entering the garden…

GOWNS

Fashion in the Crownlands reflects the reign of whoever sits upon the Iron Throne, often setting the standard for the rest of the realm.

During Targaryen rule, gowns were crafted from rich, heavy textiles such as velvet and thicker silks, emphasizing structure and sculpted silhouettes. These garments favored jewel tones and deep, saturated colors, reinforcing the Targaryens’ image of power and regality. Dark hues, especially blacks and reds, were commonly worn to mirror their house colors.

— Heavy use of beading, chains, lace overlays, and corsetry. The embellishments mimic jewelry or armor.

Gowns were often lavishly adorned with intricate embroidery, gemstones, and pearls. The level of ornamentation directly signaled wealth and status. This is exemplified during the Dance of the Dragons, where Rhaenyra favored gowns dripping in jewels and deep crimson shades.

— Court fashion under King Daeron II

Under King Daeron II, Dornish influence began to shape court fashion. Younger Targaryen princesses adopted lighter fabrics such as Pentoshi silk, along with softer color palettes: lavender, ivory, pale blue. Ladies of the court followed suit, wearing pastel and warm tones like peach, rose, gold, and sky blue to align themselves with royal trends.

HAIR

Hair was typically worn long and carefully styled, often incorporating braids.

— Styles were worn looser and relaxed during Targaryen rule, later becoming more elaborate and structured under Baratheon rule, influenced by the Westerlands and the Reach

A common style was half-up, half-down, allowing length to be displayed while keeping hair styled. Targaryen princesses especially favored wearing their hair loose to showcase their distinctive silver hair, with intricate braiding to frame the face.

For formal occasions requiring a more refined appearance, hair was twisted and pinned into elegant updos, secured with jeweled pins, combs, or chains.

HEADWEAR

Targaryen princesses traditionally wore tiaras, reserved for formal settings such as court appearances, tourneys, and diplomatic functions. Different tiaras were worn depending on the occasion.

— Tiaras were fashioned often from gold or silver, adorned with gemstones and pearls

Beyond the royal family, it became fashionable in the Crownlands for noblewomen to wear delicate hair chains, often adorned with gemstones, pearls, or fine metalwork, draped across braids or pinned into styled hair.

— Hair chains were widely favored, with each region developing its own distinct variations

JEWELRY

Jewelry is essential in court presentation and serves as a primary indicator of rank and wealth.

During Targaryen rule, jewelry emphasized precious gemstones: rubies, amethysts, diamonds, set into elaborate designs. Popular styles included chokers and festoon necklaces, with draped chains and layered detailing.

— Noble houses often wove their sigils and motifs into jewelry, serving as markers of identity and allegiance

Under Robert Baratheon’s reign, fashion shifted toward metal-focused pieces, favoring gold and silver over gemstone-heavy designs. Jewelry became basic, often consisting of solid collars or simple chains with pendants.

— Pearl drop earrings were the standard, worn even by some noble men, while the lower classes wore simpler pearl earrings made from inexpensive materials

Earrings remained consistently popular, often large and grand in design, showcasing prominent gemstones. Pearl drop earrings were especially favored and widely worn among noblewomen.

FOOTWEAR

Ladies footwear primarily consisted of slippers and boots, with preference often reflecting age and practicality. Older women tended to favor slippers, which were crafted from fine materials and richly adorned with intricate embroidery, often set with small jewels to complement their gowns.

— White boots were popular, though not meant for laborious use.

Younger ladies, by contrast, more commonly wore laced boots, valued for their practicality and ease of movement. Despite their function, boots in the Crownlands were far from plain. They were frequently decorated with embroidery and produced in a range of colors, including white and black, allowing them to maintain both utility and aesthetic appeal within court fashion.

The afternoon slipped quickly into evening, the last pale stretch of daylight fading behind the castle’s grey towers. Candles and torches had been lit all along the walls and courtyards, their golden light dancing against the ancient stone. The air grew sharper as the sun sank lower, and a crisp wind moved over the fields surrounding the castle, carrying with it the scent of trampled grass, horse sweat, and woodsmoke from the cooking fires that had been lit for the night’s feast.

Inside the castle grounds servants scurried in every direction, their arms full of platters, jugs of wine, and bundles of fresh orange blooms meant to be scattered across the floors of the great hall. The tourney drew nobles and knights from across the Seven Kingdoms, and Lord Ashford spared no effort in preparing a celebration worthy of the crowds.

Aerion and Lucerea walked together along the path that led toward the lists. They joined the growing stream of nobles and spectators making their way to the arena. Groups of ladies clustered together beneath colorful cloaks, their heads bent close, whispering and giggling behind jeweled hands. Their laughter carried lightly through the brisk air, bright and excited as they speculated about which knight might ride the strongest that evening. Nearby, men who had not been fortunate enough to enter the lists were already drunk and loud. Their voices rose over one another to argue over wagers and favorites. Some declared that they would win enough coin to buy an entire barrel of Dornish wine, while others swore they would spend their winnings on the prettiest whore in town before the night was done.

Lucerea clung lightly to Aerion’s arm, while he guided them through the crowd toward the royal stands. The raised seating was prepared for the highest lords and ladies attending the tourney. Lord Ashford himself would preside over the tourney beside his daughter Gwin, and Lord Tyrell arrived with several of his bannermen from the Reach. Nobles from the Stormlands and other distant regions came as well, filling the stands with a sea of fine silks, bright colors, and glittering jewelry. Lucerea found herself quietly impressed that Lord Ashford could afford to host such a grand event. The scale of it all made the castle grounds feel almost like a small city, crowded with banners and voices from every corner of the realm.

When they drew closer to the lists, Lucerea’s attention drifted away from the stands and toward the rows of the knights’ pavilions that were raised beside the arena. The open field transformed into a lively forest of tents and arms. The canvas roofs stretched across the grass in neat lines, each one marked with the colors and sigils of the knight or noble house that claimed it. Some pavilions were modest, their cloth faded and their banners plain, while others were rich with embroidered crests, painted shields, and silken streamers that fluttered restlessly in the evening wind. Servants moved in and out of them carrying armor and polished helms, while squires checked saddles and tightened the straps of heavy barding on restless horses waiting nearby.

Her gaze eventually settled on a pavilion that stood proudly near the edge of the lists, its tall canvas walls rising like a small tented hall. The structure was larger than most, its frame supported by a strong central pole that lifted the roof high above the ground. Heavy panels of deep crimson and black fabric draped down from the peak, the unmistakable colors of House Targaryen catching the torchlight. The crimson stripes spilled downward from the center like streams of dark wine, cutting across the black canvas that formed the sides of the pavilion. Just above the doorway, a carved dragon emblem was fixed against the fabric.

A pair of guards lingered close to the entrance, their cloaks drawn tight against the cold evening air. They stood quietly but attentively, their hands resting near the hilts of their swords, watching the movement of the crowds around them. Their presence made it clear that this pavilion was not simply another knight’s shelter but one belonging to someone whose name carried weight across the realm. As Lucerea stood by, the canvas flaps stirred more violently and a figure pushed through them, stepping out into the dark and chilly air of the tournament grounds.

“Cousin!” Lucerea called out, spotting him.

She slipped easily from Aerion’s side and made her way toward the pavilion. The sudden absence of her warmth made Aerion’s attention snap sharply back to her, and his jaw tightened with visible irritation. His gaze narrowed as she drifted toward another direction entirely. His gaze followed her till she stood beside their cousin.

Valarr turned his head quickly at the sound of her voice. He tilted his chin down, surprised to see her. He watched her quietly when she approached. For a moment his posture stiffened when he noticed Aerion walking several steps behind her like a shadow that refused to leave her side. Valarr straightened slightly, his shoulders settling into a guarded stance.

“Well wishes to you, cousin,” Lucerea said with a warm smile.

“Thank you, Lucerea.” Valarr returned the smile with a quick nod of his head. His eyes darted past her shoulder toward Aerion, who stopped a short distance away. Aerion made no effort to step closer and greet him properly. He remained near enough that every movement between them could be carefully observed. Valarr shifted his attention back to Lucerea. “It is a heavy burden,” he admitted quietly. “There are many onlookers tonight. I do not want to bore the crowd with a lackluster performance.”

Lucerea shook her head, placing her hands on the vambrace of his armor. “You never were much of an entertainer,” her brows lifted as she spoke. Her eyes dropped to the rubies that detailed his armor, hypnotized by the way the rubies catch the surrounding torchlights. “You should not waste your breath on such a flaw. Not when smallfolk and nobles alike are easily enthralled by the stupidest of things.”

“Only you can insult and stroke my ego all at once,” Valarr placed his index finger below her chin, lifting it up for her eyes to focus back on him. The corners of his lips tug upward at the sight of her face.

“A wicked talent not for the faint of heart,” she amused, staring into his mismatched eyes.

“Rest assured, cousin,” He paused for a second while his knuckle softly brushed against her chin. “My heart can endure.”

“Lucerea.”

The air cracked around Lucerea. She whipped her head around, finding Aerion still there. His voice rang like dark amber, smooth and inviting on the tongue, but burns on the way down. The way the syllables of her name fell from his lips bewitched her. She felt like a sailor, and he, the siren.

Valarr’s jaw tightened for a flash of a second, though he kept his composure. “The joust will begin in a few moments,” he dropped his arms back to his side. “I will keep your well wishes close to me as I ride.”

Lucerea looked back at Valarr with a small smile. She rose to the tips of her toes, and pressed a gentle, chaste peck against his lips. “May the Gods watch over you,” she told him before stepping away and returning to Aerion’s side.

For a quick moment, Valarr and Aerion caught each other’s attention and simply looked at one another. The air between them felt more ruthless than the night sky. The competitive nature was mutual between them. “Cousin,” Valarr said, dipping his head slightly toward Aerion in acknowledgement.

Aerion’s eyes hardened, though he inclined his head just enough to return the gesture owed to the senior Targaryen. Without speaking, he slipped an arm around Lucerea’s waist and pulled her firmly against his side before guiding her toward the royal stands. He offered Valarr no words or a glance in return.

They nearly reached the steps of the stands when Aerion finally spoke. “If I did not know any better,” he murmured close against Lucerea’s ear, his breath warm against the back of her neck, “I might assume he left his wife in Summerhall for a reason.”

“Aerion,” Lucerea shot him a look to not cross a boundary they did not need to. She recognized the shift in his body immediately. His shoulders became rigid and there was pent-up frustration from the way he tensed his muscles. It was the same kind of agitation that appeared whenever he stood on the edge of doing something reckless or cruel. Lucerea reached out and placed a comforting hand against his arm, hoping to soften whatever dark thought that began stirring inside him.

Aerion reacted instantly. With a quick, sharp motion he ripped his arm away from her. He turned and stalked off, leaving hot in his trails and the snap of his clack.

Lucerea, offended, scoffed at his audacity. She watched him stride ahead of her toward the front row of the royal stands like a pouting child throwing a tantrum. For a moment she remained where she was, drawing in a slow inhale, gathering herself together. Then she lifted her skirts slightly and followed after him.

Maekar, Baelor, and Lord Ashford were already present when Lucerea reached the front of the royal stands. The three men stood in front of their carved wooden seats. Torches burned along the railing of the platform, their flames bending and swaying with the winds. Lucerea moved gracefully into her place beside Aerion.

Across the lists, the mass of smallfolk packed tightly behind the barricades grew loud and unruly with excitement. Their voices rolled together into a chaotic wave of cheering, shouting, and laughter. Some rang small hand bells while others beat on the wooden rails with tankards or fists, the noise rising and falling like the roar of a distant sea. The smell of ale and sweat drifted from the crowd in thick waves.

Baelor stepped forward slightly and raised his hand toward them in greeting. His smile was easy and warm, the sort that reached his eyes. The crowd answered his gesture with an even louder cheer, their voices swelling with admiration for the prince. Lucerea watched him with admiration. Her uncle had always possessed an authority that seemed to command the space around him without effort. When he finally lowered himself into his seat, the movement rippled outward through the stands, and one by one the nobles and spectators followed until everyone was seated.

Lucerea gathered the folds of her skirt carefully before sitting. She smoothed the velvet fabric across her lap, making certain that no crease would form during the long wait of the joust. The gown’s weight settled comfortably around her legs as she adjusted herself. When she finished, her gaze drifted sideways toward Aerion. He sat rigidly beside her, his face arranged into a blank expression that hid the irritation still lingering beneath the surface. Lucerea learned long ago that the best thing to do in those moments was simply allow him to ride the feeling out on his own.

The crowd erupted again when the horns finally sounded across the field, the deep brassy note rolling over the arena like a signal of war. Lucerea straightened in her seat, leaning forward slightly as her attention returned to the lists. Knights began to ride along the length of the field, their horses stepping proudly over the packed dirt while their banners fluttered behind them. Armor flashed beneath the torchlight as they passed the stands.

One knight from House Tully rode particularly close to the barricade where the smallfolk were gathered. In one hand he held a large silver trout, the symbol of his house, its scales glistening wet beneath the evening light. He shouted something loudly to the crowd that Lucerea could not quite make out over the noise. Then, with exaggerated flair, he lifted the fish and bit into its head. The crowd roared with delight at the crude display. The knight tossed the ruined fish into the crowd where eager hands scrambled to catch it.

Lucerea wrinkled her nose faintly at the sight, her lips tightening with distaste. Knights often performed ridiculous acts to make themselves memorable in the eyes of the crowd, but she still found the behavior vulgar and unnecessary. The smallfolk loved it, of course. Their laughter and cheering only grew louder as the knight rode away triumphantly.

All across the field squires and attendants moved quickly around their masters. Young boys carried lances nearly twice their height, hurrying through the dirt while others held polished shields and heavy helms ready for the riders. Voices shouted back and forth across the lists as men called instructions to one another over the constant snorting of the horses.

Lucerea’s gaze searched the line of knights until she spotted Valarr riding into position. His horse stepped confidently beneath him as he guided it toward his end of the lists. A squire approached and handed him his helm. Valarr lifted it over his head, settling the steel firmly into place.

The helm itself was dark and imposing, its surface shaped with sharp ridges that ran from the brow to the back like the spine of some ancient beast. Along the crown a crimson dragon had been etched and painted into the steel. Its wings stretched wide while its long body twisted downward along the raised ridge of the helmet. The painted red stood bold against the darker metal, striking and vivid like fresh blood spilled across black stone. Beneath the wavering torchlight the dragon seemed almost alive. Each tiny scale caught the glow of the flames, making the creature appear ready to coil and leap from the steel itself.

Once every knight took his place at the far ends of the lists, the noise began to fade. The excited chatter melted away into a sudden, heavy silence that settled over the arena. The wind whispered across the open field, tugging gently at banners and cloaks. Horses pawed impatiently at the packed dirt, their hooves stamping and scraping as they tossed their heads. The sound of their breathing carried clearly through the quiet. Every spectator leaned forward with anticipation, waiting for the horns that would signal the charge.

The silence shattered suddenly.

“Lord Ashford fucks his sheep!” a man shouted loudly from somewhere within the crowd.

Fits of laughter burst out from every direction. Smallfolk howled with amusement while even a few nobles covered their smiles behind gloved hands.

Lucerea rolled her eyes at the outburst. It was in bad taste. She glanced toward Lord Ashford and saw him shift awkwardly in his seat, the embarrassment plain on his face, sitting beside the gaze of royalty. The poor man looked as though he wished he could sink through the wooden floor of the stand.

Beside her, Aerion looked thoroughly unimpressed. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees, rubbing his hands together while his fingers fidgeted restlessly. His expression carried nothing but boredom and irritation.

Maekar and Baelor appeared equally unmoved by the remark. Neither man allowed their expressions to change in the slightest, their faces remaining neutral and composed as though the shout had never happened at all. The discipline of princes held firm even while the crowd continued to laugh.

The horn finally sounded, its long thunderous note cutting through the evening air like the call of war. The deep cry rolled across the tournament grounds and echoed against the castle walls. At the far ends of the lists the horses jolted with sudden energy, their hooves scraping hard against the earth when their riders urged them forward. The animals gave sharp, excited cries as they surged into motion, muscles tightening beneath gleaming barding.

From both sides of the field the knights lowered their lances in unison. Ten riders thundered toward one another down the narrow stretch of dirt, their banners snapping violently behind them in the wind. The ground trembled faintly beneath the pounding rhythm of hooves as they closed the distance. The polished points of their lances glinted beneath the torchlight, aimed carefully at shields and armor.

The collision came in a violent burst of sound.

Lances shattered the moment they struck. The crack of splintering wood exploded across the arena, loud enough to make several spectators flinch. Shards of broken lance scattered into the air like flying arrows before clattering down onto the ground. One knight was struck squarely against his shield and thrown backward from his saddle, crashing heavily into the ground as his horse continued forward without him. Another rider lost his balance and slid sideways from his mount, landing hard on the floor with a mistakeable thud.

The crowd erupted into wild hollering. Smallfolk shouted themselves hoarse while bells rang and tankards were lifted high in excitement. Nobles leaned forward eagerly from the stands, their eyes fixed on the chaos unfolding below.

Those knights who remained seated quickly tossed aside the splintered remains of their lances. Squires ran forward along the edges of the lists, holding fresh weapons ready. The riders snatched new lances from their attendants without slowing their mounts, turning their horses sharply and prepared to charge again. The air filled with dust kicked up by their mounts, swirling in pale clouds beneath the glow of torches.

Lucerea turned her head slightly, her attention drifting away from the violent clash below. Her gaze settled on Aerion beside her.

He was watching the joust with intense focus, his posture leaning forward slightly, while his eyes followed every movement along the field. The hard cast from the torches’ fire shifted shadows across the sharp lines of his face. Lucerea studied the peaks and angles of his profile. Her lilac eyes traced slowly along the strong slope of his brow, the straight line of his nose, and the firm curve of his jaw. He sat there brooding quietly. Lucerea could feel the heaviness of his mood like a storm cloud pressing down around him.

She bit gently at her lower lip before speaking. “Brother,” she murmured softly.

Lucerea reached toward him, intending to rest her hand against his arm. She barely touched him when Aerion moved faster than she expected. His own hand shot out and seized her wrist.

Lucerea startled at the sudden grip, instinctively tried to pull her hand back. Aerion did not release her. His fingers tightened around her wrist, digging sharply into the soft skin, holding her in place.

“Sister,” he replied slowly. His head to face her then. His violet eyes darkened. There was a dangerous glint in his gaze, something simmering just beneath the mask he wore in public.

“I am not in the mood,” he said through clenched teeth as his grip tightened even further around her wrist.

A small sound escaped Lucerea before she could stop it. The sharp pressure of his fingers sent a sting of pain through her arm, and she let out a muffled whine beneath her breath.

Before either of them could say another word, a voice suddenly interrupted. “How do you like the joust, princess?”

Lord Ashford turned in his seat toward them, his round face flushed red with excitement and from drinking. He smiled widely at the dragon siblings, clearly eager to include them in the spectacle unfolding before them.

Aerion released her wrist immediately. He leaned back into his seat as though nothing unusual happened at all, his hands resting loosely together while his gaze returned boredly to the lists and riding knights.

Lucerea quietly drew in a breath. She blinked several times, forcing away the slight tears that gathered in the corners of her eyes from the sudden pain. Composing herself quickly, she turned her head toward Lord Ashford and offered him a polite smile. “Very well, my lord,” she replied, mustering up a polite smile.

Her other hand moved instinctively to her wrist, rubbing the tender skin in an attempt to soothe the lingering ache. Even through the fabric of her sleeve she could feel the throbbing pressure where his fingers had been. When she glanced down to see crescent shaped marks forming along the pale skin where his nails pressed close to her veins.

She knew him well enough not to be surprised. Aerion was not himself if he was not cruel at times, and most often that cruelty found its way toward her. The corner of Lucerea’s lips twitched slightly as the thought passed through her mind.

The night stretched long, even after the joust concluded. The halls echoed with the lively sounds of drunk men singing and women clapping to the rhythm of the minstrel’s strings. The feast was long and loud, as feasts often were, with platters of roasted duck and fresh river fish, tankards drained and refilled, and laughter filling the space. Feet tapped against the wooden boards to a dance only the mildly sober knew, and a few chains of jokes turned into small brawls. The festivities did not lessen as the hours passed.

Lucerea entertained the feast and those in attendance for a short while before retreating into her own world. In the privacy of her chambers, the air felt different, looser, warmer. Tall candles burned from every corner, their light gilding the carved wood and stone in soft amber. The windows stood open, inviting in a pleasant breeze that stirred the gauzy curtains into a lazy sway. The room smelled faintly of wax, fresh spring air, and her perfume.

But the chambers were anything but quiet.

“Aerion!” Lucerea gasped loudly as a string of curses fell from her lips. The balls of her palms dug down on the panels of Aerion’s chest, while her ass came down on his thigh in a fluid movement. The pleasure rushed through her like a drum beating the same rhythm harder and harder, refusing to let up. Her senses melted into nothing, making her breath hitch and break. Every time her pulsating pussy took in every inch of his thick cock like he promised, she shuddered, pulling a desperate sound from her throat.

Punishment. That was Lucerea’s sentence, and that made Aerion her executioner. After testing his patience and the insolent behavior, in his eyes, he had enough. There was a fire burning beneath his skin that only Lucerea could satisfy. It burned hot, all-consuming, desperate in the way it clawed at every fiber in his body, maddening, so much so it turned men into beasts, and carnal in every sense of it.

“Fuck…” Aerion groaned. He threw his head back on the silk pillows behind him. His large rough hands settled at the widest part of her hips. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, guiding her movements deeper into him. His violet eyes never left her. He watched her ride him like her life depended on it. “Just like that– fuck– fuck into me,” he thrusted his hips forward.

Lucerea leaned back, resting her hands on his thighs, opening her legs more, and continued to move her hips up and down. From this angle, Aerion had a full view of her wet cunt swallowing his cock whole. Her body was covered with a layer of sweat, glistening under the candlelight, and her breasts bouncing softly against her skin. The sight alone nearly made him cum.

The change in position allowed him to hit at an angle that made them see stars. Lucerea whined loudly, sucking in a sharp breath and rolling her hips faster. She could not count how many rounds the two of them went through already. They were far too lost in pleasure and overstimulation to keep count. All she knew was that she wanted to completely milk him out by the very end of it all.

“Aerion– Gods–” Her breath hitched when Aerion’s thumb moved over to her clit, pinching it before rubbing circles. Lucerea whimpered as she closed her eyes and tucked her bottom lip in between her teeth. She dug her nails into his thighs, causing Aerion to hiss.

“Let me hear you,” Aerion coaxed, while his own breath became huskier by the second. “Gods– fuck– you feel so good–” He felt her pussy tightened around his cock when he pressed down on her clit harder. Aerion gritted his teeth together when he felt the familiar surge through his cock from the rapid pace and her clenching cunt.

“I’m gonna– Aerion–” Lucerea threw her head back and moaned loudly. Her legs started to shake and her thighs squeezed together.

Aerion sat up, circling one arm around her waist, and the other hand, he used his fingers to quickly rub over her clit. “Cum for me, cum on this cock like the slut you are,” his hot breath fanned over her ear.

Lucerea’s movements became sloppier, eager to chase her high. She circled her arms around Aerion’s neck, rubbing her clit over his fingers and pounding on his cock deep until it hit her. “Aerion! Ah!” She grounds herself on Aerion’s twitching cock. Her body shook as the waves of pleasure rolled throughout her body.

“Fuck! Lucerea! That’s it– fuck– take it!” Aerion grunted. It sent him over the edge when he felt her cunt squeeze the soul out of him. He quickly thrusted a few times to ride out his orgasm, trying to make it last longer. He buried himself deep, while he spurted all his cum into her. For a brief moment, he saw flashes of stars across his vision when he emptied out.

He fell back onto the mattress and the silk pillows. He looks up at Lucerea with an exhausted but content expression. He rested his hands around the curve of her waist, pulling her closer to him. “Don’t move yet,” he mumbled out, trying to catch his breath at the same time. “Let me fuck my cum into you. I won’t have a single drop go to waste,” he added as he guided her hips up and down.

Lucerea’s breath hitched, her body trembling at the overstimulation of her sensitive core. She pressed her hands flat against his hard abs, feeling his muscles tense under her touch. “You seem eager,” she breathed out, pushing a stray lock behind her ear.

Aerion shifted comfortably on the pillows behind him, his thumbs rubbing over her skin idly. “One would not hurt,” he casually replied to her. “If only you’d live in Summerhall, we would have a few children by now, running around and causing trouble.”

“Am I hearing right?” She leaned forward, resting her hands on either side of his head. She let out a soft, amused huff, like she could not quite believe what he said to her. “What have you done to my Aerion? And where is he?” She dragged her index finger down the side of his face.

He snatched her hand still with his own. He turned his head, pressing a small kiss over the pads of her fingers. “I am serious,” he glanced at her.

“You forget one thing,” Lucerea exhaled, placing her hands back on his chest. She rolled her hips forward, making Aerion groan and grip her hips tightly.

“Fuck that Swann lordling,” Aerion clenched his teeth. “I’ll gladly kill him to finally have you.”

“You will do no such thing,” she replied, shaking her head. She slowly unmounts herself from Aerion, feeling the cool air pass between them. A shiver ran down her spine at the loss of contact when she slipped off the bed. Her feet pressed against the frigid stone flooring, while she walked over to the chair near the hearth where her silk robe had been abandoned earlier in the evening.

“Why do you keep defending him?” Aerion propped himself on his side, watching her move across the chamber. His violet eyes followed the line of her back when she walked and stretched slightly, her arms lifting above her head, easing the tension from her muscles.

Lucerea slipped the silk robe through her arms, settling it down over her body and adjusting it into place. “I’m not defending Alester,” she sighed. “It’s just…” she traced her finger along the edge of the plush chair beside her, “It's wishful thinking.”

Aerion pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he listened. He knew exactly what she meant without needing her to explain further. Lucerea was married, bound by vows that neither of them chose. Even though she was a princess of the realm, he could not simply take her away from her husband and hide her in Summerhall. Perhaps in another life he would have tried, and he certainly possessed the means and the audacity for such a thing. Yet with their father, their uncle, and the ever watchful eyes of the realm, it would be an act that would be deemed a great taboo.

He sat up, pushing himself off the mattress, walking over to her. Aerion’s hands came back on her waist, turning her around with little effort until she faced him. His hands roamed over her body with slow possession, mapping every curve as though rediscovering her.

“None of that,” His mouth found her neck again, leaving another dark bruise in its wake. His hand brushed away the front of her robe, letting his thumb travel down between her legs, rubbing her swollen bud. Lucerea’s eyes fluttered at the overwhelming sensation, letting out a softest breath and her hands roam over his exposed chest. “I will find a way for us to be together how we are meant to be.”

It was moments like this, when his touch was lingering, his voice low, almost tender, that made Lucerea nearly forget how vicious and cruel Aerion could be beyond the privacy of these walls. The air between them still hung thick with heat, with candle smoke, with something far more dangerous than either of them cared to name.

“That’s enough,” she whispered, lightly pushing him back. She kissed his cheek before moving back to bed and began straightening the covers.

Aerion watched her the entire time. His expression changed. The hunger dulled into something sharper, more irritable, more guarded. He was too proud to admit that he hated this part. The part after, when she stepped away from him as if the moment they shared already began to fade. Her back was him, almost serene as if she was not trembling on top of him only moments before.

Aerion scoffed, “You walk away like I was nothing more than something to pass the time.”

“It’s getting late,” Lucerea quickly glanced behind her shoulder to him. The hearth lit half his face, contorting the sharpness of his Valyrian features, while the other side was shadowed like the darkness he had in him. “We had our fun. Now it’s time to rest.”

“Is this what you do with other men? Throw them away when you are done with them?” The words fell from his mouth and tore the space between them, leaving nothing for interpretation. Aerion’s voice dropped to something colder, sharper. “Or am I the only fool who thought I was more than that?”

Lucerea’s fingers stilled on the coverlet. For a heartbeat, she said nothing, and the silence itself felt like a blade drawn between them.

“Answer me.” Aerion crossed, gripping onto her arm and forcefully turned her towards him.

“You are accusing me of something I would never do to you,” her words bit back. She furrowed her brows together, staring directly into his eyes that burned bright under the candlelight and fading hearth. “I don’t understand why you are throwing this at my face. Is my devotion not enough, brother?” she asked at last.

“There are rumors,” Aerion pulled her closer, breathing down his words over her ear. “You must be careful, sister. Devotion can only do so much before it becomes a cover for something else.”

His words settled between them. She could not tell where his concern ended and his suspicion began. The air in the chamber shifted slightly, the easy warmth from moments ago replaced by something uncomfortable. She was foolish to believe that their reunion after months apart would be free of tension. Aerion was always observant, always probing the edges of truth until he was satisfied. Whether he was simply teasing her or searching for something deeper remained unclear.

“And what would you prefer? That I cling to you like some common whore?” Lucerea shot back, matching his tone effortlessly.

“I would prefer,” he said, his voice dropping lower, “that my presence warrants more than indifference.”

“I have nothing to hide from you,” she cleared, straightening her shoulders. “You are the one I want. Not Alester, nor anyone else.”

Aerion studied her carefully, his gaze moving over her features, searching for the smallest crack in her composure. Yet he found none. His grip loosened and he lifted her wrist toward his lips. He pressed a slow kiss against the delicate skin there without breaking eye contact.

In the dim lighting, Lucerea’s wide eyes caught the glow from the burning candles that made them seem deeper than they were. When Aerion looked into them, he felt the intimate pull he never learned to resist. For a moment his questions faded, and with them the suspicions he carried into the room. Somewhere in the quiet part of his mind he understood why her husband trusted her so easily. When Lucerea looked at someone that way, it felt impossible not to believe her.

He took a closer step to her, pushing her silver hair aside until her neck was bare to him. His eyes fell to the bruises and sunken bite marks he gifted onto her skin. “I forget how stubborn you are… it’s infuriating,” his lips ghosted lightly against the shell of her ear.

“Now you understand how I feel,” Lucerea retorted.

Aerion chuckled at that. “Trust me,” he pushed her down on the bed. Lucerea was sprawled on the mattress with a narrowed gaze as she sat up properly. “Even in your insolence, you’re a saint,” he added. He takes his time to be mesmerized by her, despite the petulant pout on her face.

“You don't make me feel like one,” she replied, quieter this time. Aeron’s gaze darkened at her words.

He didn’t answer at once, instead he climbed onto the bed with calculated slowness, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He crawled toward her, unhurried, like a hunter that’s found game. Lucerea held his stare, refusing to retreat even as he trapped her with his arms, palms pressing into the mattress on either side of her.

He hovered over her, close enough that the warmth of his breath mingled with hers. Close enough that neither of them could pretend this didn’t affect them. His eyes searched hers, drinking her in with an intensity that stripped pretense bare. A slow smirk curved his mouth.

“Then I’ve done my job.” The words were low, almost satisfied.

Aerion did not rush to kiss her. He lowered himself slowly, giving her every opportunity to turn away or push him off. In his twisted pleasure, he knew she wouldn’t. His mouth claimed hers slowly at first, testing the waters, before deepening with tongue and teeth. His hand slid to her jaw, tilting her face to keep her exactly where he wanted her, as though the world beyond the bed ceased to exist. She was his to possess.

He moved to situate himself between her legs, his free hand slicked over her folds, feeling how wet she was again. Lucerea bit down on her quivering bottom lip, softening a moan. She watched him with half-crescent eyes, pooling with ungodly thoughts that were too impure in the eyes of the Andel gods.

“Mmh… Aerion,” her voice hitched, it came off a whine.

Abruptly, he stopped.

For a fleeting second she thought he would move again, to finish what he began, but instead he drew back. His fingers pulled away from her heat to his side. The loss of him was immediate, sharp as cold air on flushed skin. Lucerea’s breath caught, confusion flickering across her face before she could school it away.

He leaned back against the pillows, propping himself up on one elbow, regarding her with open appraisal. A slow, infuriating smile curved his mouth. She was where he wanted her.

“Is there something you need, sweet sister?” he mocked.

Color bloomed high along her cheekbones. She straightened at once, gathering what remained of her composure. “Nothing,” she replied, though her voice was not as steady as she would have liked. Her aching turned into mild aggravation.

He had seen the tremor in her hands. He heard the catch in her breath. That was enough. The mattress creaked softly as he settled more comfortably into the pillows, utterly at ease. He looked like the very definition of an entitled prince in repose, victorious without any regard.

”Now, now, no pouting,” He stroked the backside of his free hand over the edge of her jaw down to her throat. “You’ll have your fun after we discuss some pressing matters.”

Lucerea, recovering from her abridged pleasure, scoffed. She drew the silk robe around herself again. “I thought we were done exchanging biting remarks,” she narrowed her gaze. “Get out,” she spat, grinding her teeth.

“What did I say about dismissing me?” He sat up straighter against the pillows.

“If I wanted to keep talking, I would’ve bedded someone else.” Lucerea let the words fall carelessly between them, as though the notion barely interested her. There was a glint of provoked fire in her gaze. “Someone,” she added lightly, “who might be more agreeable company.”

Aerion did not react at first. The candlelight splitting him in two, gold across one sharp cheekbone, shadow devouring the other. His expression gave nothing away, but something in the air did. It was as if the hearth had died, replaced with a terrible coldness.

Without warning, his hand came up swiftly, fingers wrapped around her throat. He harshly pulled her towards him until she was half-straddled on his lap. His hand tightened, enough to make her gag and brand moon-shaped indents on the side of her neck.

Lucerea’s breath hitched. The pulse at her throat throbbed beneath his palm. Still, she did not reach for his wrist. Her chin lifted instead, refusing to show her struggle.

“Careful,” Aerion spoke in a soft, even tone. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it is.” His thumb shifted slightly under her jaw, tilting her face up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. Those deep violet eyes were no longer amused. Defiance from others he crushed without thought. From her, he tolerated; shown from the restraint to use his strength.

His thumb pressed harder on the front center of her neck. Lucerea coughed, instinctively inhaling for air but failed. The sudden tightness made her vision hazy. Aerion’s mouth twitched seeing her at his mercy and something about that seemed to steady him rather than inflame him.

“As for what I wanted to discuss… you will give me your favor for the lists tomorrow,” he continued, almost leisurely. “You will watch me win. And you will remember tonight when every other knight rides past you.”

Lucerea’s lashes fluttered, whether from the pressure at her throat or the command in his voice, even she could not tell. Her eyes, fresh with tears, rolled behind her lids. Aerion squeezed his hand tighter, pulling her closer to him until their foreheads nearly touched.

“You may jest about requesting another,” he murmured, the faint brush of his breath warm against her lips, “but do not pretend you would grant him what you grant me.”

He stared at her for a moment. She was beautiful, achingly so, anyone with eyes could see that. Yet… it was not the curve of her mouth or the sheen of tears along her lashes that held him there. It was the consuming fire just beneath her composure, the stubborn pride that refused to bend even with his hand at her throat. The unyielding nature of hers that met his darkness without cowering, and that, more than her beauty, was what made her impossible to look away from.

He loosened his hold. His fingers slid from her throat, trailing down the line of her neck to the hollow at her collarbone before falling away entirely. The absence of him felt colder than his touch had been.

Lucerea violently sputtered when the influx of cool air burned through her nose to her lungs. She blinked away the watery tears, glaring at Aerion’s away. “If you must force my hand, it was never yours to begin with,” the words hoarse.

His tongue pressed briefly to the inside of his cheek. His hands settled on her hips, adjusting her comfortably on his lap. His thumbs traced upward, following the line of her sides beneath the thin fabric of her robe. He wore a contemplative expression, taken by her audacity. “I wouldn’t have,” he scoffed, “if you’d just been a good girl.”

Aerion continued to admire her from where he laid beneath her. His hands dragged down her supple body as if he hadn't strangled her seconds ago. “Lucerea… don’t make me beg,” he whispered. He said it like he was the one wronged. Like her indifference wounded him. Those pathetic, bratty violet eyes looked up at her through silver lashes, pleading like a dog to its owner.

In someone else’s right mind, they would’ve kicked, screamed, cursed him for daring to lay a hand. Yet she just stared down at him instead. He was ungodly handsome beneath her, bare and arrogant even on his back. Cruelty was a turn off for most who had been in Aerion’s presence. But to her, she was a dragon drawn to blood and fire. The danger only made the attraction stronger, and unfairly made her core swell all over again.

— above: lucerea’s chambers in ashford castle

“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

The journey from Stonehelm to Ashford Meadow took a full fortnight, each day stretching longer than the last. What seemed manageable on parchment maps and in the confidence of men felt entirely different beneath the open sky. The procession moved at a steady pace, slowed by wagons heavy with supplies, armored knights unused to long rides, and the simple reality of the Stormlands’ unforgiving terrain. It was not like the Reach, with its endless rolling fields and gentle paths that welcomed travelers. The Stormlands rose and dipped without warning, hills sloping into rocky passes, narrow roads winding between thick forests that swallowed sunlight whole.

Some days the air was crisp and forgiving, the sky a wide blue expanse that made the banners flutter proudly as they rode. The sea wind would follow them inland for a time, carrying with it the scent of salt and distant waves crashing against cliffs. On those mornings, Lucerea almost felt light, her mare stepping freely over uneven ground while birds scattered from treetops at their approach. The land would glow green and wild as if daring any army to conquer it.

Other days were far less kind. Dark clouds gathered without warning swallowing the sun and casting the world in a dull gray. Rain would fall in sudden sheets, soaking through cloaks and gowns alike. The roads turned to mud beneath the weight of hooves and wheels, sucking at boots and splattering hems. Tents were pitched in haste, hands fumbling with rope and canvas, while thunder cracked overhead.

When it rained, Lucerea felt hollow inside. The constant drumming against the canvas and earth brought her back to another storm, one that rolled over King’s Landing the night her mother’s fever finally claimed her. The scent of wet dirt was thick in her lungs, almost suffocating. She was dry beneath layers of silk and wool, yet she never felt colder. It was almost exactly a year ago.

208 AC, King’s Landing

It did not rain often in King’s Landing. Not this much anyways. The narrow alleyways swelled with runoff from Blackwater Bay and nearby rivers along King’s Landing. The tides pushed inward, eager to swallow stone and timber. The water bore a sickening color, muddy yellow with a slimy green hue. There was a smell, a foul stench that clung in the air. It mingled with rot, stool discarded on the streets, and the copper tang that seeped from wounds. The breeze from the East could not chase away the odor that crept through streets and climbed the walls of the Red Keep itself.

The cobbled roads shimmered beneath the downpour, each slick surface catching what little light pierced the sky. The ground used to be hard and packed. Now every step sank in forbidden grime or slid across uneven stone. A careless stride could send someone sprawling onto sharp cobbles, where a twisted ankle or a cracked limb might linger far longer than the storm itself.

It was an old belief that rain that split the heavens meant the death of someone that was truly not meant to go so soon, so loved the Seven Gods wept. The faithful whispered the gods mourned through torrents, that their grief poured violently upon the world below. The cold wind threaded through narrow corridors and between rooftops, carrying with it murmured omens of a light extinguished too swiftly. The clouds hung low and burdened by sorrow as though there was no comfort that tomorrow could bring.

Lucerea stood beside a raised platform. She was dressed in a black gown too simple for a princess. A sheer black veil cloaked her face, clinging faintly where her breath warmed it and blurring the outline of her features. In her hands, she held a small bouquet of evening star, moon bloom, and lilac. Their petals drooped, heavy from the rain and rough handling, the edges bruised and color faded.

At first light, she had ran through the downpour to pluck them from the garden. She could still hear her septa’s disapproval cries carried by the wind. She remembered her bare feet sinking into the wet soil, fingers numb and trembling to tear the flowers from their stem.

“They are not the prettiest,” she choked, the words splintering against the back of her throat. Her eyes brimmed with hot tears threatening to fall. “But they are your favorites.”

Her mother lay unmoving before her, hands folded, skin pale as winter milk. Pebbles rested upon her closed eyes, painted the same violet as her siblings, so dark they were nearly midnight blue. They looked too bright against her complexion, the color itself did not belong to death. Her long ebony hair was brushed by the silent sisters and arranged with reverent care, fanned at her sides and left in its natural waves. Lucerea always thought her hair mirrored the sea waves of the summer seas at Starfall.

Her mother spoke so often of her girlhood in the pale-stoned castle, of towers that shimmered beneath the sun like a star shattered into a million pieces. She described how the light struck the walls at dawn, how it poured between the spires in ribbons of amber. She spoke of returning one day, when all her children were grown, to stand between those towers once more and feel the warmth of home upon her face. To breathe the salt air and to watch a new day arise.

Lucerea always listened as though those stories were promises. But promises were fragile things. They shattered easily. They laid now like broken glass at her feet. When the next sun rose, it would not find her mother dreaming of distant towers. It would rise with Lucerea alone, a daughter who had not yet learned how to live in a world that no longer held the sound of her mother’s voice. And the light, no matter how golden, would feel colder than the grave.

It’s been hours since the ceremony concluded beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Great Sept of Baelor. The incense perfumed the air, sweet and suffocating, clinging to her clothes and candles burned low in their sconces. Every Targaryen residing in the Red Keep had stood in attendance. Her father Maekar remained stern and immovable, Daeron restless beside him, Aerion silent and watchful, Aemon withdrawn into his own thoughts. Daella and Rhae clung to one another in open sobs, while Aegon shifted with the discomfort of a boy too young to understand the weight of loss. Her uncle Baelor bore his grief in silence, and her cousins Valarr and Matarys gave their condolences. At the forefront, her grandfather King Daeron the Good presided with a solemn expression, the crown heavy even in mourning. It was only a wake, a final gathering before her mother was given to the pyre’s flames, as their tradition demanded.

Throughout the rites she felt the weight of certain gazes settle upon her. She did not need to turn to know who watched. They all understood how close she was to her mother, how often she walked by her side, and how frequently she lingered in her chambers long after others had gone to sleep. Their glances held sympathy, perhaps even in wonder at how she would bear the loss. When the murmured condolences faded and the last of her kin withdrew from the sept, she stayed behind.

She gripped the stem of the bouquet until the thorns bit into her palm. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, and a soft sob slipped past her trembling lips before she could swallow it back. She did not know how to be strong. Not now. Not when the woman who guided her through ten-and-eight summers was gone. Strength lived in her mother’s voice, in her steady hands, in her tight embrace, and in her laughter.

Wet footsteps struck the marble like a slow tolling bell. Each step echoed through the cavernous sept, disturbing the hush of incense and prayer. The sound did not belong to the silent sisters, nor to wandering mourners. It was menacing and familiar. Lucerea did not turn at once. Her gaze remained fixed upon her mother’s still face, as if by sheer will she could bring her back. To look away felt like letting go.

The footsteps approached without pause, closing the distance between them. Only then did she draw a quiet breath and turn. Through the thin black veil she first saw the outline of his frame: broad shoulders dampened by rain, standing rigid despite solemn circumstances, and pale hair darkened at the ends where water clung to it.

Aerion.

He stood a few paces away. The storm clung to his cloak and his expression less than pleased. He had cut his hair shorter a few days prior, yet it was still long enough for her to card her fingers through. The silver-gold strands spiked and dripped from the unforgiving rain. Droplets slid from the ends, down his cheek, falling at his shoulders. His doublet, black as mourning itself, concealed the dampness, but his skin held a faint sheen beneath the candlelight, rainwater tracing the hard lines of his jaw.

”I’m not finished,” she muttered hoarsely, her voice worn thin by hours weeping. She feared he would take her by the arm and drag her out of the Sept, as if grief were a misbehavior to correct. She meant only to lay the bouquet at her mother’s chest, then whisper her final farewell, and leave before the tall walls closed in and suffocated her. When all her kin left, Aerion alone remained. He told her he would wait inside the wheelhouse for her. She never meant to linger long, but time unraveled, stretching thin and shapeless, around her. Until at last, Aerion stepped out of the wheelhouse and walked through the rain to retrieve her himself.

Aerion stopped before her. His violet eyes swept over her slowly. They paused at her trembling fingers, digging into the bruised stems, then moved to the raised platform their late mother rested upon. Something flickered across his expression, gone as quickly as a dying spark, before his gaze returned to Lucerea. “It is almost evenfall,” there was a hint of irritation in his tone. “The rain will not let up.”

Beyond the sept’s great doors, the storm hurled itself against the city. Rain struck the domed roof with a loud thunder. The heavens themselves were impatient and restless. Lucerea tilted her head upward to look at him. The veil blurred his features, softened the angles of his face, but she saw the muscle in his jaw tighten. There was no doubt, he wanted to leave this place of smoke and death. He did not wish to stand beneath the carved gaze of the Seven who had taken more than they had given.

“I cannot bear to leave her,” she whispered. Her breath staggered, pressing her lips together to fight off a sob. She cried so many times in front of him. She did not want another reason to add to his irritation.

The sept seemed impossibly vast at that moment. Only a handful of silent sisters drifted through the shadows, their pale forms gliding between pillars. Aerion stepped closer, reaching up and lifting the sheer veil from her face. The fabric slid back over her hair, light as a departing sigh. Cool air brushed her damp cheeks. He saw her fully now.

Her skin flushed and blotched from tears, lashes clumped and wet, eyes swollen and rimmed in red. She looked younger in her grief. His hands rose to cradle her face. They were calloused, colder than she expected. He tilted her chin so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. His violet eyes were clear, almost too clear, like polished amethyst sold at a merchant shop.

“I will never see her again,” she bargained with him. He did not relent under her whimpers. He held a steady stance, his thumbs brushed the tears from beneath her eyes.

“Settle your peace now. My patience has spoiled you enough,” he answered her firmly. The words stung, though she knew the shape of his meaning. He would stand here as long as she needed. He simply would not admit it.

Lucerea closed her eyes and drew in a slow, shaking breath. The incense burned her lungs. When she stepped away from him, her limbs felt like lead. She approached the raised platform once more.

Her mother lay swathed in the colors of House Dayne, the white sword and falling star embroidered in silver and purple thread that shimmered faintly in the flickers of candlelight. Celestial patterns curled along the shroud like constellations stitched into night. The velvet beneath her was a deep royal purple, rich and soft, the border heavy with names sewn in delicate script. Lucerea had stitched them herself, by the hearth, pricking her fingers until tiny beads of blood stained the thread. Her mother’s name. Her siblings’. Her father’s. Hers.

She thought if their names went with her, stitched close and tight, her mother would carry the proof of their love into whatever waited beyond. That she would not walk into the afterlife alone. That she would remember what she left behind.

With careful hands, Lucerea lifted her mother’s fingers. They were cold, utterly devoid of warmth. The lifeless weight of them made her stomach twist. She nearly choked on a sob at the sensation. This was what death felt like, silence and coldness. She laid the bouquet against her mother’s chest and folded a hand over it, arranging the flowers so they rested gently. For a brief moment, her mother did not look like a corpse. She looked like a bride waiting for music to begin.

Lucerea lifted her gaze. The Great Sept of Baelor soared above them in impossible height, its vast dome disappearing into shadow. The towering statues of the Seven encircled the hall, their carved faces with solemn and judgement. The Mother’s stone eyes seemed heavy with pity. The Stranger’s hooded gaze remained unreadable. Candlelight crawled along their features, making them seem almost alive.

Aerion followed her line of sight. For a moment, neither spoke. Rain battered the world beyond the walls, a furious hymn that drowned the city in grief. The sound filled every hollow space, crept beneath doors, pressed against stained glass. It swallowed her voice when she finally began to speak. Lucerea bowed her head and murmured her final words, soft and trembling. The prayer was not meant for Aerion. Nor for the silent sisters. Nor for the court that would whisper of royal mourning by morning. It was meant for her mother and for the Seven to bear witness.

When her final prayer dissolved into the hush of the sept, Aerion did not allow time to dwindle. He stepped forward and drew her back against him until her spine met the solid plane of his chest. The movement was swift, almost abrupt. One arm circled her waist, his palm flattening against her stomach, anchoring her there. The other slid upward along the column of her throat.

His fingers curved around her neck, not tight enough to harm, but certain enough to command her in-place. With that hold he tilted her head back until her veil slipped further and she was forced to look up at him. The candles cast shifting light across his face. His thumb swept slowly across the corner of her mouth, catching the single tear that gathered there before it could fall.

“Enough,” he murmured, not cruelly, but with a finality that left no space for argument. He held her there a moment longer, her breath shallow against his hand, his warmth seeping through the thin black gown. Up close, she could see the emotion he refused to voice. The storm had left droplets in his lashes. His jaw remained set, carved from the same stone as the gods towering above them. There was a flicker of something passing over his violet eyes that her grief was not hers alone. It was his as much as hers. A reminder that she was not alone, even if the heavens took the one person who had made it feel whole.

“Let the Old Gods and the New have her,” he murmured, his breath hot as it brushed against her lips, stealing the space between inhale and exhale. For a suspended moment, neither of them moved. The candles trembled in their iron cradles, light flickering across her tear-streaked face. Beneath the vaulted ceiling of the sept, with the Seven in silent witness, Lucerea looked almost unearthly. Grief had hollowed her into something fragile and luminous. Aerion’s gaze traced her features without restraint. He hated seeing her in tears, yet now they clung to her lashes like fallen stars, catching the reflection of light.

“But they will not have you.” The words were low and innate. A vow.

He closed the distance between them, the last breath of space vanishing as his lips pressed to hers. His hand remained firm beneath her jaw, steadying her, while the other tightened slightly at her waist, anchoring her to the living world. He kissed her, daring heaven itself to take anything more.

She did not know she needed the kiss until it claimed her. The instant his mouth met hers, the world seemed to tilt. The suffocating weight in her chest loosened its grip just enough for her to breathe. His lips were warm, deprived, and undeniably alive. It deepened, reminding her where she was, who held her, and who she belonged to. Lucerea felt her sorrow bend around his heat. Her fingers curled faintly into the fabric of his soaked doublet. He tasted of rainwater and wine, a little salty, mildly sweet, and very intoxicating.

The, she bit him.

Her teeth sank into his lower lip without warning. Hard enough that she felt the give of skin beneath pressure. When she pulled away, she dragged her teeth with her.

Aerion jerked sharply, breath snapping between his teeth. A low curse escaped him. The sting was immediate and sharp. He touched his lips, his fingers came away streaked with red. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved nor spoke.

Lucerea stepped back, just out of reach. Her chest rose and fell unevenly. Her veil fell entirely, black fabric pooling at her shoulders. Her lips were flushed, slightly swollen. Tears still streaked on her cheeks, silver in the dim hall. She looked at him with wide, glossy eyes that might have seemed innocent to anyone else.

Aerion stared at the blood on his fingers, then lifted his gaze to her. Slowly, a smirk curved his mouth despite the sting. It was sharp, approving, edged with something darker. For a fleeting second he had thought grief would make her pliant. That her sorrow would bend her toward him without resistance. He misjudged her.

The tension between them tightened, coiled like drawn steel. He took a half step forward, intent clear in the way his shoulders squared, in the way his hand flexed already reaching to reclaim her. A thin line of crimson marked his lower lip where her teeth had broken skin, and he lifted his thumb to smear it away, studying the stain as if it amused him. “Warn a man first,” he spat, his voice low and edged with heat rather than reprimand.

He closed the remaining distance and caught her by the arm, his grip firm, guiding her away from the bier and the dying candles. His cloak brushed against her skirt, steering her toward the shadowed archway that led from the sept. When he bent towards her, the scent of rain and iron clung to him, mingling with sacrilegious air. He drew her close, his mouth near her ear, hot breath against the curve of her cheek.

“I will balm your sorrows the way that I know best,” he said quietly, the promise threading through his tone with certainty. His hand settled at her waist, as though grief were something he could conquer through touch alone. “You will be crying to the gods for another reason before the night is through. I shall bring heaven to you, dearest sister.”

As they stepped into the open air, the rain met her without mercy. It soaked through the black silk veil upon her shoulders and traced slow paths down her gown. It washed away the remaining scent of incense and ash, replacing it with the sharp cleanness of storm and soil, and for a fleeting moment she lifted her face to the sky, eyes closed, imagining the gods themselves pouring down upon her in an effort to cleanse what prayer could not. The water felt like absolution against her heated skin, as though heaven sought to rinse away the blasphemy that bloomed within sacred walls. Yet Aerion stood beside her, solid and aflame despite the chill, his presence cutting through the illusion of purity. The rain might have wept for the dead and tried to wash their daughter clean, but beneath the rain she did not feel forgiven.

“Just a mile until we see the castle gates,” Alester said, guiding his horse closer so their stirrups nearly brushed. The road leveled into firm earth, the grass on either side trimmed short by passing travelers and grazing sheep. In the distance, the banners of House Ashford snapped in the breeze, bright orange and white against the soft blue sky. “We will set up the pavilion in Ashford Meadow next to Lord Pearse,” he added, adjusting the fall of his cloak across his shoulder.

Lucerea inclined her head but kept her eyes forward. The castle walls came into clearer view with every stride of her mare. It was sturdy but modest, the towers rounded and practical rather than grand. She had seen greater. Summerhall rose in her memory without effort, pale stone gleaming beneath the sun, its towers stretching high enough to catch the first and last light of day. A few smallfolk stood along the roadside as the procession passed, aprons dusted with flour, children clutching at skirts. Their gazes lingered on her longer than on the armored knights. Alester kept his horse aligned with hers. It was an added precaution, though she doubted any of the common folk would dare approach such a large retinue.

“We shan’t be disturbed,” he continued. “Our pavilion stands well away from the lists.” His gloved fingers drummed once against the pommel of his saddle before he drew a breath. “There will be more time for us to spend together.”

The only answer at first was the steady rhythm of hooves striking earth and the creak of leather harnesses behind them. Lucerea’s fingers tightened around the reins until the leather pressed into her gloves. She lifted her chin slightly.

“That is generous of you, my lord,” she said at last, smoothing a nonexistent crease from her skirt where it draped over the saddle. “Though I would hate to be the subject of idle talk. The other lords might think I have claimed you entirely for myself.” Her mouth curved faintly. “I would not enjoy hearing that I have turned you into a shadow trailing after your wife.”

Alester’s shoulders shifted beneath his cloak as he let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “Perhaps I have gotten ahead of myself.” He rolled one shoulder as if easing tension. “You are not wrong. The other lords are relentless and quick to jest. It may be wise that I spend more time among them, build stronger rapport.”

Lucerea nudged her mare forward a fraction, creating just enough distance to let a strip of sunlight fall between them. “Then you will be well occupied,” she replied.

Soon the procession passed through the open gates of Ashford. The courtyard bustled with color and movement. Lucerea slowed her horse, stopping just behind Alester as Lord Ashford and several members of his household waited to greet them. Around the yard hung banners bearing a white sun and chevron on a field of orange and deep tenné. The bright hues gave the courtyard a warmth that felt different from the darker tones of the Stormlands. Servants hurried with baskets and bolts of cloth. Guards stood straighter as the Swann party entered. The guards and servants here seemed lighter in spirit, their smiles easier, their movements less burdened.

Alester reached up for her the moment her mare stilled, his hands settling firmly at her waist. His grip was careful in the way one handled something rare and fragile. He lowered her to the ground as though she might shatter if he misjudged the distance. Her slippers met the courtyard stone softly. For a heartbeat his hands lingered at her sides before he released her.

Lucerea stepped away at once, smoothing her palms down the front of her gown. It was another ivory piece, similar to the one she had worn when they departed Stonehelm, though lighter now for the warmth of the Reach. The silk clung and loosened in all the right places, designed for movement rather than display alone. The sleeves were slit along the arms, allowing air to brush against her skin, and the skirt flowed in long, graceful lines that shifted like water with each step she took. The fabric caught the sunlight, giving her an almost luminous presence against the lively colors of Ashford’s courtyard.

Her hair had been drawn back in a simple twist at the crown, secured neatly so it would not tangle in the wind of travel. The rest fell in soft, bouncy waves down her back, silver strands gleaming brighter against the pale ivory of her gown. A delicate tiara of pearls and fine silver rested atop her head, catching the Reach sunlight and making her hair seem less like silver and more like spun moonlight.

She moved to stand beside Alester, her posture effortless and composed. A few strides ahead, Lord Gawen had already claimed Lord Ashford’s attention. The older Swann lord threw his arm around the smaller man’s shoulders with a booming laugh, his hand landing heavily in a clap that made Lord Ashford stagger half a step. The Reach lord’s smile stretched wide despite the wince he could not quite hide, his fingers curling tightly at his sides, enduring the greeting. Around them, banners stirred in the warm breeze and servants hurried past, casting curious glances at the newly arrived princess.

“My eldest son, Alester,” Lord Gawen announced proudly, pulling him forward. Lord Ashford dipped his head in greeting.

“And his wife, Princess Lucerea.”

“My princess,” Lord Ashford said at once, bowing deeply. He took her hand and pressed a respectful kiss to the back of it. “Welcome to Ashford. I trust the journey was not overly arduous.”

“Lord Ashford, thank you for receiving us,” Lucerea replied with a gracious smile, withdrawing her hand with poised elegance. “The ride into the Reach is always pleasant.”

Lord Ashford beamed at the compliment. He was a stout man with a rounded belly that strained against his tunic and a crown of unruly brown curls atop his head. His cheeks were flushed, either from the sun or excitement. He turned and beckoned to a young girl at his side. “Princess, this is my daughter, Gwin.”

Gwin curtsied gracefully. She appeared no older than ten-and-five, with dark hair styled in delicate twists that framed her face. A crown woven of golden and orange leaves rested atop her head, interspersed with pale pink roses that matched the embroidery of her pale yellow gown. The floral designs along her skirts complemented her house colors beautifully.

“You are as pretty as the sunrise,” Lucerea said warmly, allowing her smile to widen. Gwin’s face lit up, a faint blush dusting her cheeks, beaming at the compliment.

“We shall begin our preparations. The pavilion will not build itself,” Lord Gawen declared, already turning his broad frame toward the open stretch of Ashford Meadow beyond the courtyard walls. His voice carried easily, confident and commanding, as squires hurried at once to follow him. The promise of bright silks, raised banners, and polished armor seemed to energize him more than the journey ever had.

“Shall the princess come inside to rest?” Lord Ashford offered quickly, stepping half a pace closer to Lucerea. His tone was eager, almost anxious to please. “We have prepared food and wine, and the hall is cool from the heat.”

Every pair of eyes nearby shifted to her. Servants paused mid step. Gwin looked up expectantly. Even a few guards near the doors angled their heads, curious.

Lucerea kept her posture straight, her hands folded lightly before her. The faintest smile touched her lips, “It would be discourteous to refuse the hospitality of our host,” she replied smoothly. Her gaze flicked briefly toward Alester before returning to Lord Ashford. “However, only if my lord husband permits.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Lord Ashford said at once, nodding eagerly as he gestured toward the castle doors with an open palm.

Alester inclined his head in agreement and motioned for her to proceed. He exchanged a few low words with his father about the pavilion’s placement and the order of the men before stepping after her. The stone beneath their feet shifted from sun warmed courtyard to shaded entryway, the air cooling noticeably as they crossed into the castle.

Inside, the banquet hall was prepared with careful attention. Long wooden tables stretched across the chamber, their surfaces lined with platters of sliced pears, clusters of grapes, wheels of soft cheese, and baskets of fresh bread still dusted with flour. Decanters of red and gold wine caught the afternoon light that streamed through tall, arched windows, the glass glowing warmly. Cushioned chairs were arranged near the tables, embroidered in orange and white to mirror the Ashford colors. The faint scent of honey, baked crust, and crushed herbs lingered in the air, mixing with the polished wood and cool stone.

Lucerea moved toward one of the tables with Gwin at her side. She reached for a cluster of grapes, her fingers delicate against the dark skin of the fruit. She twisted one free and brought it to her lips, biting down gently. The sharp sourness bloomed across her tongue, but her expression barely shifted. Only the faint tightening at the corner of her mouth betrayed her distaste before she swallowed.

“I assume my family has not yet arrived,” she said lightly, her tone casual as she let the remaining grapes fall back against the platter. Her eyes, however, settled sharply on Lord Ashford.

“You are correct, my princess,” he replied, dabbing at his brow with a folded cloth despite the coolness of the hall. “I received correspondence that they would arrive in due time. However…” His voice trailed, thinning at the edges.

Lucerea turned fully toward him now. She set a half eaten grape carefully upon the edge of the platter, aligning it neatly among the others. Her gaze narrowed just slightly. “Is there something amiss?”

“No, no, no…” Lord Ashford insisted, though the cloth in his hand twisted tighter between his fingers. A bead of sweat traced along his temple. “It is simply that…”

“Prince Daeron and Prince Aegon have gone missing,” Gwin blurted, the words spilling out before her father could lift a hand to stop her.

The sound seemed to strike the stone walls and fall flat. The faint clatter of dishes beyond the doorway dulled, as though the hall itself had drawn a breath and held it.

Lucerea did not flinch. She remained exactly as she was, shoulders squared and chin leveled. Only her eyes shifted, gliding toward Alester slowly. His posture had altered almost imperceptibly, his brows knitting together as his fingers flexed once at his side.

“Missing?” he repeated, the word landing heavier than before.

“They were expected days ago,” Lord Ashford said in a rush, stepping forward as if he could soften the blow by proximity. “But they never arrived. It may be nothing more than a delay. The rivers swell in spring. The banks grow treacherous.”

Lucerea turned back to him. Her hand moved toward the platter once more, selecting a grape from the vine. She rolled it thoughtfully between her fingers, pressing just enough that the thin skin split with a quiet snap. A bead of juice gathered at her fingertip and slid down the curve of her hand. She placed the crushed fruit back among the others.

“Delayed is a gentle word, my lord,” she said, her voice even and controlled. “My brothers possess a talent for finding trouble.” Her gaze did not waver. “Dragons seldom choose the safest skies.”

Lord Ashford swallowed visibly. His shoulders rounded, his nod too quick, too eager.

“I am certain they will appear soon,” Alester offered, stepping closer. His hand came to rest against her elbow, fingers warm through the silk of her sleeve.

Lucerea’s spine stiffened by a fraction. She shifted her arm, smoothing the front of her gown in the same motion until his hand slipped away without spectacle. Her expression did not change.

Inside, her thoughts moved faster than the words spoken around her. She could see Daeron in her mind as clearly as if he stood before her, chasing whatever stirred his pride. Aegon would be at his side, eager and naive, matching stride for stride. She imagined rain swollen rivers cutting through roads, horses misstepping along muddy banks, steel drawn too quickly in some reckless encounter. The hall, with its honeyed scent and polished tables, began to feel smaller, the air thinner.

She inhaled slowly, pressing her palms down the front of her ivory gown as though smoothing wrinkles that were not there. When she lifted her gaze again, it was steady and void, betraying nothing.

Around her, servants resumed their movements. A goblet was lifted. Someone forced a polite laugh that rang hollow against the stone. The orange banners stirred faintly in a draft from the open windows.

Lucerea stood among them, silver and ivory against a sea of warm colors, and listened to the echo of absence. She waited for the familiar sound of her brothers’ voices to break the tension, for the careless laughter that always followed them into a room. Instead, there was only the scrape of chairs and the offer of wine, and the quiet knowledge that the dragons had not yet arrived.

— above: starfall