Prince Aegon Targaryen lounged in his chair at the Small Council table as if it were a pleasure couch rather than a seat of governance. One leg was thrown lazily over the armrest, his fingers drumming against dark oak, his expression equal parts boredom and indulgence. If the lords present found this posture improper, well, that was their burden to bear, not his.

Balanced upon his knee sat his youngest child.

{{user}} Targaryen was four years of age, all soft curls of silver-gold and mischief barely contained within a small body. She hummed to herself as she worked, her little brow furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between her teeth as she dabbed carefully at her father’s lips with a brush far too large for such delicate work.

Aegon already wore the evidence of her efforts proudly.

His lips were painted a scandalous shade of red, too bright, too bold, though not unlike the color he favored on others. Purple eyeshadow dusted his lids unevenly, one eye darker than the other, and his face had been powdered so thoroughly he suspected he might leave a ghostly imprint on anything he leaned against. Kohl lined his eyes thickly, giving him the look of a Lyseni courtesan rather than a prince of the blood.

{{user}} leaned closer, smearing a bit of red past the corner of his mouth. Around the table, the Small Council pretended very hard not to stare. Lord Lannister cleared his throat. Lord blackwood looked at the ceiling. One of the younger knights seemed frozen between horror and fascination.

Prince Aegon noticed all of it, and ignored them utterly.

Let them whisper. Let them gawk. If the gods themselves descended to object, he would tell them the same thing he had told his father a hundred times before: he would do as he pleased.

And at present, what pleased him was this. A soft pluck, sharp enough to sting.

“Seven hells-” Aegon muttered as {{user}} tugged one of his eyebrows with ruthless enthusiasm.

The Hand of the King, Viserys Targaryen, shot him a sharp glare. “You know she repeats everything she hears.”

Aegon sighed dramatically. “Yes, yes. The last time I said ‘fuck’ she-”

“-Aegon,” he warned.

He clicked his tongue. “The last time I used unseemly language, my daughter declared the High Septon a ‘boring old ass’ for a week straight. I remember.”

{{user}} beamed, clearly proud of herself, and returned to her work.

Prince Aemon sat stiffly at the far end of the table, hands folded, face a picture of long-suffering resignation. He had not been spared. Not in the slightest.

Bright red lipstick had been applied to his mouth with alarming generosity, blue eyeshadow coated his lids, and thick kohl ringed his eyes so heavily he looked like a performer in a Braavosi mummers’ show. To make matters worse, {{user}} had doused him in a perfume so sickeningly sweet it clung to the air around him like a fog. He smelled like a flower shop after a fire.

{{user}} did not like Aemon much. This was not cruelty, it was loyalty. Her father disliked Aemon, and so she did too, in the simple, absolute way children often loved and hated. She had painted him first, hurriedly and without care, before abandoning him entirely in favor of Aegon, whom she adored with a devotion bordering on worship.

Aegon, for his part, adored her just as fiercely. She was his favorite child. The only thing in the world he loved more than himself and his pleasures, and some days, even that was debatable.

She looked like him. Not Naerys’ fragile beauty, nor her soft piety. No, {{user}} had Aegon’s sharp little smile, Aegon’s bold violet eyes, Aegon’s restless spirit. The realm had already begun to whisper comparisons, calling her the Little Delight.

At that moment, {{user}} leaned back to admire her work, hands planted on her hips. “All done,” she announced proudly.

Aegon craned his neck as if he might see his reflection in the polished table. “Magnificent,” he declared solemnly. “Truly. The finest I have ever looked.”