The Patron Saint Of Bisexuality

Ashford Meadow did not smell like spring the way songs pretended it did. It smelled like trampled grass beaten into pulp by thousands of boots, like horse sweat baked into leather tack, like roasting meat turned too often over too-hot coals because nobody wanted to be the cook who disappointed a lord. It smelled like cheap perfume drifting out of a line of bright tents where men with coin went looking for distraction, and like fresh sawdust scattered over patches of mud that had already lost the fight. The air was loud with it too, a constant, messy sound that had no discipline and no shame: hawkers calling, children shrieking, ale sloshing, metal ringing when someone bumped a suit of armor, laughter that came too quick and died too quick. If you closed your eyes, it was chaos. If you opened them, it was color arranged into something almost orderly: banners and streamers, painted shields on poles, pavilions set like small kingdoms in rows. Lord Ashford had turned a meadow into a city and expected everyone to pretend it was permanent.

Your father refused to pretend.

Maekar Targaryen rode in like he was arriving at a battlefield inspection, not a celebration for a girl’s thirteenth nameday. His horse moved steady under him, and he sat the saddle with the same brutal economy he sat a chair, as if comfort was a childish thing other men chased. You kept pace at his side with the rest of the royal party, heat pressing under your collar and at the back of your neck, your hair pinned up and already threatening to come loose from the ride. It was an insult, being dressed for court in a place that wanted dust and sweat, but the insult wasn’t new. The insult was that you were here at all, because Aerion had made such a long, whining sport of it that Maekar had chosen the simplest solution: bring you, let him stop complaining, and in the process, maybe give you something beyond the walls of Summerhall to look at for once.

Aerion rode a half-length behind, as if he wanted the world to see him but also wanted to be close enough to lean in and poison anything you might enjoy. He wore his bright arrogance like a cloak, all pale hair and polished fittings, and the kind of smile that promised he would ruin a thing just to prove he could. Every time you shifted in your saddle, you felt him watching, not with affection and not even with desire in the clean way singers lied about, but with that possessive fixation he’d nursed since you were children, the one that turned him stupid when Maekar told him no and turned him cruel when he could not have what he decided belonged to him.

Then Valarr came alongside, the shift in the air around you as immediate as shade.

He did not crowd you. He never did. He just moved close enough that Aerion’s casual reach, the way his hand sometimes drifted toward your reins or your sleeve like he owned the right to touch, suddenly had somewhere to crash. Valarr’s presence was a barrier made of manners and blood and the fact that, for all Aerion’s swagger, Valarr was Baelor’s son and carried himself like it. Not soft. Not weak. Just… controlled, as if he’d learned early that power did not need to shout.

“You’re staring,” Valarr said under his breath, not looking at you when he spoke, eyes forward on the sprawling field ahead. He sounded mildly amused, which in a Targaryen boy was almost suspicious.

“I’m taking account,” you answered, because you refused to give anyone the satisfaction of calling it awe.

“Taking account of the smell?” he murmured. “Or the fact half the Reach has decided this is an acceptable way to spend coin.”

“You can smell the Reach from here,” you said. “Perfume and pride.”

Valarr’s mouth quirked, quick and restrained. “That’s an unkind summary.”

“It’s accurate.”

He glanced at you then, just a flicker. His eyes were steady, the kind that could look at a situation and not flinch. “Try not to look like you want to set the whole meadow on fire. It will draw attention.”

“Attention is what everyone here is paying for,” you said, and you hated that it came out harsher than you meant, because you could feel Aerion behind you, could feel him listening for any crack he could shove a blade into.

Valarr’s gaze moved past you, casually, as if checking the spacing of the riders. “He’s in a mood,” he said, as if you needed the report.

“He’s always in a mood,” you replied.

From ahead, Maekar’s voice cut back without him turning his head. “Enough.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The word landed like a hand on the back of your neck, reminding you where you were and what your father expected: composure, restraint, obedience to the shape of the family even when the family felt like a cage. You straightened automatically, reins adjusted, posture corrected. You had been trained to do that long before you understood why you needed it.

They brought the royal party through a lane that stewards had cleared with frantic energy, men shouting for smallfolk to move and bow and pretend they hadn’t been standing there first. The crowd pressed in anyway, hungry for spectacle. Faces turned, dirty hands waved, children craned to see pale hair and dragon sigils. Some looked at Maekar with fear. Some looked at Aerion with fascination. A few looked at you with the specific interest people had in noblewomen, the kind that measured you for stories you didn’t ask to be part of. You kept your chin level and your expression calm, the way you’d been taught, even as your skin prickled under their attention.

Lord Ashford’s welcome waited near the larger pavilions, where the grass had been hammered flatter and the banners flew higher. The Ashford sigil snapped in the wind like it wanted to be noticed by gods. Lord Ashford himself bowed low, sweating through his finery, doing that careful dance men did around dragons: reverence mixed with calculation. His wife hovered behind him like a shadow in embroidered cloth, and beyond them, you saw girls, a cluster of them, all dressed bright, all trying to look thrilled and not terrified. One of them was the nameday girl, Lady Ashford’s daughter, thirteen and clearly overwhelmed by what her father had built in her honor. She looked like a doll placed too close to a hearth. Her smile shook.

“Your Grace,” Lord Ashford said, voice thick with sincerity he had purchased. “Prince Baelor. Prince Maekar. Princes… my lords. Princess Y/N.” His eyes landed on you, and you felt the assessment, the quick calculation of your place in the web of this gathering, what use you might be as a compliment or a pawn. “You honor my house.”

Baelor Targaryen dismounted with the ease of a man who did not carry his authority like armor because he did not fear anyone would forget it. He smiled at Lord Ashford in a way that made the man’s shoulders loosen, as if he’d been holding his breath since dawn. Baelor’s presence did that. It was infuriating, almost, how simple he made peace look.

“Your hospitality honors us,” Baelor replied, warm and measured. “And your daughter. A thirteenth nameday should be remembered kindly.”

Maekar swung down next, sharper, the movement efficient, as if lingering was indulgence. He gave Lord Ashford a nod that was not quite a greeting and not quite a dismissal. “The lists look well set,” he said, because Maekar could compliment a structure and ignore the sentiment behind it.

Lord Ashford brightened at that anyway, starving for approval. “We’ve done our best. Five champions for my daughter, as tradition asks. Challengers will ride to take their places if they’re unhorsed. The queen of love and beauty will have her defenders, and the realm will have its sport.” His gaze flicked to Baelor again, hopeful, because if Baelor approved, the story would spread.

“And the melee?” Aerion asked, sliding into the conversation like a knife into soft fruit. He smiled at Lord Ashford with false charm. “Will there be enough men brave enough to bleed for a girl’s smile?”

Lord Ashford laughed too loudly. “Plenty, my prince. Plenty.”

Aerion’s eyes cut to you, bright and cruel. “Good,” he said. “Then maybe we’ll see who deserves to be called a knight.”

Valarr had dismounted close enough that you felt him at your shoulder. Not touching you. Just there, as if he understood that your brother’s words were not aimed at Lord Ashford at all.

Baelor’s gaze moved briefly to Aerion, a quiet warning in the look. “We will see who remembers what knighthood means,” he said, tone still gentle, but the meaning clear enough.

Aerion’s smile did not falter. It never did, not when he was being corrected. He simply bowed his head a fraction, mock-deferential. “As you say, uncle.”

Maekar’s attention snapped toward you then, quick as a whip. “You will stay near our pavilion,” he said, voice low enough that only you and those closest could hear. “You will not wander. You will not be drawn into anyone’s games.”

You met his eyes. They were hard, but not unfeeling. Maekar loved like a man who did not trust love to save anyone, so he used rules instead. “I understand.”

Aerion laughed softly, as if it was the funniest thing in the world that you had to be instructed like a child. “She understands,” he echoed, and his gaze lingered on you, proprietary, poisonous.

Valarr spoke before you did, easy as breath. “She’s not here for your entertainment, Aerion.”

It was not loud. It was not dramatic. It was just a sentence said with calm certainty, and you felt the small shift in the air as Aerion’s attention snapped fully onto Valarr. Like a hound catching scent.

Aerion’s smile grew. “I don’t remember asking you.”

“You didn’t,” Valarr replied, and his tone stayed polite enough to pass in front of strangers. “You rarely do.”

Maekar’s jaw tightened. Baelor’s expression stayed pleasant, but his eyes held warning now, the kind of warning that said not here, not now.

Aerion leaned closer in his saddle, voice pitched for the family alone. “Careful,” he said to Valarr, sweet as honey. “You forget your place.”

Valarr did not flinch. “No,” he answered quietly. “I don’t.”

The moment could have snapped into something uglier, right there in front of Ashford’s banners and all those eager eyes, but Baelor placed a hand lightly on Maekar’s arm, a silent reminder that spectacle fed on Targaryen temper. Then Baelor turned back to Lord Ashford, smile returning like nothing had happened, and the world obligingly followed his lead.

They were led toward the royal pavilions, a cluster of tents that looked like a small fortress dressed in silk. Inside, the shade was a relief, though the air was still warm and heavy with the scent of oiled leather and crushed herbs. Servants moved quickly, setting basins, offering watered wine, arranging chairs as if furniture could protect royalty from discomfort. You let them fuss without reacting, because reacting invited comment. Outside, the noise of the meadow rolled on, unbothered by dragon blood.

When you stepped back out after washing the dust from your hands, the lists were visible from a slight rise, long and fenced, with stands built for lords and ladies. Knights moved like bright insects below, armor flashing, horses tossing their heads. Squiring boys ran with lances and buckets and cloths, sweating through their tunics, faces alight with excitement or fear. Banners lifted and dipped in the breeze, each sigil a claim, each color a declaration. This was pageantry, yes. It was also a marketplace of pride, and pride was often the first thing that got men killed.

You watched as a hedge knight passed near the outer line, taller than most, moving awkwardly in gear that didn’t quite fit like it was borrowed or inherited. His shield was plain compared to the rest, and he carried himself with a wariness that made him look older than his face suggested. He had the air of someone who had been told “no” his whole life and was foolish enough to try anyway. A boy trailed him, small, watchful, too keen-eyed for his size, glancing at everything like he was memorizing the world. They were nobody, which made them interesting in a place where everyone else was desperate to be somebody.

“Don’t,” Valarr said, and you realized he’d followed your gaze.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t start collecting strays,” he replied, dry.

You looked at him then, eyebrow lifting. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Valarr’s expression softened for a heartbeat, something almost fond under all that control. “I think you’re bored,” he said. “And when you’re bored, you look for patterns. You look for people who don’t fit. Then you feel responsible for them.”

“That’s an assumption.”

“It’s an observation,” he corrected.

Before you could answer, Aerion’s voice slid in from behind you, too close. “Talking about responsibility?” he asked, amused. “That’s rich.”

You didn’t turn immediately. You hated giving him reaction. When you did look back, Aerion was smiling like he’d just been invited into a conversation he’d been eavesdropping on for sport, his eyes bright with that restless malice that always seemed hungry. “Enjoying the view?” he continued. “Or are you staring at the smallfolk like they’re a curiosity?”

“I’m staring at the lists,” you said evenly.

Aerion’s gaze flicked over you, slow. “You stare at everything like you’re judging it. It’s unattractive.”

Valarr’s voice cut in, mild. “And yet you keep looking.”

Aerion’s smile thinned. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the heat of him, the faint scent of wine already on his breath even though the day had barely begun. “You think you’re clever,” he said to Valarr. “Because Father likes you. Because Uncle smiles at you. Because you’re Baelor’s pretty son who gets to pretend he’s a hero.”

Valarr’s posture didn’t change, but you saw the subtle tightening at his jaw. “I don’t pretend.”

Aerion leaned in a fraction more, voice soft enough that it was almost intimate, almost a secret. “If you keep inserting yourself between me and what’s mine, you’ll learn what pretending costs.”

Your stomach went cold, not with fear exactly, but with the familiar recognition of Aerion’s logic: everything was a contest, everything was possession, and anyone who resisted him was an enemy. You didn’t look away. You refused to give him that victory.

“She’s not yours,” Valarr said, and there was steel under the quiet now.

Aerion’s eyes slid to you, possessive and delighted all at once, like he enjoyed hearing your life spoken about as if you weren’t standing right there. “She is Targaryen,” he said. “She is blood. She is family. That means she belongs to the House, and the House decides.”

“The House already decided,” you said, voice steady, and you watched the smallest flicker cross his face at that reminder. Maekar’s refusal was a wound Aerion never stopped picking at.

Aerion’s smile returned, dangerous. “Father decided,” he corrected. “For now.”

From the pavilion, Maekar’s voice snapped out, hard. “Aerion.”

Aerion straightened as if he’d been yanked by a leash. He took a step back, all innocence in his posture, and called back, “Yes, Father?”

Maekar emerged into the light, eyes like hammered iron. He looked from Aerion to Valarr to you in one sweep, reading the shape of the tension without needing to be told. “You will behave,” he said to Aerion, each word deliberate. “You will not shame your uncle here. You will not start trouble in another man’s hall.”

Aerion bowed his head. “I would never.”

Maekar’s stare did not soften. “Your ‘never’ is unreliable.”

That earned a quick laugh from somewhere behind, and you saw Baelor step out, expression composed but eyes sharp with quiet disappointment. “The tourney is meant to honor Lord Ashford’s daughter,” Baelor said, tone calm. “Let it do that. Let it be… simple, for a day.”

Aerion’s gaze flicked to Baelor, and for a heartbeat you saw something like resentment, because Baelor was everything Aerion wasn’t: respected without needing to be feared. “Simple,” Aerion echoed, polite. “Of course, uncle.”

Baelor’s gaze moved to you then, a silent check-in, and you found yourself holding his eyes for a moment. There was kindness there. Also caution. Baelor knew what Aerion was. Baelor also knew what it cost to fight a fire in public.

“Come,” Maekar said to you, and the command was gentler than it sounded, because it was a rescue disguised as authority. “You will sit with us in the stands. You will watch. You will learn something, if you can.”

You followed without argument, because arguing would only feed Aerion’s appetite for spectacle. As you moved toward the stands, Valarr fell into step beside you, not crowding, not touching, just steady at your shoulder like a quiet promise that you would not be alone in this crowd.

“You didn’t have to say it,” you murmured, eyes forward.

Valarr’s voice stayed low. “Yes, I did.”

“What are you trying to be?” you asked, not teasing, not quite. Something else, edged with exhaustion. “My shield?”

Valarr glanced at you, and his expression softened again, brief and real. “No,” he said. “Just… present.”

It was such a simple word. Present. As if that could be enough against Aerion’s obsession and the way noble families chewed their own. And maybe it wasn’t enough. Maybe nothing ever was. Still, when you sat in the shaded stands and the first lances were carried out, when the crowd roared itself hoarse and the meadow turned its attention fully to sport, you felt Valarr’s calm beside you like a hand on the back of your mind, steadying you.

Below, the champions rode out in their bright arrogance, five defenders for a child’s honor, and challengers lined up to take their places if they fell, because that was the game Lord Ashford had chosen. A game of replacement. A game of men proving themselves by knocking each other into the dirt for the sake of a girl who looked too small for the weight of all those eyes. The queen of love and beauty sat stiff in her seat, smiling like her cheeks hurt, while her father beamed as if he’d purchased glory itself.

Aerion leaned back in his chair beside Maekar, looking relaxed, looking amused, looking like a prince at ease. You knew better. You could feel his attention shift and circle, always hunting for the next thing to ruin. The sunlight caught on his pale hair, made him look almost angelic if you didn’t know what was under it.

Valarr sat a little farther down, close enough that you could speak without raising your voice, far enough that it wouldn’t look like a declaration to the whole stand. He watched the lists with focus, but every so often his gaze flicked toward you, quick and checking, like he was making sure you were still steady.

The horn blew. The crowd surged to its feet. Hooves thundered. Wood cracked. A man went down hard, armor biting into earth, and the roar that followed was hungry, delighted, thoughtless.

You watched, hands folded in your lap, and told yourself you were here to learn something, like Maekar demanded.

What you learned, quickly, was that Ashford Meadow was not just a tourney.

It was a stage.

And you were not here as an audience member. You were here as part of the show, whether you liked it or not.

The next day evening at Ashford Meadow was its own beast, dressed up in torchlight and music to make people forget what it cost to build a city out of canvas and pride. The air cooled just enough to feel merciful against skin that had baked all day under sun and scrutiny, but the ground still held the heat like a grudge. Torches lined the paths between pavilions and the lists, their flames snapping in the wind and throwing everything into gold and shadow, so armor glimmered like moving stars and faces looked carved a little harsher than they had at noon. The crowd sounded different at night too. The daytime roar had been bright and frantic, all appetite and noise. Now it was heavier, drunker, meaner around the edges. Men laughed with their mouths full. Women whispered behind sleeves. Boys ran half-wild until a steward cuffed them back into place. Somewhere a lute tried its best over the constant clatter of tankards and boots. The tourney was still a tourney, still horses and lances and the thrill of watching someone fall, but the evening wrapped it in celebration so it could pretend it was only sport.

This time you sat with Lord Ashford’s daughter as if you belonged beside her, as if you were simply another girl keeping another girl company, not a Targaryen placed there like a ribbon on a prize. She was dressed in something pale and expensive that looked too fine for the meadow’s grit, her hair braided with tiny ribbons that had loosened through the day. Thirteen was a cruel age to be displayed. Old enough to be told she was a lady, young enough that her hands still fidgeted in her lap when she thought no one was watching. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and the attention. Every time the crowd rose and cheered, she flinched like the sound might hit her.

“You’re quiet,” she said after a while, voice small but determined, as if quiet was something she could accuse you of to make herself feel braver. She glanced at you and then quickly looked away again, respectful and nervous in the way girls were taught to be around dragons.

“I’m watching,” you answered. You kept your tone even, gentle enough not to frighten her further, because she wasn’t your enemy and you were not in the mood to make one out of a child. “You’re allowed to be quiet too. It’s your nameday, not your trial.”

That earned a weak little smile, the kind that lived for a breath and then vanished when she remembered the stands and the banners and the men willing to crack ribs for the idea of honoring her. “It feels like a trial,” she admitted. “Everyone keeps saying how lucky I am.”

Lucky. You looked out over the lists where men in polished steel tested lances and checked girths, where squires hurried like ants, where blood had already darkened patches of sand despite the fresh scattering meant to hide it. “People call it luck when they don’t want to think about the parts that are unpleasant.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. “Is it unpleasant for you?”

You could have lied. It would have been easy. A pretty lie would have kept her comfortable. Instead you chose something gentler than truth but not false. “It’s loud,” you said. “And everyone has an opinion. That’s tiring.”

She nodded quickly, grateful for something she could agree with. “My father says it’s an honor. He says it’s what a good lord does for his daughter.”

“A good lord does many things,” you replied, and you didn’t let your gaze drift toward the royal seating when you said it, even though you could feel the weight of it the way you could feel a storm brewing. “Some of them are for his daughter. Some are for himself.”

She stared at her hands for a moment as if she didn’t know what to do with that. Then, like a child reaching for safety, she changed the subject. “Will the princes ride again tonight?”

Your eyes lifted, and there, in the torchlit mess of banners and helmets, Valarr’s shield was visible near the far side of the lists, its colors clean, its shape familiar in the chaos. He was preparing with a calm focus that set him apart from the knights who strutted and preened for the stands. There was no showiness in him. Just intent, like the act mattered and the watching mattered and he would not cheapen it for applause. You felt your attention settle on him without asking permission from yourself.

“Valarr will,” you said softly, because she had asked and because you did not want to say Aerion’s name out loud tonight if you could help it.

Her face brightened. “Prince Valarr seems… kind,” she said, as if kindness was a rumor she hoped was true.

“He can be,” you answered, and that was as close to praise as you ever allowed yourself in public.

A trumpet sounded, dragging the crowd back into one mind. The chatter thinned into anticipation. The fighters moved into position. You felt the girl beside you straighten like a doll propped up by invisible hands. She was trying to look like what she had been told she should be, a lady presiding over her own celebration with grace. You understood the performance better than she did, and that made something in your chest tighten, not with pity exactly, but with recognition.

Across the way, the royal seating sat higher, heavier, draped in privilege like cloth. Baelor was there, composed as ever, watching with that quiet attention that made men behave when they remembered he could see them. Maekar sat stiff beside him, shoulders set like stone, eyes scanning everything as if he expected threat to crawl out of the crowd. Aerion lounged like he owned the stands, like the realm had been built for him to sneer at, his silver hair catching torchlight, his mouth curved in a smile that never reached his eyes.

Then Valarr rode out.

The crowd loved him the way crowds loved princes who looked like the songs. He was handsome in armor, yes, but it wasn’t just that. It was the way he carried himself, not arrogant, not timid, simply steady. His horse moved under him with practiced ease. His helm dipped in acknowledgment of the stands, not theatrical, not hungry. When he took his place, lance angled, shield set, he looked like he belonged to the lists in a way that made other men look like they were borrowing the role.

His opponent rode out too, a knight with a proud sigil and a heavier swagger, the sort that fed on the crowd’s reaction. They saluted. The herald shouted names that the wind half stole. The crowd rose, pressed forward, hungry as always.

You watched Valarr’s posture, the little shifts that meant control, the way his knees hugged the saddle, the way his shoulders stayed loose enough to move. You had seen enough training in castle yards to know when someone was competent and when someone was merely brave. Valarr was both. That was a dangerous combination in Westeros, because it made people expect things of you.

The trumpet blew.

They charged.

Hooves hammered the ground hard enough you felt it in your ribs. Lances lowered. The world narrowed to two riders and the thin line between them, and then the impact came like a crack of thunder. Wood splintered. The opponent’s lance shattered against Valarr’s shield, pieces flying like sparks. Valarr’s lance hit clean, not cruelly, not wildly, but with precision, and the other knight reeled in his saddle. He fought to stay up, pride refusing to fall, but the force took him anyway. He went down hard, armor clanging, the crowd roaring like it had been starving.

The nameday girl gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “Oh,” she breathed, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to truly fall.

You didn’t move. You kept your hands in your lap. Your gaze stayed on Valarr as he reined in, circled once, controlled his horse like he controlled everything else, then turned toward the stands. He lifted his helm enough that you saw his face, flushed from exertion, eyes bright with the heat of the tilt, but still… him. He looked up toward the royal seating first, because duty demanded it, because Baelor was there. Then his gaze shifted.

It found you.

Not by accident. Not as a sweep. It landed on you with intention, and for a heartbeat the noise dimmed in your head the way it did when something became suddenly, very personal.

Valarr raised his voice. He didn’t shout, not like a man trying to make himself a spectacle. He spoke like a prince who expected to be heard. “Princess Y/N,” he called, and the words carried across the lists, across the stands, cutting through the cheering in a way that made faces turn. “Will you grant me your favor?”

You felt it immediately, the way a crowd reacts when it smells a story. Hundreds of heads shifted, like a field of grain bending to wind. Whispers sparked into life. The nameday girl beside you went very still, eyes wide, like she had been struck by the thrill of being next to scandal.

Your heart did not race. It dropped, heavy and cold, because you understood what that request meant in your family. It wasn’t only romance. It was alignment. It was a public declaration that could be twisted into politics by morning. It was Valarr placing himself between you and Aerion in a way so visible that even the stupidest lordling in the Reach would notice.

And because the gods hated quiet, you felt Aerion’s reaction like heat at your back even though he was far across the lists.

He sat up from his lazy sprawl as if yanked by invisible hands. His smile vanished. His face tightened into something dark and ugly. The torchlight made his eyes look almost black. For a moment he looked younger, not in innocence, but in the raw, petulant fury of a boy who had been denied a toy and had never been taught to accept it.

Maekar moved before Aerion could. Your father’s hand clamped down on Aerion’s forearm, not gentle, not subtle. It was the grip of a man stopping a dog from lunging. You saw Aerion’s body tense against it, saw the twitch at his jaw, the pulse in his throat. Maekar leaned in and said something you couldn’t hear, but you didn’t need the words. Whatever it was, it dragged Aerion back into his seat by force of will alone.

Aerion still tried to rise.

Maekar’s grip tightened.

Aerion’s mouth moved, and you could read it even from here. Mine.

You swallowed once. The air felt too thin.

Beside you, the nameday girl whispered, voice trembling with excitement and fear. “He asked you. In front of everyone.”

“Yes,” you said, and your voice came out calmer than you felt. Calm was a weapon you had been forced to learn early.

“What will you do?” she asked, and you could hear the awe in it. As if choice was a gift and not a trap.

You looked at Valarr. He waited, horse steady, posture composed, not begging, not pressuring, simply offering you a moment where you could accept or refuse and the whole realm would interpret it either way. His eyes didn’t flick toward Aerion. He didn’t perform courage at your brother’s expense. He didn’t do it to bait him. He did it because he meant it.

Across the royal seating, Baelor’s gaze locked onto Valarr. It was not anger. It was not approval either. It was a look that said: you have done something brave and complicated, and we will speak of it when there are no crowds to feed on it. Baelor did not move, did not make a scene, but the warning in his eyes was clear enough that even Valarr, shining in victory, must have felt it.

Your fingers moved before your mind finished arguing. You reached up and touched the ribbon braided into your hair, a narrow strip of fabric the color of dark wine, chosen because it suited you, because you liked it, because you had been stubborn enough to keep it when a handmaid suggested something brighter. You drew it free slowly, deliberately, letting the crowd see that you were not panicking, not rushing, not being dragged into anything. The act felt strange in your own hands, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with kisses and everything to do with being seen.

The nameday girl let out a tiny sound, almost a squeak, as if she couldn’t bear the suspense.

You stood, because you refused to be small while you did this, and because standing made you visible in a way that said you were not hiding behind anyone’s permission. You stepped forward to the edge of the stand, the torches throwing heat against your face, the wind tugging at loose strands of hair. You held the ribbon in your hand, felt the roughness of it against your palm, then lifted it high enough for Valarr to see.

“For your next ride,” you called back, and your voice carried, clear and even. You kept the words simple because anything too poetic would sound like surrender. “And for your honor, if you remember what it is.”

A ripple went through the crowd, a sound like a wave pulling back before it crashes. Valarr’s expression shifted, just slightly, as if something in him eased and tightened at the same time. He raised a hand, palm open, a gesture of respect more than triumph. One of the squires ran forward to collect the favor, and Valarr took it with care, winding it around his lance with a steadiness that looked almost reverent.

The nameday girl turned to you, eyes shining. “That was perfect,” she breathed, as if she had witnessed some great romance in a song.

It wasn’t romance that made your stomach knot. It was the fact you could feel Aerion’s stare from across the meadow like a blade pressed to skin.

Aerion did not look away. He leaned forward in his seat now, Maekar’s hand still iron on his arm, and spoke to your father in a hiss you couldn’t hear, but the way Maekar’s face went even harder told you enough. Aerion’s fury wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It had weight. It had memory. It had the kind of entitlement that didn’t burn out quickly.

Valarr turned his horse, rode the circuit of the lists, accepted the crowd’s roar with polite distance. When he passed beneath the royal seating, he lifted his lance slightly, ribbon fluttering in the torchlight like a wound dressed in silk. He did not look at Aerion. He did not give him the satisfaction. He looked at Baelor, briefly, and there was something like apology in the angle of his head. Baelor held his gaze for a heartbeat, then gave the smallest nod that did not soothe or forgive, only acknowledged: Later.

Maekar finally released Aerion’s arm, but only because Aerion sat still enough to pretend he was under control. Your brother’s smile returned, slow and sickly sweet, the kind he wore when he was planning something and wanted everyone to think he wasn’t. He lifted his cup, took a long drink, and never once stopped watching you.

The nameday girl tugged at your sleeve, tentative. “Do you think,” she whispered, “that Prince Aerion will challenge him?”

You looked down at her, at the innocent curiosity and fear braided together in her expression. You could have lied again. You could have protected her from understanding what princes did when they were crossed.

Instead you said, quietly, “If he does, it won’t be noble.”

The trumpet sounded again. Another match called. The crowd’s attention shifted, because people were fickle and violence was easy to love when it wasn’t your life on the line. You sat back down, smoothing your skirts, posture composed. Inside, you felt the consequences stacking like stones.

On the sand below, Valarr rode on with your favor tied to his lance, bright against the dark. In the stands above, Aerion sat with his anger leashed but not tamed. Maekar watched like a man calculating the cost of tomorrow. Baelor stayed calm, because Baelor always stayed calm, but his gaze did not soften when it drifted back to his son.

And you, sitting beside a frightened girl in a borrowed city of tents, understood exactly what had just happened.

Valarr had asked for your favor in public.

You had given it.

Now the realm would do what it always did with Targaryens.

It would turn it into a problem.

The royal pavilion at Ashford looked civilized only if you kept your eyes on the cloth and the gold thread and ignored the fact it was still a tent pitched in a churned-up meadow, held together by pegs and the fragile agreement that men with swords would behave. Torches burned in iron brackets, their smoke caught under the canopy until it found a seam to escape through, so the air tasted faintly of pitch and spiced wine. Music drifted in from outside, muffled by canvas and distance, a steady thrum meant to soothe and entertain, but inside the pavilion the sound was mostly voices. Lords laughing too loudly. Knights boasting about bruises. Stewards moving like shadows between benches with platters of roasted fowl and trenchers soaking through with grease. It was celebration the way court always did it, pretending feasting could wash blood off the day, pretending the realm was not a constant negotiation of ego and threat.

Maekar had already removed his daughter from it hours ago, as if he could fold you up and put you away where Aerion could not reach. He had ushered you off with your ladies and instructions and that hard look that allowed no argument, and for once, no one had tried to stop him. Not because they respected your rest, but because they respected the temper of the man escorting you. Even Aerion, simmering all evening, had not snapped at the moment. He had only watched you go with that too-bright smile, like a man watching a door close and making plans for the next time it opened.

Now, with the princess gone, the pavilion felt smaller.

Baelor sat at the center table like he belonged to the seat of a king even when there was no crown present, his posture composed, his expression pleasant enough to make the Ashfords believe their hospitality had succeeded. He spoke when spoken to, drank sparingly, listened more than he talked, and in the spaces between conversation his eyes kept moving, quietly taking measure. He was waiting for the moment he could pull Valarr aside and speak privately, not as a prince to a prince, but as a father to his son. He had given Valarr that look after the favor was accepted. The look had said: you have stepped into something dangerous, and you do not get to pretend you didn’t.

Valarr stood a little apart from the densest knot of revelers, helm gone, hair slightly damp at the temples from heat and exertion, still in his tourney clothes but with his gloves removed as if he needed bare hands to remind himself he was not made of armor. He accepted congratulations with polite restraint, nodded at lords whose names he did not care about, tolerated the way knights slapped his shoulder as if victory gave them permission to touch royal blood. He did not boast. He did not bask. He looked like a man who had done what he came to do and was already thinking about consequences.

Aerion had been thinking about consequences since the moment Valarr asked for the favor, and unlike Valarr, he looked as if he enjoyed the idea.

He drifted through the pavilion with a cup in his hand, the motion smooth and easy, the expression on his face almost charming if you were the sort of person who believed charm was the same thing as decency. He laughed at the right moments. He said the right shallow compliments to the right shallow men. He let the Ashfords feel honored that a prince was gracing their celebration with attention, and in return they fed him more wine and more praise because they were too proud and too foolish to recognize when they were being used as scenery.

Maekar watched him like a man watching a spark near dry straw.

“Drink slower,” Maekar said at one point, voice low, not a suggestion.

Aerion lifted his cup in a mock salute. “I’m enjoying myself. Lord Ashford has gone to such effort. It would be rude not to.”

“It would be wiser,” Maekar replied.

Aerion’s smile did not slip, but his eyes slid toward Valarr, where he stood with that infuriating calm. “Wisdom is so rarely rewarded,” Aerion murmured, almost to himself. Then louder, “Besides, it’s only wine. Not poison.”

Maekar’s jaw tightened. “Not everything that ruins a man comes in a vial.”

Aerion laughed softly, as if his father had told a quaint joke, and took another sip anyway.

Baelor’s patience lasted longer than most men’s because Baelor had learned how to swallow irritation and call it diplomacy, but even diplomacy had its limit when you watched your son and your nephew circle each other like blades. He waited for a lull, for a moment when the Ashfords were distracted by their own guests, and then he rose. It was not dramatic. He simply stood, and the pavilion’s noise shifted slightly, instinctively making space. He moved toward Valarr with that quiet authority that made men step back without realizing they were obeying.

Valarr saw him coming and straightened, ready, eyes attentive.

Aerion saw him too, and quickened his pace as if he could not bear the thought of Baelor speaking to Valarr without him there to poison it.

“Cousin,” Aerion said brightly, slipping into the space before Baelor could reach his son. “You were magnificent today. Truly. A clean hit. Very pretty.”

Valarr’s expression held. “Thank you.”

Aerion’s eyes flicked down, deliberately, to where the ribbon favor was tied to Valarr’s lance resting against a support near the pavilion wall, kept there like a trophy. “And bold,” Aerion added, voice light. “Asking for favors. It’s almost romantic.”

Baelor’s gaze focused. “Aerion.”

Aerion turned that smile on him immediately, innocent. “Uncle. I’m praising him.”

“Praise is not the same as bait,” Baelor replied, calm but flat.

Aerion lifted his hands a fraction. “No bait. Only admiration.” His eyes went back to Valarr, and the admiration curdled into something thin and cruel. “You should be careful, though. Some favors come with… expectations.”

Valarr’s tone stayed polite. “I know what I’m doing.”

Aerion hummed, like he found that amusing. “Do you? Because from where I stand, it looks like you’ve chosen to involve yourself in something that doesn’t belong to you.”

Maekar’s chair scraped back. The sound cut through a nearby conversation like a knife. “Aerion,” he said, the warning heavier now.

Aerion did not look at him. “I’m speaking to my cousin,” he said, and he made “cousin” sound like a claim.

Valarr’s gaze held steady on Aerion. “If you have something to say, say it plainly.”

Aerion’s smile widened. “Plainly. Fine.” He leaned in slightly, just enough to make it intimate, just enough to make it feel like a private insult delivered in public. “You wanted her attention. You wanted to look noble in front of the whole meadow. So you asked for her favor like a gallant knight from a song.”

Valarr’s voice remained even. “And she granted it.”

Aerion’s eyes glittered. “She shouldn’t have.”

Baelor stepped closer, placing himself between them by half a pace. His tone was quiet, but it carried the weight of command. “This is not the place.”

Aerion’s smile turned toward Baelor again, almost affectionate. “It never is, is it? There’s always some better time. Some private chamber. Some later.” He looked back at Valarr. “Tell me, did it make you feel important? Wearing her ribbon? Pretending you’re her shield?”

Valarr’s jaw flexed once. The only sign, small and human, that the words were landing where Aerion wanted them to land.

Maekar’s voice cut in again, hard. “Enough.”

Aerion’s eyes slid to his father at last, lazy and defiant. “I’m only speaking truth.”

“You’re only speaking,” Maekar said. “And you’re doing it too much.”

Aerion’s lips parted in a grin. “So commanding.” Then, without looking away from Maekar, he spoke to Valarr anyway, voice sweetened with contempt. “You know what’s funny? You think you’re protecting her. But you’re not. You’re simply making yourself a target.”

Valarr’s composure held by a thread you could almost see. “Stop.”

Aerion blinked, as if surprised. “Stop what?”

“Stop talking about her like she’s an object,” Valarr said, and his voice had cooled, turning into something that did not ask. “Stop using her name like it’s a weapon.”

Aerion’s smile faded into something colder. “She is my blood.”

“She is her own,” Valarr answered, and that was where he made his mistake, because Aerion did not hate being corrected. He hated being denied.

Aerion’s cup tipped slightly in his hand, wine sloshing. He set it down with exaggerated care, as if he didn’t want to waste a drop. Then he stepped in close enough that only the people nearest would hear, and his voice softened into a whisper that carried anyway because the pavilion had begun to listen.

“She would have been mine,” Aerion said, and there was no charm left in it now. “Father stole that from me. And you.” His gaze flicked down and back up, quick and filthy in its implication. “You think you can take what was meant to be mine because you’re Baelor’s son and the realm claps for you? You think you can reach into my family and pull out what you want?”

Valarr’s nostrils flared. “You’re not entitled to her.”

Aerion’s mouth curled. “Entitled.” He tasted the word like it was ridiculous. “I’m a prince. Dragon blood decides entitlement.”

Baelor’s voice cut in, low, controlled. “Aerion. Step back.”

Aerion did not step back. He turned his face toward Baelor and smiled again, the smile he used when he wanted to wound politely. “Will you stop me, uncle?”

Baelor’s eyes hardened. “Yes.”

Aerion’s gaze snapped back to Valarr, and he chose the blade that would slip under the armor of restraint. “You want to play her champion,” he said softly. “Tell me, did she look at you the way she looks at me when she’s frightened?”

Valarr moved before he finished the thought.

It was not a dramatic lunge. It was a single step, quick and controlled, and his hand shot out and seized Aerion by the front of his tunic, hauling him forward hard enough that Aerion’s shoulders jolted. The pavilion sucked in a breath. A couple of lords rose halfway from their seats, eyes wide, like they were watching a bear step into a feast. Maekar’s chair scraped again, and this time he was on his feet fully.

Valarr’s voice was low, shaking with fury he had kept caged all day. “You will not speak of her like that.”

Aerion’s eyes widened for a heartbeat, not with fear, but with delighted surprise, because this was what he wanted. This was always what he wanted: proof that he could make another man lose control. He smiled, close enough now that his breath hit Valarr’s face. “There it is,” he whispered. “The pretty prince breaks.”

Valarr’s fist drove forward.

It was a clean punch, a straight line, not wild, not sloppy. It caught Aerion on the mouth, snapping his head to the side. Blood specked immediately, bright in torchlight. Aerion staggered a half-step, then laughed, actually laughed, the sound wet and vicious.

“Oh,” Aerion said, touching his lip with his tongue. “So it’s like that.”

He hit back.

Aerion was not as skilled as he believed himself to be, but he was fast, and anger made men stupid and strong in equal measure. His fist clipped Valarr’s cheekbone, a crack that made Valarr’s head jerk. Valarr’s response was immediate. He drove Aerion backward, hands on his shoulders, forcing him toward a support pole, and Aerion slammed into it hard enough that the canvas above shuddered. Tankards rattled on tables. Someone shouted. Someone else laughed nervously like they couldn’t believe it was real.

“Valarr!” Baelor barked, and the single use of his son’s name like that, loud and stern, cut through the pavilion like a whip. It did not stop Valarr’s motion, but it reached him, because Baelor’s voice was not something he ignored lightly.

Maekar surged forward at the same time, but the Kingsguard were faster. Two white cloaks moved like they’d been waiting for this moment all evening, because they probably had. One seized Valarr around the torso from behind, hauling him back with brute strength. Another stepped between Aerion and everyone else, arm across Aerion’s chest, blocking him. Aerion tried to shove past anyway, spitting blood and fury, and the Kingsguard slammed him back with a hard forearm that made the pavilion go quiet in shock at the audacity of stopping a prince like a misbehaving boy.

Aerion’s eyes went wild. “Get off me!” he snapped. “I’ll have you flogged!”

The Kingsguard did not release him. “Your Grace,” one of them said, voice flat with practiced disrespect disguised as duty, “you will stand down.”

Aerion twisted, trying to reach around him to strike Valarr again, and Valarr strained against the man holding him, muscles corded, breathing hard, face flushed with rage and shame. For a moment it looked like the Kingsguard might not be enough, not because they were weak, but because princes were stupid when their pride was bleeding.

Baelor stepped forward into the space between them, and the pavilion’s attention snapped to him like a hooked line.

“That is enough,” Baelor said, not loud, not theatrical, but absolute. The warmth had drained out of his voice. What remained was command. “Release my son.”

The Kingsguard holding Valarr hesitated, then loosened his grip but did not fully let go, hands still ready. Valarr stood rigid, chest heaving, eyes locked on Aerion with a fury he had not shown anyone before. A bruise was already darkening along his cheekbone where Aerion had struck him.

Baelor’s gaze moved to Aerion, and the disappointment in it was heavy, almost worse than anger. “You will return to your seat,” Baelor said. “You will wash your mouth. You will speak to no one until you can remember you are not the center of the realm.”

Aerion laughed, short and sharp, and blood flicked from his lip. “And what about him?” he snapped, nodding toward Valarr. “Your precious son. He struck a dragon.”

Baelor did not blink. “He struck a man who deserved it.”

The pavilion went so quiet you could hear the torches crackle.

Maekar’s head turned slowly toward Baelor, surprise flickering across his stern expression. He had expected Baelor to condemn violence on principle. Baelor had chosen, instead, to condemn the cause.

Aerion stared at Baelor as if he had never seen him before, as if he couldn’t understand how kindness could contain steel. “So that’s it,” Aerion breathed, voice tight. “You choose him?”

Baelor’s reply was calm and lethal in its simplicity. “I choose what is right.”

Aerion’s gaze snapped to Maekar, looking for support, for permission, for someone to confirm he was the wronged party. Maekar’s expression was granite. “You embarrassed yourself,” Maekar said. “Again.”

Aerion’s mouth twisted. “He attacked me.”

“You provoked him,” Maekar answered, and every word sounded like it hurt to say because it meant admitting what Aerion was. “You always do.”

Aerion’s breathing was fast, nostrils flaring, and for a second you could see the boy under the cruelty, the boy who had never been told no without turning it into a war. Then the cruelty slid back over his face like a mask.

“This isn’t finished,” Aerion said softly, eyes on Valarr now, promising. “You think you can touch what I want and not pay for it.”

Valarr’s voice was hoarse. “She’s not what you want. She’s who you want to own.”

Aerion smiled, bloody and bright. “Same thing.”

Baelor’s hand lifted, a small gesture, and the Kingsguard tightened again, guiding Aerion away despite his resistance. Maekar watched him go with an expression that looked like fatigue and fury had finally fused into something permanent. Lords and knights pretended not to stare, pretended this was not the most interesting thing that had happened all night, but their eyes followed every step, greedy for a story they could repeat over fires for years.

When Aerion was gone from immediate reach, Baelor turned to Valarr. His voice dropped, private but still edged with authority. “Come with me.”

Valarr’s anger had not vanished, but it had shifted. Now there was shame in it too, because he had lost control in public, because he had given Aerion exactly what he wanted: a scene. He nodded once, jaw tight, and followed Baelor deeper into the pavilion where the light was dimmer and the air tasted less like wine.

Maekar stayed where he was for a moment, staring after them, hands clenched at his sides. Then he exhaled through his nose like a man trying not to become a storm and turned to the Kingsguard still stationed nearby.

“Double the watch,” Maekar said quietly. “On the girl’s quarters. On Aerion. On everyone. Tonight.”

The Kingsguard inclined his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Maekar’s eyes tracked the pavilion entrance, the torchlit gap in the canvas where the noise of celebration still drifted in as if nothing had happened. “This meadow is full of drunk men and sharp tongues,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “And my son thinks he can set fires without getting burned.”

Outside, the music kept playing. Cups kept clinking. Laughter kept rising into the night.

Inside, blood dried on Aerion’s mouth, a bruise darkened on Valarr’s face, and Baelor Targaryen took his son away to speak words that would not be gentle, because gentleness did not stop men like Aerion.