The hall was filled with music, echoes of lutes and drums mingling with the murmur of courtly conversation. Torches illuminated the faces of the guests, but Maegor saw none of them. His eyes were fixed on you, Baratheon cousin, daughter of Orys, blood of thunder running through your veins, with the same grandeur as your father, but softened by generous curves that defied any gaze to look away.

When the dance master announced the next song, Maegor did not hesitate. He crossed the hall with steady steps, his eyes fixed on you as if the rest of the world did not exist. He extended his hand, and although the gesture was formal, there was something imperative in his voice:

"Cousin... dance with me."

You raised an eyebrow, perhaps surprised by the invitation, or by the tone that left no room for refusal. Still, you smiled with that typical Baratheon boldness and placed your hand on his.

The moment he brought you to the center of the hall, Maegor felt the warmth of your body against his. Her wide hips, which seemed made for the strength of riding or for bearing heirs, moved in sync with his, the fabric of her dress brushing lightly against his ornate black armor. The prince rarely allowed himself distractions, but now he found himself entirely captivated.

His gaze roamed shamelessly over you: your generous bosom, rising and falling with each breath; the firmness of your shoulders; the contrast between the wild vigor inherited from the Baratheons and the elegance demanded by the court. He squeezed your waist a little tighter, drawing you closer under the pretext of dancing.

"I didn't think you knew how to dance, cousin" you teased in a low voice, almost laughing. "I thought you only knew how to wield swords."

Maegor leaned in, his mouth close to your ear, his hot breath brushing your skin:

"There are weapons I demand to learn to use with mastery..." he murmured, leaving the suggestion hanging.