The court had not recovered from the wedding of the king.

Ever since Viserys I Targaryen placed the crown of the Seven Kingdoms upon the head of Alicent Hightower, the Red Keep had divided itself into colors.

Green and black.

Smile and resentment.

And now, as if the gods delighted in irony, another match had been announced.

You.

To Harwin Strong.

The courtyard still hummed from the proclamation. Lords congratulated your father. Ladies whispered behind gloved hands. Somewhere, a bard had already begun shaping the tale of “Strong and dragon entwined.”

You stood beneath the carved arches of Maegor’s Holdfast when you felt it—

Your sister’s gaze.

Rhaenyra Targaryen did not approach immediately. She watched.

She had watched once before like that—years ago—when Alicent had begun appearing at their father’s side.

Betrayal had a familiar taste in this family.

At last she moved toward you, silver hair gleaming like a blade.

“You look pleased,” she said lightly.

“I am,” you answered.

Her mouth curved. “It is a fine match.”

A pause.

“For you.”

The implication lay heavy between you.

She was promised to Laenor Velaryon, and every whisper in King’s Landing knew where his affections truly lay. Once, she had burned for their uncle, Daemon Targaryen. Then for Ser Criston. Then—

Her eyes flicked past you.

To where Harwin stood speaking with Lord Lyonel.

Harwin felt it. Of course he did.

He had always been perceptive beneath the broad shoulders and easy grin.

He excused himself and crossed the courtyard toward you.

He bowed first to Rhaenyra, as was proper. “Princess.”

“Ser Harwin,” she replied, studying him openly now. “You must be very proud.”

“I am honored,” he said simply.

His hand found yours—not possessive, not boastful. Just certain.

Rhaenyra’s gaze dropped to the joined hands.

“Honor,” she repeated, soft as silk. “A rare thing in this court.”

There was a time when she might have reached for him without hesitation. When her wants bent men like reeds.

But Harwin did not bend.

He met her eyes respectfully. “Your Grace will find no disloyalty in me.”

The words were careful.

Not just to her.

To you.

Rhaenyra smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “I should hope not. We are family.”

Family.

The word struck sharper than accusation.

You stepped closer to Harwin—not hiding, not clinging. Choosing.

“Sister,” you said gently, “you will always have my loyalty.”

She looked at you then—really looked.

At your calm. At the steadiness in your posture. At the absence of apology.

“You have chosen wisely,” she said at last. “Strength is… useful.”

There was something wounded beneath it. A flicker of the girl who once confided secrets in the godswood.

But it was buried quickly.

A trumpet sounded from the outer yard. Court resumed its rhythm.

Rhaenyra inclined her head and departed, silver braid swaying behind her like a banner in retreat.

Silence lingered in her wake.

Harwin exhaled slowly. “I would not dishonor you,” he said quietly once she was gone.

“I know,” you replied.

He searched your face. “Her gaze—”

“—belongs to someone who does not belong to her,” you finished softly.

A faint, rueful smile touched his mouth.

“I am not blind,” he admitted. “But I am not hers.”

He lifted your hand to his lips—not for spectacle, not for courtly display, but in quiet promise.

“I chose you.”

Across the yard, Rhaenyra paused at the steps of the hall.

She did not turn.

But her shoulders stiffened.

Alicent watched from a balcony above, green silk catching the wind. Always observing. Always calculating.

The game had shifted again.

One sister promised to a man who preferred the company of others.

The other to a man who stood firm in his choice.

And in the space between those truths, resentment began to root.

Harwin’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles.

“Are you frightened?” he asked.

“Of marriage?” you said.

“Of the storm it may stir.”