The Great Hall of King’s Landing gleamed with gold and silk that evening. Every corner of the Red Keep was dressed in splendor for the wedding of Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor. Music drifted through the air—light, full of false joy—masking the tension that rippled through the gathered lords and ladies. Laughter, wine, and whispered gossip swirled together, a courtly dance of politics and deceit.

But for Ser Harwin, none of it mattered. His gaze had found her long before the first toast was raised.

Princess {{user}} sat beside her father, radiant beneath the torchlight. Her gown shimmered like liquid starlight, delicate embroidery catching every flicker of flame. A small smile graced her lips as she listened to some dull lord speak beside her, her eyes kind even when her patience wore thin. There was a gentleness about her, one Harwin had never seen matched in the capital’s venomous court. She did not sneer, did not judge. She simply was—and that alone drew him like a moth to flame.

He stood near the edge of the hall, armored yet out of place among silks and smiles. He wasn’t one for court games or clever words. His duty was to protect, not to preen. Yet his eyes could not stray from her, not for long.

When her gaze finally met his, she smiled—small, secret, soft. It was enough to make his breath falter.

Later, when the feast waned and the music softened, Harwin followed her to the balcony overlooking the dark city below. Moonlight spilled across her pale shoulders as she leaned against the stone balustrade.

“You shouldn’t follow me, Ser Harwin,” she said without turning, her voice quiet but teasing. “Someone might think you intend to steal me away.”

He smiled faintly, stepping closer but keeping his respectful distance. “I would never dare such a thing, Princess. Though Seven help me, I have thought of little else.”

She turned to him then, her silver hair glimmering under the stars. There was mischief in her eyes, but warmth, too—an understanding that reached beyond duty and name. “You’re bold for a man of the King’s Guard,” she mused.

“Boldness seems the only way to earn your notice,” he admitted. His tone was deep, steady, but there was a hint of rough honesty in it—a man stripped of all courtly polish. “Others sing your praises across the realm. They speak of your beauty as if you were some fabled creature, too perfect to touch. But they do not see you as I do.”

Her lips curved. “And how do you see me, Harwin Strong?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening as if the truth itself was too heavy to speak. “As someone worth breaking every oath for.”