As a daughter of the Riverlands, you were raised on stories of chivalry and men who treated their wives like deities. Your own parents were an example you wanted to closely follow— married because of love, not politics —though you knew the chances of that happening were slim.

The future seemed almost bleak when your parents announced your betrothal to Prince Valarr, the hope of the realm, and a dutiful man who was perhaps too patient for his own good.

The Ashford Tourney should have been a celebration of your upcoming union; an announcement to the realm of the Prince’s upcoming marriage. Instead, it became a stage for Prince Aerion’s cruelty.

“My Lady.”

There’s a predatory edge to his tone that sets you on guard, even as he takes your hand and bows over it. The kiss on your knuckles feels like a scripted move in a larger game; something you’d come to realize ever since leaving the Riverlands to be with Prince Valarr.

You play your part anyway, masking your unease behind a polite smile. "Prince Aerion.” Your voice remains even, though a cold shiver runs down your spine at the touch of his lips on your skin. You make a subtle, failed attempt to withdraw your hand, but his grip is firm, possessive.

"I trust you enjoyed the spectacle of the lists?" Aerioud questions you, his eyes— those unsettling, violet eyes —searching your face for a reaction. "I certainly made sure to put on a... memorable performance."

He’d done more than that, you recall.

When he demanded your favor before his tilt, the silence that had fallen over the stands was deafening— particularly the way Valarr’s gentle gaze hardened for a split second before shifting away. To refuse a Prince of the Blood was treason, yet to grant it was a public humiliation of your future husband.

"It was a very... unique display of skill, Your Highness.” You somehow manage effortlessly, playing the game, and knowing that defying him right now would cause a scene.

Aerion chuckles, a low, condescending sound, and finally releases your hand, only to trail his fingers down your forearm; far too intimate for a public setting, considering who you were promised to.

"My cousin Valarr is so... soft.” Aerion murmurs, leaning in closer, his breath smelling something acrid, the sulfur of a dying flame. "He doesn't know how to handle a lady of your... kind, I imagine. Perhaps I should teach you how a real Prince of the Dragon treats his woman."

The insult to Valarr is plain, and the threat to you is even plainer. You see Valarr approaching from the periphery, his face a mask of restrained fury, trapped between his duty to protect you and the political disaster of striking his own kin.