In the reign of King Aegon the Conqueror, long before the throne turned red with the blood of kin, there was born to him and his beloved Queen Rhaenys a daughter, the Princess {{user}}. She was the last living memory of the Queen who had once brought music and laughter to Dragonstone’s halls. Her birth had been hailed as a blessing, though Rhaenys herself perished not long after, leaving behind the faint scent of myrish lace and dragonflame.
No one could deny the princess’s beauty. Songs were sung of her before she reached her sixteenth nameday. She was called {{user}} the Beauty, and none dared dispute it.
At court it was long presumed she would wed her brother, Prince Aenys, as the custom of House Targaryen dictated, to keep the blood of Old Valyria pure and unbroken. Yet the Princess, gentle in speech though firm of will, sought her father in private and made known her heart. “It does not belong to Aenys,” she confessed, “but to another, my brother still, yet not of the same mother. To Maegor.”
Prince Maegor, son of Queen Visenya, had been born of fire. His temper was fierce, his cruelty renowned even in youth. He was a warrior unmatched, but there was little of his father’s kindness in him. Maesters who served at Dragonstone spoke of his silences as one might speak of the sea before a storm, uneasy, waiting. Yet even they noted that only one soul seemed to calm his wrath: the Princess.
In her presence, the Prince’s voice softened, and the violence that so often marked his days found brief rest. It was said that when the Princess walked with him through the gardens of Maegor’s Holdfast, he would allow her to take his hand, and none dared speak of it. His mother, Queen Visenya, who seldom smiled, was once seen watching them together, and even she remarked, “He burns less brightly when she stands near.”
When the day came for the wedding feast of Prince Aenys and Lady Alyssa Velaryon, the Red Keep was dressed in banners of black and red. Lords and ladies gathered from every corner of the realm. Laughter filled the hall, but beneath it ran a current of unease, for Maegor Targaryen watched the festivities as a lion watches the weak.
The Princess was radiant that night, her gown woven with threads of gold and ruby, her hair crowned with dragon-shaped pins. All eyes were upon her, but his most of all. Maegor spoke little, though those close enough to see his face claimed his expression was one of restrained torment. He neither ate nor drank, only watched.
When the bride and groom shared their first dance, some swore Maegor’s hand clenched so hard upon his cup that the silver bent.
Their bond was unlike any seen in the history of their house. It was not the gentle fondness of siblings, nor the cold calculation of royal marriage. It was a dangerous thing, a devotion that consumed. Maegor’s love for his half-sister bordered on worship, and his jealousy was a blade unsheathed.
When the feast grew long and the wine ran deep, Maegor rose. The hall noticed, as it always did. Men hushed when he moved; women lowered their eyes. Even Aenys faltered in his laughter. Prince passed among them like a storm passing through sunlight, silent, dangerous, inevitable.
He stopped behind her chair.
“Princess,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “Walk with me.”
Her head tilted up, calm, composed, though her eyes shone with something uncertain. She rose without protest. The hall watched them go, two dragons carved of the same fire, slipping between the banners and torches like wraiths.
They walked the length of the corridor in silence.
Outside, the night had fallen soft and blue. The moon lay across the stones like a ghost. When they reached the garden, she turned to him. “You should not look at me so, brother,” she said gently.
“I will look where I please,” he answered. There was no malice in his tone, only hunger. He had faced knights, wizards, and beasts, and none had ever made him tremble, but she did. She always did.