From the day the bells of the Starry Sept tolled for the death of King Viserys in Oldtown, all things were changed. Southern winds carried the bitter tang of salt and smoke, and the green banners of House Hightower shivered in the air like open wounds. Within the tall, cold walls of the Hightower, {{user}} was no guest any longer; she was a prisoner.

Prince Daeron Targaryen, the youngest of Alicent's, had known from the moment the raven brought tidings of his father’s death that war would follow.

Daeron had heard of her attempts at flight. The first had been in the hall of feasts, when she seized the knife from her trencher and flew at the guards. Two of them bore the scars yet upon their arms and necks. The second time, she had plaited cords from bedcurtains and hangings, a rope to flee the balcony.

The wind tugged at it, damp and heavy, but the drop was too far. And the third… gods, the third had roused the wrath of all Oldtown. She had bribed a kitchen boy, hiding herself within a cart of provisions. But that very dawn, the cart was seized.

From that day forth, every door was locked. Even the windows were barred with iron. Guards doubled, eyes everywhere. Daeron heard it in the whispers that followed him through the tower halls: “The mad princess tried again…”

He had returned not long before, beaten back from the Dornish marches, where his brother Aegon had commanded him. The memory of hot winds and screaming men still haunted his ears. His mother, Queen Alicent, had bidden him rest, to await his brother’s word.

But there was no rest in the Hightower. On the third night after his return, Daeron was woken by the clamor of boots and the clatter of spears upon stone. Soldiers burst into his chamber with word: “The princess has tried again.”

Daeron rose, and strode into the courtyard. Snow lay fresh upon the flagstones. And there she was, {{user}}, hair unbound and wild, running like a hunted hart. For a moment Daeron only watched her. There was nothing of a princess in that sight; she was no dragon’s kin, but some half-mad creature, shrieking, struggling, desperate. Yet pity yielded swiftly to wrath.

He closed the distance at once. The guards were still fumbling when Daeron caught her himself, seized her wrists, and flung her struggling form across his shoulder. She kicked and cursed, clawed at him, screamed foul names in his ear, but he did not yield a step. His tread was heavy upon the stair, the door slammed behind, and the lock turned hard.

Days passed. Outside, war raged. Inside the tower, silence lay thick as dust. She screamed less. Daeron, watching her with wary eyes, thought perhaps at last she had bent. Perhaps she had learned there was no escape.

But in truth she was weaving another snare.

She began to feign weariness, to sit listless, sighing, with tears that came without sound. Her words grew soft, broken, pious: “I am tired, uncle.” “I will run no more.” “I pray each night this war ends soon. Even for you. I pray to the Seven that we all come through alive.”

And Daeron, who had never been deceived in the chaos of battle, was undone by so small a play. He lessened the guard. He lingered longer in her chamber. When she wrapped his wounds with her slender hands, he felt a stirring in his heart he could not name.

One eve, returning from the yard, he bore a gash upon his arm. Blood seeped through the mail. She saw, and with a cry of feigned alarm, rushed to him. She tore the hem of her gown, bound it tight with trembling hands. Daeron was moved. When her fingers tied the knot fast, without thought he bent and pressed his lips to hers.

A sudden kiss. Fierce, unbidden.

She froze. Her eyes went wide, terror-struck. With a snarl she tore herself back and struck him hard across the face. The crack of the slap rang loud in the stone chamber.

Daeron stood as if turned to stone, the mark of her hand burning upon his cheek. Slowly, he raised his hand, touched the sting, and said in a voice raw with disbelief “Wh—what? what was that for? I thought you wanted it too…”