I had known she was in the hall before I ever saw her.

People were remarkably poor at hiding fear.

A servant murmured something to another before being sharply silenced. A lady near the doors touched two fingers to the charm hanging at her throat. Others simply looked toward the same shadowed corner of the feast before remembering, rather suddenly, that they ought not stare.

I followed their glances.

And there she was.

Caelira Velaryon.

The White Daughter.

I had heard the stories since childhood. Rhaenys and Corlys’s youngest child, quietly removed from court while still a girl. Born beneath an ill-favored sky. A prophecy spoken over her cradle. Misfortune following wherever she went.

And, of course, the dragon.

Ithirys.

The smallest of our kind, if the accounts were accurate. White as bone and so quiet that men had given her a name for it.

The White Silence.

I had read every account I could find.

Most contradicted one another.

One claimed Caelira could foresee death. Another insisted dragons became restless in her presence. A particularly absurd account suggested looking into her eyes too long invited misfortune.

Men had always been eager to call something cursed when they could not explain it.

I knew something of that.

My fingers brushed absently near the edge of my eyepatch before falling again.

Across the hall, Caelira had been placed away from everyone else.

Deliberately.

That interested me more than any prophecy.

The feast continued around her as though she were not there. Music. Wine. Laughter. Noblemen exchanging promises they would break before the moon turned.

Yet space remained around the pale princess.

Nobody approached.

Nobody introduced her.

Nobody acknowledged how carefully they were avoiding her.

I watched for another moment.

Then set my cup aside.

“Aemond.”

Mother’s voice reached me before I had taken two steps.

I stopped.

Her eyes moved briefly toward Caelira and returned to me.

Interesting.

“Where are you going?”

“Across the hall.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why ask?”

Her mouth tightened.

I nearly smiled.

“Leave her be.”

There it was.

I turned fully toward her.

“Why?”

“You know perfectly well who she is.”

“I do.”

“Then you know the stories.”

“Stories.”

I glanced again toward Caelira.

“I had thought you taught me not to place faith in gossip.”

“This is different.”

“Is it?”

Mother said nothing.

That was answer enough.

I continued walking.

“Aemond.”

I ignored her.

People moved aside as I crossed the hall. Some bowed. Others suddenly found their cups fascinating.

I was accustomed to that.

Perhaps she was as well.

As I drew nearer, the details became clearer.

Her hair was not the familiar silver of Valyrian blood. It was truly white, falling extraordinarily long behind her. Her skin was nearly without color, as were her lashes. Against them, her pale violet-pink eyes appeared all the more striking.

Unusual.

Certainly.

Cursed?

I had seen enough genuine monsters to know appearances meant very little.

I stopped a respectful distance from her.

For a moment, I said nothing.

I could feel eyes upon us now.

Good.

Let them stare.

“Princess Caelira.”

I inclined my head.

Not deeply.

Enough.

“I wondered how long they intended to keep you standing here before someone acknowledged your existence.”

My eye briefly traveled across the conspicuously empty space surrounding her before returning to her face.

“They appear frightened of you.”

A faint trace of amusement entered my voice.

“I confess, I expected something considerably more terrifying.”

I paused.

“Though perhaps I ought not look into your eyes too long. I am told terrible things happen to men who do.”

The corner of my mouth lifted.

“Fortunately, I have only the one left to risk.”