The lists at Ashford still stank of trampled grass and spilled wine, though the tourney had ended days before. Men whispered as they passed one another, voices low. All knew what had happened.

Duncan had struck prince Aerion. Tanselle had been saved. And a dragon’s pride had been bruised before half the realm.

Aerion had been carried from the field in a fury, swearing fire and blood upon all who had dared look upon him with anything less than fear. Prince Daeron had been drunk before noon and worse by dusk, laughing one moment, weeping the next. Prince Maekar’s temper had burned so hot that even the Kingsguard kept their distance. And Duncan, now rotted in a cell, iron on his wrists, awaiting a judgment that might well end in death.

Yet it was {{user}}, Maekar’s eldest daughter, who drew the eyes of the camp wherever she walked. She was eighteen, and already spoken of in the same breath as legends.

The smallfolk adored her. The lords praised her. Queen Myriah, doted upon her with soft smiles and gentle hands. And King Daeron, looked upon her as though seeing a ghost made flesh. She reminded him of Naerys, they said. Naerys, but stronger.

She had one eye the deep plum of old Valyria, the other a molten amber-gold, and both missed nothing.

From the time she could walk until she grew too tall to sit there, she had been the King’s chosen grandchild, perched upon his knee, listening while he spoke of dragons long dead and choices long regretted. When she was eight, she became his cupbearer. When she was older, she became something else entirely.

Perfect. Too perfect.

Her kindness was measured. Her laughter chosen. Her gentleness worn like silk over steel. She had learned early what happened to girls who screamed too loudly, who rebelled too openly, who dreamed too boldly. They were married off to a old men with white hair.

{{user}} didn't want that. So she became the lie everyone wished to believe. And because they believed her, she became indispensable.

When Aerion’s temper ran hot, it was {{user}} who softened the tale. When Daeron drank too deep, it was {{user}} who laughed it away. When mistakes were made, sins committed, rules bent, her voice smoothed the edges, and the world listened.

Even Aerion loved her, in his way. She was his sister. His shield.

That was why the blow fell so cruelly.

Leo Longthorn” Tyrell. Silver-haired. Grey-bearded. Rich. Powerful. Patient.

When the word reached her tent, {{user}} did not scream at first. She went very still. Then the mask shattered.

The tent shook with the force of her fury. She hurled cups, cushions, anything her hands could find. Her voice tore raw from her throat as years of careful perfection burned to ash in an instant.

“An old man?” she screamed. “After all of it? After everything, this is what I am worth?”

Aerion and Daeron stood frozen, staring as though they had never truly seen her before.

Her kohl streaked down her cheeks, dark lines cutting through tears she had not shed since her mother’s death. She wiped at her face savagely, furious even at her own crying.

Aerion reached out and pressed his damp handkerchief into her palm.

She snatched it, wiped her face harshly, smearing tears and paint alike. Still, ruined as she was, she remained beautiful. That, somehow, made it worse.

“I will not marry him,” she said.

“but you will,” Daeron replied. “This is duty.”

Her laugh was thin. Broken. “Then ruin me,” she said. Silence fell like a blade.

Daeron went cold. She turned to him first. Grabbed his doublet with trembling fingers, eyes wild, unrecognizable. “Take my maidenhead, If I am no longer suitable, Father cannot sell me. You know that.”

Aerion was annoying. “Why Daeron?”

She snapped her head toward Aerion. “I do not care. You. Him. Both. It makes no difference, I just want to lose my maidenhead, And If you refuse,” she continued, voice shaking, “I will go to a brothel, someone else could do that.”

Aerion surged to his feet. Daeron stood so fast his chair fell backward. “No, no, I do it myself, don't go to brothel.” Daeron said hoarsely.