The Red Keep had never looked so resplendent.

Lanterns burned along the walls like little suns, their golden light spilling over silk-draped tables and the gleam of polished armor. Minstrels played in the corner, a dozen soft songs to mask the gossip that hummed through the hall. Tonight was for her, the princess whose name had already crossed the Narrow Sea, whose face was whispered of even in Lys, where beauty was as common as sin.

Princess {{user}}. His sister.

Sixteen years of age, and the realm already called her the Beauty. Her hair was not the silver of the purest Valyrian line but a pale, gleaming gold that caught the light and made her seem half divine. Her eyes, soft violet and deep as twilight, carried the same cruel sweetness that haunted his dreams.

Even Aerion Targaryen, Brightflame, the proudest, most willful son of Maekar the First, could not look at her without that familiar heat rising behind his ribs.

He told himself it was pride.

Pride in the blood they shared, pride in her perfection, pride that no man in the Seven Kingdoms could look upon her without knowing she was his kin. But in truth, when his eyes followed the curve of her smile, the sway of her gown as she passed, it felt less like pride and more like hunger.

Aerion had never been a man given to restraint.

He had broken boys’ noses in the training yard for glancing at her too long. He had thrown wine in a young knight’s face because the fool had dared to call her fair. Fair! The word was too small for her. Too common.

She was fire made flesh, though not the roaring flame he knew so well, but moonfire, pale and cold, untouchable.

And tonight, she was his ruin.

Aerion sat beside his father, King Maekar, at the high table, his goblet half-drained of sweet Arbor gold. The hall murmured below, lords and ladies toasting the princess, musicians playing beneath the banners of red and black.

She stood among the guests, laughing softly as Daeron, ever the fool, ever the drunk, pressed another cup of wine into her hand.

Aerion’s jaw tightened. His father spoke, but he scarcely heard him. The clink of silver, the music, even the words of praise that rose from every side, all blurred into nothing. All he saw was her, the light glancing off her golden hair, the faint color that rose in her cheeks as she smiled.

The music rose, a harp’s clear voice winding through the hum of talk and laughter. Aerion lifted his goblet again, though he had no taste for the wine; his eyes were fixed on her. Every smile she gave another man felt like a blade twisting under his ribs.

When she looked up and caught his gaze across the hall, he tilted his head slightly, no word, no gesture seen by others, only a small, commanding motion that she alone would understand. He rose at once, leaving his father’s side, the murmurs of the court falling away as he crossed the marble floor.

Princess {{user}} followed after a moment, hesitating only long enough to keep the movement from being noticed. The corridors beyond the great hall were dim and cool, the light of the feast fading behind them. When she reached the gallery that overlooked the gardens, Aerion was waiting by the window, his hair catching the candlelight like threads of fire.

“Sister,” he said, his voice low, almost gentle. He took her hand and pulled her towards him, his lips moving towards her without her permission and placing soft, gentle kisses at the corner of her lips. “It's your nameday, but I think I'm the one who wants a gift from you,” he whispered between his short, passionate kisses.