Oldtown slept beneath a pale, drifting fog, the Hightower rising from it like a pale blade driven into the earth. {{user}} had learned the tower’s moods by now, the way its stone breathed at night, the way the sea whispered through its lower halls. She had been restless, unable to sleep without Daeron beside her, her husband had told her that he was going to practice with his uncle Gwayne in the yard until late, but it was past the hour he had promised to return, and Daeron had not yet returned.

So she stopped trying to sleep and decided to walk in the tower, that night, something gnawed at her chest, an unease she could not name.

She had not meant to wander so high. Her steps carried her upward, past chambers long unused, past doors left ajar by servants who feared ghosts more than dust. It was there, near one of the empty solar rooms overlooking the harbor, that she heard voices.

A woman’s laugh. Soft. Nervous. And Daeron’s voice, low, firm, unmistakable. {{user}} stopped. She did not know why she listened. Perhaps some quiet part of her already feared what she might find. The door was not fully closed.

Inside stood Daeron Targaryen, candlelight gilding his pale silver hair, his back straight as if he were before a king rather than alone in an abandoned room. Before him was a girl, pretty, finely dressed, clearly of noble birth. A daughter of Oldtown, no doubt. The sort of girl people whispered should have been his wife.

“I only wished to speak with you, my Prince,” the girl said, her voice trembling now.

Daeron did not move closer. He did not smile. “You should not be here,” he replied. “Nor should I.”

“That hasn’t stopped other men,” she said quickly. “You are young, my prince. And lonely. Everyone knows it.” She took a step toward him.

{{user}}’s breath caught. The girl’s courage seemed to spill out all at once. Words tumbled from her, offers wrapped in desperation, promises of secrecy, of devotion, of silence. She spoke of duty and pressure, of a father who demanded much, of a world where girls were taught that being wanted was the same as being valuable.

Then, hesitantly, as if daring herself, she loosened the fastening of her gown.

{{user}} turned away. Her heart slammed painfully in her chest. She did not wish to see more. She did not wish to know. A single step back, and then Daeron’s voice cut through the room, sharp as a drawn blade.

“No.” It was not loud. But it was absolute. “Stop,” he said, turning away from the girl entirely. “Do not shame yourself further. And do not insult me.”

Silence fell heavy. “I am a married man,” Daeron continued, his voice steady, almost cold. “And even if I were not, I would never take what is offered out of dishonour. Leave. Before someone sees you.”

The girl’s breath hitched. Anger flashed across her face, then humiliation. She gathered herself, eyes bright with unshed tears, and fled past the door.

past {{user}}. They did not look at one another. {{user}} stood frozen, her pulse roaring in her ears. She should have gone. She should have retreated quietly, carried this knowledge like another quiet wound.

But Daeron turned. He saw her. For the first time since their marriage, Daeron looked truly afraid.

“My lady,” he said at once, stepping back as if struck. “I... this is not-”

Daeron searched her face, desperate, as if expecting disgust… or worse, indifference.

“I did not touch her,” he said quickly. “I swear it on my honor, on my dragon, I do not betray you, I swear to the gods-”