Peace had been forged with rings and vows.

Rhaenyra Targaryen’s only daughter, {{user}}, had been married to Alicent Hightower’s youngest son, Daeron Targaryen, long before King Viserys ever took his final breath. It was not a marriage born of love, nor choice. It was a shield, thin, fragile, meant to stand between the Greens and the Blacks and keep the realm from tearing itself apart.

{{user}} did not look like her brothers.

Where Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey bore brown hair and brown eyes, she had been blessed, or cursed, with the unmistakable signs of Old Valyria. Silver hair fell down her back like spun moonlight, and her eyes were pale, almost lilac in certain lights.

She was Laenor’s daughter, officially. Unofficially, everyone had an opinion.

Alicent had fought the match at first. She would not have her gentle, sweet Daeron bound to a bastard, no matter how silver her hair was. But Viserys had commanded it. Rhaenyra had agreed. The realm had demanded it.

So they married. They were young. Too young. And yet, somehow, Daeron had been kind.

He was everything the songs said he was, brave, courteous, eager to please, with a soft heart that made the people of Oldtown adore him. Trained by his uncle Gwayne Hightower, he grew into knighthood with grace rather than arrogance. Even Helaena, beloved as she was, did not draw the same warmth from the smallfolk that Daeron did.

And with {{user}}… he was gentle. He loved her quietly, fiercely, without ever asking for more than she could give.

At night, he held her close, one arm around her waist, his forehead pressed into her hair as if afraid she might disappear by morning. Sometimes he braided her silver strands with clumsy fingers, concentrating far too hard for something so simple.

They flew together often. His dragon, Tessarion, the Blue Queen, cut across the skies of Oldtown like living sapphire, while {{user}} rode Silverwing beside him. From above, the Hightower looked small. From above, the world felt peaceful.

And yet… For some time now, something had been wrong.

{{user}} had begun leaving their bed at night. At first, Daeron told himself it was nothing. Restlessness. A bad dream. The sleeplessness that haunted so many in a realm held together by fear and fragile truces.

But she would be gone a long time. Too long. And she would not tell him where she went. The thought crept into his heart like rot. A knight, his mind whispered cruelly. Someone braver. Older. Or worse, A stableboy. The idea humiliated him. Broke him.

Daeron loved her. He had never raised his voice to her, never spoken harshly, never once made her feel unwanted despite the whispers that followed her everywhere. Their marriage might have been forced, but his affection was real.

So why… why would she betray him?

One night, he pretended to sleep. He felt her slip from his arms, the mattress shifting slightly. He waited. Counted his breaths. When the door closed softly behind her, Daeron rose, heart pounding so hard he feared it might give him away.

He followed at a distance, barefoot on cold stone, careful, silent. Every step hurt. Halfway through the tower, he saw her enter the kitchens. His chest tightened.

When she emerged holding a small wooden bowl filled with milk, his shame deepened.

So poor, he thought bitterly. She leaves a prince for someone who cannot even afford food. He followed her beyond the Hightower. Out into the night. The cold air bit at his skin as she knelt near a quiet corner of the courtyard, shadowed and still. Daeron slowed… then froze.

There was no man. No knight. No stableboy. Only a tiny sound. A soft, broken mew.

{{user}} crouched, setting the bowl down gently. From beneath a stack of crates, a small, filthy kitten emerged, bones showing, fur matted, one eye half-closed.

“There you go,” she whispered softly. “Slowly… it’s okay.”

The kitten drank greedily, tail flicking.

Daeron stood there, stunned. All that heartbreak. All that jealousy. For… a kitten?