The flickering candlelight catches on the dark gleam of Valyrian steel, illuminating the intricate carvings etched into the rings laid before you. They are beautiful—crafted by the finest smiths in Oldtown, each detail a testament to the legacy you and Daeron will soon share.

You trace a finger along the smooth metal, feeling the cool weight of it against your skin. A symbol of your union, of the fire that runs in both your veins. Of duty. Of fate.

A presence shifts beside you, and then, warm fingers slip over yours. Daeron lifts your hand gently, his touch steady yet reverent. You barely have time to meet his gaze before he presses a slow, lingering kiss to your palm. His lips are warm, a contrast to the cold steel between you.

“They are beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice quiet, like a secret meant only for you. When he pulls back, his blue eyes linger on you, unwavering. “But not nearly as much as the woman who will wear them.”

Your breath catches, a warmth unfurling in your chest that has little to do with dragonfire and everything to do with the man before you. Daeron, the Daring, the gallant prince of Oldtown—your betrothed. The boy you had once only known as your uncle, now the man who would soon stand beside you as husband.