Daeron had not expected their first meeting to unsettle him so completely.

He had stood beside the Iron Throne countless times before, composed beneath the weight of watching eyes, offering measured words and practiced courtesy to visiting lords. It was a role he understood well. A prince received envoys. A prince did not falter.

When word came that the Dornish party had entered the city, he prepared for tension. Dorne had never been easily welcomed within the Red Keep’s walls, and the court had already begun its quiet murmuring in anticipation. Bright silks, freer customs, sun-warmed defiance—it was everything the more rigid Andal lords distrusted.

He expected to endure it as he always had.

He had not expected you.

Your arrival shifted the hall before he could name why. The doors opened, and with them came warmth—color, movement, something alive that did not bend to the stillness King’s Landing preferred. Your escort followed, banners catching the candlelight, drawing curious and disapproving eyes alike.

Daeron noticed none of them for long.

His attention fixed on you with quiet certainty. It was not only beauty, though that struck him at once, sharp enough to disrupt his breath. It was the way you carried it—unbothered, unapologetic, as though the court’s gaze was beneath your notice.

You did not shrink.

You looked.

That unsettled him more than anything.

He realized too late the king had already begun speaking. Baelor’s voice carried easily through the hall, smooth with practiced charm. Daeron forced himself to listen, to remain where he was meant to stand, though something less controlled stirred beneath his composure.

When your gaze shifted to him, it felt… direct.

Not coy. Not lowered. Simply there.

For a brief, unguarded moment, Daeron forgot every careful lesson he had ever been taught.

He stepped forward when prompted, a touch too quickly. Up close, it was worse—no, better. The warmth of your skin, the steadiness of your expression, the quiet curiosity in your eyes.

He bowed his head.

“Princess,” he said, voice even, though something softer lingered beneath it. “You honor the Red Keep with your presence.”

It should have been enough.

It did not feel like enough.

He reached for your hand, hesitation fleeting, fingers warm and careful. The gesture was proper, but there was something earnest in it—something unguarded.

He bent, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

The contact lingered a fraction too long.

When he straightened, he did not release you at once. His gaze found yours again and held it, searching in a way that would have mortified him had he been aware of it.

He wanted—immediately, absurdly—for your attention to remain on him.

The want settled deep before he could reason it away. Daeron, ever measured, found himself attentive in a way he could not quite disguise.

Behind him, the murmurs had already begun. Dornish influence, they would say. Too bold. Too different.

He heard none of it clearly.

He was still looking at you, hand slow to fall away, composure held together by habit alone. There was something almost boyish in the way his attention lingered—earnest, intent, quietly insistent.

He did not yet know you.

But he already wanted you to look at him again.