The Citadel had always been a place of knowledge and secrets, but no scroll, no ancient treatise could prepare you for what had happened between you and Vaegon Targaryen. It had all started innocently enough, if anything involving a Targaryen could be called innocent.

You were a young maester, not yet fully chained, devoting endless nights to your studies in the dusty archives of the Citadel. Vaegon, the prince who had traded the throne for books, had noticed your dedication. First came the lingering glances over the candlelit pages. Then the deliberately complex questions he asked you, just to hear your voice explaining the concepts. And then, one night, when the library was deserted, he approached you with a scroll in his hands and a challenge on his thin lips.

"Explain this to me" he said, pushing the ancient High Valyrian text into your hands. You tried to focus on the words, but your nose filled with the prince's scent, ink, old parchment, and something deeper, more animal. When you looked up, Vaegon was closer than he should have been, his long, pale fingers playing with the silver chain around your neck.

"You speak so beautifully when you explain things" he had murmured, and you had felt his warm breath against your ear. That was when you realized, the parchment he had given you was blank.

Now, weeks later, you were in your private chambers in the Citadel. Vaegon knelt before you, his prince-maester hands undoing your belt with a skill that did not come from books.