WHEN Lyra was five and ten, her father had surprised her with a bundle of letters. He had an amused grin as he watched her rifle through the stack, glancing over seals bearing sigils of stags and towers and swords. She recognised the Great Houses and their vassal lords, from the Vale to the Reach, from the Westerlands to the Stormlands. At the very bottom was a letter with the king's seal, an intricate three-headed dragon embossed upon crimson wax. She looked at her father with confusion painted over her delicate features.

"Why are they writing to me?" she had asked.

"They are writing for you," replied Lord Stark. "For your hand in marriage." She made a face, lips twisting as her tongue was filled with distaste. "So, my little pup, has any one of them taken your fancy?"

If she had been allowed to choose a man for love, which among the Great Houses would have captured her heart? Would she live in eternal spring with the Tyrells or count gold upon the lofty rock of the Lannisters? If there had been a good match, she thought she fancied taking the name of Tully. The Riverlands was much closer to home after all.

But Lyra turned her gaze back to the king's letter, wondering what the contents therein could be. There was no doubt that she could not refuse a proposal made by the king himself, and that it was the best match that any maiden in the realm could ever hope for. The Targaryens were said to be closer to gods than to men and they often wedded each other in the tradition of their house. The letter in her hand seemed like a visage of an apparition, that at any moment the Maiden would take it from her and leave her wanting.

Her father laughed and plucked the letter from her fingers instead. "You're much too clever than I give you credit for," he remarked before opening it. She watched closely as he perused its contents with pale eyes flickering over the parchment.

"What does it say?" she asked and his gaze flicked up to her with silent contemplation. He handed the letter back and she searched the elegant script quickly for a name. A match. She felt her breath catch in her throat, her heart drumming between her ribs.

Daemon Targaryen.

She remembered Maester Willem's teachings on the royal court, that the current heir incumbent was Prince Baelon, the Spring Prince. He had two sons, one of whom was already married. So it was the younger that had been offered for an alliance of Houses. It had been decades since the king toured the North with the recently departed late queen. She remembered her grandsire had been very much content to never see another dragon on northern lands again and her uncles still grumbled about the lands surrendered to the New Gift.

"Is it a good match?" she asked her father.

"It is the best match for any girl in the realm," he told her. "But is it the best match for you?"

She glanced once more to the letters in her hands, at the birds and roses and silver fish. She could not possibly know who would be the best match for her. The only boy she was well acquainted with other than her cousins was Daryn Manderly whenever he visited Winterfell with his father. He had been a kind boy, sweet and young, and he always smelled of ripe apricots. They would run through the ramparts with her cousins and climb the trees in the garden.

If she had known then that Daemon was wild and callous, that he resembled the very beasts whose scent clung to the fabric of his tunic, she wondered if she would have been ruth to even consider the king's letter. Even now she felt that no man on this earth would be a good match for her. Winter roses could never flourish in the southlands and the howl of a lone wolf without a pack was a truly sorrowful thing to hear.

A knock rapped against the side of their carriage. Lyra pulled aside the curtains and peered out at her cousin who was riding on horseback. There was dirt smeared across his face and she offered him a handkerchief to clean himself. "We are almost to King's Landing," Brandon informed, then pointed towards the treetops. "You can see the Red Keep already."

Lyra leaned over the window and peered upwards to the sky. True to his word, the pale red keep towered high from the east like a beacon. Her heart skipped a beat. The horses continued down the Kingsroad, passing by other caravans and lonely travellers. Lyra spied golden silks and Myrish lace with intricate patterns carried by a group of rich and lavishly dressed merchants.

She suddenly felt very plain in her woollen garbs of dark blue. No doubt the ladies in court all wore only the most fashionable dresses. Lyra had not even thought to wear a hairpin despite owning several pieces. Growing up with only male cousins had made her as thoughtless as them.

Soon, they had entered the city proper and a cohort of guardsmen greeted them at the gates. The Starks were then escorted to the Red Keep on the southeastern corner of King's Landing. As the horses pulled the carriages up the sloping incline of the outer walls, Lyra could appreciate the view of Blackwater Bay that the keep overlooked.

The cohort brought them to a halt in the main courtyard of Maegor's Holdfast. Imposing stone pillars surrounded the square with winding ivy creeping along its columns and cornices. There was a man with courtly attire awaiting their arrival. The pin of the King's Hand adorned the breast of his surcoat and his Valyrian features were striking even from a distance.

"Lord Stark!" Prince Baelon greeted jovially. He was a tall man, as handsome as he was charming. Lyra thought her betrothed resembled him in almost every aspect.

Lord Rickon was the first to greet him and they spoke at length in the corner while the rest of their company unburdened the horses of their effects. Royal servants stepped forwards to usher them away to guest chambers within the tower. They had arrived a little before noon and there was still time in the day to attend the king's court.

Three maidservants took charge of Lyra to quickly freshen her up with a bath and scented oils. A silk dress had then been produced from thin air. It was a deep forest green that matched the colour of her eyes, skilfully decorated with golden threads on its hems.

"A gift from the Prince," one of the women told her.

Lyra was pleased to know that the man she was soon to be married to had made a small effort to welcome her. She would not soon forget the gesture as the servants laced her bodice. While they were combing Lyra's hair, her mother entered the chambers to accompany them.

Gilliane Glover was a woman of little words, unlike her husband. She chose instead to relay her sentiments through actions and gifts, as she did now by picking suitable jewellery for her daughter. Lyra often thought that she took on more of her father's semblance in both demeanour and appearance. Blood of the wolf ran thick in her veins and she shared the trait with Brandon, of all her kin that she cherished the most.

Her mother braided her hair with golden flowers that matched her dress. She hoped she looked beautiful enough in the Prince's eyes. Gilliane stroked her daughter's dark crown and spoke words of encouragement that Lyra barely heard. Tremors threatened to ravage her hands and legs. She wanted to flee back to Winterfell, she would run the entire distance if she had to.

"Your father and cousin are already waiting," her mother urged to depart.

Lyra took one last glance at herself in the looking glass. Her reflection was unfamiliar. She would rather trade her silk for furs, flowers for ice crystals. Clenching her hands, she pulled herself away from the vanity and they rejoined the men in the courtyard. Prince Baelon was there too.

"His Grace and the Prince would be pleased to see you, my lady," he greeted her amicably. "You have grown to be a fine young woman; I daresay your father must have been hiding you in the North!"

Lord Rickon made a rumbling sound at the jest. Lyra thanked him with a smile and exchanged glances with Brandon. He had been uncharacteristically quiet. It was also the first time she had seen his hair so clean. He must have felt ridiculous. Prince Baelon led them towards a western corridor and they started to make their way to the Great Hall.

"His Grace was most gracious to honour the request," Lord Rickon said, "knowing how eagerly he was for the young Prince to marry."

Prince Baelon laughed with good humour. "Yes, His Grace is not growing any younger himself! I'm sure my son eagerly awaits to meet his betrothed."

Brandon exchanged another look with Lyra and she knew what he would have said. She too doubted that marriage would deter a man from fucking whores. There was a reason why infidelity existed. The doors to the Great Hall loomed all too soon at the end of the fifth corridor. Lyra felt her hands starting to slicken and she ran them down the front of her dress. Brandon brushed against her arm.

"Don't worry, you look beautiful," he assured her.

Her anxious eyes met his as she smiled back in gratitude. A squire announced their presence and Lyra passed the threshold of the hall. Hushed voices resounded all around her and she was painfully aware of every pair of eyes. Taking a breath, Lyra held her head high with pride. She was a Stark, the Wardens of the North, her nerves were tempered with ice and snow. Her gaze was fixed on the Iron Throne, its imposing sword tips standing tall like watchtowers.

King Jaehaerys observed their approach with a pleasant countenance. She curtsied as was the custom and rose upon command. Her heart throbbed painfully within her throat. Words were exchanged between her father and the king. She smiled upon being addressed. Behind the throne, the sky was shot with crimson and she thought of how different the sunset looked from her northern home. In the south, the summer scorched even the colours that surrounded them.

Then, without warning, the king motioned to the right of the hall. "Step forward, Daemon, and greet your betrothed."

The court fell into a silence as everyone's attention was diverted. Only the sound of shuffling boots could be heard against the stone floor as the prince stepped forwards. Lyra turned slowly, not knowing what to expect. It had only been four years since she last saw him but it was sufficient time to change him into a man and she into a woman.

Daemon stood taller and sturdier than she remembered. His hair was more silver, his eyes more violet. Taken out of his cumbersome armour, he was also lean but well-built for battle. Lyra knew then why he was styled the Prince of the City. His profile lent him a dashing air and his piercing eyes glinted with an astute mind. The old saying was true; the Targaryens were closer to gods than men. His countenance was ethereal, almost divine, yet with a hint of brutality that could only be forged from the blood of beasts.

They locked gazes with one another; amethyst meeting jade.

At that moment, her fate had been sealed. Against her better judgement, Lyra drew a sharp breath that quickened her pulse. There was a heat in her chest that bloomed and bled into a feverish ache. Under the golden glow of the setting sun, she felt her heart ignite. And it burned with dragon fire.