Viserys’ jaw tightened.

{{user}} was beautiful in a way that felt almost cruel. At twenty-two, he was all sunlit arrogance and smooth confidence, silver-gold hair catching the light, violet eyes sharp with intelligence and mischief. He bore the best of both his parents—Aegon III’s quiet gravity tempered by Daenaera’s warmth—and something else entirely that was wholly his own.

The most beautiful man of his generation, they whispered. Otherworldly, some said, the way they said it of Naerys.

Viserys hated that they were right.

"Uncle,” Aegon said suddenly, glancing up. “You look as though you’re about to have someone executed.”

{{user}} followed his gaze—and smiled.

Not politely.

Not deferentially.

But with that infuriating, knowing curve of his mouth that always made Viserys feel as though he were being deliberately poked with a blade.

“White Valyrian rose,” {{user}} called lazily. “You’ll scowl yourself into wrinkles.”

Viserys’ eye twitched.

That damned nickname. Soft. Sweet. Utterly inappropriate—and spoken with deliberate affection.

“Come here,” Viserys said sharply.

{{user}} rose with exaggerated grace, brushing imaginary dust from his trousers. “Jealous?”

Viserys seized his arm and pulled him away before Aegon could speak again, dragging him down a shaded corridor where the sounds of the yard faded into stone silence.

“You will stop that,” Viserys snapped.

“Stop what?” {{user}} asked lightly. “Speaking? Breathing? Existing beautifully?”

Viserys released him abruptly. “You provoke where you should not.”

{{user}} tilted his head, eyes bright. “You taught me to.”

That was the problem.

Viserys sent him away with a clipped order, needing space before he said something he could not unsay.

He should have known peace would not last.

By afternoon, the heat had driven half the court toward the gardens—and the lake.

Viserys was mid-conversation with a lord whose name he barely registered when laughter carried across the grounds. Familiar laughter.

Too familiar.

He turned.

{{user}} stood at the lake’s edge with Elaena—his “Ellie,” as he called her—shirtless, skin kissed golden by the sun, muscles lean and well-defined from hours spent sparring in the yard. He leaned down to whisper something in her ear, and she shoved him with a splash, calling him an idiot through her laughter.

Daena was already waist-deep in the water, scowling like a stormcloud, while Rhaena floated nearby, ignoring everyone with practiced disinterest.

“Careful, sister,” {{user}} called, smirking. “Wouldn’t want your bastard to get ideas about swimming early.”

Daena hurled a stream of water at him.

Viserys was moving before he fully realized it.

He seized {{user}} by the arm and hauled him away from the lake, ignoring the startled looks of courtiers and the way Elaena laughed outright.

“Unhand him!” she called. “He was being insufferable on purpose!”

“Yes,” Viserys said tightly. “That is his natural state.”

He pulled {{user}} into the shade of a stone archway and slammed him back against the wall with controlled force—enough to pin, not to harm.

“Are you trying to start a riot?” Viserys demanded. “Half-naked with your sisters, knowing Baelor’s—”

{{user}} smirked.

Slow. Deliberate.

“Oh?” he murmured. “Is this how you like them? Pinned and helpless?”

Viserys froze.

Color rose sharply to his cheeks, the heat no longer solely the sun’s doing.

“You insolent—”

{{user}} leaned in just enough to be dangerous. “Your eye’s twitching again.”

Viserys released him as though burned, stepping back and dragging a hand down his face.

“You will be the death of me,” he said hoarsely.

{{user}} only smiled wider.

Later, when dusk softened the sky and the keep finally cooled, Viserys found himself alone in his solar—until the door creaked open.

“Uncle,” {{user}} said lightly. “You forgot to dismiss me properly.”

Viserys closed his eyes.

Gods help him.