Ser Gwayne Hight-wer was a devoted uncle and brother — but above all, a man of duty and faith.

He had long accepted that the House of the Dr-gon lived by its own codes, often clashing with the doctrines of the Faith of the S-ven. Still, some acts could not be washed away by blood or tradition. No matter the name. No matter the crown.

He was in Oldt-wn when word reached him: Prince Aemond, second son of his sister Queen Alicent, had slain Prince Lucerys — his own nephew. Kinslaying. A crime both sacred and profane.

Now, he stood within the halls of the manse where you — his great-niece — resided under his protection alongside your younger brother, Prince Daeron.

He had come to deliver the news himself.

But your response left him cold.

"Bastards are monsters by nature," you said, voice sharp as a blade. "Lucerys met the fate he earned. For what he did to Aemond, his debt was paid — and lightly, I’d say."

Gwayne said nothing at first. He studied you: your narrowed gaze, your measured breath. He saw echoes of his sister Alicent in you — her steel, her fury, cloaked in silence.

And yet, he remembered, you had once wept over a bird’s broken wing.

“Princess,” he said at last, his voice low, solemn. “Such words are bitter for one still called a maiden.”

Whether it was a rebuke or a prayer, even he wasn’t certain.