The sun of Oldtown was gentler than Dragonstone’s, warmer, almost kind. It spilled over the white stone of the Hightower and the wide training yard below, where steel rang against steel and dust rose beneath boots.

Daeron Targaryen barely noticed the warmth.

His attention was fixed on the man in front of him, Ser Gwayne Hightower, his uncle, his mentor, the man who had shaped him into something sharper than most boys his age.

Their swords clashed again.

Gwayne attacked fast, confident, but Daeron was faster. He twisted his wrist, stepped inside the swing, and struck Gwayne’s blade aside with a sharp crack. Steel sang. The impact traveled up Daeron’s arm, pleasant and familiar.

Around them, the yard buzzed.

Young knights paused their drills. Squiring boys whispered. And under the shade of the stone arches, young ladies of Oldtown gathered like bright birds, hands half-raised to cover smiles, eyes following Daeron’s every move.

Daeron did not look at them.

He never did.

Gwayne lunged again, feinting left, Daeron saw it coming. He always did. He moved with instinct now, not thought, answering the attack with a clean, decisive strike that knocked Gwayne’s sword from his grip.

The blade hit the ground.

Silence fell for half a breath.

Then Gwayne laughed, breathless, raising both hands. “Seven hells, Daeron,” he said, shaking his head. “I taught you every trick I know, and now you know them better than I do.”

Daeron grinned, wide and unguarded, violet eyes bright. “You taught me well, uncle.”

“Too well,” Gwayne said. “I surrender. You has stolen all my strategies, it seems. I can’t defeat you anymore.”

Laughter rippled through the yard.

Daeron bowed slightly, respectful, pride warming his chest. Training ended there, as it often did, with Gwayne’s mock defeat and Daeron’s quiet triumph.

As he turned, wiping sweat from his brow. He hadn’t seen her at first. She stood further away from the others, near the low stone wall that bordered the yard. Alone.

{{user}}. She wore a soft pink dress today, Oldtown fashion, light and flowing, but her face told another story entirely. Her cheeks were flushed, not with heat but with something sharper. Red. Her brows were drawn together, lips pressed tight.

She had been there for minutes. Watching. And Daeron hadn’t noticed. His smile faded instantly.

Without thinking, he turned away from the tower steps and walked toward her.

“My lady,” he said softly. “How long have you been standing here?”

She didn’t answer.

Her jaw tightened. Then she turned, deliberately, and walked away.

Daeron blinked, startled, then hurried after her. “{{user}}, wait. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

She stopped so suddenly he almost collided with her back.

“Don’t walk next to me,” she said sharply, without looking at him. “If the other girls see us together, they’ll think I stole their precious Daeron from them.”

Oh. Understanding struck him like a gentle blow. Jealousy.

For a heartbeat, laughter threatened to spill from him, but he swallowed it down. He straightened at once, obedient as a chastened boy, and took two careful steps back.

He followed her at a respectful distance as they walked, boots crunching softly against gravel.

After a few moments, he tried again, voice careful. “It isn’t my fault they look,” he said. “I don’t invite it. I swear it.”

She huffed, shoulders stiffening. “That doesn’t make it better.”

He winced. Wrong words.

“What if we go for a walk?” he offered quickly. “Down by the Honeywine. Or...” He hesitated. “we could return to our chambers. I could… apologize properly.”

That was when she turned and punched him. Hard.

Right in the arm.

“Oof!” Daeron choked, staggering a step, more surprised than hurt. He grabbed his arm, wincing dramatically. “Seven above, are you trying to kill me?”