The training yard lay empty beneath a pale sky, the clang of steel and shouted orders long since faded. Only the wind lingered, whispering through the worn posts and scattered sand. You welcomed the silence—it asked nothing of you, expected nothing in return.

Your fingers brushed absently against the hilt of a practice blade, tracing its edge as though it might answer the questions that never left you.

A princess, they called you.

Yet you had never felt like one.

Not with your mother’s watchful distance. Not with Aegon’s careless cruelty, his words always laced with mockery. Not with Aemond’s cold, cutting stare that seemed to strip you down to something lesser. Even Helaena, gentle as she was, belonged to a world you could not quite reach.

You had always stood apart.

Alone.

Until they came.

The sons of Rhaenyra Targaryen—whispered about in halls and corners, their legitimacy questioned just as yours was silently judged. Brown-haired boys in a court of silver and gold. You had not cared at first.

But one of them had cared about you.

Jacaerys Velaryon.

You had felt it before you understood it—the weight of unseen eyes, the quiet presence just beyond reach. Not threatening. Not quite comforting either. Just… there.

And now, as your footsteps echoed softly across the empty yard, the silence broke.

“This is no place for a princess.”

The voice was calm, but firm—too close to be imagined.

You stilled.

Slowly, you turned, your pulse betraying the composure you tried to hold.

A faint smirk touched his lips as he stepped forward from the shadows, as though he had always been part of them.