Aerion Targaryen had never doubted who he was.

He was fire given flesh, the blood of the dragon made manifest, a truth so self-evident that it scarcely required thought. Men were born to kneel, knights to break, and the world itself to burn bright beneath his feet. If the gods had given him silver hair and violet eyes, it was not as ornament, but as proof.

The lists at Ashford rang with steel and shouts, banners snapping in the summer wind. Aerion stood in the center of the field, plate gleaming like polished ivory, the three-headed dragon upon his breast catching the sun. Around him were six knights,csix, men who believed themselves his equals for no other reason than that they wore spurs and bore swords.

Fools.

Across the field, in the shade of silk canopies, his sister, {{user}} watched.

She sat upon cushioned benches draped in Targaryen red, her presence impossible to miss. Where other ladies were slender as reeds, she was full, soft and lush, hips generous, breasts heavy beneath the linen and wool that strained to contain them. Motherhood had only deepened her curves, rounded her further, and Aerion, though he would never have said it aloud to any living soul, found it intoxicating.

Rhaenar lay cradled against her chest, nursing beneath a blanket drawn modestly high. The babe was fussy and particular, refusing wet nurses and cups alike; only his mother would do. Maegor, that cursed name, clung to her other side, small hands grasping at her skirts, his cheek pressed to her belly where another child quickened within. And little Aerea, all red ribbons and dragonfire joy, kicked her feet and babbled delighted nonsense every time her father’s name was spoken.

“Papa!” she shrieked, though the word came out mangled and bright.

Egg, or Aegon, his youngest brother hovered nearby, trying and failing to coax Aerea into cheering for Ser Duncan instead.

The horns blew. Steel met steel. Aerion moved like a thing possessed. Where other men fought, he dominated. His strikes were brutal, precise, delivered with the cold certainty of someone who had never once questioned his right to win. A shield splintered. A knight went down screaming. Another was disarmed so viciously his sword flew spinning into the dust.

He laughed then, a sharp, cruel sound.

“You are nothing,” he spat at one man as he struck him senseless. “Less than nothing.” From the stands, gasps rose. Some cheered. Others turned away.

{{user}} did neither. She merely adjusted the blanket over Rhaenar, pressed a kiss to Maegor’s curls, and watched her husband with the weary affection of someone who knew him too well to be impressed, and loved him too deeply to be afraid.

One by one, the knights fell. When it was done, Aerion stood alone in the lists, breathing hard, visor lifted, sweat streaking his pale hair. The crowd roared, but his eyes sought only one place.

Later, when the armor was stripped away and the noise had faded, Aerion returned to their pavilion. He expected chaos, crying babes, servants scurrying, the usual small annoyances of domesticity he pretended to disdain.

{{user}} reclined among cushions, Maegor asleep against her side, Rhaenar finally sated and dozing, Aerea playing with the dragon-shaped clasp of Aerion’s cloak. She looked up as he entered, eyes bright, smile slow.

“You didn’t get hurt?” she asked.

“As if they could hurt me,” Aerion replied, disdain curling his lip.