You stood at the edge of the royal pavilions, fingers knotted in the soft wool of your cloak, the fabric too warm for the late-spring sun that had turned merciless. Your eyes burned, not from the glare, but from the tears you'd tried and failed to swallow.

You had watched it all from the shaded gallery your father Maekar had assigned you—close enough to see the flash of Aerion's flame-crest helm, to hear the sickening crunch when his lance drove not into Ser Humfrey Hardyng's shield but into the neck of the grey destrier beneath him.

The horse had screamed—a sound so raw and bewildered it cut straight through the roar of the crowd. Legs buckling, it collapsed sideways, pinning the knight beneath three-quarters of a ton of dying muscle and bone. Ser Humfrey's leg had snapped like dry wood. You heard that too, even over the gasps and boos that rolled across the field like thunder. Aerion had reined up smartly, visor lifted just enough to show the pale curve of his smile, the same smile he wore when he pulled wings from butterflies as children.

He had meant to do it. You knew that the way you knew the shape of his hands in the dark. Intent lived in every deliberate inch of that lowered lance.

Your twin brother, your betrothed, your other half—cruel as wildfire and twice as bright.

Now the field was quiet save for the distant clatter of grooms and the low, anguished whicker of the dying horse being dragged away. Maekar had already ridden out hours earlier, face thunder-dark, in search of Daeron and little Egg, who had vanished like smoke before the first tilt. The absence pressed on you heavier than the heat; without Father's stern shadow, the world felt unmoored.

Footsteps crunched behind you—booted, purposeful, the sound of someone who expected the ground to yield. You knew the rhythm of his walk the way you knew your own heartbeat.

"Sweetling." His voice was velvet dragged over steel, low enough that only you would hear the pet name. "You've been crying."

You pressed your lips together until they hurt. "The horse," you said, barely above a whisper. "It didn't have to die."

Aerion stopped just behind your shoulder, not touching you. He never rushed you when you were like this; he knew the shape of your silences better than anyone.

"It was an accident," he murmured. The lie slipped out smooth as silk. "The lance caught at the wrong angle. The beast reared at the last moment. You saw how the crowd pressed in—noise, banners, all that chaos. Horses are stupid creatures, love. They panic."

You finally turned. He stood there in his tourney finery, helm tucked under one arm, silver-gold hair damp and curling at the temples from exertion. The same face that stared back at you from every mirror, (high cheekbones, violet eyes, the proud Targaryen nose), yet where yours felt soft, his was sharpened to a blade. Beautiful and cruel.

"You lowered it," you said quietly. No accusation, only fact. "I watched your arm. You chose the horse."

For a heartbeat something flickered behind his eyes—annoyance, perhaps, or the briefest shadow of guilt. Then it was gone, shuttered behind that familiar, lazy arrogance.

"Would you rather I had killed the man?" He tilted his head, studying you the way a dragon might study a lamb that had wandered too close. "Ser Humfrey is alive. Limping, perhaps, but still breathing. The horse was just meat and bone. Replaceable."