The road to Ashford Meadow wound like a pale ribbon through the riverlands, dusty and bright beneath the sun of late summer. Thousands traveled it, knights in bright armor, squires with lances strapped to their backs, hedge knights dreaming of glory, merchants pushing carts heavy with wine, meat, and cheap trinkets to sell to the crowds. But none traveled with more ceremony, or more whispered dread, than Prince Aerion Targaryen, called Brightflame by those too polite to name him otherwise.

He rode near the head of the royal column, silver hair streaming behind him like a banner in the wind. At his side rode Princess {{user}}, his betrothed cousin, dressed in velvets the color of dusk. She kept her back straight and her gaze forward, though her fingers tightened around the reins whenever Aerion turned his pale, disdainful eyes upon the road, or upon anyone else.

She did not love him. She did not even like him. But Targaryen princesses seldom married for desire. They married for dragons yet unborn, for lineages yet to be preserved. Her father and uncle had signed the engagement contracts with ink as dark as blood, and that had been the end of the matter. Duty sealed where wishes could not.

Aerion, for his part, seemed to find pleasure in the match only insofar as it promised him children of “pure Valyrian blood,” as he had phrased it more than once. He had said so proudly at court, speaking loud enough for courtiers to hear. “My sons shall be flawless, untainted. As the dragons once were.”

He had said it as though he was going to forging swords, not children.

Ahead of them flew the banners of House Targaryen, black and red, the three-headed dragon roaring with every shift of the wind. Behind rode Prince Baelor Breakspear, stern but honorable; and Prince Valarr, Baelor’s son, calm as any young knight preparing to prove himself worthy. Meekor, the third prince, rode quietly and spoke to no one, eyes lowered to the reins. Compared to Aerion, they were pillars of decency.

Compared to Aerion, almost anyone was.

When the royal party reached the campgrounds outside Ashford Castle, thousands of eyes turned toward them. Some with admiration. Others with fear.

Aerion welcomed both.

The tourney grounds were a celebration of color, green tents and purple, banners displaying stags, roses, tridents, cranes, and serpents. Minstrels played beneath weirwood-shaded pavilions, and hawkers shouted over the din. The scent of roasting boar mingled with horse-sweat and spiced wine.

Princess {{user}} walked among them with the ladies of the Reach, but she felt eyes upon her everywhere. She was a princess, but also the betrothed of Aerion Brightflame. That alone was enough to make every whisper sharpen.

Night fell over Ashford. Lanterns shone like stars across the encampment. Music drifted on the breeze. Baelor and Valarr consulted with Lord Ashford about the lists, the challengers, and the safety of the spectators.

Aerion, meanwhile, drank sweetwine and boasted to any who would listen. He spoke of dragons long dead as though he had ridden every one. He mocked Dornish knights, Reachmen, riverlords, anyone whose blood failed to meet the purity of his own.

Princess {{user}} remained silent at his side, jaw tight, hands hidden inside her sleeves so no one could see her fists clench.

At last, Aerion leaned toward her.

“You do not smile, Are you not comfortable enough here?” he whispered.