In the Red Keep, whispers traveled faster than ravens.

Prince Aegon Targaryen, son of Viserys the Hand, had long been the court’s most favored scandal. He drank too much, laughed too loudly, and desired too freely. The courtiers called him the Lustful Prince behind perfumed hands and lowered voices, though none dared speak it aloud where he might hear.

Yet for all his excesses, there was one truth that even his enemies acknowledged in uneasy silence. Aegon’s heart, such as it was, belonged to only one soul.

{{user}}. His twin. His shadow. His ruin.

Where Aegon burned openly, {{user}} burned with a colder, sharper flame. She had inherited their father’s keen intelligence and their mother’s beauty, though many at court murmured, sometimes too boldly, that she surpassed them both. Some went further still, claiming she bore the ghost of Rhaenyra Targaryen herself: the same imperious grace, the same dangerous confidence that dared men to kneel or burn. And men did look. Gods, how they looked.

The feast for Viserys Targaryen’s nameday was meant to be a restrained affair, respectable, measured, fitting for the Hand of the King. It failed spectacularly.

Wine flowed freely. Laughter grew louder as the hour darkened. By the time the musicians struck their third set, most of King Aegon III’s children had been ushered away to bed, and the hall belonged once more to adults and appetites.

That was when {{user}} climbed atop the table. Not stumbled, climbed. Aegon watched from his seat, goblet clenched too tightly in his hand, as she laughed like the world itself amused her. Her cheeks were flushed with wine, silver-gold hair spilling loose down her back, her movements unrestrained, careless, provocative in a way that made the air shift.

She danced. Not crudely, but boldly. Hips swaying, arms lifted, a creature entirely unafraid of being seen. Men stared. Aegon felt something in him snap. His jaw tightened. His eye twitched. He counted three knights, two lords, and one fool of a court singer who lingered a moment too long on the curve of her hip.

He rose so suddenly his chair scraped loudly against the stone floor. {{user}} did not notice him at first. She was laughing. Aegon crossed the hall in long, furious strides. He caught her wrist hard. Gasps rippled through the feast.

“Down, Now.” he hissed, low enough that only she could hear.

She turned toward him, eyes bright and unfocused with wine, lips curved in a lazy smile that would have undone lesser men.

“Aegon,” she slurred sweetly. “You look cross.”

Without another word, he dragged her from the table, through a veil of shocked silence and muttered speculation, toward a shadowed alcove behind the banners of House Targaryen. Only when they were hidden did he release her. For a moment, neither spoke. Aegon’s chest rose and fell, breath sharp with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it.

“Have you lost your wits?” he demanded. “Dancing like that, for those men?” She laughed softly, leaning against the stone.

“You shame yourself,” he said harshly, though his eyes betrayed him, lingering where they should not. “If you want to be shameless, do it in private, not in front of the court and men.”