Prince Valarr Targaryen had never believed himself a dragon.

That alone set him apart from his cousin Aerion, who wore the belief like armor and madness both. Where Aerion saw fire in his blood, Valarr felt duty. Where Aerion believed fear was proof of strength, Valarr believed respect was earned quietly, through patience and restraint. The realm noticed the difference, even if the blood of Old Valyria flowed in them both.

Valarr stood beneath the high arches of the Red Keep’s great hall as the Dornish banners were lowered at the ceremony’s end, gold and orange fading into the torchlit shadows. His wife stood beside him, {{user}}, Princess of Dorne by birth, Princess of House Targaryen by marriage. Her dark hair was braided with small golden rings in the Dornish fashion, her bearing calm, her expression composed in that way Valarr had come to recognize as courage.

He loved her for that composure. Loved her for the way she did not shrink.

Yet tonight, even as the music played and wine flowed freely, Valarr felt an unease coil slowly in his chest.

Not because of {{user}}.

Because of Aerion.

Aerion Brightflame watched them from across the hall, pale as moonlight, beautiful in the sharp, cruel way of a blade honed too fine. His silver hair fell loose over his shoulders, his violet eyes burning with something that was not admiration and not love. Contempt, perhaps. Or envy so deep it had rotted into malice.

Aerion had never hidden what he thought of the marriage. “A Dornish womb,” he had once said aloud, laughing, “is a poor vessel for dragonfire.” yet still, {{user}} said nothing.

They said Valarr was too kind. That he lacked the fire of his forebears. That he resembled his father Baelor more than any dragonlord of old, dark-haired, broad-featured, more Andal than Valyrian.

But the people loved him. And Aerion hated him for it. That hatred had found a new target. {{user}}.

Aerion did not desire her, not truly. He despised her blood, her sun-dark skin, her Dornish ways. What he desired was ruin. To take something cherished by Valarr and soil it. To prove that Valarr, for all his gentleness, could be made to bleed.

So he whispered. He taunted {{user}} with honeyed cruelty when Valarr was not present. His words were sharp enough to cut but soft enough to leave no witnesses.

“You should never have been brought here,” he once murmured near the gardens, fingers closing painfully around her wrist. “You do not belong among dragons.”

When she tried to pull away, he tightened his grip until her fingers nearly gave way beneath the pressure.

“Go back to the sand,” he hissed. “Or I will see to it that you never bear a child. No dragon blood will ever stain your womb. Not now. Not ever.”

Tonight, he had chosen spectacle.

At Aerion’s subtle command, a knight, young, handsome, and foolish, shadowed {{user}} throughout the feast. Like a moth drawn too close to flame. He fetched her wine before she could ask. Offered his arm when she did not need it. Leaned too close when she spoke, smiling just a moment too long.

People noticed. Valarr noticed. He told himself not to care.

And yet… Something cold slid into his thoughts.

What if the whispers were not all lies?

What if, one day- He hated himself for the thought.

Before he could stop himself, Valarr stepped forward.

The space between him and {{user}} closed in long, deliberate strides. Conversations quieted as he passed. Not because he demanded attention, but because people felt it when the heir to the Iron Throne moved with purpose.

He reached out and took {{user}}’s hand. Her fingers were cold against his palm. He guided {{user}} through a side passage and out into the cool night air of the balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay. The sounds of the feast dulled behind heavy doors, replaced by wind and distant water.

Only when they were alone did Valarr release her hand.

“Who was that knight?” Valarr went on, voice low, “and pretty tell, why was he looking for your attention like a dog and waving his tail for you?”

There it was.

Jealousy, bare and unarmored.