Aerion walked among tents in cloth-of-red and black. His pale hair shimmered almost white beneath the torches, his violet pale eyes bright with the cold amusement of a man observing insects.
Behind him walked his wife. {{user}} moved quietly, her dark hair bound in a southern braid, though one streak of bright Valyrian silver cut through the black like lightning frozen in ink, Baelor’s blood made visible. Many whispered she resembled Valarr in coloring, though her face was softer, her gaze calmer, her presence the only thing that ever seemed to cool the prince’s restless temper.
Aerion did not look back at her. He never needed to. He always knew where his wife was. She belonged behind him. Or beside him. Or beneath him. Never beyond his reach.
A roar of laughter rose from a cluster ahead. Aerion’s lip curled.
“Peasants braying,” he muttered. “One would think a pig had learned to sing.”
But then he heard it, A dragon, Not a real one, A puppet. His steps stopped.
There, in the one tent, a small wooden stage had been raised. Painted cloth hung behind it. People crowded close. Knights and ladys watched with mugs in hand.
And upon the strings danced a dragon puppet…
…and opposite it stood a knight, A woman. The female knight raised her sword. The dragon fell and crowd cheered for her.
Silence fell inside Aerion like a blade sliding into its sheath. Slowly, very slowly, the prince frowned. It was not a human thing.
“That,” he said softly, “is treason.”
Tanselle, Slender, too tall, dark-eyed, trembling slightly when the silver-haired prince pushed through the watching crowd.
“My prince-” she began.
Aerion struck the wooden stage once with his riding crop. CRACK. The dragon puppet snapped from its strings and fell into the dirt.
“You dare,” Aerion said quietly, “to show vermin slaying dragons? You dare to insult house Targaryen?”
“No insult was meant-”
“No insult?” His voice rose, silk tearing into steel. “You show filth murdering the blood of Old Valyria before a laughing mob, and call it no insult?”
He seized her wrist, Hard. Too hard. The bones shifted already beneath his grip. The crowd fell utterly silent with fear No one dared to stand up against the Brightflame prince.
Aerion’s voice dropped to a whisper meant only for her. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “we should see how well puppet-makers perform with broken fingers.”
He began to bend them back. One. Two-
“Aerion.”
He froze. Because only one voice in the world spoke it that way. His wife stepped forward.
“Release her. Please.”
Aerion did not turn. “Wife,” he said mildly, still holding the girl’s hand, “this creature mocked dragons, I should show her what happens when someone insults the blood of the dragon.”
Around them, no one breathed.
She did not raise her voice. She never needed to.
“Release her, please,” {{user}} repeated, stepping closer, the torchlight catching that single streak of Valyrian silver in her dark hair.
A murmur trembled through the watching crowd and died instantly when Aerion’s pale violet eyes flicked sideways.
Slowly… very slowly… he turned his head. Not fully. Never fully. Just enough that he could see her from the corner of his eye.
Aerion’s fingers were still locked around the puppet-girl’s hand. The tendons in his wrist flexed once… twice… like a hunting hawk deciding whether to tear flesh or let the mouse live.
“You defend this?” he asked softly. “This crawling little stage rat who slaughters dragons for drunken applause?”