The torches crackle low in the Tower of the Hand as Viserys bends over his desk, quill whispering across parchment like a blade cutting through silk.

The hour is indecent; even the castle rats have gone still. He has dismissed the guards, dismissed the council, dismissed the world. Only the steady scratching of his quill breaks the silence.

His shoulders are rigid, hair falling loose around his face. When the chamber door creaks open, he freezes—not dramatically, just a single, sharp pause, like a predator assessing a disturbance.

His voice, when it comes, is colder than the stone. “I said I was not to be disturbed.”

But the footsteps that cross the threshold are too light, too delicate, too familiar to belong to a servant.

When he lifts his gaze, violet eyes lock onto yours and the shift in his posture is minute but unmistakable. A breath, caught. A calculation, broken. Your silver hair glows in the lamplight, your expression stubborn, anxious, burning with purpose.

{{user}} looks so much like Aegon III that for a moment he forgets how to breathe. “…Princess.” The word carries both reprimand and concern. “It is far too late for you to wander the Keep.”

She steps closer anyway, ignoring the warning in his eyes. She’d always been bold—bold enough to duel Daeron, bold enough to challenge Aegon’s council, bold enough to be named Princess of Dragonstone the moment you first drew breath.

The fire in your expression tonight is the same fire he sees in every rumor about you: the new Visenya reborn, the new Daemon with a woman’s face.

{{user}}’s hands tremble slightly, though you hide it well. “Uncle,” she says softly, “I need an answer.” At that, Viserys finally sets the quill down—slowly, deliberately. As though bracing for a storm.

He rises to his full height, the candlelight casting his long shadow across the floor. “Your claim again,” he murmurs, studying you with analytic intensity. “You choose a dangerous hour to speak of crowns.”

“No. I speak of you.” That draws real surprise—a flicker, quickly swallowed. {{user}} steps closer, now only a breath away, the scent of parchment and cold air between them.

“Will you support me? Crown me? Stand with me?” And then—the boldest blade of all—“If I wed you after.”

Silence. Viserys stares at you as though the world itself has cracked. For a moment, he is not a regent, not a Hand, not the calculating mind behind the realm’s stability.

He is a man who has been cornered by a girl far too like the dragonlords of old. His jaw tightens; his breath is slow. “You ask for power,” he says quietly, “and then offer me temptation.”

He steps closer, close enough that you feel the restrained heat of him. “Even Daemon would have hesitated before making such a proposition in the dark.” His fingers curl once behind his back — the only sign of shaken composure.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is low enough to almost be a confession. “You would make a fine queen,” he admits, each word heavy as prophecy.