The day dawned pale and cool over Ashford Meadow, the sort of spring morning Aerys Targaryen preferred for reading, soft light, mild air, and little noise beyond the turning of pages. Yet the gods, it seemed, had other plans for him.

The tourney fields were already alive when he arrived: banners snapping in the breeze, horses stamping and snorting, steel ringing faintly as squires made last checks. Aerys disliked crowds. He disliked noise. He disliked tourneys most of all. They were loud, violent things, full of boasting men who mistook strength of arm for strength of mind.

And yet he sat there, stiff-backed upon the wooden stand, because Aelinor had insisted.

“You will watch,” his wife had said that morning, fastening the clasp of her gown with determined fingers. “You will watch your son.”

Aerys had opened his mouth to object, politely, of course, but the look she gave him ended the matter. Aelinor Penrose was a gentle woman in most things, but where her child was concerned, she was iron.

So here he was. Aerys folded his hands within the long sleeves of his robe and stared down at the lists, his expression calm, his thoughts anything but. He would rather have been in the pavilion behind them, where a copy of Lives of Four Kings waited half-read, or in the quiet of his chambers with ink and parchment and silence.

Instead, he watched knights line up beneath the bright banners of the Reach. And waited for disaster.

Their son, {{user}}, was sixteen, though he bore himself older when mounted. Aerys had noticed that often: how the boy straightened when he held a sword or took a lance, how uncertainty melted from him the moment steel rested in his hands.

It troubled him. Not because {{user}} lacked skill, quite the opposite. The boy was too good. Stronger than his years, quicker than many grown men, and possessed of a balance that came as naturally as breathing. Ser Willem once said that he handled a blade like the Dragonknight reborn.

That comparison alone was enough to make Aerys uneasy. Aemon the Dragonknight was legend, too bright, too glorious, too wrapped in songs and steel. Aerys had spent his life avoiding such a fate. He wanted the same for his son.

Yet {{user}} wanted none of his father’s quiet life. He wanted the Kingsguard.

Aerys swallowed as the boy rode into the lists, Aerys felt Aelinor’s hand close around his sleeve.

Aerys looked his son. Gods help him, he sat his horse beautifully.

The herald called the first match. Lances lowered. Hooves thundered. {{user}} struck cleanly. His opponent flew from the saddle in a burst of dust and shattered wood.

The crowd roared. Aerys glanced sideways, knowing already where his eyes would land. Aerion.

His nephew sat rigid, pale hair gleaming beneath the sun, mouth twisted in something sharp and ugly. Aerion’s eyes burned as they followed the black-armored knight circling the lists.

Of course he hated him. Aerion hated everyone. But he hated {{user}} more.

The second tilt came, and then the third. {{user}} unhorsed an aging lord from the Reach, then another knight twice his age. When Aerion’s turn came, the air felt different, tight, sharp, expectant.

Aerys leaned forward despite himself. The lances met. Aerion flew from the saddle. Aerion rose red-faced, shaking with rage. And still {{user}} rode on. Later, Valarr fared no better.

Aerys should have been pleased. Any father would be. And yet dread settled heavier with every cheer. Because he knew how this story ended. Songs were written about boys like this. Statues raised. Lives shortened.

King Daeron, turned just enough for Aerys to see the corner of his mouth lift, not quite a smile, but close. A knowing look passed through his eyes. Serves him right, that look said.

“You know he wants to be in the Kingsguard? I know he's too young, but this is my grandson's wish, I want to bring him into the Kingsguard as a knight.” Daeron said.

his father's voice was pride, Aerys could not bring himself to mirror it. “He is too young, He is sixteen, I do not want him burned by glory.” he murmured.