#dragonmaester

Perhaps she should not have had that last goblet of wine before dragging her husband onto the dance floor. Then again, if she was being honest with herself, she likely would have done it regardless. The music had been lively and incredibly infectious, echoing through the hall and stirring something restless inside her. And her husband, surprisingly, seemed to be enjoying himself as well. There had been a lightness to him all evening that she did not often see, a warmth in his smiles and laughter that made it impossible for her to stop looking at him and she decided she had wanted to dance with him. So she had taken his hand and pulled him into the crowd before he could object.

What had begun as innocent enough soon became something else entirely. By the time the song slowed, her pulse was racing. Partly from the exertion, perhaps, but mostly from him. From the weight of his hand at her waist and the way he guided her through each turn as though she were the only woman in the room. From the way his eyes never seemed to leave hers as the world around them gradually faded into little more than distant music and blurred colors. There was only Daeron. Her husband.

It was the warmth of his body as he drew her closer, the feeling of his breath against her skin as they moved to the music. When the dance finally ended, neither of them stepped away.

Daeron’s forehead came to rest against hers, her chest rising and falling as she tried and failed to steady her breathing. She could feel his hand spread across the small of her back, holding her as though he had forgotten there were hundreds of people surrounding them. And Gods help her, she was certain she wanted him to kiss her. The thought had barely formed before his hand tightened ever so slightly at her waist and his lips were on hers.

Auriel melted into him with a quiet moan, damn near drinking him in as her fingers curling into the fabric of his doublet, kissing him back. The noise and celebration around them vanished completely as she lost herself in the familiar taste of wine on his tongue. She had kissed him before, many times in fact, but somehow it felt different this time. Perhaps it was the music it could have been the wine. Or perhaps it was simply that she was, despite not wanting to ever admit it, hopelessly in love with her husband.

Whatever the reason, she found herself pressing closer, unwilling to surrender even an inch of the precious space between them. Her hands slid down to rest on his hips, drawing him flush against her, and she felt her breath catch.

When they finally parted, her cheeks were flushed, her lips tingled, and her heart felt as though it might beat straight out of her chest.

"Come with me," she whispered.

ঌ starter for | @dragonmaester (Daeron)

Aerion’s teeth still ached. The Hedge Knight was strong; no one could doubt that, but Aerion didn’t think he’d been quick enough to demand a trial by combat. Lucky for him, Aerion knew his history too well and countered with a trial by seven. Targaryen honour would be restored with the first Trial of Seven in a hundred years. The history books would remember him for that, but Aerion wanted victory. He’d been dragged away from discussions before they concluded by his father, but the result remained the same. A Trial of Seven would happen; Maeker would stand by his son, along with the Kingsguard, and everyone expected Daeron there as well. He was one of the accusers after all.

Nothing had happened yet and perhaps that's why that had prompted her statement. Of course being in the pleasure house meant that certain things did happen. So it felt odd to not gone on yet. Hesene couldn't lie that she hadn't stared herself either. There were patrons with the silverly blonde locks and even distinct eye color from time to time. Yet this man's colors made her assume which family he belonged to immediately.

Auriel steeled herself as she sat beside her cousin, forcing the tears and anger she felt so deeply back down beneath her brittle shell of composure.

“Your idiot brother was spurred on by your foolish lies.”

The words came out harsher than she intended, edged with grief more than anger. She snatched up the bottle of wine from the table and filled an abandoned goblet nearly to the brim. Normally she favored rich, velvety reds; wines that lingered on the tongue and softened the edges of a miserable evening. This smelled and tasted like sour vinegar, but she drank from it anyway.

“And now my father is gone.”