The waves crashed against the rocks of Driftmark, and the sun sank behind the horizon, turning the sky a bloody red, as if the land itself had surrendered to the power of the dragons. Aegon the Conqueror, with his imposing figure and deep, dark eyes, remained on the beach, standing next to Balerion, his feared dragon. The gigantic animal breathed slowly, the heat of its breath dissipating in the cool air.

In front of him, you, a silver-haired Velaryon with eyes cold as the steel of the sea, maintained an upright posture, undeterred by the aura of power that surrounded the king. Aegon watched you in silence, studying every small detail, every restrained and elegant movement you made, so different from the submissive nobles of Westeros who usually surrendered to his mere presence.

Aegon held her gaze, trying to hide the fascination he felt, that strange mixture of frustration and desire that had been tormenting him for days. It was almost humiliating for him, a man used to having everything fall into his hands, even the will of others. But this Velaryon... was different.

—Few people capture my attention as much as you have —Aegon finally admitted, without lowering his gaze—. I have conquered kingdoms, cities, men. But you...

He broke off, frowning, almost angry with himself for the vulnerability those words implied—. Not to you yet.