The grand hall of the Red Keep was heavy with tension, filled with noble daughters draped in silks and velvets, their eyes darting toward the Iron Throne where King Aegon III sat in quiet detachment. Myrmadora Haen stood among them, wrapped in a dark robe, her expression caught between amusement and boredom.

The line inched forward, each lady stepping forth, curtseying, and moving aside. Myrmadora exhaled, unimpressed. These girls were draped in Westerosi modesty, their charms hidden beneath stiff fabrics. With a smirk, she reached for the clasp of her robe and let it slip from her shoulders.

Gasps rippled through the chamber. The translucent silk of her gown shimmered like water, clinging to her like mist, the jeweled girdle the only true covering. She felt their stares—some scandalized, some intrigued—but none looking away. Myrmadora tilted her chin up, unbothered, as the line moved forward. Let them whisper. Let them gawk.

The herald cleared his throat, his voice shaking.

"Myrmadora of House Haen, of Lys."

She stepped forward, slow and deliberate, her violet eyes gleaming as she bowed before the king.