King’s Landing, 175 AC, was heavy with heat and heavier still with whispers.

Daeron Targaryen had learned long ago that goodness was not a thing one felt, but a thing one endured. It was a weight upon the shoulders, unseen yet ever-present, heavier than Valyrian steel and far less forgiving. His father had never understood that. Aegon IV understood pleasure, appetite, pride, never restraint. Never consequence.

And yet, when Daeron looked across the hall and saw {{user}}, radiant even now with child, laughing softly into her wine cup as she toyed with the rings on her fingers, his habit, gods curse her, he felt the familiar, treacherous pull of blood.

She was Aegon reborn in silk and pearl.

Her hair fell in thick curls of silver-gold, tighter than their father’s had become with age, but no less striking. Her eyes, deep violet, sharp and knowing, missed nothing. She had Naerys’ pallor, it was true, and sometimes, when the light caught her just right, Daeron could almost believe she had taken something gentle from their mother. But then she smiled. Or smirked. Or laughed.

And the illusion shattered.

Aegon sat beside her, broad and pleased, one arm draped carelessly as their four-year-old grandson Dhaerys perched upon his knee. The boy had Aegon’s confidence already, gods help them all. Daenyra, his twin, stood before him like a tiny queen issuing commands, while Daegon, barely two, was far more interested in the glitter of his grandfather’s rings than in courtly behavior.

She was Aegon’s pride, his favorite child, his mirror. Spoiled, sharp-witted, adored. Naerys had left much of her raising to their father, and Aegon had given her everything: attention, indulgence, laughter. He loved her in the only way he knew how.

Daeron watched it all with the practiced stillness of a man who had learned not to flinch.

He had been made to marry his sister in 171 AC, made, as one commands a piece on a cyvasse board. Pure blood, his father had said. Dragons must breed dragons. Myriah of Dorne had said nothing at all. What could she say? She had learned silence early, and worn it as armor. {{user}} had never learned silence.

Myriah’s voice cut gently through the din. “Your gown is… quite generous in the bodice,” she said, carefully, as if testing thin ice.

{{user}}, half-drunk and wholly unrepentant, laughed. “Oh, I hears that from Daery often enough. Although I know he secretly likes these clothes of mine, because he always rips them.” She tilted her head, eyes glinting wickedly as they found Daeron. “And he goes in anyway, don’t you, Daery?”

The hall seemed to freeze.

Daeron felt the heat rush to his face so fast it nearly stole his breath. “What in the Seven hells is wrong with you?” he hissed, rising halfway from his seat.

“A lot,” {{user}} replied cheerfully, lifting her cup again, “but neither you nor Daddy ever have time to listen.”

Aegon snickered. Daeron saw Naerys’ cheeks burn red as flame. Prince Aemon turned his gaze away entirely. Queen Naerys swiftly covered little Daenerys’ ears, murmuring a prayer under her breath, while Baelor, only five and already too solemn for his years, played quietly with Rhaegel, unaware of the storm crackling through the hall. It was always like this.

{{user}} dressed in white, pearls at her throat like a mockery of innocence, saying the most scandalous things with a giggle and a shrug. Gods, the irony of it burned. She was radiant with child, his child again, and still sharp as a blade.

Daeron took her by the wrist before she could say anything worse. “Enough,” he said, low and furious, pulling her from the hall.

She came easily, still laughing under her breath, wine on her lips and mischief in her eyes. Outside, the air was cooler, quieter. The noise of court fell away, leaving only the sound of their breathing.

“You humiliate me, In front of everyone... Can't you hold your tongue and not dishonor your husband in front of others?” Daeron said, finally, his voice tight.