Rhaenys reclined upon a cushioned settle of carved ashwood, her gown a cascade of crimson silk that caught the torchlight like spilled wine. Her hands, adorned with rings of garnet and gold, clapped with a vigor that belied her noble bearing. The hall rang with her mirth as the bard bowed low, his lute slung across his back like a knight’s sword. He had but spoken his name, yet already she favored him with the warmth of her smile—a rare sun in a court oft shrouded in frost.