The Red Keep breathed with heat, wine, and murmurs. Silk whispered over stone floors, laughter drifted beneath the high arches, and dragon banners stirred lazily in the warmth. It was a feast meant to celebrate a union, one the court pretended to believe in.

Princess Rhaenyra sat upon the dais, straight-backed, radiant in black and red silk. A dragon in human form. At her side sat her husband, Ser Laenor Velaryon, newly wed, newly titled Prince Consort of the Seven Kingdoms. He smiled easily, laughed easily, too easily, perhaps, but his eyes wandered where they always had. Rhaenyra noticed. She always did.

Below them stood {{user}}. Silver-haired, sharp-smiled, already flushed with wine, Rhaenyra’s brother moved through the feast like he belonged to it more than the throne ever could. He laughed too loud, leaned too close, accepted attention as if it were his birthright. Too beautiful for a boy, some whispered. Too dangerous for a court like this.

Laenor’s gaze lingered on him without shame. Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened slightly around her goblet.

“It’s only a feast,” Laenor murmured, leaning closer, voice low and light. “He enjoys being seen.”

“So do you,” Rhaenyra replied coolly, eyes never leaving the hall.

Laenor smiled at that, not offended, not defensive. There was no point. They had reached their understanding long before vows were spoken. This marriage was duty. Truth lived elsewhere. Older lords watched {{user}}. Ladies whispered behind jeweled fans. The same hunger that once followed Rhaenyra now circled her brother instead. Rhaenyra felt something sour coil in her chest.

A woman laughed, too close. One of the ladies of court had taken {{user}}’s hands, bold with wine and confidence, pulling him into the open space between tables. Music swelled. He did not pull away. Why would he? He had never been taught to.

They danced. Loose, laughing, careless. {{user}} leaned into her, wine-heavy, silver hair falling into his eyes. The court watched as if it were entertainment provided for them.

Laenor shifted beside Rhaenyra. “That’s unwise,” he murmured.

“That’s dangerous,” Rhaenyra corrected.

She rose. The movement rippled through the hall. Conversation dipped. Heads turned. Rhaenyra descended the dais and crossed the floor with purpose, skirts whispering like warning.

She reached them and caught {{user}}’s wrist, not harshly, but firmly, and pulled him away from the center of the room, toward the shadow between two pillars of red stone.

“Rhaenyra-” {{user}} laughed softly, unsteady. “You’re going to wrinkle your temper.”

“You are drunk,” she said under her breath, furious and controlled all at once. “And you are making a spectacle of yourself.”

“I was dancing,” he protested mildly. “Hardly treason.”

“You are letting them touch you like you are something to be claimed...” Rhaenyra hissed.