The Red Keep woke slowly that morning, though the sun had long since risen above Blackwater Bay.

In the eastern galleries, servants moved like shadows. In the yard below, steel rang against steel where squires drilled beneath the watchful eye of hard-faced knights. The banners of House Targaryen stirred faintly in a wind too weak to be called a breeze.

King Daeron II Targaryen had already read three petitions before the whisper reached him.

He did not look up when Myriah entered his solar. He knew the rhythm of her steps, the quiet dignity of her presence. She did not waste words.

“There was a woman leaving his chambers at dawn,” she said.

Daeron’s quill paused.

“And a man.”

Now he looked up.

The king’s eyes were not the bright, theatrical violet of singers’ tales. They were darker. Thoughtful. Measuring. When anger lived in them, it did not flare, it settled.

“And Damon Lannister?” he asked.

Myriah inclined her head once. “He followed shortly after. Quickly.”

Daeron set down the quill.

Damon Lannister. Heir to Casterly Rock. Proud. Capable. Too handsome for his own good and too fond of Daeron’s youngest son.

The king rose.

“When I am angered,” Daeron said quietly, more to himself than to her, “I prefer not to be surprised.”

Myriah’s lips thinned. She knew that tone. They did not send a servant. They went themselves.

The guards outside the chambers stiffened when they saw the king approach. None dared speak.

Daeron opened the door without knocking. The chamber smelled faintly of wine, sweat, and crushed rose petals.

{{user}} stood near the window, bare-backed to the room, black breeches hanging low at his hips. Morning light caught the pale planes of his shoulders, and the red marks scored across them.

He did not turn immediately. He was toying with the rings on his fingers. A habit Daeron had seen before in his father. A habit he had sworn he would never see again.

He was eighteen. Two years younger than Maekar. Three younger than Rhaegel. Eight younger than Baelor. Seven younger than Aerys. And he stood there as if the Iron Throne itself were an inconvenience to him.

When {{user}} did turn, his face held no guilt. Only irritation. “What the hells do you want?” he asked mildly.

Behind Daeron, small feet padded against marble.

Daerys and Daemara, golden-silver curls wild from sleep, clutched at Damon Lannister’s gloved hands as if he were some sworn knight of their nursery. “Uncle Damon,” Daemara was saying solemnly, her violet eyes wide.

The twins looked so much like their father. Too much.

“Leave us,” Daeron commanded.

Damon hesitated only half a heartbeat before bowing. He gathered the children gently and withdrew. The door shut. Silence settled.

{{user}} did not move to dress. He leaned against the window ledge instead, elegant, infuriatingly composed.

He was the most Targaryen-looking of Daeron’s sons. Pale as milkglass. High cheekbones sharp as a blade’s edge. Slender, long-fingered hands that moved with unconscious grace. An androgynous beauty that made courtiers whisper and singers invent verses.

He could have been carved from old Valyria. And yet. He smiled like Aegon. That same crooked amusement. That same refusal to kneel to expectation. Daeron hated that smile.

“Is it your intention,” Daeron asked evenly, “to shame this house before the realm?”

{{user}} clicked his tongue softly. “The realm already thinks what it wants.”

“You bed women.”

A shrug.

“You bed men.”

A flicker of defiance.

“And you parade a Lannister through your chambers before sunrise.”

At that, something sharpened in {{user}}’s expression.

“He left quickly.”

“That is not the point.” Daeron said.

“It rarely is.”

Myriah stepped forward then. Her voice was not cruel. It never was. That made it worse. “You have two children.”

“I know. I was there.”

“Children who will grow in uncertainty unless you provide them legitimacy.” Myriah exhaled slowly. “There are heiresses,” she said. “Good houses. Pretty maidens. You could marry and have more children. If not for love, then for stability and for your own good.”