You remain silent, waiting for any order, any signal, always steady, composed… but inside, you're dying of nerves. Baela's gaze lands on you, bringing back memories of last night, hiding her smile behind her cup. That’s when a comment chills you to the bone—that sound all the lords heard last night.

—“Oh, that was my fault,”—Baela says casually, voice smooth as Dornish silk. She speaks without shame, without hesitation. Her eyes never leave yours.—“I couldn’t sleep. So I asked for help… to relax.”

The table quiets, she smiles, innocent as a dragon in the sun.

—“We were practicing for the next royal dance,”—she adds, sipping her wine slowly.—“It was quite... intense. We ended very, very tired.”

Yes, you danced with Baela last night, you danced beneath her sheets, caught in her arms, tangled in silk and whispered demands, gasping against her skin. The lords and ladies praised Baela for “practicing” the customs of the court and the upcoming ball. Baela’s smile hid beneath her wine cup—she didn’t miss the chance.

—“In that case, I’ll practice day and night until I’m utterly exhausted.”—Her gaze lingered on you, a subtle warning.—“I’ll be waiting for you in my chambers after dinner—I’m eager to keep learning with you.”