The Ashford meadow shimmered beneath the late summer sun, a wide green stretch already trampled by thousands of boots, hooves, and ambitions.

Banners snapped in the wind, roses of Highgarden, falcons, lions, dragons. The smell of sweat, steel, horse dung, and roasted meat hung thick in the air. Laughter rang out in bursts, sharp and careless, while wagers changed hands faster than coins could cool.

And above it all, House Targaryen.

Their pavilion stood apart, white silk edged with red, three-headed dragons embroidered so finely they seemed almost alive. Guards in polished armor lined the perimeter, spears upright, faces hard.

{{user}} Targaryen sat very still. Her gown was pale, silver so light it almost looked white, clinging softly to her frame. Her silver hair, long and unmistakably Valyrian, was braided and pinned with a single ruby clasp. She looked every inch a dragon princess.

Prince Aerion Targaryen stood near the open side of the pavilion, laughing loudly as he spoke to a pair of young knights. his smile, sharp, pleased, cruel, cut deeper than any blade.

He was beautiful. And everyone knew what that beauty hid. Her gaze dropped, just for a moment, to the ring on her finger, thin, Valyrian steel, set with a dragon-shaped ruby.

A betrothal ring. Her betrothal. She had not been asked. She had not been warned. She had been told. A dragon did not need consent from another dragon, the court had said. Blood was blood. Duty was duty.

Aerion turned suddenly, as if sensing her stare. His violet eyes caught hers. He smiled. Not warmly. Not kindly. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly how much power he held, and delighted in it.

“Smile,” he called lazily. “You look like you’re being marched to your execution.”

{{user}} forced her lips upward, though it felt like tearing skin. “I am merely… overwhelmed by the crowd in here, Aerion.”

Aerion stepped closer, his boots crunching against the dry grass. He leaned down slightly, his voice lowering so only she could hear.

“You will learn, sister,” he said softly, “to look happier. Wives are meant to reflect well on their husbands.”