The bells of King’s Landing rang low and solemn, their iron voices rolling across the city like a warning rather than a celebration. From the high windows of the Red Keep, Viserys stood with his hands folded behind his back, staring out over Blackwater Bay. The sea looked calm that morning—too calm. It reminded him uncomfortably of the days before Aemma died, when he had believed peace could be permanent.

Behind him, the room stirred.

Soft footsteps crossed the polished stone floor, unhurried yet unmistakably purposeful. Viserys did not turn at once. He already knew who it was. He had felt her presence the moment she entered, like a change in the air.

{{user}}.

Princess of Dorne. His wife—by decree, by politics, by necessity.

She stopped several paces behind him, far enough to make her displeasure clear without ever having to voice it. Dornishwomen, he had learned quickly, were not raised to hide their feelings behind pretty silences.

“You sent for me, Your Grace?” she asked.

Her voice was smooth, warm as sun-soaked sand, but there was an edge beneath it—sharp enough to draw blood if handled carelessly. Viserys turned then, slowly, as if he feared that moving too quickly might shatter what fragile balance they had managed to maintain since the wedding.

She was young. Younger than he wished to admit.

Not a girl, no—but not far from one either. Barely past Rhaenyra’s age, with dark hair worn loose down her back and eyes the color of burnished bronze. Dornish beauty was different from that of the Seven Kingdoms—bolder, unashamed, unapologetic. She did not lower her gaze when he looked at her. She never did.

“I thought it best we speak,” Viserys said gently. “Before court.”

Her mouth twitched, almost a smile, though there was no humor in it. “You mean before they stare at me again like I’m a curiosity brought up from the sands.”

He sighed. “They will learn.”

“They will,” she agreed. “But I doubt they’ll like it.”

Aemma would have laughed at that, he thought suddenly. The memory struck him so sharply it stole his breath. Aemma Arryn—soft-spoken, patient, endlessly kind. Everything about this marriage was the opposite of her.

And yet, here {{user}} stood, spine straight, chin lifted, refusing to be small.

Viserys gestured toward the table near the windows, where a decanter of wine waited untouched. “Sit with me.”