The first time you met Jacaerys Velaryon, you were standing barefoot on the wet stones beneath King's Landing eastern bridge, skirts gathered in one hand as the tide clawed at the rocks below. The wind off the Narrow Sea lashed your silver-white hair across your face, sharp with salt. You heard the dragon before you saw him — a distant thunder overhead that sent the guards scrambling toward the courtyard. Vermax descended in a sweep of green wings and smoke, and upon his back sat the prince himself, dark-eyed and solemn beneath the grey sky.

You expected arrogance. A dragonrider ought to have looked upon the world as though it belonged to him. Instead, Jace slid from the saddle with seawater dripping from his boots and stared at you as if you were the strange thing upon King's Landing. His gaze lingered on the silver crab clasp at your throat — House Celtigar plain upon your cloak — before lifting to your face. “My Lady,” he said, quieter than you expected. Not flirtation. Not charm. Recognition.