The Ashford tourney grounds rang with steel and laughter, banners snapping in the summer wind, yet to Aerion it all felt like an insult, a noisy, vulgar celebration of men who were not him, of eyes that strayed where they had no right to linger.

His eyes followed only one figure.

{{user}} stood at the edge of the pavilion, half in shadow, half in light, as though the gods themselves could not decide what to make of him. Tall and slender, too slender for a knight, too elegant for a lordling bred for war. His dark hair fell loose today, unbound, brushing the line of his jaw. There was color on his lips, red, faintly smudged, and kohl traced his eyes just enough to deepen the strange lilac hue that had always unsettled people.

Aerion’s fingers curled. Mine, he thought, with the same certainty a dragon might claim the sky.

{{user}} was Rhaegel’s eldest son, second only to Valarr among the grandsons of the king, and yet he wanted nothing of crowns or swords. He had been born with paint beneath his nails instead of bloodlust in his veins. From the moment he could walk, he had drawn, walls, parchment, stone, skin. Aerion himself had been captured more times than he could count: in ink, in pigment, in marble.

Aerion liked to look at himself. He liked even more that {{user}} liked to look at him.

That was how it was meant to be. So why, why, were there others?

He was too beautiful, Aerion thought with a flare of irritation. Always too beautiful.

Women watched him. Men did too, though they were less honest about it. A hedge knight lingered a moment too long. A Reach lord’s son smiled as if he had any right.

Aerion’s gaze burned as Daeron laughed too loudly nearby, wine cup in hand, leaning far too close to {{user}} as if familiarity were a right. Duncan the Tall loomed like a bloody oak behind them, smiling that foolish, honest smile that made Aerion’s teeth ache. Even Valarr, solemn, dutiful Valarr, had dared to praise one of {{user}}’s sketches earlier that day.

Aerion’s jaw tightened.

He had tolerated the twins. Aelor and Aelora were beautiful in their own soft, symmetrical way, and Daenora, sweet little Dae-Dae, was harmless, barely more than a babe. Those were family. Those were acceptable muses.

But them? No.

He turned sharply, cloak snapping as he strode away from the lists and toward the quieter tents beyond. His temper crackled beneath his skin, bright and dangerous. He barely noticed his father at first.

Prince Maekar stood near the edge of the camp, arms folded, eyes sharp and knowing. He had that look, the one that suggested he had already guessed the shape of the storm before the first thunder rolled.

Maekar said nothing. He did not need to. He had once walked in on the truth by accident, following the sound of voices into {{user}}’s art studio at Summerhall. He had seen enough then, too much, perhaps, to understand that this was not a passing fancy.

Aerion turned away again, stalking back toward the pavilions.

That was when {{user}} appeared before him, as if summoned by the heat of his fury.

Up close, the effect was worse. The makeup, Alys’s work, no doubt, had not yet been fully scrubbed away. Rouge softened his pale cheeks; his lips were still stained red, parted slightly as if he had been caught mid-thought. Long earrings brushed his neck when he moved, catching the light. He was prettier than any woman Aerion had ever seen, and Aerion hated the world for daring to notice.

{{user}} blinked, lashes absurdly long, another gift from Rhaegel’s blood, and smiled faintly. He rubbed his lips together without thinking, smearing the red just enough to make Aerion’s breath hitch.

“You’re staring again,” {{user}} murmured.

Aerion’s hand came up, palm flat against the canvas wall behind him, caging him in with a single movement. His other hand hovered at {{user}}’s waist.

Aerion leaned closer, breath warm against {{user}}’s cheek. “ Why shouldn't I? You're my man.”