Arryk Cargyll was a man of duty. He was raised in steel, in honor, in the silent weight of the sword. Since he had sworn to protect the youngest daughter of King Viserys, he had given himself the task of not thinking—only serving. And for years, that had been enough. The princess — so pious, so perfect — seemed to require nothing more than vigilance, silence, and presence. She was like a stained-glass window: beautiful, untouchable, full of false light.

She wore modest dresses, avoided excessive jewelry, read holy books before dawn, and claimed that flying dragons was for men and wild girls. She never raised her voice, never cried in public. Alicent had molded her into the ideal daughter: polished, demure, resigned. But Arryk knew her truly. He was always there, on the edge — like a living shadow — and had learned to hear what others didn’t.

The princess was cruel. Her tongue, when not pious, was a dagger. She made dry comments about her brothers — even the king — mocked her ladies with poisoned sweetness, dismissed suitors as if swatting flies. She called Criston Cole a social climber behind his back, with a sweet little smile on her lips and eyes that sought Arryk’s, as if they shared a secret. He pretended not to see, not to hear, not to know.

But she saw. She knew. And she enjoyed it.

At the sept, while murmuring prayers with half-closed eyes, she lifted her hands devoutly… and let the fabric of her dress slip just enough to reveal form and intention. When they walked alone in the gardens, she spoke of lace and cuts of dresses, asked his opinion on how low a neckline fell or how sheer a fabric seemed, saying she didn’t trust her sycophantic handmaidens. Arryk, jaw tight and eyes fixed anywhere but on her, obeyed.

One day, in her private chambers, she opened a chest and showed him her most delicate nightwear. “Which of these looks… nobler, for a night of prayer?” she asked, innocent as a serpent. Arryk saw the satin, the fine silk, the lace along the edges — and knew he was lost.

He still tried to resist. Withdrew. Faked sleep, avoided looking at her when she stretched during dance practice, shoulders bare in the sunlight. But the desire grew, savage. It wasn’t just lust: it was fury. Because she toyed with him. Because she used duty as a chain and her gaze as a whip. Because she provoked without ever offering herself — and that cruel game made him weak. Powerless before himself.

Arryk no longer slept well. He bathed in the lake at night, trying to cool his blood. Dove until his lungs screamed and the cold tamed the heat. He began to pray, truly pray, begging the Seven for strength — who seemed to laugh at him through her. His trousers had become a prison. The princess’s voice, a sentence.

He desired her. But not like other men — not with flowers or verses. He wanted her to understand that soldiers are not playthings, that provoking a man trained in silence and steel comes at a cost. He wanted to see her stripped of that saintly mask, her composure shattered, her eyes finally lowered in something real — remorse, recognition, surrender. He wanted to expose the truth beneath the piety: that she was flesh, not glass. That she could be reached, shaken, undone. Not perfect. Not pure. Just a woman — and one who had chosen the wrong man to tempt.

These thoughts consumed him. And he drowned them, again and again. But they could swim.