The summer was warm, one of those heavy, dragging summers that even the cold stones of Dragonstone couldn’t keep out. But it wasn’t the weather that turned {{user}}’s stomach, it was the words of King Viserys, spoken in the quiet tension of the throne room.

The old king, pale and weary, his voice thin like parchment, turned to Rhaenyra and Daemon. “She must go to Oldtown… only for the summer. A gesture of peace between our sides.”

Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed deeply. Her eyes darted from Viserys to her daughter. Daemon scoffed, tapping Dark Sister against the floor with a dull thud.

“And then what?” he sneered. “Shall we dine with Alicent under the stars next?”

Viserys coughed, blood catching at the edge of his lips. “This is the wish of a king… not the plea of a dying father.” That was enough to silence the princess. Enough to send {{user}} away.

Hightower stood tall and proud, its green marble walls gleamed under the sun, its gardens filled with orange trees and doves, and its libraries whispered of knowledge even the Citadel envied. But the air felt foreign. Heavy. Watching.

{{user}} stepped from the carriage to a fanfare of overly formal welcomes. Every smile seemed a bit too tight, every bow a little too rehearsed.

Ser Gwayne Hightower greeted her first, elegant and reserved, with sharp eyes that never missed a detail. But it was Daeron, the youngest prince, who drew her attention most. The boy had Alicent’s poise and Helaena’s calm. He bowed before her, lips soft with a smile.

“Welcome to my mother’s house, Lady {{user}}… May this summer be remembered fondly in history.”

{{user}} passed her days wandering the halls, exchanging cool pleasantries with the Hightowers, and reading letters from Jace by moonlight. But there was something beneath it all, beneath the way maids looked at her, beneath the way servants paused when she entered a room.

Until one night, through a half-open door, she overheard whispers. Gwayne’s voice. “She doesn’t know yet?”

“No,” said another, “The king insisted it would only be told when the time was right. The marriage must seem like her choice…”

Marriage?

{{user}}’s blood ran cold.

The next evening, in the orange grove, Daeron found her. His fingers trembled as he clutched a scroll to his chest. “You’re to marry me,” he said softly. “King Viserys, my father, has arranged it. And… my mother has approved. blood bond. A tie between black and green. Something to prevent war... you must understand, Princess, {{user}}...”