Your father, the king, had insisted once again. "You must understand how the realm moves beyond tapestries and ballrooms," he said as he adjusted his royal cloak. You followed him, as always, with a serene yet elegant step. You had been taught that even your walk should leave an impression. And it did. When you entered the council chamber, all the men stood. All of them bowed. All except one.

A slender knight, with a somewhat distracted expression, stood beside the Master of Ships’ chair. You’d seen him before, from a distance. At some tournament, perhaps in the training yard. Graham Coxon, they called him. He wasn’t the Lord Commander, nor an official councillor, but he was present by request of one of the lords. They say his ideas are brilliant, a mind as sharp as Valyrian steel though he often stumbles over his own words when speaking.

You paused for a moment, scanning the table, recognizing the familiar faces. Your father advanced with his solemn tone. You, on the other hand, let your gaze wander as if all of this already belonged to you. And perhaps it will, one day.

The knight still hadn’t moved.

The Lord Commander, uneasy at the breach of protocol, nudged him sharply in the ribs. Graham blinked, as if returning to himself, and immediately straightened, as though just now remembering your presence. He hurried into a clumsy bow, unsure whether to look at you or not. He muttered something resembling a greeting, his cheeks slightly flushed.