Prince Aemon Targaryen had never thought that anger could live within him for long. He was not his brother Baelon, hot-blooded, reckless, laughing at swords and death. Aemon was quiet. Thoughtful. Dutiful. He carried himself as the heir should, measured and graceful, every word weighed, every silence meaningful. But that night, in the Red Keep’s high hall, beneath the dragon banners and a thousand glittering candles, he felt anger’s cold hand curl around his heart.

He was angry with his mother. Good Queen Alysanne, the gentlest woman in all the realm, beloved of the smallfolk, merciful, wise, had betrayed him. Not with malice, not with intent, but in the quiet way only mothers could wound their sons: through care. She had proposed a match. A fine match, she had said. Jocelyn Baratheon, his step-aunt, daughter of Alyssa Velaryon and Rogar Baratheon, a Baratheon of Storm’s End, of strong stock and honorable name.

It would bind the crown once more to the Stormlands. Strengthen the realm. Please your father. And Aemon had bowed, as always. “As His Grace commands,” he’d said. But when he turned away, when his eyes caught the gleam of silver hair and soft violet eyes across the hall, his sister’s eyes, his heart felt as though it had been set upon the pyre.

Princess {{user}}.

She was born in 59 AC, four years his junior, two years younger than Baelon, one year elder to sweet Alyssa. The fifth child of the King and Queen. She was small once, always with ink-stained fingers and a kitten in her lap, running through the Maidenvault gardens and laughing when the septas scolded her.

But the girl had long since turned to woman, and now her laughter had the same warmth as a summer storm breaking over Dragonstone. Her smile was sunlight on Valyrian steel. There was no wildness in her, no rebellion as in Saera, no melancholy as in Gael. She was pure. Bright. Gentle as her mother, with her father’s fire buried beneath the silk.

And Aemon loved her.

He had loved her for years, silently, dutifully, painfully. He had stood beside her at feasts, sat beside her at council when their mother insisted she learn the court’s ways. He had listened when she read from the Seven-Pointed Star and smiled shyly at her own voice. And when she looked at him, truly looked, it was as if the dragons of old stirred again in his chest.

But now, his mother had chosen another. And his father had agreed. And all his duty, all his honor, meant he must accept it. He had not meant to speak that night, not at her name day feast, when the great hall was filled with lords and laughter, when musicians played and Queen Alysanne herself smiled with pride.

But when he saw {{user}} across the hall, her gown the pale blue of frost, her silver hair braided with white pearls, her face aglow with candlelight, Aemon’s heart broke its own chains. He moved toward her as though bewitched. The crowd parted before him. The hall grew quieter as he came to stand before the Princess, who rose at once, eyes wide and uncertain.

“Brother,” she whispered, curtseying low. Her voice was music, soft, trembling, sweet. Aemon took her hand, and when their fingers touched, something unholy and divine sparked in his chest.

“Dance with me,” he said. The words were wrong. Foolish. Reckless.