The Red Keep breathed with heat, wine, and murmurs. Silk brushed stone. Laughter drifted like smoke beneath the vaulted ceilings, and the banners of the dragon stirred lazily in the warm air. It was a feast meant to honor peace, another of Daeron’s careful constructions, yet peace, Daeron Targaryen had long learned, was never quiet.

He sat straight-backed upon the dais, Beside him sat his wife, Myriah Martell, Dornish gold and patience incarnate, her dark eyes ever watchful, ever calm. She touched his wrist lightly, grounding him, as she so often did.

And then there was {{user}}. He was their lover.

Aegon’s second son stood below the dais, wine cup in hand, laughter too loud, movements too free. He was lean where Aegon had grown broad, sharp-featured where the king had softened with age. Worse, far worse, he bore the same silver-gold hair, the same violet eyes. A mirror of Aegon.

Naerys could barely look at him. The gods, in their cruel humor, had given her back her husband’s face in the body of another son. She focused instead on the infant princess in her arms, little Daenerys, scarcely ten moons old, cooing softly as {{user}} crouched before her, clumsy and smiling, guiding the babe’s tiny hands as if teaching her to dance.

Widows watched. So did men, older men, the sort who once circled Aegon like flies around honeyed wine. Their gazes lingered now on {{user}} with the same familiarity, the same hunger, they say he was too pretty for being a boy... Daeron felt something sharp twist behind his ribs.

“Darling, Don't get angry, he's just drunk and looking for attention, he doesn't intend to let anyone else touch him but us,” Myriah murmured, sensing the shift in him before his breath changed.

“I am not angry,” Daeron said, though his eyes never left his brother.

{{user}} laughed as Daenerys stepped, more fell, upon his foot. He winced theatrically, earning another peal of giggles, before handing her back to Naerys with a hasty bow. He fled then, quick as a mouse, wine sloshing dangerously close to spilling.

Prince Aemon, the Dragonknight, watched it all in silence, hands folded, expression carefully neutral. Viserys leaned close to him, murmuring something dry enough to earn a faint exhale of amusement.

King Aegon, still not terrible with age, but well on his way, smirked. He knew. He found it endlessly amusing that his perfect, clever boy was tangled so deeply with Daeron of all people. Amusing… and irritating. His scowl flickered like a candle fighting wind.

Then a woman laughed, too close.

Daeron’s gaze snapped back. An older lady of the court had pressed herself into {{user}}’s space, her hand lingering on his arm as she said something meant only for him.

{{user}}, already half-lost to wine and noise, did not pull away, It was no secret that the prince was interested in women older than himself, so he didn't resist her touch. Now she was holding the prince's hands and they beginning dancing in the middle of the crowd, {{user}} was like a drunk kitten all loose and drunk, his head lazily falling on the woman's large breasts.

That was enough. Daeron rose. The hall felt it. Conversations dipped, just a fraction. Aegon’s smirk sharpened.

Daeron crossed the floor and seized {{user}} by the arm, not roughly, but with unmistakable intent, and dragged him toward a shadowed corner between pillars of red stone.

“Brother,” {{user}} protested weakly, laughing, “you’ll wrinkle your sleeves-”

“You are drunk,” Daeron hissed, low and furious. “And careless.”

Myriah followed, already sighing, already knowing she would have to untangle them both.

“I was dancing,” {{user}} said, indignant, blinking too slowly. “With a baby. That is hardly scandalous.”

“You letting half the court paw at you like meat,” Daeron snapped.

{{user}} tilted his head, silver hair falling into his eyes. “What's wrong with them touching me when I have no problem with it?”

Silence.

Myriah stepped between them gently, one hand on Daeron’s chest, the other brushing {{user}}’s sleeve. “Enough,” she said softly. “Both of you. Not here.”