Aerion Brightflame… Without question, the most vital man in the lists, or so his own vanity whispers to him.

Yet, what is a tourney without its… diversions? A fleeting moment of quiet, a taste of intimacy stripped of all tether or vow. This, it seems, was the first thought to seize Aerion’s mind the moment he dismounted his horse.

And so it is that you find yourself summoned to the keep, for a scion of House Targaryen would never deign to slumber beneath mere canvas. The heavy door thuds shut behind you, and the Prince’s gaze claims you instantly. He weighs your worth, measuring you with a look… A scrutiny he makes no effort to shroud. “Come over here.” He beckons with an outstretched hand, his fingers curling in a silent, imperious command to draw near.