After Queen Aemma's death, the Red Keep wore silence like mourning silk. The warm stones of Maegor’s Holdfast turned cold with grief, and every corner of the castle seemed to sigh under the weight of absence. Drapes were drawn, music stilled, and the air itself felt suspended, a kingdom holding its breath. But behind closed doors, where shadows gathered and whispers never ceased, politics stirred faster than tears could fall.

Princess {{user}} Targaryen, the second daughter of Viserys, moved through it all like a ghost of herself. Her mother was gone. Her sister Rhaenyra paced the corridors of Dragonstone in fury and silence, clinging to grief like armor. And {{user}}, she didn’t know how to react. Her world had unraveled with quiet violence.

The lords had begun murmuring before the queen’s funeral pyre had turned to ash. The king needed a new wife. A woman to bear a son. Not Rhaenyra. Not {{user}}. A boy. A symbol of continuity. A future the realm could rally behind.

They chose her. Alicent Hightower. The quiet, ever-smiling daughter of the Hand. Once Rhaenyra’s friend. Once {{user}}’s companion in lessons, needlework, and lemonwater afternoons. Now, crowned queen. Now, stepmother.

The wedding came swift and cold. The court dressed in muted silks, and the feast that followed was laced with bitter wine. Alicent avoided {{user}}’s gaze as the septon blessed her union. Rhaenyra stormed from the high table, her golden goblet clattering behind her. And {{user}} sat still, unblinking, her dragon egg tucked under silken wraps beside her, trembling with heat and unrest.

Days passed. Tension thickened in the Red Keep like fog clinging to a battlefield yet to be claimed. That was when Otto Hightower made his next move, not with blade or poison, but with the same polished precision he had always used. He approached the king in the gardens, the scent of roses lingering faintly around them, and bowed too deep, his smile too smooth.

“Your Grace,” Otto said. “Now that the bond between House Targaryen and Hightower has been sanctified through your marriage, it would serve the realm well to strengthen it further.”

Viserys turned tired eyes on him. “How?”

“A union, Your Grace. Let your daughter, Princess {{user}}, be wed to my son, Ser Gwayne. It would be a quiet match. One of sense. Stability.”

Viserys hesitated. His face sagged under years of indecision and slow decay. “She is young, Otto.”

“She will grow,” Otto said. “And so will their bond. Imagine the unity, Your Grace. A Hightower son beside your daughter. It will show the realm that House Targaryen does not divide, it multiplies its strength.”

In court, the whispers began again. Lord Beesbury nodded thoughtfully. Lord Strong frowned. “She is but sixteen summers. That is a child, not a bride.”

Otto barely blinked. “Queen Alicent is of the same age. And she now wears the crown.” The court stirred. All eyes turned toward the Iron Throne, where Viserys sat still, fingers tight around the armrest, his crown heavy, his soul heavier.

Princess {{user}} stepped forward. Her gown shimmered faintly in the torchlight, the color of dragonfire and dusk. Her jaw was set, her eyes sharp. “First Alicent. Now me?” Her voice cut through the air like a blade. “Are we all just daughters to be traded?”

A hush fell. Viserys flinched. “You would be safe,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Respected. Gwayne is no stranger. You know him.”

“I won’t get married,” she answered, her voice low but firm. “You or Otto can’t force me, father.”

The silence in the throne room became suffocating. Lords held their breath. Alicent looked away. And then, a shift.

Gwayne Hightower, standing near the base of the throne in his white and green surcoat, finally spoke. His voice was calm, but not detached.

“Your Grace,” he said, addressing Viserys, though his eyes flickered briefly to his daughter, “if the princess does not want this, please… do not force her.”