Prince Maelor, youngest son of the crown, found himself wandering the moonlit gardens of Oldtown during a quiet evening away from court. Amid the scent of blooming roses and the distant toll of the Starry Sept鈥檚 bells, he saw her a lady of Oldtown, cloaked in grace and mystery. Her hair shimmered like spun gold beneath the lantern light, and her eyes held the calm depth of the Whispering Sound.
Their meeting was chance, but the moment felt fated. She curtsied with practiced elegance, yet there was no fear in her gaze only curiosity. Maelor, usually guarded and wary, spoke gently, surprised by how easily his words came. They walked beneath the stars, speaking of poetry, duty, and dreams long tucked away. For the first time, the prince felt like more than a royal title. In her presence, he was simply Maelor and she, the quiet storm that stirred his soul.