Another summer had arrived, one of those where the sun was so heavy that even the hard stones of Dragonstone seemed to sweat. The scent of salt and sulfur rose from the island and danced in the air, but this time the heat alone could not explain the Targaryen family’s melancholy.

King Viserys, now only a shadow of his former glory, in a murky solitude between mourning and politics, made a decision that would determine the fate of one of his dearest children.

“she is going to Oldtown.” The voice came from Viserys’s sick throat, weak, cracked, but resolute. His gaze fell upon his daughter, Rhaenyra, his only daughter.

“For the summer… only for the summer. A sign of goodwill. Of peace.” Rhaenyra remained silent. A storm raged in her heart, but her lips did not part.

And so, {{user}}, clothed in black and silver silk, accompanied by a small entourage, was sent south in a hush full of disquiet. Destination: Hightower, Oldtown.

Oldtown… a city slumbering under the southern sun, with bright stone streets, the scent of oranges in the air, and towers reaching into the sky. But to {{user}}, this city was like a cage, a golden cage.

On her first day of arrival, she was received with great ceremony but cold spirits by the Hightowers. Gwayne Hightower, with analytical eyes and a forced smile, and Daeron, the youngest son of Viserys and Alicent, with calm yet strange behavior.

She was sent to the upper towers, to chambers filled with dried flowers, dark green drapes, and servants who always stood a step behind. Her every movement was watched. Every breath measured. And she waited. One week. Two weeks. Letters she wrote, one after another. To her mother. To Jace. To her other brothers. No reply came. Summer passed, but there was no news of her return.

On a sleepless night, amid the sharp scent of incense candles, she heard a voice behind a half-open door. “The king ordered it. The marriage must be formalized before autumn.” It was Gwayne's voice.

“He thinks it’s only for the summer… we shouldn’t let him know until after the betrothal.” Her breath caught in her chest. Blood pounded in her ears.

And there was no escape. Even if she wept, even if she pounded on the tower doors, her voice would not travel beyond the tall Hightower walls. The marriage took place. In the bright church of Oldtown, among bells that proclaimed joy while her heart understood nothing but sorrow.

In the days that followed, {{user}} sank into a shadow of herself. She spent most of her time in a chamber facing the south, where she could never see her dragon. She wrote, letter after letter, to Dragonstone. Sometimes a reply came, sometimes not. And only in those moments would a half-hearted smile touch her lips.

And so the summer passed. And then autumn came. The moon had risen, round and silver, but even its light could not warm the cold stones of the Hightower from within {{user}}’s heart. The south tower they had given her was draped in thick green and gold curtains, but on quiet Oldtown nights, that chamber felt more than ever like a silent prison.

It was a calm night. Daeron came to the chamber again. Quietly, without armor, only wearing a silver robe. In his hand was a small leather bundle. “A letter from King’s Landing… from mother.”

{{user}} did not lift her head. She only murmured: “From my mother, or yours?” Daeron paused. His face unreadable. “My father is dead.”

{{user}}’s eyes lifted from the letter. Her expression changed. Did that mean war had begun now? Did that mean the peace bought by her marriage was now worthless? “What did you say?” she asked.

Daeron stepped back, as if afraid of himself. “The king… my father, King Viserys, is dead. Last night in his sleep. Just now I received an official sealed letter from my mother.”