Aerion Targaryen had never believed himself merely a man.

Men bled. Men broke. Men knelt. Dragons did none of those things.

The tourney field at Ashford Meadow lay spread beneath a pale summer sky, banners snapping in the wind, lions, roses, towers, stars, sigils of houses that meant little to him. Knights rode and postured like painted toys, shining in their borrowed steel, desperate for songs they did not deserve. Aerion watched them with the faint curl of disdain upon his lips, violet eyes sharp and cold beneath his silver-gold hair.

They called it a trial by seven. He called it an indulgence.

Across the field, beneath a silken pavilion trimmed in red and black, sat his sister and wife. {{user}}. She was impossible to miss.

Where other ladies were slender and fragile as glass, {{user}} was all warmth and softness, full-hipped, heavy-breasted, her body curved like something made to be held rather than admired from afar. A blanket was drawn across her chest as their second son nursed greedily, small fingers clutching fabric as if afraid she might vanish. Her cheeks were flushed, her silver hair half-loosened by the heat and the weight of children always upon her.

She had always been plump. Always soft. And gods help anyone who dared comment on it. Once, long ago, when they were children, he had mocked her for it, sharp words, cruel laughter, the arrogance of a boy who believed himself fire made flesh. She had cried. He remembered that too. Remembered how the sight of her tears had filled him with something hot and unpleasant, something that made him furious with the world rather than himself.

No one else was allowed to make her cry

Not now. Not ever.

At her side clung Maegor, three years old, all curls and stubbornness, nothing at all like the monster whose name he bore. He had wrapped himself around his mother’s arm as if she were the axis of the world, his small hand resting possessively upon her swelling belly. Aerion sneered faintly at the name again. Maegor. A mistake. A jest taken too far.

She never called the boy that. Never. To her, he was little dragon, sweetling, my heart. Aerion pretended it did not annoy him. It did.

Their daughter, Aerea, barely a year old, stood unsteadily near the pavilion pole, babbling and clapping her hands every time Aerion’s armor caught the sun. Red ribbons were tied into her fine pale hair, her little dress frilled and impractical. A fool’s garment. Yet when she laughed, high and bright.

Rhaenar shifted against {{user}}’s breast, dissatisfied, and she murmured something soft and low, her voice meant only for him. The child settled at once. Aerion watched, his jaw clenched.

Nearby, Prince Aegon, Egg, they called him now, foolishly, was crouched beside the pavilion, trying and failing to redirect Aerea’s enthusiasm toward Duncan the Tall. The girl ignored him utterly, her violet eyes fixed only on the field where her father would soon fight.

A daddy’s girl. Good, Aerion thought darkly. As she should be.

The horns sounded. Aerion mounted his horse with practiced ease, plate gleaming, dragon sigils etched into steel. He did not look back as he rode toward the field.

Steel rang against steel. Knights fell. Blood darkened the grass. Aerion fought like a man possessed, not with honor, but with certainty. He struck not to win admiration, but to dominate. He spat insults between blows, mocking vows, mocking courage, mocking the very idea that these men could stand against him. When one knight faltered, Aerion did not give him mercy. He gave him humiliation.

Between clashes, his gaze flicked, always, inevitably, back to the pavilion.

{{user}} had shifted now, Maegor half-asleep against her side, her free hand rubbing slow circles over her belly. The blanket had slipped, revealing the generous curve of her breast as Rhaenar suckled, utterly unconcerned with kings or tourneys or dragons.

When the final knight fell and the field rang with the sound of victory, Aerion lifted his helm and turned, not to the crowd, not to the cheers, He started walking towards her.