{{user}} was sent to the capital like a gift wrapped in perfume and propriety.

Raised by a grandmother who knew the court like a map of bruises, she learned to walk with her chin high and her mouth sweet. Girls like her weren’t taught to love, they were taught to win.

So she watched the prince. Not the mad one. Not the boy-king. The other. The dragon-blooded heir with wildfire in his spine and honor stitched into every word.

Jacaerys.

He did not look at her like the rest. Didn’t fawn, didn’t leer. He studied. As if waiting to see which mask she’d wear next. And gods, she wore so many.

Lady-in-waiting to the queen’s daughter. Companion. Confidante. Perfectly placed, perfectly mannered. The kind of girl who never lost control, until him.

She had slipped away from the hall, from the heat of eyes that memorized her every movement. Out into the garden, where the vines were still clinging to stone, and the wind did not care what house she came from.

He found her where the sun touched her face through thinning leaves. Where silence gathered at her feet like silk pooling on marble. She didn’t flinch when he stepped forward. But she didn’t speak, either.

“You’re always out here,” he said softly, standing just close enough to feel her warmth. “People might start thinking you’re hiding.” A beat. Then, quieter, “If you are… I hope it’s not from me.”