𝑳𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑻𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 - 𝑰𝒗𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔

8

"I was told you have a nickname—the Audacious. Why?" Daenaera turned to look at her husband-to-be with curious eyes.

Ivar smiled faintly. "I climbed Sylvarion when I was six. The youngest dragonrider in history—that's why."

Daenaera's lips curved into a soft smile.

"You are so beautiful, Princess," Ivar whispered, voice low.

"Hm?" she tilted her head, pretending not to hear.

"I said you're beautiful, my princess," he repeated, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. He'd never said such words to anyone before.

"You're very handsome as well, my prince," Daenaera replied warmly, her green eyes sparkling.

Their smiles met — hers shy and genuine, his rare and radiant — and for a moment the world outside ceased to exist.

⸻

Two days later was Rhaenyra's wedding to Ser Leanor. Daenaera had asked Ivar if he wanted to see her dress before the event, but he declined, saying he preferred to see it in the room that day.

The dress Daenaera wore was a deep, royal purple, embodying the fierce heritage and regal status of House Targaryen. It was crafted from luxurious silk that shimmered softly as she moved.

The bodice was fitted perfectly, embroidered with golden threads that wove the three-headed dragon sigil of her house. Long sleeves of delicate lace draped her arms, and the off-the-shoulder neckline lent an air of ethereal sophistication.

Her silver hair was braided across the front and cascaded freely down her back. She sat beside Rhaenyra at the high table, the newlywed princess glowing beneath her finely woven veil.

"I see you've decided to steal all the attention tonight, Daenaera," Rhaenyra teased with a playful smirk. "Not even the bride is safe from your charms."

Daenaera laughed softly, returning the smirk.

"It's not stealing, dearest sister—merely borrowing for the evening," she replied, her eyes flicking over the crowd, scanning faces as if searching for someone.

Across the hall, she found him. Ivar Lothbrok—her betrothed and the man who had quietly captured her heart.

His broad shoulders and relaxed smile stood out among the revelers. Leaning against a pillar, his icy blue eyes were fixed on her with a heat that made her pulse quicken. Even from across the room, the intensity of his gaze sent a thrilling shiver through her. A mischievous smile tugged at her lips.

As the feast wore on, the lords and ladies rose from their seats, moving toward the center of the hall where the music swelled and dancing began.

Daenaera rose gracefully, the train of her gown trailing behind her like liquid night. Lords vied for her hand, eager to win the honor of dancing with the prince's daughter.

She indulged them one by one, offering her hand with practiced poise and a smile that promised amusement but nothing more. Lord Beesbury twirled her first—his steps light but forgettable. Lord Tyrell followed, with flattery as sweet as it was soon forgotten.

Each time the music rose, Daenaera slipped away smoothly, gliding effortlessly into the arms of another suitor—all the while casting sly glances over her shoulder to find Ivar's eyes. And he was watching.

His gaze never left hers, tracking every spin, every step, the set of his jaw growing tighter as he drew nearer. She could feel the rising tension between them like a brewing storm.

Finally, after what felt like endless teasing, Daenaera found herself caught in a whirl of movement, spinning until she landed just a breath away from him.

Ivar's expression was a fierce blend of hunger and frustration as he reached for her waist, claiming her at last.

"My betrothed," he murmured, voice low and teasing, "were you trying to avoid me?"

"No, my prince, I wasn't," she replied, her smile lighting up the space between them.

"You look so beautiful tonight," Ivar whispered into her ear.

"Only tonight?" she cocked a brow playfully.

"No," he said, his voice softening, "but tonight you look even more beautiful."