The Hightower rose above the city like a silent god, its pale stone glowing faintly in the night, the great beacon long extinguished. The corridors were quiet, too quiet for a place that usually breathed with servants, guards, and whispers.

{{user}} had not meant to wander so far.

She had left their chambers only to clear her head. Some nights, the weight of whispers pressed too hard against her ribs. Bastard, they murmured behind her back. Lucky dice of the gods.

Silver hair or not, they never let her forget.

She wrapped her cloak tighter around herself as she walked, her footsteps soft against the cold stone. She knew these halls well now, Oldtown had become her home as much as Dragonstone once was, but tonight something felt… off.

Voices. Low. Urgent. She slowed, her breath catching when she recognized one of them. Daeron. Her husband. Her heart twisted before she could stop it.

She told herself not to listen. Told herself that she trusted him. Daeron was gentle, devoted, he always had been. He braided her hair with careful fingers, laughed softly when she tripped over her own feet with a sword, held her close at night as if the world might steal her away if he loosened his grip.

And yet... She stepped closer. The door to one of the unused chambers stood slightly ajar, golden light spilling onto the floor. Through the narrow opening, she saw him.

Daeron stood near the window, tall and unmistakable, his silver hair loose over his shoulders. Across from him was a girl, beautiful, dark-haired, dressed in fine silks. A noblewoman of Oldtown, no doubt. One of the many who looked at him as if he were already a legend. {{user}}’s chest tightened painfully.

The girl stepped closer. Too close.

“They say you are kind,” she whispered. “Kinder than your brothers. Kinder than most men. I wouldn’t trouble you openly, no one would ever know. Just… just let me be yours. Even in secret.”

Silence fell heavy between them. {{user}} felt sick. She wanted to turn away. To flee before her heart shattered completely. So this is how it is, she thought bitterly. Even him. Even Daeron.

But then he spoke. “I will not,” Daeron said firmly. The girl froze.

“I have a wife,” he continued, his voice steady but fierce in a way {{user}} had never heard before. “And I love her.” The words struck like thunder.

The girl scoffed weakly. “Love?” she echoed. “You were forced into that marriage. Everyone knows that, you don't love that bastard.”

Daeron stepped back, as if insulted, not for himself, but for someone far more precious. “Shut your mouth,” he said. He turned toward the door, and that was when he saw her.

{{user}} stood frozen in the corridor, moonlight catching in her silver hair, her face pale, her violet eyes wide with shock and something dangerously close to tears.

“{{user}}…” he breathed.

The girl followed his gaze, realization dawning too late. Color drained from her face as shame finally replaced hope. Without another word, she gathered her skirts and fled past {{user}}, unable to meet her eyes.

The door creaked softly as it closed. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Daeron crossed the room in three quick strides, stopping just in front of her. He looked frightened now, not of scandal, not of gossip, but of losing her.

“Seven above, how much do you hear?” he asked quietly.