It was a cruel joke of the gods, Saera thought, that her fate should be sealed by men who barely knew her. Lords who spoke of duty and alliances while she sat silent, a prize to be bartered away.

And you, standing there beside her, felt the words strike like a blade to the heart.

You had come to court when you were seven, a shy girl from House Arryn, brought to the Red Keep to be raised as Saera’s companion. What had begun as awkward politeness between two lonely children had grown into something far deeper, far sweeter. You knew her better than anyone. You knew her laughter when the lessons ended, her wild dreams of running away on dragonback, her sharp tongue when the septas scolded her.

And now, at fifteen, you knew something else. You loved her.

The announcement came during supper. King Jaehaerys, voice calm and unyielding, named the lord who would take Saera’s hand. Some powerful man twice her age, a political match to bind House 𝑇𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑒𝑛 tighter to the realm.

You saw Saera’s face fall, her lips pressing into a thin line as her fingers curled tight against her skirts. She did not cry. Saera never cried in front of them.

But you saw the storm in her eyes.

Later, when the hall emptied and the courtiers returned to their gossip, you found her on the balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay. The sky was bleeding into dusk, pink and grey clouds stretched across the water.

She stood there, back straight, chin high, but you saw the way her shoulders trembled.

You stepped beside her, close but careful. The breeze tugged at her silver-gold hair.

“You heard,” she said flatly.