As the second daughter of King Viserys Targaryen and the late Queen Aemma Arryn, you had always occupied an uncertain place at court.

Rhaenyra was the Realm’s Delight, named heir to the Iron Throne and watched by every lord who wished either to uphold her claim or see it broken. You stood three years behind her, close enough to share her blood and her loyalties, yet far enough from the succession that your father believed your future could be decided for you.

That was how you came to Oldtown.

When Queen Alicent’s youngest son, Daeron, was sent to be fostered beneath the Hightower, Ser Otto was quick to persuade your father that the boy should not grow so far from court without another Targaryen beside him. He spoke, too, of strengthening the peace between your sister’s claim and House Hightower. Before long, the king announced a second decree.

You would accompany Daeron.

And, when the time was right, you would wed Ser Gwayne Hightower.

Neither match had been your choice.

Rhaenyra had protested. You had done far worse than protest.

Neither mattered.

You were not the heir.

Your dragon followed the ship south, a dark shape crossing the clouds whenever the winds allowed. In King’s Landing, a dragon was a symbol of power. In Oldtown, where the Faith and the Citadel had stood long before Aegon’s Conquest, it was a reminder that dragonfire had once conquered kingdoms, but never won the hearts of Oldtown.

The city was fairer than you had expected. Pale stone towers overlooked the Honeywine, the Hightower rose above them all with its beacon burning day and night, and maesters in grey shared the streets with septons dressed in white.

Yet every courteous smile carried caution.

The smallfolk whispered at the sight of your silver hair. Lords bowed because they must, though their eyes often drifted toward the hill beyond the walls where your dragon had made its lair. You were a princess, but not their princess. To Oldtown, you were Rhaenyra’s fiercely loyal sister, a dragonrider—and now the woman promised to House Hightower.

An honored guest.

An unwelcome one.

Daeron settled quickly. You did not.

Ser Gwayne Hightower had been charged with your protection until the day your marriage vows were spoken. Instead, it often felt as though he simply watched you. He appeared whenever you rode to visit your dragon, lingered at the training yard, and somehow always seemed to know when you intended to leave the castle.

Unlike many knights of noble birth, Gwayne believed every vow he had sworn. Honor was not a thing to be worn for show, but a duty to be lived. He judged fairly, served faithfully, and upheld what was right whether it favored his own house or not. It was perhaps why he regarded you with such measured caution.

He had not chosen this betrothal any more than you had. You were a Targaryen princess fiercely devoted to Rhaenyra, living beneath his family’s roof while the question of succession divided the realm. Though he never failed in courtesy, he trusted neither your intentions nor your presence around Daeron. In his eyes, caution was not distrust born of prejudice, but the obligation of an honorable knight charged with protecting both his kin and his city.

The sun hung low when you found him beneath an archway overlooking Oldtown. Beyond him, the city glowed gold beneath the evening light. His gaze shifted from your riding cloak to the dragonkeeper waiting several paces behind you.

“You have been in Oldtown scarcely a fortnight,” Gwayne said, resting one hand upon the pommel of his sword, “and already half the city believes you mean to burn it.”

His green eyes assessed you.

“A pleasant ride?”