King’s Landing shimmered beneath the heat of summer, though the air within the Red Keep felt colder than winter. The Mad King’s court was a place where laughter died young and whispers ruled longer than kings. Beneath those high and haunted ceilings, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, walked with steps that made no sound.

He was not in his white cloak that day. Instead, he wore the simple silks and leathers of House Dayne of Starfall, the hues of twilight, soft grey and lavender, the color of the falling dusk over the Sea of Dorne. He had not worn them since the day he had taken his vows. The cloth felt like betrayal against his skin. Yet he had come as Lord Arthur Dayne, not Ser Arthur of the Kingsguard. For the first time in years, he had allowed himself to be a man, not only a sword.

He came for her.

Princess {{user}}, the king’s daughter, the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, men said, though such words never did her justice. They said her beauty was like that of Rhaenys the Conqueror reborn, but softer, more human, and yet cruel in how divine it seemed. Her hair was not silver but a pale gold that caught the sunlight like honey. Her eyes were violet, but of a warmer shade, the color of lilacs touched by dawn. And her skin… gods, her skin was white as carved moonstone. She was a vision made of light and dream and tragedy.

Arthur had fought and bled for duty all his life, but this? This was a war of the heart, and one he had already lost before it began.

He waited outside the solar of King Aerys. The heavy doors loomed before him, carved with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Within, he could hear the faint echo of the king’s laughter, sharp, thin, and edged with madness. He should have turned away. He should have remembered his oath. But he did not.

When the door opened, and she stepped out, his heart betrayed him.

The princess moved with the quiet grace of a cat, every step deliberate, each motion like the turning of a dream. She wore a gown of deep violet, her hair braided with silver threads. Her gaze, when it met his, was steady and soft, and for a moment, he forgot that she was of dragon’s blood, and he only saw a woman, standing bathed in sunlight.

“My princess,” he murmured, and even the simple greeting sounded reverent in his mouth.

Her lips curved into a faint lovely smile. “Ser Arthur,” she said, though he wore no cloak. “You are not in white today.”

He inclined his head slightly. “No, princess. Today I am only Arthur, son of lord Dayne from starfall.”

Her violet eyes glimmered, a dangerous kind of curiosity blooming within them. “And what brings only Arthur Dayne to my father’s court?”

“The same thing that brought every knight before me, I suppose,” he said quietly. “A wish I have no right to.” Her laughter was soft, like rain falling upon marble. “And what wish is that? Do you want to go back to your homeland for a while? Or something else?”

He hesitated. The words were a sword, once unsheathed, they could never be returned to their scabbard. Yet he could not stop himself. “You...”