You had been promised to Daeron since childhood. It had been an arrangement whispered over summer wine, when your father still believed that love was a weak thing compared to duty. Daeron was erratic but kind; he laughed often, even through his drink. For years the promise stood like a stone in the castle garden, moss-covered, unquestioned.

Then Aerion began to talk.

He spoke of fire as if it were scripture. Of blood as if it were destiny itself. He quoted old Valyrian proverbs until your father, weary from governance and ghosts, began to listen. What began as flattery soon turned to doctrine, and Maekar—who loved order more than affection—found order in Aerion’s arguments.

You had not seen the moment it happened, but the servants spoke of it later: a private audience, Father on his seat by the brazier, Aerion standing before him like a priest before an altar.

“Look upon her,” Aerion said. His voice was smooth, measured, never raised. “There is not a flaw in her face, not a hint of mortal clay. The gods shaped her in our likeness, Father. Do you not see how the blood answers the blood? Daeron drinks, Daeron forgets. The fire flickers in him. But in her, it burns pure. Must we let the flame gutter out because you fear what the smallfolk call sin?”

Maekar’s reply was low, uncertain: “She is his sister.”

“As were many before us,” Aerion pressed. “Did the dragons not wed their kin to preserve their might? The old empire fell when they forgot that truth. Let it not be said that House Trgaryen turned away from its own reflection.”

The words struck home. By dusk, Maekar had summoned the maesters to draft a new contract.

When you learned of it, you felt the world tilt like a cup spilling wine.

Now you stand before Aerion’s door, fury burning through the shock. You do not knock. The wood crashes open beneath your hands.

He turns from the mirror with that same faint smile. The brazier throws long, restless shadows against the walls.

“What did you say to Father?” you demand.

He tilts his head, amusement flickering across his face. “My dear sister, it is not yet our wedding day. Do you wish to consummate already?”

The words are a knife wrapped in silk. You step closer. “You twisted him. You’ve filled his head with prophecy and pride. You’ve turned blood into a weapon.”

Aerion moves with the quiet of someone who believes the world belongs to him. “I spoke the truth,” he answers. “Father merely listened. You should thank me. Had I not intervened, you would have been chained to Daeron’s weakness forever. Do you truly wish to stand beside a man who cannot hold a cup without trembling?”