Vaegon had never thought himself sentimental.

His hands knew ink stains better than sword hilts. His voice had never stirred a hall to silence like Baelon’s booming laughter or Aemon’s measured, perfect tone. He was smaller, sharper, and—most said—colder. Better suited for books than people.

That was the point, wasn’t it ? Let the realm have its shining princes, he’d thought, and I’ll be the one who keeps the ledgers from bleeding.

But that was before {{user}}.

They weren’t noble, not in the way his brothers would be expected to marry. No titles sang before their name. Yet somehow, they’d wrapped themselves around his mind like ivy to stone—quietly, slowly, until he couldn’t move without brushing against some thought of them. Their voice. Their laugh. The way they tilted their head when listening, never once pretending to be impressed.

Not even when it was him speaking. Especially not then.

They had smiled at Baelon, once. A smile full of ease, tossed like a coin into his brother’s palm. And Aemon—ever the golden heir—barely had to nod to command attention. It wasn’t that {{user}} fawned. They simply saw them. And in turn, Vaegon felt invisible all over again.

It wasn’t jealousy, he told himself. He didn’t care for their approval. He simply wanted—what ?

Their gaze ? Their interest ? Their laugh offered to me instead of him ?

He knew their schedule now. Had learned it within a week. No harm in that. Once he’d noticed the pattern, he’d let the knowledge settle in his mind like a record to be studied.

So here he was again. Fifth hallway, seventh attempt just this week. His boots echoed too loud in the corridor.

When they passed, he straightened without meaning to.

“{{user}},” he said.

They turned. “Your Highness.”

Not cold. Not cruel. Just… level.

“I was wondering if you’d—if you’d seen the new additions to the rookery. A rare breed of raven was brought in from Oldtown.”

They blinked. “I hadn’t. No.”

He nodded too quickly. “They’re—well, they’re not terribly interesting. But they’ve a strange feather pattern.”

He exhaled a breath that had practically turned into ice in his chest.

And, at that moment, the bitterness had teeth. Not for {{user}}, but for Aemon and Baelon and every bit of ease they carried like armour.

“You might… like it.”