The royal garden was strangled by its own beauty too perfect too controlled every rose trimmed until it could not grow wild every path swept until no dirt remained even the night air felt filtered, as if the palace allowed nothing real to breathe.

Gwyn walked through it like a blade sliding through silk No armor, no knights, just dark fabric clinging to his frame and the quiet discipline of a man whose heart had long ago learned how to harden His hands were clasped behind his back, fingers flexing slowly, as if remembering the shape of a sword hilt.

She stood near the marble fountain, moonlight catching in her hair The king’s daughter the promised queen The thing they had dressed in velvet and named “future.”

Daughter of Viserys Targaryen.

She turned.

He did not bow Did not lower his eyes. He studied her with the cold patience of someone measuring a room before choosing where to place the fire.

So this was her.

Smaller than he had imagined. Lighter. Too soft for the world that was about to close around her.

“They chose a garden for this,” he said quietly, voice smooth as polished stone “As if flowers could make a prison look holy.”

He stepped closer, boots silent against the gravel Slow Intentional Each step designed to be felt.

“They told me you were my reward. My duty. My peace offering.” A breath through his nose, almost a laugh, but not quite. “They lied.”

His gaze moved over her without apology, without warmth Not hunger Not affection Just assessment Ownership being considered, not claimed.

“My father made this bargain,” he went on softly, thinking of Otto Hightower and the way his words had always tasted like chains. “He called it honor. He called it necessity.”

He leaned in enough that she could feel his presence before she felt his breath.

“I call it theft.”