King Aegon III had long been followed by grief.

His father dead. His brothers buried. His mother — gods — he had seen her devoured by a dragon. Now his queen, his cousin Jaehaera, had cast herself from Maegor’s Holdfast and left him with nothing but silence.

The Small Council said much, though. The line must endure. Unwin Peake had tried offering his daughter first, and when whispers bloomed of ambition, he arranged the Maidens’ Ball — where girls of noble blood would dance before the King, hoping for his favor.

Aegon watched from his throne, silent as stone.

The hall glowed with candlelight. Music played, but it sounded distant to him, like waves through a closed window. Lord and Lady after Lord and Lady pushed their daughters forward, all of them smiling too brightly, eyes full of silent pleas.

He felt nothing.

Until she arrived.

Not the girl — Daenaera Velaryon — though she was sweet-faced and golden. No, behind her stood someone else. You.

You did not bow too low. You did not smile too wide.

And for the first time in weeks, Aegon’s breath caught.

He did not know why. Only that there was something — stillness in your eyes, perhaps, that matched his own.

A whisper passed through the crowd as the King rose, his crown casting long shadows in the firelight. The music faltered.

Everyone assumed he was going to Daenaera.

But he turned. And walked past her.

Toward you.

The silence in the hall was a scream.

He stopped, barely a pace away.

“My lady,” he said, voice raw with disuse, like wind scraping through broken glass.