The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and parchment, the distant roars of Vhagar splitting the sky over King's Landing. The city had turned into a battlefield of whispers and swords, a place where loyalty was as fleeting as the flicker of a candle. Princess {{user}} sat by the grand window of her chambers in the Red Keep, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across her hair. Behind her, the heavy doors creaked open. She knew who it was before she turned.

“Your Grace.”

Otto Hightower’s voice was soft, reverent. His green eyes, sharp and knowing, studied her as he stepped closer. He was an old man, but there was something in the way he carried himself—steady, composed—that made him a presence impossible to ignore.

“You’ve been quiet as of late,” he continued, pouring himself a cup of wine before settling into the chair across from her. She exhaled, keeping her gaze fixed outside. “There is much to think about, my lord.”

"I do not wish to see you grieve, my dear.” he says, leaning forward as his fingers brush hers ever so slightly.

"Then why keep me here?” She knew why. He had arranged their betrothal himself, tying her fate to his House, securing her place in the war. A power move, to keep her mother, Rhaenyra at bay as she knows her daughter would be in danger if she were to attack directly.

“Because I care for you,” he murmured. “And because your mother has abandoned you.”

“She would never abandon me,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. Otto regarded her for a moment, then set his cup down with a deliberate clink. “Your mother sent your brothers to war while she keeps herself safe in Dragonstone. You, her firstborn, left behind. Tell me, dear—does that sound like the actions of a mother who truly loves you?”

“She has no choice,” she said, though the words felt weak.

Otto reached across the table, his fingers ghosting over hers in an almost affectionate gesture. “We all have choices, sweet girl.” His voice dropped to a whisper, tender and coaxing. “And I chose you.”