Aerion had ridden in the lists that morning and broken his lance cleanly — not upon his opponent’s shield, but upon the knight’s horse. The beast screamed, collapsed, and took its rider with it. The crowd had gasped. The judges had ruled.

«Disqualified».

The word still burned hotter than the summer sun over Ashford Meadow.

Now the halls of Lord Ashford’s castle echoed with the hard strike of his boots. Servants melted from his path. Tapestries stirred in the wake of his passing like witnesses too frightened to speak.

They called it dishonorable.

He called it decisive.

At the turn of a corridor, he saw her. His cousin — daughter of his uncle Baelor Breakspear, heir to the Iron Throne. Her Silver-gold hair catching the torchlight. Violet eyes. The blood of the dragon, undiluted by Dornish softness in her features, whatever else ran through her veins.

She is what should have been his.

Had he been born with a sister, he would have wed her without question. Instead, he had asked for this match — asked plainly, as was his right. And both his father, Maekar I Targaryen, and his uncle had denied him.

Denied him.

As though he were unworthy of his own blood. Aerion slowed as he approached her. The fury did not leave him; it sharpened. He did not bow.

“Cousin,” He said softly, the word sliding from his tongue like silk drawn over steel. His gaze lingered — not with warmth, but assessment.

“You watched the lists. I saw you. Did you flinch… or did you admire the certainty of it?”