His boots were the first thing I saw. Black leather, polished so bright I could see the straw stuck to my apron in them. When I looked up, the sunlight caught in his hair. Pale gold, near silver. Targaryen hair, the kind you hear about in songs but never think you’ll see up close.

Prince Aerion.

His eyes found me straightaway. “Girl,” he said, as if the word itself tasted sour. I dropped my gaze quick and curtsied, nearly tipping the muck bucket. “M’lord.”

“See to my house” He gestured toward a tall black stallion tied outside the far stall. The horse was tossing its head, snapping at anyone who passed too near.

“He’s a strong one,” I said, half to the horse. “He should be,” he replied. “He belongs to me.”

From then on, it was always me he asked for.

If his horse needed brushing—“Send the girl.” If the stall needed cleaning—“Where is she?” If Firefang grew restless at night—someone would knock on the servants’ door and say the prince wanted the stable girl.

At first I thought he only liked how I handled the horse. But after a while I noticed something. Sometimes he’d come to the stable when the horse needed nothing at all. He’d stand by the stall, hands clasped behind his back, watching while I worked.