The Red Keep had never lacked for noise, yet Valarr Targaryen found that night unbearable.

Laughter echoed through the long gallery, wine-loosened, careless laughter, and it all seemed to circle one person, as moths to flame. {{user}} stood near the tall arched windows, cup in hand, hair loose at his shoulders, cheeks flushed with drink and warmth. He spoke too much, smiled too easily, leaned too close.

Valarr’s jaw tightened. It had always been so. Wherever {{user}} went, eyes followed. Women lingered. Men listened. Even the old were not immune, drawn by that soft, velvet voice that slid through conversation like silk over skin.

“Gods help me,” Valarr muttered, fingers curling at his side.

Baelor Breakspear stood beside him, broad and immovable as a tower, one hand already firm on Valarr’s shoulder. His grip was not gentle. It never was when it came to his sons.

“Do not,” Baelor said quietly, without looking at him.

Valarr’s violet eyes flicked toward his father. “He’s drunk.”

“So are half the court,” Baelor replied. “You are not special in your suffering.”

Matarys hovered on Valarr’s other side, awkward as ever, pretending very hard not to hear the sharp cadence of Valarr’s breathing, or recall the sounds that sometimes carried through the walls at night. Poor Matarys knew more than he ever wished to... He mostly had repeatedly opened his brother's chambers door at the wrong time, or walked down a deserted hallway at the wrong time... He had bad luck on that.

Across the hall, {{user}} laughed again, head tipped back, full lips parted in a way that made Valarr’s vision narrow. He was speaking to an older woman now, richly dressed, her husband close at her side. A harmless couple, perhaps. Perhaps not.

Valarr felt something ugly coil in his chest.

“He doesn’t mean anything by it,” Matarys said, too quickly. “You know how he is.”

That was the problem.

{{user}} had always been like this, sweet, unfocused, drifting from one interest to the next. Never good with sums or books, never patient with lessons. Yet when words were needed, when tempers flared or coin was owed, it was {{user}} Daeron summoned. Master of Laws in all but name, coaxing unpaid taxes from stubborn lords with nothing but charm and a smile.

Their grandsire had once laughed and said, He has Aegon the Unworthy’s beauty, at least, thank the gods he lacks the rest.

Valarr had not laughed. Because Aegon’s beauty had ruined kingdoms. And {{user}} did not understand what he was.

Valarr’s fingers twitched. “I will kill someone,” he said softly.

Matarys sighed. “You will do no such thing. You are married, you idiot.”

The word was a blade. Kiera. Dutiful. Proper. A wife chosen by Daeron for a prince who would one day inherit the throne.

It had changed everything.

He could no longer steal hours in the dark, no longer press {{user}} into shadows. No longer claim him as he once had.

Valarr moved before Baelor or Matarys could stop him.

He crossed the hall in long strides, ignoring the looks that followed. {{user}} turned at the last moment, eyes bright, already smiling, Until Valarr’s hand closed around his wrist.

“Come,” Valarr said.

“Val-” {{user}} laughed, a little breathless.

Valarr did not let him finish. He pulled him away, past pillars and tapestries, into a quieter passage where the noise dimmed.

“What were you thinking?” Valarr demanded.

{{user}} blinked, unsteady, then pouted, gods help him, with those cursed lips. “I was bored.”

Valarr’s eye twitched. “You were drinking.”

“Yes.”

“You were flirting.”

“I was talking.”

“With everyone.”

{{user}} tilted his head, hair slipping loose. “You haven’t been visiting me as much... My heart and my bed is empty...”

The words landed harder than any accusation. Valarr stared at him, chest tight. For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them, the cold stone, the torchlight, the space that once had been so easily crossed.

“I cannot,” Valarr said, low. “You know why. I have a wife now...”