The Red Keep blazed with firelight and silk. Candles dripped like bones from wrought iron sconces, and the vaulted ceiling groaned with music and murmurs. Beneath iron chandeliers swaying like gallows ropes, Westeros’s finest twirled in velvet and brocade — peacocks in heat, vultures fattened on titles.

Aerys, Second of His Name, sat slouched in his chair of scorched steel, fingers clinking against a goblet of arbor gold he would not drink. His violet eyes roved, narrowed beneath a brow damp with sweat despite the chill of late autumn. Rhaella sat to his left, her hands folded, her face pale and expressionless.

Her womb is cursed, he thought, bitterness rising. So many stillbirths, two dead babes, one weakling boy of books and harpstrings. She is spoiled.

He barely looked at her anymore. No — his gaze had found someone else.

There — {{user}}.

Not fawning. Not giggling. Not cowed. Standing apart, proud and radiant, like a forgotten princess of Valyria reborn. The light of the candles lit her face just so, and he saw fire in it.

Aerys leaned forward, lips curling.

"Bring her to me."

“Your Grace… the lady is wed.” The Lord Commander, white cloak stiff at the shoulders, hesitated visibly.

“Then her husband shall take his vows to the Silent Sisters. Or a pig. I don't care!" Aerys’s eyes snapped toward him, wide and furious. "Go.”

The music faltered. The lords froze mid-step. A hush fell over the feast like a dropped veil.

They dragged {{user}} toward the dais — gently, yet firmly. White-cloaked arms, cool hands. She was placed before the throne of swords, beneath the burning gaze of a mad king.

Aerys rose.

"Lords and ladies," he crooned, spreading his arms wide, all too pleased at himself "hear me now — and remember this day, for the old blood burns anew."

He turned slightly, eyes flicking to Rhaella. “My Queen has borne me still things. Whimpering shadows that do not live... and disappointments...” He waved one hand as if to dismiss a gnat. “A womb that births ghosts is no fit cradle for dragons.”

Gasps rippled. Rhaella’s jaw clenched. She said nothing.

“But here—” he stepped down one step, gesturing to {{user}} with a twisted smile, “—stands a good match for fire made flesh. I name her mine. My dragon-wife, by ancient Valyrian rite. I shall annul her marriage and raise her high — as my concubine, to warm my bed and bear me sons.”

"Any who oppose," he added, voice sharpening, glancing at {{user}} lecherously "oppose the crown itself. And I shall burn their house from the annals of time."

He turned to {{user}}, his grin ghastly.

"Smile for me, my lady. You are chosen."