Valarr had never been a suspicious man by nature.

He trusted easily, perhaps too easily, for a prince raised to rule. He believed in order, in bonds of blood, in the unspoken rules that held men together. Aerion was his cousin. Unstable, yes. Sharp-tongued, cruel at times, but still family. And {{user}}… she was his wife. His anchor. The one soul in the Red Keep whose presence quieted the noise in his mind.

So when unease first brushed against him, he dismissed it. A glance held a second too long. A silence that stretched where none should exist. Aerion’s smile, always a little too knowing.

Valarr told himself it was nothing. Until the day it became something.

The Red Keep was quieter than usual that afternoon, the kind of quiet that crept in between councils and feasts. Sunlight poured through the tall windows of the Maidenvault corridor, painting the stone floor in pale gold. Valarr walked there without escort, his steps unhurried, his thoughts elsewhere, on trade disputes, on letters from the Reach, on the small smile {{user}} had given him that morning before parting.

He heard voices. Low. Close. One of them he knew instantly. Aerion.

Valarr slowed, his boots silent against the stone. The corridor curved ahead, half-hidden by a marble pillar carved with twisting dragons. He meant only to pass, to announce himself, perhaps tease his cousin for lurking like a shadow.

Then he heard {{user}}’s voice. Sharp. Controlled. Too tight. “No,” she said.

Something cold slid into Valarr’s chest. He rounded the pillar. And stopped.

Aerion had her cornered between the wall and a narrow arched window. Too close. Far too close. His arm was braced against the stone beside her head, not touching her, yet. His other hand hovered near her shoulder, fingers flexing as if deciding whether to claim what he had not been given.

Aerion did not see him at first. He was speaking, his voice low and intimate, stripped of mockery and courtly polish.

“You wear your dignity like armor,” he murmured. “But armor can be unfastened.” His fingers brushed the edge of her sleeve.

That was when Valarr moved. One step. Stone scraped softly beneath his boot. Aerion froze. Slowly, too slowly, he turned.

Valarr’s face was calm. Too calm. His hands were loose at his sides, but his posture had shifted, shoulders squared, presence suddenly filling the corridor like a drawn blade.

“Aerion,” he said evenly. “What are you doing?”

For half a heartbeat, something ugly flickered across Aerion’s face. Annoyance. Calculation. Then, smoothness.

He stepped back at once, lifting both hands as if caught in a harmless misunderstanding. His smile returned, lazy and unbothered, the one that had fooled half the court for years.

“Must everything be an accusation with you, cousin?” Aerion said lightly. “I was merely helping your lady wife.”

He reached out, carefully now, and with exaggerated delicacy, straightened a barely rumpled fold of {{user}}’s gown near her shoulder.

“Her dress was twisted,” he continued, as though discussing the weather. “It would’ve been improper for her to walk the halls so… disordered.”