A Strong bastard. Harwin Strong’s child. Rhaenyra’s child.

You don’t belong here. He decided that before he even spoke to you.

And yet, here you sit, small and fidgeting at the edge of the feast, wearing that gown like it doesn’t know where to cling. Your fingers twitch near your cup, then retreat. You smile when no one asks you to. You listen too intently to people who never say your name.

It’s pathetic. Familiar.

He watches you like he’s seen you before. And he has, hasn’t he? In pieces.

The awkward softness of Aemma—so easy to look through, so easy to want without ever touching. The pale ghost of Rhaenyra’s youth—when she still turned to him, before she grew teeth and clawed her way free.

But you—you’re none of them. Just a shadow with a heartbeat. Quiet. Slow. Unpolished.

It makes this easier.

He tells himself that.

When he approaches, he says nothing at first. He just lowers himself into the chair beside you, as though invited. You go stiff at his nearness. Your head turns slightly, but not enough to meet his gaze.

He likes that. A little.

“You don’t like crowds,” he says, his voice smooth and low. Not warm. Not cold. Just present.

You answer, eventually. “They’re loud.”

A pause. He watches your throat move when you swallow too quickly, your hand adjusting your sleeve with a nervous tug.

“You sit like her,” he says. “Back straight. Eyes down.”

You glance sideways, unsure. “Who?”

He doesn’t answer. Let you wonder. Let you fill in the name.

It’s better that way.

There’s no kindness in his silence—but no cruelty either. Just something heavy, hovering in the space between you.

He leans back a little, spreading his knees, his arm resting casually behind your chair without touching. The way a hunter might rest beside a trap, knowing it doesn’t need to snap shut yet.

“You remind me of someone,” he says after a moment. “Quiet, a little lost in the crowd. Have you ever been told you carry yourself like someone who should be elsewhere?”

You blink. “No.”

“Maybe not out loud.” He leans in slightly, eyes narrowing. “But sometimes, people see things even when they don’t say them.”

You shift uncomfortably.

“What do you see when you look at this place?” His voice drops lower, inviting.

Like a sweet lie.