There were moments that rewrote the shape of a girl’s heart, and {{user}} Baratheon had the misfortune of remembering them all.

The night spun in golds and violets, music slinking through the air like perfume, heavy with wine and impossible promises. They celebrated love as if it were a crown, as if it were something that could be worn without bleeding. {{user}}’s sister wore it well, Jocelyn, bright-eyed and beloved, a garland of pearls tangled in her dark hair. Her laughter rang through the hall like it belonged there, and maybe it did. Maybe she always belonged in the center of the world. Maybe the story had always been written this way.

And maybe {{user}} had only ever been the footnote.

She remembered the first time she saw him, Aemon, prince of dragon’s blood and smoke. It was at a feast, much like this one. Her hands had trembled around her goblet, not out of nerves, but because of the way his gaze settled on her, like he was trying to solve something. Their conversation had lasted two minutes. Three at most. But everything they said was in total agreement. Not flirtation. Not courtship. Just understanding. The kind that slipped under the skin and stayed there. The kind that made silence feel holy.

She had gone to find her sister, ready to confess, ready to laugh about it. And Jocelyn, sweet Jocelyn, glowing like prophecy, had taken one look at the prince across the room and said, “That one’s mine.” A whisper. A promise. A curse.

So she had let go before anything began.

And now she watched them, man and wife, standing at the altar of a life that might have been hers if the world had been softer. If names did not weigh more than hearts. If duty had not come wearing a smile.

Aemon stood like carved marble, all fire and silence. But something flickered beneath the surface when his eyes met hers across the crowd.

He approached slowly, as if drawn by something he could not name. His voice, when it came, was softer than it should have been. “You look beautiful tonight, my lady.”