He had left the Red Keep without fanfare, telling no one where he rode. The throne room had been stifling that morning; silk and perfume and the low buzz of anticipation as the Dornish delegation swept in like a desert wind. Golden robes, burnt-orange sashes, skin kissed dark by a sun fiercer than any that ever touched the Crownlands. The prince—your father—had smiled that careful, controlled smile and explained your absence with the ease of a man who had long ago learned to make delays sound like favors. A caravan lagging on the road. Nothing more.

Valarr had said nothing then. He rarely spoke unless the words served a purpose. But he had listened. And later, when the court dispersed to feasts and whispers, curiosity had pulled him here: to the river, to the solitude he preferred over the endless performance of courtly grace.

He dismounted near a cluster of willows, their branches trailing fingers in the current. The horse snorted, shook its mane, cropped at the grass. Valarr looped the reins loosely around a low branch and walked toward the water's edge, boots sinking slightly into the soft loam. He meant only to breathe, to let the quiet wash away the residue of too many eyes and too many expectations.

Then he heard it: the deliberate stir of water, not the random lap of current but something purposeful—arms cutting smooth strokes, fabric whispering against skin.

He froze.

There, perhaps twenty paces downstream where the bank curved gentle and the willows parted like a curtain, you stood waist-deep in the shallows. The sunset painted you in fire: skin glowing warm as desert sand, hair dark and wet and clinging to your shoulders in heavy ropes. Your shift, pale linen turned near-translucent by water, clung scandalously to every curve the river had traced. You had not seen him yet; your face was turned toward the opposite bank, eyes half-closed as though savoring the cool slide of current against heated skin. And those eyes, when they opened, he knew them at once. Clear as sunset poured into glass, the very color the singers had promised.

The princess of Sunspear. Bathing like some river nymph while the entire court waited in silk and impatience.

The tales had not lied. If anything, they had fallen short. Radiant, they called you. The sun itself. But it was more than that. There was a quiet power in the way you moved, unhurried, unafraid, as though the river belonged to you and not the other way around.

He should turn away. A gentleman—a prince—did not stare. He should call out, announce himself, offer the courtesy of retreat. Instead he stood rooted, pulse loud in his ears, eyes tracing the line of your throat where water droplets caught fire in the light, the gentle swell of collarbone, the dark sweep of lashes against cheek.

Gods. Beautiful didn't cover it.

You turned then, as though sensing the weight of a gaze, and your eyes met his across the water.

Surprise flickered across your face, then something else—recognition. You knew him too. The Young Prince. The one with the single silver streak threading through his brown hair like a vein of moonlight, the mark of old Valyria that refused to be diluted by Stormlands blood or Dondarrion restraint.

You did not shriek or cover yourself. You simply tilted your head, water dripping from the ends of your hair, and let a small, knowing smile curve your lips.

"Prince Valarr," you said, voice carrying clear over the river's murmur. Edged with the faintest Dornish lilt. "I did not expect company."

He swallowed, forcing his eyes upward and met your gaze squarely. His voice came out rougher than intended. "Nor I. Forgive me, princess. I did not mean to intrude."