The house—more cathedral than manor—rose sharp against the winter sky, its stone towers piercing low clouds like the spires of some forgotten sept. Inside, the air carried the rich, spiced scent of mulled wine, roasted chestnuts, and the faint evergreen tang from the enormous fir that dominated the great hall, its branches heavy with glass ornaments and white lights that blinked in quiet rhythm.

Valarr was seated at the head of the long dining table, one hand resting on the carved back of your chair, the other loose at his lap. He wore a charcoal cashmere sweater over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the lean forearms that still bore the faint scars from rowing crew at Oxford last term.

You sat beside him, small in the high-backed chair, fingers wrapped around a crystal stem of red wine you hadn't yet sipped. The dress you'd chosen was elegant but understated, bought secondhand from a vintage shop near campus. Your hair was pinned loosely, a few strands escaping to brush your collarbone.

Baelor sat at the opposite head, laughing low at something his youngest brother said. Maekar, stern-faced and precise, occupied the opposite end, his children scattered like chess pieces around him: the older ones already in boardrooms or graduate programs, the younger ones still in boarding school, all sharp-eyed and quick with polite smiles. Aerion lounged midway down the table, glass in hand, smirk permanent. He hadn't said much yet, but Valarr knew the silence was temporary. Aerion always saved his barbs for when the room felt safest.

Dinner had progressed through courses with the measured grace of old money: pheasant glazed in honey and thyme, root vegetables roasted until caramel-sweet, a claret that cost more per bottle than your monthly rent back in the Midwest. Conversation flowed in polished streams—hedge funds, gallery openings in London, the latest restoration at the family vineyard in Provence. You listened, nodded, offered quiet comments when directly addressed. But the talk circled topics you had no entry into: trust structures, art provenance, the politics of Oxford's endowment. Each time you tried to bridge the gap—mentioning a seminar on medieval manuscripts, or the small press you'd interned at last summer—the words landed softly, then sank without ripple.

He felt it like a physical ache.

You'd met on a literature Discord server, of all places. Late-night arguments about The Faerie Queene and whether Spenser's allegory held up in the twenty-first century. He'd used a pseudonymous handle, (no Targaryen crest, no Oxford affiliation), just sharp insights and a dry humor that matched yours. Months of messages turned to voice chats, then video calls across the Atlantic time difference. The first in-person meeting had been in New York during his reading week; you'd taken the Megabus from Ohio, heart hammering the whole way. He'd waited at Penn Station in a black coat, looking unfairly composed, and when you'd stepped off the bus he'd smiled; not the polite one he gave the world, but the real one, small and unguarded.

A year and change later, here you were. Nineteen, literature major at a tiny liberal arts college that prided itself on need-blind admissions and threadbare budgets. He was twenty-one, reading PPE at Oxford because it was expected, though he'd rather spend his nights rereading Le Guin or arguing canon with you until dawn.

Now, as the plates were cleared and port circulated, Baelor leaned forward, voice warm. "Tell us more about your thesis, love. Valarr says you're writing on post-colonial readings of Jane Eyre?"

You straightened slightly. "It's... more about how Brontë uses the figure of Bertha to interrogate imperial domesticity. The attic as a metaphor for suppressed colonial histories."

Maekar nodded once, thoughtful. "Fascinating. We have a first edition in the library here—would you like to see it after pudding?"