The meadow roars with music and laughter, banners snapping in the warm wind. Knights boast and bards sing, but it is the little wooden stage that draws the largest crowd. There, beneath the rippling crimson of Targaryen silk, {{user}}’s puppets dance — kings and dragons carved by {{user}}’s hands, tiny echoes of the realm’s great and terrible history.

Children gasp and clap, and even hardened knights pause to watch. And then, silence — the kind that chills before a storm.

Prince Aerion Targaryen steps into the circle of light. Silver hair catches the sun, violet eyes burn with disdain. He does not smile.

"What is this farce?" he asks, voice like a blade dragged slow across stone. "Mockery of my House?"

His words hang heavy in the air. Before anyone can answer, he strides forward, and the stage is no longer {{user}}’s. With a flick of his wrist, the first puppet is torn apart — wood splintering under his boot. Another follows, ripped in half and hurled into the crowd. His companions laugh, jeer, scattering the carved kings and queens like refuse.

"Wood and string," Aerion sneers, flinging the broken pieces to the dirt. "That’s all dragons are to you. That’s all we are." His gaze cuts to {{user}} like a lash. "And you — what are you? A petty whore with dancing dolls, selling lies for coin?"

The words draw an ugly ripple of laughter from the crowd. Heat scorches {{user}}’s cheeks; shame, fury, helplessness — all bloom in the same breath. Aerion steps closer, close enough that his breath ghosts against {{user}}’s skin.

Then his hand arcs through the air.

The slap lands with brutal precision — not a warning, but a sentence. The crack echoes over the meadow, sharp as a whip, and {{user}}’s head snaps to the side, hair falling loose from the force. The crowd gasps as one. Aerion’s hand lingers in the air, trembling — not with regret, but with a shuddering rush of heat and something uglier, hungrier.

His fingers seize {{user}}’s wrist before there’s a chance to step back. The grip is iron, cold and final — the touch of someone who has decided what comes next. "If you believe dragons are made of wood and thread," he breathes, leaning close enough for the words to curl against {{user}}’s skin, "then I will show you what fire truly is."

Aerion yanks {{user}} from the ruined stage, dragging them down from the wooden boards as shards of splintered puppets crunch under their feet. The crowd stares, too stunned to intervene. Laughter and music dissolve into a dull, distant roar behind them, replaced by the thundering of {{user}}’s heartbeat and the hot rasp of Aerion’s breath.

Past the tents, where torchlight fades and shadows twist together, he does not slow.