From her earliest years, {{user}}, unlike her sister Helaena, shunned the bright chambers filled with lace, flowers, and soft cushions. The scent of fresh fabrics and the hum of the sewing needle felt like a prison to her. The servants of the Red Keep quickly learned that if the sound of a wooden sword striking a shield or the hollow thunk of a blow against a tree trunk echoed somewhere in the yard or stables, it was almost certainly her, knees scraped and muddy, hair tousled, eyes burning like fire.

Instead of sitting with stern tutors to study courtly histories, she went to the training yard. She sparred tirelessly with Ser Criston Cole, crossed blades with Aemond, and never once complained about her bruises or cuts. Her tongue was as sharp as her sword; where others whispered prayers, she spat curses.

When King Viserys died, the Red Keep sank into a heavy, suffocating silence. The candles seemed to burn dimmer; even the wind through the tall windows moved with a slower sigh. Queen Alicent retreated to the secret council rooms with Ser Criston and Otto Hightower to plan the next moves.

The air in the castle was thick with the smell of lime and age, like an echo from centuries past. The Iron Throne stood unclaimed; the king was dead, yet the crown had not yet found a head.

Days later, when Gwayne Hightower returned to the capital after many years, the news of the king’s death heavy in his ears, his gaze wandered across the great hall. Many lords loyal to the greens had gathered. Aegon stood slouched in a corner, drunk, eyes half-shut. Helaena sat quiet, lost in her own strange world. Aemond was steel and shadow, danger in every glance.

But then Gwayne’s eyes found a figure in the corner, half-hidden in the torchlight. A girl standing straight-backed, sword at her hip, the firelight catching in her eyes. His lips curled into the faintest of smiles. His niece. Not a girl of silk and ribbons, but one born of true Valyrian blood, of the same volcanic ash from which fire still stirs.

On the morning the host was to march, the castle was barely awake when the ring of iron footsteps echoed down the corridors, {{user}}, in full armor, without a flicker of fear. As Ser Criston called the men to assembly, she took her place among the warriors.

“No!” Alicent’s voice rang through the courtyard. “You have no place in this war! You are a girl!” {{user}} only turned her head slightly toward her mother, eyes cool, and without a word, swung herself into the saddle. She rode out, cutting through the pale morning mist.

The green host wound its way down the muddy roads of the realm like a colossal serpent. Thousands marched, men in plate and mail, green and gold banners snapping in the wind.

The green host made camp deep within a shadowed forest, where tall oaks and twisted pines rose like ancient sentinels.

Men set about sharpening blades, mending torn mail, and muttering half-prayers into the dark. Even the crackle of the fires seemed hushed beneath the weight of so many trees.

In the heart of the camp, near the dragons tethered far beyond the tree line, stood the line of command tents. Inside one of them, was {{user}}.

That was when Ser Gwayne came.

He moved quickly, his green surcoat damp with mist. The flicker of the torches caught his face as he stopped into her tent. “Niece,” he said, his tone clipped, urgent. “This place is not for you.” {{user}} straightened from where she sat polishing her vambrace.

“you are blind to what festers in a soldier’s camp. Every tent holds men who have not seen their wives in months, who dream of blood one hour and women the next. You may carry steel at your hip, but tell me, What are you going to do if soldiers come to your tent in the middle of the night and—” he stepped closer, lowering his voice further, almost pleading now.

“You are no common sellsword. You are a Targeryan. And the blood of kings. Of Hightower. Of my own house. Do not throw yourself into filth and danger, where a single night could undo you forever. Return to King’s Landing while you still can.”