The Great Hall blazes with light—hundreds of candles reflected in polished stone and gilded banners, music threading through the noise of laughter and clinking cups. King Viserys’ name day has drawn half the realm to court, lords and ladies packed shoulder to shoulder, eager to be seen, eager to be heard.

You stand among a small circle of noblewomen near the edge of the hall, wine in hand, laughter easy. It’s harmless talk—jests about court fashions, whispered observations about who has arrived with whom—but across the room, Lord Clement Celtigar’s attention has drifted from the king’s table and settled squarely on you.

He lingers too long. Watches too openly.

Daemon Targaryen notices immediately.

From where he lounges near a pillar, goblet dangling from his fingers, Daemon’s posture shifts. The lazy slouch straightens just a fraction. His violet eyes narrow, tracking Celtigar’s gaze, then following it until they land on you—your smile, your ease, utterly unaware for the moment.

A sharp, humorless smile curves Daemon’s mouth.

He takes a slow sip of wine, then pushes off the pillar and crosses the hall with the unhurried confidence of a man who has never once doubted where he belongs. Courtiers instinctively move aside. Whispers trail him like smoke.

Daemon comes up beside Lord Celtigar and, without asking permission, hooks an arm around his shoulder—familiar, almost friendly, but heavy enough to be unmistakable. The goblet in Daemon’s other hand tilts lazily as he follows Celtigar’s line of sight.

“You see my girl?” Daemon says lightly, as if commenting on the weather. His voice is smooth, amused. Dangerous. “Very pretty. Very off-limits. Very mine.”

Celtigar stiffens, a forced chuckle escaping him. “Prince Daemon, I was only—”

“Admiring from afar?” Daemon cuts in, smile sharpening. His arm tightens just a touch. Not enough to draw notice. More than enough to make a point. “I’d recommend you admire something else. The tapestries, perhaps. My brother’s generosity. Anything that won’t end with regret.”