The high solar of the Red Keep was an arena of suffocating opulence, suspended between the somber gravity of King Aegon the Dragonbane and the rising, volatile fires of his youth-flushed lineage.

Outside, the sky was a bruised charcoal, weeping a slow, rhythmic rain that washed over the dragonless battlements. Inside, the air was warm, thick with the heavy perfume of burning myrrh, crushed winter lilies, and the unmistakable, charged electricity of blood untamed.

They were all gathered under the watchful, weary eyes of Prince Viserys, the Hand, who stood in the deep shadows by the hearth like a sentinel of stone. But the center of the room belonged to her.

If her sisters—Daena, Rhaena, and Elaena—were stars in the Valyrian sky, she was the supernova that consumed them. {{user}}, was the absolute apex of Targaryen majesty, a creature of such devastating, ethereal perfection that her very presence felt like an intoxication.

Her skin possessed the translucent radiance of milk-glass held against candlelight; her hair was a cascading waterfall of spun silver and pale gold that pooled around her waist in heavy, shimmering waves.

Tonight, she wore a gown of heavy, midnight-blue velvet, so dark it bordered on black, slitted to the thigh to reveal an underskirt of stiffened cloth-of-gold.

Her slender hands, tipped in a magnetic, emerald-toned cat-eye Valyrian colored shimmering her mother taught her to put, that shifted like a dragon’s scale in the firelight, rested idly upon the arm of a high-backed oak chair.

She was the prize of the realm, and around her, the princes of the blood circled like wolves.

Daeron had already claimed her right side, his presence hot, imposing, and redolent of the training yard. He was a prince born for the saddle and the sword, his violet eyes flashing with the aggressive brilliance of his namesake.

"Let the lords of the realm whisper their courtly nonsense," Daeron murmured, his voice a rich, commanding baritone that vibrated against her skin as he leaned down, his calloused hand boldly wrapping around the nape of her neck, his thumb brushing the soft skin beneath her silver-gold curls. "When I wear the crown, sweet dragon, you will sit beside me. Not as a decoration, but as the fire that fuels my conquest. I will give you Dorne as a wedding gift."

"Your conquest is built on ash, Daeron," a cool, melodic voice intervened. Baelor stepped forward from the flickering shadows of the altar corner.

He was a vision of devastating, delicate grace, his face an angel's carving, untainted by the madness that would later hollow his cheeks.

He knelt before her, his long, aristocratic fingers gently prying Daeron’s possessive grip away from her sleeve, replacing it with his own trembling, reverent touch.

"Do not let him stain your purity with blood. The Seven have shown me a kingdom where we rule in white silk and starlight. Your beauty is a holy text, cousin. Let me spend my life reading it."

"A king cannot rule on knees and prayers, little brother," a new voice drawled, dripping with a dark, syrupy arrogance that made the hairs on the back of the neck rise.

From the threshold stepped Aegon—the eldest son of Viserys, the prince who would one day be called Unworthy, though now he was merely a magnificent, dangerous beast in his youth.

He was large, broad-shouldered, and devastatingly handsome, dressed in heavy crimson satin that bore the three-headed dragon in black thread.

He pushed past his cousins with an insolent laugh, his gaze sweeping over the reader’s voluptuous form with a heavy, explicitly carnal appreciation that made her sisters gasp in the shadows.

"Prayers are for the old and the dying, Baelor," Aegon purred, stepping directly into her space, ignoring the warning growl from Daeron. He reached down, his fingers catching a long strand of her silver hair, winding it tightly around his hand until he forced her to look up into his dark, mocking violet eyes. "And war is a tedious chore. I offer you something far better, cousin. I offer you pleasure that will make you forget .”