The tourney had been declared in honor of the twenty–first nameday of Alaric Dubois, the only alpha son of Lord Dubois, and the castle yard glittered with banners that snapped sharply in the summer wind. It was meant to be a celebration of youth, strength, and lineage — the sort of spectacle Aerion Brightflame normally found tedious.

He attended anyway. Not for the jousting. Not for the feast. Certainly not for the boy whose name day it was.

He had come because the tourney promised blood, and because he wished his sons to see it.

Maegor stood on his right, silver-haired and watchful, already learning how to keep his expression as still as his father’s. Baelor lingered closer to the back of the pavilion, broader, darker, his features far too reminiscent of a man no one dared name aloud. Aerion had insisted both boys be brought, ignoring the looks it earned him. If the world was cruel, they would learn it early.

Behind Aerion, close enough that the edge of his white cloak brushed crimson silk, stood Duncan the Tall.

The Lord Commander had been assigned to Prince Baelor Breakspear for the tourney, but no one had protested when he remained at Aerion’s side instead. No one ever protested where Aerion was concerned. The prince lounged in his seat like a creature born to be obeyed, long fingers heavy with rings resting lazily on the carved armrest, violet eyes following each clash of lances with growing amusement.

He had dressed for the occasion in red and black, silk layered so richly it caught the sunlight like flame. His hair hung loose down his back, pale as molten silver, and the collar of his robes had slipped just enough to reveal the dark, unmistakable mark at the side of his throat — teeth pressed deep into omega skin, old but never hidden.

He never hid it.

The mark had never been explained, and no one had asked. Everyone knew whose it was, though few had seen the act that left it there. Fewer still wished to live long enough to speak of it.

Aerion tilted his head as another knight was unhorsed, the crack of wood against steel echoing across the yard. He smiled faintly when the fallen man did not rise quickly enough.

Alphas had begun drifting near the pavilion as the evening wore on, drawn by curiosity, arrogance, or the foolish belief that an unwed omega prince might be won by persistence. Aerion allowed them to circle like dogs around a fire. He ignored most of them, dismissed the rest with a glance sharp enough to cut.

He was growing entertained.

That was when Lord Dubois’ son approached.

Alaric Dubois had the confidence of a man who had never yet been told no and believed the day belonged entirely to him. His armor was polished bright as a mirror, cloak clasped at his shoulder, helm tucked beneath one arm as he stopped before the pavilion and bowed just deeply enough to be respectful without seeming small.

The yard quieted without meaning to. Everyone close enough to see understood at once that the boy had made a mistake.

Aerion did not rise. His eyes moved to Alaric the way one might look at a servant who had spoken out of turn.

The request was made — formal, loud enough for those nearby to hear. A challenge, offered in honor of the nameday tourney. A duel, if the prince would grant it. The right to name a champion, if he preferred not to fight himself.

For a moment, Aerion only stared at him. Then his lips curled. He simply lifted one hand, slow, careless, as if the matter bored him already, and made a small, impatient motion with two fingers.

Duncan stepped forward. Up close, the difference in size was almost absurd.

Alaric Dubois froze where he stood.

The boy had been tall among his peers, broad-shouldered, strong, every inch the proud young alpha the tourney was meant to celebrate — and he looked suddenly very young facing the man Aerion had chosen without so much as blinking.

Aerion leaned back in his seat, satisfied, violet eyes bright with cruel amusement as he watched the color drain from the boy’s face.