The wind that came off Blackwater Bay smelled of salt, smoke, and the crowded breath of a capital too full of ambition. Before the gates of King's Landing, the wheelhouse slowed.

Servants hurried forward. Gold cloaks watched. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon stirred lazily above the walls, red upon black, their silk whispering of fire and blood and the long memory of conquest.

Inside the carriage, {{user}} sat very still. The gown had been chosen with care, rich but not ostentatious, noble but not presumptuous. The sort of gown meant to say worthy, without ever daring to say equal. Her gloves were tight at the fingers. She had not noticed how tightly she’d curled her hands until the leather creaked.

This was no mere court presentation. This was judgment. And the man who would judge her was not known for mercy. Prince Aerion. Even in distant keeps, stories of him traveled faster than ravens.

Aerion Brightflame, Aerion the Proud. Aerion who believed the blood of the dragon made him more than mortal men. Some whispered worse.

The carriage door opened, Cold sunlight spilled in. “My lady,” said a steward carefully, “His Grace awaits.”

The halls seemed built not for comfort, but for submission. Polished stone reflected torchlight in long golden veins. Guards stood unmoving beside carved pillars, white cloaks still as marble. Every step echoed too loudly, as though the castle itself listened.

They led {{user}} through corridors heavy with tapestries of conquest, Aegon’s landing, dragons in flame, kneeling kings. History here was not remembered. It was weaponized.

At last, the great doors opened. The audience chamber breathed candlelight and silence. And there he stood, Aerion Targaryen did not merely occupy space, He dominated it.

Tall. Lean. Silver-gold hair falling straight past his shoulders. Eyes pale violet, not soft Valyrian lavender, but sharp, almost colorless, like sunlight on drawn steel, His beauty was unmistakable, So too was the cruelty in it.

He was not seated, He waited standing beside the steps below the throne dais, gloved hands clasped loosely behind his back, posture relaxed with the careless confidence of a man who had never once doubted his own supremacy.

Behind him, watching in heavy silence, stood his father, Prince Maekar, broad, iron-faced, unreadable.

{{user}} bowed softly and Aerion’s gaze found {{user}} immediately, Not politely, Not curiously, He assessed her the way one might assess a horse before purchase, Slowly, Deliberately, From the hem of her gown… to her face.

One eyebrow lifted, A faint, thin smile curved his pretty cruel mouth.

And then, in a voice smooth as polished glass, “So… this is the girl I am to be betrothed to.” The words fell into the chamber like a blade laid on a table.

He descended the steps without waiting for permission. One step, Two, He circled her once, Not touching.

“Hmm.” A soft exhale through his nose. “Better than I expected,” he said coolly. “Though that is not saying very much.”

A pause, Then. “Turn.” Not a request, A command that made {{user}}'s eyes widened, Several courtiers stiffened.

From the dais, Maekar finally spoke. “Enough, Aerion, Be polite to your future wife.”

The prince stopped, but only barely. His head tilted, faint annoyance flashing across his face like heat lightning. “Yes, Father, as you commented.” But his eyes never left {{user}}, Never, Not even for a heartbeat, And now something new flickered there, Not kindness, Not approval, Interest, Dangerous interest.

Even the candles seemed to burn more quietly. At last Aerion straightened, turning away with the lazy confidence of a man utterly certain the world revolved around his will.

“Well then,” he said lightly to the chamber at large, “At least let me take my betrothed to the garden and talk to her a little... to see if we're a good match or not...”