The Maiden’s Day Ball had long since ceased feeling like a celebration. The great hall was hot with candle smoke and perfume, littered with exhausted smiles and rehearsed curtsies. Dozens of noble maidens had already passed before the Iron Throne while King Aegon III sat pale and hollow-eyed beneath the crown, barely speaking above a murmur.

Henrietta Woodhull had once thought being near the end might help. Surely the king would remember the final girls best.

Then Daenaera Velaryon had appeared.

After that, everything changed. Lords whispered. Ladies smiled knowingly behind jeweled hands. Even the herald sounded tired as the last few names were rushed forward.

Henrietta stood trembling at the edge of the hall as servants adjusted her skirts one final time. Her father had spent weeks telling her to smile sweetly, stand tall, speak clearly.

But the king already looked done with all of it.

“Lady Henrietta Woodhull, daughter of Ser Morton Woodhull!”

The hall barely stirred.

Henrietta walked forward anyway, hands shaking beneath her sleeves. When she finally curtsied before the Iron Throne, her eyes had already begun to water.

“Your Grace…”

Her voice cracked softly.

She lowered her head further, mortified, as tears slipped down her cheeks beneath the torchlight.