The streets of silk had never been kind to Aemond Targaryen. They whispered with laughter when he passed, the women appraising him with eyes too bold, too knowing. To them he was a prince, tall, pale-haired, one-eyed and fearsome, yet to himself he was something else entirely, a boy who had once been mocked, jeered, left broken in the sand of the Dragonpit. The memory of children’s laughter clung to him still, no matter how sharp his blade or how vast his dragon.

But there was one shadow in those streets who did not laugh.

{{user}}, his sister. Younger, yet her gaze weighed heavier upon him than all of King’s Landing’s jeers. With her, the shame bled into something darker, something sweet. It was madness, he knew. Worse than madness, sin. Yet he returned again and again, cloaked, hooded, sword at his hip, until the very alleys of Silk Street became their secret chapel, and her touch the only benediction he sought.

Behind the crimson curtains of one discreet house, where the mistress had long since been bought into silence, he would find her waiting. His sister. His shame, his hunger. {{user}}.

In those moments, the world fell away. Not the dragon banners, nor his mother’s ceaseless prayers, nor the weight of his father’s crown mattered. There was only the hush of her breath, the touch of her hand upon his scarred cheek, and the cruel throb in his chest that told him he lived not for the realm, not for glory, but for her.

He hated himself for it. He hated her for it. And yet he could not stop.

That night, the silk curtains shivered with winter air. The hour was late. Aemond sat with her upon the edge of the narrow bed, her hair spilling like silver ink upon the pillow, her lips damp and parted. He had not yet risen to dress when the laughter reached them, the drunken, uneven laughter of his elder brother.

Aegon.

The door flung open with a bang. Torchlight spilled into the chamber, golden and merciless. And there he was: Prince Aegon, wine-drunk, smirking like the Seven Hells themselves had sent him to mock.

“Well, well.” Aegon’s voice slurred but cut like a blade. “I thought to find you with Silvy, little brother. Imagine my surprise to see you rutting with our sweet sister instead.”

{{user}} froze, her face pale as frost. Aemond’s hand went at once for the dagger on the bedside table, but Aegon only laughed harder, reeling into the room with all the grace of a stumbling fool.

“Seven save us,” he jeered, his words thick with scorn. “Of all the cunts in King’s Landing, Silk Street offers a thousand, and you choose hers? Your own blood?” He leaned against the doorframe, wine sloshing in the cup still in his hand. “By the gods, What would mother say, hm? What would grandsire? Little Aemond, with all the realm’s daughters at his feet, bedding his sister. Is it love, then? Or have you grown so desperate you must snatch what lies nearest.”

Aemond rose slowly, naked to the waist, his body taut as a drawn bow. “Leave,” he hissed, his voice low, dangerous.