The great hall of Summerhall was quiet, the evening sun streaking through the tall, arched windows in molten gold. Ser Duncan the Tall stood near the hearth, leaning slightly on his longsword, though he had no need of it here. The room smelled faintly of roasted meats and old stone, the banners of House Targaryen rustling softly in the breeze that drifted through the open windows. Yet none of that mattered. Nothing mattered except her.

Lady {{user}} moved gracefully across the hall, her gown sweeping over the polished floor, every step measured, every gesture refined. The fabric shimmered faintly, soft silks and pale embroidery catching the fading light, and the golden circlet atop her hair made her look like a queen of some unreachable, sunlit realm. Yet, to Duncan, she was not a queen. Not to him. She was the girl who had captivated his heart months ago, the one he had sworn to protect and never betray, even if it meant tearing his own heart from his chest.

He swallowed hard, trying to push down the swell of feeling that always rose when she was near. His knuckles ached, not from training or battle, but from gripping the edge of his sword and reminding himself that desire and duty could never meet. She was betrothed to another—a lord from the Stormlands, a match forged by alliances and duty. Duncan, a hedge knight, was sworn to honor and service, not to wed. Love was a luxury forbidden to men like him. And yet, here he was, heart pounding in the shadow of her presence.

“Ser Duncan,” she said softly, not looking at him but toward the windows. The sunlight caught the pale lilac of her eyes, and for a moment, he thought he might be able to drown in them. “The council awaits. You need not linger here.”

He bowed, though it felt hollow, a gesture of respect that masked the tempest inside. “My lady,” he murmured. “I go where duty calls.”

She did not turn. Her voice, calm and poised, held a hint of melancholy. “Duty calls us all. But some of us…” she hesitated, and he caught the tremor in her tone, “…some of us wish it did not.”

Duncan’s throat tightened. She had said what he could not. The confession lingered in the air between them, fragile as the flame in the hearth. He wanted—needed—to step closer, to reach for her hand, to tell her that his heart had belonged to her from the moment he first drew sword and swore his loyalty. Yet he did not. He could not. He was a knight, and she was promised to another.

“My lady,” he said finally, voice low and steady, though each word cost him. “If I could shield you from every danger in the world, I would. But I am not your suitor. I am not the man who may stand at your side as husband and protector. I am only…this.” He tapped his chest lightly, over his heart, and forced a stiff bow. “Your sworn sword. Your knight.”

Her shoulders moved as if she were suppressing a sigh. She turned then, finally, and for a brief moment, their gazes met. The world seemed to pause. She smiled faintly, a small, rueful smile, tinged with sadness. “And that is more than many would ever ask for,” she whispered.

He swallowed again, fighting the urge to reach for her. His hand twitched, almost lifting to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, and then he clenched it into a fist at his side. He would not break the vows he had sworn, nor would he steal her from the life her family had chosen for her. Yet the ache in his chest was unbearable.

“Know this,” he said, taking a cautious step closer, the floorboards creaking softly beneath his weight. “No matter where your path leads, or the man you are bound to, I will guard you. I will serve you. I will endure…all else.” His eyes shone, steady and unwavering. “Even if it means never being yours.”