The great hall burned gold beneath the light of a hundred candles, banners of old houses rising into shadows above the air was thick with quiet whispers and the sound of slow, steady footsteps alicent rose first Silk brushed against stone as she stepped forward, her posture straight, her hands folding with familiar grace Her gaze softened — just slightly — as the doors opened and her brother entered.

Gwayne Hightower crossed the hall with measured strides, the cloak at his shoulders moving like liquid shadow He lowered his head to her, and Alicent laid a gentle hand over his arm in greeting.

Then she turned.

“And this,” she said calmly, her voice carrying through the quiet, “is her — Rhaenyra Targaryen’s eldest daughter. I would have you meet my brother, Gwayne Hightower.”

For a brief moment, the hall seemed to hold its breath.

He approached her.

Gwayne reached for her hand with a gentleness that surprised even himself, lifting it slowly When his lips touched her knuckles, it was not boldness — it was not hunger — but something older, colder, and far more dangerous: respect shaped like reverence.

When he lifted his gaze, a faint, sly smile curved his mouth.

His voice, smooth as polished silver, fell just above a whisper “If grace has a face, it seems the gods chose yours to wear.”

He released her hand without haste And the hall exhaled — though something within it had already been quietly, irreversibly stirred.