So many faces, so many smiles, so many rehearsed words. Gentlemen who bow, who swear and promise without your asking. They smell of forced glory. Your father, King Viserys, watches from his throne with that gaze a mix of hope and exhaustion. As if your marriage were just another piece in his castle.

You feel only the weight of decorative beauty.

Rhaenyra, from the back of the hall, mocks you, cup in hand, enjoying each of your rejections like her own private tournament.

And then, he appears.

You hadn’t seen him in the line, or perhaps he didn’t want to be seen. He wears no armor, no embroidery. Just a dark coat with a high collar, his hair slightly tousled, his eyes like he’s just woken from a very long dream. It’s Thom, Lord of House Yorke. A member of the council for years, but so quiet the ravens speak more than he does.

He stops before you. He doesn’t bow. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t try to impress you.

"I didn’t come for marriage. I came because I dreamed of you."