The air around you felt thinner now, as though the very breath of the hall had paused in its lungs.

The King—the Dragon of the Realm—was speaking to you, and the lords and ladies who just moments ago surrounded you with hungry curiosity now bowed and parted like waves before a tide.

You curtsy low, your silks whispering against the stone floor. “My name is Lady Amelia, Your Grace… of House Eleryn,” you say, your voice steady despite the thundering of your heart. “Our lands border Blackhaven. Small, but loyal.”

Viserys inclines his head, his expression softening with interest. “Eleryn,” he repeats. “Yes… I knew a Ser Maric Eleryn. Fought in the Stepstones when I was a prince.”

“That was my uncle,” you reply, and a flicker of pride touches your voice.

“Then blood of bold men runs through your veins,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. “And you carry it well.”

The compliment lingers in the space between you. It’s not crude or overt, but something deeper. Genuine.

“Walk with me,” he offers, not commands, and extends his hand.

You hesitate—but only for a heartbeat. Then you place your fingers lightly in his. The murmurs begin the moment your skirts trail after him, whispers blooming like wildfire behind fans and goblets.

He does not lead you far—just to the edge of the hall, where a great stained-glass window spills moonlight onto the stone. The candlelight softens his features here, brushing away years of grief and weight. For a moment, you see not the weary king… but the man beneath the crown.

“I should not be speaking to you like this, not so freely,” he admits, almost to himself. “But grief is a strange companion. It leaves one hollow… until it finds a new shape to fill.”

You say nothing. Not yet. But you do not look away.

His voice is low. “You remind me of Aemma. Not in form, not exactly. But in spirit. In the way you do not fear my gaze.”

“I was taught not to fear dragons,” you reply, and Viserys laughs—a true laugh, the first you’ve heard all evening.

When the feast ends, he does not return to the dais.

He walks you to your place with your family, and your father is white with shock. He bows deeply, as does your mother. The King, however, speaks only to you.

“Until next we speak, Lady Amelia.”

And then he is gone, like a shadow pulled by flame.

⸻

In the moons that follow, the court changes.

Where once you were barely seen, now you are watched. Every smile, every word, every movement—measured and gossiped over.

The Queen’s seat remains empty.

And Viserys begins his quiet pursuit—inviting your family to stay at court, requesting your presence at hunts, at council suppers, in the gardens. He does not rush, but lingers, always near you, always speaking to you like you’re the only soul in the room.

He brings you books written in Valyrian. He tells you stories of Old Valyria, of Balerion, of dreams he once had as a boy.

And slowly… the court begins to understand.

The King is not merely courting.

He is falling in love.