegeta," the King said. His deep voice carried a cold, gravelly weight that instantly commanded the room. The scraping of his knife stopped. "The media factions are calling it a flawless pacification. A masterclass in Saiyan supremacy."
Vegeta didn't look up from his plate as he took a slow sip of his wine. "The Kanassans were predictable. Their psychic defenses are useless when you level their command centers before they can telepathically coordinate. It was a standard purge."
"Indeed," the King continued, leaning back, his dark eyes narrowing. "But the private intelligence logs just arrived from the vanguard’s security detail. They tell a slightly more... colorful story."
Vegeta’s glass paused against his lip, then settled onto the stone table with a soft clink. "The army security detail should focus on tracking enemy dissent and securing supply lines, Father. Not monitoring my personal itinerary."
"When your personal itinerary threatens the stability of a political alliance that keeps the lower-class factions from rioting, it becomes my business," King Vegeta said flatly. He didn't raise his voice, but the threat was palpable. He turned his gaze toward his younger son. "Tarble. Sync the log to the table’s display."
Tarble froze. His fingers hovered over the data tablet, his eyes darting briefly to Kakarot. There was a look of genuine, pleading reluctance in the younger prince's eyes. He, more than anyone, knew the delicate tightrope Kakarot walked every day. "Father, perhaps we should review this in the council chambers tomorrow morning. It’s late, and Vegeta has just returned—"
"Now, Tarble," the King commanded, his voice dropping an octave.
With a quiet, defeated sigh, Tarble tapped the corner of his tablet.
The smooth, dark surface of the center of the dining table flickered to life. A faint hum vibrated through the stone as the built-in projectors activated, casting a crisp, holographic data feed into the air. It started as a standard intelligence brief—garrison numbers, casualty counts, resource sheets. But as the pages automatically scrolled, the text dissolved, replaced by a series of high-resolution surveillance photographs that materialized in the air directly above the serving dishes.
The first image was devastatingly clear.
It had been taken via a long-range thermal lens in the courtyard of a captured Kanassan estate, beneath the shattered remains of an alien archway. Vegeta was leaning against a stone pillar, looking dominant and entirely unbothered by the destruction around him. His hand was tangled violently in the long, shimmering hair of a high-ranking and very beautiful alien diplomat's daughter. Her eyes were closed, her hands gripping his shoulders, while Vegeta’s lips were pressed firmly against hers in an intense, lingering kiss.
Across the table, Kakarot’s hand froze mid-air.
His silver fork hovered barely an inch above his plate, a piece of meat still speared on the prongs. For a fraction of a second, the air left Kakarot’s lungs entirely. His chest tightened so hard, so violently, that he thought his ribs might crack.
It wasn't a surprise. Rationally, he knew what Vegeta did on long campaigns. He knew the rumors. He knew the prince’s reputation. But logic was a poor shield against the raw, visceral reality of seeing it rendered in sharp, undeniable light right in front of him, floating over his dinner. It felt like a physical blow to his stomach, a dull, aching sickness that made his blood run cold.
Don't react, his inner voice snarled, a survival instinct honed from a childhood spent under Bardock's brutal training. Do not give them the satisfaction.
With an agonizing display of willpower, Kakarot forced his fingers to remain steady. He didn't shake. He didn't drop the fork. He carefully, slowly, set the utensil down on the edge of his plate, ensuring it didn't make a single clatter against the porcelain.
Tarble quickly swiped his hand across his tablet to clear the image, his face flushed with embarrassment for his friend. "The system is lagging, let me skip to the resource allocation—"
But the algorithm was already executing the file. The next image loaded automatically, expanding into the space between them.
This one was shot indoors, inside the dimly lit interior of a private military transport. Vegeta was sitting back on a leather bench, a glass of expensive deep-red wine loosely held in one hand. Leaning over him, close enough that their breath must have mingled, was a handsome, sharp-featured Saiyan commander from the elite vanguard. The commander was laughing, his hand resting casually on the back of Vegeta's seat, while Vegeta looked up at him with a rare, genuine smirk—an intimate, quiet moment that spoke of an easy, established familiarity. A world Kakarot was entirely locked out of.
Kakarot swallowed hard, a sudden, bitter taste rising in his throat like bile. He felt a fierce, burning heat rising to his neck and face. Under the intense gravity of the room, he knew his skin would flush.
Instantly, he looked down, reaching out his right hand to grab his wine goblet. He brought it to his lips and took a long, slow drink. He focused entirely on the burning sensation of the alcohol cutting through the dryness of his throat, using the glass to hide the slight, involuntary tremor in his jaw.
Hide it. Smooth it over. You are Bardock’s son. You are the darling of the commoners. Do not let him see that it cuts.
Vegeta finally looked up from his plate. His dark eyes scanned the floating holograms with absolute, chilling apathy. He didn't look guilty; he looked annoyed that his dinner was being interrupted by administrative trivia.
"A waste of imperial surveillance resources," Vegeta said, his voice smooth and dismissive. "A few nights of distraction to keep the vanguard leaders loyal and local delegates cooperative during transition phases. It means nothing. It’s standard wartime diplomacy."
"It means you are sloppy!" King Vegeta barked.
The old King slammed his heavy hand down onto the stone table. The force of the blow rattled the crystal goblets, sending a few drops of dark wine splashing onto the white cloth.
"Your infidelity is an open secret, Vegeta, which I tolerate because a prince requires outlets, and a warlord requires a release," the King growled, his eyes flashing with ancient fury. "But allowing the security detail to capture proof? Allowing data packets to float through imperial servers where anyone can intercept them? If Bardock’s faction gets ahold of these images, they will see it as a direct, calculated insult to his son. They will use it as leverage to demand more seats on the high council."
The King leaned forward, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper. "The public adores Kakarot. The lower classes see him as one of their own who made it to the apex. They do not want to see their darling consort publicly humiliated by a prince who cannot keep his hands to himself while down-sector."
Vegeta’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. His pride, always his most volatile trait, stung bitterly at the public reprimand in front of the lower-born male. He shot a sharp, venomous look across the table, his dark eyes locking onto Kakarot like a predator targeting prey.
"Kakarot doesn't care," Vegeta sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "Do you, consort? Let's not pretend this arrangement was built on a foundation of courtly romance. You got a royal title, your father got a guarantee that his bloodline sits near the throne, and the military elite got their reassurances. It was a transaction."
Kakarot slowly set his wine goblet down. The heat in his face had receded, replaced by a cold, numb mask. He forced a lazy, amused smile onto his face—the exact smile he used when sparring with opponents he knew he could beat. He tilted his head, his eyes remaining entirely detached, devoid of the warmth that usually drew the public to him.
"Vegeta's right, Your Majesty," Kakarot said, his voice smooth, dripping with an easy, mocking casualness that cut through the tension like a knife. "I'm not offended. I’m just surprised he has the energy for statecraft when he’s running a rotating door in his personal quarters. It must be exhausting."
He turned his gaze directly onto Vegeta, holding the prince's angry stare without flinching. "Though, I have to say, your taste in commanders is improving. At least that one looks like he can hold an actual conversation instead of just saluting."
Tarble shot Kakarot a worried, pained look. From his angle, the younger prince could see what the King and Vegeta couldn't: beneath the edge of the stone table, Kakarot’s free hand was clenched into a fist so tight that his knuckles were stark white, his nails digging deeply into the palm of his hand to keep from shaking.
"Father, the security logs can be completely wiped," Tarble intervened quickly, his voice raised a fraction to draw the heat away from Kakarot. "I can personally scrub the palace servers and execute a data-bleed before any of this leaks to the media factions. It's an easy fix. It won't leave this room."
"Make sure you do," the King muttered.
But the old King’s sharp, calculating eyes weren't looking at his younger son. He was watching Kakarot. King Vegeta III had lived through three rebellions and a dozen palace coups; he knew how to read a man. He had noticed the subtle, microscopic freeze, the slight stiffness in his son-in-law's shoulders before the heavy military mask went back up.
The King turned his gaze back to his eldest son, his expression hardening into stone. "You have a brilliant mind for war, Vegeta, but you are a fool when it comes to people. You treat your marriage like a minor political penalty. It is not. It is a strategic asset that keeps half the military from turning their weapons on us. Start treating your consort with the public respect his position demands, or I will find ways to make your next campaign significantly less comfortable. The vanguard can easily be reassigned to the border worlds."
Vegeta’s face flushed with a quiet, burning rage. The threat of losing his command was the one thing that could truly touch him. He stood up abruptly, the heavy wooden chair scraping loudly, violently against the floorboards.
"If we are done reviewing my private life, I have an army logistics report to finalize before tomorrow's briefing," Vegeta spat.
He didn't wait for his father's permission. He turned on his heel and strode out of the dining room, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards before the thick wooden doors shut behind him with a dull, echoing thud.
The room fell into a heavy, stagnant silence once more. The holographic photos still drifted in the air, casting a ghostly blue glow over the half-eaten food.
Kakarot let out a short, quiet breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction now that the prince was gone. The lazy, amused smile vanished from his face, leaving behind a profound, exhausting emptiness. He stood up slowly, smoothing down the front of his dark tunic with a perfectly composed, robotic expression.
"If you'll excuse me, Your Majesty, Tarble," Kakarot said, his voice flat, devoid of its earlier mockery. "The food is excellent, but I think I've lost my appetite for the evening."
"Kakarot," Tarble said softly, halfway reaching a hand across the table, his eyes full of sympathy.
Kakarot didn't want sympathy. It was the one thing that might actually break his composure. He just offered a small, reassuring nod to his brother-in-law—a silent, brief acknowledgment of the support—before turning away. He walked out of the room with a steady, dignified pace, his spine perfectly straight until the doors clicked shut behind him.
King Vegeta watched the door close, the silence of the room settling into the wood. He picked up his wine glass, swirling the dark liquid inside.
"He handles himself well," the King murmured, almost to himself. "Bardock raised a politician, despite himself."
"He shouldn't have to handle it at all," Tarble said. His voice was unusually sharp, filled with a rare, bitter anger as he slammed his hand onto his tablet. The holographic display vanished instantly, plunging the center of the table back into darkness.
Tarble stood up, looking at his father with a grim expression. "Vegeta is going to push him too far, Father. He thinks Kakarot is just a compliant solider playing a part. But when Kakarot finally stops hiding how much these insults cut... this court won't know what hit it."
