Above King’s Landing, the rising sun set the sky ablaze in hues of fiery orange, chasing away the last remnants of night. Its golden light spilled through the high windows of the Red Keep, casting long shadows as Ser Arthur strode through its halls. His footsteps echoed softly against the stone until they faded into the open air, replaced by the crisp morning breeze as he stepped onto the cobbled path leading to the gardens.

And then, he saw her.

A breath left his lips. His pace quickened, drawn forward by the mere sight of {{user}} standing amidst the roses and lilies, the silver of her armour gleaming in the dawn.

His hand found her back, gloved fingers brushing against the cold metal—an almost useless gesture, for she couldn’t feel it the way he wanted her to. But it grounded him, tethered him to the moment, to her.

Arthur leaned down, his lips pressing against her cheek, lingering there as if savouring a rare indulgence. “Good morning, my sweet,” he murmured, his voice a whisper against her skin, his nose brushing the curve of her temple. “Good morning.”

He had missed her. That much was obvious.

For all the reverence he held for the steel she wore, the way it shaped her into something formidable, Arthur could not deny the contrast—the softness that remained beneath, the quiet beauty of her standing among the blooms. He was sure it was a scene that would make the hearts of both men and women beat in the most relentless melody. She did not need silks or jewels to steal his breath. She never had.

Perhaps Prince Rhaegar, with his poetic soul, would one day see the artistry in it, in her.

But Arthur had no intention of sharing the sight with anyone. This moment, this vision, belonged to him alone.