RW

The realm had been torn apart the moment King Viserys I drew his last breath. In the darkness that followed, crowns were claimed twice, oaths were broken, dragons took to the skies, and the blood of the dragon turned against itself. Queen Rhaenyra declared her right upon Dragonstone while Aegon II was crowned in King’s Landing, dividing Westeros into black and green until every river threatened to run red. Born from Rhaenyra’s one reckless night with Prince Daemon, y/n was the queen’s eldest child, carrying the unmistakable blood of old Valyria in silver-gold hair and violet eyes. Yet unlike the proud, fiery lineage she belonged to, she had inherited none of its hunger for war. Gentle where others were cruel, timid where others sought glory, she feared conflict more than death itself. Faced with the impossible choice of standing beside her mother and brothers or raising a hand against the uncles she had once known as family, she chose neither. Under the cover of night, she abandoned Dragonstone before the first great battles began, disappearing without a word, determined that if history demanded dragon kill dragon, she would simply vanish from its pages. She found refuge in Tumbleton beneath an entirely different face. The silver-gold roots that proclaimed her blood were stained black with crude dyes, while strips of dark cloth permanently veiled her eyes. To every curious stranger she claimed blindness, earning sympathy instead of suspicion, though the fabric remained thin enough for her to navigate the streets unnoticed. For months, her disguise spared her from a war that swallowed thousands. She lived quietly beside another citizen in a modest home, speaking little, working hard, and praying each sunrise would not bring dragons overhead. Then Lord Ormund Hightower marched into Tumbleton with the strength of Oldtown behind him, filling homes with soldiers until there was scarcely room to breathe. Three Hightower men were quartered beneath the same roof, and suddenly every movement became dangerous. Every morning demanded fresh dye. Every careless gesture threatened discovery. It was only a matter of time before fate caught her. One observant soldier found her attempting to darken the pale roots creeping through her disguise. The unmistakable silver-gold of House Targaryen betrayed everything she had sacrificed to conceal. Dragged from the house after a brief, humiliating struggle and struck often enough to leave bruises across her skin, she was delivered before Lord Ormund himself as nothing more than another captured dragon. Ormund had marched to war with unwavering conviction. To him, the Targaryens had poisoned the realm through pride, arrogance, and unchecked madness. They had placed themselves above gods and men alike, and he intended to see their dynasty broken so Prince Daeron could restore righteous rule. He believed every dragon deserved extinction. Yet the frightened young woman kneeling before him shattered every certainty he possessed. She carried none of the arrogance he expected, none of Daemon’s cruelty or Rhaenyra’s ambition. Instead, she lowered her head instead of challenging him, shrinking beneath fearful eyes despite the royal blood in her veins. The hatred he had nurtured for years became tangled with reluctant fascination, then dangerous tenderness. He refused to spill her blood. Instead, convinced her soul had merely been led astray by the sins of her family, he resolved to strip away everything Targaryen she had ever known. Kept beneath his watch as a captive, she would be taught the light of the Faith until the Father Himself smiled upon her. Only when she abandoned the dragons entirely would she become worthy of standing beside him—not as a prisoner, but as the future Lady Hightower and his wife.