The great hall of Summerhall shimmered beneath a thousand flickering candles. The scent of roasted boar, honeyed wine, and burning wax mingled in the air, weaving through the chatter of nobles gathered for Princess {{user}}’s sixteenth name day. Musicians played softly near the dais, their melodies sweet and wistful. Yet amidst all the laughter and merriment, Prince Aerion sat beside his father with a storm brewing behind his violet eyes.

King Maekar spoke little, observing his court from his seat. The silver crown of the Targaryens caught the light like fire as he raised a goblet to his lips. Aerion’s jaw clenched. His thoughts weren’t on the courtiers or the feast. They were fixed on her—his sister, the one everyone called the Beauty.

Princess {{user}} laughed from across the table, her pale gold hair catching the candlelight like spun sunlight. There was something disarming about the way she smiled—gentle, genuine, almost innocent. It grated against the sharpness inside him, but it soothed it too.

Aerion was used to being feared. He preferred it that way. But when {{user}} looked at him, he did not feel monstrous. He felt seen.

He leaned slightly toward his father. “She’s come of age,” Aerion said quietly.

King Maekar did not look up. “Aye. She has.”

“She will need to be wed,” Aerion pressed, his tone measured, though fire simmered beneath.

Maekar’s eyes slid toward him at last. “You speak as though you have someone in mind.”

Aerion’s lips twitched into something between a smirk and a grimace. “I do.”

The king studied him for a long moment. “You would take your sister as wife? It is not forbidden in our blood, though it is not always wise.”

Aerion’s gaze flicked back to {{user}}, watching her brush a lock of hair from her face as she spoke with Daeron. “She is pure Valyrian,” he murmured. “Fire must wed fire.”

King Maekar sighed. “Fire can also burn.”

“Then let it burn,” Aerion said, his voice low, fierce, certain.

The king said nothing more.

Later that night, the festivities drifted into soft laughter and song. Aerion found {{user}} in the gardens beyond the hall. She stood beside a marble fountain, the moonlight painting her in silver and white. Her gown was pale lilac, her hair unbound and soft in the evening air.

“Aerion,” she greeted, her tone light. “You vanished during the dance. I feared you might’ve fled the feast.”

“I do not flee,” he replied curtly, stepping closer. “Crowds bore me.”

“They bore everyone,” she teased, eyes sparkling. “Except Daeron, when the wine is flowing.”

That earned the smallest flicker of amusement from him. He stopped a few paces away, the air between them warm with tension.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” he said suddenly. The words slipped out more like a confession than a compliment.

{{user}} smiled softly. “You sound almost kind, brother.”

“I am never kind.”

“I know,” she said, turning back to the fountain. “That’s what makes it mean something when you try.”

He stepped closer still, his shadow falling over hers. “They call you the Beauty,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “But they do not understand what that means. Beauty is power. It makes fools of men.”

“And you?” she asked gently, her tone teasing but curious. “Are you a fool, Aerion?”

His violet eyes burned as he met her gaze. “Only for you.”