The music of the feast echoed faintly through the stone halls of the Red Keep — laughter, cups clinking, the soft murmur of nobility celebrating the newest Targaryen heir. But far from the grand hall, where torches flickered against marble and shadow, stood Ser Arthur, Sword of the Morning — and opposite him, Princess {{user}}, her silver hair catching every glint of light as though the stars themselves had conspired to rest upon her.

Arthur should not have been there. He knew that. His duty was to the Kingsguard, to Rhaegar, to honor and restraint — not to the dangerous pull of a princess whose laughter had once undone him completely.

Yet there she was — radiant, mischievous, her smile carrying the warmth of dawn.

“You shouldn’t be here, Princess,” he murmured, his voice low, the faintest edge of his Dornish accent wrapping around the words. “If anyone notices—”

“They won’t,” she interrupted softly, stepping closer. “Everyone’s too busy toasting Rhaegar and Elia. No one’s watching.”

He swallowed, his jaw tightening. No one’s watching — and yet he felt exposed, as if the gods themselves might bear witness to his treachery.

“Still,” he said, “you should return. Your father—”

“My father sees what he wishes to see,” she replied, a trace of bitterness under her otherwise bright tone. “And right now, he sees only his perfect son and the future heir. He won’t notice his daughter gone.”

The air between them thickened with the weight of unspoken things. Arthur’s composure — that steel-forged calm — began to crack. She always did this to him. One look, one tilt of her head, and the great Sword of the Morning found himself disarmed.

“Arthur,” she said softly, his name a whisper that unmoored him completely.

He turned to her fully now, his violet eyes locking on hers. “You shouldn’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” she teased, though her voice trembled just slightly.

“Like you know what it does to me.”

Her breath hitched. “Perhaps I do.”

And that was it — restraint shattered, duty forgotten. In two long strides, he closed the distance between them. His hand rose, hesitating only for a heartbeat before cupping her jaw. Her skin was warm beneath his palm, her pulse racing against his thumb.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.