Even as a boy, Maegor Targaryen was not gentle. He broke his toys as soon as he touched them, shattered the practice swords of his brothers, and drew blood even in play. “There is fire in that one,” King Aegon would say, pride mingled with unease. And yet, there was only one person whose presence could ever make Maegor lower his voice, soften his gaze, and let his hand fall still, his sister, Princess {{user}}.

Princess {{user}} was born beneath a pale moon. She had her mother’s beauty, and her father’s fire, but she wielded it differently. Where Maegor’s strength was a blade, hers was silk; hers was the quiet that could tame the flame. The singers called her {{user}} the Moonbright, though the smallfolk whispered another name: the Maiden of Dragons.

By the time she turned sixteen, her name had crossed seas. In Lys and Braavos, they sang of her silver hair and violet eyes, soft as lilac petals, and of the cruel prince who watched her as dragons watch prey, yet would not touch her.

At court, men trembled when Maegor entered the hall. His armor was black and red, the color of old blood and flame, and his temper was legend. He had slain his first man before he turned twelve, a Kingsguard knight who had mocked his mother. But when Princess {{user}} walked into the hall, even Maegor would fall silent. It was as if the air itself cooled. The king’s courtiers had learned that when she spoke, even Maegor listened.

And she alone could make him smile.

When her sixteenth nameday feast was held in the Red Keep, banners of red and gold filled the throne room, and every lord from the Crownlands to the Reach had come to see her. The king himself sat upon the Iron Throne that night.

Maegor sat at his side, armored still, his expression a mask of cold fire. And to his left sat Princess {{user}}, clothed in silver silk and moonstone, her hair unbound. The hall glowed as if touched by dragonfire, and all eyes were upon her.

But Maegor saw only her.

When the dancers finished, the king raised his cup. “Sixteen years,” Aegon said, his voice slow but proud. “The realm rejoices for my daughter. She shall soon be wed, as befits her station.”

At those words, Maegor turned his head. His heart, that strange, burning heart, seemed to harden within him. He had known this moment would come. The council had long whispered of betrothing Princess {{user}} to Prince Aenys, to bind the blood of Aegon and Rhaenys again. It was the Targaryen way.

But Maegor, Maegor did not share. Not his blade. Not his dragon. Not his blood.