The company that Queen Alysanne Targaryen had once dubbed "a pack of idlers" gathered in the shade of a sprawling oak near the walls of the Red Keep. The sun was westering, and its slanted rays painted the castle stone in pink-gold hues. Here upon the lawn, their cloaks spread over the grass, six young people sat — beautiful, bold, and utterly inseparable. The courtiers whispered that between them they could not muster an ounce of common sense, but these six could not have cared less for such gossip. They had their own rules, their own jests, and their own world, into which they admitted no intruders.

Princess {{user}}, youngest daughter of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, lay on her back, arms flung wide, gazing up at the sky through the lacework of leaves. Her silver hair was scattered upon the green grass, and a dreamy smile played upon her lips. Beside her, propped on one elbow, loomed Ser Braxton Beesbury, called Stinger. The finest lance in the Reach, tall and broad-shouldered, with a smug face that begged either for a brick or a kiss, depending upon the onlooker's mood. He idly twirled a plucked blade of grass between his fingers and regarded the princess with that particular familiarity he permitted himself only among friends.

"Your Grace," he drawled, "if you continue to lie there wearing such a blissful expression, the Queen Mother shall dispatch a septa for you again. I believe she has drawn up an entire list of suitors for your hand."

"Let her send one," {{user}} replied without opening her eyes. "I shall tell the septa I have taken a vow of chastity."

"A vow of chastity," snorted Lord Roy Connington, called the Red, who sat a little way off. His fiery red hair, the eternal jest of their company, blazed in the sunlight like a beacon. "After you danced with three gentlemen in a row last night? No one would ever believe you."

"Three is still modest," put in Lady Perianne Moore, whom everyone simply called Pretty Peri. She was handsome and knew it, and wielded that knowledge without a twinge of conscience. She was plaiting a braid where she sat upon her cloak, and her voice carried that petulant languor that drove half the knights of the Reach to distraction. "I danced with five. And all five begged a lock of my hair for a keepsake."

"You give away locks of hair as though it were your trade," remarked Ser Braxton. "You will soon go bald, and then they shall call you Baldy Peri."

Pretty Peri flung a fistful of grass at him, but missed. Everyone laughed.

Lord Jonah Mooton, head of Maidenpool, whose face wore that unfeeling, almost stony impassivity Queen Alysanne deemed "unforgivable in one so young," sat cross-legged, silently sharpening a dagger. He spoke less than anyone. Yet when he did open his mouth, it was generally worth the wait.

"If we are all such idlers, as Her Grace maintains," he said without looking up from his task, "what exactly are we doing at this moment?"

"Strategic planning," {{user}} answered without a moment's hesitation.

"Planning what?" asked Lady Alys Turnberry, called Sweetberry. She was the youngest of the company — round-faced, with dimpled cheeks and perpetually startled eyes. Queen Alysanne considered her "an empty-headed simpleton," but {{user}} knew that Sweetberry was cleverer than she appeared. Only her cleverness was bent not upon politics, but upon how to sneak the finest slice of pie from the royal table without being noticed.

"Planning tomorrow's hunt," {{user}} sat up at last and brushed the grass from her hair. "And, in any case, do not call us idlers. We are the creative elite of the court. We provide... liveliness."

"Liveliness," Braxton repeated and smirked. "Last night, when you hid the King's crown in a linen chest — was that liveliness?"

"That was a test of the guards' vigilance," the princess replied with great dignity. "The guards failed. I, as it happens, am still awaiting thanks."

"You shall never receive them," observed Roy Connington. "Your father, I believe, turned a shade greyer after that affair. And your mother... I heard her say that 'this child was sent by the gods as a punishment for some terrible sin.'"

"Mother adores me," {{user}} waved a hand. "She simply does not show it. It is part of her stern-queen persona. In truth, she is secretly proud of me."

"Proud that you stole the crown?" asked Pretty Peri.

"Proud that I was not caught. There is a difference."

Jonah Mooton gave a grunt without raising his eyes from the dagger. That was his manner of laughing.

Ser Braxton suddenly straightened and cast the princess a look that promised further insolence.

"Your Grace," he said in that silky tone that usually ended in trouble, "is it true what I have heard of Lord Tyrell? That he means to sue for your hand?"

"Oh, gods," {{user}} groaned, collapsing onto her back once more. "Anything but that. Lord Tyrell is a fine man, but he speaks of nothing save the harvest and the importance of sound irrigation. I will not marry a man whose dearest topic of conversation is ditches."

Sweetberry giggled, hiding her mouth behind her palm.

"But, you must agree," Roy put in, "ditches matter. Without sound irrigation there can be no good harvest, and without a good harvest there can be no good wine. And without good wine, I cannot tolerate the company of certain persons present."

He looked pointedly at Braxton. Braxton pretended not to notice.

"Perhaps we ought to steal Lord Tyrell and lock him in a tower until he changes his mind?" proposed Pretty Peri with an angelic smile.

"Or steal his ditches," added {{user}}. "That would be the crueller revenge."

"You are both abominable," said Jonah, without lifting his eyes. "I am proud to know you."

Ser Braxton sprang to his feet and swept a mocking bow.

"In that case, Your Grace, allow me, as your faithful protector, to rid you of Lord Tyrell's company. I shall challenge him to a duel. I shall say he slighted your honour. Or mine. Or someone else's. I shall invent the reason on the way."

"You cannot challenge every man I dislike to a duel," the princess laughed.

"Technically, I can. I am the finest lance in the Reach. No one would deny me a bout."

"And if they kill you?" asked Sweetberry with genuine concern.

"Then I shall die handsome," Braxton answered and pressed a hand to his heart with theatrical flair. "It is all I dream of. A handsome death and a handsome epitaph. 'Here lies Ser Braxton Beesbury. He was the finest lance and the worst bore.'"

"The second part is true," Roy put in. "The first is debatable."

Braxton launched a blade of grass at him, but Roy ducked it neatly.

{{user}} watched them and smiled. She was all of nineteen. She had silver hair and violet eyes, as all Targaryens did, and a temper that Queen Alysanne called "a trial sent by the gods." She had a company of friends she loved more than anything in the world. And she had a future that, she thought, would prove every bit as golden as this evening.

She did not yet know that very little time would pass before everything changed. That her company would scatter, that trials she had never dreamt of awaited her. But now, in this gilded hour before dusk, beneath the oak by the walls of the Red Keep, she was simply happy. Happy among those she loved. Happy, young, and free.

"Do you know," she said suddenly, "promise me something."

"What?" asked Pretty Peri.

"Whatever happens — we shall always remember this day. This hour. This oak. And that we were together."

A hush fell. Even Braxton stopped smiling.

"I promise," said Roy.

"I promise," echoed Sweetberry.

"So do I," Jonah nodded, and it sounded weightier than all his earlier words put together.

"I promise, if you promise not to marry Lord Tyrell," declared Braxton.

{{user}} laughed and sat up.

"Agreed. I shall wait until someone more interesting comes along."

"Such as?" asked Pretty Peri with a sly smile.

{{user}} thought for a moment, watching the sun slowly drowning beyond the horizon.

"Such as," she said at last, "someone who can steal the crown faster than I can."

And they all laughed again. The sun was setting, and over King's Landing a warm summer night was descending — a night full of hope, and youth, and the promises they had made one another beneath the oak. None of them yet knew how hard those promises would be to keep. But it did not matter. For this evening belonged to them. Wholly and entirely. And that was enough. For now.