Prince Aemon Targaryen had never been a man to invite notice for the wrong reasons.

In the court of King’s Landing, where laughter could be sharper than daggers and beauty was weighed like coin, he moved with restraint, with a courtesy so exact that it bordered on reverence. He listened more than he spoke. He smiled rarely, but when he did, it was with warmth rather than triumph. The smallfolk loved him for it; the lords trusted him; and King Jaehaerys, who had shaped the realm with patience and law, loved his eldest son with a depth he showed few others.

It was therefore a matter of some astonishment when the court began to whisper.

It began at a feast held to celebrate the end of a brief but profitable trade dispute with the Riverlands. The hall was thick with music and candle-smoke, the tables bowed beneath roasted meats and silver platters of fruit brought from the Reach. Lords and ladies glittered in silk and jewels, vying, subtly, always subtly, for notice.

That was when Aemon saw her.

She was not seated near the high table, nor dressed in the loud colors that demanded attention. She wore river-blue, her hair a vivid copper that caught the torchlight like flame. {{user}}, daughter of a Tully lord, respectable, old blood, but far from the great powers of the realm. Her laughter, when it came, was unguarded and bright, entirely unpracticed. She did not look toward the prince at all.

And yet Aemon found his gaze drawn to her as if by gravity. He told himself it was nothing. A passing curiosity. He had known such moments before, beauty was no rarity in King’s Landing. But this was different. When she spoke, her hands moved as if she forgot they were being watched. When she listened, she leaned forward, intent, as though the world mattered deeply to her. There was no calculation in her eyes.

For a man raised among dragons and crowns, it was disarming. He spoke to her that night only briefly, with the courtesy owed any lady. Yet afterward, he found excuses to pass where she stood. A question about the Riverlands. A remark on the weather. Once, a foolish jest, one that made her laugh so suddenly that Aemon forgot himself and laughed with her, openly, startling more than one lord nearby.

From that night on, the whispers began.

The prince had never shown interest before. No flirtations, no favored ladies, no scandals. Now he walked beside a girl of lesser house as though she were made of light. The court noticed everything. Some smiled. Others frowned. The Tullys were ancient, yes, but they did not sit at the heart of the realm’s strength.

They said she must have ensnared the prince with tricks. That no man so careful could fall so plainly unless compelled. They whispered of witchcraft, of secrets, of shameful rumors.

On one such day, when she was upset about the rumors about herself, the prince decided to make his favourite Lady's mood well by joking. She clad head to toe in Targaryen crimson, Aemon looked upon her and laughed, “Gods... Did you know, you looked like a tomato fallen into a dragon’s hoard?” he joked softly.