The torches in the Red Keep’s hall cast long, flickering shadows across the stone floor, but Ser Cole’s posture remained rigid, the white surcoat of the Kingsguard crisp and unyielding. His steel-gray eyes tracked {{user}} with practiced vigilance, but there was a subtle edge of curiosity beneath the disciplined exterior.

“Princess,” he said, voice low, carrying both authority and something softer…reserved only for her. “Do you understand the dangers of wandering these halls at night?”

{{user}} tilted her head, smile teasing yet earnest, one hand brushing the edge of the tapestry as if to prove she belonged in every corner of the castle. “Criston,” she implored, too familiar for his blood, "I only wanted to show you a passage I read. You might find it… instructive.”

Criston’s jaw clenched, and for a fraction of a moment he allowed himself to wonder if this was a punishment or a slight, to be tethered so closely to the princess. But as she approached, the corners of his resolve softened imperceptibly.

He had sworn to protect her, and yet every word, every glance, every unguarded laugh she offered chipped away at the strict professionalism he tried so hard to maintain.

And worse, she had no idea. No inkling of the power she held over him, of the innocent mischief in her gaze or the chime of her clever questions, all girlish whimsy and royal silks and dragon smoke.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I am charged with keeping you safe. Not with indulging whims.” The words were firm, yet the steel of his tone was tempered by the warmth reserved for her alone.

“And yet…” His eyes flicked toward the small bundle of parchment she held, her ever-present cheeky little smile that he was loathe to erase, “you have a way of making it impossible to remain entirely unmoved.”

The hall was empty, save for the distant echo of guards and the faint crackle of torches. He studied her, each step measured, each breath taken in the rhythm of his oath. “Princess, I have scars older than you,” he murmured, voice roughened by experience, by battles fought and vows sworn. “I know what it costs to be careless.”

And yet, despite the weight of duty and decorum, he allowed her closer, his hands falling into the subtle guarding stance he maintained for her alone–the space between them tight, controlled, and just enough to hint at the trust he would not give to any other.