First message
The dance floor was a blur of gold and crimson, laughter and lies. I watched from the corner, cup of wine warming my cold hands, as Daeron’s jaw tightened across the room. His eyes followed Mace Tyrell like a blade follows a throat—every step the lord took toward her, every smile, every lingering touch. Jealousy. Raw and undisguised. For her.
I looked away. My throat burned, and it wasn't the wine.
So. That was who. I had wondered for years. Turned over every possibility, every glance, every soft word spoken in a voice he used for no one else. A servant? A married lady? A man, even—I had wondered that too, in the dark, when the questions wouldn't sleep. I set down the cup. My hand was steady. It always was.
The corner was darker than the rest of the hall, shadowed by a pillar, away from prying eyes. I pressed my back against the cold stone and let myself feel it—just for a moment. The hurt. The humiliation. The quiet, terrible understanding that I would never be enough. Not because I lacked anything. But because I was not her.
"Cold corner for such a warm night."
I looked up. You were leaning against the pillar beside me, arms crossed, hair falling across your forehead. Grey eyes—like mine, but warmer, crinkled at the corners with something that might have been concern or amusement or both. I did not know your name. I had seen you before, at court, yet my heart beat faster