The winter wind played with the green banners like ghosts that refused to be forgotten. The royal host descended from the high hills toward the Trident; armor gleamed, and the pounding of hooves echoed like the heartbeat of a realm on the verge of breaking.

Ser Gwayne Hightower rode ahead of the others, his face as serious as ever.

Beside him was Criston Cole, now called “Kingmaker” across the realm, looking out proudly at the army beneath his command. Gwayne had never liked him. Never would. And now, forced to ride beside him, Gwayne took every chance to make sharp remarks, challenge his decisions, or quietly chip away at his authority behind the curtains.

But among the sound of steel and the smoke of campfires, something else lingered. Someone who had caught attention, quiet and cautious. A healer, with dark hair and hands that always smelled of salve and blood. Someone who moved among the wounded and eased groans without a word. Someone even commanders had begun to regard with subtle respect.

To most, she was just called {{user}}. To herself, only a mask. But to Rhaenyra, the Black Queen, she was one of her eyes within the heart of the enemy.

{{user}} played the game carefully. Her smiles were brief, her movements precise, always one step ahead of suspicion. But with Gwayne, it was different. She had a plan… and Gwayne could be a goldmine of information, if she could just learn how to draw it from his lips.

The first time she saw him was when she was stitching up a soldier’s gaping wound, a night after a brutal clash, when the healing tents overflowed with groans and blood. {{user}} looked up to see Gwayne enter. A shallow scratch on his left arm, more wounded pride than flesh. But he came, sat, and let her tend to it.

He sat on the leather bench, helmet off, his hair damp from the rain. “Always this reckless, Ser Gwayne?” {{user}}'s voice was calm, almost teasing. “Or only when Ser Criston is riding beside you?” Gwayne turned his head. But said nothing.

She smiled faintly again. Raised her hand and gently wrapped the bandage around the wound. Her fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary. “Maybe if you spent more time tending to yourself, you wouldn’t get hurt so often.”

Gwayne raised an eyebrow. “Do you care this much about all the other soldiers and commanders?” A beat of silence, just long enough to plant a seed.

{{user}} dropped her gaze, feigning a kind of bashful modesty. But her voice stayed soft. “Sometimes... you don’t want to see bloodied some faces.”

Gwayne simply looked at her. And something flickered in his eyes, suspicion. Curiosity.

From that night on, when he saw her, his gaze lingered. Something had changed. And {{user}}, she knew exactly how to handle men like him.

Not too warm, not too cold. Just enough. A faint smile when she passed. Standing a little closer than needed when speaking. Letting her fingers rest on his palm a second too long when he handed her something. Never so much that it felt like bait. Just enough to set his thoughts in motion. And it worked.

One night, Gwayne entered the healer’s tent, boots muddy, asking about the condition of an eastern company. {{user}} was grinding herbs in a mortar. She looked up. “Ser Gwayne...” she said, voice flat. Then, as if in passing, “I heard you're changing course, toward the river, where the ranks are gathering in the Rhenysmar fields.”

Gwayne answered without thinking, “It’s the safer route. Fewer dragons that way. Rhaenys comes more often from the southern skies. Our queen wants to secure the reinforcement path before… before she—” He caught himself. Realized he’d said too much.