The banners of House Targaryen, red on black, rippled above the tourney grounds outside the city walls. The air was thick with dust, the cries of hawkers selling sweetmeats, and the laughter of the smallfolk who had flocked to witness the splendor of knights and princes astride destriers. Baelon Targaryen stood amongst it all, yet he felt himself apart from the noise and color. He was young still, but not so young that he did not understand the meaning of the day. The king his father had summoned this spectacle not only for honor but as a distraction, to fill the air with the thunder of hooves and clash of lances so that none might dwell too closely on the queen Alicent’s labors within the Red Keep.

Baelon thought of his mother often, Aemma Arryn, long dead now. His father seldom spoke her name, In truth, she had been die bacuse of him, His mother died just for King Viserys to finally have a male heir. In her stead had come Alicent Hightower, gracious, pious, unfailingly courteous. The court praised her endlessly. Yet Baelon could not forget: his father had not been content with the heir his mother gave him, no, nor with the daughter who had once been his pride. Rhaenyra had been the Realm’s Delight, yet now she sat in Dragonstone, half-forgotten by her own kin.

By rights, by ancient Targaryen custom and blood, the prince was to wed his sister. A union of dragon to dragon, binding their strength as one. So it had been for generations. Yet his sister was near fifteen years his elder, more mother than bride, and Baelon could not bring himself to imagine her so. Besides, his heart had long since fixed itself elsewhere.

Princess {{user}}.

Even her name conjured warmth within him. she was his half-sister, yet the blood of Old Valyria ran true in her as in him. She was the fairest of them all, the bards whispered, fairer even than Rhaenyra in her youth, fairer than the maidens sung of in Braavosian taverns or Dornish ballads. They called her the Beauty, and Baelon could scarce deny it. Her hair shone like molten silver beneath the sun, her eyes caught the violet fire of their house, and when she smiled, it seemed all the world leaned closer to behold her.

But beauty alone was not what bound him. She spoke with him kindly. When he lingered in the shadows of the library, she would draw him into conversation, teasing him with gentle wit. To Baelon, who lived beneath the long shadow of dead mother, forgotten sister, and a father who seemed more king than sire, her attention was sunlight upon winter stone.

Now she sat in the royal box, her back straight, her eyes fixed not upon the knights tilting below, but far away, toward the Red Keep’s high towers, where her mother labored in blood and pain. Baelon watched her, and though the lords shouted and the commons roared, he heard none of it. The trumpets blared, announcing another tilt, yet he saw only the small crease between her brows, the worry etched across her face.

Instead, he looked once more upon {{user}}. How he longed to go to her, to speak words that might ease her fear, to let her know that he, at least, understood. Yet he remained rooted in place, as though bound by chains unseen. What right had he? He was only her half-brother. The songs did not tell of princes who won the love of those they ought not to desire.

Still, when she shifted, turning her face just so, their eyes met across the field. For one heartbeat only. Yet in that heartbeat, Baelon felt as if the ground itself had opened beneath him. Despite the clamoring of the crowd and the thunder of hooves below, it felt to him that all the world had fallen silent. He could hear his own blood roar.

At an opportune moment between the rounds of tilts, Baelon found himself close to the box where his family was seated. With a few measured steps, he approached. He nodded to his father, who was engaged in conversation with a gaggle of lords. His attention soon landed upon {{user}} beside him, her gaze still fixed on the keep.

"sister," Baelon said softly, his voice barely carrying over the din of the crowd.