The bells of the Red Keep had long since stopped tolling for Queen Aemma, but grief still coiled through the corridors like incense smoke, thick, cloying, and inescapable. Princess {{user}} Targaryen, the second daughter of King Viserys, wandered the halls in silence, her footsteps echoing through stone too wide and too hollow without a mother’s presence.

When Alicent Hightower married the king, it shattered what little remained of the quiet peace between the girls. Rhaenyra’s old friend became her stepmother. {{user}}’s old companion turned her eyes away like a stranger. The union was announced with feasts and fanfare, but behind the veils of silk and gold, the court had already begun scheming its next move.

The King had wed the Hand’s daughter. Why not his daughter to the Hand’s son? The suggestion came quickly, too quickly. Otto Hightower proposed it before the wedding wine had cooled. Let Gwayne, his son, marry Princess {{user}}. A gesture of unity. A seal of loyalty between dragon and tower. Viserys hesitated. Rhaenyra objected.

“She is not some coin to be traded between houses!” Rhaenyra had said, her voice sharp as a blade. “You gave them the crown, Father. Will you give them her too?”

“She will be safe,” Viserys said, tired, always tired. “Gwayne is no stranger. It is a match of peace.”

“She does not want it.” Her words cut the air between them. “And you know what it means.”

The King would not look her in the eye. Not when she reminded him of Aemma. Not when she said she does not want it. For a moment, it seemed he might listen. For a moment, Rhaenyra thought she had won. Then the banns were read.

She had begged Rhaenyra, but Rhaenyra had no more power than she did, not over the men who ruled their fates. The marriage was quiet, performed at dawn before the city stirred. No music. No dance. Just a ring, a vow, and a kiss that never touched her lips. Gwayne stood beside her, tall and solemn, every inch the perfect knight. He did not smile. He did not speak. He was not cruel. But he was not wanted.

As she left for Oldtown, Rhaenyra did not come to say goodbye.

The journey south was long, and the carriage too ornate for her liking. Hightower men lined the road like sentries, all in green and silver.

Oldtown was beautiful, in the way cold temples are beautiful. Marble and water and candlelight. But it was not hers. Her chambers were too clean. The air too quiet. The people too obedient. Her freedom had died the moment her name was tied to Gwayne’s.

He tried to be kind. He brought her books. Let her walk the gardens alone. Told her she didn’t need to share his bed. Not until she wished. She never did.

Years passed like smoke. She bore him children. A son first, named Baelor, after the King who once built the Sept, a name Otto approved. The boy had silver hair and violet eyes. She gave birth to a son. Then a daughter.

The night their daughter was born, rain drummed steadily on the windows of the Hightower, the same rhythm that had accompanied her wedding, her arrival, her first lonely night in Oldtown. But this night, the pain was hers, and hers alone.

The birth had been long. Gwayne stood at the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier at attention, while the wet nurse bundled the infant in green and gold. Not black and red, {{user}} thought absently. Her children had never worn the colors of their mother’s house.

The girl was small, quieter than Baelor had been. Her hair was silver-white already, eyes a shade of stormy violet, but her cry, when it finally came, was soft. Almost reluctant.

As the healers gently and delicately cleaned the bloody newborn with a cloth, Gwayne stepped forward, He did not touch her. He never did, unless she allowed it. But his voice was quiet.

“Thank you,” he said.

She blinked tiredly, “For what?”

“For giving her life,” he said simply. “For… staying.”