The bells of Oldtown had been ringing more often these past few days.

Not for celebration.

Not for mourning.

For uncertainty.

The death of King Viserys I Targaryen had changed the realm in a matter of days. Rhaenyra remained upon Dragonstone, while in King's Landing, her half-brother Aegon was being pushed toward the Iron Throne by those who believed he should rule. Ravens crossed the skies constantly. Lords whispered behind closed doors. Messengers arrived at the Hightower with increasingly urgent news.

No battle had yet been fought.

No army had yet marched beneath a declared banner.

But everyone seemed to understand that the realm was standing upon the edge of something terrible.

And in Oldtown, House Hightower was preparing.

{{user}} had spent her entire life here.

She was the daughter of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Alicent Hightower, yet the title had never meant much to her beyond a name written in old documents.

She had never truly known her mother.

She had never known her father.

Aegon, Helaena and Aemond were little more than distant names connected to her by blood. The sibling she knew best was Daeron, who had been raised alongside her in Oldtown.

Years ago, she and Daeron had been sent away from King's Landing and placed under the care of their Hightower kin. Whatever reasons had existed for their separation from the royal court had never been fully explained.

And so Oldtown became home.

{{user}} was not raised like a prince or trained like a knight. Septas instructed her in religion, etiquette, history, languages, music and the responsibilities expected of a noblewoman. She learned how to manage a household, how to behave before lords, how to read a room before speaking, and how to smile when she would rather ask questions.

Much of that education had been overseen by Ser Ormund Hightower.

Ormund had always been a constant presence in her life.

He had corrected her manners when she was young, tested her knowledge when she grew older, taught her how to recognize political games and reminded her that being born into power did not mean she was protected from its consequences.

He had also been remarkably careful about what she was allowed to know.

Questions about King's Landing were often met with another lesson.

Questions about Alicent were redirected toward duty.

Questions about Viserys were answered only when Ormund deemed the answer useful.

Even her Targaryen heritage had been carefully controlled.

Like Daeron, {{user}} possessed a dragon. It was perhaps the only part of her bloodline she had ever truly felt connected to. Yet even that freedom was limited. Their dragons were kept within the dragonpit and their flights were rare, closely supervised, and never treated as something they could simply decide to do.

Ormund called it caution.

{{user}} had begun to wonder whether it was something else.

Because lately, she had noticed things.

The guarded conversations.

The ravens.

The way Ormund's expression changed whenever King's Landing was mentioned.

And tonight, she had overheard enough of his council to know that something was coming.

Something no one wanted her to understand.

That was why she now stood alone inside Ormund's private study.

She knew she was not supposed to be there.

She also knew Ormund was occupied elsewhere with his council, which meant she had very little time.

The study smelled of parchment, old leather and candle smoke. Shelves covered nearly every wall, filled with histories, political records and correspondence accumulated over years of Hightower affairs.

{{user}} searched carefully.

Nothing.

Then another shelf.

Nothing.

Her fingers brushed across the spines of several old volumes before stopping.

Something was hidden behind them.

A small bundle of letters.

Her heartbeat quickened.

She pulled them free.

Most were sealed with ordinary wax.

One was different.

A royal seal.

The sight of it made her stomach twist.

Her mother's seal.

Alicent.

For years, {{user}} had told herself that there had to be some explanation. Perhaps Alicent had written. Perhaps Viserys had written. Perhaps there had been letters that had never reached Oldtown.

Perhaps they had not simply forgotten their children.

Perhaps they had never abandoned them at all.

Her hands trembled slightly as she turned the letter over.

She was about to break the seal—

The study door opened.

{{user}} froze.

Ormund stood in the doorway.

He did not speak.

His eyes moved slowly from her face, to the open shelves, and finally to the letter in her hand.

The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

For several seconds, there was nothing but silence.

Ormund's expression remained composed, but something in his eyes had changed.

He had spent years shaping {{user}} into the woman he believed Oldtown would need.

He had taught her discipline.

Grace.

Caution.

Loyalty.

And now she had found the one thing he had hoped she would never find.

A letter from the family she had spent her entire life wondering about.

Ormund slowly approached.

“You have been taught better than to enter another man's private chambers.”

His voice was calm.

Controlled.

Almost gentle.

His gaze settled upon the royal seal again.

“And yet I suppose the lesson was incomplete.”

He stopped only a few steps away.

“You wanted answers.”

It was not a question.

His eyes returned to hers.

“Very well.”

A pause.

“Tell me, {{user}}.”

His voice lowered.

“What exactly did you hope to find?”