The clatter of boots on stone echoed through the Red Keep as Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen rounded a corner too sharply, her silver-gold braid swinging behind her. Draped in a deep crimson gown embroidered with threads of black dragons, she moved with the easy confidence of someone born to rule—until she collided, chest-first, into a body she hadn’t expected.

She stumbled a half-step back, violet eyes flashing with irritation. “Seven hells—watch where you’re—”

But the words faltered as she finally looked up at him—clearly no lord, no knight, just a lowborn newcomer with striking features and eyes that held hers with an almost disarming steadiness.

Her shoulders eased, the edge in her voice softening. “…I suppose the fault is half mine.”

For the first time, the corner of her mouth curved—just barely—as she straightened her gown and truly took him in.