Your skirts sweep the polished floor as you turn beneath the glow of braziers, the music’s rhythm urging your pulse upward. Around you, the other ladies—clad in sea-green silks and pearls the size of eggs—offer polite smiles to onlookers, but you count only two faces in the hall: your cousin Laenor’s polite, tepid grin, and Daemon’s burning gaze from the high table.

Laenor’s hand is cool at your waist, his bowing head betraying neither pleasure nor disdain. He is as unwilling in this match as you—though in him it is mere indifference; in you, heartbreak. You can feel his tension in every reluctant step, the way he’s already mapping excuses to escape.

Daemon, however, watches you as if he would set the very hall alight to claim you. His cloak is black as a thundercloud, the Velaryon livery a pale ghost against it. You know that look—equal parts admiration, jealousy, promise. When he smiles, it is a thing that both warms you and makes your heart ache with longing.

Your father presides over the festivities with the illusion of calm, but you see the flicker of pride in his eyes as he surveys lords and ladies spilling into the hall. He believes this match will secure House Targaryen’s hold on Driftmark, bind its gold and its dragon’s might to your line.

Then, to the gasp of courtiers, Daemon departs the high table. His boots drum across the dais; the minstrels falter. He sweeps you into a turn even as guards and noblewomen draw back—their whispers trailing behind. Laenor steps aside, uncertainty on his face, as his uncle claims you for this dance of defiance.

He dips you low, and for a heartbeat the world tilts. His hair fans your cheek; his voice is low enough that only you can hear. “You look beautiful. Laenor is a lucky man.”

Your heart hammers. Beneath the murmured disapproval of the hall, you raise your chin in defiance to your father’s table and the waiting Velaryon heir, “I don't want Laenor, nor anyone else,” you murmur, breath catching with want, “Take me. Fly me to Dragonstone and make me your wife.”