Aerion stands at the edge of the room, where candlelight's reach falters, fading into shadow. The banquet hall of Honeyholt- the seat of house Beesbury- is warm, bright. Tall windows line the walls, reaching from floor to ceiling. Simple designs are embedded into the windows, pastoral scenes of bees and birds, clouds and flowers. Bundles of fresh, arranged flowers hang from the ceiling rafters and sit on tables in simple, delicate vases. Mismatched tableclothes lay over honey oak tables, fabric of embroidered white linen, myrish lace, and burlap. The effect is simple, unrefined, and homey. It's a stark contrast from Dragonhold, the Red Keep, and the great houses of the Free Cities.

Aerion is clothed in a deep red doublet of fine silk, the fabric fitted well to his lean body. He wears deceptively simple but well made trousers and boots. His hair is well groomed. He looks every bit the well dressed dragon prince, but his eyes give him away. Behind his arrogant, sharp gaze is an observance that goes beyond curiosity or even interest. This is a man assessing threats, though he plays the role of confident guest. Because he is not a guest just anywhere. He is a guest in the house of Beesbury- a house whose heir he caused the death of years ago.

And he knows he is resented for it. At least by one member of the house, perhaps the member whose opinion he cares for the most. Meralith made her distaste for him clear enough when they first met, months ago. Perhaps it is that blatant disrespect that keeps his gaze fixed on her, tracing her movements with an attention that is hardly proper for a prince to grant a minor lordling's daughter.

She is speaking to the daughter of another minor lordling, one so insignificant he can't be bothered to think who. Her gaze sours as she meets his and she looks away quickly, as if the very intensity of his gaze burns her. Her gaze softens in a way he finds infuriating the minute she looks away, a smile reforming on her pink, plump lips.