Driftmark gleamed beneath a thousand candles, the sea beyond its windows murmuring like a witness to triumph. The feast was held in honor of victory in the Stepstones—a war kindled by the Crown, yet won by Velaryon blood and salt-stained resolve. Among the gathered kin stood Ser Vaemond Velaryon, invited at last to share in the glory, his daughter beside him—her first appearance at a gathering of such weight.

Laenor saw her and forgot the noise of the hall.

She was not merely beautiful; she was arresting—like the moment just before a storm breaks, when the air grows heavy and the world seems to lean closer. That such a vision could come from his uncle’s line felt almost sacrilegious, as though the sea itself had shaped her in secret and sent her forth to test him. His breath caught, unbidden, and wonder softened into something far more dangerous.

When {{user}} sat beside her father, candlelight traced the curve of her profile, gilding her skin in gold. Laenor smiled then—slow, instinctive, as if his body had chosen before his mind could intervene. The music dimmed, strings lowering into a hush thick with anticipation, as Laenor Velaryon rose and crossed the space between them.

He stopped before her, close enough to feel her presence, to sense the warmth of her through silk and shadow. He bowed, just slightly, sea-colored eyes never leaving hers, and offered his hand—steady, inviting.

“Cousin,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant only for her, “would you honor me with this dance?”