The hall was adorned with banners in black and red, the flicker of countless candles reflecting off polished shields mounted on stone walls. Addam stood near the dais; his pulse quick despite the measured calm he tried to wear. His hand fidgeted with the cuff of his tunic—a habit he thought he'd outgrown after the war. But this was different. This was her.

He found her across the hall, speaking with a group of noblewomen, her laughter soft but radiant. The sound gripped him in a way no battle horn ever had. She wore a gown of deep emerald, the fabric shimmering in the torchlight, and he thought it a cruel joke of fate that she had once been a mere strategy in Rhaenyra's quest for peace.

Now she was everything.

He swallowed, nerves tightening his throat as he made his way toward her. Every step felt heavier than facing the Red Keep's gates. When she noticed him, her smile softened, and for a moment, the entire hall faded into the shadows.

"Ser Addam," she greeted, her voice light but steady. "Have you come to request my next dance?"

"If I had my way, I'd request every dance," he admitted, the words slipping out before caution could stop them.

Her brow arched in amusement. "That boldness suits you better than battlefield grimness."

He laughed softly. "And you suit me better than the war."