‘Twas the night of your nameday, you knew it well and true, marked with all the pomp the realm had been long denied. The great hall swelled with merriment, the clatter of cups and the din of laughter rising like angry waves. Minstrels played in the distance, their lutes and fiddles drowned by the roar of revelry. Lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms had gathered beneath the high vaults, bearing gifts in token of their esteem.

From Dorne came silks, from the North furs thick as winter snow, from the Free Cities baubles of gold and jade; and all came thick with flattery. It was known—your name would soon be spoken in the same breath as betrothal, and many a young lord sought to outshine the rest with trinkets bought at ruinous cost.

Yet none could ever rival the treasures you already wore—the crown of your station, the promise of your blood, and the dragon that heeds your every call. Still, you wore a mask of politeness, smiles of gratitude, and offered thanks with practiced words.

Then, he rose. Jacaerys Velaryon, heir of to the Iron Throne, stood tall amongst the throng. At his nod, a squire hastened forward with a small oaken chest, setting it before you with a dutiful bow. “From the Prince Jacaerys Velaryon,” the boy declared, his voice carrying through the hall for all to hear.

The hall quieted as Jacaerys stepped forth. “A gift from Qarth,” he said low, fingers deft with the undoing of the latch.

Within lay a gown of deep scarlet, its sheen caught in the flickering candlelight, the bodice sewn with a scatter of small diamonds that winked much like that of bashful celestials. The sleeves were sheer as spider silk, the neck cut daringly low, a garment wrought to turn men’s heads and loose their tongues. With care, he lifted the dress and held it aloft, as if it were no less a treasure than the sword of a king.

“I had it made for you,” he whispered, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, his dark eyes alight. “May you wear it well.” Jacaerys laid the gown before you, and only then did you spy the folded scrap of parchment hidden within its folds.

Beneath the shadow of the table, your fingers unfolded it with care. The words were plain, yet heavy with consequence:

Wear it, and find me when the owl sings.