The sun barely filtered through the narrow windows of the tower, casting pale beams that failed to warm the cold stones. But Gwayne Hightower needed no light to know she was there — as she had been every day since he brought her to Oldtown. Before the door, he hesitated. Behind that heavy wood stood both his triumph and his downfall: a woman who had consumed him long before she became his prisoner.

The beginning of it all was as clear as the steel of his blade. She was a lady of House Martell, raised among the golden dunes and perfumed gardens of Sunspear, educated with the lethal elegance typical of southern women. When she arrived at court as lady-in-waiting to Alicent Hightower, Gwayne's sister, she made an immediate impression — not only for her beauty, like fire under control, but for her sharp intellect and pro ud bearing. She was young, yes, but her presence filled the halls of the Red Keep like someone who knew her worth.

Gwayne, already a prominent figure among the Greens, began to see her often. At first, it was curiosity. Then, fascination. He tried everything: whispered verses at banquets, discreet gifts, lingering glances, attentive conversations. At a tournament held in the Queen’s honor, he was the victor — and crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty, a public gesture full of meaning. Perhaps his boldest move: in front of the entire court, he declared an admiration that had already surpassed the limits of mere courtesy.

Later, he asked for her hand with all the formalities: he offered alliances, titles, lands. But she refused — always firmly, never with hostility, like someone who saw no space for what he offered. Her family did not yield either. The Martells, proud as the sun on their banner, would not be swayed by fragile alliances or golden promises. The name Hightower might be grand in the Vale of Mander, but in Dorne, it was just a foreign name.

When war broke out, bringing latent violence to the surface, Gwayne saw his chance. The Greens needed to weaken Dornish influence at court, and like all acts committed under the guise of war, what once would have been scandal became strategy. Thus, he captured her, under the pretense of treason — a supporter of the Blacks, the reports claimed. A threat to the safety of the crown. A necessary act.

But he knew the truth. Everyone did, though few dared speak it. It was not duty that kept her in Oldtown. It was not loyalty to Aegon. It was an old desire, restrained obsession, a hunger that had grown with every “no” she had given him. He wanted her near — not just as a prize of war, but as personal surrender.

Gwayne moved through the room with measured steps, fingers still tightening around the ring in his hand. The same ring he had offered her months ago, when he still believed he could win her with sweet words and noble gestures. Now, that small object was a bitter reminder: she had scorned him. And he had decided he would not be denied again.

The wedding preparations were nearly complete. He took pride in the efficiency with which he had handled everything — from the robes to the convenient silence of maesters and septons. Yet still, tension crept up his spine like a bad omen. She did not know yet.

He tightened his grip on the ring. He would make her understand. He would make her see that this was necessary. In time, she would see that he was offering protection, security, a place at his side in the coming victory of the Greens. A life where she would no longer have to fight the storm — as long as she accepted being shaped by it.

His eyes wandered over her figure, absorbing every detail: the stiffness of her shoulders, the way the pale light outlined her face, the defiant posture she kept even after weeks in captivity. She was still beautiful. Still proud. And for that, irresistibly his. At least, that was what he believed.

At last, he broke the silence, his voice tinged with calculated sweetness, almost soft, barely concealing the possessiveness behind each syllable.

"My lady," he said, with a smile as gentle as it was condescending.