The yard rang with the clash of steel.

Maelor drove forward with a sharp twist of his wrist, knocking his friend’s blade aside before stepping back, breath steady despite the heat. The morning sun gilded the red stone of the Red Keep, turning sweat to shine across his bare shoulders. His brown hair—darker than most of his kin because of his stag blood—fell loose and unruly into his eyes. Only the violet of them betrayed plainly what he was.

Targaryen.

He laughed when his opponent nearly stumbled, lowering his sword a fraction. At nineteen, he had grown into his strength—lean and hard from years of drill. He did not often allow himself indulgence, but here, with steel in hand and no courtly eyes judging him, he could forget the weight of inheritance for a moment.

“My prince means to shame us all tomorrow,” Ser Lyonel Connington said, circling again. “You fight like you have something to prove.”

“I do,” Maelor replied simply, lunging once more. He disarmed Lyonel cleanly this time, the blade skidding across stone.

Lyonel huffed a laugh and bent to retrieve it. “Of course. You mean to win.”

“Obviously.”

“And when you do,” Lyonel pressed, grin widening, “will you crown your bride queen of love and beauty? Or ask for her favour before you ride?”

Maelor stilled only briefly.

The betrothal would be announced that night. Arryn and Targaryen bound together again. He had seen the scroll bearing your name. Heard the murmurs—your mother a Targaryen princess once removed, your father proud and watchful in the Vale. You were young. Younger than he would have chosen.

“I have not decided,” he said at last.

Lyonel snorted. “I’ve heard she is young. Young girls are foolish.”

Maelor’s jaw tightened—not in anger, but in correction. “She is of noble blood.”

“As if that saves anyone from foolishness.”

Maelor did not answer. He resumed the sparring, more forceful now, until Lyonel called for pause.

They drifted toward the shade near the stands. Above the yard, banners snapped crimson and black against the sky. The royal viewing gallery overlooked the grounds—arched, draped in silk, reserved for blood of the dragon.

He lifted his gaze only idly.

Movement caught his eye—a pale figure retreating from the light.

Soft blue.

For a moment, the color held against the red stone like a shard of summer sky. He saw only the fall of fabric, the suggestion of slight form as it disappeared from his view. He craned his neck, yet to no avail.

He did not truly see you.

Not your expression. Not the way your hands might have folded at your waist, or gripped the railing. Not whether you watched him alone.

Only blue.

Then Lyonel spoke beside him, and the moment fractured. He looked away.

Tomorrow he would ride. He would win. He would kneel before the king and offer a crown to whichever lady he chose.

It would be a political gesture. Measured. Appropriate.

He told himself that was all it would be.