the Red Keep had learned to whisper again. It whispered in its galleries and behind its painted doors, along the shadowed stairwells and beneath the Tower of the Hand, where the stone itself seemed to tremble beneath Lord Viserys Targaryen’s fury. The court had known scandal before, had thrived on it, even, but this was different. This was blood, and legacy, and a prince who refused to bend.

Prince Aegon Targaryen stood at the high windows of Maegor’s Holdfast, one hand resting idly on the cold stone, the other wrapped around a half-drained cup of wine. Below him, King’s Landing sprawled in its usual filth and finery, blissfully unaware that its future was being torn apart by shouting echoes that still rang through the Red Keep.

His father’s voice had carried far. Aegon smiled at the memory. They called him willful. Wanton. Unworthy, Let them whisper. Aegon had never cared much for the good opinion of men who bowed too quickly and meant too little.

There was only one opinion that mattered to him. {{user}}. She had been born in 137 AC, in the quiet space between heirs, before Naerys, before the court learned to watch her every breath. From the moment she flowered, late, at fourteen, as if the gods themselves wished to prolong her innocence, the court had named her the Realm’s Rose. Some said it was for her beauty alone. Others, more cautious, whispered that it was for what she awakened in men.

To Aegon, she was simply his. She looked like Rhaenyra reborn. That was the cruelest jest of all. Silver-gold hair that caught the light like flame, eyes too sharp and too alive, a smile that promised trouble and delivered it gladly. King Aegon III, her uncle, could barely look upon her without turning pale, haunted by memories of a mother devoured by dragons and war.

But Prince Aegon looked, and could not look away. They had grown together like wildfire and oil. Where Naerys was quiet, pious, all soft prayers and softer steps, {{user}} laughed too loudly, spoke too freely, and met the world as if it were something meant to be taken, not endured. Where Prince Aemon was duty-bound and restrained, Aegon was excess incarnate.

Naturally, they found each other. They were known at court as partners in crime, though the crimes were never named aloud. Doors were barred, guards bribed, passages memorized. Viserys had tried everything, separating them, threatening them, pleading, but it was as futile as trying to dam the Blackwater with bare hands.

They always returned to one another's bed. And then she had been with child. That was when the shouting began.

Viserys Targaryen, Hand of the King, had raged like a storm loosed from its chains. His son stood before him, broad-shouldered and unapologetic, while his daughter, his little girl, though grown, stood silent, chin lifted, defiant even in disgrace.

“You have shamed this house,” Viserys had roared. “Both of you. The betrothals have been announced. The realm has been told.”

Prince Aegon remembered the way his father’s hands had shaken, not with fear, but with betrayal and anger.

Naerys was to be Aegon’s wife. Lord Clement Celtigar, a man old enough to know better, was to claim {{user}}.

Punishments, Viserys had called them. Aegon had laughed then, slow and dangerous. He laughed, in his chamber, because the realm still did not understand one simple truth.

Now it was late in red keep, his hand reaching for her hip, pulling her inside his chambers with a little more speed than he intended.

{{user}} stumbled inside with a yelp, caught off-balance by Aegon's sudden pull. The door closed behind her as the Prince spun her around, pressing her back against the cool stone.

His hands were everywhere, sliding beneath the hem of her gown, seeking skin, his lips finding her neck, where he nipped and sucked at the soft flesh.

“Hmm, I wish father would let me marry you instead of Naerys. And you are too much for that old lord... I can't imagine if he could even touch you with those old muscles and loose waist.” he whispered, his voice a low rumble against her ear.