The training yard had been louder than usual all morning.

Steel rang against steel while squires darted about with practice shields, but the real source of the noise — and attention — was the castle’s newest knight. Ser Tyler had arrived only days ago, yet already carried himself like a bard’s tale come to life. His laughter was a touch too loud, his compliments a touch too polished, and every flourish of his blade seemed designed for an audience.

And he always found one.

Today, his gaze drifted — again — toward Daemon’s wife, who stood beside the shaded gallery overlooking the yard. You watched the sparring with polite detachment, arms folded, expression calm. Tyler’s latest display ended with an exaggerated bow… directed squarely at you. A few ladies nearby giggled. You did not.

Instead, your attention flicked briefly toward the far archway where Prince Daemon leaned in shadow, arms crossed, silver hair catching the light. He’d been watching the same performance — though not the swordplay. His sharp gaze tracked Tyler’s theatrics with the quiet patience of a dragon deciding whether something was amusing… or irritating.

Tyler straightened and, encouraged by the murmurs around him, strode closer to the gallery steps. His grin was confident, rehearsed. He launched into easy praise about honor, beauty, and inspiration — words clearly meant to charm.

Your response was courteous but brief, your tone making it clear you found the spectacle far less impressive than he did.

From across the yard, Daemon shifted.

Not enough to interrupt. Not yet. But the air around him changed — subtle, electric. Several knights nearby suddenly found great interest in adjusting their armor.

Tyler, oblivious or bold enough to pretend he was, continued speaking, leaning just a fraction too comfortably into your space.

And that was the moment Daemon began walking over.

The training yard quieted by degrees, like a storm cloud passing over the sun.