Oldtown glittered beneath the orange light of a dying sun, her spires and septs awash in amber glow. From the topmost balcony of the Hightower, the bells rang out in celebration, echoing down the Honeywine River and across cobbled streets filled with banners, music, and cheer.

It was the fifteenth nameday of Prince Daeron Targaryen, the youngest son of King Viserys I and Queen Alicent, raised far from the courtly venom of King’s Landing. In Oldtown, he had grown among septons and scholars, knights of quiet valor and the whispering winds off the sea. No one expected much of him at court. But here in the West, especially in the eyes of House Hightower, he was more than just a spare prince, he was a symbol. A flame they could shape.

The feast hall within the Hightower was adorned with tapestries of silver and green. The Hightower's white beacon, the seven-pointed star of the Faith, and the three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen all flew side by side above the dais. Candles flickered in towering candelabras, casting dancing shadows on lords and ladies from across the Reach, the Westerlands, even as far as the Riverlands. The High Septon himself had offered a blessing earlier that morning, and now wine flowed freely, music played, and roasted goose with lemon glaze filled every plate.

At the center of it all sat Prince Daeron, fifteen, silver-haired, sharp-eyed. Unlike his elder brothers, he held his words carefully, like a knight holds his sword: quietly, until it's needed. Dressed in green and black with a silver pin of a roaring dragon, he looked every inch a prince, but there was something quieter in him, a discipline, perhaps, learned not in court but in Oldtown's shadows.

At his side stood Ser Gwayne Hightower, his uncle and sworn protector. It was Gwayne who had raised him here, teaching him swordplay and statecraft both, and above all, restraint. Politics was a poison best swallowed slowly.

Across the hall, beneath a bough of gold-leafed branches, stood {{user}} of House Tyrell.

Lady {{user}}, daughter of a minor Reachman lord, but proud bearer of a golden rose on her sleeve. House Tyrell was not yet the power it would become, still shadowed by House Hightower's centuries of reverence. But she had ambition, and clever eyes that missed nothing.

She wore a gown of dark green silk, the color of summer ivy, with thorns embroidered in golden thread along her bodice and sleeves. She smiled politely at the old lords who bowed, but her mind was elsewhere, on the quiet prince seated beneath a Targaryen banner.

She had watched him all evening. He barely touched his wine. His smiles were rare and short-lived. When spoken to, he listened, truly listened, then answered with calm courtesy. A boy too careful for fifteen.

That intrigued her more than beauty or power ever could.

...And then, like the hush of a breeze through a hall thick with wine smoke and hollow laughter, {{user}} began to walk. Not with haste. Not with fanfare. Only with the quiet resolve of a decision already made.

The gifts had come in waves, one by one, laid at the prince’s feet: goblets of Valyrian silver, sheaths of snakeskin leather, daggers inlaid with rubies. Each lord and lady seeking to carve their name into the memory of a Targaryen, even if he was only the third son. But not {{user}}.

She rose from her place, a single rose between her fingers, no ribbon, no velvet box. A real flower. The kind that grew wild on the slopes of the Mander. Thorns along its stem, and a red as bold as blood.

Eyes found her, slowly, one by one, as she stepped toward the prince’s table. She did not bow. She did not wait for permission. She simply arrived, to be seen. Daeron looked up. His violet eyes caught hers, steady, unreadable.

{{user}} did not smile. She only extended the flower. “For your nameday, my prince.” Laughter stirred around them, a few whispers, scattered like sparks in dry straw.

Daeron raised an eyebrow. Glanced at the rose, then, after a pause, at her eyes. “Just a rose?” he asked with curiosity.