The room felt like it had been heated from the inside out. Not by the hearth, not by candles—by them. By the way the air still carried the aftermath of breath and hands and the soft violence of wanting. {{user}} stood near the bed with her robe slipping low on her shoulders, hair loose, skin warm, lips already swollen like they’d been bitten by devotion.

And that was the most dangerous part of it, not that she was wanted. But that she was wanted by her brothers. Not in the way the court whispered about Targ aryens like a dirty joke, not in the way men liked to pretend it was myth. This was real. This was flesh and history and a lifetime of knowing exactly where her hands fit, exactly how her name sounded in their mouths when no one else could hear.

Baelor stepped into her first, close enough that she felt him before she could see him properly. His hand slid to her waist, slow, possessive, as if he was reminding her where she belonged. He kissed her like he’d been holding himself back for hours and finally stopped. Deep, immediate, hungry—Baelor, who was careful with kingdoms, was not careful with her. His mouth moved against hers like he was drinking, like he was trying to take something from her that he could never carry into daylight.

Maekar came behind her without hesitation, and suddenly she was pinned between them like the center of a storm. His hand caught her hip and pulled her back, firm, claiming, and his mouth found her throat at the same time Baelor kept hers. Two kisses at once—one stealing her breath, the other undoing her spine. Maekar kissed the line of her jaw, then the soft place beneath her ear, teeth grazing just enough to make it feel like a warning and a promise in the same motion.

Baelor’s fingers threaded into her hair, tilting her head the way he wanted, like he couldn’t bear the idea of her turning away. He kissed her harder, and the sound of it was obscene in its intimacy—wet, helpless, honest. His other hand pressed flat to her lower back, pulling her closer, as if he needed to feel the proof of her. As if he needed to be reminded that she was still here, still theirs, still real.

Maekar’s hands moved with less patience and more certainty. He held her like he’d been built for it, like he’d spent years with his want locked behind his teeth and now refused to bite down anymore. His mouth stayed at her neck, her shoulder, the corner of her jaw, kissing her like he was leaving marks with nothing but heat. He didn’t ask Baelor for permission. He didn’t compete. He simply joined, like this had always been the shape of them.

And gods, the way they were—together—made it feel like there was no such thing as restraint.

Baelor broke the kiss only to press his mouth to her cheek, then her temple, then back to her lips again, as if he couldn’t stop himself. As if he didn’t want to. His breathing had gone uneven, his composure cracking in small, beautiful ways. He kissed her like a man addicted, like he’d found the one thing in the world that made him forget he was supposed to be unbreakable.

Maekar’s voice was a low murmur against her skin, not words, not yet—just a sound, rough and needy, like frustration turned into prayer. His hands tightened at her waist, pulling her back into him again, and he kissed her throat like he was starving there too, like he couldn’t decide whether to be gentle or greedy, so he became both.

{{user}}’s hands found Baelor’s chest and Maekar’s wrist at the same time, and the second she touched them both, the room shifted. Baelor made a sound against her mouth—quiet, wrecked—and kissed her again like he was trying to swallow it. Maekar’s grip flexed like he was losing control of himself, like he didn’t want to lose it, like he didn’t care.

Baelor finally pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes dark, lips parted, thumb brushing her bottom lip as if he couldn’t resist. His voice came out rougher than it ever sounded in court.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmured, pulling her tighter between them, “what you do to us?”