The Red Keep glowed with gold and firelight. Banners of red and black hung from every pillar, their threads shimmering in the light of a hundred torches. It was a night of celebration—her night. Princess {{user}}’s sixteenth name day had drawn half the court to the great hall, a blur of silks, jewels, and eager whispers about the realm’s youngest beauty. Musicians played softly beneath the hum of conversation, and laughter spilled from noble mouths that smiled too easily.

But not from Prince Maegor.

He sat at the king’s table, his broad shoulders still beneath his armor, his sword at his hip even in the midst of revelry. He had not smiled once. His violet eyes, cold and watchful, swept the hall like a dragon surveying prey. Yet when they fell upon her, something shifted.

{{user}} danced beneath the chandeliers, her silver hair catching the firelight, her laughter light as air. Her dress was a soft shade of red, the kind that glowed like dragonfire but gentle—more warmth than destruction. She was the only light in the dark stone of this hall, and Maegor’s darkness bent toward her without his will.

“Your sister is radiant tonight,” King Aegon said beside him, his voice proud but distant. “She carries herself like her mother once did.”

Maegor’s jaw tightened. “She carries herself better,” he said flatly.

The king chuckled softly, sipping from his goblet. “You might consider dancing with her, my son. A moment of joy would not undo your strength.”

“Joy makes men weak,” Maegor replied. His gaze flickered toward {{user}} again. “But she deserves better than the beasts that circle her.”

The king’s brow lifted, but Maegor did not elaborate. Across the hall, Lord Tyland Velaryon was asking {{user}} for a dance, his smile too bold, his hand brushing hers too easily. A hot surge of something violent burned in Maegor’s chest.

When the king rose to speak with another lord, Maegor took the chance. His steps were heavy, his presence commanding as he descended into the hall. Conversation fell quiet as he passed—some out of fear, some from curiosity. He did not look at anyone but her.

{{user}} turned mid-laugh, her bright smile faltering for a moment when she saw him approach. “Maegor,” she greeted, warmth untouched by the tension his name always carried. “You came down.”

“I did,” he said simply, his tone clipped but low, as if speaking too harshly might break the fragile thing standing before him. “Father said it would be unkind not to dance with the guest of honor.”

Her smile returned, gentle and teasing. “So you listen to Father now?”

He didn’t answer, only held out his hand. The crowd watched as she took it. Gasps followed—Maegor, the fearsome prince, leading his sister into a dance.

The music shifted, slower, softer. His hand rested at her waist, the other holding hers with surprising care. He moved with precision, not grace, yet somehow it suited him. She guided the rhythm more than he did, laughter lighting her face as she whispered, “You’re too stiff.”

“I am not made for this,” he muttered.

“You’re made for everything you decide to conquer,” she replied, her eyes gleaming. “Even a dance.”

Her words—so simple, so sure—made something tremble within him. Maegor, who had known only discipline and rage, felt his defenses falter in the face of her smile.

“I don’t conquer you,” he said quietly.