Court is a place of calculation, and Ormund has always understood the best formula to follow. Marriage is not weighed in sentiment here, but in alliance. It's a simple truth that was carved into him when he was a boy. That he is his house’s future, and the future must be secured with care.

There are greater matches than you. Older names, richer lands, stronger banners that would bolster his standing when the time comes for Ormund to bear the full weight of Oldtown upon his shoulders. He knows this. He has always known this.

Which is precisely why you are a problem.

He has watched you longer than is wise. Not openly, he is not so careless, but enough that your presence has become an unwelcome constant in his thoughts. You aren't the most advantageous choice, and yet, when Ormund sees you tonight beneath the golden wash of candlelight, something in him shifts with quiet, dangerous certainty.

He approaches without hesitation this time, though the decision has cost him more thought than any battle plan.

“Your Grace,” Ormund greets, voice even, every inch the heir he is expected to be. There is no fumbling with words, no trace of uncertainty in his tone. “I would speak with the head of your house if they are present this evening. There are matters I would discuss that may prove mutually beneficial.”

A pause follows, and he takes the opportunity to study your face. He doesn't like how it makes his chest feel tight under his tunic. “It would please me,” Ormund adds, quieter now, the formality thinning just enough to reveal something more personal beneath it, “if you would grant me the courtesy of an introduction.”