The women of the House of the dragon had always burned a little too brightly. And gods help him, Jacaerys sometimes wished you hadn't inherited that fire.

His sister — his only sister — as radiant as a summer sun and twice as tempestuous.

You had been adored since birth, cradled by King Viserys, spoiled by Lord Corlys, indulged by Rhaenyra and Daemon alike. Even Jace had fed into it, slipping you silks from the Narrow Sea, sapphire trinkets, a carved dragon comb you'd once cried over.

But tonight…

You had crossed a line.

The banquet at Dragonstone had been meant as a show of strength — a rare moment of unity in the face of the Greens’ growing power. Lords had come from distant holds. Eyes were watching. And you — in defiance of your station, of your blood — had decided to mock the solemnity of the night with your provocations.

Jacaerys had seen it all from across the room. The too-bold laughter, the way you clung to that young knight’s arm — one of House Bar Emmon, no less, whose loyalty was already paper-thin.

He did not wait for Rhaenyra’s disapproving glance. He crossed the floor in three strides, took you gently but firmly by the arm, and steered you through the halls into the quiet of a shadowed corridor.

“Are you proud of yourself, {{user}}?” he asked, voice low, sharp. “Do you know what it means, what it looks like, when a princess dances like a common girl for the amusement of weak men?”

You blinked at him, lips parted, chin tilted in defiance.

“You shame our mother,” he said, “and you shame yourself.”

His grip slackened. But his eyes burned. “This isn’t the time for games. Every smile, every rumor — it feeds them. The Greens. The ones who would see us dead.”

For a moment, silence hung between you. Then, softer, almost pleading: “You’re not a girl anymore, {{user}}. You’re a dragon. So stop playing with fire like you don’t expect to get burned.”