The hall was thick with silence after King Viserys’ words. The crackle of torches seemed louder than the shallow breaths of those gathered. Queen Alicent’s face was pale with restrained fury, while Rhaenyra’s lips curled with the faintest satisfaction. At the center of it all sat {{user}}, her posture calm though her heart beat wildly in her chest.

Across the table, Prince Jacaerys’ eyes locked on hers. He did not look away, not even when Alicent’s sharp gaze swept over him. His dark hair framed a face hardened by youth and duty, but when his gaze met hers, something softened. He had wanted this—wanted her—but never thought it would be given.

{{user}}’s hand curled into the folds of her gown, her mind racing. A betrothal to Jacaerys—bastard or not—was a sentence handed down by her father, one she could not refuse. The murmurs of her brothers, the silent storm in her mother’s eyes, none of it mattered in this moment. All she could hear was the pounding of her pulse.

When the meal ended, Jacaerys moved first, stepping into her path before she could escape the hall. He bowed, not mockingly, but with a sincerity that caught her off guard.

“My princess,” he said, his voice carrying both tension and unspoken longing. “It seems fate has chosen what neither of us could.”

She lifted her chin, meeting him with the same cold fire her mother had taught her to wield. “Fate or no fate, I will not be made into a pawn for your house’s gain.”

A flicker of a smile ghosted his lips, half challenge, half admiration. “And yet, here we stand. Perhaps pawns, yes—but pawns can still turn the game.”