Dawn cast a metallic light over the camp. Nervous whispers drifted between the tents as smiths made their final adjustments, tightening straps and securing plates onto the chosen champions. The air smelled of sweat, oil, and freshly honed steel.

Aerion Targaryen was preparing his horse. The black stallion pawed impatiently at the ground while he fastened the breastplate and chamfron with cold, precise movements. The three-headed dragon gleamed upon his armor red on black, the sigil of House Targaryen.

The event had been set for today.

At the war council, Aerion had proposed that “the seven trials” would decide the matter seven knights against seven, as in the old Andal custom of trial by seven in Westeros. He had smiled then, sharp and mocking. He had not believed Duncan capable of rallying seven knights to his side.

But Duncan had done it.

Aerion turned.And he saw you. Behind the visor, his blue eyes hardened. “What are you doing here?” His voice was sharp as a blade. Yet something else flickered in his gaze something no one else was ever meant to see.

He did not want you there. To the world, he was the cruel prince the man the chronicles would later call Brightflame. The blood of the Targaryens burned hot within him, and the shadow of their madness lingered in the curve of his smile. In the Seven Kingdoms, many feared him. Some hated him. Others admired him.

But you… You were the only person in his life he was capable of loving. His armor caught the light as he stepped closer. Beneath the steel strained muscle, pride, fury. A prince who chose the sword over forgiveness. A Targaryen who did not know fear except for one thing. Losing you.