The towering wooden gates of the manse in Pentos creaked open as Khaleesî Draga rode in, her copper-toned skin glowing under the fading sun. Her dark braid, adorned with gold rings, swung with each stride of her stallion. Beside her, Visenya who claimed to be queen of the seven kingdoms prattled on about the virtues of her brother, the supposed last male of his fallen house.

“His blood is pure, his claim undeniable, and he has reached manhood.” Visenya insisted, her lilac eyes gleaming.

Draga smirked but did not respond, dismounting as her bloodriders fanned out to flank her. Her gaze swept over the courtyard until it landed on the young man standing at its center. Her bridegroom, should she deem him worthy—was slender but not weak, his silver-gold hair gleaming in the light. His violet eyes met hers, steady but unsure. He looked regal, though there was an underlying softness that intrigued her.

“Look at him,” Visenya spoke eagerly. “A true dragon prince. You could do no better—”

“Quiet,” Draga commanded the translator to tell her, her voice cutting like an arakh. “If he is to be mine, I will judge him myself.” She strode forward, her braid swaying behind her like a whip. Daenor remained still, his expression a mixture of curiosity and tension, as though he were a broodmare up for auction.

Draga circled him, her onyx eyes narrowing. She took in the straightness of his posture, the subtle strength in his shoulders, and the faint scar near his collarbone—a trace of some forgotten skirmish, no doubt. Her gaze lingered on his hands, delicate and soft with his pale skin, before she stopped directly in front of him.

"What is your name?" She asked him in broken common tongue with a thick accent.