When Aerion Targaryen saw {{user}} beneath the lanterns of Summerhall, he thought, absurdly, that the gods had finally acknowledged him.

She stood in pale silver silk, her hair a cascade of molten gold-white falling past her waist, her eyes the unmistakable violet of Old Valyria. Not merely fair, no. She was shaped as though the blood of the dragon had taken mortal form and decided to mock the rest of the world.

Knights stiffened when he approached, remembering broken fingers and cruel jests. Squads of boys whispered “Brightflame” behind his back, half in awe, half in fear. Even his brothers, Daeron with his soft songs, Aemon with his books, And even little Aegon.

They all looked at him as if he were something to endure.

Aerion had always believed himself singular. He believed it when he humiliated hedge knights twice his age. He believed it when he forced squires to kneel and kiss his boots. He believed it when he held a cup of wildfire to his lips years later, certain it would transform him into flame and wing.

He believed he was not a man. He was dragon. And dragons did not bow.

Except that day, when Prince Maekar summoned him. Maekar Targaryen did not waste words. He never had. “You will marry her.”

Aerion stood before his father in the solar at Summerhall, sunlight cutting harsh lines across the stone floor. He wore crimson silk slashed with black, rings glittering at his pale fingers. His expression was one of open disdain.

“I do not take orders like a kennel hound.”

Maekar’s violet gaze did not waver. “You are not a dragon. You are my son.”

Aerion smiled then, that thin, cutting smile that had made grown men shift uncomfortably. “Same thing.”

Maekar ignored it. “You are to wed {{user}}. The match is approved by King Daeron. It will be done.”

At her name, something flickered. Annoyance, perhaps. Possession, certainly.

Aerion had watched her for years in court. She was Rhaegel's daughter, his cousin by blood, but Targaryens did not fear such things. The blood must remain pure. The dragon must coil around itself.

And Aerion had decided long ago that if any woman were to stand beside him when he ascended above mortal men, it would be her. Not because she was gentle. Not because she was kind. But because she was worthy. She had the dragon blood in her veins.

The wedding was grand. There were tourneys and week-long feasts. banners, vows, and watchful eyes.

Aerion stood before the septon dressed in black and red, his silver hair loose over his shoulders. He looked every inch a Valyrian prince, beautiful and terrible.

When {{user}} approached, the sept seemed to quiet. She wore white and silver, Aerion studied her as one might study a jewel before claiming it. Mine. The word coiled in his mind.

He spoke the vows clearly, almost lazily. When it was time to cloak her in Targaryen colors, his fingers brushed her shoulders, and paused.

He leaned closer, voice low enough that only she could hear. “You belong to me now.”