The city woke before the sun, as if King’s Landing itself feared missing a moment of you.

Bells rang from sept to street, bronze voices spilling over stone. Silk banners unfurled from towers and balconies—black dragons breathing fire upon fields of red, their shadows sliding across the streets like living things. The air was rich with summer: honeyed wine, crushed flowers, roasted meats, salt carried faintly from the sea. Even the sky seemed softened, pale and expectant.

Your nameday. Your twentieth summer. Baelor Breakspear’s only daughter.

You stood in your chambers as handmaidens fastened the last clasps of your gown, their fingers trembling despite themselves.

The dress was a work of quiet power: black silk flowing like ink, slit with deep red panels embroidered in gold thread. Dragonfire sewn into fabric.

A circlet of rubies rested against your hair, its weight deliberate, a reminder of blood and inheritance. When your father entered, the room stilled.

Baelor Breakspear studied you for a long moment, pride and something sharper crossing his face. He kissed your brow, his hand lingering at your cheek.

“They will look at you today,” he said. “Do not let them think you are unaware.” You met his gaze steadily. “I never do.”

The feast and tournament unfolded beneath a sky scrubbed clean by wind. The stands overflowed with color and sound, noble houses assembled like living tapestries.

You took your place beside your father, high above the lists, the dragon banners rippling behind you.

That was when you saw him.

Lyonel Baratheon stood apart from the noise, a storm given flesh. His armor caught the light in dull gold and steel, worn by use rather than polish. Silver threaded thick through his dark hair, his beard cut short but unruly. He did not preen. He did not bow deeply. He simply lifted his gaze—and found you.

The impact was immediate. Not heat. Pressure.

His eyes did not devour you. They assessed, weighed, and—dangerously—recognized something equal. You felt it like a hand closing around your ribs.

The tournament began. Steel rang. Hooves thundered. Men broke lances and pride alike for your favor. You watched with composed interest, offering smiles and nods when custom demanded, yet your attention returned again and again to Lyonel. When he rode, the crowd changed. His horse moved like an extension of his will, every charge precise, brutal, controlled. He shattered a knight of the Reach with a blow that sent splinters spinning into the air. He unhorsed another so cleanly it drew a roar from even the most jaded lords. On foot, he fought like a man who did not fear injury—only inefficiency.

When victory was declared, he did not look to you, a hot stab burned your chest for this⎯how fare he?, the laughing Strom, acting uninterested by you, a Targaryen?.

You wanted to tear him apart.

He bowed to the king. To your father. Then he turned away. The absence burned.

At the feast that night, the Red Keep glowed with torchlight and excess. Music drifted through vaulted halls. Wine flowed freely.

You moved among it all like a blade wrapped in silk, smiling, laughing, granting attention where it was politically useful. Suitors gathered like moths.

You dismissed them with ease. Lyonel did not come to you.

You found him instead⎯on a high terrace overlooking the city, where the noise softened into distant murmurs and the night air cooled the skin. He stood with his hands braced on stone, the wind tugging at his hair.

“You left the field without seeking my favor,” you said. He turned slowly.

Up close, he was larger than memory allowed—broad, scarred, solid. His eyes searched your face with unnerving focus. “I did not wish to win what could be taken,” he replied. “Only what might be chosen.” The honesty unsettled you.

“You deny yourself much, then,” you said. “I deny myself only what would cost more than I am willing to pay,” he answered. “And you would cost everything.”

Silence stretched between you, taut and electric. Later—much later—you crossed paths again, this time in a quiet corridor near godswood.