King’s Landing basked beneath late-spring sunlight, though the Red Keep carried its usual weight of stone, shadow, and duty. Prince Aemon Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, walked its halls silently, as he always did, measured steps, chin raised modestly, eyes lowered out of respect. He was a man whose virtues had been carved into him young: restraint, caution, modesty, honor. Court ladies whispered that even his Valyrian blood seemed shy of flaunting itself.

He had not once given his attention to a woman. Not once smiled in that easy way men did when beauty pleased them. Not once allowed himself even the indulgence of flirtation. He was a prince, yes. But his life had been one of duty. And yet duty could not explain what happened the night he first saw Lady {{user}} of House Tully.

It was a night of celebration, Jaehaerys’ reforms had been completed, and half the realm wished to fawn upon the king. Lords from across the Seven Kingdoms were present, though the Riverlands were scarcely represented. The Tullys were not considered a great house in that age, not by the court, nor the small council, nor the queen herself. But they had come nonetheless.

Aemon stood beside Baelon, listening to his brother jest with some lordling, when his gaze slid, carelessly, without intent, across the hall. And froze.

There she stood among the lesser seats, a girl with hair like autumn leaves set aflame by the sun. A bold, bright Tully red. She was laughing, openly, sincerely, unafraid of the grandeur around her. There was nothing queenly in her manner, and yet Aemon felt something inside him stir painfully, as if a hand had closed around his heart.

He had never been struck by beauty before. But this, this was something deeper. When she turned, her eyes caught his. For a moment, she faltered. Her laughter quieted, surprise blooming on her face. Aemon felt heat rise beneath his collar when the girl bowed her head hesitantly after seeing him.