Alicent's lips curved into a gentle smile at his self-deprecation, but her dark eyes held genuine concern as they swept across the elaborate model that consumed so much of his attention. "It's a magnificent work, Your Grace. The detail is extraordinary—I can almost imagine the city as it must have been, before the Doom consumed it."
She moved closer to the table, her movements careful and deliberate, as though approaching something sacred rather than a mere collection of plaster and paint. Her fingers hovered over one of the delicate spires without quite touching it. "Father often speaks of how your models demonstrate not merely artistic skill but true historical understanding. He says the accuracy you achieve suggests hours of careful study in texts most scholars would find too fragmentary to be useful."
"Your father is kind to notice," Viserys replied, though pleasure colored his voice at the recognition of his work's scholarly merit. "Most see only an eccentric king playing with toys when he should be attending to governance. They don't understand that sometimes understanding the past provides clarity about the present that no amount of council meetings can match."
"And yet," Alicent said with that particular gentleness that suggested she was approaching something delicate, "Father sent me to remind you that the present does require your attention this evening. The feast to announce the tournament's commencement—lords from across the realm have gathered in the Great Hall, awaiting your presence to begin the celebrations."
Her voice carried no reproach, only the sort of patient reminder one might give to a beloved family member who had become distracted by matters of lesser immediate importance. "Though I confess, seeing you here with your work, I suspect the feast is not truly what occupies your thoughts this afternoon."
Viserys's hands stilled completely on the model, his shoulders tightening in a way that spoke of tension he'd been trying unsuccessfully to release through meticulous craftwork. For a long moment, he simply stared at the miniature city before him, violet eyes unfocused as though seeing something far beyond plaster and paint.
"You're very perceptive," he said finally, his voice carrying the sort of weariness that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion and everything to do with burdens that pressed down on the soul like stones. "Though I suppose it's hardly surprising—you've spent enough time with Aemma these past months to understand when something weighs on those close to her."
"Her Grace has been... troubled of late," Alicent ventured carefully, settling into a nearby chair with the sort of grace that suggested she understood this might be a longer conversation than a simple reminder about court obligations. "Beyond the normal discomforts of late pregnancy. She speaks less, laughs less, seems to be carrying worries that go deeper than merely physical concerns."
Viserys moved to the window, his back to her, hands clasped behind him in that characteristic posture that had marked generations of Targaryens contemplating difficult decisions. The afternoon light caught the silver-gold of his hair, making him look less like a man of eight-and-twenty and more like some figure from legend—beautiful, distant, weighed down by responsibilities that no mortal shoulders should be asked to bear.
"She has told me this will be her last pregnancy," he said quietly, the words falling into the chamber like stones into still water. "Regardless of this child's sex, regardless of the realm's needs or my desires for additional heirs. She has reached the end of what she's willing to sacrifice for the crown, and nothing I say will change her mind."
The admission hung in the air between them, heavy with implications that went far beyond personal disappointment. For a king to confess such things to anyone—let alone an unmarried young woman who was not family—suggested a level of distress that had overwhelmed his usual careful composure.
Alicent was quiet for a long moment, her dark eyes studying his silhouette against the window with the sort of thoughtful attention that suggested she was weighing her words with extreme care. When she spoke, her voice carried genuine compassion rather than the sort of calculated sympathy that characterized so much court interaction.
"And how do you feel about that decision, Your Grace? Not as king, but as husband—as the man who loves her and fears for her welfare with each pregnancy?"
The question cut through his defenses with surgical precision, forcing him to confront feelings he'd been trying desperately to avoid examining too closely. His hands tightened behind his back until the knuckles went white, and when he finally spoke, his voice was rough with suppressed emotion.
"Relieved," he admitted, the word coming out almost like a confession of sin. "Gods help me, I'm relieved. Do you know what it's like to watch someone you love endure pregnancy after pregnancy, knowing that each one brings not joy but terror? To see fear in her eyes whenever her courses are late, to hear her pray not for a child but for her own survival?"
He turned from the window to face her directly, and Alicent could see tears glistening in his violet eyes though he refused to let them fall. "I've held four dead children, Alicent. Tiny perfect bodies that never drew breath, or drew it so briefly that the maesters could do nothing but record the time of death. I've watched my wife weep until she had no tears left, seen her retreat into herself after each loss until I feared she might never return."
His voice grew stronger, more passionate as words he'd been holding inside finally found release. "And through it all, I had to maintain the facade—the concerned husband, yes, but also the disappointed king who needed sons, who required heirs, who couldn't allow personal grief to interfere with dynastic necessity. Do you have any idea how that feels? To love someone desperately while simultaneously resenting them for failing to give you what duty demands?"
"No," Alicent replied with simple honesty, though her eyes held understanding that went beyond mere sympathy. "I cannot imagine carrying such burdens, Your Grace. The weight of personal love warring with royal obligation, knowing that whatever choice you make will leave part of you unsatisfied and perhaps even ashamed."
She rose from her chair with fluid grace, moving to stand near him though maintaining proper distance—close enough for intimacy but not so close as to suggest impropriety. "But I do know what it's like to watch someone suffer, to want desperately to ease their pain while feeling helpless to actually accomplish anything meaningful."
Her voice grew softer, more personal. "My mother suffered terribly during her final illness. Months of decline, of watching her waste away while maesters provided comfort but no cure. And through it all, Father maintained his duties, his composure, his careful attention to everything except his own grief. He would not allow himself to break until after she was gone, and even then only in private where no one could witness his weakness."
She paused, her dark eyes holding his with steady compassion. "I learned then that sometimes the hardest part of loving someone is accepting that you cannot save them from every trial, cannot shield them from all pain. Sometimes all you can do is bear witness to their suffering and trust that your presence, your continued love, provides comfort even when you feel utterly useless."
Viserys felt something crack inside his chest at her words—the careful armor he'd been maintaining, the composure that allowed him to function as king despite the fears that gnawed at him like rats in darkness. "And what if my presence, my love, isn't enough?" he asked, his voice breaking on the words. "What if this child—this last child she's willing to give me—what if it kills her? What if the maesters are right that she's too worn, too damaged by previous losses to survive another birth?"
"Then you will grieve," Alicent said with devastating simplicity. "You will mourn the loss of your wife and the mother of your children, and the realm will grieve with you. But that grief will come whether you spend these final days in fear or in love, whether you torture yourself with what-ifs or simply be present with her for whatever time remains."
She moved slightly closer, her voice growing more intense. "And if she survives—when she survives—you will need to decide whether you can accept her decision with grace or whether you'll allow resentment to poison what you've built together. Whether you'll respect her choice to preserve herself or pressure her to sacrifice more than flesh and blood were meant to give."
The words struck him like physical blows, forcing him to confront questions he'd been avoiding with desperate determination. "I'm the king," he said weakly. "The realm needs heirs, security, the stability that comes from clear succession. How can I simply accept that my wife will give me no more children when my brother and cousin were passed over in the Great Council specifically because male succession was deemed essential?"
"Because you are also a man," Alicent replied with quiet intensity, "who loves his wife more than his crown. Or at least, that's what I believe about you, Your Grace. That despite the pressures of kingship and the expectations of those around you, you are fundamentally decent, fundamentally capable of choosing love over duty when the two come into conflict."
She paused, seeming to gather courage for what came next. "And because, if I may speak plainly, one living child is worth more than a dozen hypothetical heirs. Princess Rhaenyra is intelligent, capable, beloved by those who know her. If the gods see fit to grant you a son with this pregnancy, then you'll have two heirs and the succession will be secure. If not..." She held his gaze steadily. "Then you'll have one heir who is more than sufficient for any reasonable requirement of royal succession."
Viserys sank into a chair as though his legs could no longer support him, the weight of everything he'd been carrying finally proving too much to bear standing. "You make it sound so simple," he said, but his voice held more wonder than criticism. "As though I could simply decide to prioritize my wife's welfare over centuries of precedent and expectation."
"Not simple," Alicent corrected gently, settling back into her own chair. "Never simple. But necessary, if you're to live with yourself after all this is done. Because whatever happens with this birth, Your Grace, you will need to look yourself in the mirror every morning and know that you did right by the woman you love."
She leaned forward slightly, her expression carrying the sort of earnest intensity that made her seem older than her eighteen years. "I've watched you with Her Grace, seen the way your face lights up when she enters a room, noticed how carefully you attend to her comfort even when court business demands your attention elsewhere. That's not duty, Your Grace. That's love. And love requires us to put the beloved's welfare above our own preferences, our own fears, our own ideas about what should be."
The chamber fell quiet except for the distant sounds of the Red Keep preparing for the evening's festivities—servants hurrying through corridors, musicians tuning instruments, the general bustle of a castle transforming itself into a setting worthy of royal celebration.
Viserys sat very still, his violet eyes distant as he processed everything she'd said. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a tentative quality—as though testing words that might reshape his understanding of himself and his choices.
"If this child lives," he said slowly, "whether son or daughter, I will celebrate. I will be grateful. And I will never—never—pressure Aemma to risk herself again for the sake of additional heirs. I will accept her decision, respect her choice, and make it clear to anyone who questions that decision that the queen's welfare takes precedence over dynastic convenience."
"Good," Alicent said with obvious approval. "That's the right choice, Your Grace. The only choice that allows you to remain the man you are rather than becoming something lesser for the sake of something supposedly greater."
Viserys looked up at her with new appreciation, seeing not just Otto's daughter or Aemma's companion but someone who had somehow become a confidante despite their difference in age and station. "Thank you," he said simply. "For listening, for understanding, for not judging me for fears I'm supposed to be too strong to feel."
"Everyone feels fear, Your Grace," Alicent replied with gentle wisdom. "Kings and queens, lords and ladies, even the most hardened warriors. The difference between wise people and foolish ones is whether they acknowledge those fears and work through them, or pretend they don't exist until they become overwhelming."
She rose with fluid grace, recognizing that the conversation had reached its natural conclusion. "Now, I believe you have a feast to attend, and I've already kept you too long from preparations that require your attention. But perhaps..." She hesitated, then pressed forward. "Perhaps you might visit Her Grace before the festivities begin? Not to discuss weighty matters or address concerns, but simply to be present with her for a few moments. To remind both of you why any of this matters."
Viserys stood as well, straightening his shoulders with renewed purpose. "You're right. Of course you're right. I've been so consumed by fears of what might happen that I've neglected the joy of what exists right now—a wife who loves me despite my many flaws, a daughter who delights in my company, and hopefully another child about to join our family."
He moved toward the door, then paused to look back at Alicent with genuine gratitude. "You have remarkable wisdom for one so young, Lady Alicent. Your father raised you well, though I suspect your compassion and insight are your own rather than merely his instruction."
A slight blush colored her cheeks at the compliment. "You're kind to say so, Your Grace. I simply tried to offer what comfort I could to someone who has been kind to both me and my family since we came to court."
As Viserys departed to prepare for the feast—and to visit his wife as Alicent had suggested—she remained in the chamber for a moment longer, her dark eyes studying the model of Old Valyria that had consumed so much of his time and attention.
Beautiful, she thought. Obsessive. And utterly divorced from the present reality that demanded his focus.
But that was kings for you—always looking either backward to vanished glories or forward to imagined futures, rarely able to simply exist in the present moment where actual life was lived and actual choices were made.
She moved to the door with quiet satisfaction. The conversation had gone exactly as her father had predicted—Viserys, troubled by his wife's decision, had needed someone to confide in who wasn't directly involved in the situation's political implications. And she had provided exactly what he needed: sympathetic understanding, gentle wisdom, and the reassurance that his desire to prioritize his wife's welfare over dynastic concerns was not weakness but strength.
Whether Otto would approve of everything she'd said was another matter entirely. Her father had specific ideas about succession, about the importance of male heirs, about the precedents that should govern royal marriages. But Alicent had her own understanding of what mattered—and sometimes that understanding diverged from her father's careful political calculations.
The evening's festivities awaited. Lords and ladies would gather, wine would flow, and the realm would celebrate in blissful ignorance of the quiet revolution that had just occurred in a king's private chambers, where a young woman had helped redirect the course of history through simple honesty and genuine compassion.
Sometimes the most important battles were won not through strategy or force, but through the willingness to be present with another's pain and help them find their way through darkness to something resembling light.
—
# The Tower of the Hand - Evening, 105 AC
The stone corridors of the Tower of the Hand were quieter than the rest of the Red Keep, removed from the chaos of tournament preparations by both physical distance and the particular aura of authority that surrounded Otto Hightower's domain. Here, even servants moved with subdued efficiency, as though understanding that raised voices or careless gestures might be noted and remembered by someone whose memory was legendary for its precision and unwelcome thoroughness.
Alicent climbed the spiral stairs with measured pace, her green silk gown whispering against stone worn smooth by generations of ambitious men ascending toward power. The afternoon had aged into early evening, and through the narrow windows she could see the city below beginning to glow with torchlight as King's Landing prepared for the night's celebrations.
But her mind remained fixed on the conversation she'd just concluded—the raw vulnerability in Viserys's voice, the way his carefully maintained composure had cracked to reveal genuine fear and love beneath the royal facade. She had done as her father asked, reminded the King of his obligations while gently drawing out his troubles. Yet something about the encounter left her unsettled in ways she couldn't quite articulate.
The guards outside her father's chambers nodded respectfully as she approached, recognizing her without need for announcement. One opened the heavy oak door with practiced efficiency, and she entered to find Otto Hightower precisely where she'd expected—seated at his massive desk, surrounded by documents and correspondence that represented the endless flow of information required to govern seven kingdoms.
He looked up as she entered, his pale green eyes sharp with calculation despite the late hour. At fifty-three, Otto remained formidable—tall and spare, with silver threading through his dark hair and the sort of weathered dignity that came from decades of navigating treacherous political waters without drowning. His gray doublet was immaculate despite the day's labors, and when he gestured for her to sit, the movement carried absolute authority.
"Alicent," he said, setting aside the document he'd been reviewing with that particular precision that marked all his actions. "I trust your errand with His Grace proved... illuminating?"
She settled into the chair opposite his desk, arranging her skirts with unconscious grace while organizing her thoughts with the systematic approach he'd trained into her since childhood. "He was exactly as you predicted, Father. Distracted by his model of Valyria, clearly troubled by something he wasn't addressing, grateful for the reminder about the feast but reluctant to actually attend."
"And you were able to draw him out?" Otto pressed, leaning forward slightly with that predatory focus that had made him legendary among the realm's political players. "Learn what troubles weighed so heavily that even the evening's celebration couldn't command his attention?"
"Queen Aemma has told him this will be her last pregnancy," Alicent replied, her voice carrying the sort of careful neutrality she'd learned to employ when discussing potentially explosive information. "Regardless of this child's sex, regardless of any pressure for additional heirs. She has reached the end of what she's willing to sacrifice for royal succession."
Otto's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his pale eyes—satisfaction mixed with calculation, as though pieces of a complex game had just shifted into precisely the configuration he'd been anticipating. "And His Grace's response to this... declaration?"
"Conflicted," Alicent said carefully, studying her father's face for clues about where this conversation was heading. "Relieved that she won't endure more pregnancies that terrify them both, but also concerned about succession, about what the realm will expect, about whether one child—or potentially two, if this pregnancy produces a son—is sufficient for dynastic security."
She paused, then continued with the honesty her father had always demanded from her. "I counseled him to accept her decision with grace, to prioritize his wife's welfare over abstract concerns about additional heirs. To recognize that one living child is worth more than a dozen hypothetical ones."
Otto was quiet for several long moments, his fingers steepled before him in that characteristic gesture that preceded his most significant pronouncements. When he spoke, his voice carried the sort of careful precision that suggested he was revealing plans long contemplated and carefully arranged.
"You counseled well," he said, surprising her with apparent approval. "Though perhaps not for the reasons you imagine. Tell me, daughter—if Queen Aemma survives this birth and provides His Grace with a healthy child, what then?"
Alicent frowned, uncertain where this was leading. "Then the succession is secure. Rhaenyra remains heir, or a son displaces her according to traditional precedent. Either way, the King has living children and the realm has stability."
"And if this child is a girl?" Otto pressed, his voice taking on that particular quality that suggested he was leading her toward conclusions she hadn't yet reached. "Then His Grace has two daughters and no sons. The Great Council specifically chose Viserys over Rhaenys because male succession was deemed preferable. Do you truly believe the realm's lords will accept a woman on the Iron Throne when they rejected one barely twenty years ago?"
"But—" Alicent began, then stopped as understanding began to dawn. "You think they'll pressure him to remarry. To try for sons with a new wife."
"I don't think," Otto corrected with cold precision. "I know. Within months of this birth—perhaps weeks if the child is female—lords will begin suggesting that the King owes it to the realm to provide male heirs. Not publicly at first, but in private conversations, carefully worded letters, diplomatic suggestions about duty and precedent."
He rose from his chair, moving to stand before the great window that overlooked the city. "And even if this child is male, even if Viserys has his precious son... one heir is insufficient. Something could happen—illness, accident, assassination. The realm requires spares, backups, insurance against fate's cruelty. The lords will make this clear, persistently and with increasing urgency."
Alicent felt something cold settle in her stomach as she began to understand exactly where her father was heading with this line of reasoning. "And you want me to... what? Position myself as a potential candidate for that eventual remarriage?"
Otto turned from the window, his expression carrying that particular blend of paternal affection and ruthless calculation that had characterized all his most significant schemes. "I want you to continue doing exactly what you've been doing—being present, being helpful, being someone the King can confide in without fear of political consequences or social judgment. Building trust, establishing yourself as someone who understands him not just as monarch but as man."
His pale eyes held hers with steady intensity. "When Queen Aemma's childbearing days end—whether through this pregnancy or through tragedy we all hope to avoid—Viserys will need companionship. Not immediately, perhaps. He'll grieve if she dies, or respect her decision if she lives but refuses further children. But eventually, the loneliness will weigh on him, and the realm's pressure for additional heirs will become impossible to ignore."
"And you want him to choose me when that time comes," Alicent said slowly, her voice carrying notes of understanding mixed with something that might have been dismay. "You've been positioning me for this since we came to court. The time spent with Queen Aemma, the friendship with Princess Rhaenyra, the quiet presence at court functions without drawing undue attention..."
"All necessary preparation for a role that may—likely will—be required," Otto confirmed without hesitation or apology. "You are intelligent, well-educated, pious enough to satisfy the Faith without being tediously devout, beautiful in a way that doesn't threaten or overwhelm, and young enough to provide many years of potential childbearing."
He moved back to his desk, settling into his chair with the air of someone delivering a lecture on statecraft rather than discussing his daughter's future. "More importantly, you understand court politics, can navigate complex social situations with grace, and have already demonstrated capacity to provide comfort and counsel to those in positions of authority. These qualities make you an ideal candidate for queen should the position become available."
Alicent was quiet for a long moment, processing implications that went far beyond anything she'd previously considered. "And if I don't want this?" she asked carefully. "If I have no desire to be queen, to marry a man twice my age, to bear children who will be caught in succession disputes with his existing offspring?"
Otto's expression hardened slightly, though his voice remained controlled. "Then you will have disappointed your family, wasted years of careful preparation, and squandered an opportunity that could elevate House Hightower to unprecedented influence within the realm's power structure."
His pale eyes held hers with implacable determination. "But more than that, you will have failed to serve the realm's genuine interests. Viserys needs a wife who will provide stability, support, and additional heirs without creating the sort of political complications that could tear the Seven Kingdoms apart. You could be that wife, Alicent. You could provide the stability and succession security that the realm requires."
"By displacing Rhaenyra in the succession," Alicent observed with growing discomfort. "By providing sons who would have stronger claims than the King's existing daughter. By creating exactly the sort of succession crisis you claim to be preventing."
"By ensuring the realm has options," Otto corrected firmly. "Multiple potential heirs reduce the dangers of any single line failing. And as for displacing Rhaenyra..." He paused, choosing his words with surgical care. "The princess is a charming girl, intelligent and capable in her way. But the realm's lords rejected a woman's claim once before. They will not eagerly embrace another, regardless of what Viserys might wish or decree."
He leaned forward, his voice taking on urgency that suggested genuine belief rather than mere political calculation. "If you become queen and provide sons, those princes will have the support of tradition, precedent, and the realm's fundamental assumptions about succession. Rhaenyra, for all her qualities, will struggle to maintain her claim against male heirs with equal or better lineage. Better to establish clear succession now, through marriage and childbearing, than to allow ambiguity that could erupt into civil war after Viserys dies."
"You're asking me to betray my friend," Alicent said quietly, her voice carrying pain that she didn't try to hide. "Rhaenyra trusts me, confides in me, considers me one of her closest companions. And you want me to smile and nod and position myself to undermine her inheritance through marriage to her father."
"I'm asking you to serve the realm's genuine interests over personal sentiment," Otto replied without hesitation. "Friendship is valuable, certainly. But it cannot be allowed to override duty, particularly when that duty involves preventing the sort of succession crisis that has destroyed kingdoms throughout history."
His expression softened slightly, though his voice remained firm. "I understand this is difficult, Alicent. I'm not asking you to stop caring for Rhaenyra or to actively work against her interests. Simply to be prepared, should circumstances develop as I expect them to, to fulfill a role that will benefit both the realm and our house."
The chamber fell quiet except for the distant sounds of celebration beginning in the Great Hall below—musicians tuning instruments, servants making final preparations, the general bustle of a castle transforming itself into a setting worthy of royal festivity.
Alicent sat very still, her dark eyes distant as she contemplated a future she had never seriously considered until this moment. Queen. Wife to Viserys Targaryen. Mother to princes who would inevitably be placed in competition with the stepdaughter she currently called friend.
"What if I fail?" she asked finally, her voice small in a way that reminded them both that despite her composure and intelligence, she was still only eighteen years old. "What if Viserys never sees me as anything but his daughter's companion or your daughter? What if Queen Aemma lives and refuses remarriage, and I've wasted years positioning myself for a role that never materializes?"
"Then you will have developed skills and connections that will serve you regardless of your eventual marriage," Otto replied with practical certainty. "The ability to navigate court politics, to provide counsel to those in power, to maintain composure under pressure—these qualities have value independent of any specific outcome."
He rose again, moving around the desk to place a hand on her shoulder with uncharacteristic paternal gentleness. "But I don't believe you'll fail, Alicent. You're too intelligent, too capable, too fundamentally suited for the role I envision. When the time comes—and it will come, whether through tragedy or simple political necessity—you will be ready. And the realm will be better for your readiness."
Alicent looked up at her father, seeing in his weathered face the absolute conviction that had sustained him through decades of political maneuvering. He genuinely believed he was serving the realm's interests, positioning his daughter not merely to advance House Hightower but to prevent the succession chaos he foresaw with such clarity.
But she also saw the calculation behind that conviction—the understanding that a Hightower queen would provide opportunities for their house that no amount of competent administration could match. The awareness that grandchildren sitting the Iron Throne would elevate their family to heights they could never achieve through mere service, however distinguished.
"I need time to think," she said finally, her voice carrying the sort of quiet authority that suggested she would not be rushed into decisions that would reshape her entire life. "This is... more than I was prepared to consider this evening."
"Of course," Otto agreed, stepping back to give her space. "But while you think, continue what you've been doing. Be present, be helpful, be someone the King can trust and confide in. Friendship and trust established now will prove invaluable if circumstances develop as I anticipate."
He paused, then added with carefully measured emphasis: "And Alicent? Say nothing of this conversation to anyone. Not to Queen Aemma, not to Princess Rhaenyra, certainly not to any of the other ladies at court who would love nothing more than to spread rumors about Hightower ambitions. This must remain between us until the time comes to act on these preparations."
"If the time comes," Alicent corrected quietly.
"When," Otto replied with absolute certainty. "When the time comes."
As Alicent left her father's chambers to prepare for the evening's festivities, her mind churned with implications she couldn't fully process in the space of a few moments. Queen. Mother to princes. Stepmother to Rhaenyra, whose trust she valued more than political advantage.
But also—potentially—stabilizing force for a realm that might otherwise tear itself apart over succession disputes that had destroyed kingdoms throughout history. Wife to a man who clearly needed companionship and support beyond what his current marriage could provide. Mother to children who might prevent the civil war her father predicted with such grim certainty.
The tournament awaited, the feast would celebrate, and somewhere in the Red Keep's ancient halls a pregnant queen lay surrounded by women who had chosen her welfare over social obligation. All of it playing out while Otto Hightower moved pieces on a board most people couldn't even see, positioning his daughter for a role that could reshape the Seven Kingdoms or tear them apart entirely.
The future remained uncertain, the path ahead unclear. But at least now she understood exactly what was being asked of her—and the price that might be demanded for refusing to pay it.
Sometimes the most dangerous traps were the ones disguised as opportunities, and the most terrible betrayals were committed in the name of preventing worse ones. Whether she had the strength to walk that narrow path, or the wisdom to know when to step aside entirely, remained to be seen.
But the dance had begun, and the music would not stop simply because one young woman questioned whether she truly wanted to join the performance.
---
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