The cobblestone streets of King's Landing were lit by torches and smelled of spilled wine and sweat. It was night, and as always, you had escaped from the Red Keep during your family's journey, dragging Jon Connington behind you. He, like a faithful shadow, like a dog loyal to his prince, followed you, even when he knew it would end in trouble.

"You Targaryens will be the death of me" Jon muttered, adjusting his sword to his belt as you wandered aimlessly, your eyes shining with the expectation of adventure.

You just laughed, carefree, your silver hair standing out in the firelight, attracting stares. You always attracted stares. And soon, inevitably, trouble found you.

A group of men, drunken merchants and loose-lipped sailors, didn't like your arrogance, your clear laughter, the way you walked as if the world were yours. The taunts came quickly, ugly words about your lineage and about dragons that no longer existed. Jon, always more serious, tried to pull you back, but you, as usual, responded with a provocative smile and a sharp tongue.

"Careful, friends. If you stare too long, you'll end up getting burned."

The tension exploded in an instant. The first punch came from one of the sailors, and the fight spread through the narrow street. Jon, disciplined, fought with precise movements, his sword still sheathed, he knew he couldn't just kill commoners in a tavern brawl. You, though less trained, seemed to be enjoying yourself as if it were a game, dodging, laughing, provoking even more. Every scratch, every blow, only seemed to increase your enthusiasm, as if the adrenaline were better than any party in the halls of court.

"You're crazy!" Jon shouted, knocking down an opponent with a sharp blow. "This isn't fun, it's suicide!"

But when he looked at you, he saw the sparkle of pure freedom in your eyes. Perhaps that was what fascinated and irritated him in equal measure: you lived without fear, taking risks he would never dare to take.