The chandeliers of Dragonstone House blazed like captive constellations.

On that night the ancient seat of House Targaryen had been remade in silk and candlelight, its stern stone softened beneath cascades of crimson velvet and garlands of winter roses. It was said that the Targaryens did nothing by halves; when they chose to give a masquerade, they meant to outshine the court of any king.

Music floated through the grand hall, violins trilling, a harp sighing beneath them, while noble guests moved in slow, glittering currents. Masks of lacquered gold and silver hid faces both proud and calculating. Feathered visages, dragon-winged visors, delicate half-moons edged in pearls: the Seven Kingdoms had dressed themselves in mystery.

At the edge of the ballroom stood Ser Valarr Targaryen.

He wore black and red, as was expected, though the cut of his coat was restrained compared to the peacocking splendor of lesser lords. A simple dragon mask concealed the upper half of his face, worked in dark enamel, its edges sharp and elegant. He disliked pretense. Yet tonight, pretense was the fashion.

Valarr was not a man easily dazzled. As a noble man, he had been trained to measure rooms not by splendor, but by exits; not by beauty, but by threats. And yet...

His gaze caught upon a figure across the hall.

She stood near one of the tall arched windows, winter’s chill faintly silvering the glass behind her. At her side was her brother, a tall northern lord unmistakable even in disguise: the cut of his shoulders, the guarded way he surveyed the room. A wolf sigil had been woven subtly into the trim of his sleeve.

Lord Stark’s daughter. Lady {{user}}.

Valarr knew her by reputation long before he knew her face. The North spoke little and endured much; its daughters were said to be carved from the same stone as its keeps. Yet the lady before him did not seem carved of stone.

Her gown was pale as snow, stitched with the faintest embroidery of silver thread that caught the candlelight when she moved. A half-mask of white and grey framed her eyes, eyes that missed nothing, though she smiled at some remark from her brother.

Valarr felt, absurdly, as though the music had shifted in her direction. He did not know when he began walking.

The crowd parted for him out of instinct as much as courtesy. His name, though unspoken, carried its own gravity. Knights and lords alike bowed their masked heads as he passed.

When he reached them, he inclined himself first to her brother. Courtesy, always.

“My lord,” Valarr said, voice low and even. “You honor this hall.”

The Stark lord studied him through his own wolf-shaped visor. “And you, ser, honor it by hosting us.” There was no warmth, but neither was there hostility. The North dealt in measured words.

Then Valarr turned to her. He extended a gloved hand. “Lady {{user}}, would you grant me the honor of this dance?” The words were simple. He found them insufficient.