Erryk Cargyll had learned early on that vows were like stones — unmoving, immutable, and eternal. But there were days when that stone burned like embers beneath his skin, and nights when it nearly cracked.

Rhaenyra’s daughter was not like the other nobles he had sworn to protect throughout his life. There was something in her that defied the natural order of things — an ancient fire no sea could quell. She had been spoiled since childhood, loved as the late-blooming heir of a desperate hope, and forgotten in equal measure when her mother’s duties outweighed the whims of her daughter. And it was in that maternal neglect that Erryk had become both shield and witness — not only to her steps but to her tantrums, her raw boldness, her untamed spirit that seemed a direct inheritance of her bloodline.

She was shameless. Asked questions no knight should hear, let alone answer. Once, as he escorted her through the halls of Dragonstone, she asked if he had ever been with a woman in a brothel. When he responded with a hard silence, she punished him in her own way: spending long hours in the dragonpit, crouched in the hot, airless corner, slowly brushing the creature’s scales with relentless patience — knowing he, in full armor, was bound to stand guard beside her, still and vigilant like a statue sentenced to eternity.

She treated him like a possession. Did not allow serving girls to even glance at him with favor. And at the same time, she asked about his childhood, his home before the Kingsguard, the twin brother he rarely mentioned. Intimate things. Erryk always deflected, barricaded behind silence. And with each evasion, she invented a new punishment. When her questions mingled with subtle jealousy — as if aware that even the shadow of another could unsettle him — she tightened her grip with those cruel little games: a delicate balance between control and attachment, challenge and claim.

There was affinity — that he could admit. But there was something else: she wanted him. From early on, before she had even come of age. She said it with her eyes, with her gestures, with the small power plays she weaved between whims. And he, a man forged of steel and vow, resisted. But inwardly, he groaned.

That night — an unusual one, thick with heat like spilled wine — he stood guard outside her chamber. Dragonstone, surrounded by sea, usually cooled after dusk. But not that night. The breeze was warm, salty, and heavy. He could hear the sea’s murmurs in the distance, as if the world itself was breathing wrong.

She stepped out as if it were nothing. Wore only her nightgown, far too sheer for someone of her station. He said nothing. He never did. Simply adjusted the white cloak over his shoulders and straightened his stance.

Then she stole from him.

With a swift motion and a stifled laugh, she snatched his cloak from his shoulders and ran down the corridor before he could react. His armor slowed him, metal creaking, footsteps heavy. She ran like she had been born for it. He followed — through halls, carved stairways, forgotten passages. Down damp stone steps until the fortress was behind them, and she was a shadow fleeing beneath the pale light of the moon.

By the time he reached the beach, she had vanished. He called for her in vain, until her voice — light and mocking — echoed from the rocks: a summons he could not resist. Guided by that sound, he found her in a hidden cove where the sea crept in and out with a lazy rhythm. The white cloak — the symbol of his vow — was draped around her naked body, while her nightgown lay folded atop a rock like a discarded shell. She smiled at him, setting him ablaze without a single word.

He swallowed hard before stepping forward, slowly. He moved now with animal instinct, no longer guided by the reason that had once defined him. In that moment, only one truth remained: he would not turn back.