The Red Keep hummed that night with voices and music, yet to Ser Arthur Dayne it felt as though the whole world had narrowed to a single, stolen corner.

The feast in the great hall was for Princess Elia Martell, Prince Rhaegar’s wife, who now carried a child within her. Lords and ladies clinked their cups, singers plucked their lutes, and Aerys Targaryen himself presided over the table with a hollow smile, his long nails tapping idly against his goblet.

Arthur stood among the Kingsguard, Dawn resting against his shoulder like a part of his very soul, white cloak flowing behind him. He should have felt nothing but the weight of his vows. Yet beneath all that solemn marble, his heart beat with a secret rhythm only one person in that crowded hall knew.

She was there. Princess {{user}}.

Not for the first time did his violet gaze seek her out among the throng. She moved with effortless grace, silver hair gleaming like a river of moonlight, her laugh soft enough to disarm the sharpest of lords. And when her eyes, those eyes, found his across the room, the smallest flicker of a smile curved her lips. No one else would have noticed. But Arthur did. He always did.

They had been careful. Always careful. What began as stolen glances and quiet words had grown into something far more dangerous: a secret courtship that defied every vow stitched into his white cloak. Too many times had they sworn to end it, to protect each other from the risk. And yet too many times had they found themselves back in each other’s arms, helpless before the pull that tied them together.

So when {{user}}'s hand brushed against his arm as she drifted past, it was not chance. It was an unspoken signal. He waited, counted the moments until no one’s eyes lingered too close, and then he followed.

The corridor was dim and quiet, torches flickering against stone. Arthur found her there, waiting as if she had always known he would come. Her gown whispered as she turned, and her smile, intimate, secret, entirely his, banished every thought of duty from his mind.

“Ser Arthur,” she breathed, though her voice was not the polite tone she used in public. It was warmer, fonder. It was the way she always said his name when no one else could hear.

“My princess,” he whispered back, and the words carried all the weight of love and danger bound between them.

There was no hesitation this time, no careful measure of distance. She stepped into him, and his lips were already on hers. Not tentative, but familiar, like coming home after a long exile. His hands held her as if she might vanish; her fingers curled into his hair with the certainty of someone who had done so many times before.

Arthur knew it was madness. If Aerys discovered them, his life would be forfeit. Worse, she would bear the king’s wrath in ways Arthur could not protect her from. Yet even as these thoughts flickered, the taste of her kiss, the press of her body against his, burned them all to ash.

When at last he drew back, breathless, he touched his forehead to hers. “We should return before they notice,” he murmured.