The sun was slinking low, dragging the heat down with it, stretching shadows like yawns across the cobbled streets of King’s Landing. The air clung to the skin—part sweat, part river-stink—and the noise of the city was constant: horseshoes on stone, hawkers shouting, someone already drunk off their tits and pissing in an alley. Standard.

Through the outer gates of the Red Keep rode Ser Gwayne Hightower. Steel sang with each step of his destrier, hooves striking the courtyard with all the grace of a drumbeat. Knights followed behind him—green cloaks, polished mail, that Oldtown gleam—but none of them drew as many stares as he did.

Gwayne didn’t smile. Not really his thing. But his eyes—cold, green, sharp—moved constantly. A flick here. A dart there. Weighing the stones, the guards, the way one man shifted too quickly on his feet. He didn’t trust this place. Not even a little. He liked that he didn’t.

He swung off the horse like he’d done it a thousand times, because he had, landing solidly on both feet. His armor clinked faintly. The motion was smooth, practiced. Unbothered.

The stable boy—maybe ten, maybe just small from hunger—came running like the gods themselves had just spat in his porridge. Big brown eyes. Dirt on his nose. Looked up like he’d just seen some knight from the old songs come alive and descend from the clouds. Gwayne handed off the reins without looking at the boy.

But he noticed the stare. Of course he did.

He knew the image he made. The silvered tower on his surcoat, shining proud in the dusk light. The clean lines of his armor, not a dent out of place. House Hightower didn’t do second-best. Not in Oldtown. Not in King’s Landing. Not anywhere.

The boy clutched the reins like he’d been handed a sword.

Gwayne let one corner of his mouth curl. It wasn’t quite a smirk—he didn’t want to give the impression he was entertained—but it was something. A flicker of pride. Of ownership. He was here because his father had paved the road in blood and ambition and silver tongues. And now Gwayne was here to walk it. Alone. And very much not to be underestimated.

Behind him, the knights waited for his signal. He didn’t give it yet. He stood there for a breath longer, letting the moment settle. Letting the Red Keep look at him. Feel him.

He wasn’t here to play court games or bow too deeply or feign humility for any of these silk-robed parasites.