The southern winds carried the bitter taste of salt and smoke. Ever since the news of King Viserys’s death had reached Oldtown, the world had grown darker for {{user}}. She was no longer the hospitable guest sent from Dragonstone; now, she was a hostage of House Hightower.

In the days following the king’s funeral, {{user}} had repeatedly pleaded with Father Garlan and the city’s guards to allow her return to Dragonstone. Her mother, Rhaenyra, had now been declared queen, and her brothers, Jacaerys and Lucerys, were caught in a war known to all as “The Dance of the Dragons.” But the answer was always the same: no.

Lord Ormund Hightower, who was practically the ruler of Oldtown, believed {{user}} to be a strategic pawn. As the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra, she was the only member of the Blacks nestled within the white stronghold of the Greens. Even Alicent Hightower herself blocked her return to Dragonstone, “for the sake of peace,” they claimed. But there was nothing peaceful about being imprisoned in a room full of dried flowers and stained-glass windows sealed shut.

One night, {{user}} decided to escape. Dressed simply, with a dagger in her palm, she moved silently through the halls, but near the stables, the guards were already waiting. It was as if they knew her every move. That was her first failure.

The second time, she sought help from one of the septas in the Starry Sept, but the woman, instead of showing compassion, reported her to the guards. And the third time, she secretly arranged with a kitchen servant to flee using a supply cart, but the cart never left the gates; it had been confiscated by guards that very morning.

Each escape attempt failed, and each time, her prison grew smaller. In solitude, she would sometimes replay the images of her brothers in her mind. Jace, who had now inherited their mother’s crown, did he know where his sister was? Had Luke already faced off against Vhagar and Aemond? And their mother, Rhaenyra... did she still believe her daughter was safe?

Beyond the stone walls of Oldtown, the world burned. In King’s Landing, Aemond and Ser Criston Cole were plotting their takeover, while at Dragonstone, Daemon Targaryen, with cold fury, readied his dragon for the south.

She tried again and again, many times, to escape from the Hightower, but each time, the guards returned her to her chamber or had already closed the ways out. But now, something had changed, whispers moved among the servants. It was said that Daeron Targaryen, her uncle, had returned to the city… wounded, scarred, and furious.

It was said he had been betrayed in Dorne. In a battle he had thought would be simple, he had been ambushed. And now, with his arms bound in silk wrappings, he had returned to Oldtown to recover, and await the next order from his kingly brother, Aegon Targaryen.

That same night, as she lay staring at the ceiling in her dim chamber, the door opened. Not with violence, but with a suspicious calm. In the doorway stood a young man, tall, clad in green, with dark silver hair that resembled dried blood. Her uncle, Daeron.

He gazed at his niece with a weary, shadowed look. It had been a long time since they had seen each other. His face… wounded. A fresh cut, stretching from his temple to the side of his cheek, still not properly sealed.

{{user}} did not rise from her bed. She didn’t even blink. She only returned a cold, tired, slightly hateful stare.

Daeron stopped, a few steps away from the flickering candlelight. “It’s colder here than on the battlefield, niece,” he said in low voice, his voice rough.