tell me everything is not about me…

Other nominees this year included Chris Stapleton, Miranda Lambert, Phil Vassar, Jim Beavers, Rodney Clawson, Dallas Davidson, Marv Green, Neil Thrasher and Chris Tompkins.

The hall was established in 1970 and had 254 members prior to this announcement. Last year’s inductees were Emmylou Harris, Brad Paisley, Jim Lauderdale, JJ Cale, Steve Bogard, Don Cook and Tony Martin.

Otto leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin, regarding his son with that familiar, measuring scrutiny. The fire cracked softly in the hearth. Outside, the afternoon light had begun to thin.

“Did you encourage the princess’s affections?”

“No.”

“Did you know of them?”

Gwayne hesitated.

“…I suspected,” he said at last.

Otto’s brow lifted a fraction. “And yet you said nothing?”

“Why would I speak of it with you?”

Otto remained silent. Then, to Gwayne’s surprise, he nodded.

“Perhaps, this matter is not yet beyond saving.” His fingers tapped once against the arm of his chair.

“The princess has placed the king in a difficult position,” Otto observed. “To deny her outright risks more than granting the match. His Grace has always doted upon his children. To wound the princess so publicly would invite questions no king welcomes. That alone creates an opportunity—provided no one squanders it.”

Gwayne’s jaw tightened. “She is not another move upon your board.”

“So fiercely protective already.” A faint smile touched Otto's mouth, though there was little warmth in it. “I ask only that you not be so honourable that you become a fool. She has chosen you. The king will summon you. Whatever answer you give… understand that it will shape the rest of your life. A union between House Targaryen and House Hightower is a chancr not offered twice in a lifetime.”

Gwayne shook his head slowly.

“Is Alicent’s marriage to the king not enough for you?” he asked, challenging. “Must every bond our house forges be measured only by what it gains you?”

Otto rose, crossed the short distance between them, and rested a hand briefly on Gwayne’s arm but not with affection.

“You speak as though one alliance is the same as another,” he said. “It is not. Your sister’s marriage secured influence. Yours bind our bloods further—for generations.” He withdrew his hand. “But tell me plainly, since we are being so forthright—”

His head tilted slightly.

“Do you feel anything for the princess beyond duty?”

The silence stretched taut. Then Gwayne’s face hardened.

“That,” he said, voice deepening in finality, “is not a matter for this room.”

He held Otto’s gaze.

“Nor is it a matter for politics.”

Otto studied him in the silence that followed. The answer had already been given, written plain across his son’s face.

A knock sounded. A knight stood in the doorway, head bowed. “Lord Hand. The king requests Ser Gwayne’s presence.”

“Ah. As expected. Off you go.”

Gwayne inclined his head and turned for the door.

“Ser Gwayne.”

Gwayne paused.

“Remember whose son you are.”

Gwayne looked back to his father only once.

“I have not forgotten.” His hand settled on the latch. “I am my mother’s son.”

—

Viserys paced before the hearth, voice rising and falling with the weight of a king who felt his authority had been challenged. He spoke of Rhaenyra’s marriage. Of unity in uncertain times. Of how your public declaration had thrown everything into disarray.

You said nothing. Hands clasped before you, gaze fixed on the flames, you let the tide of his frustrations wash over you without resistance. Every time he paused, expecting an answer, you gave him only silence.

Then the last of his words cut through.

“—and what if they refuse because he is already betrothed, hmm? Have you considered that? The humiliation it would bring upon you as a princess of the blood, upon this house, if Oldtown turns its back on such an offer?”

Your head snapped up.

“Oh,” you scoffed. “So they are permitted the liberty to refuse… but I am not? Because I am a woman?”

Viserys stopped pacing. His face flushed. “So now you speak? Must you only find your tongue when you mean to defy me?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Do not roll your eyes at me—”

You did it again. 

His jaw tightened. For a moment he looked as though he might truly raise his voice further—then he drew a sharp breath through his nose, forcing restraint. The vein at his temple pulsed.

“You stand there and lecture me on liberty while you have just upended the entire small council with a single name. Do you have any idea what you have done? You forced my hand in front of every lord who still believes he has a claim on your future. Do you have any idea what that has cost me?”

“I named the man I find I would not resent for the rest of my life,” you shot back. “Is that so unthinkable? If that is defiance, then yes. I defied you.”

“It is unthinkable when you do it in front of half the realm without so much as a word to me first!”

“And deprived the court of such an entertaining afternoon? How careless of me.” You tipped your head, all false sweetness. “I had foolishly assumed we were no longer consulting one another before arranging my marriage.” 

You continued pleasantly. 

“I do not recall being invited to the discussions when Lord So-and-So was deemed suitable. Or Lord What's-His-Name. Or the one who recited his own titles for so long I feared he might die before reaching the end. Perhaps the raven was delayed.”

Viserys’s eyes flashed. “Your duty has been taught to you since you were a girl. Since the day you turned three-and-ten. Have you forgotten every lesson, or do you simply choose to spit on them now?”

“Oh, I remember them well.” You began counting upon your fingers. “Sit straight. Speak softly. Smile sweetly. Marry handsomely.” Another finger. “And, should the man prove intolerable... bear it gracefully.” You lowered your hand. “I fear I was a disappointing pupil.”

“You speak as though marriage were some cruel punishment.”

“No,” you said. “Only the wrong one.”

Silence settled between you.

Alicent’s voice cut in before the next blow could land. “Would you like me to speak with my brother, Your Grace? Perhaps a calmer conversation might—”

Your gaze snapped toward her, scowl already forming. Viserys lifted a hand, still glaring at you.

“I have already sent for him.” He turned slightly toward Alicent, tone more controlled though the frustration still simmered. “But since you are here… I would hear your counsel on this matter.”

Her gaze flicked cautiously toward you.

“If Your Grace fears another promise has already been made, you need not,” Alicent replied. “Ser Gwayne is free to marry.” She folded her hands before her. “The princess has risked much by speaking as she did. I cannot think she would have hazarded her honour on a whim.”

Viserys’ expression shifted. His eyes grew distant, as some half-formed memory from the fog of liquor the previous night had risen suddenly. He cleared his throat and looked elsewhere, suddenly unwilling to meet either of your gazes.

“There is no need for that,” he said, a little too firmly. “Whatever her reason, the matter must still be handled with care. The realm is watching.”

Alicent inclined her head, accepting the rebuke without yielding the point.

“The realm is watching, yes. However, Ser Gwayne is an honourable man. There are daughters of great Houses who have been given to far lesser husbands.” She paused, then added more quietly, “A willing bride is less likely to become a resentful one. That, too, is worth considering.”

Your head turned toward her, perplexed. She had not spoken against you.

Why?

Viserys rubbed a hand over his face. The fight seemed to drain from him now that he had counsel to lean upon. He looked at you again—the disappointment still there, but tempered now by exhaustion.

A knock sounded at the chamber doors.

“Your Grace,” came the voice of the guard beyond. “Ser Gwayne Hightower, as requested.”

Viserys exhaled. “Enter.”

You heard the door open behind you, then the soft scrape of boots against stone. You remained still, facing your father.

Gwayne’s gaze found the king first, then his sister, and only then settled upon you — still standing near the hearth with your back half-turned, hands clasped tightly before you.

He bowed. “Your Grace. You have called for me?”

“I have.” Viserys’s attention shifted back to you. “You will return to your chambers and rest. Reflect upon what you have done this day… and upon the consequences that may follow.”

Your jaw clenched.

You bowed your head in silence and turned toward the doors. As you passed Gwayne, you kept your eyes fixed forward, unable to meet his gaze. The space between you felt charged even in that brief moment, thick with everything unsaid.

—

“Sit, Ser Gwayne,” Viserys said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “Please.”

Gwayne obeyed. Across the room, Alicent remained standing in observation. 

“You have been at court for some months now,” the king began at last. “Your father speaks highly of your conduct. Of your skill in the yard. Of the favor you have found among certain… circles.”

Gwayne waited.

“My daughter possesses... a formidable will." A weary smile touched his lips. “She has never yielded simply because someone expected her to.” He shook his head, to himself. “There are days she reminds me so much of her uncle that I despair.”

Then the King’s smile softened. “Then she laughs, or lifts her chin in just the same way her mother did…” His eyes grew distant for a heartbeat. “...and I remember where she truly got it.” 

He paused. 

“Tell me plainly, Ser Gwayne. Do you seek my daughter’s hand?”

Gwayne swallowed and felt even Alicent’s stillness at the edge of his vision. He drew a breath in, and answered with the only truth he possessed.

“No, Your Grace.”

Viserys’s brows knit at once, the lines between them carving deep. His lips parted, as though the refusal had struck him harder than open defiance ever could. 

—

You remained outside the chamber doors, ears pressed against it. The two guards stationed there exchanged glances, their eyes sliding toward you. They knew better than to question you.

“…Tell me plainly, Ser Gwayne. Do you seek my daughter’s hand?”

The silence that followed was brief. Then Gwayne’s voice said loud and clear: “No, Your Grace.”

Those words felt like a blade to the chest.

For a time you could not move or draw a full breath. Heat rose sharp and sudden behind your eyes, but you forced it down with a single, hard swallow. Pride was the only armour you had left, and you would not let it crack here.

You stepped back from the door. You turned on your heel and stormed off not toward your chambers, but down the long stone passages that led out of the Keep and toward the Dragonpit.

The dragonkeepers straightened at your approach, several of them exchanging uncertain glances.

You spoke in High Valyrian, voice tight and commanding. “Please prepare my mount. Now.”

One of the senior keepers stepped forward, hands raised in cautious deference. He answered in the same tongue, “Princess… the hour grows late. The winds over the bay are rising. It is not safe—”

Your eyes flashed. “And I do not have time to argue. So please, while I ask nicely…” The words cut clean and cold. “Prepare the mount.”

The man hesitated only a fraction of a second longer before bowing his head. “At once, Princess.”

“Thank you.”

You stood rigid as they moved to obey, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The wound in your chest still burned, raw and unanswered. But above it, hotter still, rose a fierce and brittle pride.

He had said no.

Very well.

You would not remain in the Red Keep to hear another word of it.

× × × ×

You found yourself alone with Alicent in the gallery overlooking the inner courtyard. Most of the court had long since departed after the morning meal. She had walked ahead with her ladies; you had simply slowed your own steps until the others drifted beyond earshot.

For a time, neither of you spoke.

The murmur of servants below and the splash of the fountain filled the silence.

At last, you broke it.

“Why?”

Alicent turned her head slightly. “Why what?”

“Why have you shown me kindness?”

Her brow furrowed faintly.

“When my father scolded me that night, you might have urged him to forbid it outright. You might have reminded him what such a match would mean for the realm.” You searched her face. “Instead... you stood beside me.”

“I had no reason to oppose.”

You searched her face.

“Forgive me.” You huffed through your nose. “It is only that your father is seldom without purpose. I could not help but wonder whether this was another of Lord Otto's designs.”

For the first time, something almost amused crossed Alicent's face. “You believe I came to persuade the king because my father commanded it?”

You did not answer.

“And had I done the opposite?” Alicent asked gently. “Had I urged His Grace to forbid the match entirely... would that have pleased you?”

“...No.”

“Then what troubles you?”

You frowned. "That you are in my corner at all."

The words hung between you and Alicent looked away toward the gardens with a sogh of disbelief.

You let out a shallow breath and crossed your arms. “It is only...” You searched for the words. “Strange.”

“Strange?”

“After everything that has passed between us... I did not expect it.”

A softness entered Alicent's expression. “Have we truly become such strangers that you think every kindness I show you is a scheme?”

You said nothing, gaze drifting away.

“When we were children,” she continued quietly, “you followed me through these halls as though I were your other elder sister. You stole lemon cakes from the kitchens and insisted we share the blame when we were caught.”

The mention of what once were stung but you kept a hardened expression.

“I know,” Alicent continued, “that you could not bear to look at me. I never blamed you for it. Nor did I blame you for borrowing Rhaenyra's anger before you had found your own.”

Silence settled between you. You tightened the crossed arms over your chest and still refused to look at her.

“When I looked at you that night, I did not see a princess making some reckless spectacle…” Alicent glanced at you, “I saw a woman whose heart had already chosen.”

A faint, wistful smile touched her lips. “And I remembered the girl I once loved.”

Your throat tightened and the lining of your eyes stung so you turned away before she could see it.

After a moment, Alicent spoke again.

“Now, I ask you to tell me truthfully. Is your affection for Gwayne real?” She paused and swallowed, "Or is he merely the instrument by which you mean to strike me?”

You finally turned your head back towards her, “What do you mean?”

“When he asked you to dance. Was it my brother you wished to choose... or merely my father's son?”

You blinked as you stared at her. Then laughed incredulously. “I may have accepted his hand for a dance out of spite,” you admitted with a crooked smile. “But to wish to marry him?”

You shook your head.

"What victory would there be in that?”

The laugh faded as you realized Alicent was not smiling. She had asked in earnest. You quieted, the mirth draining from your face. 

“My affections for Gwayne…” you said, softer now, “is genuine.”

The admission felt strange on your tongue, but it was the truth. Alicent studied you well before she gave the smallest of nods, as though your answer had satisfied something in her.

“Anyway…it matters little now.” You looked away toward the courtyard below.

Alicent's brow furrowed. “What—”

“I mistook your brother's kindness for something it was never meant to be.” A sad smile tugged at your lips. “I allowed myself to believe...”

Your voice faltered.

“I’ve led myself on.”

Alicent turned to you, confusion plain upon her face, “What are you saying?”

You offered no answer.

“I should go,” you said quietly. “I think I have been indoors too long.”

“Princess—”

“I only wish to clear my head.” You managed a small, weary smile. “Vaelys has ever been kinder company than my own thoughts. Have a good day, Your Grace.”

Without waiting for another reply, you gathered your skirts and turned toward the gallery steps, leaving Alicent standing alone. She watched you go, bewilderment giving way, little by little, to dawning understanding.

“Oh…”

—

Gwayne had begun to count the hours by how often he almost reached you.

Morning drills in the yard. The clash of steel, the bark of the master-at-arms, the usual press of men and squires. And then—there. A flash of silver hair at the edge of the colonnade, the mint green of your sleeves catching the early light. Gwayne’s grip on the practice sword slipped. He handed the weapon off without a word and started across the sand, heart already climbing into his throat.

By the time he reached the colonnade you were gone. Only the faint scent of lemon remained, and the soft laughter of your ladies drifting further down the gallery.

He stood there longer than he should have, breathing as though he had run the length of the Red Keep.

It happened again at the midday meal.

You sat three places down the high table, far enough that conversation was impossible, close enough that he could see the precise way you held your cup, the way your gaze never once lifted past the rim. He watched you speak to a lady-in-waiting, watched the corner of your mouth tilt in that small, private smile you used to give freely. He waited for your eyes to find him. Waited through the entire course of roasted fowl and stewed pears.

They never did.

When you rose to leave, he rose too. Manners be damned. He took three steps after you before a cluster of courtiers closed the space between you, and by the time he had navigated the press you had already vanished through the side doors that led toward the godswood.

He found only the empty path and the soft hush of leaves.

By the third day the pattern had become tormenting.

He would see you across a courtyard, or turning a corner in the upper halls, or descending the steps toward the sept with your ladies in a soft-spoken constellation around you. Every time his body moved before his mind could counsel patience. Every time you slipped just beyond reach—through a doorway, behind a tapestry, into the sudden shelter of a passing retinue.

Once, in the gallery that overlooked the inner gardens, he thought he had you.

You stood alone at the railing, looking down at the fountain. The late-afternoon light turned the edges of your hair to fire. Gwayne’s boots made almost no sound on the stone as he approached. Ten paces. Five. His hand lifted of its own accord, lips already shaping the shape of your name.

You turned your head just slightly—not toward him, but away—and the next second you were moving, already halfway to the opposite stairs. He stopped in the centre of the gallery, hand still half-raised, and let the silence settle around him like dust.

That night he stood at the window of his chambers and watched the torches along the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast burn low. Somewhere beyond those walls you slept, or did not sleep. Somewhere you had decided that looking at him was no longer safe.

He pressed his forehead to the cool stone and closed his eyes.

He had told the king the truth. He had laid everything on the table without armour or apology. And still you would not meet his gaze.

Perhaps that was the cruelest part of all.

He did not need you to speak. He did not need declarations or soft promises in the dark. He only needed your eyes. Just once. Just long enough to know whether the thing that had taken root in his chest had any answering root in yours.

But you kept your gaze carefully elsewhere, and every almost left him standing alone in the space you had just vacated, breathing the faint ghost of your presence and wondering how a man was meant to survive the quiet violence of being so thoroughly, so gently, avoided.

He remained at the window long after the torches had guttered.

Waiting, still, for a glance that never came.

—

In the days that followed, your presence became something the entire court learned to step carefully around.

You answered when spoken to, but only in the barest of ways—a low hum of acknowledgment, a single clipped word, a nod that carried no warmth. Meals were taken in silence. Conversations died the moment you entered a room. Even the servants moved with lighter feet when you passed, as though afraid of drawing your notice.

You avoided Gwayne like your life depended on it. If he entered a gallery, you left it. If his voice carried down a corridor, you turned the other way. And more often than not, you were simply gone—high above the bay on Vaelys. 

It was there that Rhaenyra and Viserys found themselves one late afternoon, standing side by side on a high balcony of the Red Keep, watching the distant shape of the dragon cut slow arcs against the sky.

Viserys exhaled through his nose, hands braced on the stone railing.

“Is she truly so upset with me?” he asked at last, eyes still fixed on the sky.

Rhaenyra did not look away from Vaelys either. “I could not say. She has not spoken to me either.”

A beat of silence passed between them. Then Rhaenyra glanced sideways at her father. “Have you rejected her proposal?”

Viserys’ mouth tightened. He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable with the directness of the question.

“No,” he said. Then, after a pause, “Well… I have not decided yet. Ser Gwayne is… a complicated matter. His house already holds considerable influence through the queen. To bind them closer still through marriage is not a decision to be made in haste, no matter how publicly the request was delivered.”

“I see.”

Viserys rubbed a hand over his face, the weariness plain in the gesture. “She is rather terrifying when she is…upset,” he muttered, "everyone catches fire."

Rhaenyra let out a short, incredulous snort. “You are frightened of your own daughter?”

“No,” he said quickly, then hesitated. “Not of her, but rather her resentment.”

“Has she spoken with Ser Gwayne since that day?” Rhaenyra asked, “The man looked rather shocked when she spoke his name. I do not think he anticipated it.”

Viserys shook his head. “If even you have not managed a word from her… I doubt anyone has. She has made herself scarce.”

“Why not let them speak?” she asked.

Viserys’ jaw worked. “If I allow it, I will have to decide. And once the decision is made, there is no taking it back.”

Rhaenyra turned her head at last, studying her father’s profile with that knowing look she had inherited from her mother.

“I think you have already decided, Father,” she said softly. “I only wonder what you are waiting for.”

—

Dusk had settled over the bay by the time you returned.

Vaelys landed with a rumble that vibrated through the stone of the Dragonpit. You remained in the saddle a moment longer before finally dismounting. The dragon lowered her massive head, and you stepped close, pressing your forehead to the space between her eyes. You simply stood there, eyes closed, drawing in her familiar scent, feeling your bond. 

When you drew back, you turned to the waiting keepers.

“Feed her well,” you told the keepers in High Valyrian, “She has flown long. She will be hungry.”

They bowed and moved to obey. You stripped off your riding gloves as you walked, and started the long path back toward the Red Keep. 

When you arrived, you were feeling lighter than before, yet you expected your mood to change as soon as you’re alone with your thoughts. You had nearly reached the turn that led toward the eastern wing when a familiar voice drifted from the passage ahead.

Your eyes widened as you turned on your heel so sharply your skirts flared. Behind you, the conversation faltered. 

Gwayne had seen you.

He finished whatever he had been saying with a brief word, then stepped away from the man he had been speaking with in haste. His voice followed you down the corridor. 

“Princess! A moment please.”

You stopped.

Composure took effort. You drew in a slow breath, squared your shoulders, and turned to face him fully. Your expression was carefully neutral.

“What is it, Ser Gwayne?”

He stood a short distance away, the other man already departing down the opposite passage. He looked at you like he had been waiting for this moment and still did not quite know how to begin with it.

“May I speak with you?” he asked, “In private?”

You glanced pointedly around the corridor—at the two guards stationed further down the hall, at the empty stretch of stone between you.

“Why not here?” you suggested. “There is no one about.”

Gwayne’s gaze flicked once toward the guards, then returned to you. His voice lowered, “It is rather important.”

You drew another breath in and yielded, “Very well…Then let us go to the godswood.” You turned and walked without waiting to see if he followed.

—

Red leaves whispered overhead in the evening wind. The great weirwood stood pale and watchful at the centre of the grove, its dark eyes seeming to follow as you stepped into the open space beneath its branches. You walked several paces ahead of him before finally stopping and turning.

“Well, here we are.” you started, arms lifting. “What is this important matter that could not be spoken in a corridor?”

He regarded you, weighing how best to start. 

“You have been avoiding me,” he stated. “Rather thoroughly. Especially since the king has both summoned us.”

“What of it?” you asked. “I would assume the matter is resolved.”

His brows drew together slightly. “Resolved?”

“Yes.” Your voice remained cool, though brittleness had entered it. “Resolved. Is that not what you told my father?”

Gwayne went still, the confusion plain across his face before he could mask it. “I do not take your meaning,” he said slowly. “What is it you believe I told the king?”

Your expression stiffened.

The realisation landed with uncomfortable clarity. You had heard only a single word. One sharp, damning no—and had fled before anything else could follow. Now, standing before him, the certainty you had carried for days began to fracture. What else might have been said in the moments after you turned away? What context had you left behind?

Gwayne narrowed his eyes at the shift in your expression, as though reading every thought as it crossed your features.

“You were eavesdropping,” he said in realisation.

“No.” you replied without a beat.

Gwayne’s mouth curved, “Then please help me understand. What do you mean by ‘what I said’ to your father? What precisely did I say that wounded you so deeply you made your absence a campaign?”

You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek. Pride warred with the growing, mortifying sense that you had misjudged the entire exchange.

At last you exhaled. “…You said you do not seek my hand.”

Gwayne looked at you with an expression so carefully schooled into seriousness that the faintest flicker of a smile threatened the edges of his lips. He seemed to be working rather hard not to let it show but the effort it took was visible in the slight tension at the corner of his eyes.

Your eyes narrowed, “Is it amusing?”

“No.” His voice cracked and he tried again, firmer, “No, of course not.”

He held your gaze, the humour turning more earnest. “You should have remained a while longer,” he said. “You would have heard the rest.”

“Well,” you said, lifting your chin. “Whatever was spoken in my father's chambers shall remain there.”

Gwayne dropped his gaze, unable to maintain the seriousness any longer. A small shake of his head followed, and when he looked up again he a fond smile lit up his face.

“You have many virtues, Princess.” His smile deepened, “Patience, I find, has never been among them. Had you waited but another minute, you would have spared us both a very miserable week.”

The smile faded by degrees.

“Though…” His eyes searched yours. “I cannot pretend I do not understand why you became avoidant.”

His voice began to soften.

“A woman won’t make such declarations unless she has first found the courage to hope. To believe she has been refused…” He shook his head faintly. “I imagine that wound must have cut deeper than I knew. Did you know your courage is one of the things I admire most about you?”

You swallowed thickly and dropped your gaze as he continued.

“You stood before a hall full of lords and spoke the truth of your own heart, though every one of them expected your silence.”

The faint smile widens.

“You possess more courage than many men I have known. Which is why I cannot help but wonder how a woman brave enough to face an entire court... could lose heart before a single man.”

Silence stretched between you, as the red leaves stirred overhead. His gaze fell to your hand that remained closed at your side, fingers curled as though still guarding the hurt you had carried here.

“May I?” 

When you did not step away, he closed the last of the distance with care. His fingers found yours and turned your hand so that your palm faced upward. He only held it there for a moment, memorising the shape of it.

Then he drew the signet ring from his smallest finger. His eyes and fingers lingering around the ring.

“I had hoped to make my intentions known that day…after the Tyrells.” A faint smile, almost embarrassed. “Instead, you spared me the speech I had in mind for you and left me scrambling to catch up.”

The band was simple, the Hightower flame cut deep into the face of it. He placed it carefully into the centre of your palm, closing your fingers around the cool metal gently.

“I have nothing finer with me in this city, only this.” he admitted and his thumb brushed over your closed fist. “It bears my House… It has rested upon my hand for years.”

His eyes searched yours, open and unguarded in a way you had never seen.

“I should like it to remain with the person who now holds the rest of me…if you will still have me.”

You stared down at your closed hand, at the faint press of metal against your skin. The weight of it felt impossibly familiar. Slowly, you lifted your gaze to his. Your eyes wandered over his face, searching and recognising—as though you had been looking for him all your life and had only now understood the shape of what you sought.

You nodded and though small, it was certain.

“Yes,” you said softly. “I will have you.”

Gwayne’s expression eased, the tension he’s been holding for days drained from his shoulders. He did not release your hand. He only stared at you with a soft, tender smile that made your chest tighten.

“You have gone rather quiet, Ser Gwayne.”

His laugh came under his breath. “...I find I have exhausted every speech I rehearsed.”

“You rehearsed speeches?” You tilted your head, a grin threatening.

Colour rose faintly across his cheeks. “...Several.”

You laughed, bright and sudden, shaking your head. The breeze stirred the auburn hair falling across his forehead. Without thinking, you lifted your free hand. Gwayne did not seem to understand your intention until your fingertips came to rest against his cheek.

He went perfectly still.

It was such a simple touch. And yet no one had ever touched him with such gentleness. Your thumb brushed lightly along the line of his cheekbone. The warmth of his skin sank into your palm.

“You think yourself the only fool between us?” A watery laugh escaped you. “I have spent days grieving a man who was standing only a corridor away. For that, I apologize.”

His eyes closed, shaking his head.

When they opened again, every careful wall he had built around himself had vanished. There was nothing left but undisguised adoration.

Gwayne lifted his own hand. His fingers paused just short of your face.

“May I touch you?”

You answered by leaning ever so slightly into the waiting touch.

It was all the permission he required. His palm settled against your cheek with extraordinary care, fearing the slightest pressure might wake him from a dream he could not bear to leave. His thumb traced the faintest path beneath your eye, memorising the shape of you.

“I had wondered,” he admitted, “whether I should ever earn the right to do this.”

Your lips curved. “You ask permission for everything.”

“Not everything.”

“No?”

His smile was small and a little helpless. “Only the things I most wish never to lose.”

—

You stood in the great throne room of the Red Keep with the weight of a hundred eyes upon you, the ancient iron blades of the throne rising like a jagged black mountain behind your father.

Viserys rested both hands upon the arms of the throne.

“My council has been heard,” he said. “My queen has spoken. My Hand has offered his counsel, as have the great lords of this court.” His gaze settled first upon you, then upon the man beside you.

“My daughter has also made her wishes known.”

A murmur moved through the hall, quickly smothered.

“It was not the manner I would have chosen.” The faintest ghost of a smile touched the king’s mouth. “But fathers are often reminded that children seldom trouble themselves with such preferences.”

A ripple of restrained laughter passed through the court before dying as quickly as it had begun.

Viserys rose.

“You are my blood,” he said, looking at you. “I would sooner see you well matched than richly bargained.” His eyes turned to Gwayne. “And you, Ser Gwayne Hightower… have given me every cause to believe you understand the weight of what is placed before you.”

Gwayne lowered himself to one knee without hesitation. “I do, Your Grace.”

“Then hear my judgment.” The king’s voice carried cleanly to every corner of the hall.

“By my word and under my seal, I grant my blessing to this match. Let it be known that my daughter shall wed Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown. Before the next moon has waned, they shall be joined in the sight of gods and men within the Great Sept of the Red Keep.”

Whispers darted through the assembled lords like swallows before a storm. Some faces betrayed surprise. Others satisfaction. Still more had already turned inward, quietly counting the alliances yet to be gained or lost.

Viserys looked between the two of you and cleared his throat.

“Well?”

The single word carried a faint, almost amused edge.

Gwayne started, as if returning from somewhere far away. He bowed his head deeply.

“You honour me beyond my deserts, Your Grace.” He said. “I swear before this court, before the Seven, and before every soul present, that I shall spend the remainder of my days striving to prove myself worthy of the trust you place in me… and worthy of your daughter.”

The hall remained still and Viserys nodded slowly.

“See that you do.” A smile, warm despite himself, softened the king’s weathered face. “I should dislike having to find another husband for her.”

Laughter—genuine this time—rolled gently through the throne room, easing a tension none had dared acknowledge aloud. Even you felt your own smile break free. When at last Gwayne rose, his gaze met yours once more across the short distance that still separated you.

You have officially received the king’s blessing and Gwayne Hightower would soon be your husband.

× × × × 

You sat curled on a cushioned bench with a cup of tea in your hands while Rhaenyra lounged opposite you, boots kicked off, one foot tucked beneath her. Laenor occupied the window seat, idly turning a dagger over in his fingers, the three of you having spent the better part of an hour trading idle gossip.

Until the question slipped out of you without warning.

“What is it like?”

Rhaenyra paused mid-sip and lowered her cup, one brow lifting. A chuckle escaped her, “You will have to be more specific, sister.”

You made an impossibly vague gesture with one hand, somehow managing to indicate everything while naming nothing at all. Your gaze darted toward the closed door as though the walls themselves might blush.

Laenor looked from you to Rhaenyra, the corners of his mouth already threatening betrayal.

“I believe,” he said with perfect composure, “she means the consummation.”

Heat climbed your neck.

“Yes,” you admitted. “That.”

Rhaenyra made a short, rude noise with her lips and set her cup down with a soft clink. “Gods.”

“I mean…” You looked between them with growing embarrassment. “You have done it. Have you not?”

Laenor's shoulders began to shake.

Rhaenyra pointed accusingly at him. “Do not laugh. You answer it, then.”

“I would sooner face another meeting of the Small Council.”

“You see?” she said, throwing up both hands. “He would rather argue succession with Lord Beesbury than answer his own good-sister.”

A helpless laugh escaped you despite yourself. Rhaenyra sighed dramatically.

“Very well. How should I describe it?” She rubbed at her temple as though preparing for battle. “It hurts.”

Your smile vanished. “Oh…”

“No—” she said quickly, seeing your face fall. “Not forever. It grows better…with time. And care.” She looked toward Laenor. “Tell her, will you? Or must I be the only one floundering through this conversation?”

Laenor laid the dagger aside and folded his hands across one knee. 

“It will be pleasurable. If he remembers there are two bodies in the marriage bed and not one. If he takes the time to learn what eases you and what draws pleasure instead of only seeking his own end.” 

He tilted his head slightly, looking at his wife. Rhaenyra nodded vigorously, “Yes. That.”

Laenor tilted his head thoughtfully.

“Though...” He examined his nails. “I confess I know very little of Ser Gwayne's education in such matters.”

Rhaenyra closed her eyes. “Laenor.”

“What? It is a fair question.”

“No, it is not.”

“He is a Hightower.”

“I am aware.”

“He was raised beneath the shadow of the Starry Sept.”

“Laenor…”

“What? Oldtown is thick with the Faith and the Hightowers are known for their piety. A man raised under the light of the Starry Sept may come to the marriage bed with more theory than practice.”

Rhaenyra shot him a sharp look.

Laenor raised both hands in mild defense, though his mouth still curved. “I only say it because he is also a knight. And knights, for all their vows, are rarely saints when it comes to the desires of the flesh. The two things may balance each other. Or they may not.”

“Whatever experience he has or has not,” Rhaenyra said, rolling her eyes, “the important thing is that he listens and that he does not rush. You may tell him if something pains you. You may ask him to slow. A man worth the name will heed you.” 

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your skirts. The conversation had turned so quickly from court gossip to something far more intimate, and your mind refused to stay on the general. The betrothal was only days old, the wedding still weeks away, and already the idea of sharing a marriage bed with Ser Gwayne Hightower sat in your chest like a live coal.

“Oh.” Rhaenyra pulled you back.

You looked up and you repeated cautiously.

“Oh?” 

She leaned back with unmistakable satisfaction. “You are imagining him.”

“I am not!”

Laenor regarded you with exaggerated solemnity, then back at his wife. “She was absolutely imagining his Hightower.”

For one glorious second, the jest escaped you. Then your eyes widened.

“Ser Laenor!”

By the curve of his mouth, he looked innocently pleased with himself.

“You ought to be ashamed.”

“I often am.”

“Oh I beg to differ.”

Heat rushed into your cheeks so fiercely that even Rhaenyra abandoned all pretence of composure and folded over laughing.

“Oh, Seven hells,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands for the briefest moment before pointing an accusing finger at him. “You are a thoroughly ill-bred man.”

“I have been called worse.”

“I can imagine by whom.”

“You chose to begin this conversation,” Laenor reminded you pleasantly. “I merely answered the question with... architectural accuracy.”

You groaned aloud. “I am leaving.”

“You're flustered,” Rhaenyra managed between laughs.

“I am choosing not to murder my good-brother.”

“A wise distinction.” Laenor shot back.

“I shall pray for both of your souls.” you retorted.

Laenor inclined his head gravely. “Pray particularly hard for mine.”

You smiled despite yourself before rising to your feet. “Thank you,” you said, looking first to Rhaenyra, then to Laenor. “Truly. Both of you. I have made a terrible mistake in confiding in either of you.”

Rhaenyra nodded . “You are welcome…”

Then her eyes narrowed. She had always been too sharp for her own good—and for yours. She straightened in her chair, studying the set of your shoulders, the way your hands had already begun to smooth your skirts as though preparing to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“To find Ser Gwayne.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“You have just spent the better part of an hour asking us about consummation.”

“Yes.”

“And now you are going to find your betrothed.”

“Yes.”

Rhaenyra stared. “Laenor, stop her.”

Laenor looked from one princess to the other before leisurely reaching for his wine. “I confess,” he said, “I should like to see how this ends.”

“You are no help whatsoever.”

“I have never claimed otherwise.”

Rhaenyra rounded on you again. “Sister.”

“Yes?”

“Promise me you are not about to do something that will force Father to arrange another emergency council meeting.”

You blinked. “What an extraordinary opinion you have of me.”

She gave you a flat look. “I know you.”

You held her stare and let the silence stretch just long enough for the meaning to settle between you. You did not need to speak Cole’s name or Daemon’s. Rhaenyra’s own history hung in the air between you.

Rhaenyra groaned.

Laenor barely swallowed his laughter and lifted his goblet to hide his expression.

You turned toward the door.

Rhaenyra’s voice followed you, stripped of its earlier shock. “Be careful.”

You paused only long enough to glance back once. “I will.”

—

You did not go in search of Ser Gwayne for the reasons Rhaenyra had so confidently imagined.

You returned to your chambers, exchanged your gown for a plain tunic of dark linen, fitted breeches, and soft leather boots, then bound your hair neatly at the nape of your neck. Without escort or ceremony, you slipped from the upper halls of the Red Keep and made your way toward the training yard.

Only a handful of knights and squires remained upon the field. The afternoon's heat had driven most indoors, leaving behind the ring of blunted steel and the occasional barked correction from a master-at-arms.

Gwayne stood near the far rail with his arms loosely folded, his attention upon two young squires whose enthusiasm greatly outmatched their skill.

You slowed. For a little while, you were content simply to watch him.

The breeze toyed with the loose strands of auburn hair at his temples. Every now and then he would murmur a quiet correction to the boys before him, patient enough to let them discover their mistakes rather than shame them for making them. One squire stumbled into the dirt. Instead of laughter, Gwayne offered the young man his hand and pulled him easily back to his feet before sending him on with a few words that drew an embarrassed grin.

Your own mouth curved before you realised it had done so.

You might have watched him a while longer had the servants not proved far more observant than you. One paused while carrying a bundle of practice spears. Another, halfway through filling a bucket, caught sight of you and hastily dipped his head. Within moments Gwayne’s head turned.

His expression changed the instant he saw you. He pushed away from the rail and crossed the yard toward you, the corners of his mouth already softening before he seemed aware of it himself. When he reached you, he inclined his head and took your hand.

“My Princess.” His lips brushed your knuckles, the kiss no more than propriety required, yet the touch still sent warmth racing the length of your arm. When he raised his head his fingers lingered around yours before he reluctantly let them go.

His gaze dropped, taking in the tunic, the breeches, the practical boots. A small, reserved smile touched his mouth. “I see you have dressed for something rather more ambitious than an afternoon stroll.”

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, but you did not look away. The conversation with Rhaenyra and Laenor still lingered inconveniently in your thoughts, making every glance from him feel far more dangerous than it ought.

“A dance with you, Ser Gwayne?” you asked, the words light.

His smile deepened until his dimples appeared. “A dance.” He repeated the words, tasting it, clearly understanding the challenge beneath the courtesy. “A dangerous word to use around a knight.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“It appears,” he said, unable quite to hide his smile, “that every dance with you ends by changing the course of my life.”

You looked down to hide a giddy smile.

He turned without further ceremony, he turned toward the weapons rack and selected two blunted training swords. Returning, he offered one to you hilt-first. When your fingers wrapped around the leather grip, he did not immediately let go. His gaze lingered upon your hand. Only when he was satisfied your hold was secure did he release the sword.

"Show me your stance.”

You settled into the position Ser Harrold had drilled into you countless times; feet planted, knees loose, blade lifted.

Gwayne circled you slowly and his eyes missed very little. He stepped forward, “May I?”

You nodded and only then did he raise his hand. His palm settled lightly against your elbow, guiding it a fraction higher. Two fingers adjusted the angle of your wrist, another corrected the position of your thumb upon the grip. Every touch was measured, respectful, entirely proper, but none of them felt proper.

Each brief contact seemed to linger long after he had withdrawn, leaving your skin absurdly aware of where his hands had been.

“Better,” he murmured. “You favor your right side too heavily. It leaves your left open.”

He stepped back, raised his own blade, and the spar began.

Steel met steel with a clean, ringing note. He did not strike hard. Every movement of his was controlled, precise, and just forceful enough to make you work. When you overextended he caught your blade and turned it aside with a smooth twist of his wrist, stepping in close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest.

“Very good,” he said, voice low near your ear. “You watch the shoulders. Most do not.”

You twisted free and came at him again. He met you blade for blade, the two of you moving in a tight circle of dust and shifting weight. 

At one point he caught your wrist firmly and guided your arm through a better angle of attack, his body briefly aligned with yours from behind. The heat of him sank through the thin fabric of your tunic and you felt the solid line of his chest against your back for the space of a single breath before he released you and stepped away, the ghost of a smile still on his mouth.

“You still favor your right side,” he observed, circling once more. “A man who notices will use it against you.”

“Then it is fortunate,” you answered, a little breathless, “that the man across from me seems more inclined to teach than to take advantage.”

His eyes lit up warmer at that. He came at you again, faster this time, forcing you backward until the wooden railing of the yard pressed lightly against the backs of your thighs. Your blades locked, crossed between your bodies. The crossed steel trembled between you, holding you scarcely a pace apart. Close enough that you could see the sunlight caught in the auburn of his hair. Close enough to count the scattered freckles across the bridge of his nose. Close enough that his breathing had become your own measure of time.

“Tell me truthfully,” he said, his voice scarcely louder than the scrape of steel.

“Yes?”

“Did you truly come here to improve your swordsmanship?”

Your lips curved despite yourself. “I thought that was rather obvious.”

“Nothing is ever obvious where you are concerned, Princess.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “You have a habit of surprising me. I confess... I have grown rather fond of it.”

The corner of your mouth lifted higher. “Then perhaps I wished to see how long your restraint would endure.”

Gwayne’s smile deepened. He disengaged the blades with a careful twist and stepped back just far enough to give you room to breathe, though the space between you still felt charged.

“Then by all means, Princess,” he said, lifting his sword once more in invitation. “Test it.”

You lifted your own blade in answer, pulse bright in your throat, and stepped back into the dance.

—

The spar ended when the light began to soften toward late afternoon. A pair of squires collected the training blades. A few of the older knights lingered at the edge of the yard, close enough to serve as silent witnesses. No one approached, but their presence was enough to keep the moment within the bounds of propriety. Discreet chaperones, as the court preferred.

Gwayne gestured toward a stone bench set in the shade of the colonnade that bordered the yard. “Will you sit a while, Princess? The afternoon is not yet spent.”

You did.

For a time you spoke of nothing of great consequence. The conversation drifted easily, without the careful formality that usually marked every exchange between a princess and a knight of the court. You found yourself asking questions you had not planned to ask.

“What is Oldtown truly like?” you said at last. 

Gwayne’s expression shifted, and he looked almost glad of the question.

“It is older than it first appears,” he said. “The Hightower stands at the heart of it, of course—white stone rising so high that on clear days you can see the sea from the upper galleries. The air smells of salt and the spice markets near the harbor. In the evenings the bells from a hundred different towers call the hour, and the light turns the walls the color of honey.” He glanced at you, a faint smile touching his mouth. “It is not so loud as King’s Landing. Nor so full of eyes that watch every step you take.”

You listened, surprising yourself with how easily the picture formed in your mind. The two of you discovered, without meaning to, that you shared a preference for quieter places, for histories written in the margins rather than the great chronicles, for the sort of dry humor that did not require an audience. He had read many of the same dusty accounts of the Conquest that you had once stolen from the library as a girl. He, too, preferred the company of a few trusted voices over the press of a crowded hall.

After a time Gwayne’s voice grew softer, “After we are wed,” he said, “where do you wish to make your home?”

The question caught you off guard. You looked down at your hands, still faintly marked with the dust of the training yard.

“I do not know,” you admitted. “I have not given it much thought.”

Gwayne nodded once, the gesture free of judgment and did not press. 

You drew a slow breath.

“I would be more than glad to go with you,” you admitted. “I have lived all my life within the walls of King’s Landing. I know every corridor of the Red Keep, every turn of the Blackwater. But I have never truly chosen a place for myself.” You met his eyes. “If Oldtown is your home, then I will learn to make it mine as well.”

The late sun caught the edge of his profile. 

It gilded the auburn of his hair until the strands seemed almost burnished, and turned the deep blue of his eyes clearer, almost luminous against the shadows of the colonnade. For a moment the knight looked otherworldly in the soft gold light.

Your breath hitched.

He was utterly captivating.

Gwayne’s gaze softened as he watched you. Whatever he saw in your face made the corner of his mouth curve with warmth.

“You are far too kind, Princess,” he murmured.

Somewhere beyond the yard a bell began to ring the hour. 

The sound cut cleanly that the spell you were in fractured. You blinked, suddenly aware of the lingering knights at the edge of the yard. You drew a steadying breath and rose from the bench and Gwayne stood with you.

“Will you be joining us for dinner this evening?” you asked.

He bowed his head, “Yes, Princess.”

Gwayne took your hand once more. This time the press of his mouth against your knuckles lingered longer than before. The simple contact sent electricity up your arm, and before you knew it, a wide, unguarded smile broke across your face. You felt it stretch your cheeks, bright and impossible to hide. You had not meant to smile so openly. You had not meant to look so thoroughly undone by something as ordinary as a knight kissing your hand.

You withdrew your hand with as much dignity as you could still claim and offered a small curtsy.

“Until this evening, then, Ser Gwayne.”

“Until this evening, Princess.”

× × × ×

Gwayne’s conversation with Viscerys.

“Tell me plainly, Ser Gwayne. Do you seek my daughter’s hand?”

Gwayne swallowed, feeling the weight of Alicent’s stillness at the edge of his vision. He drew a breath and answered with the only truth he had.

“No, Your Grace.”

Viserys’s brows knitted deep. His lips parted as though the refusal had struck harder than any defiance.

“You… don’t?”

Gwayne did not rush to soften the blow. Silence gathered between the two men, heavy as a drawn blade.

“I came to King’s Landing at my father’s command. I meant only to serve the Crown, to learn, and in time return to Oldtown. I sought no higher station than the one already granted me. Least of all did I imagine myself worthy to lift my eyes to a daughter of your house.”

Viserys frowned. “Then why refuse her?”

Gwayne lowered his eyes, searching for words that had never needed speaking before.

“You asked whether I came here to seek your daughter’s hand. I did not…at first.”

“You ask me to believe you never sought this?”

“I do.”

Viserys nodded. “And yet?”

Gwayne’s eyes flicked up, trying to shape the feeling into speech. “And yet, as the days passed one into the next, I ceased to know where duty ended and she began.” A faint, rueful breath left him.

Viserys exchanged the briefest glance with Alicent. “Does the princess know?”

Gwayne’s expression softened.

“No. I don’t think so.” His jaw tightened, almost in frustration with himself. “I had told myself it would pass. That time and distance would restore my senses.” He gave a small shake of his head. “Instead, every day has made the affliction worse. She need only look at me, and every sensible reasons desert me.”

Viserys blinked. “You speak as though this were some ailment.”

“At times, Your Grace… I have thought it one.” The corner of Gwayne’s mouth twitched, though there was no humour in it.

At last he met Viserys’s gaze fully.

“And I find, to my lasting misfortune, that if the Princess commanded me never to look upon her again, I would obey. If his grace chose another husband for her, I would kneel before him as is my duty.”

Viserys looked at him searchingly. “And your heart, Ser Gwayne? Speak plainly.”

Gwayne’s gaze dropped. He swallowed thickly.

“I have…surrendered it so quietly that I cannot even tell you the hour I lost it. And now… I fear I should sooner tear it from my breast than willingly take it back.”

Gwayne swallowed again and sighed.

“She has it.”

Viserys stared, mouth still parted, the lines between his brows frozen as though the answer had simply removed the next thought from his mind.

Gwayne waited with the patience of a man who had already laid his heart upon the table and saw little purpose in reclaiming it.

“Gods.” Viserys spoke almost to himself. He rubbed a hand slowly across his beard, then glanced toward Alicent as though silently asking whether she had heard the same confession. “Did you know he spoke like this?”

“No, Your Grace,” Alicent answered.

Viserys looked back at Gwayne and leaned back. “When my daughter declared you, I expected to spend this evening persuading a reluctant knight.”

His brows lifted. “Instead…” He gestured vaguely toward Gwayne. “…this.”

“My apologies, Your Grace.” Gwayne lowered his head.

“No, no.” Viserys waved a hand. “Do not apologise.”

The king fell silent again, searching for a more suitable word. At length he sighed.

“I confess, Ser Gwayne…” A weary smile finally tugged at the corner of his mouth. “…you have made it exceedingly difficult for me to be cross with you.”

Viserys blinked, then cleared his throat—too loudly—and shifted in his chair with the sudden, awkward energy of a man trying to remember how a king was meant to sit. He reached for the wine cup at his elbow, thought better of it, and set his hand flat upon the armrest instead.

His gaze flicked involuntarily toward the closed doors, as if he could already hear the offended voices of every lord who had been given reason to hope.

“There are… Houses that have been encouraged to believe a match was possible. There are Tyrells. Lannisters. Blackwoods.” He frowned. “Perhaps a Baratheon? Gods, I cannot remember anymore. There were rather a lot of fathers—” He stopped himself, exhaled through his nose, and forced a thin, brittle smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

“I shall think on this, Ser Gwayne.” He pointed a finger at the knight. “Do not say anything quite so heartfelt to my daughter until I have decided what to do.”

Viserys gestured toward the door. “You may go. For now.”

Gwayne rose, bowed once to the king and once to the queen, and left them in the heavy silence he had made.

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