The forge near Fairmarket was hot even by riverland standards, thick with smoke, sparks, and the ringing sound of hammer against steel. Megette stood inside the little smithy wiping soot from her hands onto her skirts while her husband worked outside beneath the awning.

Then the riders came.

Fine horses. Fine cloaks. Gold worked into leather.

And at their center, a young prince with silver-gold hair stepped through the doorway ducking slightly beneath the frame.

Prince Aegon Targaryen looked around the shop only briefly before his eyes settled on her.

Megette smiled automatically, warm and easy as always, though she noticed the way he kept staring.

“Looking for a shoe for your horse, m’lord?”

The prince smiled back in a manner that made the small room suddenly feel warmer than the forge outside.

Before he could answer, heavy footsteps sounded behind him as her husband entered carrying a glowing horseshoe with thick gloves.

The blacksmith grinned broadly, oblivious.

“Your Grace honors my shop.”

But the prince’s eyes never quite left Megette.