#e&achapterthree

“Dragons once ruled the skies.”

“Princelings will follow with crowns of flies.”

Lucerea awoke with a violent start. Her body shot up in a panic. Her nails dug into the silk sheets beneath her, while her breath was caught somewhere between her throat and chest. For a fleeting moment, she was certain the wicked murmurs slipped through her head and followed her into the physical world. Her lilac eyes swept across the pavilion with heightened awareness, lingering at shadowed corners and the spill of pale light across the carpeted floor. The tall candles all burned into embers, and there were no sounds other than her uneven breathing and the soft snores from Alester beside her.

She untangled herself from the silk sheets twisted around her legs, easing off the edge of the mattress. The nightgown she wore was spun from expensive ivory Pentoshi silk, a ten-and-six nameday gift from her cousin. In those earlier years, the gown hung awkwardly over a body not fully formed; she drowned in the loose material, swallowing her frame. Now, it would be sin to let any man see her. The delicate garment draped the natural curves of her figure, clinging close against her waist and hips, even more from cold sweat. The sheer fabric outlined the supple shape of her breasts, the peaks perked when a breeze passed through the room.

She stepped out of the pavilion flaps, her bare feet touching the dampened ground. Clusters of grey clouds stretched across the sky, while light rain covered the meadow. She tried to recall the fragments that plagued her dreams, but every time she got close to reaching them, the images dissolved like ink in water. It must’ve been graphic. She could feel the intensity on her skin and the words embedded. She heard them before, multiple voices molded together whispering the phrases to her in a lullaby. She could not discern if it was a promise or a threat.

Dawn struggled to break through the overcast horizon. The meadow lay washed in pale blue light, dew clinging to trampled grass and pavilion ropes were strung tight across the field. Banners from a dozen noble houses stirred and snapped in the cool air, their colors dulled by the cloudy morning. A few staggering revelers swayed past, boots dragging through damp earth, their laughter hoarse and heads bowed from too much ale the night before. Somewhere beyond the rows of tents, birds called to one another from the hedgerows, their sharp notes cutting through the hush before the day’s clamor began. Before long, squires would fetch armor, lances would be inspected, and men would boast of victories not yet won.

Lucerea slipped back into the privacy of the Swann pavilion, pushing aside the heavy canvas flap and letting it fall closed behind her. The interior smelled faintly of wool, leather, and last night’s embers dying in a small brazier. She reached for a fur lined cloak draped over a chair and settled it over her shoulders, drawing it close at her throat to guard against the chill that crept in from the meadow. The fur brushed soft against her neck.

She crossed to the small table near the center of the tent, lifted the decanter, and poured herself a goblet of deep red wine. The liquid caught the muted light as it filled the cup. She brought it to her lips and drank slowly, letting the warmth slide down her throat and steady the restless edge beneath her ribs. Sleep offered her little peace. Her dreams tangled with images of swollen rivers and empty roads, with the echo of her brothers’ laughter fading into mist. The weight of their absence stayed, sharp as the cold air.

Behind her, the mattress shifted with a rustle of sheets. “You’re up early,” Alester murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He pushed himself upright, the blankets pooling at his hips, his bare chest rising and falling as he dragged his hands over his face. His hair stood in uneven strands, mousy brown touched faintly with ginger in the dim light. “Is something the matter?”

“Nothing,” Lucerea replied without turning. She took another sip of wine and let her gaze drift toward the faint outline of tents beyond the canvas flaps. “I must begin preparing for today. Lord Ashford visited at evenfall. He said my father and uncle will arrive.”

Alester straightened a little at that, rubbing a hand through his hair and leaving it more disordered than before. “That is good news.” He watched her from the bed, his eyes tracing the line of her shoulders beneath the fur cloak, the tilt of her head as she stood so still. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant call of a horn elsewhere in the meadow.

“I assume you will spend the day with your kin,” he said after a moment, his tone carefully neutral.

Lucerea turned her head slightly at that, catching the faint strain beneath his words. She set her goblet down slowly and reached again for the decanter, pouring more wine into the cup until it nearly brimmed. “I longed to see my family,” she said, her voice smooth and unhurried. “Months is a long time to be away. There is much to speak of.”

Alester hummed low in his throat, though his shoulders tensed. He rolled one arm, as if easing stiffness from sleep or something else entirely. “Will I see you for supper?” he asked, lifting his gaze fully to meet hers.

Lucerea pressed her lips together before answering. “Lord Ashford is hosting a feast before the joust. I will attend.” She lifted the goblet and took a slow sip. “You are welcome to join me.”

“With your family,” he said, pushing a hand back through his hair again. The gesture left it falling messier over his brow.

She lowered the goblet and regarded him steadily. “My family will not object to your presence.” The words left her mouth even and precise, though her fingers tightened around the stem of the cup.

“You think too kindly,” Alester muttered, looking away briefly before meeting her eyes again. “Your father and your brothers have never hidden their thoughts. Especially Aerion.”

Lucerea set the goblet down on the table with more force than necessary. The wine inside sloshed against the rim. She turned from him and placed her hand over the edge of the cup, her fingers curling slowly until the metal pressed hard into her palm. The knuckles whitened beneath the strain. For a heartbeat she remained like that, jaw set, breath held back.

“You are my lord husband,” she said at last, her voice controlled but edged sharp enough to cut. “I have not forgotten. You never fail to remind me of the vows I made.”

Alester gave a slow nod, as if sealing something unspoken between them. A faint exhale slipped from him, almost satisfied, though it did not quite soften the tightness in his jaw. He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing briefly over his mouth before dropping to his lap. He knew better than to push her further.

“I trust you will be careful,” he said, his voice quieter now. His eyes lingered on her back, “Only other dragons can harm a dragon.”

Lucerea’s fingers loosened from the rim of her goblet, though a faint crescent mark remained pressed into her palm. She did not turn immediately. The words settled between them, heavier than he perhaps intended. Outside, a distant shout rang out as squires began their morning duties, the sound of metal clinking faintly through the canvas walls.

Lucerea stood before the tall mirror set against the inner wall of the pavilion, the polished glass reflecting her in softened morning light that filtered through the canvas. The space around her smelled faintly of pressed linen, warm wax, and the trace of her perfume. Greta and Mae moved quietly at her sides, their hands busy with final adjustments, the rustle of velvet and jewelry filling the small enclosure. Outside, the distant clang of metal and the thud of practice lances carried from the lists. Alester left hours ago to stand at his father’s side, and Lucerea watched him go without comment. She hoped the day would claim him entirely, bury him in duties and discussions so that their paths would not cross again until darkness made it unavoidable.

She lowered her gaze to her reflection and let her hands glide slowly over the bodice of her gown. The velvet felt rich beneath her fingertips, dyed in a deep royal purple that shifted like ink under different angles of light. Intricate beadwork adorned the front, tiny crystals and dark amethysts stitched into symmetrical patterns that cascaded downward. Each movement caused the embellishments to catch the light in fleeting glimmers. Long sleeves of sheer lace encased her arms, the delicate floral patterns nearly translucent against her pale skin. The lace flared softly at her wrists, brushing against her knuckles when she moved.

Though the silver of her hair and the sharpness of her features marked her unmistakably as a Targaryen, today she wrapped herself in memory of another name. House Dayne. An ancient house spoken of swords forged from fallen stars and of pale dawn breaking over Dorne. The deep violet velvet and star-like embroidery honored that part of her lineage. It felt like standing beneath the night sky of Starfall, like pressing her cheek to her mother’s shoulder as a child and listening to stories of the Torrentine.

“Very lovely, my princess,” Greta murmured, pride warming her voice as she stepped closer to adjust the strands of silver hair framing Lucerea’s face. Greta’s hands were steady, despite her old age. She tended to Lucerea since she was small enough to sit on a stool and swing her legs while her hair was braided. “Mae, the tiara,” she added with a brisk wave of her hand.

Mae hurried to comply, nearly tripping in her haste. She cradled the slender silver tiara carefully, her cheeks already pink with excitement. When she smiled, the small gap between her front teeth showed, lending her an earnest charm. “Your eyes stand out more in this color, Princess Lucerea,” she said softly as she passed the tiara to the older handmaiden.

Greta placed the circlet gently atop Lucerea’s head, settling it into the twist of her hair so it sat secure and centered. The silver gleamed coolly against the deep violet and the pale iridescent of her hair. Lucerea studied herself again. The lilac of her eyes seemed to glow, almost luminous against the dark velvet.

“I want to look my best,” Lucerea said quietly, her gaze never leaving her reflection. She turned slightly to the side, watching how the fabric traced the line of her waist and hips. Her hand drifted down the flat plane of her stomach, smoothing the bodice as if erasing an unseen crease. “I must not be late.”

She gathered a portion of her skirt carefully in one hand, lifting it just enough to walk without disturbing the train. The velvet whispered across the rugs beneath her feet as she moved toward the pavilion entrance. At the threshold she paused and glanced back at Greta and Mae, offering them a small, composed smile. “Thank you.” Both women bowed their heads at once, satisfaction evident in their softened expressions.

Lucerea stepped out into the open air. The sun climbed higher now, casting a brighter light across the meadow. Her personal guards stood waiting, armor polished and helms tucked beneath their arms. At the sight of her, they straightened in unison. She gave a subtle gesture of her fingers, and they fell into step behind her without a word.

The path toward Ashford castle stretched ahead, worn from days of heavy foot traffic. As she walked, the velvet of her gown caught the sunlight, shifting between shades of violet and plum. Nobles lingering near their pavilions dipped into bows as she passed, murmuring respectful greetings. Common folk paused openly to stare, their eyes following her like a magnet. She did not slow, did not offer acknowledgment beyond the steady rhythm of her stride.

Her gaze remained fixed on the castle rising ahead. Orange and white banners fluttered from the towers, but beyond them she caught sight of red and black moving against the sky. The three headed dragon unfurled in the breeze. Her breath tightened for a fraction of a second before she lifted her skirts higher and lengthened her stride. The guards quickened to match her pace as she advanced toward the gates.

As soon as Lucerea passed beneath the stone archway and entered the courtyard within the castle walls, the noise shifted. The open meadow sounds faded behind her, replaced by the echo of boots against cobblestone and the distant clatter of servants carrying crates across the yard. Sunlight poured down between the towers, catching on polished armor and bright silks.

She spotted them almost at once. Two figures in white cloaks stood near the base of the steps leading into the keep, their armor gleaming despite the travel dust. Between them stood a young man she would recognize in any crowd. Brown hair fell neatly to his collar, interrupted by a striking white streak that cut through it like a flash of lightning. The sight of it tugged a cheeky smile from her before she could stop it.

With a small flick of her fingers, she dismissed her personal guards. They hesitated only a moment before falling back to give her space. Lucerea took a deep breath, holding her head up and crossed the courtyard with quicker steps.

“Do not bore the poor Kingsguard with your endless lectures on history,” she called out as she approached. “That is Aemon’s burden to bear.”

All three turned at the sound of her voice. The white cloaks dipped their heads at once in respectful greeting. Prince Valarr clicked his jaw in mock offense, though amusement lit his features. He turned his body towards Lucerea with a welcomed warmth.

“Perhaps I should present myself to the Citadel,” he replied smoothly. “Someone might finally appreciate my talents.”

Lucerea came to stand at his side, her smile bright and effortless, like the sun breaking through clouds. “The Citadel can barely withstand one Targaryen at a time,” she said lightly. “You are better left where you are.”

Valarr inclined his head but did not break eye contact. He took her hand with familiar ease and bent to press his lips to her knuckles. His touch lingered a heartbeat longer than courtesy required, his thumb brushing over the same spot in a subtle, absent motion. “It has been too long, cousin,” he said as he straightened, though his fingers still loosely held hers.

“I hear you have made yourself a champion of the lists,” she replied, studying him openly. “Improvement since our adolescence. Ser Donnel must be proud.”

Her gaze flicked toward the senior most Kingsguard beside them, and a knowing curve touched her lips. Valarr’s own mouth twitched as the memory rose between them, an awkward younger prince unseated far too quickly, his pride bruised more than his body.

“The prince has sharpened his skill since then, Princess,” Ser Donnel said evenly, his weathered face betraying the faintest hint of approval. “Prince Baelor speaks highly of his progress.”

“A favorite to win,” Ser Roland added, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “I would wager more than a few dragons on him.”

Lucerea nodded slowly, her gaze returning to Valarr. “You have shaped yourself well. The perfect heir’s heir.” Her tone softened just slightly. “It makes one almost envious.”

“It is expected of me,” Valarr replied, though the corner of his mouth lifted. He released her hand at last and rested his own over the hilt of his sword.

“Where are Matarys and Keira?” she asked, glancing past him as if they might emerge from behind the white cloaks at any moment.

“Matarys remains in King’s Landing,” he tipped his head to the side, “And my wife is at Summerhall. She tends to your sisters.” His eyes searched her face briefly before he added, “And Lord Alester?”

At the mention of her husband, the brightness of her smile dimmed just enough to notice. Her fingers drifted to the beading along her sleeve, adjusting a thread that did not need tampering. “He assists Lord Gawen with preparations,” she said evenly.

“Ah.” Valarr clasped his hands behind his back and rose to his full height, casting a longer shadow across the stone. “Then it seems Lord Gawen will greet me first in the lists. I am told he is eager.” His gaze returned to hers, teasing but edged with something sharper. “I suppose that complicates your loyalties.”

“My loyalties are not measured in marriage vows,” she replied without hesitation.

Valarr’s expression softened. He reached forward and curled his finger, brushing his knuckle lightly against the tip of her nose. It was an old habit from childhood, one that slipped through the layers of courtly manners without much effort. “I will not keep you long,” he said, stepping back slightly. “Your father and mine are inside.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the keep. “They speak of your missing brothers.”

The words settled between them, heavier than the jesting that came before. Lucerea held his gaze for a moment longer, then leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “I will see you before the joust,” she said softly.

She offered respectful farewells to Ser Roland and Ser Donnel, inclining her head in gratitude. Then she turned toward the stone steps of the keep. The banners above stirred in the breeze, red and black snapping against the pale sky. Without looking back, she crossed into the shadowed entrance of the castle.

The moment Lucerea stepped fully into the keep, the warmth of the courtyard vanished. Cool air wrapped around her, carrying the faint scent of stone, old tapestries, and burning oil from wall mounted torches. Sunlight narrowed into thin beams through high, arched windows, leaving most of the corridor washed in shadow. Her eyes adjusted slowly as she moved forward, the hem of her velvet gown trailing quietly behind her.

Her slippers tapped softly against the cobbled floor, the sound echoing faintly along the vaulted ceiling. She passed beneath banners that hung from iron hooks, their colors muted in the dimness. Servants slipped by with lowered heads, their footsteps in haste and en route to their tasks. Lucerea slowed at a crossing of hallways, glancing left, then right, searching her memory for the proper turn that led toward the main solar. Ashford’s corridors twisted more than Summerhall’s, narrower and less familiar.

Voices drifted from somewhere ahead, muffled at first, then clearer as she approached. Male voices, layered over one another. One carried the distinct edge of impatience, a sharpness she knew since childhood. Her father’s voice. Even when he lowered it, the authority threaded through it like steel beneath silk. She turned down the corridor toward the sound, lifting her gown slightly to move faster.

Suddenly, a hand seized her wrist and yanked her sharply into the shadowed recess between two pillars. Her back struck a hard surface before she could cry out. A palm clamped firmly over her mouth, cutting off the scream that rose in her throat. Another arm pinned both of hers to her sides without much strength. Panic surged hot and immediately. She twisted against the hold, beadwork scraping against her skin, her heart slamming violently against her ribs. She tried to drive her heel down against the stranger’s foot, to wrench her head free, but the grip only tightened for a heartbeat longer.

“You smell just as sweet as I remember.”

The voice brushed against her ear, low and laced with amusement. Her struggle stilled. She turned her head sharply, lilac eyes flashing in the dim corridor as recognition flooded her.

“Brother,” she breathed the word against his palm as he lifted it from her mouth.

Aerion stood before her, half concealed by shadow, half illuminated by a sliver of light from the small window above. He looked unchanged and entirely different all at once. His silver hair was softly flicked at the edges, his features sharper than she remembered, his mouth curved in that same infuriating, knowing smirk. Arrogance radiated from him like heat from a forge. A chill prickled across her skin, goosebumps rising along her arms despite the warmth that suddenly bloomed beneath her ribs. Relief struck first. Then something deeper, something dangerous, coiled beneath it.

“Sister,” he whispered, the word brushing against her ear like a secret meant only for her. His hand closed gently but firmly around her wrist, guiding her back, step by slow step, until the cold stone wall met her shoulders. The surface was damp from the evening air that crept through the corridors of the keep, but the cold did nothing to calm the warmth that rushed through her veins. Her breath caught as the space between them vanished, leaving only the faint scent of leather, steel, and the dark musk that always clung to him.

Aerion did not rush. He rarely did when she was cornered like this. His eyes moved over her slowly, from the silver fall of her hair to the velvet of her gown and the way the fabric curved around her waist. The corner of his lips lifted with approval, as if he was handed something precious meant only for him to unwrap. When his gaze finally rose to meet hers, there was a flicker of greed there. He leaned closer until she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.

“You certainly took your time to see me,” he said, drawing out each word. His voice carried that edge of mockery that never quite hid the hunger beneath it. “I saw you speaking to our dearest cousin.”

Lucerea scoffed, though the sound carried more spark than irritation. She leaned into him instead of pulling away, closing the last inch of space between them. “You were spying on me?” Her eyes shone with a glint of excitement, the sort that came from stepping into a game she thought she long since mastered.

Aerion let out a quiet breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly, the accusation humored him. His hand rose slowly and brushed through the front of her hair, smoothing a silver strand between his fingers. For a moment he said nothing, his touch lingered needing to remind himself she was truly there, warm and real beneath his hand.

“I was on the premises,” he replied at last, his voice softer now. “I could not mistake you easily.” Before she could answer, he leaned forward and captured her lips.

The kiss was sudden and heated, the kind that carried months of absence inside it. Lucerea responded without hesitation, her hands clutching the front of his doublet, grounding herself. Beneath the dark fabric she could feel the coolness of the chainmail he still wore from the day’s training, the metal pressing faintly against her palms as she pulled him closer. His mouth moved against hers that made her heart race, like he already knew exactly how she would answer him.

When she finally pulled back, her breath came a little faster than before. She looked up at him with wide eyes that still held the heat of the kiss.

“You could have come to me and quickened our reunion,” she murmured, tugging at the front of his doublet again, while leaning back against the cold stone wall.

Aerion’s hands slid to her waist, firm and possessive as they settled there. His fingers pressed into the velvet of her gown, tracing the texture with slow movements committing it to memory. The fabric gathered slightly beneath his grip pulling her closer.

“Where would the fun be in that,” he replied, the faintest smirk touching his mouth. “I prefer you to come to me.” His eyes held hers steadily, filled with that infuriating entitlement she both hated and adored. “And you always do make your way to me.”

Lucerea clenched her jaw at his response, though the spark in her gaze betrayed her amusement. Aerion’s charm was as effortless as it was aggravating. He had a way of speaking that made every conversation feel like a challenge, every moment a contest neither of them truly wished to win.

“And if I didn’t?” she asked quietly.

“Do not be stupid,” he said, the reprimand soft rather than cruel.

He leaned in again and kissed her once more, this time slower. His fingers tightened slightly at her waist. He had no intention of letting her slip away again. Lucerea lifted her hand to his face, her fingertips brushing along his jaw where faint stubble began to grow from the day. The roughness underneath her touch fueled the heat that pooled below her stomach.

Aerion finally pulled away, though he did not move far. His forehead rested lightly against hers as their breaths mingled in the narrow space between them. For a moment he was still listening. From somewhere down the corridor came the faint murmur of voices, low and distant. She could just make out the deeper tone of their father and the steady cadence of their uncle speaking together. Aerion’s eyes shifted briefly toward the sound before returning to her.

“I will have you first before anyone else does,” he murmured quietly, the words meant only for her, his voice low enough that it was nearly lost beneath his breath. His gaze did not waver as he spoke, fixed on her with an intensity that felt almost tangible.

Lucerea’s breath caught for the briefest moment, but she did not retreat from him. Instead, she reached for him, her fingers closing firmly around his forearm. The fabric of his sleeve was warm beneath her touch, the muscle beneath it tense even before she spoke. “No,” she said, her voice softer than his but no less certain.

She tilted her head slightly, looking up at him with a kind of reverence that softened the bluntness of her refusal. For a fleeting second her eyes traced the way his jaw tightened at her answer, the subtle shift in his expression that betrayed the restraint he was already struggling to maintain. Her thumb moved slowly against his arm, a small, grounding motion meant to temper him before his impatience could take hold.

The nearby torchlight flickered across her face as she wet her lips. “There is a virtue to waiting,” she added, her voice steady despite the tension that lingered between them.

Aerion’s eyes darkened at her words, the violet of his gaze catching the light in a way that made them seem almost molten. He did not pull away from her touch, but there was a coiled energy in him, barely contained. When he looked at her, it was not innocent.

“I am not a patient man. You should know this by now, sister,” he replied, edged with warning. The words were not harsh, but they carried weight, shaped by the certainty that he rarely had to wait for anything he desired.

Lucerea held his gaze without flinching. There was no wavering in the set of her expression. Her hand remained on his arm, “And I am not asking twice,” she answered, leaving no room for him to mistake her meaning.

She pushed off from the wall, the cool stone falling away from her back as she stepped out of the shadowed corner and into the dim corridor beyond. The torchlight flickered along the walls, casting shifting patterns of gold and shadow that followed her as she moved. Her skirts brushed softly against the floor with each step, the quiet sound echoing faintly in the otherwise hushed passage. She did not look back, her posture composed, her pace casual as though she had not just defied him.

Behind her, Aerion’s jaw tightened, the muscle ticking faintly with irritation. A mutter slipped under his breath, low and sharp, the words lost to the empty corridor but heavy with mid-frustration. He did not let her walk far.

Within a few strides he closed the distance between them, his presence falling back into place at her side as naturally as it always had been. His pace matches hers without much effort. Without asking, he reached for her hand and guided it back to rest around his arm, placing her where she belonged beside him.

Lucerea allowed it, her fingers settling against his sleeve as she lifted her gaze to him. The natural light from the windows of the castle caught in her eyes as she searched his expression, noting the edge of annoyance there, the way it sharpened his features.

“I won’t forget your insolence so easily,” Aerion said, his eyes traced over on her, dark with intent as they traced over her face. “You will pay the price tonight for denying me.”

The castle halls were quieter in this wing, the stone walls cool and dim under iron sconces where candles burned in shallow pools of melted wax. Lucerea held onto Aerion’s arm, her fingers resting lightly against the sleeve of his doublet as he guided her forward. His stride was confident for a prince who had only just arrived, and she matched it easily, the hem of her velvet gown trailing softly across the stone with each step. From farther down the hall, she could already hear the familiar sound of their father’s voice.

When they turned the corner and stepped inside, the room opened at once before Lucerea’s eyes. Prince Maekar stood near the long council table, their uncle Prince Baelor at his side, both turned toward the others as the conversation carried on. Lord Ashford was there as well, along with the Master of the Games, gathered around the spread before them. Wedges of cheese sat beside cracked bread and small stacks of thin crackers. Bowls of grapes and sliced apples were set between several bottles of wine, some already half emptied, the dark glass catching the light from the sconces. Voices overlapped as they spoke, attention shifting between one another and the parchments near the edge of the table. A few sheets lay unevenly, corners bent back where they had been handled more than once.

“Gods be fu...” Maekar began sharply, clearly mid-curse, when he caught sight of Lucerea and Aerion entering the chamber. The words stopped short on his tongue. His expression shifted, and Baelor turned at the sudden break, followed by the others as their attention moved to the new arrivals.

“Father, Uncle,” Lucerea said warmly as she stepped forward with a warmth in her smile. She released Aerion’s arm and crossed the space between them, back straight, as if a string held her upright from above.

She approached her father first. Her hands rested gently upon his forearms, feeling the firm strength beneath the dark fabric of his tunic. Rising slightly on her toes, she placed a kiss upon each of his cheeks in greeting. “You seem well.”

Maekar studied her for a brief moment, his dark eyes moving over her face as though weighing something only he could see. His expression gave little away, but he inclined his head just enough to accept the gesture. His hand rose to her elbow, his grip firm yet controlled through the silk of her sleeve.

“My dear,” he murmured quietly.

Baelor let out a soft chuckle as he observed the exchange, the corners of his eyes creasing with fondness. “He has aged quite a bit during our travels,” he remarked lightly, glancing between father and daughter. Maekar gave a rough grunt at the comment and squeezed Lucerea’s elbow once before letting her go.

“So I have gathered,” Lucerea replied, Her cheeks rounded more.

She turned next toward Baelor and greeted him in the same manner, leaning forward to kiss his cheek before stepping back. “I hope your travels were with ease, Uncle.” When she withdrew, she folded her hands politely in front of her, her fingers gently fidgeting together as she waited for their response.

Baelor and Maekar exchanged a brief look, one that showed the journey had not been simple. “Your brothers, Daeron and Aegon…” Baelor began, choosing his words with care.

“Word travels fast,” Lucerea cut in before he could finish. She turned her head toward Aerion. He stood at the table, sorting through the trays of fruit with idle fingers. “Aerion mentioned a search party would be sent.”

“Your brothers are at the end of my wits,” Maekar muttered through clenched teeth. His shoulders tightened as frustration crept into his voice. Lucerea slipped her hand around his arm again and gave a small, steady squeeze.

“They will be fine,” Aerion scoffed from across the table. He plucked a grape and tossed it into his mouth. “Daeron is likely wasting time in some miserable whorehouse, while that impudent rat is probably rolling in mud with pigs.”

Lucerea, Maekar, and Baelor all turned their attention toward him at once. Lucerea felt her father’s arm tense beneath her hand as the remark reached him. Baelor drew in a breath, then let it out slowly, his gaze lowering for a brief moment before lifting again. “How have you been, dearest?” Baelor asked Lucerea after a pause, his tone gentler now.

“Quite well,” Lucerea answered, her tone light. Her fingers moved absently over her father’s sleeve, smoothing the fabric before stilling again.

“I expected you much earlier,” Maekar added. His jaw set as he spoke, his fingers curling faintly at his side.

Lucerea met Aerion’s gaze across the room. He rolled a grape between his thumb and forefinger then tossed it into his mouth, his lips curving as he chewed. Baelor watched them, his eyes lingering on the space between the two. He caught the pull they shared, noticing how naturally they sought each other out. Lucerea held the stare, and Aerion matched her, the silence stretching until she finally looked away.

“Married life takes precedence,” Lucerea replied evenly to her father.

“Will your husband be joining the lists?” Baelor asked while cracking a peanut between his fingers and brushing away the shell before eating it.

Lucerea shook her head gently. “Alester does not crave glory in the way his father does.”

“Sons these days do not seem eager for much of anything,” Maekar muttered with open disdain. The thought clearly displeased him. He moved away and lowered himself into one of the chairs with a heavy frown settling across his face. Lucerea sighed softly and folded her hands again while standing near the center of the chamber.

“Do not be so quick to generalize, brother,” Baelor replied with a weary shake of his head. “I have heard Lord Alester has taken over managing affairs in Stonehelm. That is not nothing.” He paused thoughtfully before adding, “Will he be attending the feast Lord Ashford has so generously arranged tonight?”

“Alester has already promised to attend Lord Baratheon’s pavilion this evening and expects me to accompany him,” Lucerea answered.

“Nonsense.”

Every head in the chamber turned toward Aerion. He brushed the crumbs from his hands after finishing the last of the nuts and grapes before strolling toward Lucerea’s side. His posture was relaxed, though his presence carried a certain restless energy. One hand settled casually against the pommel of the dagger at his belt.

“A measly lordling has no authority to command a princess of the realm,” Aerion said plainly. “You will attend the feast with your true family.” He spoke without hesitation, utterly unconcerned with the disapproving look Baelor directed toward him.

“It will only be for one evening, my dear,” Maekar added after a moment. Though he did not openly admit it, the agreement in his voice was clear. In his eyes Lucerea was still a daughter of House Targaryen before she was anything else. No lord of lesser title could ever truly provide the protection or care that he believed she deserved.

“I will personally inform your husband,” Aerion added.

There was a darker edge beneath his words, something sharp that hinted at more than simple courtesy. The suggestion carried the faint promise of confrontation she knew he craved since her marriage to the Swann lord.

“No,” Lucerea said quickly, shaking her head. She placed both hands gently upon Aerion’s arms in an effort to calm him before his temper could rise further. Then she glanced toward Baelor and Maekar with a reassuring smile. “You need not tell me twice. I am more than happy to attend. Alester understands the consequences of disagreeing with dragons.”

“Good,” Aerion replied, a flicker of fierce satisfaction lighting his eyes. “At least he knows his place.”

— above: nibbles for the targaryen princes