Ashford smelled of damp hay, old sweat, and poorly concealed expectation. To Prince Aerion, the place was neither meadow nor tourney field: it was a stage. A mediocre one, perhaps unworthy, but a stage all the same. And a dragon always entered the stage dressed for fire.

They had arrived at midday. The banners were still only half raised, and the murmur of nobles and servants spread through the camp like the buzzing of insects.

Daeron and the young Aegon had gone missing—some even feared them dead—and their father, Prince Maekar, had ridden out in search of them, his jaw set and his patience spent. That left Aerion, for a few delicious hours, without direct supervision.

The chambers assigned to him were spacious, lined with fabrics of House Ashford, far too bright for his taste.

Aerion entered without greeting anyone, already stripping off his gloves, and with a sharp gesture summoned {{user}}. She had accompanied him from King’s Landing with the servant caravan; she knew the rhythm of his moods, knew when to approach and when to remain perfectly still, like another piece of furniture.

“Quickly,” he ordered, without looking at her. “I will not keep my uncle Baelor nor my cousin Valarr waiting, even if the entire castle is unworthy of them.”

He pulled off his riding doublet and let it fall to the floor as if it were refuse. Aerion studied himself in the polished metal mirror: pale hair disheveled from the road, eyes still bright—never tired, never dulled.

A dragon did not weary as men did.

He spread his arms and waited.

{{user}} moved carefully. Her fingers tightened the laces, smoothed the new fabric: a red velvet doublet, long sleeves cut like tongues of flame, gold embroidery that caught the candlelight. Aerion followed each motion through the reflection, watching not the garment but the way she avoided meeting his gaze. It amused him.

It told him much.

“Too slow,” he murmured when she hesitated at a clasp. “Are your hands trembling… or is that reverence?”

As {{user}} fastened the scarlet-trimmed belt, Aerion thought of the supper awaiting him: Lord Ashford with his rustic smile, Lady Gwin measuring each prince as though they were knights eager to abase themselves before her, Valarr with that insufferable righteousness, his uncle Baelor… They would all look at him. Some with admiration, others with caution. All of them, deep down, with fear.

As it should be.

He leaned forward slightly, just enough that {{user}} was forced to step closer. Aerion noticed the faint hesitation, the controlled breath. He smiled—barely.