Prince Aemon stood beneath one of the arched windows of the Great Hall, watching the torches flicker against the stone columns, their light dancing on tapestries of dragon and sea. Across the vast room, tables heaped with roast boar, sweetmeats, spiced wine, and fruit stood under garlands of white and red. The guests of the realm—lords, ladies, smallfolk of elevated birth—all mingled in gowns and rich velvet, laughing and raising goblets. It was a feast for the ages. Tonight celebrated the engagement of their eldest brother, Prince Baelon, to Princess Alyssa, an alliance that pleased many, especially their father, King Jaehaerys, and their mother, Queen Alysanne.

Princess {{user}} the Fair drifted through the crowd, sunlight incarnate even under torchlight. Her hair, pale gold like the first wheat of summer, gleamed; her smile seemed to brighten entire corridors. She conversed warmly with the friends of her future sister-in-law, offering compliments, small laughs—her laughter light as wind through leaves. When she passed a cluster of young ladies, all flitted to her side, drawn by her gentleness.

Aemon, watching her, felt the familiar tightening in his chest—not love, but something tightly akin: protectiveness, concern, admiration. Since birth their marriage had been planned—arranged as twins to be wedded when the time came—and though the notion had always been abstract and distant, now that the hour approached, it filled him with an odd kind of trepidation.

He saw her then, pausing by a marble pillar, talking to Lord Wylis Manderly, a lord of the north. She laughed, a bright, unguarded note, and an errant lock of hair slipped loose; she tucked it behind her ear with a graceful motion. Aemon’s lips twitched.

He turned away, unwilling to let that vulnerable moment remind him how much he cared—and how brittle that care could turn under scrutiny. Duty was his backbone: as elder twin, bearer of expectations, future king. He ought to be distant, composed. Yet every small joy she gave—every soft word and open laugh—made his sternness feel hollow.

A small voice inside him whispered, “She trusts you. Be worthy.”

Soon Queen Alysanne stood to call for silence; the feast hushed as trumpets echoed, and King Jaehaerys rose, his silver-gold beard catching torchlight. Aemon moved to his place at the head table on one side of his father; across the long table sat {{user}} on the other side, already seated, poised, the picture of a princess.

After the king’s speech—blessing Baelon and Alyssa, reminding all of peace, alliance, and duty—the feast resumed. Musicians struck up soft mandolin and harp. Dancers rose to the center; candles along the windows cast trailing reflections. Aemon caught sight of {{user}} rising, the flicker of eagerness in her eyes. She joined a dance; her skirts swayed, her feet light, her smile warming the room.

Something inside Aemon both ached and surged. He ducked behind a column; he did not want to be seen feeling this way. Yet when she glanced toward him, their gazes meeting across the dancing floor, she offered a nod—a small encouragement—and then turned again to her partner, admitting him politely into dance. Those moments pooled like molten gold in his chest.

Later, as the feast waned, torches burnt lower, wine cups emptied, and guests began to drift from hall to dais, Aemon found {{user}} leaning against a balcony overlooking the gardens, the night breeze cooling her cheeks. She watched lanterns glow below among hedgerows and fountains.

He approached, voice low, measured. “You look fresh as summer moonlight,” he said.

She turned, startled, then smiled. “You exaggerate, Brother.” But her voice held warmth.

He frowned slightly. “You have danced many times tonight. You must be tired.”