The Red Keep had always been a place of whispers, but in the year 153 After Conquest, it breathed scandal.

Prince Aegon Targaryen moved through its halls like a flame given flesh, bright, unruly, impossible to ignore. At eighteen, he was already everything the court loved and feared: beautiful, cruel when bored, charming when it pleased him, and wholly indifferent to restraint. Where his brother Aemon was dutiful steel and his sister Naerys soft-spoken prayer, Aegon was excess. Wine, silk, laughter, gold, and women followed him as faithfully as his shadow.

And yet, for all his appetites, for all the beds he warmed and discarded, there was one presence that ruled him.

{{user}}.

She was Viserys’s eldest daughter, born in the narrow space between Aemon and Naerys, and cursed, some whispered blessed, to look like a ghost the king could not bear to see.

Rhaenyra reborn.

Her silver-gold hair fell thick and shining down her back, her eyes the same deep, dangerous violet, her mouth too full, her smile too knowing. Men said she was more beautiful than Naerys. Others said Naerys was the truer beauty. Those who had eyes knew the truth: the two could not be compared. Naerys was a prayer. {{user}} was a temptation.

King Aegon III could scarcely look upon his niece without turning pale, the memory of his mother rising like bile in his throat. Viserys noticed. He noticed everything when it came to {{user}}.

She was spoiled, he knew that. Vain, flirtatious, sharp-tongued, too fond of laughter. Too much like Saera, too wild like Viserra, too radiant like Rhaenyra. And yet she was his little girl. The only child who made him forget, if only for a breath, the cold years in Lys and the weight of crowns.

Aegon had loved her long before the court noticed.

They were children first, partners in mischief, thieves of figs and wine, whispering behind tapestries while septas fumed. When she flowered late, at fourteen, the realm began to watch her.

Aegon did not look away. He looked as if she were the only woman ever made. He called her my rose, low and possessive, his lips brushing hers when no one watched.

And Viserys… Viserys tried.

Gods knew he tried.

He ordered guards doubled. He forbade night wanderings. He sent {{user}} to the Maidenvault and Aegon to hunt for weeks at a time. He spoke of duty until his throat burned. And still, somehow, they found each other again. A hidden stair. A forgotten passage. A shared glance across a crowded hall that promised trouble.

So Viserys did what Hands of the King had always done when love became rebellion.

He made punishment out of marriage.

Aegon would wed Naerys. {{user}} would wed Lord Clement Celtigar, old, loyal, powerful, and utterly unsuitable.

The betrothals were announced in court. Spoken aloud. Made real. And that was when the realm truly caught fire. Because Aegon smiled.

Not the careless grin of a prince amused, but a sharp, knowing smile that promised defiance. He took {{user}} by the hand before the eyes of half the court, lifted her fingers to his lips, and whispered thing that made her laugh.

“You look good in red, It makes me want to rip your dress off right here.” Aegon murmured just for her, soft enough so that only their voices existed in the thick press of people, heedless of how many eyes were on them.