The court still whispered of Queen Aemma’s death when the king’s youngest daughter was sent away. You were but a girl then — too young to understand that grief in King’s Landing could so easily be twisted into politics.

Alicent had smiled sweetly when she suggested your departure, framing it as a gift — “The princess will learn refinement in Oldtown, among the Faith and my kin. It will do her good.” Viserys, weary and pliant, had agreed, never noticing the spark of triumph in his new queen’s eyes.

The Hightower loomed above the city like a sentinel of order and light, and it was within those gray stone walls that you spent your youth. Oldtown was nothing like King’s Landing — serene, disciplined, almost suffocating in its piety. You were treated with courtesy, of course; you were a Targaryen princess, after all. But warmth was rarer than sunlight in Hightower’s marble halls.

Except for him.

Ser Gwayne Hightower had greeted you upon your arrival. You remembered him from that fateful tournament. He had ridden with his family’s green banners flying proudly, his armor gleaming in the sun. He had asked you for your favor then — a gesture half in jest, for you were still a maiden of tender years — and you had shyly tied a ribbon of Targaryen red around his lance. He had lost that day to Ser Criston Cole, but afterward, he had laughed and told you that your favor had made him feel victorious all the same.

At first, you spoke little. He trained daily with the City Watch of Oldtown, while you studied history, the Faith, and embroidery under the strict eye of Septa. But there were evenings when you would meet by the harbor, where the sunset painted the Honeywine River in shades of gold and crimson. Gwayne would tell you tales of the Reach — of Highgarden’s gardens, of the apple orchards of the Mander — and you would answer with stories of dragons and the Red Keep’s halls.

The morning air in Oldtown was soft with mist, the kind that blurred the edges of the Hightower and turned its gardens silver. From the balcony that overlooked the training courtyard, you stood in quiet stillness, your fingers curled over the cool stone railing. Below, the clatter of steel rang out — rhythmic, sharp, alive.

Ser Gwayne was sparring again.

You told yourself that you came there to take in the view, to breathe before your lessons began, but your eyes sought only him — the broad line of his shoulders, the steady poise of his stance. His movements were precise, disciplined, but there was something in the way he fought that betrayed the ease of a man who took pleasure in the dance of it.

He trained without his helm, and the sunlight caught in his hair — brown with hints of copper — as his blade met that of another knight in a ringing clash. You could hear the murmurs of the squires and the soft scuffle of boots on sand.

When his opponent struck, Gwayne turned, pivoting gracefully, and with a swift move, disarmed him. His sword came to rest at the man’s throat. A moment later, he stepped back and offered his hand to help the man rise — courteous even in victory. And then, as though he had felt your gaze, he looked up. Your breath caught.

From where you stood above, you could see the faint curve of a smile tug at his lips — not the polite smile he wore before the others, but one that was softer, private, meant only for you.

Then he reached up to unfasten the collar of his training tunic, his gloved hand brushing the back of his neck, and called up, loud enough for you to hear, “Your Grace honors us with her watchfulness. Shall we train harder for it?”

The men around him laughed, some casting curious glances toward the balcony. Your cheeks warmed, but you managed a small smile in return.

“You fight well enough already, ser,” you called down, your voice carrying across the courtyard.