The tournament at Ashford Meadow had begun like a song.

Bright banners snapped in the summer wind, their colors too cheerful for a realm that still bled from old wounds. Lords laughed too loudly, knights polished armor that would soon be dented and bloodied, and the smallfolk pressed close, hungry for spectacle.

Prince Aerion Targaryen rode in as if the meadow itself belonged to him.

Silver haired, armor chased with dragonfire etchings, his presence split the crowd like a blade through cloth.

{{user}} watched him from beneath the shade of their pavilion, one hand resting unconsciously against her heart with fear.

The clash came suddenly.

A hedge knight, Duncan the Tall, had spoken when he should not have. Challenged when silence might have saved him. Aerion’s words had been sharp, mocking, soaked in the same venom he used on everyone beneath him.

But Dunk did not bow.

Steel rang. Shouts erupted. The world fractured into chaos.

Aerion struck first, fast and vicious, but rage makes even dragons careless. Dunk’s fist connected with his jaw, hard enough to snap his head to the side. Gasps tore through the crowd as the prince of the blood staggered, blood bright and obscene against Valyrian steel.

Another blow. Then another.

When it ended, Aerion stood swaying, his face split, his pride in tatters.

His eyes found {{user}} across the field.

Not wounded. Hunted.

That night, the air around their tent was thick with fury.

Aerion sat on a low camp stool, armor discarded, shirt torn open to expose bruised skin already darkening. Blood traced a thin line from his brow to his cheekbone. His jaw was swollen, split at the corner of his mouth.

He looked feral.

{{user}} knelt before him with a bowl of water and clean cloths, her movements careful, controlled, too controlled.

Neither spoke at first.

When she reached up to clean the cut near his eye, Aerion hissed and caught her wrist, fingers digging into her skin.

“Do it gently,” he snapped. “Or don’t do it at all.”

She did not pull away.

“I am,” she said quietly.

That seemed to anger him more.

“They saw,” Aerion growled. “All of them. A hedge knight. A nobody.” His grip tightened. “I will have his head.”

{{user}} finally met his gaze.

In the flickering lantern light, his violet eyes burned, humiliation, hatred, something unhinged beneath it all.

“If you kill him,” she said softly, “they will remember you not as a dragon… but as a man afraid of being struck.”

His hand fell from her wrist. Slowly. Dangerously.

She pressed the cloth to his cheek, wiping away the blood. He flinched but did not stop her. Her fingers trembled, whether from fear or from the weight of everything unspoken, she did not know.

“You take his side now?” Aerion sneered.