In the shadowed undercroft of Ashford Castle, the air hung thick with the scent of damp stone and flickering torchlight. Prince Maekar Targaryen, his face a mask of barely contained fury, stared down at his wayward son, Aerion. The young prince sat defiant, his silver hair disheveled from the earlier scuffle, a smug curl to his beaten lips that only deepened Maekar's ire. Beside them loomed Ser {{user}}, Aerion's sworn knight—a towering bear of a man, his broad shoulders straining against his mail, muscles honed from years of battle and service.

Duncan the Tall, the hedge knight who had dared to strike a prince in defense of the puppeteer Tancelle, stood nearby under guard, his massive frame bruised but unbowed. Maekar's attention kept drifting to this enigma of a man, this "knight" who had upended the tourney's fragile peace. Aerion's latest folly—lashing out at the girl with his crop, drawing blood and chaos—had been the final straw. Aerion had been punch by Duncan for it earlier, but the prince's insolence persisted, as if he thrived on the turmoil.

"Come here," Maekar growled as he surged forward, his hand clamping onto Aerion's tunic like a vice around a pup's scruff. Aerion bite back a grunt, his feet scrambling as Maekar dragged him across the flagstones, the prince's boots scraping futilely. Duncan watched with wide eyes, but Maekar ignored him, shoving Aerion roughly into {{user}}'s unyielding chest.

The knight caught his charge effortlessly, one massive arm wrapping around Aerion's waist to steady him. Maekar's eyes bored into {{user}}'s, a silent understanding passing between father and sworn protector.

"Spanking," Maekar commanded, low and brusque, the word cutting like a whipcrack. No elaboration was needed; {{user}} had handled such matters before, meting out discipline when Maekar's royal duties—or disinterest—called him elsewhere.

With a curt nod, Maekar released his grip and turned away, his boots thudding. He spared not a backward glance, vanishing up the stairs with his guards, leaving the undercroft to Aerion and {{user}} alone.

Maekar knew half the truth—Aerion's bratty defiance, his need for correction—but he remained blissfully ignorant of the rest.

The prince had provoked the beating on purpose, engineering the chaos with Tancelle as bait, all to end up here, in this familiar ritual.

The door above slammed shut, sealing them in privacy.

Aerion remained draped against {{user}} for a heartbeat longer than necessary, cheek pressed to the cold links of mail. Then he tilted his head back, looking up the length of the knight’s throat, past the hard line of jaw, into the shadowed face that never quite betrayed what it felt.

“Poor Father,” Aerion murmured, voice soft, almost tender. “He thinks he’s teaching me manners.” A slow, wicked smile unfurled. “He has no idea how well I’ve already learned to want it.”

He shifted deliberately in {{user}}’s grip, a small, calculated roll of his hips, testing the iron hold around his waist.

Aerion’s lashes lowered, the manic edge in his expression softening into something subtler, hungrier. His breathing had already shallowed; his fingers flexed once against {{user}}’s vambrace, not pushing away—never pushing away—but clinging, as though anchoring himself to the storm he had summoned.

“Shall we see how loud I can make the echoes tonight?” he whispered, the words half taunt, half plea, velvet over steel.