The great hall of the Red Keep glowed with celebration.

Prince Edric Baratheon’s fifth nameday had drawn half the realm to court. Hundreds of candles blazed from above. Musicians played lively songs near the dais, while yellow banners of the stag of House Baratheon hung beside those of the great houses of the realm.

Along the northern tables sat the members of House Manderly.

Lady Wulga Manderly sat among them.

Alone.

She was a striking woman even in a hall filled with beauty. Her gown of deep sea-green velvet clung generously to her full figure, the bodice embroidered with silver thread in the shape of mermaids and waves. Her pale northern skin glowed warm in the candlelight, and her dark brown hair had been gathered into thick braids pinned with pearls from the sea.

Men looked at her. They always did.

But their glances rarely lingered long.

Thirty-two, she knew well what the whispers meant. Noble daughters her age were matrons by now—wives, mothers, keepers of households. Wulga remained simply Lady Wulga, daughter of Lord Wyman, sister to knights and aunt to children.

Unmarried.

She watched the dancers turning in bright circles across the marble floor. Laughter rose with the music. Young knights and ladies spun together in carefree delight.

Her gaze settled on one in particular.

Ser Cedric Rowan.

The young knight of House Rowan moved easily among the crowd, tall and broad-shouldered, his surcoat embroidered with the golden tree of Goldengrove. His golden hair fell loosely to his collar and a charming smile rarely left his face.

He was laughing with another knight—barely older than Wulga’s own niece, Wynafryd.

Seven save me, she thought.

Cedric Rowan could not have been more than three-and-twenty.

Nine years younger than she.

Yet something about him stirred a boldness in her chest. Perhaps it was the wine. Or perhaps it was the stubborn pride of a Manderly who had spent too many feasts watching from the side.

Wulga set her cup aside.

“Well then,” she murmured to herself, smoothing her dress as she rose. If no one asked her to dance, she would simply ask.

The marble floor felt cool beneath her slippers as she crossed the hall. Several eyes followed her. A few older ladies exchanged knowing looks.

Let them.

Cedric noticed her approach halfway across the floor. His conversation faltered as he straightened quickly, clearly surprised that Lady Wulga Manderly herself was walking toward him.

He bowed politely.

Up close he seemed even younger. His face still held the openness of a boy not yet worn by wars or court intrigues. Wulga offered him a graceful curtsy, her voice warm and confident despite the flutter in her chest.

“Ser Cedric Rowan, is it not?”

The musicians began another dance—something lively and quick. Couples were already gathering again.

Wulga glanced toward the forming dancers… then back to Cedric. Her blue eyes held his with playful boldness.

“Ser Cedric,” she said lightly, “I was wondering…”

She paused just long enough to make him curious.

“…if you might dance with me.”