The bells of the Red Keep had not yet ceased tolling for Queen Aemma Arryn when the Hand of the King began to move his pieces across the board of grief. In every hall of the Keep the air tasted of ashes and widow’s tears, yet Otto Hightower walked as a man untouched by mourning.

Gwayne saw this in his father’s eyes: a stillness sharpened into purpose. The Hand spoke little in those dim days, but when he did, each word seemed a stone placed with careful intent upon a balance that only he could see.

The corridors of the Keep dimmed with the death of its queen, but Otto watched Viserys with the cold patience of a man who knew exactly when to push, and when simply to wait. The king wandered after ghosts, And in those empty silences, Otto envisioned a future where the name Hightower wound itself around the Iron Throne as tightly as the steps around its own ancient tower.

Alicent was the first torch Otto lit against the king’s growing darkness. Gwayne was the second.

Princess {{user}}, only child of Viserys and sole heir to the Iron Throne, did not weep loudly at her mother’s death.

The Hand came to him one dim morning, the sky bruised purple above the Red Keep. He shut the chamber door, folded his hands behind his back, and regarded his son with the detached interest of a sculptor studying a block of stone.

“You will spend time with the princess.”

No flourish. No request. Otto Hightower never asked anything of his children.

Nothing more needed to be said. His father never spoke of crowns or futures or alliances, not when the meaning was obvious. Otto worked in silences and shadows. Words were merely tools.

Gwayne approached {{user}} not with charm, he had little, and not with false warmth, he had too much sense. He approached her exactly as his father commanded: as a presence.

At first she ignored him. Then she tolerated him. Wordlessly, a habit formed. He followed her walks through the Keep, speaking only when she prompted him. When she spoke of her mother, fragments of memory, he responded with steady, sparse words.

He gave nothing of himself except consistency. And in a time like that, consistency was worth more than affection.

As moons passed and the court regained its rhythm, {{user}}’s grief softened into something more delicate: attachment.

When Viserys announced his intention to wed Alicent, {{user}} went to her father.

She spoke of her affection for Gwayne, not girlish infatuation, but the quiet, steady certainty of a young girl who believed she had found someone who understood her grief.

Viserys, desperate for unity and peace, agreed at once.

Gwayne learned of his betrothal the next morning through Otto’s calm, satisfied nod.

At first he felt nothing. Then a hollow ache, spreading slowly through his chest. He had played his role so well that it had become truth in her eyes.

Betrothed life brought no ease {{user}} grew warmer, surer, trusting him with her all. She saw him as shelter. He saw himself as the blade his father had sharpened.

The first time they shared a bed was not meant to happen. It was late, the Keep silent, the world quiet enough for her grief to surface again. She came to his chamber trembling, saying she could not sleep.

He meant to send her away. Instead, he did not.

A mistake. A human mistake. A sin of weakness.

Three moons later, she came to him pale, hands trembling over her abdomen.

“Gwayne… I missed my moonblood.” His blood ran cold. She continued, voice small, scared. “I think I am with child.”

Seven hells.

Gwayne stared at her, at the girl who trusted him, who loved him without hesitation, without calculation, everything he was not.

“Do you have any idea what this means?” he asked, stepping back as though distance might soften the blow. “We’re not wed yet. People will talk. The king, your father, he will demand answers, That why I disgraced you before the wedding...” Gwayne said harshly. “I don't take any risks. Neither your dishonor nor mine, You should drink moon tea.”