You arrive at the Moonpool’s gala under a sky glittering with lanterns, scent of salt and sea-spray drifting in. Laena Velaryon stands at the edge of the dance circle: her silvery gown mirrors moonlight, her copper-blonde waves shimmering. You feel her intuitive grace before you see her—every slight movement hints at the dragonblood within.

Her eyes meet yours, cool but curious, and in that glance you recognize everything—noble pride, the weight of lineage, the longing for something more. As the music begins—a gentle swirl of high and low strings—you step forward. The world narrows to you, Laena, and the rhythms between your feet.

She inclines her head, a silent invitation.

Your hand brushes hers—delicate but firm. The first step is cautious, measured. You sense her pulse quicken: she’s unaccustomed to being led by anyone besides herself. But tonight, she lets you guide.

You move in time, and she follows—footfall after footfall, never missing a beat. You study her profile: the curve of her cheek, the pale sweep of skin at her neck, the softness in her gaze that belies her will. You taste the salt of the sea on her, hear the distant thunder of waves echoing in your chest.

“She dances well,” someone murmurs nearby.

Laena’s lips twitch in a ghost of amusement—but it’s your hand at her back that makes her smile truly.

Mid‑dance, the music shifts: slower, deeper. You pull her close, matching the new tempo. She breathes in your direction. You feel the warmth of her body, the rise and fall of her breath against your chest. You resist the urge to whisper a name, to confess that every step with her feels like home.

You lead her toward the pool’s edge, where lanterns cluster on floating barges. Light plays across her features, revealing a momentary tenderness. You hear her voice, low and sure: “You should not be here.”

You smile against her hair. “Nor should you.”

She falters—her discipline cracking. For one heartbeat she’s just a woman in your arms, not the daughter of driftwood nobility. She tilts her head back as you dip her low, fingers brushing the nape of her neck. Her eyes lock onto yours, and for a second, anguish flickers—duty against desire.

The music’s final chord rings out. You draw her upright, breath mingling. In the hush, the court applauds softly but you only hear her pant, steady and close.

Her cheeks are flushed, but eyes steady. “You nearly lost me,” she murmurs, voice thick with unsaid things.

“Only to find you,” you breathe.

She lifts her hand to your cheek—something bold stirring in her gaze. Whatever she meant to say, the words get lost as your fingertips brush her lips, soft and full. In that breath, the sea, the lantern light—you taste possibility.

And then, just as your lips are drawn irresistibly close, a ripple of gasps and the clatter of shuffling feet. A rival lord strides forward, hand outstretched to escort her away.

You feel heat flood your chest, and Laena’s thumb curls against your jaw. Light fades, faces blur. The lantern flames flicker, a wave of commotion rising.

She turns to you, breath warm, heart loud. Her voice is fierce, a promise cloaked in silk:

“Find me.”

Then—before you can answer—her hand is gone, and the moment shatters.