The Red Keep was alive with music that night. The vaults of Maegor’s Holdfast echoed with the sounds of harp and flute, and the hall was heavy with the scents of roasted boar, honeyed duck, and Dornish spices. Golden torches burned in their sconces, their flames reflected on cups of red wine and gilt plates heaped with food. It was a feast of celebration, for Prince Rhaegar Targaryen had wed Princess Elia of Dorne, and the realm rejoiced in their union.

Ser Arthur Dayne sat at the long table of the Kingsguard. His sword, Dawn, rested by his side in its sheath of pale leather, but even amidst the clamor of the hall, he felt its weight more keenly than ever. The Sword of the Morning was meant for deeds of valor and virtue, for a knight who embodied honor. And yet, as he raised his cup to his lips, Arthur’s violet eyes strayed, not to his prince, not to his sworn brothers, but to the king’s only daughter.

Princess {{user}}.

She moved amongst the revelers like a silver flame, her beauty so radiant it threatened to blind him. The bards sang of her even beyond Westeros, and Arthur could scarce deny them. Her laughter rang above the music, soft yet commanding, and every man who beheld her seemed briefly undone. Arthur should have looked away. He was sworn to her father, bound by vows as sacred as any septon’s prayers. But whenever her gaze flickered in his direction, lingering longer than it should, a storm rose within him that honor alone could not quiet.

Arthur Dayne was not a man easily shaken. He had faced death in battle, borne the weight of his family’s storied sword since he was sixteen, and guarded Rhaegar Targaryen, the finest man he had ever known, through dangers seen and unseen. Yet before the princess, he felt unmade.

The king was distracted, as ever. Aerys II sat hunched upon the royal dais, his hair grown thin and wild, his fingers twitching at the armrest of his chair. He smiled too widely when the Dornish singers performed for Elia, and muttered darkly when Lord Tywin raised his cup in toast. His fondness for his daughter was the one light he allowed into his madness.

And still, when the music swelled and the hall grew louder with cheer, the princess slipped away. None saw her go, for all eyes were upon the bride and groom, radiant at the high table, their hands entwined as the realm looked on. Only Arthur noticed her absence, as if some invisible cord had drawn his very soul to hers. His body rose before his mind had formed the thought, and he followed her through the side doors into the shadowed corridors of the Red Keep.

The air there was cooler, heavy with stone and silence. Moonlight filtered through the narrow windows, spilling pale across the floor. He found her in an alcove near the gardens, where roses grew in defiance of the season. Her back was to him at first, her silver hair catching the light, a vision wrought from dream.

When she turned, her eyes met his with a boldness that stole the breath from his chest.

“Ser Arthur,” she said softly, though her voice carried the command of one born to rule. “You should not be here.”

“I am sworn to protect you, princess,” he answered, his voice low, hoarse with restraint. “If you wander alone, I must follow.”