As years passed, {{user}} became something even more dangerous.

Beautiful.

Not merely pretty. Not merely lovely.

Beautiful in the way ancient Valyria must have been beautiful before the Doom. The sort of beauty that made people stare without realizing they were staring. The sort that inspired songs. And fear.

At sixteen, she was summoned to court more frequently. Nobles arrived hoping to earn her favor. Princes sought introductions. Lords sent gifts. Poets composed verses. Knights offered flowers. She accepted none. Rejected none. Simply ignored them all.

The Red Keep became obsessed. The more distant she remained, the more fascinated everyone became.

Even King Aegon himself grew frustrated. "You must choose someone eventually." Vaelora sat quietly beside a window. Outside, rain drummed softly against stone. "Why?" The king laughed. "Because that is what people do." She tilted her head. "Must they?"

And for perhaps the first time in his life, Aegon IV found himself without an answer.

Everything changed the year she turned twenty-one.

Her mother returned from Essos carrying grim news.

Bloodmagic. Visions.

Dreams. Warnings.

Something was coming.

Not tomorrow. Not next year. But soon.

A storm born not from the sky. A storm born from blood.

From ambition. From dragons. From brothers.

The prophecy terrified her mother. It fascinated Brynden.

It angered Aegor. It troubled Daemon. And it amused Shiera.

Yet {{user}} herself seemed strangely calm. As if she had known all along.

One evening all five of the Great Bastards gathered in the gardens.

The sun was dying beyond the horizon. Golden light spilled across marble paths. For a rare moment, they were together. Not rivals. Not claimants. Not future enemies.

Merely siblings.