Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Request Page

- This is where I perfer the requests to be but I understand if someone comments in a chapter. As to not lose their place of where they were or if the thought just came to them. So this will tell the rules of requests for the most part.

Rules

1. I don’t mind most pairings. Give me whatever you want! 

2. Give me whatever prompts you want. You don’t have to give one—it’s okay. 

3. These chapters come in batches of five.

4. I will do Oc’s x Character. Just give me a bunch of information about the character though, personality, what they like to wear, maybe a snippet scene. I don’t care how long it is, go wild if you want. Also, if you have a fanfic written about the character, post the name of it! I’ll read it first before making the oneshot for you. 

5. I can do three people at once, for example: Lyanna x Rhaegar x Elia — That kind of deal. 


6. I will also do crossover of different fandoms! However, it will be done so in the universe of Asoiaf. Modern setting is more open though. 

Currently have 1 prompts or pairings that are banned. 

1. Daenerys Targaryen ‘Stormborn’ x Drogon ‘The Winged Shadow’ (Beast Form)

Will Not Do

1. Character x Self Inserts

Will update rules and list of anything that is something I won’t do as time goes on. Enjoy these oneshots!

Completed or Ongoing Fanfics:

Are you bored and want to read fanfics? Well I already have three! 

The Hearts of Winter and Flame Series

1. Book 1: A Last Request 

- Rhaegar Targaryen and Jon Snow

- Father and son bonding book 

- Completed

2. Book 2 or 3: Winter’s Light

- Jaime Lannister and Jon Snow

- Slow burn romance 

- Completed

3. Book 2 or 3: A Flame Rekindled 

- Arthur Dayne and Rhaegar Targaryen 

- Slow burn romance 

- Ongoing 

Archives - Oneshots

Do you just want a specific character to read about? Well, I have Archives of the Oneshots on:

This is a link to the whole archives series: Link

Sansa Stark

Robb Stark

Jon Snow

Daenerys Targaryen ‘Stormborn’

Viserys Targaryen ‘The Begger King’

Daemon Blackfyre ‘The Black Dragon’

Willas Tyrell

Theon Greyjoy

Elia Martell

Arianne Martell

Val

Rhaenyra Targaryen - Batch 18

Jaime Lannister - Batch 18

Eddard Stark - Batch 18

Androw Farman - Batch 20 

Fanfics - From Others in the Community 

1. An Army For A King by Femdom Fiction (SapphoPsycho) — This fanfic features Viserys Targaryen and Daenerys Targaryen as a sibling bond. But this a VERY sensitive story—including rape, graphic details, emotional distress, etc. 

Requested Fanfics:

Note: I am doing fanfics I want to do as well in between the ones who request a full fanfic of OneShots. But here is the list of fanfics in line currently: 

1. The Hearts of Winter and Flame Series - Book Number 4 - Jon and Jaime’s children  — — — — (Currently being written) 

2. Chapter 6: The Wolf Who Wrote To Fire - Daenerys Targaryen ‘Stormborn’ / Robb Stark    — — — —  (Currently just a Requested Fanfic) 

3. Unknown Book that you won’t know yet. — — — — (Currently just an idea with some mini drafts)

4. Chapter 25: Beneath Red Leaves and Snow - Robb Stark / Rhaenys Targaryen ‘Daughter of Elia’ — — — — (Currently just a Requested series)

5. Unknown Book that you won’t know yet. — — — — (Currently just an idea with some mink drafts)

6. Chapter 67: After The Fires of Dragons - Elia Martell / Maegor Targaryen ‘The Cruel’ - - - - (Currently just a requested fanfic)

7. Unknown Book that you won’t know yet. — — — — (Currently just an idea with some mink drafts)

8. Chapter 14: The Shape of Yes - Daenerys Targaryen ‘Stormborn’ / Hizdahr Zo Loraq - - - - - (Currently just a requested fanfic)

9. Unknown Book that you won’t know yet. — — — — (Currently just an idea with some mink drafts)

Chapter Text

Cregan Stark

The snow fell hard, like the world itself was crying. The clouds overhead hung dark and heavy, swallowing the sun and all its warmth. Cregan hadn’t expected the storm to roll in this quickly, though he should have. The North was always unpredictable; that was the only thing predictable about it.

Yet this time it had caught him off guard. Jace had wanted to go hunting, and they’d been out for two days now. Cregan never imagined the crown prince would want such a thing. Jace always seemed too… regal for it. Too polished. Yet he had begged—truly begged—to go. A trip into the woods. Just the two of them.

Just to enjoy what, exactly?

Outside the cave, the wind howled. Branches cracked. Leaves scraped against the rocks like restless fingers. The world beyond had vanished into white and grey—no trees, no stones, not even the faint path of their footsteps from earlier. But they were safe in here. Jace was safe. The dragon, however, was decidedly not pleased.

Vermax lay off to the side, curled into a tight, irritated ball, green wings pulled over his face. Smoke curled lazily from beneath the arch of his wing. Firelight flickered across him and across Jace, who sat dozing on a cloak, bundled in blankets, resting on a smooth rock by the flames.

Cregan had never expected to stand so close to a dragon, let alone be tolerated by one. Vermax adored his son, Rickon, but remained ill-tempered toward nearly everyone else—and toward the cold most of all.

Cregan let out a quiet huff of laughter at the memory of how fiercely the dragon hated snowfall, how often he refused to leave the warm crypts beneath Winterfell at even the slightest shift in the wind. His rider wasn’t much different. For all Jace’s desire to explore the Wall, the forests, Winterfell itself, he despised the cold. Always bundled in furs, nose red, lips pouting at even a mild breeze.

And those moments—those small, human moments—were what scared Cregan most. He wanted to laugh with Jace. Wanted these quiet hours with him. Wanted to see those brown eyes spark with delight over a sweet treat. Because what was this feeling? Familiar, yet not. Dangerous in its softness.

He didn’t want Jace to leave. Didn’t want to send him back into a war that grew darker every day. Some dread in his gut whispered that if he let Jace go… he would never see those curls again. Never see that pout. Never hear Jace’s laughter as he spun Rickon through the air.

The fire had begun to die low. Cregan tossed a few sticks onto it and nudged them until the flames breathed again, rising warm and strong.

His father’s vows had been for Rhaenyra Targaryen. But where did his vows lie?

He looked over at Jace, curled beneath the blankets, lips parted slightly, breath soft and steady.

Maybe he already knew.

For the Prince of Dragonstone.

Not for alliances or promises of marriage or gain.

But for something quieter. Something warm and joyful. Forbidden and tragic.

Nothing would ever come of it. For one reason or another, it could not.

But a man could still be loyal.

And he would be—until his last breath.

Jace stirred, blinking awake. “Cregan?” he murmured.

“Hm?” Cregan answered softly.

“Come lie down… it’s late.” Jace yawned, burrowing deeper into his makeshift pillow.

“Not yet.”

“Come on, you broody wolf. Nothing’s coming in. We’re safe.”

We’re safe. The words echoed through him.

Maybe here—only here—they truly were.

Cregan sighed. “As the Prince commands.”

“I do command,” Jace smirked, curls falling into his eyes like a curtain.

Outside, the storm raged. But inside, wrapped in warmth and firelight, they were untouched. Safe. Maybe this was what Jace had wanted all along. Not the hunt—this.

Cregan lay beside him, burying his face into Jace’s curls, breathing in smoke and dragon and heat. Comforting. Steady. Real.

The prince’s breathing softened under his arm.

They were safe here.

And Cregan would hold this memory close—until his last breath.

Chapter Text

Oberyn Martell

The halls smelled of polished marble, strong wine, and sweet treats. Oberyn took a sip from his goblet — the wine was sour, but the pastries’ sweetness covered it. The halls were silent, not a single word from anyone; the only sound was a harp and a voice as smooth as Highgarden’s summer wine. Rhaegar Targaryen. The Heir of Dragonstone.

Muffled cries came from the women; the men admired in silence. Oberyn, neither crying nor silent, pushed past the crowd. If his sister were to marry this prince, he needed to see him for himself. It was only fair.

He stopped, finally with a perfect view. Oberyn had opened his mouth for a snarky remark, but his breath caught.

The man before him perched on a pedestal, fairytale-perfect. Silver hair lay across his shoulders like silk, catching the sunlight from the windows behind him and turning it to fire. He was slender and lean, neither bulky nor lanky. High cheekbones softened by a faint sadness.

Oberyn’s mouth went dry — he blamed the wine — but he didn’t look away. He watched Rhaegar’s long fingers masterfully pluck the harp strings.

Slowly, Rhaegar lifted his head, singing the last lyric. His lilac eyes, heavy with burdens and glistening with unshed tears, met Oberyn’s. In that look, Oberyn felt seen — all his past, all his present, every fleeting thought and feeling laid bare. And yet, there was no judgment. Only a plea for peace.

Right then, Oberyn thought: maybe this wasn’t a bad pick after all.

But as the days passed, with fathers and mothers discussing weddings and trade deals, Oberyn found himself wanting to be near the dragon prince. He wanted to see him, to talk with him, to know if he was truly as kind as his sister claimed.

Today, he decided to seek him out. He told himself it was boredom, an excuse to escape the acrid smell of King’s Landing.

He searched the halls but saw no sign of Rhaegar. Perhaps the king had set harsh rules on his son, but Oberyn hoped not.

At a closed door, he found Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Gerold Hightower. A smirk tugged at his lips. “Is this where Prince Rhaegar hides? I’ve been looking for the dragon,” he said, hands on hips.

“Perhaps. Why?” Ser Arthur’s tone remained stoic.

“Maybe I wanted to speak with my future brother-in-law.”

“The Prince has a headache,” Ser Arthur replied. “He asked not to be disturbed. Perhaps another time.”

Oberyn sighed, arms falling in mock defeat. But then… the door opened, slowly, halfway. Rhaegar appeared, dressed simply in brown leather and a loose white tunic. His hair was slightly tousled, like he had just risen from bed.

“Did you need something, my prince?” Rhaegar asked, voice soft, musical.

Oberyn swallowed. “Ah… n-no. Not really. I just… wondered if you wanted to talk.” He felt the prickling sweat at the back of his neck. “I was bored… and you’re to be my brother-in-law. But I can always come back another time, Your Grace.”

“Rhaegar. Just… Rhaegar.” The prince leaned lightly against the door, lilac eyes curious and attentive. “Come in. We can talk.”

Oberyn hesitated, chest tightening. “Are you sure? I don’t want to worsen your headache.”

“I’m quite sure,” Rhaegar nodded.

Forbidden. Maybe he shouldn’t have. And yet he did. In that moment, Oberyn realized how cruel the world could be — how it demanded duty above love, crown above desire. Rhaegar Targaryen was buried beneath expectations, and Oberyn could do nothing but watch.

Days passed, and it all felt too fast, but Oberyn enjoyed every single one. Every day he spent with Rhaegar — whether in short conversations or hours playing chess, betting pastries on who would win — felt like a blissful dream. Laughter, smiles, a prince who seemed lighter, freer, less burdened. That’s what he liked.

Tonight was no different. But instead of staying within the confined walls of the Red Keep, they snuck out late to the beach. Of course, they had Ser Arthur with them, so it wasn’t a complete escape — but it was enough.

Rhaegar leapt from his horse, laughing as he ran across the empty sand. “Come on, Oberyn! You’re slow!” His cloak fluttered behind him like wings, sand flying with every step.

Oberyn smirked and followed, vaulting from his own horse. “You’re just impatient!” he yelled, chasing after him.

Rhaegar fell to the sand on purpose, laughing as he tossed handfuls at Oberyn like snow. Oberyn sank to his knees beside him, swatting the sand away, drawing more fitful laughter from the prince.

“I am not impatient! I am quite patient. I listen, do I not?” Rhaegar pouted, looking up at him. His lilac eyes caught the moonlight, glowing softly, and Oberyn felt like he could drown in them.

Oberyn scoffed. “All you do is listen while I babble on about gods know what.”

“Mm, yes. You do like to talk,” Rhaegar chuckled, flinging sand onto Oberyn’s pants.

“Is that so bad?” Oberyn teased, poking the prince’s chest.

Rhaegar’s gaze softened, making Oberyn’s breath catch. “No,” he whispered.

The prince looked up at the sky. The moon was whole, unshadowed by clouds, and the stars twinkled like scattered jewels. Moonlight cast their long shadows across the cool sand. Arthur remained where they had dismounted, watching quietly in solidarity, letting them have this moment.

At that moment, it felt like theirs. Secret, in the shadows. Just theirs.

Oberyn swallowed. Maybe this would be the only time he could be as bold as he wanted. He looked down at Rhaegar. “Would you ever allow yourself a night of freedom? No duties. No expectations. Just… whatever you want.”

Rhaegar’s lips curved in a soft smile. “Would the night be… tonight?” he asked.

“Yes,” Oberyn nodded.

The prince leaned in, placing a soft kiss on his lips — gentle, sweet. Oberyn met it with care and passion, not eagerness, lingering in the sand with soft sighs and tender touches. Nothing forced, nothing hurried. Just them.

Rhaegar panted lightly, planting soft kisses along Oberyn’s neck and throat. “Swim with me?” he asked.

Oberyn hummed in satisfaction. “Of course.”

This was their night. Their memory. Their hearts. Duty could not touch it, could not erase it. But Oberyn knew, when it ended, leaving would be harder than he could imagine.

At least he knew his sister would be in good hands.

The realm thought this marriage would be one for the ages. That Rhaegar would be one of the most peaceful yet firm kings this land had ever known. That the Targaryen line would grow stronger than it had in years. But the gods laughed, twisting fate into their favor — into chaos.

Oberyn never saw the prince again after his sister was married to him. He returned to Dorne, feeling more alone than ever. No one ever truly came close to what he had shared with his dragon prince: the softness, the care of that night, the tender looks, the lingering touches. Perhaps it was the forbidden nature of it that made it thrilling.

But his heart ached, and deep down, he knew that wasn’t true.

When war came, when the Rebellion erupted, his anger burned — at Rhaegar, at the world. Was he so selfish as to dine with a northerner girl? Was Oberyn not enough for the dragon prince? Was he only a distraction?

For nights he drank heavily, trying to forget. He picked fights, shoved people around, anything to feel something other than the pain. Time and again, headaches would wrack his skull, and the only way to numb them was to drink more.

Until the letter came.

When the war was over.

He had no sister. No niece or nephew. No future king Rhaegar Targaryen.

All were dead.

At the Trident and the Red Keep. Bloodied and dishonored.

But the letter wasn’t for his family. It was for him alone, written by Rhaegar’s hand — his final words to the world.

‘My bold and bright sun,

I know I’ve made mistakes, and the world will never understand them. I should have done better, and you have every right to be angry with me — to cast my name down to the seven hells and spit at my grave. But I did it to have three dragons. The world needs three. Perhaps I misjudged who those three would be, but I know in my heart that my child with her will be one of them. It was not out of love or attraction, but prophecy and necessity. Perhaps that is worse. Perhaps not.

She understood. She agreed. But I should have said more to Elia and to you. I was unfair. I thought it better in different ways, but I care not what people think of me. They can do as they like. The realm has twisted this way because of me, not my father.

I hope one day you will forgive me. That is what I care about most. But I understand if you do not.

I wanted my last words to be for you. My bold sun who made the world feel warmer and brighter. When everything felt right, when I thought I could bear my duties and meet all expectations. I wish the world could have been different, but it was not. I hear you drink heavily… that you sleep with men and women alike. I beg you to find some peace with me. I want you happy.

Be happy, Oberyn.

I wish to look down or up and see that smile. To hear that careless laugh. To see your bold posture.

For me. For you. Maybe for us both.

— With love and fire, Rhaegar’

Oberyn wept for days. Anger and hatred melted away, leaving only grief and memory.

As the years passed, rumors drifted across the Narrow Sea: of Rhaegar’s sister as a queen, of one son sailing under a different name gathering armies, of another son in the North making a name for himself as Lord Commander.

Oberyn thought of Rhaegar’s words: the world needed three heads of dragons for balance. Perhaps it was not quiet, not perfect, but he would do his best to support them — to help make balance happen when Rhaegar could not.

For love. For fire.

Chapter Text

Jon Snow

Being at the top of the Wall was always colder than standing beneath it. It felt like the coldest point in the world—a place where men could freeze within hours even with braziers burning at their backs. And yet Jon found it calming. Up here he could see for miles, a white and endless world stretching out on either side.

The wind bit through his cloak and clothes, snow catching in his hair. He didn’t bother tugging the cloak tighter. He simply walked the frozen pathway like he’d done a hundred times before.

Another set of footsteps followed his own, just offset by a heartbeat. Val walked beside him—steady, unbothered, present.

She shot him a sideways look. “Are you going to brood the entire time, Crow?”

Jon huffed a quiet breath. “Yeah. That’s what I do, isn’t it? Brood.”

Val laughed under her breath. Up here, even laughter felt muffled by the cold. “Self-aware brooding. Impressive.” She bumped his shoulder with hers, and the warmth of the gesture lingered longer than it should have.

He didn’t answer, and she didn’t push. They walked on, passing a few brothers who nodded to Jon and then moved on with their duties.

The sky above was iron-grey, snow falling in soft, drifting flakes. Jon felt an itch at the back of his mind—something beyond the Wall watching them. He didn’t know if it was good or ill, but it felt distant. Not worth naming.

“You always have a faraway look,” Val said after a moment. “Do you ever let yourself have a moment of joy?”

“This is my joy,” Jon replied.

She raised a brow. “What? Me or the Wall?”

“The Wall, obviously. Who else would tolerate my brooding every hour of the day?”

Val laughed, her braid catching a dusting of snow, making her look almost ethereal. Men stuttered around her. Some begged for her hand. She laughed at them—or rejected them outright. Jon found it endlessly amusing.

Her laughter faded, replaced by a gentler look. “Truly… do you even want to be here, Jon Snow?”

They stopped at an empty post where a large brazier crackled with fire. The warmth was small but welcome. Jon stared into the flames, and what he saw wasn’t the Wall but Winterfell—his father, his brothers, his sisters. Together. Whole. Laughing.

He should have been there. Not here.

“No,” Jon said softly. “Not really. I want to be home. I should have died with my brother. That’s where I should have been. But I’m here. And alive.”

Val looked at him for a long moment. “Maybe things would’ve been worse here without you. You’ve saved women, children. You keep your King from making foolish choices. He even offered to legitimize you. Lord of Winterfell.”

“And for what?” Jon’s voice cracked sharper than he meant.

Val didn’t flinch. She lifted her chin. “Because you’re meant to be here. Whether you like it or not.”

“The gods never cared what people liked.” Jon’s jaw tightened. “They should’ve killed me when I was a sickly boy. Should’ve killed me beyond the Wall more than once. But they keep me alive while my family dies one by one. Until all that’s left is a bastard boy sworn to black.” He pointed toward the distant south—toward home. “What kind of justice is that?”

“But you could leave. You could be legitimized. Lord of Winterfell.”

“Those were dreams,” Jon said quietly. “Not at the cost of my family. I’d rather be called the Snow Bastard a thousand times if it meant they lived. If it meant I could’ve died beside Robb.”

“But it won’t happen,” Val whispered.

Jon’s breath hitched. “No. It won’t.”

She stepped closer, voice firm, almost fierce.

“So what now, Crow? Are you going to brood forever? Or will you stand up and be Lord Commander? Take what chances you have left. Make a name for yourself. Make the world regret hurting your family.” She jabbed a finger into his chest.

Jon looked past her, toward the haunted woods beyond the Wall—endless dark, endless danger. She was right. She always was.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Fine. I’ll give them hell. All seven of them. One worse than the last.”

Val grinned, bright and victorious. “That’s what I like to hear… Lord Commander.”

The wind howled over the Wall, cold as death. But for the first time in days, Jon felt the faintest ember stir in his chest—small, stubborn, unwilling to die.

Chapter Text

Jaime Lannister 

HighGarden far more peaceful than Jamie remembered. The fields stretched for miles — waves of flowers moving like soft seas in the wind, meadows painted in every color a summer sky could dream of. The city beyond stood proud and warm, buzzing with life in a gentler way than King’s Landing ever could. It didn’t reek of smoke or acidic water. It smelled of crushed roses and honey.

At sunset, the sky brushed itself in pink and purple, clouds drifting like wisps of pale smoke.

Jamie brought Tommen for the boy’s safety — and, though he wouldn’t admit it, to give him something of a childhood. Tommen practically vibrated with excitement from the moment they arrived, bounding through every hallway and garden. Jamie kept trying, halfheartedly, to rein him in, but the boy’s joy was… infectious. Almost enviable.

Innocence was a luxury Jamie had once known. Briefly.

He learned early that the world was not half as kind as it pretended to be.

Tonight, he walked alone through the gardens, following a narrow path carving through the hedge maze. He wanted quiet — a moment without eyes on him, without the weight of pity pressing into his spine. Gods, he hated the pity.

He drew his cloak tighter around himself, hiding the empty sleeve where his sword hand should have been.

Should have been.

A breath slipped from him, soft and tired. The breeze was cool and smelled faintly of mint and roses. Birds sang somewhere in the trees. Gravel crunched under each step.

He reached the opening at the heart of the garden — a serene circle anchored by a marble fountain, its water murmuring as it spilled into the basin below. Stone benches sat beneath the shelter of great oaks, whose branches stretched toward the sky like open arms.

And by the fountain stood Lord Willas Tyrell. His cane rested in one hand. The fingers of his other hand drifted lazily through the water, disturbing the surface with gentle ripples.

“Ser Jaime,” Willas said softly, without looking up.

“My lord,” Jamie replied, stiffening. “I apologize. I didn’t realize anyone was—”

“—Here to hide as well?” Willas’s mouth curved faintly as he lifted his gaze. “I come here when the world becomes too loud.”

His eyes — warm brown, like rich summer soil — met Jamie’s. They didn’t drift downward to his sleeve. They didn’t narrow with pity. They simply met him.

Jamie nodded once. “It’s a lovely garden. I think I’ve seen more flowers in two days than in my entire life.”

A quiet chuckle left Willas. He withdrew his hand from the water; droplets slid down his wrist and fell back into the fountain. “Is that so? You don’t strike me as a man who enjoys flowers.”

“Who says I don’t?” Jamie scoffed lightly, stepping closer. He watched the water spill over the carved stone, clear and shimmering in the final light of sunset. “I like roses.”

“Roses?” Willas tilted his head. “The classic red? Gold? Or a rare blue?”

Jamie blinked at the oddity of the conversation, but it was better than politics or questions about his hand. So he allowed himself to stay in it — in this strange, gentle space. “Can’t go wrong with a classic red.”

Willas hummed, approving. “I prefer gold. They’re rare, but beautiful. When the sun hits them… breathtaking.” His eyes softened as he looked back at Jaime. “I’m glad you’re here, Ser Jaime.”

Jamie barked a faint laugh at that. “Why? I’m only here to protect the king.”

“That you are,” Willas agreed. “But you needed time away from King’s Landing. A moment of peace, even if you won’t allow yourself one.”

Heat crept into Jamie’s chest. He looked away quickly. “I’m fine.”

“A lie,” Willas said gently, without cruelty. He turned toward a nearby bench and slowly lowered himself onto it. Pain flickered across his face — the brief grimace of someone used to enduring. Jamie felt an instinctive urge to reach out, to steady him. But Willas wasn’t falling. And Jaime didn’t know why he cared so much.

“I used to tell myself the same lies,” Willas said once seated. “That I was fine. That it would heal. That the maesters were wrong. I told myself what I needed to hear so I wouldn’t drown.” He tapped his cane softly against the ground. “But it didn’t heal.”

Jamie’s throat tightened. “No,” he whispered. “It never does.”

Willas nodded. “We’re not so different, you and I. I wasn’t meant for a cane any more than you were meant to lose your hand. But here we are. You don’t need a mask in this place, Ser Jamie. No one will hurt you here but yourself.”

Jamie didn’t answer. He stared into the water, watching the sky darken across the surface. Stars glittered in the ripples like scattered diamonds. A cooler breeze brushed along his jaw, making him shiver despite himself.

Willas’s words echoed. You don’t need a mask here.

Jamie wanted to believe him. Willas had always been honorable — quiet, sincere, never cruel. Better than Jaime. Better than most men in the realm.

But Jamie couldn’t let the mask fall. If he did, he wasn’t sure he could lift it again.

Duty demanded wholeness. Duty demanded he stand unbroken for Tommen. There was no room for softness.

“Thank you, my lord,” Jaime said at last, stepping back. “But I truly am fine.” A practiced lie. A familiar shield.

He turned from the fountain, cloak brushing against stone, and retraced his path toward the hedge maze.

“Goodnight, Ser Jamie,” Willas called, voice soft but steady.

“Goodnight,” Jamie murmured without turning around.

He felt Willas’s gaze on his back — not sharp, not pitying, simply watching. Concerned. Kind.

Too kind.

Jamie did not deserve kindness. Not with the things he’d done. Not with the ghosts that clung to him like ash. Losing his hand felt like justice, sometimes. Punishment for sins no one else knew the depths of.

Yet a part of him — a very small, frightened part — wished someone would help him anyway.

The next morning, breakfast awaited him in his chamber. Beside the tray, two roses lay on the table.

One gold. One red. Their stems crossed delicately.

A small slip of parchment rested beneath them.

Duty does not mean destroying yourself in the process. You can be both here. If you wish it. Just say the word, and I will help you, Jaime. — Willas

Jamie picked up the golden rose. Sunlight caught on its petals, making it glow like soft fire. He lifted it toward his face and inhaled. It smelled like any rose — fresh, sweet, familiar.

Still, it was lovely.

He found himself smiling, faint but real.

Perhaps he could be both. Perhaps he didn’t have to return to King’s Landing as the same man he’d been.

But who would he become instead?

Chapter Text

Robb Stark

The first letter he sent wasn’t to beg for a crown or to claim the Iron Throne. It was a plea—quiet, desperate, and painfully human. His family was splintering, pulled apart at every corner of the realm. His father dead. His sisters held as hostages. His brothers hunted more often than protected.

Everywhere Robb turned, he saw traitors behind friendly smiles and knives hidden beneath oaths. He didn’t need armies or power. He needed someone to trust. Someone who could bring peace to the realm—or at least help him bring his family home.

Surely the Dragon Queen, even across an ocean, would understand something of that.

He rewrote the letter once, twice—ten times. The floor around him was littered with crumpled parchment, every failed attempt staring back at him. He tried a political tone, but it sounded cold, transactional. He tried sounding like a king, but then it read like a bid for a crown he didn’t even want.

So in the end, he signed the letter simply as himself. Not King in the North. Not Your Grace. Not even Stark.

Just Robb.

‘Daenerys Targaryen,

I pray this finds you swiftly. I do not know how to ask this—or if I should beg for it. Perhaps it may seem like a desperate attempt at alliance or politics. But I write to you as a man who is trying, with all he has left, to save his family.

Could you ever find it in your heart to return to your realm and bring it peace? To help me bring my sisters and brothers back to where they belong—safe, whole, and home in the winters of the North.

Perhaps it is too small a thing to ask. Perhaps it is impossible. You are a Queen, and I am sure you have far greater matters to attend to. So I only ask, and I will respect whatever answer you send. Yes or no. Either way, thank you for reading this.

I figured—it couldn’t hurt to ask.

—Best regards, Robb Stark’

A crow carried it to the ports. A sailor carried it across the sea. A messenger carried it across foreign sands.

And somewhere far from Winterfell’s snow, the Dragon Queen received a letter written by a young man who wanted nothing more than to bring his family home.

Daenerys Targaryen

The first letter she received was unexpected.

A small roll of parchment, sealed with black wax stamped by the sigil of a crowned wolf. She assumed instantly it would be another marriage proposal—another man seeking her crown, her dragons, her armies. So she ignored it for three days. It sat untouched on her nightstand, quiet and patient in the candlelight.

She’d had one too many proposals already. Every man seemed charming until he revealed what he truly wanted: not her, not Daenerys, just the power attached to her name.

Still… she should have read it. Even out of courtesy.

So one night, wrapped in warm blankets and half-lulled by the desert heat, she finally broke the seal.

And what she read was not a proposal at all.

Not a demand, not a bargain, not even the polished voice of a king.

It was a plea. Soft. Honest. Exhausted in a way that mirrored something buried deep inside her.

A man asking for help—not for a throne, but for his family. A man begging for peace.

Her heart clenched. It felt strangely intimate, reading such vulnerability from someone she’d never met. He sounded nothing like a king. Nothing like a lord. Just Robb. A young man trying not to lose the people he loved.

That alone made her pick up her quill.

Whether she could help him… that was another question entirely. She had no ships. No safe passage. No way across the ocean even if she wanted to try.

And she wasn’t sure she believed him. Words on parchment were easy lies.

But she replied anyway.

‘Robb Stark,

I’m sorry it has taken me so long to respond. I expected this letter to be another marriage proposal. Instead, I found honesty. A rare thing.

I understand what it means to fight for family. I respect the lengths you’re willing to go. But I do not know how I could help you. I am an ocean away, with no ships to my name. Even if I wished to come, I could not.

And though your words feel true, truth can be worn easily in ink. If all you’ve written is real, then I hope you succeed. I hope your family comes home to you—safe and whole.

—Fire and Blood, Daenerys Targaryen’

She sent the letter the next morning.

And then she forced herself to forget it—forced herself to return to her routines, her lessons, her people. But now and then, her gaze drifted back to his letter. Now and then, she reread it.

She wasn’t sure why.

She wasn’t sure if any of it had been real.

But then a new letter arrived.

Same wax. Same careful handwriting. Same plea voiced not by a king, but by a man.

And that was how it began—something far more than she ever expected.

Robb Stark

At first, they were nothing more than shared reports — two young rulers writing across the world about the chaos surrounding them. Robb sent what scraps of news he could gather from the North, while Daenerys wrote of the strange wars and politics in Essos, so far removed from Westeros it felt like another lifetime.

For Robb, her letters became a pocket of peace he didn’t know he needed. Every time he cracked the seal, it felt as though a small bubble formed around him — one no grief or council demands could pierce. In those moments, he wasn’t a king. He wasn’t his father’s heir. He was simply Robb.

And, gradually, the letters became more than reports. They turned softer. War gave way to small confessions about frozen lakes and sand dunes, shared reflections on the loneliness of leadership, and the rare, precious bits of good news either of them found.

But the letter he sent tonight was different.

He’d been slightly tipsy when he wrote it. Just enough for the world to feel too loud, too heavy. Sleep had refused him again — every time he shut his eyes, he saw his father die, saw the men he grew up with falling around him, all fighting for a family he still couldn’t save. His sisters were gone. His brothers were frightened. The war devoured everything.

His hand shook as he wrote:

‘Do you ever think of running away from your duties? I know how foolish that sounds. You’re a Queen — or perhaps that makes it less foolish. If being King is this difficult… then being a Queen can’t be any easier.

I hate this title. I never wanted the crown. I only wanted my family back. Gods, I wish my father were here. I wish he’d never gone south.

Your dragons — you call them your children. You never told me their names. What do they look like? Are they as beautiful as the stories say? Mischievous? Magical? Grey Wind is mischief incarnate. He steals my boots and hides them in the strangest places. He’s silly… and perhaps the only thing keeping me sane these days, besides these letters.

I hope — Seven help me — I hope one day we can meet. That I live long enough to. And I hope your children are as wonderful as I imagine they are. You haven’t written much about them, but I know they must be.’

He didn’t remember sealing the letter. Didn’t remember handing it to the maester.

Only the next morning, being told a raven had already flown.

A hot flush of panic went through him — gods, if he could only call the bird back. Snatch the letter before she ever saw those words. But he couldn’t waste resources on something so foolish.

So Robb sat in the quiet, staring at the window where the raven had vanished into the grey sky, and waited for her reply.

Daenerys Targaryen

When she received the letter, she felt the usual spark of excitement — a small, bright thing she had begun to look forward to more than she cared to admit. As always, she opened it in bed, curled beneath her blankets, her children coiled around her in warm circles of bronze, white-gold, and red. Their heat was intense, but familiar. Comforting.

The moment she unfolded the parchment, she noticed something different.

The scent of wine lingered in the fibers — faint, but unmistakable. His letters normally smelled of pine and cold air, like the winter she had never seen but often imagined. There was even a small dark-red drop on the bottom corner, his handwriting unsteady but still clearly his.

As she read, her heart ached. Gods, how she wished she could cross the world in a heartbeat and be there with him now — to hold the weight he carried instead of replying from thousands of miles away with words that would take weeks to reach him.

Daenerys let out a long, heavy breath and set the letter across her lap. Drogon, ever watchful, lifted his head. His red eyes glowed with a kind of ancient understanding, as if he knew exactly what was twisting in her chest. After a moment, he huffed softly and dropped his head onto a silk pillow.

She waited until morning to reply, wanting time to think — not only about her words, but about the decision forming in the back of her mind. She could build ships now. She had the resources. She needed to eventually, regardless. But now… perhaps there was a reason to begin sooner.

Perhaps she could bring a smile to the man behind the letters.

Her reply flowed like a confession:

‘Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal. Named after my late husband and my brothers. They are each beautiful in their own way. Drogon is temperamental and fiercely protective, black as night with red along his wings. Viserion is a sweet boy — he loves to be close to me, lazy as a cat, white with gold. Rhaegal is quiet and observant, green with bronze, always watching everything around him.

They can be mischievous, each in their own way. But none of them have ever stolen my boots and hidden them. Grey Wind sounds quite the character. Is he very fluffy? Soft? Warm to cuddle? I imagine he must be adorable. I would like to see his face one day.

And… on a more serious matter. I have begun preparations for ships. I have the means now, and the purpose. I hope to see you soon, Robb Stark. We will get your siblings back. Together.’

She sent the letter off and returned to her duties, though her mind drifted often — to ships, to storms, to the quiet boy-king in the North who wrote her letters that smelled of pine and grief.

She wondered what he looked like.

People said Starks were stoic. Long-faced. Quiet.

Would he be handsome? Would he have grey eyes or brown? Would he be tall? Broad-shouldered? Would his voice be soft or steady? Would he smile easily, or rarely?

She imagined him a fighter — but how skilled? How scarred?

One day, she would know.

Until then, she let herself dream.

Dream of the man who had already begun to feel closer than a stranger.

Robb Stark

The letters continued, each one building a quiet, steady hope in his chest. Hope that he would see her. Hope that he would see those three dragons soaring behind her like living fire. Some nights he lay awake wondering what she truly looked like, how her voice might sound, whether she would be a kind Queen. He had heard whispers and songs: short silver hair, sun-kissed skin, eyes the soft violet of dawn.

How he wished to see her—now, not later. To tell her everything with his own voice instead of ink. To hear her laugh, which he imagined to be as sweet as honey. To see her smile, bright enough to rival the stars.

One day soon, he told himself. One day, if the gods were not as cruel as he feared.

And then the day came.

The snowfall was light, carried gently by the warmest breeze winter had allowed in weeks. Robb waited at the gates, pacing back and forth, gripping a bouquet of Winter Blossoms. Was this too much? Perhaps. But first impressions mattered.

Then he heard it— the low thunder of hooves rolling across the land, making the ground tremble beneath his boots.

They were coming. Fast. Hard.

His men tensed on the walls. His mother’s warnings echoed in his mind, but he brushed them aside. He had faith. He had hope.

The riders pulled to a sudden stop—close enough to charge, far enough to eye the archers above the gate.

Then one horse broke away from the rest. White as the moon, moving with the grace of something out of an old story. And atop it—

her.

The closer she came, the faster his heart raced. The world… quieted. Everything fell into place. It felt real—his sisters coming home, his brothers safe again, a future possible.

Daenerys swung down from her horse but stumbled slightly before catching herself. A faint pink dusted her cheeks. She giggled, soft and embarrassed, then hurried toward him.

“Robb…?” she said gently.

Robb stared. Truly stared. Like a man seeing the stars from up close. She was breathtaking—far beyond the songs, the whispers, the stories.

He cleared his throat. “Your Grace! I—I… flowers!” He thrust them at her, wide-eyed, heat rising up the back of his neck. “Welcome to Winterfell…”

Daenerys looked from him to the flowers and back again, a smile blooming slowly, warmly. She took them with careful hands.

“They’re lovely. Thank you,” she murmured, smiling wider—like she genuinely enjoyed the expression on his face.

And for a moment, the world was right.

The realm would know peace. Robb would have his family back. And maybe—just maybe—he would build a new one someday with a woman he was never meant to meet.

Chapter Text

Robb Stark

Robb sighed and dragged a hand through his auburn hair. His shoulders ached, whether from the cold or the weight of everything pressing down on him—he couldn’t say. The fires in Castle Black gave off warmth, but not the kind that mattered. They were smaller, weaker somehow, as if even the flames here knew hope was in short supply.

“Why do we need these… these wildlings for?” Greatjon Umber bellowed from the right side of the dining hall, slamming a heavy fist onto the table. “They’re naught but savages trying to claw their way over the Wall! Kill them all and be done with it! Why waste a marriage proposal on such a thing?”

“A marriage?” Tormund scoffed loudly from the opposite side of the hall. “Ha! Our women are better suited for your little wolf king than some petite bi—”

The half-formed insult died the moment Mance Rayder fixed him with a sharp look.

Greatjon surged to his feet. “Say it properly, you coward!”

Robb exhaled, already tired of this. “Sit down, Lord Umber. There’s no need for a spectacle. This is a discussion.”

The Greatjon turned his ire toward Jon. “Why in all the seven hells are we listening to a bastard boy? They know nothing of loyalty or honor—”

Robb’s patience snapped cleanly in two.

“I think you forget your place,” Robb said, his voice low and sharp enough to cut. “That bastard boy is my brother and Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. You will watch your tongue and sit. I won’t say it again.”

The fire went out of Umber’s eyes. He sat down heavily.

Wind howled beyond the walls, slipping through cracks in the stone to bite at Robb’s skin. It was a different kind of cold here—raw and ancient. Nothing like Winterfell’s familiar chill. He found himself wondering how much worse it must be beyond the Wall.

Grey Wind pressed against his leg beneath the table, offering quiet warmth. Robb rubbed his hands together, grateful for the small comfort.

He turned his gaze to Mance Rayder. “You propose an alliance. You suggest marriage. For what purpose? What do you offer us? And what do you expect in return?”

Mance stood beside Jon, calm as ever. He offered a small, almost weary smile.

“For the same reason any desperate man does anything. My people need to survive. I can give you warriors. Strong backs for your war. In return, you offer them food, shelter, and a chance to live beyond the Wall without being hunted.”

Robb narrowed his eyes. “And you? Two kings under one roof?”

“My place is no further south than this,” Mance replied. “My people need a chance not a crown. Those who choose to follow you will obey your laws. If they break them, punish them as you would your own. I ask nothing more.”

Robb leaned back slightly in his chair; the wood gave a soft, tired creak beneath him. He rested his hands flat on the table. “I understand the need,” He said. “I still don’t understand why marriage must be part of it.”

Mance didn’t answer—not with words. He simply nodded toward the gathered free folk.

The crowd shifted, mumbled, parted just enough for a woman to step forward.

Tall. Proud. Eyes bright as the Wall at dawn. Hair braided pale gold, almost white, resting neatly over her shoulder. She didn’t swagger or demand attention, she claimed space by simply being there.

She stood between the two sides of the hall, hands calm before her, furs white as snow, posture fierce without aggression.

“I am Val,” She said. “Sister to Dalla. Widow to none. Free by my own choosing.”

Her voice carried sharp and sure, a blade honed by winter air.

Robb sat a little straighter before he even realized he had.

“If there is to be peace between our people,” Val continued, “It cannot rest on words alone. Words falter. Words sweeten lies. But a marriage binds. Blood. Children. A future shared instead of divided.”

She paused, letting the weight settle. “That is what makes people live side by side.”

Silence swept the room. Even the wind outside seemed to hold its breath.

Grey Wind stirred beneath the table, poking his head out to see the woman who dared call herself sister to kings and queen to none. Val glanced down at him—no flinch, no fear, just a simple respectful nod.

Robb felt that more sharply than any speech. Respect without hesitation. Strength without posturing.

She stood there waiting for his answer.

Robb met her eyes. “You do this willingly? Why?”

“For my people,” She said simply. “Women need warmth. Children need food. Men need purpose. They can give you all these things. But they must have a chance at life—real life. Not hunted like beasts, not starving beyond the Wall. This marriage opens that door.”

Grey Wind’s tail thumped against Robb’s leg, but he didn’t look away from her. Her stance never shifted. Her gaze never wavered. She was patient yet urgent. Certain.

Robb’s eyes drifted to Jon, standing a step behind Mance. Cloak shadowing him, sword at his hip, expression steady and watchful. The wolf’s-head pommel caught the firelight.

Jon met Robb’s gaze and gave a single, firm nod.

That was all Robb needed.

He looked back to Val. Slowly, he nodded. “As you say, princess. Then I suppose we should prepare for a small wedding.”

Cheers erupted from both sides of the hall, though groans echoed too—Lord Umber’s unmistakable among them. Robb didn’t care.

This was the right choice. The only choice that united them all.

And for the first time in a long while, it felt like something in the world was tilting toward hope.

It had only been a day, and already Castle Black buzzed like it hadn’t in years. Free folk moved through the courtyard offering help, hauling wood, patching walls, even thanking Robb for agreeing to the marriage.

The thanks unsettled him. He didn’t need gratitude. He didn’t want it. He just wanted them to live.

Today, he only wanted a moment that wasn’t spent being a king. So he found himself leaning over the wooden railing of the walkway overlooking the training yard, hands clasped together for warmth.

Below, men from the North, the Night’s Watch, and the free folk trained together. An odd sight, but a promising one.

But what drew his eye was Jon and Val.

The two were laughing together, swords in hand, cloaks tossed aside into the snow. Jon looked lighter than Robb had seen him in months. And Val… she matched him blow for blow, word for word.

They moved like siblings, trading smacks and insults with equal brutality.

“I bet your mother looked worse than Wun Wun,” Jon quipped.

Val snorted. “I bet you looked like the backside of a shadowcat when you were born. No wonder your mother left you.”

Jon gasped dramatically and swung the flat of his blade at her. Val slipped away with smooth ease, giggling.

Robb tugged his cloak tighter. The winter air bit deep up here. The sunlight washed over the Wall, fog gathering in its cracks, ice glittering faintly. It was beautiful and deeply unsettling. The Wall seemed to hum beneath everything, a presence older than stone.

He didn’t understand how Jon lived with that feeling day after day. But his brother looked at home here, more than he ever had in Winterfell. Robb respected that.

“She would make for a fine queen,” A soft, rasping voice said beside him.

Robb blinked, turning. “Maester Luwin. You shouldn’t be out in this cold.”

Luwin chuckled and stepped up beside him. “I’ll survive a little longer.” He nodded toward the yard. “Did Jon convince you?”

“He’s the one who suggested the marriage in the first place,” Robb murmured.

Jon and Val had shifted into true sparring now — focused, silent, deadly. Their movements were fluid, rhythmic, almost like a dance. Jon struck with timed aggression, precise power. Val countered defensively but with sharp, clever attacks aimed for blind spots.

“And you agreed,” Luwin said.

“I agreed because she was right,” Robb replied. “And Jon would’ve told me if she wasn’t.”

“You put a great deal of faith in him.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Robb looked at the maester. “Black cloak or not. Lord Commander or not. He’s my brother. I trust him. And if this brings the North together — truly together — how could I refuse?”

“Some will seek only chaos.”

“And they’ll be judged by Northern law. Like any man.”

Luwin hummed thoughtfully. “Then so be it. Let us hope your mother is… accepting.”

Robb exhaled sharply. “She doesn’t have much choice.”

He looked back toward the yard just as Val drove in with a fierce strike. Jon caught it, blades locking, and shoved her back. She didn’t falter. She launched herself forward again, relentless, refusing to yield.

Robb felt something shift in him — quiet, steady, like ice cracking beneath the first touch of spring.

There was more of the North in this woman than in half the lords he’d grown up with. She was the fire that saved you from frostbite, the burn before warmth. She was winter’s stubbornness, its endurance, its strength.

She was the North. And for the first time, Robb truly saw it.

At Winterfell, the tension clung to the stones like frost, even after the wedding. His people were wary of newcomers—understandably so, after the false smiles and broken promises sent north from King’s Landing. Robb didn’t blame them, but he worked to ease them into this new alliance. Let them eat together. Work together. Grow used to one another.

They didn’t need to be divided anymore. They needed one North.

The wedding itself had been like any other; loud, bright, overflowing with food and music. It served its purpose: morale was high. Robb had cared little for the celebration; it all felt like a dream he wasn’t fully inside of.

That night, in their solar, the air between them had been… awkward, soft-edged. They hadn’t consummated the marriage. Not yet. He didn’t feel ready, and she hadn’t pushed. They fell asleep side by side instead, Grey Wind sprawled between them like a wall of fur.

Two weeks later, the strangeness had eased. He was growing used to her presence, her voice, her steadiness. He hoped she felt the same.

Today he sat beneath the weirwood, nestled among the great white roots, sharpening his sword. The godswood was the only place where people left him alone—unless the matter was truly urgent. He could sit here for hours, and often did. The silence soothed him; red leaves drifted down like slow snowfall, brushing his shoulders. The heart tree bled its crimson tears, watching him with that carved, solemn face.

He didn’t mind being watched.

Snow crunched softly. He didn’t look up.

“My Queen,” He murmured, seeing her reflection in the steel.

Val didn’t answer at first. She simply lowered herself onto one of the roots beside him, her presence warm and grounding. Her nearness had that effect now. Steadying him, quieting the noise in his head.

Only when he set the whetstone aside did he finally look up. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Val said. “I came to check on you. You’ve been here all day.”

Robb blinked, glancing at the sky. “Have I?” The sun hung low, pale and cold above the branches. He hadn’t noticed time slipping past.

“Something weighs on your mind?” She asked.

He let out a short breath. “What doesn’t weigh on my mind these days?”

She waited. Patient. Silent. Letting him speak of his own choosing.

Robb slid his blade back into its holster and set it at his feet. “Are you happy here?”

“Why does that matter?” Val asked.

“It matters because you’re my wife,” Robb said quietly. “My Queen. Your happiness is important to me.”

Val’s eyes softened. “I am,” She said, turning toward the distant lake. “More than I expected to be. You try to make me part of everything. I like that.”

He nodded, relief loosening some knot inside him. “Anything I should improve?”

“Besides in bed?” She teased.

Heat shot up his neck instantly. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again—nothing.

Val laughed, tipping her head back. “A joke. Unless you’re ready, which… I admit, I’m curious. When will you be?”

Robb cleared his throat. “I don’t know. I just didn’t want it to feel like… that’s all I wanted.” He rubbed his thumb over the leather of his scabbard. “So many lords treat their wives like property. I don’t want to be selfish. Not with you.”

Her expression softened in a way he hadn’t seen before. “Robb Stark, I don’t think you’re being selfish enough.”

He huffed a laugh. “Is that an attempt to coax me into bed tonight?”

“Did it work?”

“Not tonight,” He admitted. “But… soon. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Your Grace.”

He groaned. “Not you too. Please, just Robb. Titles make me feel like a child pretending at being a king.”

“You call me Your Queen.”

“Yes,” He said gently. “Because it’s affectionate. Not political.”

“Oh.” She seemed to think about that, a small sound humming in her throat.

Silence settled again—comfortable, this time. The wind brushed cold fingers across his face. This was the winter he loved. The soft cold, the forgiving snow, not the biting Wall-ice he’d stood beneath not long ago.

Then Val spoke, low and thoughtful. “Do you plan on taking the… Iron Throne?”

Robb didn’t hesitate. “No. I want my sisters back. I want justice for my father. Nothing more. No crown.”

“Not disappointed,” She said quickly. “Only curious. You’re King of the North. Your men follow you because they believe in you. I wanted to know if you wanted more.”

“I don’t.”

Val’s gaze sharpened. “Then understand this, many men want crowns. Fewer refuse them. And fewer still are meant for them.” She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper. “Whether you want it or not… the crown may want you. What happens when the people call for you, Robb Stark?”

He swallowed, looking away to the rustling leaves. “We’ll cross that road when we get there.”

“Maybe,” Val murmured, though her tone suggested she already knew the truth.

Days passed in a blur; war councils, supply lists, preparations for another march past the Twins. And constantly, constantly, the strain of balancing the tempers of Northern lords with the ferocity of the Free Folk. There were still grumbles, still men who doubted the alliance, and he shut them down whenever he heard them. He couldn’t afford division. Not when Val would rule Winterfell in his absence.

By the time Robb entered their solar, his muscles felt like knotted rope. The warmth of the room—heated by the hot springs beneath the stone—wrapped around him like a blanket. He dragged a hand through his hair and set his cloak over a chair by the fire, trying to be quiet so he didn’t wake her.

“You’re late,” Val’s voice came, close. Not from the bed.

Robb nearly jumped out of his skin. “By the gods—Val!”

She stood beside the hearth, the firelight painting long shadows across her skin. Her nightgown was a soft blue silk, her hair unbraided and spilling over her shoulders like a river of pale gold.

“It’s been days,” She said, arms crossed, unimpressed.

“Days? What do you—” He blinked. Realization hit. “…oh.”

“Yes. Oh.” Her tone sharpened. “And you’re leaving soon. Not without bedding me, you won’t.”

“Val— I—”

“Are you ready or not?” She asked plainly. “I won’t force you. But I need the truth.”

Robb rubbed the back of his neck, heat rising there. “I am ready,” He said quietly. “Truly. The days just… blurred.”

He reached for her hand and lifted it, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I wouldn’t have left without keeping my promise. I swear it.”

Val’s gaze softened—just a fraction—but her voice stayed firm. “I expect it tonight. No later.”

Robb swallowed, feeling his heartbeat quicken. “Tonight,” He said. “If that’s what my wife wants… that’s what she’ll have.”

Her smile bloomed—wide, pleased, just a touch wicked. “Perfect.”

Val grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked him closer, her eyes dark with want and something deeper—longing. “So, Robb Stark,” She murmured, her breath brushing along his jaw, “Are you going to show me what a wolf can do?”

Robb swallowed hard. She smelled like the North itself—frost, firewood, and something wild he couldn’t name. Something in him snapped into place.

He didn’t need to be a king here.

Just a husband.

Her husband.

He leaned in and kissed her—rough, hungry, the kind of kiss he’d been holding back for far too long. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him, their bodies aligning perfectly. She didn’t shy away. She didn’t hesitate. She melted against him, kissing him back with equal fire. One of her hands gripped his shoulder while the other tangled in his hair, giving it a sharp, teasing tug.

The sound that tore from Robb was half-groan, half-growl—low and primal, vibrating through his chest. It sent a shiver racing down his spine, stoking the heat already burning through him.

Val pulled back just enough to breathe, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling. “There it is,” She whispered.

“Aye.” Robb’s voice was thick, his gaze sweeping over her like she was something precious, something he was greedy enough to want all for himself.

His hands slipped beneath the hem of her nightgown and eased it upward, slow but deliberate. For a moment he nearly tore it off her—some instinct in him urging roughness but he steadied himself and lifted it carefully instead. When the fabric fell away and she stood bare before him, he swallowed hard. His mouth went dry, yet heat curled low and fierce in his belly.

Her breasts were full, soft, tipped with tight peaks from the cool air. The rest of her was all clean lines and wild strength—pale as fresh snow, but warm-blooded and unashamed. She didn’t hide a single inch from him, not even when his gaze slipped lower, drinking her in. Something in him pulled taut, sparking through every nerve, his cock stirring with an ache that made his breath catch.

He wanted—gods, he wanted. To pull her to him, to devour every sound she made, to lose himself in her until there was no king, no battles, no crown—only this. Only her.

But Val clearly had her own plans.

She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Robb turned his head, fighting for control, hands curling into fists at his sides. Her bare chest pressed against his, warm and soft, her breath brushing his throat. Her fingers trailed down to the trousers he’d half-undone earlier, slipping inside with sure, unhurried confidence.

She rose up on her toes, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I see how you look at me,” She whispered, voice low and dangerous. “And I want you to give in. Give in to me, Robb Stark. Let me feel it.”

Her hand wrapped around him—firm, coaxing—and she stroked once, slow enough to make his breath shudder. Robb groaned, deep and involuntary, his hips twitching toward her touch. Her thumb swept over the sensitive head, drawing out a warm pulse of slickness. He swore under his breath.

Val withdrew her hand, watching him with a hunger that made his knees threaten to buckle. She lifted her fingers to her lips and licked the shine from the tip of one, then took them into her mouth—slow, deliberate, never looking away from him as she sucked them clean.

Robb felt his breath catch at the back of his throat. “Val…” He whispered her name, not a plea—but a blessing.

He kissed her again, rough and heated, his tongue sliding into her mouth to taste her, to claim what was his. She met him eagerly. She didn’t yield—she matched him, fierce and hungry in her own right, exploring what she had decided was hers.

Her hands roamed his body with bold, possessive intent. She tugged at his clothes impatiently, tearing his shirt, dragging his trousers down without a care for seams or stitches. The ownership in it—her want—made something inside him snap loose. It felt good. Gods, it felt good to be wanted like this.

Robb grabbed her thighs and lifted her as if she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his waist instantly, holding him close. Val broke the kiss only long enough to breathe hotly into his ear:

“Give it to me, Robb. Let me see the wolf. What you really are under all that calm.”

He laid her down into the furs, and she opened for him without hesitation. Legs spread, slick already glistening along her inner thighs in the firelight. Her golden hair spilled in messy waves across the pelts, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

To him, she looked like some wild goddess laid out before him, inviting him closer.

Every instinct screamed at him to take, to claim, to lose himself in her completely.

And finally—there was nothing holding him back.

He wanted it. He needed it. And she was welcoming it, arms open, smile daring him.

Robb settled between her thighs, his cock hard and throbbing. One hand gripped her waist, firm and anchoring; the other braced himself in the furs.

“You’ll tell me to stop?” He murmured.

“Only when I’m satisfied,” Val breathed, her arms draping over his shoulders, fingers kneading the tight muscles in his back as if to coax him deeper.

Robb huffed a low laugh. “Deal.”

He pressed his mouth to her neck and slid inside her.

Gods.

It was almost too much. She was hot, slick, impossibly tight, welcoming him inch by inch. A groan tore from his throat, half-growl, as he pushed all the way in, buried to the hilt.

“Robb…” Val whispered, her legs tightening around him, urging him to move.

If he moved too soon, he knew he’d spill himself like a boy. He swallowed hard, breathing through the burn of pleasure and then he started to thrust.

Slow was impossible. Control was impossible.

He moved hard, deep, each thrust rougher than the last. Fire coiled in his stomach, molten and heavy.

“Oh, Val,” Robb growled, burying his face in her neck as instinct took over. He pinned her to the furs, holding her down as his hips snapped forward.

Her moans urged him on, her nails dragging down his back in sharp lines that sent shocks racing through him. Her mouth on his throat, the bite of her teeth—each touch lit him up, made him burn hotter.

“Robb!” Val gasped, fingers clawing up from his back to his shoulders.

He drove into her, each thrust wet and hungry, the sound of it filling the room. He felt everything. The grip of her body. The heat. The way she squeezed around him.

“My wife,” Robb rasped, breathless. “My Queen.”

He kissed her throat, sucking dark marks into her pale skin—proof, possession, devotion. His back was damp with sweat, his stomach knotted tight with pleasure.

“Val—” His voice broke as his release surged through him, and he spilled deep inside her with a shuddering groan.

Val cried out, loud and unrestrained. “Yes! Gods yes! Fill me, Robb! I’ll give you sons and daughters—every last one you want!”

Her head tipped back, body trembling, and he felt her come around him, her warmth flooding over him, pulling him deeper into the heat of her.

Robb barely had time to catch his breath when Val pushed him down, straddling him like a queen claiming her throne. His cock still deep inside her, and the warmth pressed against him made him groan, half in surprise, half in want.

Her hands splayed on his chest, pressing him into the furs, eyes wild and full of fire. She leaned forward, hair tumbling over her shoulders, lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “I’m in charge now, wolf. Every inch of you is mine.”

Robb’s chest heaved. “Val… please…” His voice cracked with need, but it only seemed to amuse her.

A slow, deliberate bounce and his body shivered. Her hips pressed into him, moving with the precision of someone who had claimed a wolf and knew exactly how to make it howl. “Beg properly,” She growled, tugging at his hair to lift his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Tell me how much you want me. Tell me, or I’ll make you wait.”

Robb’s hands gripped her hips, but she shifted them, holding them still. “I… I need you, Val,” he gasped, muscles straining against her grip. “I want you… please… take me.”

She smiled, teeth grazing his jaw as she rode him, hard and fast, letting him feel every slick stroke. “Good wolf,” She whispered, voice low and dangerous. “But I decide how fast, how deep, and how long.”

Her hands moved to his shoulders, pinning him lightly, leaning down to bite at the edge of his jaw. He groaned, hips jerking instinctively, but she held him, teasing, tantalizing, stretching the pleasure thin like a blade.

“Take it, wolf. You can’t hold back from me,” She said, her body slamming down onto his with a precision that stole his breath. “Move for me, Robb. Show me what that calm facade hides.”

He thrashed beneath her, hands roaming her back, tugging at her hair, desperate for her heat, her body, her control. “Val… I can’t… I need… please…” His words broke into ragged gasps.

She leaned closer, chest to chest, breathing hot against his, whispering, “Then give in. Be mine completely. Every growl, every inch—you’ll spill for me, not for yourself.”

And he did. Every thrust, every moan, every gasp was his surrender to her. Her body clenched around him, nails raking his chest, teeth grazing his skin, and he felt the primal need explode.

He came hard, groaning her name, hips jerking with the force of it. But she didn’t let him collapse; she lifted herself just enough to ride him again, slower, teasing, letting him taste the edge and never fall over it. Every movement was controlled, deliberate, and feral.

Robb’s hands trembled, gripping the furs, then her hips, desperate to reclaim some control but she was the queen here, and he was hers. Every inch of him responded, every nerve alight, every moan a tribute to her dominance.

Finally, spent and trembling, she collapsed onto him, panting, hair tangled across his chest. Robb wrapped his arms around her, feeling the heat of her skin, the lingering pulse of desire. The fire in him had burned out, leaving only warmth and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat beneath his.

“Satisfied?” He whispered, voice hoarse.

Val pressed her lips to his chest, a soft, victorious hum. “For now… but next time, wolf… next time, I’ll see how loud you can howl.”

Robb exhaled, burying his face in her hair, utterly hers, utterly conquered and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Chapter Text

Theon Greyjoy 

The snow was falling heavier by the minute, the sky dark and swollen with clouds. It swallowed the moon and stars whole, leaving only the street lamps to cast pale circles of light across the empty, icing roads.

Robb sighed. “Alright. Hotel it is.”

Theon groaned loudly, dragging his gloved hands down his face. He’d already been dreading that phrase, but the roads were starting to freeze. Even he couldn’t argue with not dying.

Jon shifted beside him, his leg brushing Theon’s for half a second before jerking away like he’d been burned. The lingering warmth annoyed him, so Theon scoffed loudly and turned to the window, refusing to look at that bastard’s face.

“Which means two rooms,” Robb said, voice tinged with entirely too much delight.

Jon groaned. “Yes, Robb… we know.”

“Which means you two have to share~” Robb hummed, sing-song.

Theon kicked the back of Robb’s seat. “Yes, we fucking know, you idiot! Only because you want alone time with your girlfriend. Bleh.”

Jeyne giggled softly from the passenger seat.

Robb shot Theon a glare over his shoulder, but there was no bite behind it. “Watch it, or I’ll put you in a single bed.”

Theon smirked. “Do that and Jon’s sleeping on the floor. Let him freeze.”

Jon groaned. “Why do I have to suffer? Why can’t you sleep on the floor?”

“Because I need my beauty rest, Snow. You snore like a dying bear.”

Jon’s bottom lip stuck out in a tiny pout. He crossed his arms and leaned against the car door. “I don’t sound like a bear…” He muttered.

Theon huffed and slumped back in his seat. He already hated this trip. Why did he agree to come with just the four of them? He should’ve known better. Especially when they were driving farther north—toward The Wall, of all frozen hellholes. The temperature had been dropping all day, and he despised the cold.

He rubbed his hands together to keep them warm, but his fingers still felt numb despite the blasting heat. It wasn’t the heater, it was him. He always froze.

The hotel wasn’t any better. Gods, could this place even be called a hotel? The rooms were on the outside, lined up like sad little boxes. Rundown, probably uncomfortable beds, and even worse blankets.

Robb handed Jon the key. Theon scoffed.

“Can’t trust me with the key?” He asked, suitcase in hand.

Robb grinned. “He was closer. Anyway, you two are on the left. Jeyne and I are on the right. Have fun and don’t kill each other. If you do, text me first.” He clapped Theon on the shoulder before leaving with Jeyne.

Jon sighed. “Let’s get this night over with…” He murmured, heading toward their room with his big duffel bag. No suitcase. Of course.

Theon reluctantly followed, practically hopping in place to stay warm while Jon walked like the cold didn’t touch him. Typical Stark. The cold probably welcomed him.

Jon unlocked the door and Theon pushed in first, desperate for heat. He gasped as warmth hit his face though it was nowhere near as cozy as the car had been.

He scanned the room. Bathroom on the side. A single, flimsy-looking bed. One blanket. Thin as misery.

“You’re kidding,” Theon groaned.

Jon stepped inside behind him and shut the door. “What—oh.” The sigh he let out was heavy enough to fill the room.

There was truly only one bed. One pathetic blanket.

Jon dropped his bag and started digging through it. “I should’ve packed extra blankets…”

Theon set his suitcase down beside the bed. “You take the left side. I’ll take the right. No touching.”

“Thought I was stationed on the floor?” Jon asked.

“You will be if you touch me, Snow.”

Jon let out a tired sound. “Mhm. I’m taking a shower.” He gathered his products and change of clothes.

Theon stared at the armload. “Oh for fuck’s sake—do you really need all that? Does your hair require a full ritual?”

Jon was already halfway to the bathroom. His lip pushed out in another quiet pout. “My hair gets frizzy…” He said, before shutting the door behind him.

Jon Snow

The water was hot and steaming, running down his body and easing the tension in his muscles. Jon let out a soft sigh as soap suds slid down his skin and disappeared into the drain. He was nearly done with his usual bedtime routine when the interruption came.

Theon banged on the bathroom door. “Come on, princess! Some of us have places to be. Gods, hurry up or I swear I’m not joking at this point.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “You can’t handle how hot I put the water anyway,” He called back, not entirely sure if Theon heard him. There was no response, which was rare, and honestly a little suspicious.

He finished his skincare, toweling his face before stepping out of the bathroom in his sweatpants and long-sleeved shirt. His hair was damp, curls sticking to his neck, but he felt clean and relaxed. Steam rolled out behind him like fog escaping.

“Finally!” Theon shoved past him immediately and disappeared inside, slamming the door.

A beat later—

“Fucking hell! What did you do in here? Conjure the Seven Hells? It’s like a damn sauna—Drowned God save me.”

Jon exhaled sharply and crossed the room to his duffel bag. He put away his bottles neatly, slid his toothbrush back into its case, then folded his dirty clothes and tucked them into a separate pocket.

A yawn pulled at him. He sat on the bed and immediately felt the springs push up. The mattress was crooked, thin, and absolutely not promising a good sleep.

Maybe the floor would be better, he thought. He could layer his clothes like a makeshift blanket, use his duffel as a pillow… It might actually be warmer.

He sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair.

When Theon finished his very quick shower—so quick Jon was convinced he definitely hadn’t washed behind his ears—he walked out, switched off the lights, and flopped down on his side of the bed.

They didn’t speak.

The AC unit rattled miserably in the dark, blowing cold air into an already freezing room.

Both of them lay stiff as boards, each determined not to move an inch toward the other. The blanket wasn’t nearly big enough for two grown men committed to pretending the other didn’t exist.

Jon just wanted to sleep. He was exhausted, sore, and chilled. But Theon tugged the blanket closer to his side, pulling it away from Jon’s arms.

So Jon tugged it back.

What began as a small pull became a quiet war—Theon yanking the blanket toward himself, Jon pulling it back, neither willing to surrender but neither wanting to make it a scene.

“Honorless Snow…” Theon muttered, tugging harder. “Not even a damned wolf.”

Jon felt the cold bite at his exposed skin. But he didn’t know if it was the temperature or Theon’s words. They landed deeper than he expected. And when something hurt, Jon reacted the way he always did—with frustration.

He yanked the blanket entirely to his side, wrapping himself up tight.

Theon shot upright. “You fuck! Give it!”

Jon didn’t respond. He just stared into the darkness. He wanted to sleep. Why couldn’t Theon just let him sleep?

Theon reached for the blanket again, but Jon held on and curled into a tight ball, refusing to let it go.

Theon wasn’t done, though.

Jon felt it before he could even react, ice-cold hands slipping under the back of his shirt, pressing against his bare skin.

He gasped sharply. “Theon!”

He flung his arm backward on instinct and smacked Theon hard across the arm.

Theon sucked in a breath and grabbed at the spot. “Fuck!” His voice cracked.

Jon sat up instantly. He hadn’t meant to hit that hard it was pure reflex. “Wait—Theon—”

But when he reached out, Theon slapped his hands away. “Don’t touch me!” He snapped, voice tight, on the verge of breaking.

It was difficult to see in the dark, but Jon could make out Theon kneeling on the bed, shoulders shaking, one hand pressed to his arm.

And then it hit Jon.

He knew exactly where he’d struck. One of Theon’s bruises. One of the reasons he’d come on this trip in the first place, to get away from the people who’d left them.

“Shit… Theon, I’m sorry,” Jon whispered. “I didn’t—”

“Shut up, bastard,” Theon muttered. The venom was still there, but it was quieter now. Almost small.

Jon closed his mouth.

Theon lay back down on his side of the bed, facing away from him. He didn’t reach for the blanket again. He just lay there, shoulders tight, silent.

Hours passed, and Jon still had the blanket wrapped tight around himself. What little warmth it held wasn’t nearly enough to settle the guilt twisting in his stomach. He curled the edge of the blanket in his fingers and turned his head, eyes adjusting to the dark shape of Theon across the bed. Theon’s breathing was slow and heavy, his silhouette hunched slightly, arms folded around himself as if bracing against the cold.

Jon should’ve been asleep by now. He was losing precious hours, and everyone knew how unbearable he got without a full eight. But guilt had teeth, and it wouldn’t let him rest. He hadn’t meant to snap at Theon earlier. Their bickering was normal—routine, even—but sometimes Theon’s jabs hit a little too close, and Jon bit back harder than he should have.

He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily, and prayed Theon was already out. Then, inch by inch, he shifted. A slow, careful shuffle across the mattress until he hovered just behind Theon’s back—close, but not touching. He eased the blanket outward, draping it over both of them, letting the edge fall over Theon’s shoulder.

Theon didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.

So Jon offered what warmth he had; his body heat, his breath, the quiet presence he was too stubborn to admit aloud—and hoped it made up for at least a little of the earlier sting.

Only then did sleep finally pull him under.

Theon Greyjoy

Theon woke to sunlight stabbing straight through the flimsy curtains. He groaned, already hating the morning, and blinked until the room stopped blurring around the edges. When he shifted, his shoulder brushed against something solid.

Another groan—irritated, automatic—left him as he turned, expecting some god-awful hotel headboard or his own suitcase.

Instead, he came face-to-face with Jon.

He sucked in a sharp breath, body jerking in surprise. Jon lay there fast asleep, lips parted slightly, curls scattered over the half-flat pillow. Close, but not touching. The blanket pulled over both of them, warm where it pooled between their bodies.

Theon let out a long, soft sigh. “Damnit, Jon…” He whispered.

But he didn’t wake him. Carefully, he slipped out of the bed.

His arm still throbbed where Jon had hit him—right over one of the fresher bruises—but Theon knew Jon hadn’t meant it. He’d pushed too hard, like he always did. Icy hands down someone’s back? He should’ve expected a swing.

He turned back to the bed, lifted the edge of the blanket, and tugged it properly over Jon’s shoulder. Let him have a few more hours.

In the bathroom, Theon stared at his reflection. Dark circles dragged under his eyes, and most of the bruises stayed hidden beneath his shirt. He braced his hands on the sink and let the question slip out before he could stop himself

“Why does he always have to be like that? Why can’t he be more selfish… like them?”

It was a question that had followed him for years, ever since they were boys.

Jon was always the good one. Selfless, steady, stubbornly kind. The one who forgave too easily. The one who never made Theon feel small, even when Theon tried to make himself believe he deserved it.

And yet, he kept testing him. Kept pushing. Kept hurting the one person who never pushed back.

Why?

Why couldn’t he stop?

From the bedroom, the mattress squeaked. Sheets shifted. Jon let out a low groan followed by a contented sigh.

Theon huffed a small, reluctant laugh. “He sleeps like a damn wolf,” He muttered.

He gathered his clothes and started changing.

He needed this trip—needed to get away, clear his head, breathe without feeling someone else’s shadow on his neck. Maybe then he could stop being the version of himself he hated.

Maybe he could find a little courage.

Maybe… he could find something else, too.

Chapter Text

Viserys Targaryen

Viserys never fled across the Narrow Sea.

There was no drift from city to city, no exile in Essos.

Instead, the last children of Aerys Targaryen were carried south into the heat of Dorne, where they would be safe and hidden, sheltered beneath Martell banners rather than begging for survival in foreign streets.

They were brought before Prince Doran Martell.

He sat in a carved wooden chair with a blanket over his legs, gentle-eyed and soft-spoken. Kind, yes—but Viserys saw the pity there. It struck him like a slap. It made something inside him coil, hot and ugly, and he lashed out with the only weapon he had left: his voice.

He snapped, snarled, spat venom whenever he could. But no one in Dorne ever raised a hand to him. No one trembled or bowed or cowered. They simply met him where he was—calm, steady, unyielding.

And somehow that made the anger burn even hotter.

He hated the sand, the heat, the feeling of being trapped beneath an endless sun. He hated how far King’s Landing felt. He hated being too young to run, too small to take back what was his, too burdened to crumble the way he wanted to.

Daenerys was still a babe in arms. She needed him whole. So he stayed.

He told himself every night that he would survive this. Endure it. Grow stronger.

One day, he would be King. One day, he would reclaim his throne and make the world kneel.

He would honor Rhaegar’s dream and rebuild the realm better than before. He would avenge his mother, his brother, his house.

Yes. He would do that. He just had to wait.

And there was a price for Dorne’s protection—a secret pact sealed in quiet council rooms.

He would one day take a Dornish princess to wife.

Princess Arianne Martell.

The knowledge settled in his chest like a stone. The wedding, when it finally came, it only fed the fire inside him. Too many people watching. Too many whispers. Too much heat. Too much Dorne.

The world felt too loud, too close, too expectant.

So he retreated to his chambers and shut the door.

For days. For weeks. For years, it seemed, he drifted between fury and isolation, waiting to be old enough for any of it to matter, waiting for the dragon inside him to stop clawing against his bones.

In the deep, blistering heart of Dorne, Viserys Targaryen waited—untouched by the world, untouched even by his wife—while the fire inside him festered beneath the unforgiving sun.

Today, though, he left his bedchamber.

The room wasn’t truly his—nothing in this place ever felt like it belonged to him—but it was the one space he had claimed, and no one dared challenge that claim. Still, the walls were suffocating tonight. So Viserys slipped out into the corridors of Sunspear, letting the cool evening swallow him.

The sun was sinking into the horizon, staining the sky with golds and burning oranges, the kind of beauty that made people sigh and speak of Dorne with reverence. Viserys only huffed at it. Pretty as it was, the sand still crept into his boots, his sheets, his hair—everywhere it wasn’t wanted.

He drifted toward the Water Gardens, drawn by the promise of peace. Of quiet. Of space where no one would stare at him with pity or patience or that infuriating, suffocating Dornish calm.

No pitying eyes. No steady, unreadable gazes. No one at all.

He just wanted silence. But even alone, the world had grown too loud.

Viserys sank down beside a fountain, letting his head rest on the damp, cool stone. His hand hung over the edge, fingertips grazing the chilled surface of the water as it rippled gently beneath them. The steady fall of water into the basin, the whisper of leaves stirred by a warm breeze—it should have soothed him.

It didn’t.

His legs stretched out over the soil; his trousers would be stained, but what did it matter? The servants would clean them. At least the dirt felt real beneath him—something solid in a world that kept slipping like sand through his fingers.

Still, the chaos thrummed in his skull.

He should have an army by now. He should be rallying banners, calling upon loyal lords, reclaiming the throne stolen from his family. He should be more than this—more than a frustrated boy waiting for the world to let him become a king.

He let out a long, fraying sigh and flicked his fingertips through the water in a small, childish burst of irritation.

“Well, that was rude.”

The voice was soft. Warm. Lightly amused.

Viserys’ eyes snapped open. He jerked upright and twisted toward the sound.

Arianne sat at the fountain’s edge, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders like ink in the sunset’s glow. Her dress was gold and deliberately revealing, adorned with matching jewels at her throat and arms. She looked every inch a Dornish princess—sun-kissed, confident, radiant.

And she was smiling at him. Watching him.

Viserys scoffed.

His wife.

She was beautiful. Anyone would see it.

But beauty didn’t change the fact that he had not chosen her—nor anything else about his life. Every decision had been made for him, carved out of his hands before he was old enough to hold them.

He hated that most of all: the absence of choice.

Pushing to his feet, he brushed soil from his trousers without looking at her. He didn’t say a word. He simply turned, intending to leave.

“Do you enjoy the Water Gardens?” Arianne asked. He heard the soft jingle of her jewelry as she shifted, the sound threading through the warm night air.

Viserys froze, staring at the archway that led out of the gardens. Of course he wouldn’t be alone. He never seemed to be alone when he wanted it. He considered turning back to his chambers and… doing what? Sleeping again? Reading another book? He’d read every volume in Sunspear twice over, and he was certain he’d slept more hours than any boy his age ought to.

He exhaled sharply. “What do you want?” he muttered, ignoring her question entirely. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“To talk to my husband,” Arianne said gently. “We never really talk.”

Viserys rolled his eyes. “Then let’s keep it that way.”

“If that’s what you wish,” she hummed, unbothered.

He took a step toward the archway. He truly meant to leave—meant to shut himself away again where no one could touch him or look at him or expect anything from him. But gods, he was so tired. So tired and so indescribably alone.

And whose fault was that? His own. He knew it. He could have spoken to people. Gods knew the Dornish tried. But he hated their eyes—full of pity or curiosity or some quiet desire for something from their stray dragon prince.

Still, when he glanced back over his shoulder, Arianne’s eyes on him held none of that. No pity. No hunger. Just patience. Quiet certainty. Warmth.

Maybe… just one conversation.

Maybe it would drown out the noise in his head for a moment.

He sighed and turned fully, walking back to the fountain. He sank down onto the cool stone edge. “Why are you out here so late?”

Arianne’s smile bloomed—soft, pleased. The sight tightened something unfamiliar in his chest. “I finished braiding Dany’s hair for bed. And I always take a stroll through the gardens before I sleep. I suppose I just happened to find you, too.”

“Ah.” Viserys lowered his gaze to the patch of soil beneath him. He pressed his heel into it, watching the earth shift and mold under the pressure of his boot.

“And you?” Arianne asked lightly. “Why are you here? You’re always in your cave, brooding with your treasures.” She giggled.

Viserys scoffed. “Why does that matter to you?” The venom in his voice surprised even him—sharp, unrestrained, scraping his throat raw as it left him.

But Arianne didn’t flinch. Didn’t frown or bristle. Her smile didn’t even falter. “Because you’re my husband,” she said simply. “My brooding dragon who likes to hide in his den and read every book imaginable.”

Viserys blinked, stunned despite himself.

Her husband.

Her dragon.

Words he never expected to hear—never thought anyone would call him with such softness. Something hot and vulnerable stirred under his ribs.

“Hmph.” He tore his gaze away, gripping the stone edge with both hands. “Because I was looking for something quiet.”

Arianne nodded, her expression softening. The tease slipped away, replaced by something warmer—understanding, steady and sure. She tilted her head just enough for the last light of sunset to catch in her dark eyes.

“I come here for peace as well,” she murmured. “When too many eyes are on me, too many whispers, too many expectations… when it all becomes too much. I understand that.”

Viserys lifted his head, meeting her gaze for a moment he hadn’t meant to give. He hadn’t expected this—not understanding, not gentleness. Not from her.

Arianne smiled softly. “If you want to rest here—in this quiet—you can. I will not force you to speak. I won’t force you to leave… or stay.”

Then she leaned in just a little, close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. “I only wish to share the quiet with my dragon,” she said, voice low, “if he’ll let me.”

Viserys looked away sharply, back to the soil marked by his boot. He didn’t answer. But he didn’t stand. He didn’t dismiss her. He didn’t retreat into anger.

He stayed.

The silence settled between them, soft as the falling water. Night crept across the sky, and the warm air of Dorne sharpened with desert chill. And still—he didn’t move.

For the first time in years, the quiet didn’t feel like a cage.

Arianne Martell

The world around her was always so full of life. Laughter echoing through the halls, men vying for her attention with jewels and gifts they thought would impress her, council meetings where she sat beside her father learning what it meant to truly rule Dorne. A whole land of people, lords and ladies, and yet most of them still saw her as little more than a jewel — precious, untouchable, kept polished and pristine.

That was what irritated her most. The lack of respect. The expectation that she should stay pretty and quiet.

It was one of the reasons she came to the Water Gardens so often. And the night she found Viserys there — her husband, the man who had barely spoken a full sentence to her — she was surprised. He looked… lost. Curled over the fountain like a wounded thing, dark purple eyes shadowed by burdens she couldn’t name.

So much sadness. So much anger. So much weight on such a young man’s shoulders.

She had wanted, in that moment, to wrap her arms around him. To pull his head to her chest and let him rest, to give him the peace no one else seemed to know he needed. But that wasn’t who they were — not yet.

Viserys Targaryen was many things. But she wondered if he had any idea of his own greatness. Of what he could be if he ever stepped fully out of that den of his.

It had been days since then, and still no one had seen him leave his room. Meals left outside his door, water refilled like he was some cloistered house cat. She hated that. Hated what it would make him feel like.

He must feel like some caged creature, if that’s how they treat him.

Daenerys glanced up at her, silver hair half-braided between Arianne’s fingers. “Ari… are you okay?” she asked softly.

Such a sweet girl — all smiles and sun, racing over the dunes with her skirts hitched, riding horses with her hair flying behind her. But gods, she missed her brother. Arianne saw the way Dany left small trinkets by his door, how she made special requests for his meals. It broke her heart a little.

Arianne smiled gently and resumed braiding. “Yes, sweetling. I’m alright. Are you?”

Dany hesitated, then looked down. “I… maybe? I miss Viserys…”

“I know,” Arianne murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. Then she chuckled lightly. “My dragon is always brooding in his den, isn’t he?”

Daenerys giggled, bright and amused. “The Dragon’s Lair! That sounds fiercer.”

“Mmm, it does have a charm to it,” Arianne hummed.

And perhaps… perhaps it was time to try luring the dragon out.

Maybe she could coax him from that lair of his. Wake the sleeping dragon without fear of being burned. Gods knew he had a temper — sharp words and loud shouting that frightened the servants, though he never laid a hand on anyone. Just flame without fire.

Her poor, wounded dragon.

He was alone. In a place he hated. In a world that had hurt him again and again, then crowned him with a burden too heavy for anyone.

But she was his wife. She was allowed to try. Allowed to talk to him, comfort him, share his bed — if he would let her.

Maybe if she showed him she wasn’t afraid of his fire, he would finally stop feeling like a monster made of it.

She stood before his door late into the night.

The braziers lining the hall had burned low, their flames dulling as servants quietly moved through Sunspear to replenish them. The palace had gone still, wrapped in sleep and stone, but Arianne had known — felt — that Viserys would be awake.

She lifted her hand and knocked. Soft, but deliberate.

Then she waited.

From behind the door came the rustle of sheets. Bare feet against cold stone. A pause — and then the door swung open.

The dragon appeared angry and half-wild, silver hair mussed from sleep, clothes wrinkled as though he’d twisted in them for hours. His eyes burned hot, bright with irritation — but beneath it all, she saw it.

Bone-deep exhaustion.

“What the fuck do you want now?” Viserys snapped, his voice echoing down the corridor. “I’ve been bothered by everyone under the sun today. What? What is it?”

Fire flared in his gaze — but it wavered, tired and frayed.

Arianne didn’t flinch. She smiled softly.

“Hello, my sweet dragon,” she said gently. “Did I wake you?”

She saw it then — the hesitation, the flicker of doubt. His shoulders tightened, the anger faltering into something more worn.

“…What do you want?” he asked again, quieter this time.

“Well,” Arianne replied calmly, “may I come in?”

Viserys glanced over his shoulder toward the room behind him. He didn’t answer — just stepped back, retreating inside. The door remained open.

She took that as permission.

Arianne entered and quietly closed the door behind her. She took her time, letting her gaze move over the space. In all the years Viserys had lived here, she had never once been inside.

She doubted many people had.

The bed was circular and lavish, draped in red and gold silks, pillows scattered carelessly across it. Heavy curtains were drawn shut over the balcony doors. Books lay everywhere — stacked in small, worn piles, some open, some dog-eared with use. Jewels glittered from an open silver box, catching candlelight like trapped stars.

But it was the table that made her stop.

There, resting on a small cushion of deep purple velvet, sat a crown.

Polished. Untouched by time. Reverent.

She knew it instantly.

His mother’s crown.

The queen’s.

The one thing he had left of her.

Arianne’s chest tightened.

Behind her, Viserys struck a spark and lit another candle. “You going to just stand there,” he said sharply, though the bite was gone now, “or what?” He scoffed. “Is this about the heir? You trying to seduce me?”

Arianne blinked. “Pardon?”

He exhaled heavily, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world had finally pressed him down. “Your brother came earlier,” he muttered. “I know. I know. We’re married. We need children. You’re meant to rule Dorne. You need heirs. Yes — I know.”

Her stomach twisted.

No one had told her this. Not her father. Not her brother. They had always allowed Viserys his solitude, his brooding silence — or so she had thought.

This wasn’t why she was here.

“Well,” Viserys continued bitterly, knocking a cup off the table with the back of his hand and watching it shatter on the floor, “lie back on the bed and we’ll get it over with.”

The sound rang through the room.

Arianne crossed to him without hesitation and gently took his arm. She felt him tense instantly, anger flashing hot beneath her fingers.

“My sweet dragon,” she said softly, “I never came here for that. I didn’t even know they spoke to you.”

She held his gaze. “What else did they say?”

He didn’t pull away — not at first. Then suddenly he wrenched his arm free and began pacing the room, restless and caged.

“What does it matter?” he snapped. “You need an heir, don’t you? Then do it. It’ll make them leave me alone! Why can’t they just leave me alone?”

Her own anger flared — sharp and protective.

“Because you are my husband,” Arianne said firmly. “That’s why it matters. And I don’t like that they spoke to you about this without me. How long have they been doing this?”

He stopped pacing.

“Weeks,” Viserys hissed. “Months. Years. Always. Bothering.”

Arianne’s expression softened instantly. “I see,” she said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

Silence settled between them.

At last, Viserys turned, his posture still tight, eyes guarded. “So,” he asked, voice low and strained, “do you want an heir or not?”

Arianne did not hesitate. This wasn’t how she wanted it.

She shook her head softly. “No, my dragon. I don’t want that. Not when you feel forced.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “If we are to share a bed, I want it to be because you wish it—because you come to me and ask.” She smiled then, small and sincere.

Viserys narrowed his eyes, distrust flickering across his face. He scoffed. “Whatever you say, Princess.”

Turning away from her, he crossed the room and flopped onto the bed, curling into the silks and blankets the way a dragon curled around its hoard. He tucked himself in, resting his head against a pillow, and let out a low huff—one that sounded perilously close to relief.

“What do you want?” he grumbled. “I’m tired.”

Arianne walked over but did not sit beside him. Instead, she leaned against the bedpost, watching the candlelight cast long shadows over his face. His silver hair fell like a curtain, half-hiding his eyes—as though he were trying to disappear from the world entirely.

“I came to say hello,” she said softly. “To talk. Or to share silence, if that’s what you prefer.”

Viserys groaned. “You’ve said hello. Are we done?”

“That depends,” she replied calmly. “Am I allowed to stay?”

He went still. “Why?” Viserys asked, his voice quieter now—softer than she expected. “Why stay, if not to make an heir?”

Slowly, Arianne sat on the edge of the bed. “Because you’re my dragon,” she said. “My husband. The man I married—the man who holds my heart.” She met his gaze, unflinching. “You may not feel the same. But I hope… one day, you might.”

He shifted beneath the blankets, watching her. After a moment, he exhaled. “Yeah,” he murmured. “One day, perhaps.” His eyes fluttered shut. “Stay, then. Sleep here, if you wish.”

Arianne smiled.

She slipped fully onto the bed, settling among the pillows and blankets. Her jewelry was already set aside, her nightgown simple and comfortable—nothing that made her feel out of place here. She glanced around, amused. “A comfy little nest you’ve made,” she teased softly. “My dragon does love his silks.”

Viserys huffed. “Only the best,” he muttered.

Silence stretched between them, gentle and unbroken. Arianne watched as his breathing evened out, his face softening in sleep. He looked more peaceful like this—unguarded. She hoped his dreams were kinder than his waking hours. That in them, he was free.

Sleep soon claimed her as well.

And for the first time in their marriage, they shared a bed—not as duty demanded, but as choice allowed.

Viserys Targaryen

When he woke, the usual dizziness did not come.

There was no pounding in his skull, no overwhelming sense that the world was already too loud, too demanding. Instead, there was quiet. Warmth. A strange, unfamiliar peace.

He blinked slowly, disoriented not by pain, but by its absence.

Then he realized where he was.

Arianne was awake, her arms wrapped around him. His head rested against her chest, tucked close, surrounded by warmth. One of her hands threaded gently through his hair, slow and absent-minded, as though she had been doing it for some time.

She was soft. Warm. Safe.

The world felt calm.

He didn’t pull away.

Perhaps he should have—but instead, he shifted closer, selfishly nestling into her embrace. His forehead pressed against her, his eyes fluttering shut once more.

If this was never meant to happen again, then he would take this moment for himself. Just this. One memory of warmth and quiet. Something to hold onto when it ended. Maybe it would be enough to bring him peace, even later.

Arianne let out a soft giggle. “Such a sleepy dragon,” she teased.

Viserys only hummed in response.

Her hand never stopped moving. She didn’t push him away or comment on how he clung to her. She simply stayed, letting him rest as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

How had this even happened?

Sometime in the middle of the night, he supposed. Perhaps they had shifted closer for warmth. Perhaps exhaustion had won. However it had happened, he found himself draped over her now, sheltered, held.

Arianne’s other hand slid to his back, rubbing slow, steady circles. Easing the tension from his muscles. Grounding him.

And Viserys—who so rarely allowed himself anything—let himself stay.

Normally, Viserys would stay in his room all day, not bothering to rise until well past noon. When Arianne left to prepare for the day, he lingered in bed, debating whether he should follow his usual routine or do something different.

In the end, he chose to leave. To eat with the others.

Mostly for his sister.

He knew Daenerys wanted him around more, and the thought stirred a faint ache of guilt in his chest. He should have been there for her. He should have watched her grow. That was what Rhaegar had done for him.

Would his brother look at him with disappointment?

Viserys exhaled shakily, running a hand through his silver hair. For once, he wanted the world to be quiet.

And for once, it was.

He entered the dining hall softly, where the Martells took their meals together — Daenerys among them. He spotted her immediately. Her silver hair gleamed in the morning light, braided neatly, and she wore a purple dress he didn’t recognize. Normally she favored red or gray.

Maybe she was beginning to like something different.

Daenerys lifted her head and gasped. “Viserys!”

She leapt from her seat and ran straight into him, throwing her arms around his waist. The suddenness of it startled him, but he caught her easily and returned the embrace with a gentle squeeze.

“Hello,” he murmured.

“You’re here!” she exclaimed, beaming up at him. “Are you eating with us? Will you sit by me? Please, please, please!”

Usually, the whining would have annoyed him — something deep in him recoiling at the noise, the need. But here, now, he felt none of that.

He only wanted to make her happy.

“If that’s what you want, dear sister,” Viserys said, lifting her and carrying her back to her seat. He set her down carefully beside him.

Doran smiled across the table. “It’s good to have you with us, Prince Viserys.”

Oberyn chuckled. “Yeah. For once.”

The mockery was unmistakable.

Viserys ignored it. There was no flare of anger, no sharp retort, no raised voice. He simply took his seat and exhaled slowly, choosing silence.

Doran cleared his throat. “What my brother means—”

“No,” Oberyn cut in. “I meant exactly that. Finally joining the family.”

Daenerys, blissfully uninterested in the tension, tugged on Viserys’s sleeve. “Do you like my hair? It’s braided! Ari did it for me!”

“Ari?” Viserys echoed.

“Yes,” Arianne said gently as she passed behind him and took the seat beside Daenerys. She looked at Viserys — warm, calm, and quietly pleased. She wore one of her usual golden dresses, adorned with rubies and gold, unapologetically radiant. “It’s nice to have you here.”

Oberyn laughed. “Did you finally do it? Gods, took you long enough.”

The warmth in Arianne’s expression vanished instantly. She turned to her uncle, her gaze sharp and unyielding.

“You will not speak to my husband like that again,” she said coolly. “If you do, I will punish you. Leave Viserys alone.”

She turned briefly to her father as well. “And you, Father. Whatever we do, in our time, is ours alone. It does not concern either of you.”

Doran swallowed. “Arianne, I never meant—this was a marriage pact. There are expectations—”

“One day,” Arianne said firmly. “But not today. And certainly not tomorrow. Pressuring him will only do harm.”

Silence followed her words, heavy and final.

Viserys said nothing. He simply sat there, his sister beside him, his wife standing her ground — and for the first time in a long while, the weight of the world did not feel quite so unbearable.

Though a strange warmth stirred in his chest, it was not the cruel kind. Arianne had drawn the line firmly, protecting him — protecting both of them — without raising her voice, without insults. Calm. Collected.

What was he supposed to do with that?

He swallowed the odd sensation of wanting to cry. Perhaps it was the quiet, or the steady way his wife held herself beside him, but for the first time in a long while, he felt… steady too.

He gently patted his sister’s head as she babbled on about her little adventures, listening to every word. He didn’t tell her to be quiet. He didn’t interrupt. He simply listened. He was present.

Rhaegar would have done this too — listening to him recount the endless stories he read.

He missed his brother.

Viserys lifted his gaze to the table. Laughter and conversation filled the hall. For a brief moment, he thought he could hear Rhaegar’s soft, musical laugh—but it was Arianne, giggling, teasing, smiling with the warmth of the sun.

He had never eaten with others before. It felt strange, almost uncomfortable. Yet he liked it. Quiet as he may have been, he liked not being alone. He liked how the world no longer spun or pressed against him. Here he was, eating, listening, and for the first time in a long while, feeling… at ease.

Arianne Martell

Over the next few days, she watched as Viserys emerged from his den more and more often. He spent time with his sister—reading, walking, even horseback riding. He was present, a brother, and his violet eyes were calm… until they weren’t. The fire would flare again, and the dragon would retreat, brooding in his lair.

She didn’t laugh at it. Curiosity overtook amusement.

The world felt unbearably loud to him. Was it as loud the night he had rested in her arms? He hadn’t moved, hadn’t yelled, hadn’t tried to push her away. He had nestled closer, letting himself be vulnerable.

Did that change anything? She wasn’t sure. But she wanted to test it. To see if her dragon could be calm again.

So she returned to his door that night, wearing a simple nightgown, her jewelry set aside. She knocked softly and waited.

This time, she heard the scrape of a chair against stone before the door opened. Viserys stood there, scowling, but there was no fire in his eyes—just fatigue.

“What?” he asked plainly.

“I was wondering if you’d like to sleep together again. To talk, or just share silence,” she said gently.

Viserys looked at her as if she’d lit the world aflame, or perhaps was about to stab him in his sleep. His eyes narrowed, his mouth opened, then closed, as he processed her words.

“I just want us to slowly get to know one another,” Arianne added softly. “I want to know you, Viserys.”

He scoffed and stepped aside, allowing her into the room. The door remained open, and he moved to his bed, sinking into the hoard of blankets. Arianne followed quietly, closing the door behind her. She approached the bed with calm assurance, testing the waters.

“Come lie on top of me,” she motioned. He hesitated, as if the slightest touch might burn him, but eventually he draped himself over her, settling carefully.

She placed a hand on his back, feeling the tension in his muscles. Slowly, she rubbed gentle circles, coaxing him to relax. She ran her fingers through his soft silver hair.

“Do you… remember King’s Landing?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” he murmured, his head resting against her chest.

“Like what?”

“My brother and mother… the music… a library all to myself,” he whispered. His breath shuddered, and he buried his face deeper into her.

Arianne frowned slightly, regretting the depth of her question, but she squeezed him gently. “I bet they miss you greatly,” she murmured.

“Perhaps…” he said softly, saying no more. He simply remained in her embrace. She felt his breathing ease, from shaky to shallow to deep and even. Sleep claimed him faster than she expected.

And it was perfect.

The following days were as she expected. Viserys came out of his den, being sociable, calm, and even seemed to enjoy himself once and again. It seemed all he needed was some love and care, and his mind would be quiet enough for him to enjoy life.

She wished she had figured that out sooner, had tested the waters years ago. Maybe then he would have been a different man. Maybe he would be who he wants to be. Where he could have a life in Dorne. Not just in a small room that he would stay in.

What would he have been like?

Kinder? Happier? Outgoing?

There was no point in thinking on the what if’s. If she did that, then the she would never be where she is now. So instead she enjoyed these moments, seeing her sweet dragon so happy and calm.

Perhaps they could be something special, given the time.

Viserys Targaryen

The days passed quicker than they usually did.

He was out more. Doing things. Learning how to braid his sister’s hair, reading her stories, even eating with the Martell family each day. The world felt quieter somehow, as if the constant buzzing in his mind had finally been muted.

No fire roaring in his thoughts. No voices shouting in his skull. No chaos.

Just quiet. Just warmth.

Arianne spent more time in his bedchambers now. Sometimes it was nothing more than sharing a quiet breakfast. Other times, it was cuddling before sleep, her presence steady and unassuming.

Maybe that was what helped. Maybe that was why his mind felt calm, why he could breathe.

With her, he could feel like his true self — vulnerable without mockery, quiet without being judged or punished. He could simply be.

Viserys drew in a slow breath… and felt the calm waver.

The market was too loud. Too crowded. Too many eyes.

He knew they were looking at him. He heard the murmurs — not the words themselves, but the intent behind them.

Were they talking about him?

Did Robert Baratheon know he and his sister still lived?

Would Dorne one day offer him up?

His chest tightened.

Then warmth wrapped around his arm, grounding him.

The noise dulled. The spiral eased.

He looked over to see Arianne beside him, radiant as ever, her hand resting firmly on his arm. She smiled — soft, knowing — as if she could see the storm and chose to stand in it with him.

“Is there anything you want to look at?” she asked.

“I…” Viserys glanced around, considering. Jewels caught his eye — rubies, perhaps. Something familiar. Something his. “Yes. Jewelry.”

“Mm,” Arianne hummed, tugging him gently along the sandy paths of the market. “You and me both.”

They passed stalls overflowing with life — food, silks, rugs, silverware, trinkets from distant lands. Sunlight blazed overhead, red sun banners fluttering in the warm breeze. The air buzzed with sound and color.

Arianne never left his side. Her presence was steady, calming. She walked as if she owned the world.

Would she have been better with someone else?

Someone confident. Someone unbroken. A husband worthy of her.

The jewelry stall glittered with polished perfection — emeralds, opals, rubies, sapphires, gold and copper alike. Every piece shone, unmarred and pristine. His eyes lit with something close to joy.

He loved jewels. Always had. They made him feel important — closer to what his brother had been. Rhaegar, ethereal and admired, beautiful in a way Viserys had always envied.

He wanted that. Wanted to be seen as something worthy.

His gaze swept the display, searching for the best. Nothing less would do.

Then he saw it.

A copper dragon, its ruby eyes fierce and bright, coiled to rest around a throat. He reached for it — only for Arianne to move faster.

Heat spiked in his chest, sharp and sudden.

But she only smirked as she fastened it around her neck. “A piece of you that I can wear,” she said lightly. “What do you think?”

The anger vanished as quickly as it had come.

Sunlight struck the copper, setting it ablaze against her skin. The ruby eyes glinted like embers, the dragon’s tail curling just above her collarbone.

Viserys stared, silent.

Then he looked again — searching not for something to claim, but something to give.

His eyes landed on a simple piece: an opal on a leather cord. Modest. Unassuming. Yet fire danced within the stone, shifting and alive.

It reminded him of her — her warmth, her sharp wit, the way she smiled and stood her ground, radiant and unyielding.

He lifted it carefully and slipped it over his neck, letting it rest over his heart. Then he held it out to her.

“For you,” he said softly.

Arianne’s smile widened. “It’s beautiful, my sweet dragon.”

And for once… Viserys believed her.

Arianne Martell

It was late at night, the hour when she often spent time with Viserys in his bedchambers. Candles burned low, casting soft gold light along the walls, and the world beyond his room felt far away and quiet. They sat together on one of the long sofas near the hearth. Viserys had a book resting open in his lap, his body leaning just slightly toward hers, while she braided small sections of his silver hair.

She liked the way the braids looked on him—regal, almost princely, especially when threaded with small jewels—but more than that, she liked what they did to him. How his shoulders loosened. How his breathing slowed. How the sharpness in him dulled into something calmer, steadier.

Her fingers worked slowly, gently, for what must have been nearly an hour. She didn’t mind the time. But eventually, she noticed the sound of turning pages had stopped.

Arianne glanced down.

Those violet eyes were no longer scanning the book. His gaze had drifted somewhere distant, unfocused, as if he were thinking through something carefully. The book lay open but forgotten.

A small knot of concern tightened in her chest. She hoped his thoughts were not turning dark, not slipping back into fire and noise.

Then Viserys shifted slightly against the cushions. He turned his head just enough for her to see his profile and closed the book in his lap—no bookmark, no care for holding his place.

When he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile peace between them.

“I want to do it… with you… just you.”

Arianne’s hands stilled mid-braid. She let the loose strand slip free, the silver falling softly back into place. She looked at him, really looked at him, searching his face.

“Are you sure?” she asked gently. “My dragon—are these your thoughts? Or theirs?”

She needed to know. Needed to be certain. She could not bear the idea of crossing this threshold if it wasn’t truly his choice.

“Mine,” Viserys said quietly.

He looked away, his gaze dropping to the closed book, and his hand lifted to the opal pendant at his chest. His fingers curled around it unconsciously, as they so often did.

The necklace had been meant for her—simple, unassuming—but over the days she had noticed how often he touched it when he thought himself unobserved. How it seemed to steady him. If that small piece of her presence anchored him, then she thought it might be the most beautiful thing he owned.

Arianne leaned forward, resting her chin lightly on his shoulder.

“And when did you want to?” she asked softly. “Tonight? Is that why you’ve been drifting?”

There was no accusation in her voice—only care.

Viserys nodded slowly. “I’m ready to be a husband,” he said. “To try… for you. I’m sorry I haven’t before.”

She clicked her tongue gently and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Don’t ever apologize for that,” she murmured. “I should have been a better wife to you. You needed help long before now. I should have seen it.”

He turned fully toward her then, meeting her eyes. “We’re here now.”

“Yes,” Arianne said, smiling softly. “We are.”

She reached over and gently guided his hand away from the opal and into her own. He squeezed her fingers in response, threading them together as if anchoring himself there.

“We can take our time,” she said softly. “This doesn’t need to feel like duty.”

He nodded. “I don’t want it to.” His grip tightened just a little, as though to prove it.

Arianne rose from the sofa and helped him to his feet. The book slipped from his lap and landed on the floor with a quiet thump, forgotten. She led him to the bed, where the blankets and pillows were already waiting—warm, inviting.

Viserys’s nest. Their nest.

She rested her hand against his chest and looked up at him. “You’ll tell me to stop?”

He nodded, leaning into her touch as if he were seeking more than warmth—something steadier, something safe. “I won’t want you to.”

Arianne smiled and leaned up to kiss him, slow and gentle. He kissed her back, certain in his choice, yet still careful, as though the moment itself were something fragile.

The candlelight burned low, shadows stretching along the walls as the cold pressed faintly through stone and glass. Her fingers moved unhurriedly, unfastening the straps of his shirt before helping him ease it off. She let it fall to the floor without a thought.

Her kisses drifted from his lips to his jaw, her hands resting flat against his chest, fingertips brushing the cool surface of the gemstone. She felt the faint tremor beneath her palms.

When she nipped lightly at his throat, he groaned, breath hitching. Her hands slid down over his skin, fingers catching at the waistband of his trousers.

“Go on, Viserys,” she whispered against his neck. “Touch me. I am your wife.”

Viserys placed his hands back on her hips, as though grounding himself there. Arianne focused on easing his mind, her touch slow and reassuring as her hands traced every muscle, every line of his body. She pressed soft kisses to his skin—affection meant to say what words could not.

Gradually, she guided him down into their nest of pillows and blankets. She knew he was unsure of what to do, and truthfully, she wanted nothing rough or demanding. That was not them. Not now. She wanted him to enjoy this—to enjoy her.

She slipped her nightgown over her head and let it fall to the floor. It was an easy, unhurried motion. Viserys watched her, not with hunger or lust, but with a quiet, aching need for warmth and love. She had known the looks of men who wanted her body; this was different. This was reverence. It made her feel almost shy, almost uncertain.

Still, she straddled his lap, settling there as though it were her rightful throne.

And it was.

This was her dragon.

Her place, her bond, hers to guide—not to conquer, but to cherish.

Viserys swallowed, his hands resting on her hips. Not to lead or claim, only to hold. He nodded to her—permission, consent, trust.

Arianne placed her palms against his chest and leaned closer. “My dragon,” she whispered, “you are the only man who will ever touch me. And yet you do so with such care. If you wish to take, you may.”

“I only wish to admire,” Viserys murmured. “To hold my wife. To admire my radiant sun.”

Then he leaned up and kissed her again—this time with more confidence, more warmth—his devotion finally finding its voice.

Arianne slowly lifted herself before settling down onto her dragon. Every inch she took made her feel fuller than the last, warmth blooming as their bodies joined. It did not hurt, nor was it lacking—it felt right, as though they had been shaped to fit together, pieces of the same design finally aligned.

Viserys groaned, his eyes fluttering shut as his breath stuttered and his grip tightened.

When she had settled fully, she traced her fingers over his chest, grounding him, easing him into steadiness. And when his breathing finally evened, she braced herself and began to move—riding him as a true rider would her dragon.

Not fast, not rough, but with care and understanding. She let the fire build slowly, allowed it to linger. Her dragon answered her, growling and groaning beneath her, the sound a song of pleasure that made her smile as his face twisted with delight and need.

Arianne tightened around him, the world narrowing as she soaked him in heat. Her nails dragged lightly over his skin as she moaned, until the slickness made her slip free of him entirely, the fullness leaving too quickly.

Viserys gasped. “Arianne—please—no—” he begged, her sweet dragon undone.

She smirked, rubbing herself against him, hot and wanting. She saw how he throbbed for her, how need spilled between them. “Does my dragon truly want it?” she teased softly.

He looked at her like a starving man, hands clinging to her hips, trembling but unyielding. “My wife… my sun… please. Let me feel you—all of you.”

With a soft laugh, she lifted herself just enough before pressing down again in one smooth motion, taking him fully. She gasped, head tipping back as fire bloomed low in her belly, fullness returning in a rush of heat.

“Please,” Viserys breathed, sweat dotting his brow, “ride me.”

“If that is what my dragon wants,” Arianne whispered, “then that is what he shall have.”

She moved faster then, harder, her hands braced against his chest. The bed rocked beneath them as their bodies met again and again, the air heavy with warmth and closeness as they neared the edge together. She drank in every sound he made, every desperate touch, every tremor of pleasure that crossed his face.

Then she heard it—a broken, unrestrained sound torn from him as he reached his peak, warmth spilling between them as he held her close. It felt right. It felt theirs. Not duty—but love.

Her own release followed swiftly, her body shuddering as she collapsed against him, breathless and trembling.

Viserys wrapped his arms around her at once, kissing her forehead, holding her close. He made no move to rise—only stayed there with her, steady hands rubbing her back as the fire slowly faded into warmth.

Viserys Targaryen

The next morning arrived like a blessing.

He woke with his mind buzzing—not with chaos, not with fire—but with something gentler. Steady. Pleasant. The kind of quiet he rarely knew. When his eyes finally adjusted to the light, he realized where he was.

He lay draped over Arianne, his head resting against her breasts. Warm. Safe. Content in a way that felt almost unreal.

Her fingers threaded slowly through his hair, while her other hand traced lazy circles along his back. Now and then, her nails dragged lightly over his skin, and the sensation left him feeling pleasantly dazed, as though he might drift off again at any moment.

“Well, good morning, my sweet dragon,” Arianne whispered.

Viserys answered with a soft hum and a long sigh, nuzzling closer to her warmth. Beneath his cheek, her heart beat steady and sure.

She giggled quietly. “Such a lazy dragon. We’ve slept through nearly the whole afternoon.” She brushed loose strands from his face, tucking them gently behind his ear.

“Meh,” Viserys huffed, refusing to move.

A knock sounded at the door.

Normally, irritation would have flared sharp and immediate. Anger, suspicion, the urge to snap. Instead, he only tightened his hold on Arianne, closing his eyes and pressing closer, as if the world beyond the door simply did not matter.

Arianne dismissed the servant with ease, then returned her attention to him, her voice warm and teasing. “Did I relax you enough, my dragon?”

“Yes,” he murmured. “My radiant sun. Thank you.”

She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “You can ask me anytime you want more. Do you understand?”

Viserys lifted his head slightly, violet eyes searching hers. “I can just… ask?”

“My husband has every right to ask,” she said gently. “You are the only man who ever will.” She sealed her words with a tender kiss.

And Viserys melted into it.

The world felt calmer.

Quieter.

Peaceful.

The dragon curled against his sun, safe within his nest, and finally—finally—at rest.

Chapter Text

Maegor Targaryen

He did not remember how he died.

Was it truly the throne that stabbed him? One of his wives, finally given the chance? Or… had he done it himself? The details were lost to him, his mind hazy and unfocused. Either way, he was here.

And where was here?

He stood in a throne room—not just any throne room, but Dragonstone. Black stone walls rose around him, ancient and cold, and at their center sat a throne of dragonglass, shaped like frozen flame, fire caught forever in stillness.

The air did not feel the way it had when he was a boy. It was colder. Sharper. Every breath scraped his lungs—not pain, not quite—but a constant, biting discomfort.

Then came soft footsteps.

The doors opened only a fraction, the sound echoing strangely through the hall, as if he were underwater. Maegor turned.

And there he was.

The one person he did not want to see. Not from hatred—gods, he could never hate him.

Aenys stood only a few feet away. Two strides, and Maegor could reach him. He looked as he had before the crown ever touched him: healthier, unburdened.

No fear. No sickness. Just Aenys.

Those wide lilac eyes met his.

Maegor swallowed, his hands curling into fists. “Aenys.”

Aenys stared at him, hands folded tightly in front of his chest. “Why?” He whispered, his voice cracking at the edges. “Why would you do all that?”

His voice rose, breaking apart.

“Why would you kill my son?”

“Why would you take his crown?”

”Why would you marry so many?”

He shouted, the sound thunderous enough to make the ground tremble. Maegor did not move. He stood still, silent, watching.

Above them, a shadow stretched across the hall; wings and a tail, but no head. Incomplete. Unfinished. Yet undeniably there.

Tears streamed down Aenys’s face. “Why?” He sobbed. “What have I done to deserve this?”

He covered his face and collapsed to his knees.

It hurt to see.

That was the pain—not the cold air, not the silence—but this. Seeing his brother broken.

They had not grown up together, and yet Aenys had loved him longer than he ever deserved. Had cherished him as something precious. They had spent hours together—in council rooms, in gardens, always side by side.

And Maegor had always stood an arm’s length away.

He wanted to run to him. To gather him up, to let Aenys cry against his shoulder. Instead, Maegor turned away, staring out the tall windows at Dragonstone laid bare below.

“You sent me away,” He roared. “You speak of love as if it’s sacred but you cast me out!”

“You didn’t fight for me.”

“You didn’t tell me it would be okay.”

”You didn’t say anything. You just gave me two choices and forced me to pick!”

Aenys whimpered, as if struck.

Maegor spun back, fury surging—who dared hurt his brother?

No one.

No one but him.

He was kneeling now, pulling Aenys against his chest. Maegor was a large man, his body easily enveloping his brother, a shield against the world. Perhaps it could have been something once. Perhaps together they might have made the world tremble.

Aenys clung to him, trembling, breath hitching as he pressed into that warmth.

“I’m sorry,” Aenys whispered. “I didn’t know what to do. They—they didn’t give me a choice. Maegor… my brave brother… my twin dragon… please…” His hands fisted in Maegor’s tunic. “It hurt. When it happened. What they did.”
“Why…?”

Maegor held him tighter, pressing firm kisses to the crown of his head. He wished he had been there. He would have burned the Faith to ash. He would have destroyed them.

And he had.

But Aenys was still dead. Burned. Gone.

He had never said goodbye.

And he had always wondered—

Was his sweet brother afraid? Did they kill him quickly? Or did they make him suffer?

The anger rose, hot and familiar. Maegor tightened his grip.

“They can’t hurt you anymore,” He murmured. “I’m here now.”

Aenys sniffed softly. “I should never have sent you away. I wanted us to rule together… to be something…”

“I know.”

“I wanted us to make something great of what our father started…”

“I know.”

“Please,” Aenys whispered. “Don’t leave my side.”

“I won’t,” Maegor vowed, while the shadow of the dragon stretched longer—and never moved.

Chapter Text

Tommen Baratheon

The wind was cold, biting at his face, but Tommen felt as though he couldn’t feel it. Not truly. It was as if he couldn’t feel many things anymore. He had become nothing but a toy to them—not a boy who sought comfort, but a king who was expected to rule.

But he couldn’t rule.

He wasn’t a king. He was still a boy. A boy who wanted to run through the gardens and forget the world, even for a moment.

Yet he couldn’t anymore.

He tried being a king.

He tried being a husband.

He tried being a good son.

They had all grabbed him and pulled him in different directions, every single day. New whispers. Deadly murmurs.

Tommen took a deep breath. The world felt like it was tilting sideways perhaps from the wind pressing against him as he stood on the edge of the balcony. His body leaned against the railing, the only thing keeping him from falling.

He wanted to fall, though.

That was the plan.

He just… didn’t want to be someone he wasn’t anymore.

He was tired.

And not even his mother cared.

He let out a heavy breath, his hands resting against the cold stone. He went to lift himself up when he heard something like thunder, loud and drawing closer. Yet the sky was clear, the clouds white and harmless.

He looked up.

The wind grew stronger, and then—

Dragons.

Real.

Alive.

Heat, but no fire.

They flew over the city, their shadows long and dark against the stone of King’s Landing.

Tommen smiled. Then he laughed.

There were three of them. Ancient creatures not seen in centuries, ones he had only read about in books, fantasized about in stories meant for better men and braver kings. And yet here they were, above the city, and he was alive to see them.

Red against black.

Bronze against green.

Gold against white.

They did not burn the city. But the air grew warm, thick with the scent of fire and something older, something that could only be dragon.

Tommen took a few steps back from the edge.

Below him, the Red Keep stirred with chaos, voices echoing through its halls, but he did not mind. He only watched them circle and dance across the sky.

They were just as majestic as he had imagined.

The bells rang loud throughout the city. He heard the people crying out in fear, but there was no pain beneath it. No fire burned the walls, no swords gutted the streets. The sound simply filled the air, waiting.

He took a deep breath, and for the first time in what felt like years, the world felt still. The wind had softened into a gentle breeze, brushing through his golden hair.

He turned his back to the balcony and walked inside.

His name was shouted behind him. Armor clattered in the halls. Voices rose, sharp with panic. Yet Tommen felt no urgency. Only the strange sensation of weight lifting from his chest.

He retrieved his crown from his bedchambers—golden, crowned with antlers in honor of his house—and held it carefully in his hands. He did not look up as he walked the halls. He did not order the men to fight or protect him. He passed them even as they begged for commands, begged for him to say something.

He ignored them all.

He ignored his mother’s pleas.

When he reached the courtyard stairs, he lifted his head.

All three dragons were there.

The heat was stronger now, pressing against his skin. The green one still circled above, flying low, its shadow dancing across the stone as it rumbled softly. The white one perched atop the wall, watching everything in still silence, its presence looming and patient.

But the black one stood in the center of the courtyard.

It was larger than the others, its red eyes fearless and measuring as Tommen approached.

Beneath its shadow stood the woman.

She watched him quietly, curiosity in her gaze. She was only a little older than he was. Not truly a woman, then—just another child forced to grow up too soon.

Tommen stopped before her, swallowed whole by the darkest shadow he had ever known. It was not cold, but hot, and sweat gathered at the back of his neck.

He lifted the crown toward her, his breath catching in his throat. Behind him, his mother shouted from the doors, issuing orders. No guards moved. Perhaps they knew better.

“Take it,” he whispered. “Please.”

She stepped closer. Her silver hair looked as soft as his silks, her lilac eyes far too familiar with pain. She frowned as her fingers brushed the cold metal.

“Please,” he said again, more desperate than he meant to be. “Kill me if you must. But take it.”

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she said gently.

“Maybe not,” Tommen replied. “But you’re here to take this. Either way.”

She took the crown from his hands.

And in that moment, Tommen finally felt free.

He was no longer the King of the Seven Kingdoms.

He was just Tommen.

And the world felt lighter.

The days that followed were quieter.

Perhaps it was because he no longer ruled, not truly. He was not king anymore, but Prince Regent, married to Daenerys to secure her claim and keep hidden blades at bay. He knew it was necessary.

He didn’t mind.

Daenerys was kind.

Quiet and gentle, yet firm in a way that felt reassuring rather than sharp. She was a good queen. The people would love her—he thought they already did, from the way whispers carried through the halls.

Tommen no longer ruled as he once had. He attended council meetings but mostly listened. He was there to support her, to ensure no one sought to deceive her or do her harm, though he suspected she needed little protection from such things. Still, he stayed. It mattered to him.

He sent his mother back to Casterly Rock.

The farther away she was, the safer Daenerys would be. He feared what his mother might do if left too close to power, though the decision weighed on him all the same. At least his sister was with her. Perhaps that would be enough.

Some days, Tommen’s thoughts still felt heavy.

He knew that one day they would be expected to produce an heir. To become what the world demanded—a true couple, sharing a bed, fulfilling duties neither of them were ready for. But not yet. He hoped not yet.

So he lay in the gardens instead, the warmth of the sun on his face and Viserion’s presence nearby easing the tightness in his chest. The dragon lay coiled among the stone and grass, content, though one pale eye remained fixed on him—watchful, intelligent.

Tommen didn’t mind.

Dragons were smarter than most men.

Sunlight glinted off Viserion’s pale-gold scales, giving them an almost ethereal sheen. Of the three, he favored this one most—not for weakness, never that—but for its quietness, its patience. Perhaps they were simply alike.

Viserion always lay with him in the gardens. The guards kept their distance, wary and tense, but Tommen felt safe enough.

He pushed himself upright, soil clinging to his palms, and noticed the rose bushes nearby. They had just bloomed, petals soft beneath his fingertips. He plucked one carefully, mindful of the thorns, and began to walk.

He did not know where he was going.

He passed Viserion.

Passed guards and servants.

And before he quite realized it, he stood before the council chamber.

There was no meeting, only Daenerys inside with her commander and her lady-in-waiting. Tommen entered quietly. No one stopped him. No one made him feel lesser for being there.

He took a seat and turned the rose slowly between his fingers as they spoke.

“The North is in chaos,” Daenerys said softly. “They want vengeance for what happened to the… the Starks.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Missandei replied. “From the Lannisters, which—”

“My mother,” Tommen said quietly. “My uncles.”

They fell silent.

“Oh,” Daenerys murmured.

“Oh indeed,” Tommen said, lifting his gaze at last. He smiled faintly. “Do what you must, Your Grace. Ruling is never easy. I will not resent you.”

Daenerys looked at the others. “We will continue this another time. I would like to speak with him alone.”

They left, the door closing softly behind them.

She sat across from him. They did not rush to fill the silence. He had said what he needed to say.

At last, Tommen placed the rose before her and whispered, “For you.”

She took it gently and smiled. “Thank you.”

The world did not feel as heavy as it once had.

The pressure of being someone he was never meant to be had eased. He could be himself and still help, still stand beside his queen. One day, perhaps, he would grow into the man the realm required.

But not today.

Today, he was still a boy. And she was still a girl. And they no longer had to survive alone—only together.

Chapter Text

Androw Farman

The night was dark and chilly, heavy with sea air. Salt crept into Androw’s hair and skin, clinging to him until he felt faintly itchy beneath his clothes. He didn’t hate it, exactly—but he didn’t appreciate it either. It was one of many reasons he preferred staying indoors.

Then again… he stayed indoors because what else was there for him to do?

Fair Isle was a beautiful place, its docks crowded with ships and hardy sailors who loved the sea fiercely. But Androw cared little for sailing, or for the water itself. It held no interest for him—and even if it had, he wasn’t any good at it.

Tonight, though, boredom pressed in as he stared out his window. Eventually he turned away and wandered the halls of his home, the torches burning low, their flames wavering. Few maids or guards remained awake to tend the corridors. He drifted through the quiet, searching for something—anything—to occupy himself. Perhaps someone to talk to.

Maybe his father would be awake.

Doubtful. But he could check.

He made his way toward his father’s chambers, skipping a few steps at a time and watching carefully for cracks in the stonework. It was a small game he played with himself—simple, harmless, but enough to keep his mind occupied.

Light glowed beneath the door.

So his father was awake.

The sight delighted him, and he moved closer, careful and quiet. Then he stopped.

Voices—low, hushed whispers—from behind the door.

His mother and father.

Curiosity stirred, stronger than caution. Androw leaned forward, resting his head lightly against the door, straining to hear.

His father spoke first. “Maybe Androw will be her husband. Don’t put too much doubt into the boy. He’s kind. Thoughtful. What woman wouldn’t want that sort of thing?”

His mother answered sharply, “Androw is a failed squire. He can’t read, can’t sail, can barely stay on a horse. Do you truly think a princess would want someone like that as a husband?”

Androw frowned.

Princess?

Husband?

He didn’t understand the conversation—not fully—but the words still struck deep. Hearing them from his mother made them ache all the more. Was it all true?

Of course it was.

He had tried. He simply wasn’t good enough.

His father sighed. “What do you want him to be? A conqueror of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Of course not,” His mother snapped. “But what does he have to offer a princess? He’s a second son. Not an heir. He won’t be a knight. He won’t be a merchant, or a commander. So what will he be?”

There was a pause.

“A good man,” His father said softly.

Androw leaned back from the door and turned away. He didn’t want to hear the rest. He already knew how this conversation would end.

A second son who could do nothing.

He walked the halls without direction, his thoughts heavy. He knew the laughter that followed him—the quiet snickers from maids, soldiers, even lords. Sometimes his own siblings joined in. He had learned long ago that it was better to laugh along with them.

Crying only gave them more reason to mock him.

He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, swallowing hard.

A princess. Was one truly coming to Fair Isle? A suitor to be chosen?

It wouldn’t be him. Surely his brother would be better suited.

His brother could sail. Could fight. Could read.

Androw could do none of it.

He had long since accepted that he would never have a wife, never bear children. That this—this quiet, unremarkable life—was all that waited for him.

For who could ever want someone like him?

It had been days since then—days where the entire island buzzed with anticipation over the arrival of the royal family. Androw watched from a distance as maids hurried through the halls with armfuls of linen, as kitchens churned out food enough to feed an army. Everything felt loud. Chaotic.

So Androw stayed where he would not be in the way.

Alone in his chambers, seated by the window.

Below, waves crashed endlessly against the rocks. From the courtyards came the clang of steel against steel, men shouting as they trained. Life continued on without him, as it always had.

Then—

Shadows swept across the ground.

The air shifted, turning from familiar salt to something older. Heavier. The cool ocean breeze warmed against his skin.

Androw gasped.

Two dragons soared across the open sky—bronze and grey, flying side by side. They circled one another, weaving through the clouds as if dancing.

He leaned closer to the window, breath caught in his chest.

At least he got to see dragons.

Wasn’t that the most exciting thing that would ever happen to him?

Androw laughed softly to himself.

Across the sea, ships bearing the Targaryen sigil cut through the water—vast, proud things. Shouts echoed through the corridors now, footsteps pounding as panic and excitement spread in equal measure.

They must have arrived earlier than expected.

Still, Androw did not move.

He stayed where he was, watching the dragons dance across the sky.

“Androw!” His sister Elissa called from just outside his door.

He sighed. “What?” he replied softly, keeping the annoyance to himself.

“You’d better come on. Father wants us.”

The door remained closed.

At least Elissa respected his privacy—his safe space. Unlike his brother, who always barged in as though he already owned the entire island.

“Oh. Okay.” Androw glanced back toward the window. The dragons were no longer in the sky. Now they rested far below, stretched along the beaches, their massive heads peeking over the highest rocks as they looked over the city.

They were enormous.

And he swore—just for a moment—one of them looked straight at him.

Or perhaps it was only the castle itself.

He didn’t dwell on it.

“Androoooow!” Elissa groaned.

“I’m coming.” Androw stepped away from the window and finally opened the door.

Elissa stood waiting, already smiling. Then she shook her head. “You look like you just rolled out of bed. Your hair is everywhere.” She reached up, fussing with it, running her fingers through the strands. “The royal family is coming, you know. You have to look your best. You’re a potential suitor, after all.”

Androw hummed in response.

He didn’t believe her.

He didn’t believe this would come to anything.

But… it was nice to be a choice.

“There we go!” Elissa clapped her hands together. “Now hurry—we’re going to be late.” She turned and headed down the hall, and Androw followed after her.

“How long are they meant to stay?” Androw asked quietly.

Maids and guards alike were rushing about, and Androw made sure to keep close behind his sister, making himself as small as possible so he wouldn’t be in anyone’s way.

Elissa glanced back at him. “Not sure. Maybe not long or maybe they’ll be here a while.”

Androw hummed in response. He already imagined himself retreating to his chambers, as usual. Why would the King and Queen take any interest in him? He wouldn’t make good conversation. He was too shy to speak to strangers—especially ones so important. Too quiet. With no stories worth telling.

“Come on,” Elissa said, nudging him along. “I know that look. Don’t be so pouty! You’re going to meet Princess Daella. I hear she’s a shy little bird. Maybe you two will fit each other.”

Androw didn’t reply. He just kept walking.

He didn’t believe her.

Even if the Princess was shy, she would surely want someone strong—someone who could fight in her name, protect her. He was no knight. Even a hedge knight would be better than him.

As they walked down the corridor, his gaze drifted toward a window. Nestled in a crack of stone nearby were wildflowers, blooming where the sunlight hit just right and rainwater gathered. Soft petals, a pale blue, newly opened.

Flowers were gentle. Beautiful.

Maybe the Princess would like them.

He hesitated only a moment before slipping away from his sister and carefully plucking them from their fragile home. He brushed the dirt and stone dust from the stems, handling them as gently as he could.

If he was to meet a princess in his lifetime, he didn’t want to arrive empty-handed.

He smiled faintly to himself as he hurried back to Elissa.

Flowers were a nice gift, weren’t they?

He had seen his father give them to his mother before. Surely they meant something good.

Elissa glanced at him again and stopped short. “Oh gods. Flowers? Where did you even get those?”

Androw only shrugged, holding them close to his chest.

When the royal family entered the gathering hall, Androw felt nearly overwhelmed as he stood beside his siblings.

First came the white cloaks—pristine, not a speck of dirt upon them. Men of honor, bound by one of the strongest vows in the realm. A few soldiers followed, spreading out to secure the space. Then came the King and Queen themselves, figures Androw had heard only good things about. Beloved. Respected. He knew that much.

But the air felt as though it had been pulled from his lungs when he noticed the figure just behind them—clinging to the Queen’s arm, half-hidden.

“Your Grace,” His father called, stepping forward with his mother. “You honor us with your visit.”

King Jaehaerys clasped his father’s hand. “And you are kind to host us on such short notice. We thank you.”

There was a shuffle beside Androw. He glanced over to find his brother staring pointedly at the flowers in his hands.

‘Really? Flowers?’ His brother mouthed.

Androw frowned and looked away.

Why shouldn’t he have brought flowers?

Oh gods—what if she hated them?

What if they made her sneeze?

His stomach dropped.

“Ow,” His brother muttered.

Elissa hissed, “Stop it. It’s nice.”

“Nice for who?” His brother whispered. “A princess?”

Androw drew in a slow breath. The room tilted slightly, like the deck of a ship beneath his feet. His skin prickled, sweat gathering at the back of his neck. Voices blurred together, distant and indistinct.

He looked down at the flowers—soft blue petals, delicate and fresh.

Should he throw them out a window?

Would it be worse to offer them… or to have nothing at all?

“And these are my children!” His father boomed proudly.

Androw straightened instinctively as his father approached with the King.

“This is Franklyn, my eldest,” His father said, clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder. “A fine swordsman and a better lord than I ever will be.”

Franklyn bowed. “Your Grace.”

King Jaehaerys nodded once. “A pleasure.”

His father turned next to Elissa. “And this is my daughter, Elissa. A sailor who puts me to shame.”

Elissa smiled. “Hello, Your Grace.”

The King returned it faintly. “Hello, Elissa.”

“And this,” His father continued—

Androw’s heart thudded. Where was he meant to look? At the King? At the floor? Was eye contact expected?

His father’s hand settled on his shoulder. The weight was familiar, grounding but it did little to calm him.

“This is Androw,” His father said warmly. “My sweet boy. He has the kindest heart among them.”

Something tightened painfully in Androw’s chest.

“Y-Your Grace,” He managed.

He heard Franklyn sigh—quiet, but unmistakable.

King Jaehaerys smiled a little wider. “Androw. It’s good to finally put a face to the name.” His gaze flicked briefly to the flowers, then back to Androw. “I have come here for you. My daughter is in need of a husband.”

He turned and gestured gently.

The figure behind the Queen peeked out, then stepped forward. Princess Daella moved slowly, her light purple gown brushing the floor. Her silver hair was braided, though wisps had escaped from the sea journey. She stood close to her father, fingers fidgeting nervously as she looked at Androw.

And Androw—Androw stared.

He had always imagined princesses as beautiful, the way stories described them. Silver hair. Violet eyes. Something almost otherworldly.

She was all of that.

And he was not.

He was plain—blonde hair, blue eyes, nothing remarkable. Nothing that belonged in the same room as dragons or crowns.

Elissa nudged him sharply.

Androw blinked. “H-Hello, Princess Daella,” He said softly. He held out the flowers with both hands. “I… I picked these for you. If you’d like them.”

Daella looked down at the blooms, then up at him. A gentle smile curved her lips.

“Oh,” She murmured. “They’re very pretty.”

She accepted them carefully, her fingers brushing his for the briefest moment. She cradled the flowers to her chest. “Thank you.”

Warmth lingered where their hands had touched.

Androw lowered his arms, his pulse racing. She hadn’t looked at him with disdain or pity. Only quiet appreciation. It made his stomach flutter.

King Jaehaerys hummed thoughtfully, saying nothing.

And for the rest of the day—until dinner was called—it was Androw and Princess Daella walking together, a Kingsguard shadowing them both.

They walked along the small garden of Fair Isle. It was nothing grand—Androw could only imagine how vast the gardens of King’s Landing must be—but the cobblestone path wound gently between flowers and small water fountains. For a while, neither of them spoke.

Androw wasn’t sure if he should.

At least she still held the flowers.

That had to mean something.

He glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of the Kingsguard following a few paces behind them. Like a shadow—silent and watchful, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

He should say something.

Anything.

“How was the sail here, Princess?” Androw asked softly.

She looked at him, fingers fidgeting with the stems of the flowers. “It was… awful,” She admitted. “I don’t do well on ships.” She looked away, almost embarrassed.

“Oh.” Androw blinked. “I don’t either. Sailing makes me feel sick…”

Her head lifted just slightly. “Me too.”

A small smile tugged at Androw’s mouth. “It’s nice to have you here, Princess. I hope Fair Isle is of interest during your stay. I know it’s not much compared to other places.”

“It’s pretty here,” Daella said quietly. “I may not like the sailing, but the water is so clear.”

“It is,” Androw said softly. “I like watching the ocean from my window. The sound of the waves helps me fall asleep.”

“Does it?” Daella tilted her head. “In King’s Landing, all I hear are horses and people.” She pouted just slightly.

“I hear King’s Landing is a massive city.”

“It is,” She said, brushing her fingers over the flower petals. “Have you never been?”

Androw shook his head. “No, Princess.”

They passed two soldiers along the cobblestone path. Androw kept his gaze lowered, careful not to notice the looks he imagined on their faces. He knew what they must think—that he had no place beside a princess. He agreed with them.

She could choose someone far better than him.

Someone who would be something.

Then one of the soldiers sneezed.

Daella startled with a small cry, jumping back.

Androw turned to her at once, alarmed. For a heartbeat he thought perhaps a bird had swooped too close—or that an insect had flown at her face. Without thinking, he reached out, gently taking hold of her arms.

“Princess Daella,” He said quietly. “It’s all right. There’s nothing here to hurt you.”

She clutched the flowers to her chest, breathing hard, her gaze fixed on where the soldiers were already walking away.

“Look at me,” Androw said softly. “Not them.”

Slowly, she did.

Her whole body trembled at first, but the fear faded, leaving only wariness and then embarrassment. A faint smile touched her lips, her cheeks flushed pink.

“Thank you,” She murmured.

Androw released her at once. “You don’t need to thank me. I just wanted to know if you were all right.”

She nodded. “I am.” Gently, she lifted the flowers and breathed in their scent.

Androw glanced around. The soldiers were gone now, and the Kingsguard remained a short distance away, watchful but calm. He did not seem concerned.

Perhaps this happened more often than Androw had thought.

“May I ask what frightened you?” Androw said carefully.

Daella hesitated, then answered in a small voice. “The sneeze startled me.”

It made sense to him.

Elissa had said she was shy perhaps she was simply sensitive to sudden noises. He understood that well enough.

“That’s all right,” Androw said with a soft smile. “The bells scare me sometimes. Even when I know exactly when they’re meant to ring.”

Daella laughed quietly. “Then you’ll tell me before they do?”

“Of course, Princess,” Androw said, nodding.

“Thank you.” She turned and continued along the path.

Androw lingered a moment, watching her go.

A quiet pride settled in his chest.

He had been able to comfort someone.

Perhaps she was simply being kind to him—but the way the fear had left her eyes, the way she had steadied beneath his hands… that was real.

What he had done mattered.

He wasn’t entirely useless to the world.

At the very least, he could help someone.

Even if it was only once.

In the next moment, Androw found himself standing tall—if a little shaky—dressed in his best, waiting for Princess Daella to be presented to him for their wedding.

He couldn’t remember the last few days clearly. They had blurred together, slipping past like water through his fingers.

Shared breakfasts and dinners.

Long walks through courtyards and along the beaches.

Dragons dancing across the sky.

And always beside him—soft violet eyes.

He never thought he would make it this far with any lady.

Least of all a princess.

And yet—

Here he was.

Princess Daella stood before him in soft purple and blue, the colors gentle as dusk. Jewels threaded through her long silver hair caught the light as she moved, subtle and elegant. Voices filled the hall—vows, promises—but they reached him only as a distant murmur, muffled and unreal.

She smiled at him.

A Targaryen cloak rested on her shoulders, draped for the wedding. Soon, it would be replaced by his.

This was real.

And yet it felt like a dream—like he was drifting.

Had she truly chosen him?

Out of all the lords of the realm?

He was no knight. No scholar. No great lord with lands and castles.

He was just Androw.

…Perhaps that was what she liked.

Androw.

With careful hands, he lifted the Targaryen cloak from her shoulders, mindful of her dress, of her stillness. He handed it to King Jaehaerys, bowing his head in respect. Then he removed his own and wrapped it around her instead—the sigil of his house settling over her shoulders. Ships against blue, edged in yellow and red.

This was real.

He had a wife.

One who had chosen him.

Daella gently squeezed his hand.

Soft applause echoed through the hall.

But Androw couldn’t look away from her.

Afraid that if he did—

It would all vanish, like waking from a dream.

The days were better after that.

Androw no longer felt like a useless man. He walked a little taller now, a quiet smile always resting on his lips—never for others. Only for his wife. The one who had chosen him.

But today, the smile was gone.

That old, familiar feeling crept back in. The fear of being nothing at all.

Daella’s screams shattered his ears, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

He watched helplessly as she writhed in the bed, nursemaids rushing about her—grabbing fresh sheets, dabbing sweat from her brow—while the maester stood at the foot of the bed, calling instructions, checking again and again to see if the babe was coming.

By the gods… there was so much blood.

More than he had ever seen in his life.

The sight of it turned his stomach. The smell made his head swim.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

He could not be useless.

Not now. Not when she needed him most.

Androw drew in a deep breath, focusing on the sound of the ocean beyond the walls—the steady crash of waves against the shores of Fair Isle. He clung to it, grounding himself, until the world stopped spinning.

Then he opened his eyes.

He crossed the room and went to Daella’s side, taking her hand in his. With his free hand, he gently brushed strands of silver hair from her damp face and offered her a soft, steady smile.

“Look at me, my sweet,” He murmured.

Slowly—so slowly—her violet eyes found his.

“There you go,” He whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. She squeezed his hand, hard—stronger than he ever would have thought possible.

“You can do this,” He said quietly. “Don’t look at them. Only at me. Push when the maester tells you. Everything will be all right.”

It was the one thing he could do.

He could not take away her pain.

He could not help her body bring their child into the world.

He could not fix this.

But he could be here.

He could hold her through it.

The hours were brutal, and Androw never left her side. He stayed exactly where he was, murmuring encouragement over and over, afraid that if he stopped—if he let even a moment of silence settle—he might lose her. Might lose them both.

He could not bear the thought.

Daella could do this. She was stronger than anyone ever gave her credit for.

It was dark when—finally—he heard it.

The cry of a newborn.

Relief washed over the room in a shared, shuddering sigh.

Androw pressed a kiss to Daella’s cheek. “You did wonderfully,” He whispered. “You did it.”

Daella smiled faintly. She looked exhausted, far paler than she should, but she said nothing—only leaned into his touch as her eyes fluttered closed and sleep claimed her at once.

When the babe was cleaned and wrapped in warm cloth, the maester brought her to him.

“Here you are, my lord,” He said gently. “A healthy girl.”

Androw accepted her with careful hands, holding her close to his chest. He looked down at the small, sleeping bundle in his arms.

His daughter.

Their child.

He had a family.

He had something he had never believed would be his.

She was so tiny—light as breath—nestled in a soft blue blanket. Even now, she already resembled her mother: A crown of silver hair, delicate features. He knew, deep in his bones, that she would have Daella’s eyes as well.

He cradled her closer.

And in that moment, Androw swore he would protect her with everything he had.

The world could be cruel. He knew that better than most.

But if he could shield her from even a part of it, he would try. He would fight—no matter how unskilled, no matter how afraid.

For his daughter, he would be anything.

His little sailboat.

As the years passed, Androw and Daella never had another child.

They did not need one.

Their life was full with a single daughter who brought laughter to Fair Isle—who loved stories of knights and dragons, who favored roses above all else, who delighted in the feel of ocean water lapping at her feet.

She was such a small thing.

And Androw spoiled her for it, carrying her whenever he could, holding her close as though the world might snatch her away if he did not.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have.

But she was his little girl.

She was everything.

What he once thought a blessing became the thing he feared most.

King Jaehaerys sighed, his age evident now, his hand trembling slightly as he lifted his goblet.

“My lord,” He said, weary but resolute. “The realm needs an heir. Viserys is the only one. He must marry and have sons.”

Androw stood near the window, watching the Bronze Fury resting along the shoreline below. Its broken scales gleamed in the sunlight as the waves crashed against the rocks.

“I understand,” He said quietly. Then, after a moment, “But my daughter is young. And fragile like her mother.”

“I understand that as well,” The King replied, tiredness threading his voice. “But she is the only granddaughter I have who is not already wed.”

“Yes,” Androw murmured, watching the banners of his house catch the sea breeze. “That is true.”

He knew what would happen if Aemma married now.

If she bore a child now.

“I do not agree with my daughter bearing children so early,” He said at last.

“By law, she is of age,” The King countered.

“Yes.”

Androw turned to face him.

Sweat prickled at the back of his neck. He had never imagined himself standing against a king—or anyone of power, truly. He had barely ever done so with his own brother.

But for his daughter, he would not step aside.

All he could see were white sheets soaked through with blood.

A pale brow slick with sweat.

Screams that had never quite left him.

“If you wish my daughter to marry Prince Viserys, so be it,” Androw said, his voice steady despite the fear coiling in his chest. “But not now. She is too frail, Your Grace. My wife nearly died bringing her into this world. At this age, the same fate awaits Aemma.”

His hands were damp, but he did not falter.

“Do you wish my daughter to die giving sons to the realm?”

The King studied him then—measuring, weighing, seeing more than Androw ever expected.

Androw drew in a slow, shaking breath.

“How many little girls survive childbirth at such an age?” He asked softly.

King Jaehaerys exhaled and rubbed a hand down his face.

“I understand,” He said at last. “But you agree to the betrothal.”

Androw nodded.

“Yes, Your Grace. But not now. Give her time. A few years—until she is stronger. She will be promised to Prince Viserys. This I swear.”

“Three years—”

“Four.”

The King lifted a brow. “Do you believe the realm will wait four?”

“They will,” Androw said quietly, unwavering, “If they wish for heirs.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then the King nodded.

“Four years, then. Prince Viserys and Lady Aemma are promised to one another. The realm will wait.”

He rose with a tired sigh. “Thank you, Lord Androw Farman. I will see you again.”

Androw bowed, his stomach still twisted with nerves.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

When King Jaehaerys left the room, everything inside Androw gave way.

He slid down the wall and sank onto the cold stone floor, his back pressed against it as though it were the only thing keeping him upright. His breaths came heavy and uneven, sweat soaking through his clothes and clinging to his skin.

He lifted his hands and stared at them—slick, trembling.

His heart thundered in his chest, loud enough to drown out thought.

He could no longer hear the ocean.

But he felt as though he were on a ship, the world tilting and swaying beneath him. His stomach churned, sickness rising fast.

Still—

He had done it.

He had pushed the marriage back. Bought his daughter a few more years.

Maybe it would not change everything.

But in his heart, he knew it would change something.

This was for the best.

Only the best—for his daughter.

He might not be a knight.

Might not be a great lord.

But he was a father.

And as a father, he would protect his little sailboat—

Even if fear clawed through every inch of him,

Even if his mind screamed the whole way through.

As the years passed, Androw watched his daughter grow taller and stronger. He felt a quiet relief in seeing her become someone he had never been—and he adored it. He loved listening to her speak of every adventure she shared with Elissa, of sailing and laughter and courage. She was braver than he had ever been.

And that was all he had ever wanted for her.

He felt more at peace with his decision now. One day, he knew, she would marry and have children of her own. But she would have a better chance than her mother had. A stronger one.

Perhaps one day he would have grandchildren to dote on as well.

But today was quiet.

He walked through the corridors with wildflowers in his hands, gently twirling their stems between his fingers. The ocean waves rolled steadily beyond the stone walls, the salty breeze filling his lungs as his footsteps echoed softly around him.

When he reached his and Daella’s chambers, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.

Daella sat by the window, a book resting in her hands. She looked up and smiled.

“Hello. Oh—flowers?” She closed the book at once.

“For you,” Androw said softly as he sat beside her. “My sweet.”

She took them gently, her smile widening. “You always know how to brighten my days.” She leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“I would do anything to see that smile,” Androw murmured. He rested his head against her shoulder and glanced at the book. “What are you reading today?”

“Histories of Dorne,” Daella replied. “Would you like me to read to you?”

“Yes,” Androw said, closing his eyes.

He didn’t remember a single word she read. Sleep took him quickly, wrapped in the sound of her voice, the steady breath of the sea beyond the window, and the echo of his daughter’s laughter lingering warmly in his mind.

Chapter Text

Arianne Martell

The day was bright and early, a crisp breeze greeting her as she leaned out the window. Down below stretched the city—her city—Sunspear, where golden roofs gleamed beneath the sun. Sand rolled out for miles upon miles, a vast golden ocean meeting the horizon.

The scent of roasted chestnuts and baked sweets rose from the markets below, carried upward on the breeze. It made her stomach growl, even though she had already eaten. She hummed softly and rested her chin atop her crossed arms.

A moment of peace.

Away from the loud chorus of advisors and the endless duties of a princess, she allowed herself this quiet reprieve. Just a moment to herself.

A few birds fluttered past her window, singing their familiar songs as they came to rest nearby. She leaned over slightly to watch them—golden feathers, sharp little beaks, cute fluff balls feeding their young.

Arianne smiled to herself.

It made her miss her family.

Her little brother. Her uncles and aunts. Her father.

All of them.

Even the ones she had never had the chance to meet.

Then a loud ruckus erupted in the courtyard below.

She looked down.

A man rode in astride a horse as black as night. People scattered from his path, even though there was no one close enough to truly be in his way. He didn’t seem to care. He dismounted with ease and lifted his gaze toward the castle above.

For a fleeting moment, she thought she caught a glimpse of the man’s eyes.

What color they were, she couldn’t tell—too far away. Or perhaps they were simply too dark to read.

But one thing was clear.

This man walked like he owed the world nothing.

Then there came a knock at the door.

“Princess?” a soft voice called.

Arianne moved away from the window, glancing over her shoulder. “Come in.”

One of her maids entered, smiling gently. “Your Grace.” She bowed her head. “There is a lord here, requesting an audience.”

Arianne glanced back toward the window, but the black horse and its rider were gone. “Very well. I will receive him in the Water Gardens. Shortly.”

The maid bowed again and departed.

Duty called the princess back.

Peace never lasted long.

Still, her curiosity stirred.

The Water Gardens felt quieter than Sunspear’s halls. Few lingered near the fountains or flowerbeds, and even the soldiers kept their distance, as if wary of some unseen sickness.

Water rushed softly through carved stone. Leaves rustled overhead, branches creaking faintly in the breeze. Ducks quacked as they paddled across the ponds, dipping beneath the surface and reemerging in bursts of energy.

And there, by the water’s edge, stood a man.

Silver hair caught the light, stark against a dark streak as black as coal. He stood motionless, watching the ducklings as they swam and scattered.

Arianne stopped at the end of the cobblestone path. Her bodyguard halted beside her—near enough to intervene, far enough not to intrude.

“Good day, my lord,” Arianne said evenly. “You requested to see me?”

No response.

The ducklings vanished beneath the water and popped back up again.

Then the man turned his head slightly, just enough for his gaze to meet hers. His eyes were as dark as she had thought—deep violet, nearly black.

“That I did,” He said.

The name settled in her mind at once.

Gerold Dayne. Darkstar.

“Well,” Arianne said, her tone calm, “Here I am.”

He turned fully toward her. He did not bow. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, sword resting easily at his side. His gaze flicked briefly to her guards, then returned to her.

“You are.”

Silence stretched between them.

Green leaves drifted down like gentle rain. Ducks quacked softly in the pond. The air smelled of flowers and fresh water.

Gerold shrugged. “I wished to see what the fuss was about. A princess of Dorne. Arianne Martell.”

Arianne tilted her head slightly. “And was that all?”

“Yes. Now I have seen.”

“Just to see?” She pressed.

He nodded once. “Just so.”

It baffled her. He had ridden all this way—from High Hermitage, across miles of sand—for nothing more than a look.

“And?” Arianne asked.

“And?” He echoed.

Her lips curved into a small, amused smile. “And what do you think?”

“Why should a princess care what I think of her?” Gerold asked.

“I don’t,” She replied lightly. “I’m simply curious.”

“I see,” He said.

And said nothing more.

Silence settled between them.

Gerold didn’t look away. He didn’t seem uneasy—rather, he reminded her of a wild cat, still and watchful, ready to strike if it became necessary.

Oddly enough, Arianne didn’t feel threatened by him. If anything, her curiosity only grew.

He didn’t seem inclined to speak again, not unless she prompted him. And judging by the dark circles beneath his eyes, he looked as though he could use the rest.

“Well, Lord Dayne, I—”

“Darkstar.”

The interruption wasn’t loud or sharp. It simply was.

Arianne inclined her head. “My apologies. Darkstar. You have ridden far to reach Sunspear. You will be given a room, time to rest, and food to fill your belly. You are welcome to remain here for a few days and enjoy the sunny sands of Sunspear.”

She offered him a pleasant smile.

He did not reply.

Instead, he turned his back to her, facing the pond once more, his attention returning to the ducklings as though they were of greater interest than a princess of Dorne.

Arianne blinked, surprised.

She had heard things of Darkstar—whispers of his skill in battle, of the danger that followed his name—but she had never met him before, nor heard much beyond that.

She said nothing.

Quietly, she left him to his peace and returned to her duties.

By the next morning, Sunspear had found its voice again.

Whispers. Murmurs. All of them about the man on the black horse.

Arianne felt the tension the moment she closed the council chamber doors behind her. Every gaze turned toward her at once. The air was still, the windows shut tight, as if even a breeze might carry his name inside.

“Good morning, my lords and ladies,” Arianne said as she moved to her seat.

“Your Grace,” One lord began, hesitant.

She sat, fixing her attention on him and saying nothing, allowing him no choice but to continue.

“We have heard of Lord Gerold Dayne’s arrival. It was… unexpected. No word was sent ahead.”

“Yes,” Arianne replied calmly, lifting a piece of parchment and skimming its figures. “I thought as much.”

A lady spoke next. “We do not believe it wise for him to remain here much longer.”

“He has only been here a day,” Arianne said. “He required rest and food. Why would I turn away a lord who crossed miles of sand to reach Sunspear?”

She reached for another parchment.

“That man is not a good man,” The woman pressed. “You should not be alone with him again, Princess.”

Arianne raised an eyebrow. Their fear amused her more than it concerned her. “Why not?” She asked lightly.

“If he stays, the people will talk,” Another lord said.

“Don’t they always?” Arianne replied without looking up.

“Yes,” He said, firmer now. “But he should not be here, Princess.”

Princess.

They spoke the word as though she were still a child. Not a woman. Not a ruler.

Irritation stirred beneath her calm. Had she not earned her place? Had Dorne not prospered under her care? Sunspear thriving, its people content?

And yet now Darkstar was suddenly a danger to her.

As though his presence alone might infect her.

Arianne finally set the parchment aside.

“I do not believe a man who spent the night watching ducklings will be of any harm to me,” She said.

At night, the moonlight silvered the water. The gardens were quiet, but breathing.

Arianne had dismissed her guards before setting foot among the paths. She had an inkling she would find him here.

The council would scold her for it. She didn’t care.

She walked quietly along the cobblestone path, bare feet pressing against the cool stone. The pond caught the moonlight brightest, the water glittering beneath its glow.

And there he was.

Darkstar sat on the ground, scattering small crumbs of bread to the ducks and their ducklings.

Arianne smiled to herself.

It felt far more innocent than what everyone made him out to be. All that fear, directed at a man who found ducklings more interesting than a princess.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Darkstar said quietly.

“Why not?” Arianne replied as she approached. “These are my gardens.”

“Yes,” He said. “But they don’t think so.”

She sat a few feet away from him and dipped her fingers into the cold water. The ducks were unafraid. They gathered around him, feasting on the crumbs.

Moonlight softened him, made him look younger—less sharp, less angry. Just a man at peace, in a way not even a princess could break.

And she didn’t want to.

It was quietly amusing to watch.

Darkstar glanced at her, seemingly unconcerned that she had seen him like this. He tossed a few crumbs in her direction, and the ducklings swarmed toward them, soft quacks filling the air.

Arianne smiled as she watched the little yellow fluff balls.

The water stilled as the moon slipped behind dark clouds.

The world quieted.

Then the sun rose, its warmth threading through the branches, gold light spilling across the gardens.

Laughter followed it.

“Princess Arianne!” Myrcella called, knee-deep in the pond, skirts soaked and clutched in her small hands.

Arianne laughed softly. “Yes, Princess?”

“Look at the ducklings!” Myrcella pointed excitedly. “The way they waddle—it’s so cute!”

Arianne’s gaze followed the small procession of yellow fluff trailing after their mother through the grass, searching for crumbs. “Yes,” She said fondly. “They are.”

The girl splashed lightly through the water. “It’s cooler in here. How do you live with the heat of Dorne all the time?”

“I suppose growing up in it makes it easier,” Arianne replied. “But you, sweet princess, are used to King’s Landing—cool winds off the sea.” She plucked a flower and let it drift across the pond’s surface.

Myrcella hummed. “I miss it sometimes. But Sunspear is prettier. Everything looks like gold without being gold. It feels like a story.”

Arianne smiled. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Princess Arianne!” A voice called sharply.

She sighed and turned to see one of the lords descending the garden path. Just the look of him told her this would not be pleasant.

“What is it?” She asked, leaving only a few steps between herself and Myrcella, who was busy stacking smooth stones at the water’s edge.

The lord bowed. “Forgive the intrusion, Princess. There are matters that require discussion.”

“Can they wait?” Arianne asked coolly. “Or is this about someone you’ve already decided to dislike?”

The lord hesitated, then lowered his voice. “We mean no offense to Lord Dayne. But he should not be here. He has no business in Sunspear.”

“He did,” Arianne replied. “Now he rests. I will not cast out a man who has done nothing wrong.” Her brow arched. “Or has he?”

“Princess, perhaps we should speak elsewhere—”

“Why?” She interrupted. “Afraid he might hear you?”

“We only want what’s best for you,” The lord insisted. “You are unmarried. You require a suitor. A husband. Someone—”

“And I will choose whom I wish,” Arianne said sharply. “That is not your concern.” She leaned closer, voice low. “Besides, isn’t this—” she gestured subtly toward the space between them, “—far more questionable?”

The lord recoiled. “Princess, I am sworn to your council. I would never—”

“Then why assume he would?” Her eyes hardened. “Yes, there are men who would. But Darkstar is not one of them. Now leave me. I’ve heard enough for today.”

A burst of laughter cut through the tension.

Arianne turned.

Darkstar knelt at the pond’s edge, surrounded by ducks and ducklings alike. Breadcrumbs scattered at his feet as the birds quacked and jostled eagerly.

Myrcella stood before him, hands cupped.

Carefully—almost reverently—Darkstar placed a small, yellow duckling into her palms.

He did not smile. He did not laugh.

He simply looked… at peace.

As though the world was gentler here, within the gardens’ walls.

“Princess—” The lord began again.

“You’re dismissed,” Arianne said, without looking away.

For three days, the gardens had felt too quiet. She walked the paths expecting to see him by the pond, expecting breadcrumbs scattered on the ground and golden ducklings feasting on them.

A part of her wondered if she had done something to upset him. If his avoidance was because of the eyes on them.

But that wasn’t Darkstar. The man cared nothing for what others thought. Or did he?

Arianne brushed her fingers against the cool water. The ducklings lingered around the spot he always sat. Perhaps they were thinking the same thing. Where was he?

He wasn’t a man of many words. Spoke little of why he was here. Spoke less of himself. And yet, everyone feared him—like he was a flame that could flicker once and set a city ablaze.

Maybe he was that way.

But she had seen how gentle he could be. How he cared for small life, like the ducklings. How careful he was when placing one in Myrcella’s hands. She had witnessed it. And now he was gone.

Avoiding. Like a shadow.

Then, the sound of rushing footsteps cut through the quiet.

“Princess Arianne!”

Her heart knew before her eyes could see: he was gone.

Two years had passed, and the gardens still remembered him. Ducks that were once ducklings returned again and again to the spots where breadcrumbs had scattered, as if hoping the man who fed them and handled them so carefully would come back one day.

The gardens felt lonelier. Emptier. Even with the sun spilling its light across the stone paths, casting short shadows and making the flowers’ colors gleam, it felt as though the life that had cared for it most had taken away its peace.

Arianne ran her fingers across the water, watching her reflection ripple. She looked older now, wiser too. The council no longer dictated what she should do or how she should be. Even if Darkstar never returned, he had taught her one thing: to never care what others think—not to dismiss their opinions, but to own herself.

Arianne smiled softly. She wondered what he was doing now. Rumors said he was no longer in Dorne, somewhere in Meereen. But rumors were rumors. She liked to imagine him in peaceful moments, feeding a host of animals, birds flocking to him, squirrels waiting at his feet, just as he had once done in her garden.

What was Darkstar doing?

Arianne took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Duty called. Peace never lasted.

Night came quicker than anticipated. Arianne tossed in her bed, no position comfortable, unable to make herself sleep. She lay wide awake, staring into the darkness of her room.

On nights like these, she went to the gardens.

The gardens always greeted her with calm and quiet—a place to rest her mind. No guards to crowd her, just her and the flowers, the water, the moonlight painting the pond in silver.

But tonight wasn’t as quiet as usual.

The ducks quacked loudly when they should have been mostly asleep.

Arianne approached the pond, stopping a few feet away. A familiar figure sat at the edge, scattering breadcrumbs for the ducks to feast upon. Silver hair caught the soft moonlight, while the dark strip blended into the shadows.

She blinked once, twice, three times to make sure it was real.

He looked over his shoulder just enough to catch her gaze.

“You shouldn’t be here,” He murmured.

“Neither should you,” She replied softly.

He looked away. Silence.

She walked closer and sat down, leaving enough space between them. She dipped her feet into the cold water, listening to the chatter of ducks, the soft sound of his breathing beside her, and the rush of water from the fountains nearby.

“I’m sorry,” Darkstar muttered, as if the words were foreign to him.

“For?” Arianne asked.

He focused on a duck instead of her. “Well, isn’t it rude to not say you’re leaving to your hostess?”

She smiled faintly. “Perhaps. But thank you. All is forgiven.”

He tossed a few breadcrumbs in her direction. The space between them filled with ducks, and ducklings scurried eagerly.

Arianne couldn’t help but laugh softly. They seemed happier, oddly enough. The garden felt more alive, breathing.

She looked up and caught him staring at her. Softer.

“How long will the princess allow me to stay?” He asked.

Arianne tilted her chin. The council would have called this a bad idea—just as before—but when had she ever listened to their judgment about Darkstar?

“As long as Ser Darkstar wishes,” She replied.

She barely saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He nodded once. “Thank you, Princess.”

Arianne glanced at the ducks. “And thank you, Darkstar.”

Chapter Text

Daenerys Targaryen 

Meereen was bigger than Daenerys had ever imagined. Its many-colored walls glimmered beneath the sunlight, the pyramids rising so high they seemed to brush the clouds themselves. Circular golden roofs crowned the city, almost too bright to look upon for long. It was breathtaking—and it made her feel smaller than ever before.

She had never felt prepared for the trials that awaited her here. But then, had she ever been prepared at all?

She had never known a true home beyond the red door and its lemon tree. Viserys had not prepared her for rule or survival—only how to be used. A tool, nothing more.

Look where that had gotten him.

Daenerys drew in a slow breath, the scent of olives and roasted meat filling her lungs as she was escorted through the golden halls of the great pyramid. Light shifted along the walls as they walked—red turning to gold, gold to the warm orange of sunset.

This meeting was no grand affair.

It was meant to be private. Controlled.

Something she could endure.

The steel doors opened with a long, protesting groan, their hinges crying out for oil. She stepped inside a smaller chamber. A wide window to the left revealed the city far below, its walls stretching endlessly outward. To the right hung tapestries woven with scenes she did not recognize. A small fire burned low in the hearth, embers glowing softly.

By the fire sat a man in a wooden chair. At his feet, a young girl played quietly, toys scattered across the floor—dragons, wolves, snakes, a dozen tiny worlds at her command.

“Your Majesty,” rumbled the deep voice of the tall, broad man beside her—the one who had escorted her here.

The man by the fire looked up, his gaze settling on Daenerys.

“Oh—our guest is here,” He said softly. Rising, he stepped away from the little girl, who remained absorbed in her play. “Please, come in.”

The escort withdrew, the heavy doors closing behind her with a final echo.

Daenerys swallowed and straightened, lifting her chin. “Hello. I hope I am not intruding.” Her gaze flicked briefly to the child, then back to the man.

“Not at all.” He reached for a pitcher on the small table and poured wine into two cups. “Come and sit. You must be exhausted from all that traveling.”

“You knew we were coming,” Daenerys said.

Slowly, she approached. Uncertainty coiled low in her chest. She had come to Meereen for many reasons—to shelter her people, to trade, perhaps even to find a way across the Narrow Sea.

Still, she did not yet know what this man wanted from her.

He offered her one of the two cups of wine. “Yes. Hard not to notice the sand clouds your horses kick up on the ride. And the smell of horses on the wind.” He smiled faintly—nothing mocking, only observant.

Daenerys reached for the cup, but did not drink. Not until he did. Who knew what he might have put in it. “I see…”

He watched her for a moment. Silence settled in the room, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the clicks of wood against stone as the little girl played.

He took a decently large sip, as if proving a point that the wine was safe. “My apologies. I should have introduced myself first. My name is Hizdahr zo Loraq. Just a simple noble—nothing compared to a Khal or the Queen of Dragons.” A small chuckle escaped him.

Daenerys blinked. He didn’t carry the energy of the other men she had met. He stood tall, perhaps because he was naturally tall, but his shoulders slumped slightly. Dark circles lined his eyes. Handsome, nonetheless.

“Nothing is ever simple,” She replied.

“Mm. I suppose. My life isn’t particularly interesting, though.” Hizdahr glanced toward the girl at the hearth, then back at Daenerys.

“Sometimes interesting isn’t always good,” Daenerys said, gripping her cup a little tighter.

He nodded once, understanding. “Sometimes boring isn’t good either. The world is cruel that way.” His voice softened as he took another sip. “But you didn’t come here to discuss life. I’m sure there are more pressing matters for the Mother of Dragons.”

“You’re the one who asked for me,” Daenerys said, her shoulders aching with tension.

“Yes, I did,” He sighed. “But that can wait. I wanted to meet you first. You’re tired, and I’m sure your people are—”

“Papa?” The little girl’s voice piped up.

“Yes, my little olive?” Hizdahr replied.

“Who’s that pretty lady?”

Daenerys smiled softly, noticing the large scar across the girl’s face. Her heart ached. “My name is Daenerys, little one. And you?”

The girl gasped, eyes lighting up. “The Dragon Lady? How big are they? Are they as beautiful as the stories?” Then she bit her lip, shying away behind her long brown hair, twirling a strand with her fingers. “I… I mean, my name is Amara.”

Daenerys laughed quietly at the child’s curiosity. “They are still babies, but certainly as beautiful as the stories.”

Hizdahr remained silent, watching and listening, taking another small sip of wine.

“I hear a lot of people like the white one best… but green is my favorite,” Amara said, giggling, her smile revealing missing baby teeth.

Daenerys relaxed slightly. “The green one is named Rhaegal. Maybe one day you’ll see him fly in the sky. He likes to twirl in his own fire.”

Amara lifted a small dragon toy to show Daenerys. “This one is my dragon!” Red scales, ruby eyes glimmering, long neck, small wings. “I named him Ruby… just because of his eyes.”

“A name fit for a dragon,” Daenerys giggled.

Hizdahr chuckled. “Shall I leave you two to talk? Perhaps I’m intruding on what should be a political discussion.”

Amara only giggled. “Sorry, Papa!” Then she returned to her toys, smiling. Clearly, she knew she wasn’t in trouble.

Daenerys took a small sip of her wine. Perhaps this stay wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The days that followed were more domestic than anything Daenerys had ever known.

They passed quietly—small meals shared with Hizdahr and his daughter, simple conversations, long silences that felt… safe. They were her hosts, after all; it would have been rude to refuse such hospitality. Yet she suspected the only reason those meals could remain so peaceful was Amara.

The girl was bright and endlessly energetic, always pressing her favorite toys into Daenerys’s hands, speaking of everything and nothing all at once. Her laughter filled spaces that might otherwise have grown heavy.

It made the days feel less like a tense waiting game—less like a pause before some political disaster—and more like something dangerously close to an ordinary life. One Daenerys had never truly known. To wake in a soft bed. To share warm meals. To exist without constantly fighting for survival—though she knew, even here, the politics would never truly leave her alone.

This evening, she sat by the window of her chambers. Drogon and Rhaegal lay curled together on her bed, wings tucked tight, eyes half-open in watchful rest. Viserion had wrapped himself around her shoulders, his weight familiar and comforting—though she knew it would not be long before he grew too heavy for her to carry like this.

Outside, the wind stirred the sands, lifting them high against Meereen’s multicolored walls. The sun dipped low, its warmth fading as the world beyond the glass shifted from gold to shadow, from heat to cold.

A knock sounded at her door—soft, patient.

“Come in,” Daenerys said.

The door opened with a quiet creak. “I really must have the hinges oiled,” Hizdahr remarked with a faint chuckle as he stepped inside and closed it behind him. “The sand gets into everything.”

Daenerys watched as he lingered near the fireplace. It was empty, no fire lit, though the wood was stacked close at hand. She had not needed the warmth tonight.

He glanced down at the ash-stained marble beneath his feet. “I hope I’m not disturbing you… or your children.”

Viserion shifted, golden eyes fixed on Hizdahr, wings tightening slightly around Daenerys’s shoulders. Drogon and Rhaegal remained curled together, alert but still.

“Not at all,” Daenerys replied. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” He shook his head, folding his hands before him. He always looked tired—like the weight of the city never truly left his shoulders. Still, he lifted his gaze to her and offered a small, careful smile. “I never did explain why I truly asked you to come here.”

Daenerys said nothing. She waited.

“In truth,” He continued, “I believe that together, we could finally rid Meereen of the Sons of the Harpy. I’m tired of them—of men hiding behind masks while abusing their power.” He paused, then met her eyes. “But I also know you seek more than this city. You wish to cross the sea. To return to the land of your family. The only way I see that working—for both of us—is—”

“To marry,” Daenerys said, sharper than she intended.

Hizdahr frowned faintly, rubbing the rings on his fingers. “It would not work without it. Otherwise, it would only invite more conflict—whether we wished it or not.”

“So I marry you for ships and men?” She asked bitterly. “And you marry me for what? Dragons? More children? Power?” She turned back to the window, her voice tight. Viserion shifted, wings lifting to shield her face from him.

“I care nothing for the power of dragons,” Hizdahr said quietly, taking a step back. “Nor do I seek more children.” His voice wavered just slightly. “I want Meereen to be free. I want my daughter to grow up without fear in a city that devours its own. And if I were to die… who would protect her then?”

Daenerys’s brow furrowed.

Amara had no mother—at least, none she had ever seen. Hizdahr never spoke of it.

“I would ask nothing of you,” He continued. “Not obedience. Not heirs. Not love. This would be for the city—and for you to reach where you need to go. I swear it.” He hesitated. “But if you refuse, I will not cast you out. You and your people will remain guests here, as safe as I can make them.”

Daenerys watched as the last of the sun slipped beyond the horizon and the moon rose in its place, turning the sands pale and silver instead of blazing gold. She drew in a slow breath, then let it out just as carefully.

When she turned back to him, Viserion relaxed, his wings settling once more around her shoulders.

“I will think about it,” She said at last. “That is all I promise.”

Relief softened Hizdahr’s expression. “That is all I would ever ask. Thank you.”

He bowed his head and quietly left the room.

Daenerys slid down to the floor, her hands pressing against the cold stone beneath her palms. Viserion slipped from her shoulders and settled in front of her instead, his golden eyes meeting her violet ones. His tail curled gently around her wrist, warmth seeping into her skin.

She sighed. “Is it really worth it?”

There was no answer.

As expected.

Hizdahr’s office smelled of ink and fresh parchment. He sat at his desk, writing steadily, the large feather of his quill bobbing with each careful stroke. Tapestries lined the walls—grand, decorative, reminders of power and history.

He did not look up when Daenerys opened the door. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

“Good morning,” Daenerys replied softly.

She had her dragons with her—all three.

Hizdahr never commented on them. She was free to let them roam as they pleased. Even now, he glanced up only once, offering a small smile before returning to his work.

Amara sat at a small table nearby, a plate of sweets at her side, toys scattered around her. She looked up and beamed. “Hi!” Then she gasped. “Dragons…”

Rhaegal lifted his head and tilted it, studying her curiously. Drogon rested heavily in Daenerys’s arms, uninterested in his surroundings, while Viserion lay coiled around her shoulders like a living necklace.

Daenerys smiled and approached slowly. “You said you wanted to see them, yes?”

Amara nodded but stayed very still, watching how Rhaegal moved.

Carefully, Daenerys sat beside her. She glanced toward Hizdahr—just to be sure. Dragons were not small things to trust near a child. But he only met her gaze and smiled again, reassuring, wordless.

So Daenerys turned back to Amara. “The one on my shoulders is Viserion. This grumpy one is Drogon. And—”

Rhaegal suddenly leapt onto the table, knocking over a cup and spilling its contents. He hissed at it as though the mess were the cup’s fault.

Daenerys quickly grabbed a cloth. “Rhaegal. You know better than that.”

Amara giggled and moved her toys aside to make room. “They’re so warm,” She whispered. “And pretty.”

“I hope I’m not scaring you,” Daenerys said gently.

“No! I love them!” Amara leaned closer as Rhaegal sniffed at the sweets. “I don’t think dragons can eat sweets…”

Rhaegal tilted his head, then puffed a small cloud of smoke.

Amara coughed. “I don’t like that part—bleh.”

Rhaegal hummed, almost like a laugh.

Behind them, Hizdahr’s quill scratched softly against parchment.

“They’re your children?” Amara asked.

“Yes,” Daenerys said. “I protect them and teach them. Just like a mother would.”

Amara’s face lit up. “My papa does the same for me!”

The writing stopped.

The words struck Daenerys harder than she expected.

This was what he was trying to protect. Not power. Not legacy. His daughter.

The marriage wasn’t meant to gain something—it was meant to protect.

And she could do that too, couldn’t she? Protect Amara. Protect the children. The mothers. The people of this city.

“Yes,” Daenerys said softly. “Just like your papa.”

She gently patted Amara’s head as Rhaegal leaned forward and booped his snout against the girl’s nose.

The quill began moving again in the background—slower now, quieter.

When the world settled into the night, Daenerys walked the halls alone.

They felt nearly empty—only a few guards remained at their posts, the usual flow of servants long since gone. Fires burned low in the braziers, their light soft and flickering.

She took a deep breath when she reached his door. Lifting her hand, she knocked once.

“Come in,” Hizdahr’s voice answered softly from within.

Daenerys opened the door and stepped inside. Warmth greeted her immediately. The fire burned bright in the hearth, casting a gentle glow over the room. His chambers felt… comforting. No grand tapestries adorned the walls—only scattered blankets, pillows, books, and a few bottles of wine. Toys lay about like decorations, Amara’s presence woven into every corner.

“Hello,” Daenerys said quietly, the door clicking shut behind her.

Hizdahr was removing his rings, setting them carefully into a small jewelry box. He looked up, surprise flickering across his face. “Hello. What brings you here tonight? Is something wrong?” The concern in his eyes was genuine.

She had never come here before.

“No,” Daenerys said. She clasped her hands in front of her. “I came to give you an answer.”

The worry eased into understanding. Hizdahr nodded once and leaned back against the dresser, giving her his full attention.

“I will not be owned like some toy or tool,” Daenerys said, her voice steady but soft. “I will not bear children out of duty. When I cross the sea, it will be by my choice. I will protect this city… and I will protect Amara.”

Hizdahr nodded again. “I understand,” He said quietly, almost a whisper. “I would never ask anything different of you.”

The tension Daenerys had carried for days finally loosened. She smiled—just a little.

“Then I will accept your proposal, Hizdahr zo Loraq.”

He looked down at the floor for a long moment before lifting his gaze back to her. His smile was soft—not triumphant, not celebratory. Only relieved, as though a weight had shifted from his shoulders.

“Thank you,” He said.

A small movement stirred near the hearth. Amara slept on the couch, bundled in blankets, her hair an absolute mess, her face peaceful in the firelight.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad.

Weeks passed, and they were married.

It wasn’t anything grand or ceremonial. No cheering crowds, no lavish celebration. Only a small handful of witnesses they trusted, gathered for something short and simple. When it was over, nothing truly changed.

Daenerys still slept in her own room.

They still shared quiet meals together, living a domestic life that felt almost unreal.

The only difference was that Hizdahr came to her now. He asked her thoughts before decisions were made. He no longer carried the weight alone—it became theirs.

She found it strange.

She found it endearing.

Every breakfast and every dinner they spoke of Meereen—of its people, its dangers, its future. And when the discussions ended, they fell back into a comfortable silence, filled instead by Amara’s endless energy and chatter.

Tonight, Daenerys tucked Amara into bed at the girl’s insistence.

She smoothed the blankets and sat at the edge of the mattress while the candlelight burned low. Amara yawned, curling deeper into the warmth.

“Dany…” She murmured sleepily. “Can you check on Papa?”

Daenerys tilted her head. “Of course, little one. Is something wrong?”

Amara’s eyes fluttered shut, her voice growing softer with each word.

“He stays up too late… then looks sleepy all day.”

Daenerys felt the truth of it settle in her chest. The dark shadows beneath his eyes. The constant tension in his shoulders.

“Alright,” She whispered.

Amara was already asleep.

The next moment found Daenerys standing before the door to his office, light seeping through the narrow crack beneath it. She knocked once, softly. When no answer came, she waited a moment longer before opening the door just enough to peer inside.

Hizdahr sat at his desk, writing.

He was dressed in simpler clothes now, far from the rich fabrics he wore during the day. Leaning forward, one hand propped against the desk, his brow furrowed in concentration, he looked entirely absorbed in his work.

“Hizdahr?” Daenerys called gently, lingering by the doorway.

He startled, blinking as though pulled from another world. “Oh—hello. I… hello.” He set his quill aside and straightened. “Please, come in. You don’t need to stay there.”

“I didn’t want to startle you,” She said as she entered, the door closing quietly behind her. She crossed the room toward his desk.

“Well, thank you,” He replied with a faint smile, though his fingers fumbled absently with the rings on his hand. “Is something the matter?”

“For me, no.” Daenerys took the seat across from him. “But Amara asked me to check on you.” Then, more softly, “It’s late. You should be sleeping.”

He let out a breathy chuckle. “Of course she did.” His gaze lifted to hers. “I know it’s late. But the city never sleeps—and neither do its problems.”

“That may be true,” Daenerys said gently, “But how can you make such decisions when you look ready to fall asleep where you sit?”

Hizdahr poured tea into two cups and slid one toward her before taking a sip himself. “That…” He sighed. “That is a fair point.” His expression hardened as he continued, the warmth draining from his voice. “But some things are too important to put off. We still have the Harpies to overthrow.”

There it was. That familiar edge. Spite.

Daenerys wrapped her hands around the warm cup, blowing softly before taking a sip. Fruit-sweet and calming. “Overthrowing them won’t happen in a single night,” She said. “They can wait a few hours while you rest.”

“I can’t,” Hizdahr murmured.

The sharpness faded, leaving something bare in its place.

“And why not?” Daenerys asked quietly.

Hizdahr went silent, staring down into his cup.

“Because if I sleep,” He said at last, “Then I stop moving.”

His fingers tightened around the porcelain. “And when I stop moving, the memories grow louder. Then I remember.”

Daenerys set her cup down on the table, though her hands lingered around it, holding onto what little warmth remained.

“I remember when they came,” He continued. “The Harpies. Careful. Silent.” Candlelight flickered low across his face, softening the sharp lines of exhaustion etched there. “They took her from my arms. I fought—I thrashed—but I lost.”

He swallowed hard. “All I could hear was her. And when it was over… all I saw was blood soaking into the floors.”

The fire crackled in the hearth.

Daenerys felt her chest tighten, dread settling heavy as she waited for what she already feared was coming.

“And then they reached Amara,” Hizdahr said quietly. “She was barely a toddler.” His breath hitched once. “They cut her face. Not to kill her—just enough to warn me.”

He shook his head. “It was my fault. One mistake. One moment. That was all it took.”

When he looked up at her, his eyes were glossy, rimmed red—but no tears fell.

“If I die,” He whispered, “Who protects my little olive tree? I can’t sleep.”

“That isn’t true,” Daenerys said immediately.

The words surprised them both, but she didn’t pull them back.

“I promised, didn’t I?” She said softly.

She released the cup and folded her hands in her lap. “I understand the way sleep becomes impossible. My brother used to make it that way.” Hizdahr listened without interrupting, his gaze fixed on her. “He made love conditional. Obedience became survival.”

Her fingers brushed the hem of her dress, grounding herself. “Sometimes I still feel the bruises he left behind—the ache of them. And when he died, I thought the fear would go with him. It didn’t. It still lingers.”

She lifted her eyes to his. “Memories do grow louder when the world goes still. But that doesn’t mean you have to punish yourself until you break. And you don’t have to carry it alone. Not anymore.”

Hizdahr looked away, his gaze drifting toward the hearth. The gloss in his eyes faded, leaving only quiet weariness behind. He nodded slowly, his thumbs tracing the rim of his cup.

“You’re right,” He murmured. Then, softer still, “Neither of us has to do this alone anymore.”

Daenerys smiled faintly. “Go to bed, Hizdahr. Even if it’s only for an hour.”

“I’ll try,” He said.

She rose from her chair. “That’s all I ever ask.”

Mornings came and nights ended.

Today, though, felt busy—not with politics or long talks or endless debates. It was busy because Amara had handpicked every flower. Each one had to be perfect. Each one had to mean something. Care. Thought. Love.

Daenerys didn’t rush her. She sat beside the little girl, offering suggestions when asked, letting her decide. Dragons snoozed and stretched around them, warm and content in the sun.

Now they walked the halls together, guards bowing their heads as they passed.

“Papa is going to have the best office!” Amara sang, rushing ahead. “It’s going to be so pretty!”

Rhaegal padded after her feet, careful with his wings and tail.

Daenerys smiled, carrying the porcelain vase filled with flowers of every color. The scent was soft and bright. Viserion leaned down to sniff them before draping himself across her shoulders, as he always did. Above them, Drogon hovered lazily, wings wide as he glided through the halls.

Amara pushed open the office door. “Papa! We have a gift for you!”

Hizdahr lifted his head from his desk. He looked… better. The shadows beneath his eyes were still there, but lighter somehow. Change, not erasure.

“Well, hello, all of you,” He said, smiling. His gaze flicked briefly to the dragons before settling on Daenerys.

She placed the vase gently at the corner of his desk. “Oh yes,” She said with a soft laugh. “This is much better.”

Amara beamed. “See? It makes it feel lively!”

Rhaegal stayed near her side, tail swaying lazily as he looked around.

“They’re beautiful,” Hizdahr said quietly. “Thank you.”

Drogon chose that moment to land on the back of his chair, curling comfortably around it.

Hizdahr only glanced back, amused. “Is this what you two have been doing all day?”

Daenerys nodded. “Mhm. And I think it’s time for a break from those parchments.”

She saw the hesitation—the way his eyes drifted back to his desk. Then he set the quill down.

“You’re right,” He said simply.

“It doesn’t have to be a long break,” She added gently. “Little steps.”

“I know,” He murmured.

Drogon yawned and settled more fully around the chair, red eyes closing in contentment.

“I think my spot has been stolen,” Hizdahr said with a quiet chuckle.

Daenerys laughed. “Time for a new chair, I think.”

Maybe this marriage wasn’t so bad after all.

Chapter Text

Sansa Stark

Winterfell felt more crowded and louder than usual. All because a prince was visiting his half brother. Not that she had anything against it, of course. The prince was a lovely young man—one she found herself staring at more often than she would ever admit.

Still, the constant noise of the crowds was starting to wear on her.

She wanted a moment to herself, wrapped in silence.

So she gathered a small bouquet of blue roses and made her way down the snowy paths, Lady padding faithfully at her side. The cold had never bothered her, not the way it seemed to trouble the soldiers from King’s Landing—the way they shivered and clustered close to the fires. She almost pitied them for it.

Lady’s steady panting helped quiet her thoughts. Absentmindedly, Sansa twirled the stems between her fingers.

But as she neared her destination, she realized she wasn’t alone.

Ser Arthur Dayne stood before the great doors that led down into the catacombs.

She slowed to a stop. “Hello,” She said softly.

Arthur turned and bowed his head. “Lady Stark.” He stepped aside and pulled the door open for her.

“Thank you.” She glanced down at Lady. “You stay here.”

Lady let out a small whine, but she sat where she was, obedient and watchful. She would not move until Sansa said otherwise.

Quietly, Sansa descended into the catacombs of Winterfell.

The stone walls dripped slowly with water—cold, ancient. Each step carried her deeper into darkness, where only torches and braziers lined the walls. Sometimes, even that light felt insufficient.

She wondered what the prince was doing here.

A Targaryen in the crypts of Winterfell felt… odd. He had no reason to be here. Jon was not dead, not buried among the Starks. So why come at all?

Her footsteps echoed as she passed old Stark kings, then lords and ladies, each carved in stone with a direwolf at their side—watchful, eternal guardians of the dead.

Then she caught sight of silver.

His hair gleamed softly, pale as moonlight on fresh snow, as smooth as silk pillows. She found herself wondering whether Targaryens were ever meant for fire at all. Dragons filled the histories, yes—but they looked as though they belonged in snowfall just as much. Beautiful. Dangerous. Like blizzards.

As she drew closer, she realized the prince was kneeling before Lyanna Stark’s tomb.

His hands rested in his lap, his head bowed low, silver hair falling forward to hide his face.

Slowly, he lifted his head and looked toward her. His eyes were rimmed red, his shoulders slumped beneath an invisible weight.

“Hello, my lady,” He whispered, as if afraid to disturb the dead.

Sansa stopped a respectful distance away. She held the blue roses close to her chest.

“Hello, Prince Aegon,” she murmured.

Silence settled between them.

The quiet of the catacombs was different from the silence outside. It felt as though they were never truly alone here, in this ancient place—where fires crackled softly, their warmth offering only a false sense of security.

Sansa took a few steps forward and knelt, setting the blue roses at the base of the grave.

“Were they her favorite?” Aegon asked softly. “I’ve read the histories. They say she was passionate, full of fire. But they never speak of what she loved. Or what she feared. Only that she was a lady worth fighting for.”

He rose slowly to his feet. “My father never talked about her. As if speaking her name would make him crumble.”

Sansa looked up at him. There was a faint sheen of dried tears on his pale cheeks. His gaze drifted from the roses to the statue of Lyanna and her direwolf.

“Father says they were,” Sansa said, following his gaze. “They grow stronger in the winter.”

“I’m sorry,” Aegon whispered. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“This place is meant for grief,” Sansa replied gently. “And for peace. It belongs to anyone who needs it.”

She fidgeted with the hem of her dress.

Aegon fell quiet again, violet eyes glossy, as though he were fighting a war inside himself—and losing.

So she stepped just a little closer, offering what warmth she could. Perhaps it would be enough to keep the cold at bay.

Perhaps it wouldn’t.

Aegon shifted, stepping just a little closer.

Their hands brushed—brief, accidental—and neither of them pulled away.

The silence remained, heavy and unbroken, as they stood together before Lyanna Stark’s grave.

Chapter Text

Joffrey Baratheon 

He hated these kinds of days—when family came to visit, Baratheon or Lannister, it hardly mattered. He hated the way they looked at him, how their gazes lingered just a moment too long. It had only grown worse in recent months. The ugly scar across his face didn’t help.

Joffrey lifted a hand, his fingers brushing over the rough, healed edges of it. The skin there still felt sensitive. Maybe it was only in his mind. He barely slept half the time—so why would this be any different?

He drew in a shaky breath. He could still feel the steel slicing into him. The warmth of blood pouring down his cheek. The raw sound of his own scream. His throat went dry at the memory, and he swallowed hard.

“There they are! By the gods, you’d think you got lost on the way here.”

His father’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Joffrey blinked and quickly lowered his hand from his face. He looked up to see his uncle Stannis, his wife beside him, and a girl who stayed close to their heels.

He leaned forward slightly.

The girl had scars on her face.

No.

Greyscale.

Joffrey watched as his father embraced Stannis, the conversation loud—at least on his father’s end. His siblings drifted over to greet the girl, while his mother turned her attention to Stannis’s wife.

Joffrey stayed where he was.

Watching.

Like a ghost in his own home.

His gaze kept returning to the girl. She looked to be around his age, with long dark hair—everything a Baratheon should look like. But the greyscale. Was it not contagious? If his father allowed her here, then it must be safe.

Then the girl looked at him.

She smiled.

She didn’t call to him.

Didn’t gesture for him to come closer.

It was only a small, quiet smile before her attention returned to the others.

Joffrey found he didn’t know what to do with that.

He hated having people over.

He felt too exposed in his own home.

Here, everyone could see everything.

At night, he lay alone in his bed, tossing and turning in silk sheets he could not seem to escape. Sleep would not come. The candle flames had long since gone out, leaving his room steeped in darkness—his own darkness, filled with too many thoughts.

He should call for a maid to come and relight the candles.

He knew that.

Still, he didn’t.

He swore he could see shadows shifting along the walls. A glint of steel, barely there, hidden among the dark. His breath caught in his throat as his heart began to pound, loud in his ears.

But deep down, he knew he was alone.

Joffrey clenched the silk sheets in his fists and dragged them over his head so he wouldn’t have to look. The fabric muffled nothing—not his breathing, not the thudding of his heart.

He wished he could go to his mother. Once, she had doted on him, given him anything he asked for, held him close like he was something precious. But after the scar, she no longer looked at him the same way. As if he were broken. As if he were no longer hers.

Something twisted painfully in his chest, and his vision burned.

He wasn’t her son anymore. He could feel it now.

There were no more kisses, no more gentle hands or soft words. Only distance. Cold and sharp.

And his father had always been like that—not cruel, just uninterested. Whether that was better or worse, he couldn’t say. It all hurt too much to tell the difference.

Joffrey squeezed his eyes shut. His breaths came uneven as tears slipped down his cheeks, soaking into the pillow.

He was so tired.

And he felt so very alone.

At breakfast, the same feelings lingered, heavy in his chest. He hadn’t slept well; he remembered watching the sunrise creep in through his windows.

He stabbed at his eggs with his fork, appetite gone.

Across the table, his mother laughed softly as she spoke with his siblings. She fed them sweets, doting on them the way she once had on him. Joffrey glanced over and saw them tucked close to her—Tommen perched on her lap, Myrcella seated at her side. A plate of sweets sat between them, alongside their untouched breakfast.

It made his stomach twist with envy.

He felt so far away from that warmth.

So starved for it.

Was the scar truly that bad?

Did he look that ugly to his own mother?

Maybe—just maybe—he could do something to earn her attention again.

He could cut Myrcella’s hair.

He could steal something of Tommen’s and break it.

That would make her look at him.

She would scold him, yes—but it would be something.

Joffrey stared down at his full plate, his grip tightening around the fork.

Yes. That would work. It was a perfect plan.

Then he felt an odd warmth at his side.

His brows knit together as he turned, irritation already rising—but it faltered when he saw her. Shireen. Her braids were slightly undone, as if she’d been running through the gardens.

She smiled at him, gentle and unafraid.

“Hello,” She said softly. “Is it alright if I sit with you?”

Joffrey glanced around the table. His father was deep in conversation with Uncle Stannis. Stannis’s wife sat beside his mother. At some point, the table had filled without him noticing.

He looked back at Shireen.

“Yes,” He said.

He didn’t remember when he left the table. He only knew he was following Shireen, watching her braids bounce with every step. She wore black and gold with pride, a stag embroidered across her back.

He didn’t look back.

The thoughts of gaining his mother’s attention faded away, slipping quietly from his mind.

They ended up outside, seated on a stone bench beneath the shade of the trees. A light breeze carried the salty scent of the ocean. It was calm. Peaceful.

Shireen rested a book in her lap and looked at him softly. “Would you like me to read out loud?”

Joffrey looked at her, startled by the question.

She never asked about his scar.

Never spoke of the assassination.

She looked at him as if he were normal. As if he still mattered.

His throat tightened as he swallowed.

He didn’t focus on the greyscale along her skin. Instead, he saw her eyes—blue as the ocean at sunrise.

Why did she look at him like this?

“Please,” Joffrey whispered.

Shireen smiled and opened the book. “If you get bored, just tell me,” She said gently, her gaze dropping to the page.

The scent of fresh paper filled the air.

Joffrey had the distinct feeling he wouldn’t be bored at all.

Not here.

Not with her.

They stayed there for hours. Shireen spoke softly the entire time, the gentle turn of pages filling the space between them. No one came to disturb them. Just him and her.

There was something peaceful about it. The fuzz in his mind faded, and the ache in his chest finally stilled.

The sun began to settle on the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues of blue, gold, and purple. It felt calm. Safe.

Shireen closed the book and smiled at him. “I can finish it tomorrow, if you’d like. But I should go now.”

Joffrey swallowed. He didn’t want her to leave.

“Okay,” He whispered.

She stood, and the warmth seemed to go with her. She gave him one last smile before skipping away, her braids bouncing with each step.

Joffrey leaned back against the stone bench, gripping its edge tightly.

He wanted her to stay.

The only way he knew for certain that someone stayed was if they were a wife.

Wives stayed, didn’t they?

Her kindness. The softness of her voice.

It had all felt real.

If she were his wife, would she stay longer?

Maybe then the world wouldn’t feel so lonely.

One day, perhaps. He wasn’t sure.

All he knew was that everything felt quieter now—and he was suddenly very tired.

Chapter Text

Daenerys Targaryen

The Dornish sun beat down—golden and proud—while the water itself felt cool against her skin. Birds sang above them, their voices the only companions in this quiet place. Armor and dresses alike lay scattered across the sandy beach, discarded without ceremony. A sword here, another there—steel bare and unmoving, catching the sun’s glare without purpose.

Daenerys leaned back until her shoulders rested against Maron’s chest. The warmth he offered was steady, calm—like a fur blanket wrapped around her on a winter’s day. She relaxed into the arms encircling her waist, his chin resting atop her head.

Then Maron laughed.

Daemon burst from the water with a sharp gasp for air, hair slicked to his face and shoulders. He breathed heavily as he lifted one arm, revealing two seashells clutched in his hand—one a soft blue, the other gold as the sun. He held them like trophies of war.

“I found what I was looking for,” Daemon said, brushing his hair out of his face. Ever serious—even here, in the water, nude and unguarded with his lovers.

Maron hummed, and Daenerys could feel the smile against her hair as he spoke. “Oh? Spoils of your war?”

Daemon scoffed, tilting his chin upward. “I could toss yours back.”

Daenerys shook her head, amused. “Come now. Let us see them.” She held her hand out.

The water stirred with every stride Daemon took toward them. He took hold of her hand—gentle but firm—and stood before them both, his presence bringing a sense of safety and solidarity.

Daenerys gave his hand a small squeeze before letting him go, allowing him to show off his spoils of war.

Daemon pressed the soft blue shell into her palm. “You always wear blue when it isn’t gold. I prefer you in blue.”

Maron pouted. “And what’s wrong with gold?”

Daemon shot him a glare. “It makes my eyes bleed.”

Maron laughed. “I thought you liked me in gold.”

“I do.” Daemon caught his hand and placed the golden seashell into it.

Daenerys studied her own—small, but beautiful. Droplets clung to its surface, catching the light and shifting its color into something almost purple, threaded with green. Her thumb traced the rough spiral.

“So do I make your eyes bleed, Blackfyre?” Maron asked, softer than usual.

Daenerys saw the worry flash instantly in Daemon’s eyes. As if he’d caused doubt where none should exist.

“Never,” Daemon said quickly. “Don’t say that again. It was a joke… a poor one.” He swallowed.

Maron smiled, fingers curling around the golden shell. “I know. It’s nice to hear it sometimes.”

Daenerys giggled. “You two are so dramatic.”

“He’s the one who—” Daemon started.

Maron leaned in and kissed him. Every time he did, Daemon grew quieter, as though the chaos of his energy finally settled.

Daenerys smiled and pressed a soft kiss to Daemon’s lips. “They’re beautiful, my dragon,” She whispered. “I’ll keep mine always. It’ll look lovely beside the gemstones on the shelf.”

Maron nodded. “I agree.”

Daemon grumbled under his breath and leaned back against the sand, water spilling down his back.

They spent the rest of the day strolling along the shoreline, sand warm beneath their feet, the sun dipping lower in the sky. A cool ocean breeze brushed against them, carrying the tang of salt that clung to their skin.

Daenerys walked between them, holding both their hands. Maron spoke excitedly about the Water Gardens he wanted to build, while Daemon teased him gently, offering small suggestions for flowers to plant.

This was peaceful.

A life for them.

No wars. Just love.

Chapter Text

Jon Snow

Jon groaned as he ran his fingers through his hair, nerves twisting low in his stomach. He didn’t want to go to this sleepover. For one thing, he knew he wasn’t going to sleep at all. He needed his satin sheets, his fluffy blankets, the quiet comfort of his nightly routine—warm baths, skincare, taking care of his curls. Gods, he could already feel the oil building up in his pores, imagined the pimple forming on his face.

“Will you calm down?” Theon sighed from the passenger seat. “It’s just one night. One.”

Robb frowned, hands steady on the wheel. “Theon, don’t patronize him. We got him in the car, don’t fuck this up now.”

“What do you mean?” Theon shot back, twisting around in his seat. “What, is he a dog? Does he need treats now?”

Jon gripped his seatbelt and glared at him. “Shut up. I’m fine. I’m going, aren’t I?” He pouted and turned toward the window.

“See?” Robb said. “He’s fine.”

Theon grumbled, settling back. “He just wants to see Renly…”

Jon didn’t answer. He watched the countryside blur past the window, slowly giving way to the city—buildings stretching sky-high, lights flashing bright and multicolored.

Maybe he was going only for Renly. What was a little discomfort if it meant seeing him? Even if he knew, deep down, that Renly would never really see him.

Jon pressed his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes. His stomach still twisted, but he focused on the hum of the car as Robb and Theon’s voices faded into the background.

The arrival was chaotic, and Jon stayed firmly in the background. These were mostly Robb and Theon’s friends, after all—Loras, Renly, Margaery, Arianne, Quentyn, and a few others. None of them were people Jon blended well with. Not because they argued, or disliked one another. Just because they had nothing in common.

So Jon watched.

And who did he watch?

Renly, of course.

He hated that he couldn’t look away from those blue eyes. Hated it enough that he kept finding excuses to disappear—claiming bathroom breaks he didn’t need, pretending the amount of juice he’d been drinking was the reason. He wasn’t going to touch alcohol. Everyone else could, but not him.

No parents in the house spelled disaster.

The chaos came in waves—loud laughter, music intertwining with overlapping voices. Robb dragged Jon into a few conversations, never straying too far, while Theon drifted toward Margaery and Arianne with practiced ease.

Then—much to Jon’s dismay—Loras climbed onto a table, a glass of wine in his hand.

“I propose we play spin the bottle!” He announced, grinning wildly.

Arianne laughed. “What kind of spin the bottle?”

Loras’s smile widened. “We start innocent. Kissing. And if we feel more… in the flow,” He shrugged. “No one’s here to stop us.”

Robb groaned. “Oh gods…”

Jon’s stomach sank. It felt like being back in the car again—bumpy roads, nerves twisting tight. He gripped his cup of fruit punch and swallowed.

Theon elbowed him. “You might get lucky, Snow.”

Jon swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “I—I’ll just sit it out—”

“What, you scared now?” Theon scoffed. “You finally have a chance. You gonna ruin it?”

Jon muttered, “He’s with Loras…”

“Is he?” Theon shot back. “Have you even seen them together tonight? Relax.” And then he was gone, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts.

Jon stared down at the red liquid in his cup, his reflection staring back at him.

He’d never kissed anyone before.

Was this really how it was going to happen?

They all sat in a wide circle in the living room, tables and couches pushed aside to make space. Laughter spilled easily between them, bodies leaning together, shoulders touching.

Jon felt none of it.

The noise blurred into something distant, muffled, as the tight knots in his stomach twisted painfully. His chest felt too tight, his breath too shallow. He focused on the carpet beneath him, the pattern repeating over and over, trying not to think about how sick he felt.

He should have stayed home.

Why had he let Robb and Theon convince him?

He could be in bed right now. Warm. Wrapped in clean sheets, his curls protected, his skin routine untouched. But would he have regretted not coming?

Loras stepped into the center of the circle and set an empty wine bottle on its side. “Let’s start with Arianne!” He announced, grinning. “Spin the bottle and see who you have to kiss.”

He dropped down beside a very drunk Robb, who laughed far too loudly.

Jon swallowed.

He sat between Margaery and Quentyn, knees drawn in slightly, arms folded tight. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Renly—relaxed, wine glass in hand, perfectly at ease, as if this was all second nature.

For Jon, it wasn’t.

He looked down at the floor.

Arianne giggled. “Alright, I’ll start us off. Let’s see who the lucky winner is.”

Quentyn groaned, rolling his eyes as she spun the bottle.

Jon didn’t track where it went. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning everything else out. He could leave. Slip away to the bathroom, wait it out, then disappear. No one would notice. Robb was too drunk. Theon wouldn’t care.

So why did he stay?

His legs felt glued to the floor.

Then Margaery bumped his shoulder lightly. “Ooo,” She teased, “Look at you, Jon.”

He frowned and lifted his head.

The bottle was pointing directly at him.

When had that happened?

Heat crept up the back of his neck. His mouth went dry.

Renly laughed softly. “Looks like I’m the lucky one,” He said, standing. “I get to kiss the quiet one. Probably the only one here who isn’t drunk.”

Loras snorted. “That’s because he’s a goody two-shoes.”

“Or,” Renly said easily, stepping closer, “He actually cares about himself.”

Somewhere behind them, Robb shouted, “You go, Jon! Whooo!” His words slurred together.

Renly sat down in front of him, close enough that Jon could smell the wine on his breath. His smile was effortless, warm, like this was nothing at all. “So?” He asked gently. “Do I get my kiss?”

Jon’s heart pounded so hard it felt like it might break through his ribs. He could hear laughter around them—light, careless—but it all sounded wrong, too loud, too sharp.

Maybe they were laughing because they were drunk.

Or maybe they knew.

He didn’t trust himself to speak. He just nodded.

Renly leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

Jon froze.

He had no idea what he was doing—where to put his hands, how long to stay, how to breathe. His face burned with embarrassment. It was short, awkward, over too quickly.

Nothing like the kisses the others probably shared.

When Renly pulled back, the laughter only grew louder.

Theon was the worst of it, doubled over with Loras. “Oh my gods, I didn’t think it would actually happen!” He wheezed. “He really did it!”

Jon stared down at the floor. The back of his eyes burned, pressure building fast. He could hear the giggles, the whispers layered beneath the noise.

They all knew.

He really shouldn’t have come.

“Jon?” Renly whispered.

But Jon was already standing.

He didn’t look at anyone as he pushed his way out of the circle and headed for the door. He didn’t care how he got home—if he had to walk, he would. He just needed to get away.

Away from the laughter that followed him even as the door closed behind him.

Renly Baratheon

That expression hadn’t been simple embarrassment.

It had been hurt.

Renly watched Jon leave, the door closing softly behind him. The laughter still rang loud in his ears—drunken, careless. No one else seemed to notice what had just happened. Or perhaps they did and chose not to care.

Renly had thought it was harmless.

A simple crush.

Jon would get over it eventually.

But he hadn’t. Not for years.

Renly drew in a slow breath and stood.

Loras reached for the bottle. “Come on, love. Sit down. It’s Margaery’s turn.”

Renly shook his head. “No. I’m going to make sure he’s okay.”

“He’s fine,” Loras scoffed. “Probably just needed the bathroom.”

But Renly knew better.

Jon hadn’t kissed him back. He’d gone still—frozen, overwhelmed—and then he’d left. Alone.

“Keep playing,” Renly said as he headed for the door. “I’ll be back.”

“Whatever,” Loras muttered.

Renly wandered through the house. It was quieter here; just red plastic cups littering the counters, food wrappers overflowing from the trash and spilling onto the floor. Laughter still echoed faintly from the living room.

He tapped his fingers against the table, humming under his breath.

Where would Jon be?

He knew Jon liked quiet places. So Renly moved farther from the noise, deeper into the house. The hallways were dark, the wooden floors creaking softly beneath his steps.

Then he heard it.

A soft sniffle behind a half-closed door.

Renly stopped. He knocked gently. “Jon?”

Silence.

But he knew.

“Can I come in?”

“…I guess,” Jon mumbled.

Renly didn’t like how uncertain it sounded, but he stepped inside anyway. Moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating the guest room. Jon’s black bag lay on the floor, a white wolf pin catching the light. A few pencils and notebooks had fallen out beside it.

Jon sat in the far corner, the darkest part of the room. His knees were pulled to his chest, his head bowed, hair hiding his face.

Renly crossed the room quietly and sat a few feet away.

He didn’t know what to say. What comfort he was allowed to offer.

He shouldn’t have kissed him.

He wished he’d realized that sooner.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Renly whispered.

No response.

“That was your first kiss, wasn’t it?”

Nothing.

Renly bowed his head. They’d always existed near each other, never quite together. Jon was quiet, observant, like a shadow at the edge of every room.

“They weren’t laughing at you,” Renly said softly. “They’re just drunk. They didn’t understand what they were doing. I’m sorry they embarrassed you.”

Jon shrugged.

“Jon… please look at me.”

Slowly, Jon lifted his head. His eyes were red and glossy, tear tracks drying on his cheeks.

Renly let out a quiet breath. “Gods.”

“Why are you here?” Jon asked, voice rough.

“Because you were hurt.”

Jon blinked, surprised.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Renly admitted. “But I’m here. I’ll stay, if you want.”

“I won’t feel better,” Jon muttered. “So you can leave.”

“Jon—”

“It was my first kiss,” Jon said. “Everyone laughed. I shouldn’t have come. This isn’t my thing.”

Renly shifted closer, careful. “It wasn’t dumb. It’s okay to try new things.”

He hesitated. Bit his lip.

“Is there… a redo for a first kiss?”

Jon pulled back instantly. “Leave me alone. I’m not playing into your games.”

“No—nothing like that,” Renly said quickly. “A redo. Proper. Private.”

“I don’t want your pity.”

“This isn’t pity.”

“Then why?”

Renly looked at him, earnest and unsure. “Because pity doesn’t help. And because you matter.”

Jon wiped his eyes, exhaling. “Fine. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Renly smiled faintly. “We get crushed by a boulder.”

Jon huffed a small laugh. “That sounds awful.”

“See? Worse things.” Renly shifted closer.

Jon moved himself to be in front of Renly’s, his eyes looking everywhere but him. “I don’t know how to kiss…”

“Well no one does for their first time.” Renly said softly. “It’s okay to not know. Nothing wrong with it.”

“Then how do you kiss properly?”

“Best way to do it is… go with the flow of your partner. You have to get a feel with it.” Renly nodded.

Jon lifted his head up, still looking a little unsure. “You won’t like… like make fun of me some random Tuesday at school?” He glanced around the bedroom. “Should I be worried of it… of it being a video…?”

Renly felt a bit baffled by those ideas. He would never do such a thing. So who hurt Jon enough to put these ideas into his mind?

He swallowed and shook his head, “No. Not at all. This is just me and you. Not a crowd. No loud laughter in the background. Just us. Okay?”

Jon slowly nodded. “Okay. Um, whenever I guess? I don’t… I don’t know…” He whispered,

Renly leaned over, cupping his cheek. “You can still tell me no.”

“I…” Jon stuttered, “I want to redo.”

“Okay,” Renly whispered. He closed his eyes and kissed him again. Soft and delicate.

He felt Jon lean into his hand, the warmth going up his arm. He was frozen for just a moment before he kissed back. The attempt was awkward as to be expected of a first kiss. But the longer it went the more confident Jon grew, the less awkward it was. They flowed together as good as a first time could.

Renly slowly pulled away, “Was that better?” He whispered, looking at Jon.

Jon looked like he was in a daze, like stars in his eyes, wide and a small smile on his face. “Huh?”

Renly smiled, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Jon hummed, his face getting red again and he looked away. “Thank you… for the redo…”

Renly let his cheek go, “Thank you for letting me do it again. Better this time.”

“I know it’s nothing,” Jon said softly. “I won’t mention it to Loras or anyone.

“Jon—“

Jon looked at him and smiled, “I know. I get it… but now I’m really tired. I want to lock my door before Robb comes in and tries to take up the entire bed.”

Renly swallowed and nodded, “Okay.” He stood up, “I—“ He took a deep breath. “Have a goodnight Jon.”

“Goodnight Renly,” Jon didn’t get up. He stayed in the corner. Not as tightly curled up but he stayed there in the darkness alone.

Renly slowly walked out, the door closed behind him. But he leaned back against it for a moment. His thoughts running wild. To see the hurt still linger in Jon’s eyes, the longing. He saw it all… and the kiss felt the most real. Jon kissed him like he was a precious treasure for someone who never knew how to kiss.

He quietly walked back to the chaos.

He wasn’t sure where his heart laid.

But the warmth of Jon’s lips lingered on his.

Chapter Text

Baela Targaryen 

The sun was just cresting the horizon, rising over the sea. Its light stretched across the still water, turning it from blue to something richer—glittering purple beneath bands of gold and pink. The sky remained dark in places, wisps of cloud catching color as the dawn spread slowly outward.

The morning was anything but silent.

Dragons roared high above.

Moondancer was full of energy, soaring through the sky at reckless speed, tearing through clouds with every powerful beat of her wings. Baela laughed, gripping the reins of her saddle as wind whipped through her hair. The scent of leather filled her senses, the rush of cold air stealing her breath.

This was freedom.

They were not alone this morning.

Beside them flew scales the color of burnished bronze, gleaming like fire in the rising sun. Sheepstealer was larger than Moondancer—calmer, more aware of the world around him. His movements were deliberate, watchful. His rider sat atop a makeshift saddle of rope and leather, steady and unafraid.

Nettles, they called her.

She lifted a hand and waved, laughter carried easily on the wind.

Baela smiled and waved back.

They said nothing. There was no need for words here as they soared together over Dragonstone, where a heavy morning haze clung to the land below. Above it all, the sky opened wide—bright and unburdened.

Moondancer let out a sharp, exhilarated roar and plunged toward the sea. Her wings folded tight to her body, her tail cutting through the air as they dove. Baela leaned forward instinctively, her heart racing, the strap at her waist pulled snug as adrenaline flooded her veins.

At the last possible moment, Moondancer snapped her wings open. With a powerful beat, they surged back into the sky. Water skimmed across talons and tail, spraying upward like rain.

Sheepstealer circled them, watchful and almost amused. A low hum rumbled from his chest—deep and gentle, nothing like a war cry. It carried warmth rather than fear.

Baela swallowed as she watched him dip lower, his tail grazing the ocean’s surface. He never attempted Moondancer’s reckless tricks.

She didn’t know why Nettles joined her on these morning flights.

But it didn’t feel lonely anymore.

There were no duties here. No expectations. Just the sky, the dragons, and the freedom to exist—to be nothing more than a woman and her mount.

They climbed higher, leaving the sea behind.

Moondancer slowed, circling Sheepstealer as the larger dragon twisted gracefully in the air. He released a gentle puff of flame in their direction—meant not to burn, but to warm.

Together, the dragons danced.

Wingbeats fell into rhythm—close enough to feel, distant enough to remain untouchable. Tails brushed and briefly entwined. Wings skimmed past one another. Fire bloomed and faded, shared heat against the cold dawn air.

Baela felt it then—how the emptiness she’d grown used to no longer pressed so heavily against her chest.

The world did not feel as alone.

And Nettles’ laughter echoed in her mind long after the sky swallowed the sound.

Chapter Text

Duncan 

The club was loud and booming in a way that hurt Duncan’s ears. So many lights flashing and turning—every color up on the ceiling and floors. It smelled strongly of alcohol and perfume mixed with cologne. It all felt so overwhelming.

Daemon placed a hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “Come on now. Don’t chicken out yet.”

Duncan frowned. “I wasn’t! It’s just… loud.”

“Of course it’s going to be loud, Dunk. It’s a club.” Daemon chuckled and nudged Duncan to continue walking.

They passed plenty of people wearing revealing outfits and, in some rare cases, nothing at all. It felt like more than just a club. It made Duncan’s blood run hot, his cheeks burning as he kept his eyes on the black floor—one covered in more crumbs and spilled drinks than he cared to admit he noticed.

Eventually they ended up at the bar. The seats were filled, but they found two next to each other. The clinks of glasses and laughter were loud, yet the music was louder. It made his head pound in rhythm with it. But at least here, he didn’t have to endure the flashing lights as much.

“You come here this often?” Duncan asked, looking at all the glasses that littered the bar. All sorts of colors, some of them looked unsafe to consume.

Daemon hummed. “Yeah. It’s a good way to let loose, have some fun.” He gently bumped Duncan’s shoulder. “What do you want to drink?”

“Something that won’t burn my insides,” Duncan muttered, staring at a neon blue drink.

Daemon laughed. “Those won’t kill you. They taste pretty fruity. Here—we’ll start with something simple.”

Duncan didn’t reply. He just swallowed and looked around the bar at all the people—some chattering among themselves, others making out with each other, which Duncan quickly looked away from.

Then his eyes landed on a man who was looking in his direction. Surrounded by people, a wide smile on his face. But Duncan looked away quickly before he could give the wrong impression. He chewed on his bottom lip, making himself a bit smaller.

Daemon set a glass of wine in front of him. “Drink up! Maybe you’ll get lucky tonight.”

Duncan groaned. “You dragged me here!”

“Yeah, to get lucky. You need it or something.” Daemon said, downing a shot.

Duncan huffed and took a sip of his wine. It tasted cheap—easy to get drunk off of, lacking any real fruity flavor. But it was something to calm his nerves and the sweat collecting at the back of his neck.

The bartender set a white, creamy-looking cocktail in front of Duncan. It had a small stick with strawberries neatly arranged on it.

Duncan blinked and shook his head. “Excuse me, but I didn’t—”

“It’s from the man over there.” The bartender nodded toward the man Duncan had noticed earlier.

The man smiled, charming, a curl of hair resting neatly against his forehead. He winked at Duncan, giving a small wave.

Duncan swallowed and looked back down at the floor, his cheeks burning.

“Woooow, look at you, Dunk. Already getting compliments!” Daemon laughed, patting his back. “Don’t be so embarrassed. That one’s charming.”

Duncan glanced up at him. “Compliments? About what? I just sat here!” He whispered.

Daemon stared at him for a long moment. “I heard nothing of what you just said.”

Duncan whined and covered his face with his hands.

“Oh—and it seems he’s coming over. Well, my cue to leave you~ byeeeeee!”

Duncan sat up. “Wait—no!!”

But Daemon was already melting into the crowd, a glass in hand. He waved his goodbye and was gone.

Duncan sat there, jaw nearly hitting the bar.

He was alone.

Daemon left him. The traitor.

“Well, hello,” A smooth voice said behind him.

Duncan swallowed, his heart dropping.

Lyonel Baratheon

Lyonel watched the tension gather in the man’s shoulders—the way he froze at the sound of his voice.

Gods, he hadn’t meant to scare him.

He’d just wanted to say something. To talk.

The man looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. Eyes always down. Hunched in on himself, like he was trying to disappear.

Then the man shifted in his seat and looked up at Lyonel with a nervous smile. “H-hello.” He waved before quickly dropping his hand, gripping his wrist like it had betrayed him.

Lyonel leaned against the counter. “Are you alright?” He asked softly.

It was easy to tell when someone was new. Normally, Lyonel wouldn’t have paid it much mind—he’d be too busy drinking, kissing, dancing. Anything to keep himself occupied. But tonight, sitting at the bar and chatting with familiar faces, he’d noticed this man. Lost. Out of place. Like a puppy left in the wrong room.

“Y-yes! Yes, I’m perfectly fine!” The man said, nodding quickly. He spoke louder than necessary, nerves plain as day.

Lyonel smiled gently. “I’m sure you are.” His eyes flicked to the empty seat beside him. “Mind if I sit? If it isn’t taken.”

“No—I mean yes! Er—well—” Blue eyes darted from the seat to the floor and back again before settling on Lyonel. “It isn’t taken,” He added more quietly.

Lyonel took the seat. Even sitting, the man was taller—still hunched, shoulders squared like he was trying to make himself smaller. Lyonel glanced at the untouched cocktail and smiled. “Not much for fruity drinks?”

“I-I am! I just—um—thank you.”

Lyonel laughed softly, then quickly reined it in. “Sorry. I wasn’t sure if you were more wine or cocktail.”

The man glanced at the half glass of wine. “The wine tastes cheap…”

“It is,” Lyonel agreed. “But it works fast.” He offered his hand. “I’m Lyonel.”

“Dunk—Duncan.” He shook his head. “My friends call me Dunk.” His grip was strong but careful, like he was afraid of hurting him.

Lyonel smiled. “It’s a pleasure, Duncan. What brings you here? A club doesn’t seem like your usual sort of place.”

“O-oh—well, my friend brought me here… for some… ‘fun.’” Duncan swayed slightly in his seat.

“I see. Is that the one with the silver hair who was here earlier?” Lyonel asked curiously.

Duncan nodded, taking a nervous sip from the white cocktail.

Lyonel smiled as Duncan’s eyes lit up at the taste.

He had picked correctly.

It delighted him—the care Duncan took in plucking the strawberry from the glass, like it was something precious. Innocent. Sweet.

“I was thinking,” Lyonel said once Duncan was halfway through the drink, “Of stepping outside for a breather. Sometimes all these smells make my head spin.”

Duncan groaned softly. “The flashing lights get to me. Makes my head throb.”

Lyonel nodded. “Good thing this isn’t a rave.”

“A rave?” Duncan asked, brow furrowing.

“More lights. Louder music—you can feel it through your whole body. Bigger crowds. Packed like sardines.”

Duncan looked horrified. “O-oh…” He carefully set the empty glass down.

Lyonel chuckled. “I doubt your friend would be cruel enough to do that to you. It can be fun but even I get tired of it after a while.”

He stood and took a few steps away before glancing back over his shoulder. “Coming with me?” He asked softly.

“Oh! Y-yes.” Duncan nodded and slid off the seat. He towered over nearly everyone here and yet looked every bit a gentle giant.

Lyonel hummed, quietly pleased. “Alright.” He started toward the exit, keeping his pace slow and never straying far from Duncan.

Duncan

Duncan followed close behind Lyonel, keeping his hands firmly to himself. He was painfully aware of how big he was in a place like this, and the nerves buzzing through his body didn’t help. He didn’t want to be in anyone’s way.

Yet Lyonel walked slowly, occasionally glancing back to make sure Duncan was still there.

Duncan hadn’t expected kindness. Or attention. Or even a smile. He’d come here fully prepared for Daemon to get hammered while he sat somewhere out of sight, trying not to die of embarrassment.

But here was Lyonel—offering all three without a second thought.

When they stepped outside, relief washed over him. It was quieter out here, the cool night air soothing the throb in his head. He let himself relax, shoulders loosening, hands falling naturally to his sides as he straightened up. There weren’t many people on the street.

He wouldn’t be in anyone’s way.

At least, he hoped so.

“Yes—much better,” Lyonel hummed, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “Don’t you think?”

Duncan looked at him. “Y-yeah… a lot nicer.”

A part of him wanted to ask why Lyonel had been curious about him in the first place. Duncan didn’t have anything to offer—no charm, no experience. Was Lyonel just being nice for the sake of it?

That was what Duncan chose to believe.

“I, um… sorry if I took you away from your friends,” Duncan said softly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Lyonel straightened, a small frown creasing his brow. “Oh no. Those weren’t friends.” He paused, then added, “Besides, I’d rather spend time with someone genuine than someone who isn’t.”

Duncan frowned. “Still… you were having fun and—”

“And I still am,” Lyonel interrupted gently—not rude, just firm.

Duncan swallowed, his cheeks burning. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, he heard his name being shouted.

“Duncan! Duncan!”

He turned to see Daemon rushing toward them. He smelled heavily of alcohol, though he didn’t look nearly as drunk as Duncan had expected—either the air clung to him, or Daemon simply wasn’t as lightweight as he pretended to be.

Daemon glanced between Duncan and Lyonel, grinning. “I see your admirer has taken you outside.”

Lyonel smiled—still polite, still kind—but there was less warmth in it now. “The smells were getting to me, and the lights were bothering him,” He said with a shrug. “So here we are.”

“I see…” Daemon looked up at Duncan. “Well, if I’m not interrupting, I was getting hungry. You want to grab something to eat?”

Food suddenly sounded wonderful. Duncan’s stomach agreed, twisting sharply. “Food does sound nice…” He muttered, then glanced at Lyonel. He wanted to ask; if it was alright, if Lyonel minded, if he didn’t want to be alone.

“Go on,” Lyonel said softly, his smile warmer again. “I’ll probably head back inside.”

“O-okay… I, um—thank you. For everything.” Duncan ducked his head, biting his already-bruised lip.

“No need to thank me.” Lyonel waved lightly. “But… thank you for talking with me. It was nice.” He chuckled. “Have fun.”

And then he was gone, slipping back into the club.

Duncan watched him disappear. Maybe he should have invited him along. A part of him wanted to. But he didn’t want to seem desperate. They were just strangers who had talked for a bit. Lyonel was probably only being nice because Duncan had looked so lost.

Still… it had been nice. The attention. The understanding.

Today hadn’t been as bad as he’d thought.

Daemon clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Well, at least you weren’t kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” Duncan frowned.

“I’m joking! Mostly.” Daemon sighed. “I was a little worried, I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

They walked toward the parking lot, Daemon talking animatedly about something Duncan didn’t quite catch. Duncan glanced back at the club—the neon lights glowing against the dark city, pulsing softly.

For a moment, he thought he felt eyes on him, watching from just beyond the doors.

Maybe it was only his imagination.

He looked away.

Today hadn’t been as bad as he’d thought.

Chapter Text

Sandor Clegane

He hated being around the Lannisters. They were a bunch of pricks with sticks shoved too far up their own asses. But he’d dug his own grave, hadn’t he? A coward who ran from battle, and now his punishment was to be a sword shield.

Did Cersei find this funny? Throwing him in with a young knight—a Tyrell, no less. A little rose that would wilt with time.

“You may have him, Ser Loras. Do whatever you want with the Hound,” Cersei said casually, a cup of wine in her hand. She sat as if she were already the Queen of the realm. That right would be ripped from her soon enough. Maybe then that smirk would finally fade.

Loras stood across the table, his armor just as shiny as any Kingsguard’s. He carried their pride, too.

“Thank you, Your Grace. He will be of great use where I need him.”

Cersei let out a soft huff, her face half-hidden behind her cup. “A coward cannot be of use. A hound is meant to be loyal.”

Sandor swallowed hard, his eyes cast down to the floor. He was glad for his helmet—it hid most of the shame.

The young knight hummed thoughtfully. “I will keep that in mind. It does not change my decision, however.”

“Of course not,” Cersei said, taking a sip of wine. “He’s your hound now.”

He wished he had never gone back. He could have wandered the Seven Kingdoms instead—but then the Lannisters’ shadow would have followed him everywhere. No restful sleep. Food he couldn’t steal from an innkeeper. Cities too loud, too dangerous.

Still, at least then the shame would have been his alone. Quiet. He wouldn’t have had to listen to the insults thrown at him at every turn, or endure whatever Tywin had planned.

Sandor felt sick to his stomach as he walked behind Loras, the two of them silent.

He wished he had kept running.

Loras Tyrell

The candles were burning low, the wind rattling the window. He was alone in his room—bed empty, no warmth to curl against. So he poured another glass of wine, filling it to the brim before setting the pitcher down harder than he meant to on the table. Wine spilled over the edge, droplets staining the wood, red as blood.

He swallowed, staring at the small pools.

What was the point of living anymore?

He should have been there. With Renly. He could have protected him—or at the very least offered up his own life in exchange. A fairer trade than this hollow survival.

Tears welled in his eyes, his vision blurring. He sniffed, grabbed the cup, and drank—half of it gone in seconds, as if he had nothing left to lose. Then he slammed it down again, harder this time, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

Gods. He could hear Renly’s laughter—light, free, alive—echoing cruelly in his mind.

The tears fell faster then. The room felt unbearably cold, and the bed behind him might as well have been miles away. He barely slept in it anymore. He chose the floor, or a chair. He couldn’t stand the emptiness of the sheets. At least that way, the loneliness felt like something he had chosen.

He lowered his head onto the table and broke, shoulders shaking as he cried.

The only mercy in being alone was this—

He didn’t have to hide his pain.

Sandor Clegane

They had been on the road only a few days, riding toward the Eyrie. The task was simple enough—see whether the Arryns would be friends or foes. Sandor already knew the answer. Foes, of course. They were kin to the Starks. Why wouldn’t they side with them?

The whole ride felt like a waste of time.

The weather did little to improve his mood. Gloom clung to the days—clouds packed thick and heavy overhead, threatening rain that never came. It was almost worse that way. All the promise of a downpour, none of the release.

Over those days, Sandor had kept close to Loras. A shadow, whether the knight noticed or not. He’d watched the way Loras moved—tall, proud, every inch the perfect knight. And yet there was something else there, too. A weight in his steps. A man holding himself together by will alone, always calm, always composed—until the moments he thought no one was looking. Then he looked as if he might shatter.

Today, Sandor found himself growing irritable.

Loras’s armor caught the light even beneath a layer of trail dust. It shouldn’t have shone. And yet it did—bright enough to draw the eye, bright enough to invite a bolt or arrow.

A target.

Sandor dug his heels into his horse and rode forward, leaving the other men behind. He pulled up alongside Loras, close enough that their stirrups nearly brushed.

“You ride any farther ahead,” Sandor growled, “You’ll be shot down like a pigeon.”

Loras glanced at him, unbothered. “We’re in no danger. We’re not being hunted.”

“That’s what men say right up until an arrow takes their throat.”

“Then if it does,” Loras replied calmly, “You’ll kill the men who fired it.”

Sandor felt his eye twitch. His mouth pulled into a snarl beneath the helm, and he was grateful for the steel hiding his face. Gods, the anger surged up fast and sharp. He hated how easily this knight spoke of dying. Hated how carelessly he would throw his life away—someone who could have been more.

Or maybe he was just like the rest of them. Another knight chasing a glorious end.

“That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard,” Sandor barked out a bitter laugh.

One corner of Loras’s mouth curved, faint but real. “How so?”

“You really riding out here just to die?” Sandor snapped. “That your plan? March into battle and see if the gods feel like taking you? Same as every other fucking knight. What a way to live, little rose.”

He shook his head, gripping the reins hard enough to ache.

Loras drew in a slow breath, eyes fixed on the trail ahead. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“It isn’t about glory,” He said. “It’s about purpose.”

Sandor stilled.

“I wake up every day and ask myself—what now?” Loras continued. “At least in war, there’s something. Orders. Duty. A battle to fight. Noise loud enough to keep the silence in your head from swallowing you whole.”

Sandor watched him straighten in the saddle, fingers tightening briefly on the reins before loosening again.

They rode in silence after that, hooves crunching over dirt and gravel. But the quiet felt different now. Heavy, but clearer. It was the things Loras hadn’t said that made it all make sense.

Sandor had heard the rumors. He’d dismissed them as just that. Rumors. Not his concern. But now… it fit. Too well.

He nodded once.

“Stop riding so far ahead,” Sandor muttered. “Little rose.”

He turned his horse back toward the rest of the men.

Behind him, he heard Loras chuckle—soft, surprised. The sound tightened something in Sandor’s chest. He had never heard the knight laugh before. It shouldn’t have meant anything.

But it did.

Loras Tyrell

The fire crackled softly in the night, its light flickering as shadows stretched and shifted around him. Loras sat alone by it, while his men gathered in small clusters farther off—low laughter, murmured voices, the clink of tankards carrying through the dark.

It shouldn’t have bothered him. Being alone. He had never minded it before.

Yet ever since Renly—

Loras swallowed and dragged a hand through his hair, forcing the thought away. He focused on the present. On the now.

His gaze drifted to the edge of the firelight, to the shape of a man half-swallowed by shadow. A scarred face—burned, ugly by any common measure. And yet Loras had come to notice the eyes before the scars. Fierce. Bitter. Always watching. And, beneath it all, strangely soft.

He hadn’t understood Sandor’s insistence on riding so close, on keeping him within reach. Why not leave him be? At first it had angered him. He had thought the Hound wanted him on a leash—control disguised as duty. A sworn shield more interested in his standing with the Lannisters than in Loras himself.

It had been Loras’s choice to take him. He’d needed a shield, and he knew the Lannisters despised Sandor enough to part with him.

Did he believe Sandor would be a good one?

No.

But that conversation on the road had changed something. Sandor wasn’t driven by pride or hunger for glory, as so many claimed. He was a man trying to survive. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And Loras wondered, did Sandor even know what kind of life he wanted, beyond that?

He knew he didn’t. Not anymore. His heart had shattered, and whatever remained of it had to be pieced together slowly, painfully.

He wasn’t here to die.

But if it happened… he would have no complaints.

Loras held his hands out toward the fire, letting the warmth wrap around him like a thin blanket. The night grew quieter. And then he felt it again—that familiar awareness that had followed him throughout this journey.

Eyes on him. Watchful. Unmoving.

He didn’t feel fear.

He didn’t feel uncomfortable.

He felt… protected.

The Hound stood guard in the shadows.

While the Rose warmed himself by the fire.

Sandor Clegane

The ride out had been unremarkable. Only a few days remained before they reached the Eyrie. They were already deep in the Vale now, and Sandor didn’t like it.

Too much rock. Too many blind angles. Not enough high ground they controlled.

The terrain made his skin itch. His eyes kept lifting to the ridges above the trail, scanning for movement, for shapes that didn’t belong. He always looked up.

And perhaps that was his mistake.

The sound tore through him first—the shrill scream of a horse in pain, followed by a heavy, sickening thump. Shouts erupted all at once. Chaos swallowed the road whole.

Horses bolted past him, nearly colliding with his own. Men screamed warnings. Then he saw them, figures on the rocks above, bows and crossbows raised. Arrows and bolts rained down, whistling through the air.

His horse reared, panicked. Sandor snarled and urged it forward, fighting to keep control.

Steel rang against steel somewhere to his left. A man went down. Another cried out. Everything blurred into noise and motion and dust.

Sandor’s eyes cut through it all, searching.

Armor—bright, that damned armor.

His heart slammed hard against his ribs.

The horse that screamed again—too close, too familiar—was Loras’s.

The only one riding ahead.

The only one past him on the trail.

He hadn’t been watching.

Sandor forced his horse through the chaos, ignoring clashes and shouted orders. Not cowardice, not this time. He didn’t care who they were fighting. He didn’t care about killing anyone yet.

He needed to find Loras.

He ducked under a swinging blade, veered hard as an arrow struck the dirt beside him. Then he saw it.

A brown horse lay sprawled across the trail, lifeless. Blood soaked into the dirt beneath it, dark and spreading. The saddle was twisted. Loras’s sword was gone.

But Loras was nowhere in sight.

Sandor’s chest tightened painfully.

“Damned rose,” He snarled under his breath, eyes sweeping the rocks, the brush, the broken trail ahead. “Where are you?”

Sandor glanced back toward the battle behind him, just for a second.

Perhaps they would lose. Perhaps they would win.

He didn’t care. They didn’t need him.

His horse followed the narrow trail, leaping rocks and crashing through brush. Each thunderous hoofbeat rattled through Sandor’s bones. He didn’t know how far Loras had made it—if he was wounded, if he was fighting alone, if he was already—

Had he stayed still for too long?

He was meant to protect him. And he hadn’t. Sandor Clegane, who had never been meant to guard anything gentler than his own skin, had taken the role anyway. Loras had chosen him—his sword, his shield—and Sandor should have been closer. Should have been watching.

The trail opened suddenly, spilling out onto a narrow cliffside slick with mud and loose stone. Sandor hauled on the reins. His horse skidded to a halt.

His heart dropped.

The ground was torn apart with footprints—too many, scattered and frantic. A fight.

A sword lay off to the side, its rose-shaped hilt smeared dark with blood.

A body lay too close to the edge, twisted and still.

But no Loras.

No bright armor. No warm, foolish smile.

Sandor dismounted and ran to the cliff’s edge, boots sliding as he caught himself just in time.

“Loras?” He called, his voice sharp against the wind.

He turned back to the corpse, fury surging hot and fast. He grabbed the man and rolled him over. If there were gods worth a damn, they would let this bastard wake just so Sandor could kill him properly.

“Loras!” He roared, the shout echoing off stone.

“Sandor?” Came a voice—low, strained.

His breath hitched. His eyes searched wildly until dread settled heavy in his gut. Slowly, he stepped back to the edge and looked down.

Loras clung to a narrow ledge just below, fingers white with strain. Blood streaked his armor, some of it not the dead man’s.

“You’re fucking stupid, you know that?” Sandor barked.

He groaned as he lowered himself carefully, one knee braced, one hand gripping rock as he stretched the other down. “Come on. Take it.”

Loras grimaced—and still, somehow, smiled. “Well,” He panted, “At least I have someone to right my stupidity.”

He reached, then sucked in a breath and pulled back, pain flashing across his face.

“Don’t let the pain win,” Sandor snapped. He leaned lower, heart hammering. One wrong move and they’d both be over the edge. “You just do it.”

“You’re one to talk,” Loras muttered but this time he reached again, teeth clenched.

Their fingers brushed. Just barely. Not enough.

Sandor swore and leaned farther than he should have, stone crumbling beneath his weight. He caught Loras’s wrist and hauled hard, muscles screaming as he dragged him up and over the edge.

They collapsed onto solid ground in a tangle of limbs and breath. Sandor dragged Loras farther from the cliff, paranoia clawing at him until there was no chance of slipping back.

Loras laughed weakly, breathless. Blood soaked the side of his armor where a blade had pierced it.

“I thought roses were meant to be smart,” Sandor growled. He propped Loras against one of the few scraggly trees and fumbled with the armor straps, yanking them free. The metal hit the stones with a dull clang.

“I am smart,” Loras huffed. “Enough.”

Sandor snorted and lifted Loras’s tunic, inspecting the wound. Clean. Deep, but survivable. Blood still seeped steadily.

“I should have let you die,” Sandor muttered. “Shouldn’t have come back. Should’ve kept running.”

“You still can,” Loras murmured, head lolling against the tree. “Run… you can still leave.”

Sandor tore off his helmet and tossed it aside. “Shut the fuck up.”

Loras didn’t argue. His eyes fluttered, consciousness slipping in and out.

Damned rose. Always had a way of making Sandor’s blood burn hotter than it should.

Whether that was a good thing—or a terrible one—Sandor didn’t know.

Loras Tyrell

When he opened his eyes again, the world was a blur of green. Not the blue sky—but something darker, closer. Warm. For a moment, he thought he was back in his chambers at Highgarden, fires blazing, furs piled high over silk sheets. Safe.

He groaned and shifted his head. What he rested on wasn’t a pillow, but it was soft—thick, warm. Fur, perhaps.

He breathed in deeply, then slipped back into darkness.

There was laughter. Light, charming. Blue eyes as endless as summer seas.

Then the laughter faded.

Until there was nothing at all.

Loras woke with a gasp. Sweat clung to his skin, his breath shallow. The world was clear now, too clear. Canvas walls loomed around him, a tent snapping softly in the wind. Cold pressed in from the edges.

He swallowed and tried to sit up.

“Don’t.”

The voice stopped him instantly.

Loras looked up. Sandor stood beside the cot, his broad frame half-swallowed by shadow. No armor. No helm. Just the man himself, holding a bowl of water, a cloth draped over his forearm.

“Sandor…” Loras rasped, his throat painfully dry.

“Shush.” Sandor set a firm hand on his shoulder and gently pressed him back down.

Loras didn’t resist. He sank into the furs, the warmth closing around him like a shield. He watched as Sandor set the bowl on a small table, dipped the cloth, wrung it out. The movements were careful. Controlled.

The cloth brushed across Loras’s forehead, cool against the heat of his skin.

“You’ll be fine in a day or two,” Sandor said gruffly. “The fever’s breaking.”

Some foolish part of Loras had expected to die. Or to wake alone. To find that Sandor had finally run, as everyone said he would.

But he was here.

Still here.

The realization startled a laugh from Loras’s chest—weak, breathless. “You’re… not what they say you are.”

Sandor huffed softly. “I am.”

“No,” Loras murmured, shaking his head. “You’re not.”

Sandor paused, the cloth hovering before he dipped it again. “Then what am I?”

Loras closed his eyes. The cloth pressed gently at his neck, steady and sure. Sandor smelled faintly of firewood and leather, something grounding. Real.

“You saved me,” Loras said quietly. “You didn’t have to.” His voice faltered. “You could have run.”

Silence answered him.

“You’re kinder than they give you credit for.”

The dabbing stopped.

Loras drifted, sleep tugging at him again but then the warmth shifted. The scent faded.

His eyes flew open.

Sandor had lifted the bowl, turning away.

Panic flared, sharp and sudden. Loras reached out, fingers catching Sandor’s sleeve.

“Please,” He whispered. “Don’t leave.”

Sandor froze.

Slowly, he turned back. His eyes were wide, conflicted and softer than Loras had ever seen them. They reminded him of home. Of gardens and stillness and safety.

“I shouldn’t,” Sandor said.

“I won’t make you,” Loras murmured. “But I’m asking.”

For a long moment, Sandor didn’t move.

Then he set the bowl down again.

He sat on the ground beside the cot, his back leaning against it, solid and present.

Relief loosened something in Loras’s chest. He smiled faintly as his eyes slid shut once more.

“Thank you.”

Sandor Clegane

He sat there, not knowing how long it had been. He listened to every soft breath Loras took. Focused on the brush of fingers against his arm—the grip loose, but still there, holding even in sleep. The warmth bled through his clothes. It was comforting. Safe.

He took a slow breath and shook his head. Sleep tugged at him, heavy and insistent.

He should have fought it. Should have left the tent. Should have ignored Loras’s cries.

But gods, he couldn’t say no to those eyes. The panic in them. The way he begged, soft and honest.

Sandor closed his eyes and let his head fall back, resting against the warmth. He breathed in the scent of flowers—spring, meadows, something gentle. He liked it.

Maybe a little too much.

Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he thought. Just this. Just a moment of peace.

Sleep pulled him under.

The Hound resting beside the roses.

Chapter Text

Gendry Waters

He didn’t remember how it really happened.

Gendry only knew he had been swinging his hammer to defend Arya and the others—how the world narrowed until there was nothing but protecting and striking. The weight of it still lingered in his muscles, every motion etched deep, as if each swing had mattered more than the last. It had to matter. Otherwise—

He didn’t want to think about it.

But he had won, hadn’t he?

Arya was safe. The children were frightened, but there wasn’t a scratch on them.

He had won. Even in pain, he had won.

That thought dulled the throb at his side, the warm, sticky feeling of his own blood soaking through sweat-damp fabric and clinging to his skin. His breaths came ragged, shallow, and for a moment—just a blink—he swore he could see his mother’s blonde hair flickering in the firelight.

“You’re such a big, dumb idiot.”

Arya’s voice cut through the haze. Sharp, familiar. But there was something else there, too—a faint waver she probably didn’t realize had slipped through.

Gendry said nothing. His throat felt dry as he swallowed.

“I can’t believe this. I told you not to come here. But what did you say? Oh, Arya, it’ll be fine!” She let out a bitter laugh.

He felt the fabric of his shirt lift and groaned as it brushed against the wound. It had been bandaged now, but the pain still pulsed, deep and insistent.

“Fine,” She muttered. “Everything’s always fine. And now look at you—”

She went quiet.

His gaze drifted from the fire to the children sleeping in a tight bundle beside it, then back to Arya. Her grey eyes were fixed on his side, her brow drawn tight—stubborn, exhausted. And beneath it all, something softer. Worry.

Normally, he would have teased her for it.

Arya Stark of Winterfell, worrying over some bastard boy. A funny thing. But she had never seen him as a bastard, not really. Just another person. No matter how much they bickered and argued, it always ended the same way: Quiet by the fire, embers floating upward as smoke drifted lazily into the dark.

Now he lay there in silence, broken only by the occasional groan as she stitched him up. He felt the needle pierce his skin, the pull of thread following close behind. Her hands were soft, gentle in a way that felt unfamiliar. Usually there were shoves and sharp elbows, playful blows. This was careful. Steady.

Then she looked at him.

Firelight caught in her eyes, reflecting just enough to make them shine. He had never seen such beautiful eyes in all the Seven Kingdoms—wild as the storms of the Stormlands, cold as the North, stubborn as Dorne’s heat, and as beautiful as the roses of the Reach.

“Rest,” She said quietly. “It’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t sure if she meant him or herself.

Gendry smiled anyway, despite the pain, despite the fever burning through him.

He had won. They were safe. Arya was going to be all right.

She didn’t need a knight in shining armor to protect her—far too stubborn for that. But he admired her for it. Always had.

“Everything’s fine,” He murmured, nodding once, even as his body burned hot and slick with sweat.

Arya’s brow eased just a fraction. It was enough.

He watched her move away to tend the fire, her footsteps so light he almost thought he imagined them. Sleep tugged at him then, heavy and insistent. Exhaustion dragged him under as he closed his eyes, listening to the crackle of flames and the steady rhythm of the night.

Gendry had won.

Arya was safe.

That was all that mattered to him that day.

Chapter Text

Jon Snow

A part of him was dreading today.

A double date felt like a stupid idea. He had just started dating Ygritte, and already Robb wanted to do this? It felt less like something that would make her comfortable and more like something that might push her away. What if Robb was too much? Or worse—what if she thought him ridiculous when he inevitably got sick? The rides always made him sick.

An amusement park.

Of all the places they could’ve chosen, it had to be this. It couldn’t have been something simple, like coffee—oh no. That wasn’t Robb. It had to be loud and crowded and impossible to escape.

The noise hit him first. Laughter echoed through the crowds, layered with music and the mechanical rattling of rides. The smells of food—sweet, greasy, overwhelming—were delicious and still made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

Ygritte tugged on his arm, smiling wide. “Come on, Crow. You look ready to topple over.”

Jon groaned but followed her anyway. “I’m not—”

“We’ll be fine. It’s a day of fun, so have fun.” She laughed, light and carefree, like the chaos didn’t faze her at all. Like the crowds weren’t overstimulating, like the noise didn’t claw at her senses.

It made him a little envious. But good for her, at least one of them was looking forward to this.

They moved closer to the entrance, and the noise only grew louder. Rails shook as rides climbed and plunged, people screaming on every loop and drop. The structures stretched high into the sky, and just looking at them made his stomach churn.

Then he spotted Robb.

He stood near the entrance, waving his arms around like a madman, his grin wide and impossible to miss. “Guys! Guys! Over here! Helloooo!”

Val—Robb’s girlfriend—stood beside him, stoic as ever, arms crossed over her chest. She glanced at Robb with a familiar sort of resignation before looking back at them. She lifted a hand in a small, polite wave.

Ygritte’s grip tightened on Jon’s arm as she practically dragged him over. “Yes! Let’s get the party started!”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Robb laughed. “Alright—first things first. We hit the rides.”

Jon sighed. “Do we have to start with the rides?”

Robb and Ygritte turned to him in unison.

“Yes.”

Val let out a small chuckle. “Alright,” She said calmly. “We’ll start with something small and work our way up.” She turned and headed inside without waiting.

Well… at least someone here wasn’t going to throw him straight into the misery of heights and nausea.

“I can deal with that,” Jon muttered under his breath.

They started with the smaller rides, much to Jon’s relief. Simple things—gentle turns and slow lifts—and for a while, he actually enjoyed himself. Ygritte’s laughter beside him, Robb screaming with unrestrained joy, Val’s quiet smiles from across the seat. That was what he focused on. The people around them, the shared excitement. It swelled in his chest, warm enough to make him laugh along with them.

But gradually, the rides grew bigger.

Higher. Faster. More complex. Long drops and sharp turns.

That was where the laughter faded for him.

He gripped the rail in front of him so tightly his knuckles went white. The screams and cheers around him blurred into distant echoes as the ride lurched and twisted. Endless loops sent his stomach climbing into his throat. He bit down hard on his tongue, silently praying to the gods that he wouldn’t throw up. Not on the ride. Not on Ygritte.

Now he was hunched over a trash can, emptying what was left of his breakfast.

He groaned as the world tilted, then slowly righted itself. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he muttered, “Ugh… gross…”

Robb patted his back, laughing. “You always get so nervous on the rides!”

“I thought crows were meant to fly?” Ygritte teased, laughter bright in her voice. There was no cruelty in it just affection. She reached up and gently pulled his hair away from his face.

Jon huffed. “It’s not my fault. My stomach just doesn’t agree with loops.”

Robb grinned, unbothered as ever. “It’s all in good fun, brother.”

Val hummed softly as she stepped closer, holding out a water bottle. She didn’t say anything—she never did—but she was always there, always offering help without making a fuss.

Jon took the bottle gratefully. “It better be,” He grumbled. He took a sip, swished it around, then spat into the trash before taking another, longer drink to wash away the acidic taste.

Val crossed her arms once he handed it back. “Shall we move on to the games?” She suggested. “I think we’ve had enough of the rides.”

Robb nodded immediately. “Yes!” His eyes lit up. “Oh—we should do ring toss!”

Ygritte turned to him, a wide smirk spreading across her face. “Oh yes. Care for a challenge, wolf boy?”

“Challenge?” Robb’s smile somehow grew even brighter—sweet as candy, pure excitement. “Challenge accepted! Come on, let’s go!” He practically bounced on his heels.

Jon sighed, running a hand over his face. “Better than rides…”

Val let out a quiet hum of agreement.

Val

The chaos here was… different. She knew Robb always loved these kinds of places—amusement parks, zoos, water parks. Loud noises, strong smells, crowded spaces. None of it bothered her, but she knew it could overwhelm Jon. So she came prepared.

A bag packed with snacks, water bottles, napkins, wet wipes, a first aid kit, blankets, extra clothes—everything she’d learned to bring over the years with Robb. That way, when moments like this happened—Jon bent over a trash can, looking miserable—it wouldn’t feel as bad. He wouldn’t feel awful. And gods, she hated the taste of acid in her own throat. Water was always the savior.

Val watched Robb and Ygritte at the ring toss stall. Others were around, tossing rings onto bottles, most of them missing, the rings bouncing harmlessly off. Plushies of all shapes and sizes hung behind the vendor—bright, fluffy, and cute.

Robb and Ygritte pushed each other, trying to throw the other off. They acted like siblings, but she couldn’t tell who was older. Both seemed like children with too much energy.

Jon sighed. “You know… they’re both crazy.” He glanced at her.

Val smiled. “They sure are. At least they feed off each other’s energy.”

“Yeah… gotta love them,” Jon said, turning back to watch the chaos.

Val hummed in agreement, following his gaze.

Robb came running over, holding a large stuffed otter high. “Look what I got for youuuuu!” He yelled, practically skipping with every step.

Ygritte groaned, coming up behind him. “He beat me! I can’t believe it! He was cheating the whole time!” She handed a small wolf plushie to Jon. “But this is for you,” She said softly.

Val noticed the redness creeping across Jon’s cheeks and couldn’t help but smile. She turned to Robb and took the oversized otter. “Wow, you two really went for it.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Robb’s cheek.

Robb’s chest swelled with pride. “I win~ Cherry on top.”

Ygritte scoffed. “I demand a rematch!”

“Of what!? You were cheating! You pushed me first!” Robb huffed.

“Nuh-uh!” Ygritte shook her head, grinning.

They argued, arms flailing animatedly, while Jon and Val stood back—holding their plushies and watching the show. People passed by, glancing at them, but Val didn’t care. She enjoyed the chaos from the sidelines.

It didn’t last long. Soon, they ended up at the food court. The sky was dimming, and a cold wind picked up, perfect for a little snack.

They sat together on one of the benches, the ladies in the middle and the gentlemen on the edges.

Val hummed. “Fried pickles? May I have one?” She asked Ygritte.

“Of course you can!” Ygritte grinned and offered her some.

Robb gagged. “You better not kiss me after that…”

Jon groaned. “I agree with him… no kisses.”

Val rolled her eyes and took a few. “You two don’t have any taste buds.” She ate one and heard Robb gag again.

Ygritte giggled. “Well, us ladies love fried pickles! Because… They. Are. Tasty.”

Jon shook his head. “No. They are not.”

Val chuckled and took another bite, rubbing her fingers together to remove crumbs. She hated the greasy, crumbly feeling but the food always tasted so good that it was a sacrifice worth making.

Robb spoke. “We should do another double date, if everyone else wants to.”

Jon looked up and nodded. “Yeah…” He said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I would like that.”

Ygritte gathered the trash around them. “Oooo yeah! My vote goes to Sea World!”

Robb gasped. “YES!!”

Jon groaned. “Oh boy…”

Val smiled softly. “We can do that.”

They continued eating their snacks—expensive in price but cheap in quality—while laughter and joy filled the air. They planned the next double date, imagining the chaos it would bring, and even with Jon groaning in the background, everyone was excited for it.

Chapter Text

Eddard Stark

The feast hall was loud and crowded, thick with the mingling scents of wine and roasted meats. Music rose from the corner, lively and relentless, while laughter echoed off the old stone walls. In the center of it all, people danced—skirts swirling, boots striking the floor in time with the song.

Eddard stayed to the side, half-hidden in the shadows. A cup of wine rested in his hand, and he took a careful sip. Fruity. Something from Highgarden, if he remembered correctly.

His gaze never lingered on the crowd for long.

It always returned to her.

She wore a gown of deep purple, her dark hair flowing loose down her back. Her eyes caught the light as she laughed, warm and bright—reminding him, absurdly, of the way the sun dipped low over Winterfell’s walls at dusk.

He watched as she danced, one partner after another. Many men sought her out—how could they not? She was beautiful, her smile sweet as honey, her laughter easy and unguarded.

Eddard bit his lip and looked down at his cup, now half-empty. His reflection stared back at him, dark and uncertain in the wine.

He wanted to dance with her.

The thought alone made his chest tighten.

He would make a fool of himself. He would stumble, say something wrong—and worse still, she might refuse him.

When he looked up again, she was spinning across the floor, purple skirts swirling like a winter breeze caught in sunlight. Her laughter rang out, light and effortless.

Could he make her laugh like that?

Could he make her smile for him?

“You’re brooding in a corner instead of dancing,” Brandon’s voice cut in, amused and loud as ever. “Gods, even Lyanna is enjoying herself and you aren’t.”

Brandon clapped a hand onto his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze before stealing the cup from his hand. “Go dance. Go eat. Go laugh, sweet brother.”

Eddard huffed softly, his hands falling to his sides. “I would but Robert is… preoccupied.”

Brandon snorted. “It’s always Robert with you. Go find a nice lady. Maybe even a future wife. There’s more to life than standing in corners, Ned.”

“I don’t… I don’t see why I should,” He muttered—though his eyes betrayed him, flicking back to the dance floor.

Ashara had another partner now.

Brandon followed his gaze and laughed. “Ohhh, so there is a lady in mind.” He drained the rest of the wine and set the cup aside. “The next dance is the last one. You go and ask.”

Eddard winced as Brandon smacked his back. “No. No—she wouldn’t dance with someone like me.”

“Someone like you?” Brandon echoed, incredulous. “A Stark of Winterfell? Gods, you are impossible. Go ask.”

“And if she refuses?” Eddard asked quietly.

“Then she refuses,” Brandon said with a shrug. “You won’t win everything, Ned.”

Eddard swallowed, staring down at the floor.

“You’re right,” He said at last, voice barely above the music. “I just… I don’t know…”

Brandon scratched his beard quietly, his gaze shifting from his brother to the dance floor. After a moment, he gave a single nod. Then he strode toward the center of the room, pushing past other revelers.

Eddard watched him, eyes narrowing. He had no idea what his brother intended, but the tight twist in his stomach warned him it would be nothing good.

Then he gasped.

“Oh no… no… Brandon…”

He saw him stop before Ashara, arms crossed as he spoke to her. She smiled, hands clasped behind her back. Her expression shifted—happy, curious—until her gaze flicked in Ned’s direction.

His stomach dropped.

The horror of what Brandon might be saying made his palms slick with sweat. Eddard prayed the deep shadows of the corner would hide the dread on his face.

Ashara’s attention returned to Brandon. She laughed—softly, barely audible over the music—and then she nodded.

What did that mean?

Brandon turned back with a broad, triumphant smirk.

“You! Come here!” He barked, snatching Eddard by the wrist and dragging him toward the dance floor.

Eddard’s heart leapt into his throat. “What—what did you do?” He whispered, stumbling after him. “Brandon!”

He was pushed directly in front of Ashara, and gods—his breath caught. She was even more beautiful up close. Joy danced in her violet eyes, her smile gentle as she swayed to the music.

Heat crept up Eddard’s neck, his gaze dropping to the floor as shyness overtook him.

“Hello, my lady,” He said, his voice strained.

“Hello, my lord,” She replied softly.

Brandon laughed. “Oh gods, this is wonderful.” He clapped Eddard on the back. “The power of asking is tremendous, brother. At least you’re out of the shadows now.” With that, he disappeared back into the crowd.

They weren’t truly alone—other dancers surrounded them—but the weight of Ashara’s gaze made it feel as though the rest of the world had fallen away.

“Forgive my brother,” Eddard said. “He’s very… stubborn.”

“He was no bother to me.” She extended her hand. Silver and gold bracelets gleamed in the firelight as they slid along her wrist. “Would you care for a dance, my lord?”

Eddard swallowed. “I—you don’t have to. My brother is just—”

“Stubborn?” She finished lightly. “Yes. Starks are known for their stubbornness, are they not?” She laughed, eyes bright. “But I did not expect to meet a shy one.”

The heat reached the tips of his ears.

“I want to dance with you, Eddard,” Ashara said, her hand still offered. “But do you want to dance with me?”

He hesitated—only a heartbeat. He could refuse. Slip away. Return to the shadows.

And regret it.

He took her hand. It was softer and smaller than his own.

“Yes, my lady. You honor me.”

Ashara laughed again. “I like you. You are kinder than most.”

She stepped closer, her hand settling on his shoulder as his found her waist. At first, they moved awkwardly, learning the rhythm of one another’s steps. But soon they found their balance—light and unburdened—feet skimming across the floor.

Her purple gown glided and twisted like a falling petal. The scent of her perfume lingered on the air—soft amber, touched by something cool, like a passing breeze. It was subtle enough to miss, if one did not linger.

They laughed together, and danced long after the music had ended. Whispers followed them through the hall, eyes lingering but neither of them cared. They danced until they were breathless.

Her hair had come loose from its careful arrangement, curls tumbling free from all the turns and spins. A wide smile lit her face.

“You are quite fun, Lord Stark,” She said. “I would very much like another dance soon.”

Eddard chuckled softly, his breathing finally steady, though his heart still raced.

“Thank you, my lady. I would like that very much.”

A faint dusting of pink colored her pale cheeks so subtle he might have imagined it.

“Wonderful,” She said, smiling. “Goodnight, my lord.”

And then she was gone.

Eddard watched her leave like a love-struck boy.

It was the next day, and Eddard spent it wandering the markets with his sister. They passed lords and ladies in fine silks, hedge knights boasting battered armor, and smallfolk weaving through the crowd with baskets and children in tow. It was a busy day—the banners of every great house hung overhead, snapping and flapping in the wind.

Lyanna walked a few paces ahead of him. “I was thinking of visiting a blacksmith,” She said. “Get myself a dagger, since Father refuses to let me have a sword.”

Eddard hummed in agreement. “That sounds like a fine idea, dear sister.”

“Doesn’t it?” She glanced back at him with a grin. “I saw you last night with that lady. What was her name?”

“Ashara Dayne,” He answered, a little too dreamily. Violet eyes rose unbidden in his mind, along with the faint scent of soft amber she had left behind.

Lyanna laughed. “Oh gods, Brandon was right. You’re head over heels for her.” She cocked her head. “Planning on marrying her, then?”

Heat rushed to Eddard’s face. He had never truly imagined marriage—not with any woman. He had always thought he might become a knight who wandered the realm, helping where he could. Or perhaps he would remain beside Jon Arryn, aiding him and helping raise his son to be wise and strong. Anything but settling down with a wife and children.

“I don’t think so,” He said quietly. “She’s very kind. She deserves a good man.”

Lyanna stopped short and spun around. Eddard gasped, halting just in time to avoid crashing into her. She jabbed a finger lightly against his chest.

“You are a good man,” She said firmly. “Honorable. Loyal. Kind. Wise. Strong. What makes you think you wouldn’t be good enough for her?”

“She’s a lady of Dorne,” Eddard replied, shaking his head. “What woman from there would want a northerner? Hot and cold don’t mix.”

Lyanna’s smile turned thoughtful. “Hot and cold make storms,” She said. “That doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing. Cold tempers flame. Heat makes the cold easier to endure.”

Eddard groaned and crossed his arms. “You don’t even want to marry. Why are you giving me advice about something you don’t want?”

“Because,” Lyanna said brightly, “I’m not a lady—I’m a wolf.” She grinned, wild and unapologetic. “And wolves help the pack, don’t they?”

A small huff of laughter escaped him. “Yes,” He admitted. “They do.”

“Good.” She nodded once. “Then maybe find her a gift or something.” Lyanna gestured toward a nearby forge. “You look around while I speak with the blacksmith.”

Before he could reply, she kissed his cheek and darted away, boots crunching against the packed dirt as the blacksmith’s hammer rang sharply against glowing metal.

Eddard stood alone among the stalls, watching the crowd move past him—already feeling the weight of her words settle in his chest.

He wandered on, moving from stall to stall, eyes scanning wares without truly seeing them. He could get Ashara something—something small, at least. Nothing grand. Nothing showy. Just… something with meaning.

But what would she like?

Perfume, perhaps—but would that not suggest she smelled poorly rather than sweet?

A bracelet? She already wore several. Gods knew she’d had more on the night before than most women owned altogether.

So what, then?

What would Ashara Dayne want?

Eddard sighed and leaned against a nearby stall, his gaze drifting over the goods laid out before him. To his eyes they were only objects—plain and unremarkable. Nothing worthy of her. Nothing that felt like Ashara.

And then the thought struck him.

Didn’t she already receive gifts? A lady like her surely did—tokens from smiling lords and bold knights alike. Would his offering be any different? Would it simply be added to some forgotten pile, accepted only because she was kind?

The idea made his chest tighten.

He could hardly ask Lyanna for advice. She was unlike most women—confident, stubborn, fiercely herself. He adored her for it, but she was no measure for this.

Eddard groaned softly and pushed away from the stall, ready to abandon the notion altogether. Better to leave it behind. Better not to risk—

Then he saw it.

A flash of purple caught the light—shot through with gold, hints of orange and blue dancing along its surface. He turned his head sharply.

A gemstone.

It was small, set upon a slender golden chain, the stone shaped like a heart. He lifted it carefully, the metal cold against his fingers. Held up to the light, it gleamed with layered color—deep and luminous all at once.

Beautiful. Subtle. Something he could imagine her wearing.

Like her eyes, he thought.

Like the sun sinking low over Winterfell’s horizon—violet shadows edged in fire.

His thumb brushed the smooth surface. “How much?” He asked the vendor quietly.

The man looked up. He was thin, foreign by the sound of his accent. “Three hundred dragons.”

“Three hundred?” Eddard echoed.

He had enough. Just enough.

His fingers tightened around the chain as doubt rushed back in. What if she hated it? What if it meant nothing to her?

But that was the risk, wasn’t it?

One life to live. And he did not wish to regret something like this—not where Ashara was concerned.

Eddard reached for his coin pouch and counted out the dragons, placing them in the vendor’s waiting hand. He left the stall with the gem tucked close to his chest, as though letting it stray even a little might cause it to vanish.

His heart raced, nerves thrumming beneath his skin but beneath it all was something else.

A quiet confidence.

And as he walked on, he found himself smiling.

Eddard waited days—nights too—searching for the right moment to give her the gift. He wanted it to be perfect. Quiet. Just theirs.

But time was slipping away.

The tourney neared its end, and though he paid little mind to politics, even he could feel the tension in the air. Certain looks lingered too long. Conversations hushed when others approached. Something restless moved beneath the celebration.

So he chose a quieter evening.

The feast had spilled into the open fields this night, tents glowing softly beneath torchlight. Eddard slipped away from the Stark pavilion and made his way through the rows, the small pouch hidden beneath his cloak. His hand never left it. The thought of some thief taking it—of losing what it carried—made his chest tighten painfully.

The night was alive with excess. Whores laughed openly with drunken knights, bodies pressed together amid moans and crude jokes. It was the sort of thing expected at tourneys. He ignored it all.

His eyes searched instead for the great purple tent, the one marked with a white shooting star.

There.

Laughter and music spilled from it, warm and inviting. The tent itself was massive, crowded. Too crowded. He frowned faintly, uncertain how he might draw her away without making a spectacle of it. He didn’t want this done publicly. For one, the embarrassment would kill him. And besides—it was a gift. Gifts did not need an audience.

He stepped closer and lifted the edge of the tent flap just a little, enough to peer inside. He wasn’t entirely sure of the rules here; every lord ran their household differently.

He saw dancers. Revelers. No Ashara.

“What are you doing?”

The soft whisper brushed his ear.

Eddard gasped, his heart leaping violently as he spun around. Ashara stood behind him, a hand lifted to her mouth as she stifled a giggle.

“Gods,” He breathed. “You nearly gave me a heart attack. I could’ve hurt you, don’t sneak up on people like that.”

Her eyes sparkled. “I’m sorry,” She said sweetly. “But you looked so focused, it was too perfect an opportunity.” She smiled wider. “I won’t do it again… tonight.”

He swallowed, catching the mischief in her gaze. “As you say, my lady,” He replied, nodding as he forced his breathing to steady. “It was… a very effective scare.”

“Thank you.” Her smile softened. She glanced around, then back to him. “You’re quite far from the Stark tents. What brings you here?”

His mouth went dry. “I came to see you,” He said quietly.

A drunken knight stumbled out of the tent behind them, muttering incoherently before wandering off into the night without noticing either of them.

“For me?” Ashara tilted her head, curiosity lighting her expression. “What do I owe the honor?”

He could still turn back. Make an excuse. Say he’d simply wished to be sure she was well. They might never see one another again—this could all end here, safely.

But that wasn’t what he wanted.

Eddard drew a slow breath and reached into his cloak. He opened the pouch carefully and lifted out the golden chain, the gemstone catching the firelight as it emerged—violet gleaming softly against the dark.

“This is for you,” He said, offering it to her. “I know you must receive many gifts. Anyone with eyes would wish to give you something.”

Ashara accepted it gently, their fingers brushing for the briefest moment. Heat flared along his skin. She turned the necklace in her hands, tracing the small heart-shaped stone with reverent care.

“But,” He continued, voice low, “it reminded me of your eyes. Of home. When the sun sets over the snow in Winterfell—the sky turns purple, streaked with gold, blue, and orange.”

She looked up at him then.

Color bloomed across her cheeks, unmistakable. Her eyes widened, shining with surprise as she closed her hand around the necklace and pressed it to her chest. Her lips parted but no words came.

Panic fluttered in him.

“I know,” He rushed on, glancing down. “It may not mean much to you. It’s only a gift. But I would rather give it than regret never having done so. It’s yours, and you may do with it whatever you wish—”

Her lips met his.

The kiss was soft—softer than he had imagined possible. She tasted faintly sweet, like a berry pastry, and before he could fully grasp it, she pulled away. Too soon. Far too soon. Yet the warmth of her lingered, buzzing against his mouth.

He stood there, stunned. “I—”

Ashara laughed quietly and stepped closer, so close their noses brushed. “You are a very kind man, Lord Stark,” She whispered.

“I’m glad you think so,” He murmured.

Her hand came to rest against his chest, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. “It isn’t a thought,” She said softly. “It’s something I know.”

“Then,” He replied, voice unsteady, “I’m glad you know, my lady.”

She nodded once. “Thank you—for the gift.”

Then she kissed him again, slow and deliberate.

And Eddard melted into it, utterly love-struck to his core.

When Eddard opened his eyes, he was greeted by the Dornish sun—bright, warm, and heavy with heat. Once, he might have found it unbearable. But over the years he had grown used to it. Life in Starfall was not as difficult as he had once imagined. It had taken time, patience—but here he was now, seated on a pale stone bench as a breeze from the Torrentine brushed his face.

Warmth pressed against his side. The familiar scent of soft amber lingered there. He rested his head gently atop Ashara’s and gave her hand a tender squeeze.

“Are you feeling all right?”

Ashara sighed. “As well as any pregnant woman can.”

Eddard chuckled and pressed a fond kiss to the crown of her head. “Fair enough.”

Laughter rang out then—bright and unrestrained. He lifted his gaze to where their children played nearby.

Their son brandished a wooden sword, standing tall and proud, so much like Eddard it made his chest ache. Their daughter wore a crooked flower crown, barefoot and mud-splattered, her dress ruined beyond saving—her mother’s image entirely.

“I’ll save you, sweet sister!” The boy cried dramatically. “No dragon fire will ever harm you!”

She shrieked in mock terror. “Save me! Ahhh!”

They collapsed into giggles moments later, undone by their own performance.

Eddard smiled softly, shaking his head. “I wonder what this one will be,” He said quietly. “A girl or a boy.”

“I pray for another boy,” Ashara replied. “That way our sweet daughter will have two fearsome brothers.” She paused, then smiled. “Well… I suppose Edric already counts. So three.”

“Edric is kinder,” Eddard said thoughtfully. “More of a diplomat. Jon, on the other hand…”

“Mmm,” Ashara murmured, rubbing her swollen belly. “Stubborn and blunt. Just like you.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t argue with a pregnant woman,” She cut in lightly.

“Yes, my love,” Eddard laughed.

He watched their children as they rolled through the dirt, laughter echoing against pale stone, mud smeared across skin and fabric alike. Neither he nor Ashara minded. Clean clothes could be replaced. Joy could not.

And as the river flowed steadily beside them, Eddard knew—without question—that this life, simple and sun-warmed, was everything he had never known to hope for.

Chapter Text

Rhaenys Targaryen

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, and she watched the flames flicker and wane. Rhaenys sat on the cold stone floor, her knees drawn up to her chest, her chin resting against them. Her hands clenched the thin fabric of her red nightgown.

Tonight was the last night she would remain in King’s Landing—sleeping in her own bed, warm and alone. It felt as though she were leaving everything behind, cast headlong into deep waters and left to drown.

She understood why her father had done it. To keep the realm at peace. To ensure the rebellion would never come to pass.

That was why Aegon had been married to Margaery Tyrell.

That was why Aemon was to marry Shireen Baratheon.

That was why Viserys had been wed to Arianne Martell.

That was why Daenerys was to marry Edmure Tully.

They were all mending what her father had broken—marriage after marriage, binding the cracks left by a single choice that had shaken the realm. Not that she hated Aemon… but at times, she could not help but resent her younger brother.

Bastard or not, the realm had suffered for it.

And now she was to marry Robb Stark—to be sent to a place so far from home it might as well have been another world. A land of cold and stone and endless white. She was used to the ocean breeze, to warm springs and long, hot summers. Now there would be snow. Ice beneath her feet, treacherous and unforgiving. It did not sound pleasant. It did not sound kind.

Why did she have to be the one sent north? Daenerys would have been better suited for it.

Rhaenys scoffed softly at the thought. This was her duty. She should not wish such a fate upon her sister. Perhaps it would not be so terrible. And yet she would be farther from her family than any of them—alone in the snow, alone in the cold.

Why had her father made such a mistake? Why could she not have been sent somewhere warm, like the Reach or Dorne?

She buried her face against her knees as the fire in the hearth slowly died. She did not move to stoke it. She let it fade, and with it, she let the room be claimed by the cold and the dark.

Robb Stark

The sound of pages turning was slow and steady. The warmth of the candle beside him, and Greywind curled at his feet, was enough. Robb sat at his desk, reading late into the night. His current book detailed the Blackfyre Rebellions—Targaryen history he felt he ought to know, if only to better understand what lay ahead.

He would be married soon. He had always known the day would come, and even to whom. His father rarely spoke of it, but from time to time he reminded Robb of his duty—of why this marriage was necessary. The King had made mistakes, and now he sought to mend them with alliances.

Robb was one of those solutions.

He was to marry the king’s only daughter—Rhaenys Targaryen.

Robb wanted to make a good impression. Winterfell was already stirring with preparation. Though there were still a few weeks before the royal party would arrive, the time felt painfully short when one had to ready a feast, and a home, for a wedding—and for the royal family no less.

He had worked hard to be a good fighter. A thoughtful man. To understand people and the world beyond the North. He knew this marriage was likely not what either of them wanted. Robb was not even certain what he wanted, only that he was determined to make his wife happy here.

The way his father had for his mother.

So he worked. And he would keep working.

Robb lifted his gaze from the book and turned toward the map of Westeros pinned to the wall. His eyes traced the distance south, lingering on King’s Landing—by the sea, Dragonstone just beyond. Warm springs. Long, hot summers. A world utterly unlike Winterfell.

“Do you think she’ll like it here?” He asked quietly, glancing down at Greywind.

The direwolf only huffed in response.

Robb huffed softly in return. “Yeah. I suppose it’ll be a big change.” He swallowed, running a hand through his hair. “I just hope I can make her happy. Like Father did.”

He looked back toward the map, heart heavy but steady.

“We’ll see her soon enough.”

Rhaenys Targaryen 

The carriage rattled and shook along the frozen road, and Rhaenys was in no mood to endure it. Not since the sky had turned grey and the air had grown bitterly cold. She sat with her arms crossed tightly over her fur-lined dress, staring out the narrow window as the world blurred past.

“Come now, Rhae,” Daenerys said gently, scooting closer. “It’s not so bad.”

Rhaenys frowned and turned toward her. “You say that,” She replied, sharper than she meant to, “But you’re not the one being married into the cold.”

Daenerys only smiled. “That’s true. But Aemon likes it here.”

“That’s because he’s a Stark,” Rhaenys muttered, turning back to the window.

She heard her aunt sigh, and the conversation ended there.

Outside, the trees streaked past in dark smudges. Snow fell softly from the low, heavy sky, settling on branches and ground alike. With every mile they traveled north, it felt as though another piece of her life was being left behind—swallowed by the cold, buried beneath the snow.

When the carriage finally came to a stop, dread settled deep in Rhaenys’ stomach. The thundering of hooves faded into silence, and with it came the full weight of reality. There was no turning back now.

She swallowed hard and stepped down from the carriage beside Daenerys.

The cold greeted her at once—sharp and biting, cutting through even the thick furs she wore. Rhaenys had never been to Winterfell before, but she had heard the stories. The histories. Still, none of them prepared her for the sight of it.

The walls were immense, pale stone rising defiantly against the grey sky. Dark banners bearing the sigil of a direwolf snapped violently in the wind, as though the castle itself were alive.

A crowd waited beyond the gates—guards in heavy cloaks, lords and smallfolk alike, and at the center of it all, the Stark family. A large family. Five children born to Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. A Greyjoy boy fostered among them.

And then there were the dogs.

No—wolves.

They were far too large to be dogs.

“Cousin!” Aemon shouted suddenly.

Before anyone could stop him, he leapt from his horse and ran across the snow as though it were solid ground. Another voice answered him.

“Cousin!”

The eldest Stark—red-haired, broad-shouldered, a hint of stubble shadowing his jaw—ran forward to meet him. They collided in an embrace, laughter ringing out as they nearly toppled into the snow together.

Daenerys laughed softly. “They’re energetic.”

Rhaenys barely heard her.

She heard her father sigh instead—quiet, weary.

“Are you ready, Rhaenys?” Rhaegar asked gently.

She turned and glared at him, fire simmering just beneath her expression. But she said nothing.

What did it matter if she was ready? What did it matter what she felt at all?

Clearly—it did not.

So she turned away, lifted her chin, and walked forward beside him and Daenerys, into the cold and the waiting wolves of Winterfell.

They were brought forward to Lord Stark.

He was larger than the stories gave him credit for—perhaps it was the heavy fur cloak draped across his shoulders, or the sheer weight of his presence. His expression was carved from stone, and the tension between him and her father was unmistakable.

Lord Eddard’s gaze shifted from Rhaegar to her. When he smiled, it was restrained, soft only at the edges.

“Princesses,” He said. “I hope the journey north was not too uncomfortable. You’ll have warm rooms soon enough. Hot spring waters run through the walls, it will be plenty warm for you.”

Daenerys answered quickly, perhaps fearing Rhaenys might speak first.

“It was quite a pleasant ride, my lord. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Rhaegar cleared his throat. “My lord. I was hoping to speak with you in private—soon.”

Lord Eddard’s eyes hardened as they returned to her father. Disdain flickered there—open and unguarded. Perhaps he was the only lord who would allow such an expression. It was his sister, after all. And she had paid the price for Rhaegar’s choices.

“Aye,” Lord Stark replied. “If that is what His Grace wishes.”

Mockery edged every word.

Rhaegar did not bristle. He only looked… tired. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his shoulders heavy with unspoken weight.

“Yes, well—”

“Uncle!”

Aemon’s voice cut through the tension like sunlight through frost. He barreled forward, slipping easily between them, wrapping his arms around Lord Stark’s shoulders with an easy grin. He had always been the one to soften their father’s edges—to smooth what might otherwise fracture.

The other Stark children clustered around him, laughing, tugging at his cloak. Lord Eddard’s expression shifted at once, the sharpness melting into something warmer as he looked down at Aemon.

Rhaenys watched the tension leave her father’s shoulders. Relief washed across his face, faint but unmistakable.

“Hello, Princess Rhaenys.”

The voice was soft. Cheerful.

She turned to see the red-haired Stark standing nearby.

Robb.

Her future husband.

“Hello, my lord,” She replied.

He smiled and bowed his head politely. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I hope Winterfell will one day be a place you can call home.”

“I… yes. One day, perhaps,” She said.

In the back of her mind, she screamed that it never would be.

“It’s very… cold.”

Robb laughed lightly. “It is. Luckily, you’ve arrived during a mild winter. Less snow—so the cold doesn’t cut quite so sharply through your clothes.”

“Robb,” Lord Stark said. “Why don’t you show Princess Rhaenys around while the maids see to her things?”

“Of course.” Robb nodded and turned to her. “Shall we? We’ll start with the places closest by.”

Rhaenys nodded and followed him.

He didn’t walk ahead of her—only half a step to the side, as though careful not to crowd her. The faint scent of leather and pine clung to him, warm and unfamiliar.

Robb Stark

It was a bit awkward being around her.

Robb wasn’t sure how he should speak—or act—but he figured being himself was the best option. They were meant to spend their lives together, weren’t they? Better she meet the real him than some polished lie.

He smiled at her, wide and earnest.

“Father mentioned the hot springs. They run through the walls of the castle—keeps the rooms warm. Bran the Builder did it.” He gestured vaguely as they walked. “But the springs themselves are even better. Good for washing, or just relaxing. They’re farther off, in the godswood. I could show you sometime… or maybe you’ll be adventurous and find them before I do.”

He chuckled, bright and a little nervous.

It was good, at least, to have Aemon here before he was wed off to Shireen Baratheon. It wasn’t a bad match—not at all—but things would change. They wouldn’t see each other as often. Marriage brought responsibilities. Children, eventually.

And one day, Winterfell.

Gods, that thought alone was enough to make his chest tighten.

He cleared his throat, noticing she hadn’t said much. He understood—at least a little.

“I’m not sure how religious you are,” He said carefully. “I know Targaryens follow either the Old Valyrian gods or the Seven. We don’t have anything for the Valyrian gods, but Father had a small sept built for my mother when she first came north. It’s… it’s beautiful.”

No response.

Her eyes stayed on him, watching. Too still. Too unreadable. It made his nerves twist tighter.

“Unless you follow the Old Gods,” He added quickly. “That’s fine too. We have the godswood—there’s a weirwood tree there. It’s peaceful. Not many people go. It’s good for… being alone.”

He swallowed.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the crunch of snow beneath their boots. Soldiers passed by, smallfolk busy with chores—fires crackled as braziers were fed fresh wood.

Robb felt sweat gather at the back of his neck. His gaze flicked everywhere but her.

She was beautiful—far more than the songs ever claimed—but there was something heavier beneath it. A quiet resistance. He had the sense she didn’t want to be here.

He understood that.

He just wished he knew how to ease it.

Perhaps flowers?

Was she hungry after the long ride?

Or maybe she wanted to be alone—

“The Seven,” She said softly. “That is who I pray to.”

Relief rushed out of him in a breath.

“Oh—that’s nice! Mother prays often. I’m sure she’d love the company.” He laughed faintly. “I don’t really pray much. To the Seven, or anyone, really. I probably should, but…”

He shook his head, smiling again. “Still—we have a sept. Small, but good. And if you need it larger, I’ll see that it’s done.”

She hummed quietly. “That is… very kind of you, my lord.”

He grimaced slightly. “Please—just Robb. I don’t like ‘my lord.’ I’m not lord of anything.”

“Well,” She said, “Not yet. But you are the heir.”

“True,” He agreed with a grin. “But until that day comes, Robb is enough. It’s me. I’m still me.”

She studied him then—really looked at him.

And when she smiled, it was small and thin, but real.

Robb felt something in his chest loosen.

Rhaenys Targaryen 

The soft click of the door pulled her back into the reality of her life.

She was greeted by the gentle scent of pine and fur. Her belongings were neatly placed along the far wall; nothing looked damaged or disturbed. Extra furs and pillows lay folded at the foot of the bed, and a fire already crackled in the hearth, casting warm light across the stone.

The room was smaller than her chambers in the Red Keep. Still—she couldn’t deny it felt warmer. The stone walls were thick and solid, and beneath the quiet she could hear the faint hum of water running through them, a steady sound like a distant, miniature waterfall.

She pressed her palm to the stone. It wasn’t cold, not truly.

No wonder Aemon always complained about his chambers being too open. Here, there was only a single narrow window, sealed tightly against wind and snow. She imagined he preferred rooms like this—contained, sturdy, unmoving. Rhaenys found she didn’t blame him.

It was… nice.

She exhaled and settled into a chair by the fire. The wood was thick and plain, built to last rather than to impress. She brushed her fingertips along the grain, grounding herself.

Today hadn’t been so bad.

Robb had been kind—almost painfully so. It was easy to see that he and Aemon were related; both carried an excess of energy she struggled to keep pace with. But where Aemon burned quick and sharp, Robb smiled easily and laughed louder. He had shown her the sept, the stables, where the kitchens hid their best pastries. He’d promised to show her the weirwood soon.

He waved to everyone. Spoke to guards and smallfolk alike. Kind, without effort.

At least she wouldn’t be bound to a cruel man. She’d feared that more than the cold. Gods, that would have made this unbearable.

Still… could she endure winters like this? Snow crunching beneath her boots, the sky forever pale and heavy?

And the direwolves. One was enough trouble in King’s Landing—Ghost begging shamelessly for bacon. But here? A whole pack of them. Massive, furred—

…admittedly rather adorable.

A quiet huff of laughter slipped from her as she watched the fire dance within the hearth.

Robb Stark

The next morning they all ate together like a proper, crowded family. It was strange, having so many extra guests. Normally it was just Aemon—and occasionally the king himself—but now there were more guards, more courtiers, more voices filling the hall with laughter and shared stories.

Robb found he liked it.

It felt like something warm and fleeting, a gathering that would not last. A man could dream, though.

Rhaenys, however, looked as though she wished herself anywhere else.

She sat quietly, eyes fixed on her plate, poking at her food with little interest. Each time her father tried to speak with her, she turned away—or answered him with a look sharp enough to sting. The tension between them hung heavy, thick enough to cut with a knife.

Robb frowned slightly.

He had promised to take her to the weirwood. Maybe that would help—just a little.

Scooting closer, he leaned in and whispered, “Do you want to ditch them and leave?”

Rhaenys looked at him in surprise, then glanced toward her father. She huffed under her breath.

“Yeah,” She muttered.

They slipped away easily enough, Greywind padding after them without question.

Outside, Robb chuckled softly as the cold greeted him like an old friend. “I told you I’d take you to the godswood. Do you want to go now?”

Rhaenys stepped carefully down the stone stairs, Greywind lingering close as if to keep her from slipping. “I suppose,” She said. “I’ve heard it’s massive—larger than the one in King’s Landing.”

“It is,” Robb said, his voice gentler now. “Plenty of space. Quiet, too. I hope you’ll find something there worth keeping.”

She hummed softly.

“We shall see.”

Rhaenys Targaryen

Standing before the weirwood felt like stepping into another world entirely.

Red leaves drifted down from its branches like a slow, gentle rain, settling against the snow-dusted ground. The river flowed nearby, steady and soft, birds chirping as they dipped into its waters. Somewhere above them, a crow cried out—sharp and black against the pale silence.

The tree itself made her uneasy.

Its carved face seemed to watch her, hollow eyes heavy with judgment, streaked with dried red sap that looked far too much like tears of blood. Rhaenys swallowed, her gaze lingering despite herself.

Did the gods of this place see her as an intruder?

A Targaryen standing this far north—so far from sun and sand and warmth—must have been a curiosity to them. Aemon carried Stark blood. He belonged, in some way.

She did not.

Robb stood a short distance away, head tilted toward the sky as he watched the leaves fall. He looked peaceful here, hands loose at his sides, as if the godswood had always known him. Greywind padded quietly through the snow, nearly silent, his presence more felt than heard.

Did she have any right to stand here?

She had been brought north as part of a bargain—nothing more than a living seal upon a fragile peace. Her father had offered her, and the war had ended. That was the truth of it, no matter how gently it was dressed.

“You know,” Robb said softly, breaking the silence, “I come here sometimes when I can’t sleep. I sit beneath the roots and count the stars.” He smiled faintly. “It helps. Makes me feel… less alone. Though my mother says she always feels watched here. That’s why she avoids it.”

Rhaenys hummed, her eyes still fixed on the weirwood. “Wasn’t she meant to marry your uncle? Brandon?”

“Yes,” Robb replied, shoulders lifting slightly. “But he died.”

He said it carefully, as though the words themselves might cut if handled too roughly.

Guilt twisted sharply in her chest.

Brandon Stark. Rickard Stark. Burned alive for her father’s sins. Men who had demanded justice and been answered with fire instead. She had not ordered it—she had been a child—but the weight of it clung to her all the same.

“They died because of my father,” She said quietly.

Robb said nothing, only shifted his weight in the snow.

“Do you think your gods are angry at me?” She asked at last, bitterness threading her voice. Her head dipped, gaze falling to the ground. “For standing here. For bringing my Targaryen blood into their sacred place.”

“Angry?” Robb asked gently. “Why would they be?”

She let out a humorless breath and lifted her eyes to the weirwood’s carved face. “Because I was sent here to be useful. Because I’m not here by choice. I was something exchanged so the killing would stop.” Her voice trembled despite her effort. “Do they think fire and ice should mix? The last time it did, it only brought death.”

Snow crunched as Robb stepped closer. He stopped in front of her, his expression not angry—but wounded, confused, earnest in a way that made her chest ache.

“Why do you say these things?” He asked softly. “The past is the past.”

“Is it?” She whispered. “Because I’m fairly certain I’m standing here as a reminder of it. A peace offering dressed in silk.”

Robb shook his head, frustration finally breaking through. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” He admitted. “Or what you want me to do. But I want you to be happy. Truly.” His voice wavered. “If I’ve done something wrong, tell me. If there’s something I can change, I will. I can’t fix what happened before but I don’t want you to suffer because of it. Not because of me.”

Tears burned behind her eyes.

“I don’t know how to stop feeling this way,” She said, barely above a whisper.

Robb didn’t answer. He only opened his arms.

The choice was hers.

She stepped forward and pressed her face into his chest, fingers clutching at his cloak as the tears finally fell. He wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, holding her close as though she might shatter if he loosened his grip.

She cried quietly, the bitterness and resentment she carried bleeding out into the cold air. She didn’t know how to fix it—how to forgive her father, or herself. She only knew that she wanted to feel light again. Wanted to smile without effort.

Greywind whined softly and brushed against her legs, his warm fur grounding her further.

For the first time since arriving in the North, Rhaenys felt… warm.

Robb Stark

It was late when the knock came.

Robb had just turned down the covers, Greywind already curled at the foot of the bed, when the sound reached him—soft, hesitant. Greywind lifted his head but did not growl. Instead, he padded to the door and sniffed beneath it, tail wagging slowly.

That alone told Robb everything.

He opened the door.

Rhaenys stood in the dim hallway, wrapped in a comfortable, fur-lined gown. Her hair spilled freely over her shoulders, unbound and loose. In her hands, she held a small platter stacked with pastries.

“You did show me a good place to find extra,” She whispered, smiling faintly.

Robb’s answering grin was immediate and unguarded. He stepped aside to let her in, closing the door softly behind her. The hearth fire had been stirred back to life earlier, and he added another log, coaxing the flames until they burned warm and steady.

They settled near the fire, sitting close enough that their knees nearly touched. The platter rested between them.

Rhaenys picked one up and took a bite. “Mm,” She murmured. “These are wonderful.”

Robb had already devoured half of his. “Mhm—mmhm!” He agreed around a mouthful, clearly unashamed.

She laughed—a real laugh this time—and leaned closer. With a gentle touch, she brushed her thumb across his cheek, wiping away the crumbs he hadn’t noticed.

Greywind chose that moment to insert himself, nose hovering far too close to the platter, silver eyes hopeful.

“Oh no,” Rhaenys said, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Don’t start. I already had to fend off Ghost at every meal. Do I really have to deal with you too?”

Greywind let out a small whine and promptly rolled onto his back, paws in the air.

She huffed, then sighed. “Well… if you’re offering belly rubs, I suppose I can be persuaded.”

Robb laughed, warm and easy, watching as she scratched behind Greywind’s ears. The fire crackled softly beside them, the room filled with warmth and quiet comfort.

He prayed—to the old gods, to the new, to any who might listen—that this peace could last. That he could keep this small, fragile happiness intact. The wounds she carried would not heal in a single night. Forgiveness—of her father, of herself—would take time.

But he could be here.

He could listen. He could hold her when the weight grew heavy. He could make room for her laughter in Winterfell’s stone halls.

That, he decided, was what it meant to be a husband.

And Robb Stark vowed, silently and fiercely, to be the best one he could be.

Chapter Text

Jacaerys Targaryen/Valeryon 

When Jacaerys opened his eyes, he stood in a tunnel that led only into darkness. There was no light at its end—only the sense that it stretched on for miles and miles, endless. The sole illumination came from two braziers, one on either side of him, their flames low and wavering.

A shiver crawled down his spine, like a cold breeze slipping beneath his shirt. He wrapped his arms around himself, clutching at the thin fabric as if it might anchor him.

Then he heard it—a horrid scream that echoed through his mind.

One he could never forget.

Jacaerys gasped and spun around.

The iron gate behind him was shut fast. Beyond it, children were fighting in the sand. A flash of steel. Blood spilled, dark and sudden. Then came a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through the tunnel—hot breath rushing forward, reeking of death and fire.

He swallowed hard and gripped the iron bars, shoving against the gate. It did not budge. He pushed again, harder, until the metal rattled beneath his hands.

The children did not stop.

No guards came. No voices called for order.

“Stop!” he shouted.

The blade rose and fell. A body struck the ground. Legs kicked weakly against the sand.

“STOP!” He slammed his palms against the iron, pain flaring through his hands as the gate creaked and groaned in protest. The sound mixed horribly with the wet, sickening slide of a knife cutting into flesh.

Then the world snapped apart.

The iron gate vanished. The tunnel dissolved. Jacaerys stood alone in a vast, empty void—but the voices remained. They echoed all around him, one after another, growing louder, sharper.

“Why didn’t you stop them?”

“Can you truly rule the realm like this?”

“You will falter, just like the rest.”

“Why didn’t you come to me that night…?”

Jacaerys collapsed to his knees. Tears spilled freely down his cheeks as he clutched at his head, covering his ears, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

“Please,” He whispered. “Please, stop. I’m trying… I didn’t—I didn’t know…”

The voices answered him together, screaming into his skull:

“YOU ARE NOTHING HERE.”

Jacaerys screamed—

—and his eyes flew open.

For a brief, terrible moment, he saw it: Aegon standing beside his brother, his face frozen in disbelief. His gaze met Jacaerys’s, heavy with sorrow. They both knew, without words, that this was the end of their betrothal.

Then the vision shattered.

Jacaerys bolted upright in his bed, drenched in sweat, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. His hair clung to his neck and forehead as he looked around wildly.

Familiar red walls.

A hearth dark with soot, the fire long since dead.

He was safe. He was home.

“I’m okay,” Jacaerys whispered, forcing the words past trembling lips. “I’m okay.”

The clink of armor sounded beyond his door—heavy footsteps drawing closer. He must have screamed in his sleep. They had come to check on him… and perhaps to give him more medicine, something to drag him back into uneasy rest.

He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

“I’m okay.”

The North smelled of sharp cold, pine, and leather. It was unlike any other land Jacaerys had known. A part of him found himself liking it—the crisp air, the way it bit at his skin and kept him awake.

He could already picture the mountain of furs he would stack upon his bed. The pillows. Gods, he would kill for proper pillows.

“Mother,” He whispered.

“Yes, darling?” Rhaenyra replied.

She stood radiant against the snow, dressed in lavish red and black. Jewels adorned her hair, her wrists, her neck—threaded even into the fabric of her gown. She always looked like a goddess. Even after dragonriding, she managed it. Not a hair out of place.

Jacaerys smiled as he patted Vermax’s warm snout before stepping closer to her. “Did we bring my pillows?”

She laughed softly and reached up to pat his head, fond and indulgent. “Yes, my sweet. I made sure we packed all your blankets as well. You’ll make a fine nest, I imagine. The North has grand furs, I’m sure Lord Cregan will see you well supplied.”

The thought delighted him, perhaps more than it should have. But he couldn’t help it. The comfort of a bed made all the difference in what the next day would bring. A bad bed meant grumpy men. A good bed meant relaxed men.

He preferred relaxed—

even if he still suffered night terrors.

Daemon groaned nearby. “The cold is insufferable.” He kicked at the snow with lazy irritation.

Rhaenyra smiled at him. “Oh, my poor, sweet dragon. Always so fussy in the cold. You’ll survive.” She leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Come now. We shouldn’t crowd the courtyard. Lord Cregan has allowed the smaller dragons to be housed in the crypts to keep them warm.”

She turned toward the Keep of Winterfell, skirts sweeping over the snow. Daemon rolled his eyes but followed without further protest.

Jacaerys lingered a moment longer, resting his forehead briefly against Vermax’s snout. “Be good,” He whispered. “We’ll fly later when I have the chance.”

He pressed a soft kiss to the dragon’s scales before hurrying after his parents.

Dragon shadows—some massive, others still small—passed over the white ground as they circled above, waiting their turn to land. Most of his family had come for one reason.

His wedding.

Part of him felt a flicker of excitement.

The rest of him—tight, uneasy—was nervous.

He’d heard stories about the Wolf of Winterfell.

Most sounded like campfire horrors, whispered by men who feared the cold and mistook it for cruelty. But Cregan Stark was respected. Feared, even.

That had to mean something.

Jacaerys only hoped it would be enough.

Inside the Keep itself was warmer, braziers and torches lit and lined the walls. The Stark banners hung on the walls. It was nothing like the Red Keep, where was would have portraits of the family—paintings of landscapes, plenty of windows to let in the sun.

Then they ended up in a big room, long tables stretched on both sides of the hall. There was already food being set out. Large amount of it too, and the smell of roasted meat made Jacaerys feel rather hungry. He licked his lips, and held his hands together in front of him.

But at the end of the hall was a massive man. He stood tall, holding a piece of parchment in his hand, reading whatever it was. He wore black leather, a thick cloak on his shoulders that looks so soft.

The man looked up, his gaze meeting Jacaerys. Cold grey eyes watched him. And his face looked like winter itself. Sharp, hardened, pale as snow.

“Oh, Lord Stark!” His mother cooed, a smile on her face.

The lord looked away from Jacaerys and to her, he folded up the piece of parchment. “Your Grace.” His voice thick of the northern accent. “I hope your flight was well?”

“It was!” She clapped her hands together, “This is so exciting! Thank you for being such a gracious host. You have given us all rooms—letting our dragons stay. I hope it’s not too much?”

He shook his head, “No. Winterfell can hold.” He slipped the parchment into his pocket.

Daemon groaned, “Yes… Yes.”

Rhaenyra hummed, “Don’t mind my husband. The cold makes him upset.”

“It—“ Daemon continued but she had glared at him which shut him up immediately.

“Anyways,” She continued with a soft smile. “This here is Jacaerys.” She gently put a hand on Jacaerys shoulder.

He felt his heart race, and he was brought forward to him. He felt rather small compared to him. The way his shadow engulfed him. But he didn’t feel as menacing as he thought, even as Cregan stared at him.

“Hello, my lord.” He bowed his head.

“Hello.” He replied.

Jacaerys glanced around and smiled, “You have a lovely place here. I like the snow, it’s soft.”

“Soft,” The lord repeated. His head tilted up just a little. “I’m glad you like it, Prince.”

He could smell the strong scent of pine one Lord Cregan, it made his stomach twist in knots. He liked that musky smell on him. It was like Winterfell was imbodied into him.

“Do I make you nervous, Prince?” He asked, amused. “I can smell the nerves from you.”

Jacaerys felt his cheeks grow hot, “O-oh! I.. forgive me, lord. It’s a lot being here… for a wedding. Our wedding.” He lightly bit his lip.

“Aye, our wedding will be soon.” He hummed and turned away. “The feast will start when the rest of your family is here.” He walked towards the big doors form where they came, then he looked over his shoulder. “You will have a bunch of furs special made for you, Prince. I do know how you all like your nests.” Then he left.

Rhaenyra hummed, “Delightful. See, you’re already being spoiled rotten.” She smiled proudly.

Jacaerys watches the man disappear in the shadows of the halls, “Spoiled… yeah.”

The night was spent feasting. Targaryens and Stark men and women together made for a loud, joyous affair. Music thrummed through the hall—not the lyrical melodies of the south, but something heavier, meant to move the body more than the heart. Ale and wine were passed freely, a man even walking along the tables to hand out brimming cups. Laughter boomed against the stone walls.

And Jacaerys enjoyed it.

He smiled through the evening, laughed at jokes, listened to stories, spoke easily with those around him. He watched his family in turn—some drinking deep, others sharing tales near the fires, a few even dancing without shame. For a while, it almost felt simple.

Then his gaze drifted to Cregan.

The Lord of Winterfell sat only a few chairs away, yet he felt far removed from the revelry. He was still larger than most men even while seated, broad-shouldered and solid. He drank his ale slowly, ate sparingly. He did not laugh. He did not smile.

He only watched.

Grey eyes took in everything, missing nothing.

It made Jacaerys wonder what life with him would be like. Quiet? Strained? Or was there more beneath the stillness of the Great Wolf of the North?

As if sensing his thoughts, Cregan’s gaze flicked to him—just briefly. A sharp, knowing glance, as though he had caught the question forming. Then he looked away again, lifting his cup as the noise of the hall swallowed the moment whole.

Jacaerys swallowed.

Morning came cold and pale.

The feast would resume later that night, but for now the castle was quiet. Jacaerys found himself seated with Cregan in a smaller chamber lined with books and scrolls. The air was thick with the scent of ink and old parchment, layered beneath the ever-present pine and leather of Winterfell.

Four of the Kingsguard stood watch at the corners of the room, hands resting on their sword hilts. Alert. Wary. As though the wolf across from Jacaerys were the danger.

Perhaps that was the point.

They were not meant to be alone like this—not until vows were spoken. Too many risks, too many assumptions about what a man like Cregan Stark might take if given the chance.

Cregan broke the silence first, pushing a parchment aside. “You know,” he said quietly, “Starks were never meant to place their blood upon the Iron Throne.”

Jacaerys frowned. “Oh. I—” He hesitated. “Do you not wish for this marriage, then? It can still be called off, if that is what you want.”

Cregan shook his head once. “That isn’t what I meant.” He lifted his chin slightly, grey eyes fixing on Jacaerys. “Aegon the Conqueror never intended Stark and Targaryen blood to mingle. I only find it… interesting that it comes to pass now.”

“Oh.” Jacaerys leaned back in his chair. The fire in the hearth snapped softly, its flames already beginning to die. “Yes. I suppose he didn’t want it. But it will happen—unless you say otherwise.”

“And what does the Heir to the Iron Throne want?” Cregan asked.

His gaze dropped to the table between them, littered with letters—lords and ladies alike offering congratulations and blessings for a union neither man had chosen.

Jacaerys drew in a sharp breath. Cold air filled his lungs, carrying the scent of pine and leather. No one had ever asked him that. Not truly. Not about a marriage.

He had been meant to marry Aegon.

And now he was to marry Cregan.

The change had come without his voice, without his consent—reshaped by politics alone.

Was he angry?

Was he grieving?

He didn’t know.

“I…” He bit his lip.

Silence pressed in around him.

Cregan nodded once. “I thought so. But understand this—I am not here to take and take.” He met Jacaerys’s eyes again. “There is a word called no.”

“Do you understand?” He asked.

“Yes,” Jacaerys replied at once.

Cregan shook his head. “No. You don’t.”

Jacaerys frowned. “Of course I do. What do you mean?” He leaned forward slightly. “You won’t take. I have to offer when I want. That’s what you’re saying.”

“Partially,” Cregan said.

Jacaerys laughed, sharp and irritated. He threw one hand up. “You’re telling me how I understand things? How I feel? Just because your blood places you higher doesn’t mean you can decide that for me. I know how I feel. It may be confusing at times, but I know.”

“Partially,” Cregan repeated.

Jacaerys’s hands clenched into fists against his knees as he stared at him—at those cold, winter-grey eyes.

Then, slowly, the anger drained away.

His shoulders slumped. His gaze dropped to the floor. “Then… explain,” He murmured.

“No means no,” Cregan said simply. He lifted his cup and took a measured sip. “That’s all.”

“Why wouldn’t no be no?” Jacaerys whispered.

Cregan’s eyes softened, just slightly. “I don’t know,” He said. “You tell me, Prince. You seem more familiar with that than most.”

The words struck true.

Heat burned behind Jacaerys’s eyes, and he squeezed them shut. His chest ached, memories pressing in—of his voice dismissed, his choices overridden. Of being the heir, of enduring what others decided was necessary. Of not being his mother, of blood that made everything harder.

Tears slipped free.

Then warmth surrounded him.

Something heavy and solid settled around his shoulders. Jacaerys opened his eyes to see Cregan standing behind him, his cloak draped carefully around him. The lord turned without a word, adding a fresh log to the fire and coaxing the flames higher.

The heat spread.

Jacaerys pulled the cloak tighter, burying his face into the soft fur. The scent of pine enveloped him, steady and grounding. His tears fell freely now, soaking into the fabric as he cried quietly.

He did not feel judged.

He felt safe.

The night had crept up on Jacaerys faster than he’d expected.

Once more the halls boomed with music and laughter, tankards clashing, boots stamping in careless rhythm. The smell of roasted meat curled through the air, rich and mouth-watering, and his stomach growled in protest. He rubbed at it absently as he wove through the crowd. Shoulders bumped into him—drunken, unsteady—but he paid them no mind. Gods, how little had they drunk to be this far gone already?

His gaze flicked to the high table.

His mother sat beside Lord Cregan tonight, speaking animatedly—mostly her, really. Heat crept into Jacaerys’s cheeks and he quickly looked away. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be near him tonight. After earlier… it felt embarrassing. No matter how safe it had been, he hated the thought of looking like that in front of his future husband.

Then something small collided with his legs.

“Oof! Owww…”

Jacaerys gasped and looked down.

A little boy stood there, brown hair tousled, grey eyes bright with unshed tears. He rubbed at them with his fists, his mouth twisted into a pout.

“Oh—sweet one,” Jacaerys said softly, dropping to one knee. “Are you alright?”

The boy sniffed. “Mhm… I want Papa,” he murmured.

“Papa?” Jacaerys tilted his head. “Well, I can help you find him. How does that sound?”

“Yes, please.” The boy lifted his arms without hesitation.

Jacaerys smiled and chuckled as he stood, lifting the child easily. He was a little heavy, but nothing he couldn’t manage. Settling him against the bone of his hip—just as he’d seen his mother do countless times—made it easier.

“So,” He said gently, “Where is your papa?”

The boy rested his head against Jacaerys’s shoulder and pointed.

Jacaerys followed the direction and gods, of course.

The grey eyes were unmistakable.

He knew Cregan had a child. He simply hadn’t known if he would ever be allowed to see him. And yet here they were.

Worse still, Cregan stood rigid, his jaw clenched, fingers gripping his cup too tightly. His eyes swept the hall again and again, sharp and searching. Jacaerys wasn’t tall, and the men of the North were like trees—thick trunks and broad shoulders blocking the view. No wonder the boy had been lost among so many legs.

“Alright,” Jacaerys murmured. “Let’s go to your papa.”

He kept to the edges of the hall, careful to avoid the worst of the crowd. The boy clung to him quietly, arms wrapped around his neck, occasionally lifting his head to look around. He smelled faintly of pastries and when the light caught him properly, Jacaerys noticed the crumbs dotting his cheeks.

He bit back a laugh. Gods, he was adorable.

They emerged from the crush at last. The chaos dulled here, but the tension around Lord Stark’s table was sharp enough to cut. Cregan felt it—everyone did. His mother, however, seemed entirely unbothered, her eyes drifting over the hall as if she understood exactly why he was so tightly wound.

“Papa!” The boy called, suddenly sitting up.

Cregan’s head snapped toward them. His jaw eased at once. His gaze moved from his son, to Jacaerys—then back again.

“Rickon,” He breathed.

Jacaerys set the boy down, and Rickon bolted forward. Cregan scooped him up without hesitation, settling him on the table before pulling a chair close and motioning for Jacaerys to sit beside them.

“You should be in bed,” Cregan said, his voice firm.

“But I didn’t want to!” Rickon protested. “The feast is fun—people are dancing. It’s fun.” He pouted, tugging at his shirt.

Jacaerys took the seat, pulling out a small cloth as the crumbs began to bother him.

“And what is this on your face?” Cregan continued, gloved fingers lifting Rickon’s chin. “I should have known you were the one stealing pastries.”

Rickon gasped. “N-no!”

“And a liar too?” Cregan scoffed, though the faintest amusement colored his tone.

Jacaerys chuckled. “Come now, it’s not so bad.” He leaned in, gently wiping jelly and crumbs from Rickon’s face while Cregan held him steady. “At least he’s clever about it.”

Cregan hummed, studying Jacaerys with quiet interest. “I suppose. But he still shouldn’t steal. Or lie.”

“True,” Jacaerys agreed. He lowered the cloth. “So—will this be the last time?”

Rickon bit his lip, eyes darting everywhere but them. “Mmm… maybe…?”

Cregan sighed. “At least he’s honest on that point.”

Jacaerys laughed, bright and unguarded—and for the first time that night, Cregan did not look away.

Days passed, and with each one Jacaerys spent more time with Cregan. He learned Winterfell—how it breathed, how it worked, the stories and histories held within its ancient stone walls. It was good here. Each day he felt himself growing closer to Cregan, and to little Rickon.

Gods, he adored that boy.

He might have spoiled Rickon terribly with sweets, but Cregan never once stopped him.

More furs arrived for his chambers, along with lavish pillows brought from Lys—long as his body, wide, impossibly soft. Wedding gifts from Cregan. A mountain of warmth, of care. Jacaerys loved them all.

Today, he slipped outside into the cold. He didn’t wish to disturb his mother or Cregan—they were occupied with other lords, and for once, he didn’t want to be part of it. No one fussed over his absence. Cregan had simply draped his cloak over Jacaerys’s shoulders and let him go.

Jacaerys pulled the cloak tighter around himself. The cold barely touched him. It made him smile.

Only two days remained until the wedding.

He breathed in deeply, the scent of pine filling his lungs.

“Jace!”

The voice struck him hard.

Footsteps hurried across stone, snow crunching beneath boots. Jacaerys turned just as Aegon came into view, the familiar scent of fruity wine hitting his stomach like a blow. He frowned, swallowing thickly, and took a step back as Aegon stopped before him.

Aegon was panting, bent slightly at the waist. “I caught you… finally,” He groaned. “Gods, I never thought you’d be away from that—that wolf.”

“Hello, Aegon,” Jacaerys whispered. The cloak swallowed most of him, hiding his body, his face.

“Hey.” Aegon straightened. “I—I want to talk to you.”

Jacaerys said nothing, letting the silence stretch.

Aegon ran a hand through his silver hair. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve practiced this over and over, but nothing ever feels right.” His voice cracked. “I just… I miss you. And this—this whole thing—it’s brought everything back.”

He stepped forward.

Jacaerys stepped back.

“We can make it work,” Aegon pressed. “I know you’re meant to marry him—I can’t change what your mother wants. But we can keep us. In secret. We can still have each other. Like we were meant to.”

Jacaerys exhaled slowly. His chest ached with the weight of memory—Aegon’s sad stare on Driftmark, the years apart afterward. Dragonstone and King’s Landing. No letters. No words.

And even before that…

Aegon had never cherished him the way Jacaerys had needed.

No gentle glances. No cloaks pulled close. Nothing tender. Only drunken nights—sweet in the moment, empty afterward.

“Aegon,” Jacaerys said softly. “We were never meant for each other. You know that, don’t you? You never loved me the way love is meant to be.”

Aegon’s eyes glassed over. “I—I do love you. Please, I—”

“You loved the idea of us,” Jacaerys said, stepping forward just once. “You loved the nights. That was all.”

Aegon bit his lip. Silence answered instead of denial. He bowed his head, breathing unevenly, fighting tears that never quite fell. Slowly, he nodded.

Jacaerys turned away, leaving him standing there alone.

His fingers clenched around the cloak, knuckles whitening. He lifted his gaze—and there, framed by a window, stood Cregan.

Watching.

Grey eyes followed him through the falling snow, steady and watchful. Then, in the blink of an eye, Cregan stepped away as if he had never been there at all.

The night of their wedding made Jacaerys nervous. People expected them to consummate the marriage immediately. It wasn’t that he didn’t want a family with Cregan—little dragonlings, pups, all of it. He touched his stomach as he walked down the dim hallways to his new chambers, seeking Cregan’s solace.

Before he could open the door, a gloved hand gently caught his wrist.

“I want to know something first. Before we go inside,” Cregan said softly.

“Okay,” Jacaerys nodded.

“Do you want to… make it official tonight, or another day? I will not rush you. We are married, yes, and soon you will be in heat, but I can control myself until you are ready.” His voice was calm, sure. Somehow, it made the nerves in Jacaerys’s stomach settle.

“I…” He drew a deep breath. Cregan wasn’t going to force him. Everything here was choice, consent, care. He took the bigger man’s hand and squeezed it gently.

“I want to cuddle tonight… just cuddle. Please?”

Cregan’s grey eyes softened in the dim light. He nodded slowly. “Alright. We can do that.” He squeezed Jacaerys’s hand back, then released it.

Jacaerys pushed open the door. The room was warmer than the rest of the castle and much larger, with solid stone walls, a single curtained window, bookshelves lining the walls, a massive hearth with logs stacked beside it, and a desk and chairs by the fire.

But what truly drew his eye was the bed. Massive, circular, drapes that could close to shield them. Furs and sheets neatly arranged, pillows fluffed and perfectly aligned. Too neat. Too… clean. A bed should be a nest—something warm, comfy, safe. Not this pristine, impersonal thing.

Jacaerys wrinkled his nose.

“Something wrong?” Cregan asked softly.

“It’s… awful,” Jacaerys huffed, arms crossed. “Do you even sleep in here?”

Cregan’s eyes flicked from him to the bed, then back. “I would have brought your pillows and blankets—but you had already built such a nest, and no one had the heart to disturb it. I wasn’t going to force it either. I wanted to be sure it was acceptable to you.”

Jacaerys’s cheeks warmed. He cleared his throat. “Oh… I see. Well, of course they could have. I just… I like to feel safe in bed. A good bed means relaxed men. A bad bed… well, now I understand why you’re so grumpy.”

Cregan let out a small huff of laughter.

“Yes!” Jacaerys exclaimed, laughing. “You are so grumpy! The change will be obvious once I make us a proper nest. And the curtains—they’ll be closed. I like that. Makes it a… safe bubble.” He beamed.

Cregan hummed, smiling. “Alright. I have some extras in the drawers. It might not be enough for your satisfaction, but will it do for tonight?”

“Yes, tonight it will suffice. But only tonight! I refuse to sleep in such a bare place any longer.”

Cregan chuckled and stepped toward the dressers. “Of course, Prince. Whatever you want. I am at your command.”

Jacaerys looked at the bed, his smile lingering. He felt… good. Safe. And he couldn’t wait to make it theirs.

Together, they made a rather pathetic-looking nest, but it was something—a good start for them, and good enough for tonight. They slipped into their nightclothes before settling into the middle of what they had created. Jacaerys rested against Cregan’s chest, and Cregan hummed softly, glancing around the small pile of furs and pillows.

“Something wrong?” Jacaerys asked, nuzzling his face into Cregan’s bare chest. It felt comforting—warm and safe. The scent of pine mingled with smoke, and the steady heat of another person pressed against him.

“No,” Cregan said softly, running his fingers through Jacaerys’s hair as if he’d done it a thousand times before. “I just… had never been in a nest like this before. It’s nice.” He nodded once, quietly content.

Jacaerys closed his eyes, wrapping his arms around Cregan’s middle. “I’m glad you like it. Do you… regret this?”

“I don’t like the word ‘regret’ here,” Cregan murmured, humming with mild disapproval. “I won’t. I wasn’t going to.”

Jacaerys felt his heart flutter. He bit his lip and snuggled closer. Cregan held him just a little tighter. “That’s good… I don’t either,” he whispered, almost like a confession.

A soft kiss pressed into his hair. “Good,” Cregan replied.

The fire had died down, leaving only embers glowing faintly. Jacaerys listened to Cregan’s steady breathing and the rhythmic beating of his heart. It was enough. For the first time since Driftmark, he slept in peace—safe, warm, and without fear.

Chapter Text

Aegon Targaryen

The ride had been miserable—every moment of it. Being this close to the Twins always made his skin crawl. Something about the air here unsettled him, and the people were even worse. And now, of all things, his horse had lost a shoe. Unlucky, as usual.

He groaned as he dismounted. His boots sank into the mud, and he wrinkled his nose. New boots—ruined, probably caked with horse dung and muck.

“Gods… I hate it here,” He muttered, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

Ser Joffrey dismounted beside him with effortless grace, his white armor gleaming as if untouched by dirt. “We shall soon be out of here, my prince.”

“Yes, yes, I know. It reeks, and I always feel uneasy here—like I’m on the verge of catching some plague.”

“Then we shall have your horse a new shoe in two days at most,” Joffrey said.

“Two days too long,” Aegon grumbled, striding down the trail with Ser Joffrey close at hand. “Let’s find a blacksmith ourselves.”

Fairmarket bored him. He hated this place. He’d rather be back in his chambers, sleeping the day away while eating sugary cakes. Gods, he would kill for a lemon cake right now.

They passed many people—guards, smallfolk, hedge knights—all of them recognizing him and moving carefully out of his path. Amid the muck and smells, something faintly roasted caught his attention. Chestnuts. Pleasant enough, though it only made him hungrier.

“My prince, over here,” Ser Joffrey called, nodding toward the faint clang of hammer on metal.

Aegon sighed and followed alongside his king’s guard. A light wind tugged at his cloak, and he pulled it tighter around his shoulders. His mood darkened further as he spotted the dark grey clouds above. It was going to rain soon. Just his luck.

They came to an older man, black apron over his dirty rags. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and soot clung from head to toe. He was hammering a piece of metal, likely the early stage of a weapon, but Aegon didn’t care.

“Blacksmith,” Aegon called, clearing his throat. “I require your services.”

The man looked up, eyes wide, and lowered his hammer. “Prince Aegon, I—”

Aegon waved him off. “Yes, yes, I know. A prince needing your services. My horse has lost a shoe, and I need it fixed quickly. I’ll pay five golden dragons.”

Ser Joffrey shifted beside him, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, eyes ever watchful.

“Of course, my prince,” the blacksmith said, bowing slightly. “Your horse is at the stables?”

“Yes. Not hard to figure out which one,” Aegon groaned, spinning around. “It better be done in two days.” He turned to leave, eager to reach a tavern. “I have no patience for staying here—”

A woman rounded the corner of the blacksmith’s shop, stepping lightly around a pillar. She gasped, nearly dropping her basket. “By the Seven! I am so sorry—I—Prince! Oh gods, I’m sorry. Did I get anything on you?”

Aegon stumbled back a step. Anger rose at first—he’d endured too much already—but when his eyes met hers, it melted away like butter on warm toast.

“It’s fine,” He said evenly, though he stared longer than he should have.

She appeared his age, maybe a little older. Brown hair, almost black, fell over her shoulders like a waterfall. Her smile was small, but genuine, soft at the edges.

“Megette!” the blacksmith hissed.

The woman glanced at him, her smile faltering just a fraction. “Yes, dear husband… I’m just talking,” she said, a touch of sadness in her voice. Then she looked back at Aegon. “Here—have a lemon cake. As an apology for being clumsy! Gods know I am clumsy.” She giggled and reached into her basket, handing him a generous slice of cake, wrapped in a blue cloth.

Aegon took it, confused. No one had ever given him gifts like this before. The cake was warm, fresh. “Ah… thank you, miss.”

Megette nodded, her smile widening. “Have a good day, Prince… and Ser!” She slipped past the blacksmith and entered the shop. Perhaps that was their home.

Aegon cleared his throat and walked on, eyes fixed on the lemon cake in his hand.

They were a good distance from the blacksmith before Ser Joffrey spoke. “Do you wish me to dispose of that?”

Aegon instinctively moved the cake away. “No! I mean… no. It’s fine. I… I doubt a lemon cake will be my undoing.”

“Mm. As you say,” Ser Joffrey replied.

Thunder rolled in the distance. Soon, rain would pour, and Aegon would hate it even more—mud, dung, and damp—but with the cake in hand, the day didn’t seem quite as bad.

The next day came quicker than he would have liked. He spent half of it in bed, uncomfortable on a thin straw mattress—hardly fit for a prince, but such was the life of a tavern. The bath had been lukewarm. Not truly cold, but not nearly hot enough for his liking. He preferred his baths steaming.

He knew he was being nitpicky. He didn’t care.

And when his complaints ran out, his thoughts drifted—inevitably—to the lemon cake.

Gods, it had tasted incredible. Better than anything he’d ever had in King’s Landing. His mouth watered just thinking about it. Perfectly sweet, with a bright, sharp bite of lemon that lingered pleasantly on his tongue.

He sighed and leaned against a stone pillar outside the tavern, watching the world pass him by. People went about their lives as if princes weren’t meant to exist at all: baskets brimming with produce, wagons creaking through muddy paths, voices overlapping in lively chatter that echoed through the street.

Above them, heavy grey clouds loomed. Rain would come again soon. A flash of lightning split the sky, and five seconds later thunder followed, rolling low and distant.

Aegon groaned softly, shifting his weight against the pillar. Ser Joffrey stood nearby, speaking quietly with the tavern owner. There was nothing for Aegon to do but wait, and boredom gnawed at him.

His thoughts wandered.

Brown eyes.

Hair like a dark waterfall.

And as if summoned from thin air, there she was.

Megette emerged from the market stalls, basket hooked easily at her hip. Aegon blinked once. Then again. He swallowed.

She approached him with a wide, open smile. “Good day, Prince!”

He glanced around instinctively. It was strange—almost unsettling—that she would come up to him so freely. Most people kept their distance. They flocked to his younger brother, or his sister. Never him. He wasn’t like them. He had never been kind enough, patient enough, to invite such ease.

“Good day, miss,” He replied, folding his arms over his chest.

“Did you like my lemon cake?” She asked brightly. “I’ve been trying to perfect it for a few days now.”

She spoke to him as if his title were an afterthought—not ignored, but unimportant. And gods, something about that made his chest warm and his stomach flutter.

“It was good,” He said, nodding. Then, more quietly, “Better than the ones in King’s Landing.”

Her eyes lit up instantly, her smile widening with pure delight. The sight of it struck him harder than he expected. He wanted to steal that look, hide it away somewhere safe, just for himself.

“Oh! You are far too sweet to say that,” Megette giggled. “I have a few more slices, if you’d like?”

Gods, he wanted them. He could already imagine devouring every last piece. And if he died of poison because of it—well, it would have been worth it.

But he hesitated. What would Aemon say?

“I couldn’t take more so freely,” Aegon said at last, lifting his chin. “I’ll buy a few.” He was rather proud of himself for that.

Megette shook her head. “Oh no, I couldn’t make you pay. They’re just simple cakes, my prince.”

“Simple?” Aegon scoffed. “You could run a fine bakery in King’s Landing.”

Her cheeks flushed pink, her smile turning shy. His heart gave an unwelcome flip.

“Well,” she said after a moment, nodding, “If that’s what the prince insists… you may pay whatever you feel is right.”

Aegon reached into his coin pouch and drew out five golden dragons, pressing them into her hand. “Five dragons for five slices.”

Her eyes widened. “I—”

“Don’t argue,” He said—not commanding, just firm. He wanted her to take what she was worth. Gods knew she was worth far more.

She accepted the coins, then pulled five slices of lemon cake from her basket, each wrapped carefully in colorful cloth. He took them gently, the scent of lemon rising warmly.

“Do you want the cloths back?” He asked.

“Oh—yes, please! When you’re finished with them, of course.” She grinned.

“Tomorrow, then,” Aegon said, cradling the cakes close. “You’ll have all six back.”

“Tomorrow,” She echoed softly, waving as she turned away.

Aegon watched her until she disappeared into the crowd.

Ser Joffrey cleared his throat. “More sweets from the blacksmith’s wife?”

Wife.

The word settled bitterly on his tongue.

Still… the memory of her brown eyes softened it again. Aegon lifted his chin. “Yes. And perhaps I’ll share a lemon cake.”

“Share?”

“I’m not entirely terrible, Ser,” Aegon scoffed, turning back toward the warmth of the tavern.

The trees blurred past in the darkness, tall and unmoving, their branches creaking in the wind as leaves whispered overhead. Aegon gripped the reins tightly, his stomach knotted with nerves that refused to settle.

But he had made his choice.

The horses’ hooves thundered along the road, no lanterns to guide them—just two riders swallowed by shadow. Aegon kept his eyes fixed on the horse ahead of him, catching brief flashes of white armor whenever Ser Joffrey’s cloak shifted in the dark.

Then a sharp cry broke the night.

Aegon glanced back at once. “Is she all right?”

Megette met his gaze, soft brown eyes warm despite the exhaustion lining her face. She smiled—tired, but happy—as she cradled their daughter close. “She’ll be fine. Just a little fussy.”

He nodded and turned forward again, the wind biting cold and wet against his face.

His father could not know.

Not yet.

Though, if Aegon were honest, Viserys likely already did. There was no time to waste.

The sept stood quiet when they arrived, candles burning at every altar and before each of the Seven. Their light flickered against stone as they hurried inside, where a lone septon waited—one Ser Joffrey had convinced to be accommodating.

It was not the grand sort of wedding his family favored. There were no feasts, no banners, no gathered lords and ladies. No brother or sister to offer congratulations. No father to smile and hold his granddaughter. No mother who cared enough to stay and see what he had chosen.

But he had Megette.

He had their daughter, sweet Alysanne.

And he had Ser Joffrey—steadfast, loyal, a friend he trusted with his life.

That was enough.

Thunder cracked overhead, rattling the sept’s walls, as Aegon held his daughter in his arms. He smiled softly when her small fingers curled around his own.

His father would never take this from him.

He would sooner give up the crown than lose this life, this family.

Aegon bent and pressed a gentle kiss to Alysanne’s brow, murmuring softly as he soothed her back toward sleep, while the storm raged harmlessly outside.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months.

Aegon watched his daughter grow faster than he ever thought possible—her smiles coming more easily now, her laughter a sound he never tired of hearing. She was always hungry. Then again, so was he, so perhaps she’d inherited that from him. But Alysanne had her mother’s eyes, those warm brown depths, and that alone made his chest swell with pride.

They had settled in the Stormlands, in a small coastal town where the beach stretched endlessly and the air smelled of salt and rain. Aegon tried—truly—to live as the smallfolk did. He wasn’t certain what he was good at, but he’d grown accustomed to being a crabber, even if the work left his hands raw and his back aching.

He hated the waves. He hated the constant rain.

But this was where Megette wanted to be, and that mattered more.

Over time, he found himself loving the sunrises and sunsets over the sea—the way the water caught the colors of the sky and held them, if only for a moment.

Ser Joffrey had left months ago. Aegon had insisted on it. The man had already risked too much—his name, his honor, his place at court. Joffrey had done far more for him than duty demanded, and not all of it had been because Aegon was a prince. For that alone, Aegon owed him more than he could ever repay.

Now, here he was—in a small house riddled with cracks and leaks he still needed to fix. A fire crackled in the hearth. Megette moved quietly in the kitchen, preparing dinner, her belly swollen again with another child.

Aegon sat near the fire, cradling Alysanne in his arms. Her breathing was soft and steady, each rise and fall easing his mind.

Peace, however, was fragile.

A knock sounded at the door.

He knew, instantly. It was inevitable. Silver hair and violet eyes were difficult things to hide. He didn’t blame the townsfolk for pointing the way—it was only natural. Still, the knowledge stung.

Aegon exhaled slowly. “Meg… can you take her?” he asked quietly.

Megette hurried over, gently lifting Alysanne from his arms. “What’s wrong?” Her gaze flicked to the door, worry tightening her features.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

He expected his father when he opened the door. Expected Kingsguard, chains, perhaps even blows—though Viserys had never been that cruel. Fear had a way of twisting thoughts.

Instead, Aemon stood before him.

Ser Joffrey was there as well, head bowed slightly, another Kingsguard lingering behind him.

Understanding settled in quickly. They had made Joffrey speak. Aegon didn’t blame him—but disappointment still burned, dull and quiet.

“What?” Aegon asked, the bitterness slipping into his voice despite himself.

Aemon surged forward and wrapped him in a fierce embrace. “You’re alive!”

Aegon staggered back, then returned the hug carefully. He was painfully aware of how he must look—clothes worn thin, hair unwashed, skin smelling of salt and sea. Nothing of a prince remained.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He muttered.

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Aemon pulled back, staring at him in disbelief. “You’ve been gone over a year! You were meant to return from the Twins. You told Father you were staying longer, then rumors spread—mistress, betrayal—”

“A wife,” Aegon corrected calmly.

Aemon froze. “Wife?”

His gaze drifted past Aegon—to Megette, to the child in her arms, to her swollen belly. He slowly turned, taking in the small house, the fire, the life within its walls. When his eyes returned to Aegon, they were softer.

“You love her,” Aemon said quietly. “Father said… Father made it sound…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand.”

“Of course he did,” Aegon scoffed, folding his arms.

“He believes he’s doing what’s best for us.”

“Does he?”

Aemon hesitated. “Perhaps more for the crown than for us.”

Aegon’s voice softened. “Which brings us to that.” He stepped forward and placed his hands on Aemon’s shoulders. “The crown is yours. You understand that.”

Aemon recoiled. “No—what? It’s yours. I would never—”

“I know,” Aegon said gently. “But I don’t want it. And I can’t have it. Father would take my family, force me into a marriage neither of us wants. If I step aside—if I give it to you—what can he do then?”

Aemon shook his head. “You’re the firstborn.”

“And you’re the better man,” Aegon replied firmly. “All I want is this. To be left alone with my family.”

Aemon stared at him for a long moment, then nodded once. “Is that what you wish me to tell him?”

“Yes,” Aegon breathed.

“No one will touch you,” Aemon said. “I swear it. And if you ever need anything—anything at all—you come to me. You’re my brother. Those children are my family.”

Aegon believed him. Aemon had always been the better man.

He smiled faintly. “You’ll be a great king. Better than Jaehaerys, I think.”

Aemon laughed despite himself. “Don’t even.”

Megette stepped forward hesitantly, and Aegon immediately slipped an arm around her waist. “Would you all like to stay for dinner?” She asked softly. “It’s late.”

Ser Joffrey hummed. “Is Aegon planning to share?”

Aegon scoffed. “I’m not that bad.”

Everyone looked at him. Then away.

“…Alright,” He muttered. “Maybe I am. Just get inside, you’re letting the cold in.”

Those months turned into years—years of peace filled with laughter and smiles, with a quiet, enduring joy. No more knocks came at his door, unless it was Aemon himself or Ser Joffrey. He no longer lived in fear of his father arriving to take everything from him.

So he lived happily with his wife and their four daughters. It was a busy household—loud, chaotic, and full—but busy in the best ways. He watched the girls grow into wonderful young women: kindhearted, strong, intelligent. Everything he’d once feared he would never have, he now held in his hands.

Megette pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Lost in thought again?” She asked quietly.

Their room shook faintly with the crash of the ocean below, thunder rolling in the distance.

Aegon smiled at her, slow and content. The ache in his muscles was familiar now. He’d grown used to it, and it served as a daily reminder that he was providing for his family—by his own hands. “Yes,” He said softly. “Good thoughts.”

Her hand traced gentle circles against his chest, easing the ache. “That’s good.”

He leaned down and kissed her, and she kissed him back just as tenderly.

He never regretted a single choice he had made.

His horse losing a shoe at Fairmarket had been the best thing that ever happened to him.

And the lemon cakes… Gods. That had been a blessing, too.

Chapter Text

Sansa Stark

Sansa was curled in her bed, a blanket drawn over her shoulders and head. A small, fragile barrier between herself and the world—one of the few protections she felt she still possessed. Being alone here was nothing like she had imagined. She had thought her father would still be alive, that Arya would be herself, racing through the training yard, laughing. She had thought she would be a princess—and one day, a queen.

But the world had not gone that way.

Her father had died before her eyes. Arya had vanished into the shadows—for better or worse, Sansa prayed for better. This place was colder than even the harshest winters of the North. Red walls loomed around her, stained not by paint but by blood. Lions ruled these halls, devouring anything in their path, while a lone wolf trembled in the corner.

She sniffed, wiping at her wet eyes with the back of her hand.

A soft breeze slipped through the open window, brushing the fire and stirring its embers. The air was gentle, faintly chilled, carrying the scent of smoke and charcoal. She dismissed it as nothing more than the fire itself.

But a shadow lingered.

Long and slender, it stretched near the fire, settled between the chairs—simply there. Sansa leaned forward, peering toward it, yet nothing changed. The shadow remained, unmoving.

The scent of firewood grew heavier, thick in the air. It reminded her of home, of her chambers in Winterfell, curled beneath warm furs with Lady at her side. The memory pulled her under. Her eyes fluttered shut as sleep crept closer.

Soft fur.

Firewood.

The crackle of a low flame.

And a shadow that stayed.

On the road to the Eyrie, it felt freeing and yet like stepping into another cage.

Sansa rode with her hands tight around the reins, the leather creaking beneath her fingers. The smell of it mixed with the strong cologne at her side, sharp and cloying, making her stomach twist sickly.

“Come on,” Littlefinger said. “We don’t want to stay out here too long.”

His voice was always sly, threaded with hidden venom. A snake in the grass, one that made even her horse shift uneasily beneath her.

“Coming,” Sansa muttered, patting her horse’s neck. They followed the rocky trail onward, valleys and jagged mountains stretching endlessly across the land.

Their horses stayed side by side, as he always preferred. Around them rode a small party of hired mercenaries. Sansa trusted none of them, the way they looked at her set her nerves on edge. It did not help that Littlefinger liked to murmur, Best stay at my side, dear. Men like these lack morality.

Her stomach twisted again. Bile rose in the back of her throat but she swallowed it down, gripping the reins tighter.

She missed her mother. Missed the soft lullabies that used to carry her to sleep—comfort she no longer had on the road. Now she kept a small kitchen knife tucked into her sleeve, huddled deep in her cloak. Still, she clung to the memory of her mother’s warmth, of the red hair they shared, of the safety she once embodied.

They should have never gone south.

“You know,” Petyr said, leaning closer. His perfume pressed in on her senses, heavy—covering something, she thought. “Perhaps your sister is at the Vale.”

She hoped not. She could easily picture Arya driving a fork into his eye the moment he stepped too close. “Perhaps,” Sansa replied dryly.

He hummed, then lifted his hand, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. Always invading her space, as if it had never belonged to her in the first place. As if she belonged to him. A tool, nothing more.

But what else could he take from her? Her innocence had long since been stripped away.

“And I think—” Petyr began.

He hissed sharply and jerked his hand back, clutching his wrist. His gloved fingers tightened as he stared at it, breath shallow.

Sansa watched, frowning. Had she done something wrong?

The glove was unmarked. Untouched. Only a single strand of her red hair clung to the dark fabric of his sleeve.

Then she smelled firewood.

Warm. Familiar. It eased the tight knot in her stomach. She looked around, curiosity flickering through her unease. Over the past month, she had learned the scent always came with the same thing.

A shadow.

Solid.

Still.

Lingering.

It hung between their horses, following them like mist after a heavy rain.

Sansa glanced back at Littlefinger, at the way he rubbed his wrist with his thumb. She said nothing—offered no apology, no reassurance. Instead, she faced forward, eyes fixed on the distant shape of the Vale rising ahead.

She had traded one cage for another.

But perhaps… she could find a way out of this one.

At night, on the road, this was the one time she was allowed a semblance of freedom. Sansa had been surprised that Petyr did not linger nearby, perched on a rock to watch her in the river. He seemed the sort of man who would. But ever since the burn the day before, he had kept his distance. As though he were afraid.

She would take the space while she had it.

She carried a small lantern, though the moonlight alone was more than enough to guide her steps. Sansa walked into the river’s center, the water rising to her waist—deep enough that she could sink lower if she wished. She dipped a cloth into the cold water, drawing in a sharp breath at the chill.

“Do you ever think the stars are little planets, just far out of reach?”

The voice came from the shadows, from a ledge of stone rising above the riverbank.

Sansa gasped and instinctively covered herself, water rippling around her. She could not see who spoke, but the voice was unfamiliar. “Hello?”

“Am I disturbing you?” The voice asked mildly.

The moon shifted, its light sliding just enough to illuminate the rocks. A man sat there, dressed in black, his back turned toward her. His red hair fell to his shoulders—nearly as long as her own.

Sansa sank deeper into the water. “Maybe,” She said cautiously. “Who are you?”

“Who is anyone?” He replied. “Dragons and wolves. Lions. Lords and ladies. Queens and kings. Titles and stories. Perhaps I am a story. So—who are you?”

She glanced around. Beyond the trees, she could hear mercenaries laughing, the faint flicker of fire and embers carrying through the night. When she looked back, the man was still there, gently swaying as he sat.

“Stories don’t have names?” She asked.

“They do,” He said. “Usually titles. Do I have a title or a name?”

She huffed softly. “I want a name.”

“Lucion,” He said after a moment. “And yours?”

“Sansa.”

“Sansa,” Lucion repeated. “It sounds like a song carried on a spring breeze. Yet you are of winter and snow, not spring and warmth. And still—that is your name.” A pause. “Odd.”

She frowned, tilting her head. The water rose to her chin now, her hair soaked through, heavy with cold. Her body had grown used to it. “I’m trying to wash,” She said quietly. “And you watching me is… odd.”

“Is it?” He asked. “Why? The body is meant to be cherished, it is the only one you will ever have. I never understood the shame.” He shook his head, and a soft jingle followed the motion. “But that is why I do not look. You do not like to be seen.”

Sansa hesitated, then edged closer, until she could have reached out and touched the rocks. She lifted her chin to look at him. His hair obscured his face, but small ruby earring glinted in the moonlight.

“How do you know that?” She asked softly. “Is it so obvious?”

“Obvious? No,” Lucion said. “But to watch is to notice every detail.”

He rose to his feet. “I will leave you to wash. Yes. That seems right.”

He turned and walked toward the woods, melting into the shadows between the trees.

She would have followed him. Would have stood and called after him. But she was not ready to leave the water like this. Instead, she watched him go.

“Wait,” She called. “How do you know me? You said you’ve been watching—”

“Go on,” His voice came back, distant but certain. “Wash. Sleep well, Winter wolf. I will watch. No harm will come.”

And then he was gone—swallowed by the darkness, as though he had never been there at all.

Sansa stood motionless, listening to the rustle of leaves, the distant murmurs of the camp, the soft tumble of the small waterfall at the river’s edge.

The scent lingered.

Firewood.

It clung to the stones where he had sat.

She slowly moved away from the rocks, returning to the shallows. Lucion, she thought. The name felt old. Familiar. And yet nothing came to her.

She finished washing and returned to the camp. No one stopped her. No one questioned her.

And for the first time since her father had died, Sansa slept without nightmares reaching for her in the dark.

The Vale was unlike Winterfell or King’s Landing. It rose from the mountains on sheer stone, suspended high above the world, distant from the mainland. Easy to defend. Nearly impossible to infiltrate. It should have felt safe.

It didn’t.

Sansa knew no one here—not truly. Not even her aunt. So she kept her head down and moved quietly through the halls. She wandered the vast library, reading when she could, letting hours slip by as she watched birds wheel through the sky beyond her window. She did everything she could to stay out of people’s sight.

The fragile sense of normalcy did not last.

Petyr summoned her to a council meeting. Sansa assumed she would be used as she always was—a bargaining piece, something for him to trade away for his own gain. Nothing new.

So she stood in the throne room beneath the towering ceiling, the high seat of House Arryn looming above her. Or rather, her aunt’s seat. The Moon Door yawned at the center of the floor, a long and merciless drop into nothingness. Sansa kept her distance from it. Even closed, it unsettled her. Who was to say it could not be opened? Who was to say someone would not push her?

“My dear, I don’t think that’s a wise course,” Petyr was saying smoothly. He stood below, barred from the steps by guards who would not allow him closer.

Lysa scoffed. “And why not? My sister is dead. My husband is dead. All I have left is my sweet boy and they would take this from him.”

“The Lannisters are greedy,” Petyr replied, unruffled. “But they won’t manage to take the Vale.”

“Not until they learn she is here…”

“She is your niece,” he said calmly. “A Stark. Perhaps the last of them.”

Sansa swallowed, eyes fixed on the gleaming marble floor. At least her prayers had been answered in one small way, Arya was not here. That meant she might still be alive. Sansa chose to believe that, rather than the alternative.

She fidgeted with her gown, blue in the colors of House Arryn. It was finer than most she had worn in years. Still, she missed sewing her own dresses. It had always brought her comfort. Given her hands something to do.

“Starks belong in the North,” Lysa continued sharply. “Not the South. Not the East. Not the West. They are—”

She stopped.

Sansa looked up.

Her aunt was staring at her.

The anger drained from Lysa’s face, replaced by something else. Fear. Her eyes were wild, fixed, as though she were seeing something no one else could. Sansa had heard the whispers—that Lysa Arryn was unwell, unstable. Still, the look on her face sent a chill down her spine. It was the expression of someone glimpsing a truth they were never meant to see.

“Demon,” Lysa whispered.

Every gaze in the room snapped to Sansa.

She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling stripped bare beneath their stares. Her brows knit in confusion.

“Demon,” Lysa said again, louder.

Sansa looked around, heart pounding. She saw nothing. No shadows stretching where they should not. No comforting scent of firewood. No red-haired figure lurking at the edges of the room.

“Demon!” Lysa screamed.

She leapt from her seat, her voice shattering into hysteria as she repeated the word again and again. Goblets were knocked aside. Cushions thrown. The guards rushed forward, scrambling up the steps to restrain her, to calm her down. Others guided Sansa away, hands gentle but unyielding.

As she was led from the room, Sansa glanced back.

Petyr stood frozen in place, silent. He wasn’t looking at Lysa.

He was staring into a corner of the room—as though something there had caught his attention.

As though something was wrong.

Was something wrong?

And was it wrong, Sansa wondered, to wish for the scent of firewood again?

Late into the night, the castle grew quieter—calmer than it ever was by day. But Sansa felt no peace. Only a dull, aching wrongness settled in her chest. The word echoed in her mind, over and over.

Demon.

Was she one? It felt like it. Was that why her family had died? Because something in her was cruel, or wrong, or cursed?

She sniffed and wiped at her tears, frustrated with herself. She didn’t understand why the world had to be so cruel. Deep down, she knew she had done nothing to deserve this—but people used her, feared her, looked at her as though she were something else entirely. As though she had done something unforgivable.

“You never did answer my question.”

The familiar voice came from the window. A soft breeze slipped into the room, carrying with it the scent of firewood.

Comforting. Warm.

Sansa looked up.

Lucion stood there, half-hidden by shadow. She didn’t question how he had entered or how long he had been watching. Shadows were not meant to linger like that. Men were not meant to slip into darkness and vanish.

She had stopped asking those questions nights ago.

“Are they right?” She asked quietly. “Am I a demon? Are you?”

His back was turned to her, dressed in black as before. This time his red hair was braided back, his ruby earring catching the faint light of the fire.

“Demon,” He repeated thoughtfully. “People use words for things they do not understand.”

“That isn’t a yes or a no,” Sansa said, frowning.

“There are no simple answers,” Lucion replied, his hands clasped behind his back. “Simple answers are easier to lie with. Complex ones are harder to fake.”

She drew her knees up to her chest, curling in on herself atop the bed. She had meant to sleep, but rest would not come. “Alright,” She said softly. “Then what would be the right word to understand you?”

“A story forgotten,” Lucion murmured.

“What was your story?”

“Forgotten.”

Sansa pouted and rolled her eyes despite herself. “Do you not remember it, then?”

He was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer—lower. “Some of it. Pain. Being cast away. I do not like that story.” A pause. “I would rather change it.”

She watched him in silence. He crossed his arms over his chest, hands gripping his own biceps tightly, as though holding himself in place.

“I think the stars are all the people who have passed on,” Sansa said at last, resting her chin on her knees.

Lucion shifted, turning slightly toward her, though his eyes remained hidden in shadow. “That is a beautiful thought,” He said. “Better than mine.”

She smiled faintly. “I think planets are nice too. Imagine another world. A better one than this.”

“Perhaps,” He said. “Some worlds are kinder. Some far worse.”

He turned back to the window, gazing out at the night sky scattered with stars, the crescent moon cradled among them.

“Sleep well,” Lucion said quietly. “No nightmares. No harm. I am here to watch.”

And she believed him.

As strange as he was, he never rushed her. Never crowded her space. He simply existed, listened, spoke when it mattered. Now he stood there in silence, keeping his promise.

Sansa lay down among the furs and blankets, resting her head against the pillow. Slowly, sleep claimed her, her lashes fluttering shut.

The scent of firewood lingered in the room.

Lucion remained at the window.

The fire crackled softly.

Warm.

Safe.

Days passed, and Sansa felt more isolated than ever. She rarely saw anyone, and when she did, it never lasted long. It was as if people were afraid of her—scurrying away, changing paths when they noticed her presence. The way they avoided her made her chest ache.

Being alone should have felt normal by now. Instead, her thoughts were filled with the sound of her siblings’ laughter. Arya’s wild energy. The way Jon and Robb used to jump out from corners just to hear her shriek. Those memories clung to her no matter how hard she tried to push them away.

She wondered how Jon was doing at the Wall.

If she ran there, would he let her stay?

As cruel and unkind as she had once been to him, Jon was still her brother. He would protect her. He wasn’t like that.

She wished she could hug him again.

The thought barely had time to settle before a scent reached her nose—too strong, too sweet. Familiar in a way that made her stomach twist. Sansa slowed, then stopped at the top of the stairs.

A few steps below stood Petyr Baelish.

He looked up at her with that knowing smile she had learned to dread.

“Well, hello, my dear,” He said lightly. “Going somewhere?”

“My lord,” Sansa replied softly. “I was on my way to the library.” Her skin prickled as she spoke. She tightened her grip on her skirts.

“Ah, yes. You’ve been quite fond of the Vale’s libraries,” He said. “Read any good romances?”

She frowned, confused. “I’ve been reading histories.”

“I’m sure you have.” He took a step closer. “But a lonely girl such as yourself must have stumbled upon a romance or two.”

The torch beside them flickered. The smell of firewood drifted through the stairwell, sudden and sharp, before the flame steadied again.

“None,” She whispered.

Petyr climbed another step, close enough now that she could smell his perfume beneath the fire smoke.

“Well,” He murmured, “Perhaps that’s because you’re not as lonely as you pretend to be. Interesting voices seem to keep you company.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Every instinct screamed at her to run. Bile burned the back of her throat. She stared down at the stone steps, her fingers digging into her dress.

That was when she saw it.

A shadow stretched across the stairs—too long, too dark. It didn’t belong to the torchlight or the walls. It lay there, wrong and still.

Petyr leaned closer, his voice brushing her ear. “So tell me… who have you been entertaining?”

The torch flared.

Something moved.

Like a flame caught in a sudden breeze, the shadow lashed out. A stone shifted beneath Petyr’s foot.

He gasped.

His balance faltered, his heel slipping as the stair betrayed him. He tumbled backward, crashing down the spiral staircase. A loose rock clicked and clattered after him, chasing his fall, until a final, heavy thud ended it.

“Sansa—” She didn’t know if he screamed her name or simply breathed it.

She rushed down the steps, lifting her skirts, her heart hammering. But she stopped short.

Petyr lay twisted at the bottom of the stairs.

Blood pooled beneath his head, dark against the stone.

Tears burned her eyes. The smell of firewood lingered thick in the air.

But there was no shadow.

No man with red hair standing watch.

No voice whispering from the corners.

Only silence and the truth she could not name.

Everyone believed she had done it, that she had pushed him down the stairs. Sansa did not blame them. But she knew the truth. Not once had she laid a hand on him. Not even when she had wanted to.

They had thrown her into the cells.

But the Vale’s cells were not like others. They were carved high into the mountain itself. No iron bars. No doors. Just a vast opening to nothingness. Wind swept freely through the stone, cold and endless. She could feel every gust, every breath of the mountain.

She hadn’t cried.

She simply stayed curled in the corner, far from the edge.

Her eyes were closed, but she knew he was already there.

She didn’t need the scent of firewood to tell her that.

“Why did you do that for?” Sansa asked quietly.

“He was going to hurt you,” Lucion replied. There was something almost sorrowful in his voice.

“At least then I would’ve had a bed,” She sighed.

“He would have shared it with you,” Lucion whispered.

Her eyes opened.

He sat on the edge of the cell, legs dangling over the drop. This time he wore red, obsidian earrings glinting darkly in the low light. His hair was wind-tousled, as if the mountain itself had been tugging at it. His shoulders were hunched, drawn inward.

Would it have been better?

No. She knew it wouldn’t have.

“I’m sorry,” She said softly. “I just… I’m sad.”

“Sad,” Lucion repeated. “Is that why you don’t smile anymore? You used to smile like the summer sun. Now it’s gone.” His head tilted slightly toward her. “Is that my fault?”

Sansa watched him carefully. “No. It’s not your fault. I’m just sad a lot now. Ever since my father died. There’s not much to be happy about anymore.”

“There are always things to be happy about,” Lucion said. “You just have to find them. Like the stars.” He gestured upward. “The stars make me happy.”

She smiled faintly. “I suppose so.”

Then another thought came to her.

“But you know what would make me happy?”

His head lifted. “What?”

“You’ve never shown me your face. I want to see.”

“No.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“Why would that make you happy?”

“Why question happiness?”

Lucion paused. He looked out over the edge of the cell, hands gripping the smooth stone. After a moment, he hummed thoughtfully.

“Very well. But close your eyes first.”

She pouted but obeyed.

She heard the soft shift of fabric, quiet footsteps against stone. The scent of firewood returned, mingled with something else—old parchment, warm and aged. Heat settled beside her, not crowding, just present.

“Open and see,” Lucion said gently.

Sansa opened her eyes.

He looked human. Strong jaw, familiar features, nothing monstrous at all. But his eyes—

Black at their center, glowing red at the edges, fading into orange. Like embers buried deep within a fire.

She reached up and touched his face. He didn’t pull away. His skin was warm, soft beneath her fingers.

And suddenly, she understood.

“Your story,” She murmured. “Was it from the Andals?”

Lucion leaned into her touch. “Older. Longer. But they carried its continuation.”

Sansa nodded slowly. “Old Nan used to tell us stories. She said there were Eight, not Seven.” Her voice dropped. “One who ruled the hells.”

Lucion hummed. “She was wise. Stories that survive centuries usually are correct.”

Her hand fell back to her lap. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“I do,” Lucion said promptly. “We leave. This place smells like sheep. I hate sheep.”

She let out a small, surprised smile. “Okay. But how? I can’t do what you can.”

“Do not worry,” He said. “You will sleep. You will rest. And when you wake, you will be somewhere safe. This I promise.”

She hesitated. Then, softly: “Will you stay with me? I don’t want to be alone anymore. I’m tired of being alone.”

“You were never alone, Winter Wolf,” Lucion replied. “You simply see me now.”

He leaned back against the rock wall beside her. Their shoulders brushed. Sansa shifted closer and rested her head against his chest.

“See,” She murmured, eyes drifting shut. “I’m glad I can see you.”

“Me too,” Lucion said, a quiet hum of warmth in his voice. “Less lonely. Much more fun.”

Years passed, and Sansa never felt fear again.

Not the kind that settled heavy in her stomach, or burned like bile at the back of her throat. She had learned from her mistakes. She had grown stronger—sharper. And Lucion had always been there. In shadow or fire. Watching.

Now they sat comfortably in the familiar halls of Winterfell, where the hearth burned bright and hot, and a brood of children laughed at her feet.

She smiled softly. The cold iron crown resting upon her head was heavy but it was a good weight. A reminder that she was alive. That she had endured.

“Must we play with fire?” Lucion sighed.

“But pa,” one of the older boys protested.

“You play with fire using anger, not passion,” Lucion replied calmly. “Anger consumes. Passion warms. My answer is no.”

He shook his head slightly. He sat cross-legged on the floor among the children while the girls braided his red hair and threaded flowers through it.

The boy huffed and stalked away—and the fire, once flaring too high, settled back into a steady, obedient burn.

Sansa hummed, resting a hand over her swollen belly. She looked at her children. Every one of them bore her features—her hair, her face—but they moved through the world like Lucion. Old. Watchful. Wiser than their years.

It unsettled the Northerners, but not enough to speak of it.

No one complained of Lucion.

No one whispered that the children were different.

No one dared question her claim as Queen.

Perhaps that should have frightened her.

Instead, she felt at peace.

Lucion glanced up at her, coal-dark eyes reflecting the firelight. He smiled—real and warm—before turning his attention back to the girls.

Sansa laughed softly. “Make him a flower crown. A King Consort should always have one.”

“That’s perfect!” The youngest girl cried, scrambling for more flowers.

“Flowers are fine,” Lucion sighed. “No metal for me. Too uncomfortable.”

Sansa watched the chaos of it all—the laughter, the fire, the warmth—and smiled wider.

The North was safe.

And for the first time in her life, so was she.

Chapter Text

Daenerys Targaryen

Daenerys smiled softly as she gazed out the window of her chambers. The chair she sat in was far too big for her, her small body curled into it—knees tucked beneath her as she leaned against the tall back. She rested her chin on her folded arms and watched the clouds drift by, fluffy and white, like something out of a storybook.

After a moment, she reached down and flipped the latch, unlocking the window. The doors swung open with a faint squeak, and the ocean breeze rushed in, cool and sharp. It smelled of salt and fish and… fire.

Daenerys leaned forward, peering out.

Fire usually meant dragons.

But no one was flying—were they?

Father was busy today, buried in matters of the realm, and Mother was resting. So who else could it be?

Her thoughts raced, tumbling over stories she had heard whispered by servants and sung by minstrels—tales of wild dragons. Black with green. White and grey. Brown and bronze. Perhaps one day she might tame one herself. To be a dragonrider, just like her parents. To soar through the skies with her own dragon, gliding through clouds and skimming the ocean’s surface. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

But it was none of those.

A shadow—vast, impossible—fell over King’s Landing, swallowing the city whole and plunging it into darkness. The scent of smoke and flame thickened the air. A deep, rumbling hum rolled through the sky, shaking the castle itself… or perhaps the world.

Daenerys gasped and leaned farther out the window, small hands gripping the stone sill, her feet braced against the seat of the chair. Her smile only widened.

Balerion flew high above the city, his scales black as night, his wing-edges tipped in red like dark Highgarden wine. The Black Dread circled slowly, so high that other dragons—Dreamfyre included—would have looked small by comparison. He was not merely large; he was vast, like a living mountain range torn from the Vale itself.

Another thunderous hum escaped him as he changed course, wings beating toward the open fields beyond the city walls. Each stroke echoed like distant thunder. And there, upon his saddle, sat a lone silhouette—a faint smudge of white against the endless black.

Daenerys couldn’t tell who it was. Couldn’t yet see which family member had claimed the oldest and greatest of all dragons. But she wanted to know. Desperately. Whoever it was, she would bombard them with questions the moment she got the chance.

For whoever had claimed the largest dragon in the world was surely destined to be as great as Aegon the Conqueror.

Daenerys ran through the halls, skirts gathered tightly in her hands so she could move faster. She dodged servants and slipped past guards, racing down staircases two at a time. The castle buzzed with excited chaos—voices overlapping, footsteps echoing. No one yet knew who had claimed the Black Dread, but everyone knew it would be a Targaryen.

At last she burst into the throne room, the source of all the noise. She darted beneath the legs of a Kingsguard knight and skidded to a stop at her mother’s side. Daenerys was panting, heart thundering in her chest, her smile wide and bright with excitement.

Her mother looked down at her and smiled softly, placing a gentle hand atop her head and smoothing her hair.

Beyond her, at the base of the Iron Throne’s steps, her father stood with his arms crossed.

“Aerea Targaryen,” He said sharply, “You know better than to ride a dragon across the sea alone. You are far too young for such recklessness.”

Daenerys craned her neck, weaving through the bodies in her way. Rising onto her toes, she finally saw her.

A girl only a few years older than herself stood at the center of the room, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She wore riding leathers, her face set in a deep scowl. Her pale hair was tied back into a ponytail, though several silver strands had escaped, framing her flushed face.

“I know, Your Grace,” The girl snapped, throwing her hands up. “But I was bored! Mother won’t let me do anything there and I can do things here!” She gestured wildly around the court. “Am I meant to rot on Dragonstone forever?”

The King sighed heavily, rubbing at his temple. “I understand what it is to feel caged. But you cannot simply run away from home.”

“But it isn’t home!” Aerea shouted, fury blazing in her eyes as her hands fell to her sides. “This is home!”

“Do not speak back to me, young lady,” Her father said firmly—not cruel, but unmistakably final. “You will be confined to Maegor’s Holdfast until your mother arrives to take you back. Do you understand?”

Aerea scoffed. “This is so unfair. Why must I suffer? Why can’t I stay?” Her voice cracked with anger. “I want to be at court. I want people—life. Dragonstone is boring. No court, no crowds. Just clouds and cold stone.”

Daenerys frowned slightly. It did sound dreadful—to be trapped somewhere you didn’t want to be. Surely Father would let her stay, wouldn’t he? She had claimed the greatest dragon in the world. Why wouldn’t that be enough?

But her father shook his head. “I will hear no more of this. Take her away.”

He waved his hand, and a Kingsguard stepped forward.

And just like that, Aerea was led from the room.

Daenerys looked up at her mother, gently slipping her small hand into hers. In a quiet whisper, she asked, “Who was that?”

Her mother squeezed her hand and smiled softly, whispering back, “One of your cousins, sweetling.”

Daenerys turned toward the great doors just in time to see Aerea storm through them, her shoulders stiff with fury. Daenerys could almost hear the grinding of her teeth—and imagined that, if she truly were a dragon, smoke might be curling from her ears.

The doors slammed shut.

Daenerys lingered there a moment longer, thoughtful.

Perhaps… she could make a new friend after all.

A few hours later, the castle had finally settled into quiet. From the windows, Daenerys could see Balerion resting atop a distant hill. The great dragon lay curled like an enormous cat, wings folded over his massive head, his tail wrapped securely around himself.

Carefully, she made her way toward Maegor’s Holdfast. She detoured through the library, lingered on a balcony, and wandered through several corridors before finally spotting Aerea in a shadowed hallway. The older girl sat on the stone floor, arms wrapped around her knees, a lone Kingsguard standing watch nearby.

Daenerys smiled, relieved—and delighted—to have found her at last. She padded closer and stopped right in front of Aerea.

“Hello!”

Aerea glanced up at her but said nothing. The familiar scowl still lingered on her face, fire flickering stubbornly in her violet eyes.

“I’m Daenerys,” She said cheerfully. “And you’re Aerea, right?”

Silence again.

Undeterred, Daenerys continued, words tumbling out in a rush. “I saw you with Balerion! It looked so fun. Are the winds harsher since he’s so big? How long does it take to climb up to the saddle? How did you claim him?”

Aerea rolled her eyes. “No one claims anything,” She muttered. “The dragon claims you.”

Daenerys sank down onto the floor across from her, settling onto her knees without a second thought for her dress. Dust didn’t matter if it meant talking to another girl—especially one who rode an ancient dragon. That just made it even better.

“Soooo?” Daenerys prompted, biting her bottom lip and leaning forward eagerly.

Aerea groaned and dragged a hand down her face. But the sharp scowl softened into something more tired—a frown instead of a snarl.

“Yes, the winds are harsher,” She admitted. “And yes, it takes forever to climb the ropes to the saddle. I went to him in the dead of night, at his nest.”

Daenerys gasped, her smile stretching wide. She swayed side to side in excitement. “Have you burned anything yet? I heard his fire is black with red in it. How big is it? Could he burn all of King’s Landing?”

Aerea shrugged. “I don’t know. I only rode him last night.” Then, after a pause, she added, “But probably. Yes to all of it.”

Daenerys scooted a little closer, her voice dropping into something softer. Aerea still wore her riding leathers and looked every bit a dragonrider—fierce, restless, burning with passion.

“Maybe I could convince Father to let you stay,” Daenerys said hopefully. “I’m bored too. I don’t have any sisters, just brothers. Though it is fun to boss them around.” She brightened. “We could boss them around together!”

Aerea’s expression softened completely. “Maybe,” She said. “But don’t waste your breath. He’s stubborn. So is my mother. She won’t let me out of her sight.” She rolled her eyes.

“But we could be best friends,” Daenerys insisted, pouting. “Please?”

Aerea crossed her arms. “If you can convince His Grace,” She said at last, “Then fine. We can be friends.”

Daenerys leapt to her feet with a squeal. “Yay! I’ll be back soon!”

She gathered her skirts and ran off down the hall, already planning her argument.

Oh, to have a friend like that.

Moons passed, and Daenerys had—at last—convinced her father to allow Aerea to remain at court. She tugged at his heartstrings until he relented. After that, she spent nearly every day with Aerea, trailing after her, bombarding her with questions. Having her there was endlessly exciting. It felt as though Daenerys were living beside a growing legend, like the knights and princesses from her storybooks come to life.

Aerea was far more knight than princess—bold, powerful, and unyielding. Wasn’t that how Aegon the Conqueror had been? Balerion, it seemed, knew how to choose his riders.

But in recent days, Daenerys had begun to feel cold. The familiar shivers crept back into her bones. The last time this sickness had taken hold of her, she had barely survived. It left her weak, unable to stand on her own. Now she lay confined to her bed once more, her nose blocked, every breath a struggle.

At first, she heard her mother’s soft, frightened whispers and her father’s quiet, simmering rage. The maesters came and went, but none could truly make her better. No matter what draughts they brewed or how much they coaxed her to eat or drink, nothing eased the sickness.

She drifted in and out of consciousness, her skin slick with sweat even as she shivered beneath layers of furs and blankets. Nothing warmed her, though her body burned as if it believed otherwise.

Then she saw a shadow.

Long wings stretched across the stone walls, smoke curling faintly in the air. It loomed near her doorway, dark and indistinct, her vision too blurred to make sense of it.

But she heard it—the low, rumbling hum that felt as though it shook the world itself.

That sound felt safe.

Safe enough to let herself sleep.

When Daenerys opened her eyes again, the haze had lessened. She groaned softly and turned her head, finding the room dim and quiet. A faint sound came from nearby—a soft clink of porcelain settling against wood.

She sniffled, her breathing still labored, and looked toward the noise.

Aerea stood beside the table, carefully setting down a vase filled with flowers. Daisies, freshly picked.

“Oh,” Aerea said gently. “I thought you’d still be asleep.”

Daenerys swallowed, her throat dry as a desert. She clutched her blankets closer, frowning faintly. “Hello…” She whispered.

Aerea hesitated. “Hi. I, um… how are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Daenerys murmured. “And… thirsty.” Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. She hated being sick. It always felt so frightening.

“Thirsty?” Aerea echoed, already glancing around the room.

The world began to blur again—whether from tears or fever, Daenerys couldn’t tell. She breathed through her mouth, nearly gasping, sleep tugging at her relentlessly. She tried to fight it. Aerea was here. She wanted to talk. To ask questions. There were always more questions. Always more stories.

She remembered warmth.

The smoky scent of fire.

Cool liquid touching her lips, soothing the painful dryness in her throat.

Then everything slipped away.

In the darkness, Daenerys wondered if she would ever have a dragon of her own. She wanted one—like her parents, like Aerea. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to fly beside her? Racing from King’s Landing to Dragonstone, soaring north to see the Wall, gliding over the meadows of Highgarden or the mountains of the Eyrie.

More than anything, she wanted a friend.

Yet some quiet part of her feared she would be left behind. No dragon. A life meant for marriage—to her younger brother, Aemon—and a crown she did not want. To be queen did not sound half as thrilling as touching the stars atop a dragon’s back.

She didn’t want Aerea to forget her.

A knight was never meant to forget her princess. That was what the storybooks said.

When she woke again, soft footsteps crossed the room. Daenerys groaned faintly and lifted her head, the world tilting as she tried to focus.

“Good morning,” Aerea said.

She moved to the windows and pulled the curtains open, letting sunlight spill into the room. Daenerys’ bed sat close to the glass, where she could always see the city when she woke.

Beyond the windows rose a dark, living mountain.

Balerion lay in the fields below, wings spread wide, his massive head lifted toward the castle. His horned crown gleamed with red light in the sun.

Daenerys swallowed. Her throat no longer felt so dry.

Aerea sighed softly and dragged a chair closer to the bed. She sat, a book resting in her lap. “Do you want to listen to a story?” She asked. “I brought your favorite—The Princess in the Tower.”

Daenerys couldn’t make herself speak. But she listened.

Aerea’s voice was soft and steady, like the rhythm of wings beating through the sky. Daenerys drifted in and out of sleep, yet Aerea read the entire book aloud, then stayed beside her in quiet vigil for the rest of the day.

For that, Daenerys was grateful. Being confined to a bed was terribly lonely.

That night, her gaze wandered back to the window. Darkness had fallen, but Balerion’s black scales were darker still. For just a moment, she glimpsed the faint glow of red eyes watching the castle.

Then sleep drew its blanket over her once more.

Over the following days, Daenerys felt better—stronger, able to breathe freely once more. There were still concerns, of course, so she remained confined to her bed, the curtains drawn back and the windows thrown open to welcome the gentle breeze. From there, she could see Balerion atop the hill he had claimed. It seemed the great black dragon had little love for the Dragonpit.

She could not blame him. She disliked being confined just as much.

“Feeling better?” Aerea asked, dropping into the chair beside the bed and propping her boots against the mattress with easy familiarity. She never wore dresses—Daenerys could not remember ever seeing her in one.

Would she look pretty in one?

Daenerys smiled brightly. “Yes!” She bounced lightly on the bed, unable to help herself.

Aerea nodded once. “Good.”

Daenerys hummed. That was nice, but… there was something she had been meaning to ask for a long while now. Even before she’d fallen ill. After everything, life felt sharper, more fragile—and more precious. Her gaze drifted to the distant shape of the dragon before returning to Aerea.

“Can I ride Balerion with you?” She asked, trying to sound casual.

Aerea let out a small chuckle. “I think your mother is meant to visit soon.”

Just like that, the question was dismissed.

It stung more than Daenerys expected. She didn’t understand why it had to be a no. It would only be a simple ride. Still—she could be patient. She would convince Aerea eventually. All she had to do was tug at her heartstrings.

The next time she tried was in the gardens. They sat beneath a broad-limbed tree, Aerea absorbed in one of her history books while Daenerys wove flower crowns in her lap. Leaves drifted lazily through the air, spiraling down to brush their shoulders and the grass below. The breeze carried the scent of salt—and dragon—from Aerea’s clothes.

“So,” Daenerys said, plucking another blossom from her pile. “I was wondering if we could go on a dragon ride?”

Aerea looked up, one eyebrow arching.

“Just a small one,” Daenerys added quickly, pouting as she set the half-finished crown aside and leaned forward. “Just a circle around the city!”

“No,” Aerea said simply, already returning to her book.

“But—” Daenerys groaned, slumping back against the tree. She stared down at the flowers in her lap.

Another failure.

Still, she would wear her down eventually. She was sure of it.

The next attempt came on a quiet evening in Daenerys’ bedchamber. They sat together by the hearth with warm tea and biscuits, wrapped in comfortable silence. It had become something of a ritual.

Daenerys sipped her tea and glanced at Aerea, who was watching the fire. The flames caught in her eyes, turning them into something bright and faceted, like gemstones.

In that moment, Daenerys decided Aerea would look beautiful in a dark violet dress.

But knights did not need dresses—only their swords. And Balerion was hers.

“So,” Daenerys began softly. “About the dragon riding…”

Aerea closed her eyes and sighed. “My answer is still no.”

“Why not?” Daenerys whined. “You have to give me a reason!”

Aerea’s eyes snapped open, fire blazing within them. She rounded on Daenerys, her voice rising. “Why not? Because I refuse to lose you. What if you fell? What if he made you sick? What if something—anything—happened?”

She stood abruptly, the blanket slipping from her shoulders and pooling at her feet.

Daenerys frowned up at her. “But I’m not some dainty princess. I can—I can be fine.”

Aerea’s anger dimmed, the fire in her eyes fading to something weary and afraid. “It’s not about that,” She said quietly. “My answer is no, Daenerys. I don’t think you truly understand what you’re asking.”

Then she left, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

The room felt colder without her. Daenerys wrapped her arms around herself as tears welled up, blurring the fire in the hearth. She sniffed, blinking hard.

She wasn’t a dainty princess.

She would be fine.

Why couldn’t Aerea see that?

Aerea Targaryen

Years had passed since that night.

She replayed it over and over in her mind—the way Daenerys had asked, the tears that had welled in her eyes. Such was the cruelty of rejection.

She could not let Daenerys onto that dragon. The fear knotted in her stomach every night, twisting until sleep came only in fragments, if at all. Cold sweat clung to her skin as she lay awake, staring at the dark.

Aerea had never seen anyone so sick.

Daenerys had grown smaller with each passing day, her body wasting away beneath layers of sweat-soaked sheets—enough, Aerea had once thought, to fill a lake. Her skin had turned a sickly yellow, her eyes unfocused, looking without truly seeing. It had been horrific.

No one deserved that.

And she could not risk Balerion bringing that sickness back to her.

They never truly recovered from that night. Time passed, and distance settled between them—quietly, almost gently. They moved through separate lives, separate duties. Still, Aerea never strayed far. At feasts and gatherings, she was always nearby, watching. Protecting.

And Daenerys grew.

She no longer seemed fragile or sickly. She became radiant—bright as the sun itself—and more often than not, Aerea found it difficult to look away. A small, guilty part of her was relieved when Aemon married another. At least that danger had passed.

Now, today was Daenerys’ ten-and-seven name day.

The castle was alive with celebration: a grand feast, music echoing through the halls, fools and dancers and young lords eager to earn her favor. Normally, Aerea would have thrived in such chaos.

Tonight, she could not bear it.

Instead, she slipped into Daenerys’ bedchamber with a plan—one she had long feared, one she had avoided for years. Life was short. And it had been unbearably lonely without Daenerys’ endless questions filling her days.

She leaned against the window, gazing out at the Black Dread atop his hill. Balerion rested now, but even he seemed to sense that tonight would be different.

The door opened, then closed with a familiar click.

In the window’s reflection, Aerea saw Daenerys pause in the center of the room. Firelight from the hearth danced across her gown—red and black, though mostly red. Rubies and gold adorned her throat and fingers. She had always loved her jewels. Her hair was done beautifully, fit for a princess at her feast.

Aerea gestured toward the bed. “Put those on, if you want.”

Daenerys approached slowly. On the bed lay dragon-riding leathers, tailored precisely for her. Aerea’s true name day gift—far more than the ride itself.

Daenerys lifted them, her voice quiet, trembling at the edges. “You said no…”

“I know,” Aerea replied.

Nothing more needed to be said. Not yet.

When they reached Balerion, Daenerys could hardly contain herself, bouncing on her toes, smiling so wide it made Aerea’s chest ache. Her eyes shone with unrestrained joy as they stood beneath the dragon’s immense shadow.

Balerion lowered his massive head, rumbling softly, red eyes fixing on them.

Aerea reached out, touching his warm scales. Then she took Daenerys’ hand and guided it forward, placing it gently against his chin, her own hand covering hers.

Daenerys’ fingers were soft. She smelled of citrus and flowers.

“He’s so big,” Daenerys breathed, laughing. “And so warm! Do you cuddle with him? I bet he’s wonderful to sleep on.”

Aerea smiled despite herself. Gods, how she had missed those questions. “Sometimes, when a bed feels too small. Though his scales aren’t very comfortable.”

“Wow…” Daenerys hesitated, then asked softly, almost fearfully, “Can we… can we climb into the saddle?”

Aerea nodded, squeezing her hand gently. Fear had held her back for so long. How much time had they lost to it? Perhaps not all of it was gone.

“Don’t ever be afraid to ask again,” Aerea whispered, releasing her hand.

Chapter Text

Hans Westergaard

Hans sighed heavily as he tied his bag onto the saddle of his horse. The leather creaked beneath his hands. He wasn’t looking forward to this arrangement but when had anyone ever cared about what he wanted?

They never had.

He was practically invisible in his own house. Yet somehow, he was the only brother suitable to marry a princess. The others were already wed or sworn as knights, sailing across the Narrow Sea in pursuit of glory. Hans was simply the one left behind — unmarried, unremarkable, and conveniently available.

So here he was, sent off to wed a woman he knew nothing about.

Could he be eaten by dragons? Possibly.

Could he be ridiculed for being a lowly lordling? Certainly.

A minor lord so far down the line of inheritance that his name barely mattered and now he was to marry a princess.

Franz laughed behind him and smacked his shoulder so hard he nearly stumbled into his horse. Hans caught himself with a curse.

“What was that for?” He muttered, glaring at his older brother.

Franz only grinned. “Have to keep you on your toes, little brother. Who knows? You might be engulfed in flames before the year’s out.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It is to me.”

Of course it was. Franz had always found humor in other people’s discomfort. He stood broader, taller — already every inch the knight he liked to boast about being. Honor, however, had never suited him.

“Come to see me off, then?” Hans asked, tugging once more at the strap on his saddle to be sure it was secure.

No one else had bothered. Not their father. Not their other brothers. A few passing pats on the back, a murmured good luck, and that had been the extent of it. He was leaving home, yet no one had made it feel like he was leaving anything at all.

“Just making sure you don’t ruin this,” Franz replied, crossing his arms. “You’re marrying a princess. That makes you important, for once.”

Hans stiffened. “I know that. You don’t need to break my neck reminding me.”

Franz huffed a laugh. “This is war. If we win, our blood will sit closer to the throne. Targaryens and their queer customs, it’s only a matter of time.”

Hans swallowed.

All he could picture was fire; towers collapsing into ash, wings blotting out the sun, heat so fierce it swallowed breath whole. Dragons did not care about bloodlines or alliances. They burned all the same.

“Yeah,” He said quietly. Smaller than he meant to sound. “I know.”

He mounted his horse before Franz could say anything else. Before he could hear another joke about flames.

He did not want glory. He did not want a throne.

He only hoped he would live long enough to see another spring.

When he first saw King’s Landing, he nearly felt sick.

The city sprawled endlessly, stretching from one massive hill to the next. Smoke lingered in the air like a permanent veil. The Red Keep rose in the distance, red stone blazing against the sea behind it — tall, watchful, immovable.

It smelled of people. Of horses.

Of dragons.

Smoke and fire seemed ordinary here, as common as bread.

He saw none in the sky, but he had heard the stories. The Dragonpit stood upon one of the hills — a monstrous structure said to sink deep into the earth, into caves where scaled beasts coiled and slept.

Hans had to steady himself in the saddle.

Being this close to dragons felt unreal.

His grip tightened on the reins as they passed beneath the gates and into the city proper.

The noise swallowed him whole.

By the time he reached the Red Keep, he found himself walking between Kingsguard — white armor gleaming, cloaks whiter still. They towered beside him, chins high, silent and immovable as statues carved from marble.

Men built for legend.

Hans wiped his damp palms against his trousers, pretending to smooth nonexistent wrinkles.

The Red Keep was nothing like home.

It was grand. Vast. Regal.

He felt underdressed simply breathing its air.

They passed beneath red-bricked arches and across polished marble floors before emerging once more into the gardens. Birds chirped overhead. A soft sea breeze drifted through the hedges.

And there — near a cluster of rose bushes — knelt a woman in a blue gown, the hem already darkened by mud. She cradled a full-bloomed rose as though it were something fragile and living beyond its petals.

The Kingsguard stopped several paces away and nudged him forward.

Hans nearly stumbled again, boots slipping in the damp earth, but he caught himself. His balance felt uncertain here as though even the ground belonged to someone else.

He glanced back. The guards stood vigilant, unmoving.

Was this truly how one met a princess? In the mud, among roses?

Or perhaps she did not care.

The closer he stepped, the louder his heart pounded.

He stopped a few feet away and clasped his hands behind his back, clearing his throat.

“Princess Helaena… I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

Her head lifted.

Silver hair slipped across her face, veiling one violet eye. She studied him for a long moment, so long he wondered if he had already offended her simply by existing.

Then she asked, softly, “Do flowers speak differently where you are from?”

She still cradled the rose. A thin line of red traced her pale finger, she had nicked herself on a thorn, though she did not seem to notice.

Hans blinked.

“I…” His hands dropped awkwardly to his sides. “I think they are more joyful in the meadows. There is more space for them. Though… I suppose I had more time to listen.”

Her smile came slowly. Small. Gentle.

“That is nice.”

She looked back down at the rose, as though the conversation had never truly been about him.

And Hans stood there, unsure what to do with himself.

Then, carefully — almost shyly — he knelt beside her in the mud.

He said nothing more.

He simply watched as she tended to the rose bush, as though he had stepped into a moment that had existed long before he arrived.

So far, his stay had been fine, nothing grand or unusual. Though he suspected that was because of the war. King Aegon was busy with his endeavors, the Hand and the Queen Mother tangled in politics. It meant fewer eyes on him, fewer measuring glances. He could ease into his bedchambers without feeling inspected.

Did he get much sleep? No.

But he could hear the ocean faintly through the windows, just enough of the waves to steady him.

Now he walked beside Princess Helaena in the gardens, a Kingsguard trailing behind them like a silent shadow. Hans almost forgot the man was there from time to time.

“Where are we going today, Princess?” Hans asked, hands folded neatly behind his back.

Helaena hummed. “Somewhere peaceful.”

He wondered if she always spoke in riddles. It was intriguing in a way. Nothing like his brothers would do. She said things as though they mattered. His brothers had only ever spoken in riddles to mock, to confuse, to make him small.

He inclined his head once and asked no further questions, simply following where she led.

His eyes swept over the gardens. There were dozens of flowers he would have admired under different circumstances, but they passed most of them, walking beneath archways thick with curling vines. The air smelled green and damp.

Then he saw it.

The white tree stood on a small rise, eerily still despite the breeze. Its carved face seemed ancient, solemn. Dark red sap trailed down the bark like slow-moving tears.

Hans’ eyes widened just slightly at first. Then more as they approached.

They stopped before it.

“Do you have one where you’re from?” Helaena asked, her shoulder brushing his briefly.

Hans smiled — practiced, bright.

“We do,” He replied softly. “My brothers loved to sit in the branches.”

He did not add that they told him horror stories beneath its leaves. That they whispered of ghosts that wandered after dusk. That if he stepped too close at night, something unseen would snatch up his soul. He had cried more than once because of those stories. And even now, sometimes, he felt watched by unseen eyes carved in wood.

Warmth curled around his hand.

He hadn’t even noticed her reach for him.

Helaena’s fingers were gentle, steady. She studied him quietly.

“You smile bright when you’re afraid,” She said.

Not mocking.

Just observing.

His smile faltered only a fraction.

“It’s all right,” She continued, turning her gaze back to the heart tree. “They watch and see, but they do not hurt. They only like to remember.”

Hans followed her gaze to the carved face. The sap glistened darkly in the light.

They just watch.

He wondered if the Old Gods ever grew tired of watching. If they wept for the things they witnessed. If they approved of wars and crowns and frightened boys pretending not to be frightened at all.

He gave her hand a small squeeze.

Helaena threaded their fingers together without hesitation, swaying gently where she stood, her blue dress stirring with the wind.

“They only watch,” Hans murmured, as if convincing himself.

Helaena hummed in quiet agreement.

Did the gods ever cry for the ones who feared them?

The next time he met Princess Helaena, it was not in the gardens but in the library.

He had not yet seen it, and a part of him had been quietly eager to. The library at home had been small, so small he had read every book at least five times over, some nearly memorized from repetition.

When the doors opened with a hushed groan, his breath caught.

The walls stretched impossibly high, shelves climbing toward the ceiling, every inch filled with books. The scent of old parchment and ink hung heavy in the air, comforting and rich.

He could already imagine himself here for hours—entire days, if he were permitted such indulgence.

Then his eyes caught a flash of silver.

Her hair spilled down her back like pale rose petals—soft, delicate, luminous against the darker wood of the shelves.

Hans approached quietly.

“Princess?” He asked, his voice low out of instinct.

Helaena hummed in response.

She was hunched over something on the floor. From where he stood, he expected flowers. Or perhaps a book left open and forgotten.

Instead, when he knelt beside her, he found himself staring at a large spider resting calmly in her hands. A glass container sat nearby, its lid removed, thick webs lining the inside.

Hans felt his heart sink into his stomach.

“P-Princess…?” He whispered.

She glanced at him, smiling brightly. “Yes?”

“That is… a spider,” he said carefully. “In your hands.”

“Yes. A wolf spider. His name is Everett.” She looked back down at it fondly.

The spider lifted its front legs, rubbing them together as if washing its face. All eight eyes gleamed faintly as it turned toward him.

Hans shifted back an inch before he could stop himself.

“You just… have a spider?” He asked, attempting composure. “As one might have a dog?”

“He is not a pet,” Helaena corrected gently. “He is a spider. And he loves crickets.”

She turned to face him fully, the spider still cradled in her palms. She moved without fear, without the slightest tension in her shoulders.

“I see,” Hans replied, nodding once.

“You can touch him. He’s kind.”

“I…” He swallowed. “No, thank you.”

“That’s all right.”

She set Everett carefully upon her lap. The spider wandered in slow, deliberate steps before settling as though it had found the perfect resting place.

Hans had expected dragons to define her world.

Fire. Flight. Power.

But this—this quiet fascination with delicate, many-legged creatures felt like discovering a hidden garden inside a storm.

Her world was not only dragons. It was insects. It was patience. It was softness. It was her own.

“So,” Hans asked, steadying himself, “How did you acquire Everett?”

“He came to me for food,” She said simply.

“Ah.” He nodded. “Of course he did. Do you have more insects?”

“Spiders are not insects,” She added brightly. “They are arachnids. Eight legs.”

There was a pride in her voice—gentle, pleased to share knowledge. It made something warm bloom in his chest.

“My mistake,” He said, smiling.

“Oh, I have others,” She continued eagerly. “Praying mantises, different spiders, ladybugs, June bugs…”

She listed each one by name, then by personality; who was bold, who was shy, who liked the sun, who preferred shadows.

Hans listened to every word.

At some point, he realized the spider no longer made his pulse race. Everett moved across her skirts with slow confidence, harmless in her careful hands.

He had never thought to find comfort in a room with a spider.

And yet, sitting beside her on the library floor, he felt something close to it.

It had taken days for his gift to arrive.

He waited more patiently than he thought himself capable of and far more eagerly than he would ever admit aloud. He could already hear his brothers’ voices in his head, mocking the smile that refused to leave his face. Mocking the hours he spent in gardens beside a princess who preferred insects to courtly chatter.

But he did not care.

Let them laugh.

He would take her soft voice over their twelve jeering ones any day.

And now — finally — it was here.

The glass enclosure sat hidden beneath a heavy cloth, and Hans smoothed the wrinkles from the fabric for the third time.

The door opened with a faint squeak.

“Hans?” Helaena’s voice drifted in, gentle as always.

She carried a small lizard in her palm, Dreamer. The creature blinked lazily, content in her warmth. He rarely had the energy to do much beyond eat and sleep.

Hans hummed softly. “Yes, Princess?”

The smile on his face would not leave, no matter how he tried to temper it.

Helaena’s gaze flicked to the draped shape, then back to him. She tilted her head, silver hair slipping across her cheek.

“I like that smile,” She said quietly. “It’s sweet.”

Heat rushed to his face. “Ah… thank you, Princess.”

“So why am I brought here?” She asked, curiosity bright in her violet eyes.

“I have a surprise for you.” He stepped closer and gently took her free hand, pressing a careful kiss to her knuckles. “I know how much you love your insects… and your lizards. So I thought to give you one you do not yet have.”

Helaena squeezed his hand lightly. “Oh?”

He stepped back and lifted the cloth away.

Inside the glass enclosure rested an iguana, scales gleaming emerald and deep blue beneath the light. Its long claws curled against the branch inside, tail coiled neatly beneath it. The creature lifted its head at once, tongue flicking out as it regarded Hans with bright, alert eyes.

Helaena gasped.

“Oh, look at her,” She whispered, stepping closer. “She’s beautiful.”

She tapped gently against the glass, though the iguana’s gaze remained fixed on Hans.

“Oh,” Helaena murmured with delight, “She’s curious about you.”

“Really?” Hans said dryly. “I was rather certain she meant to remove my arm when I fed her earlier.”

Helaena giggled, light and unguarded. “She was only startled.”

“Ah. That explains it.” Hans inclined his head toward the iguana. “My apologies.”

The tongue flicked out again.

Helaena laughed once more, then rose onto her toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” She said.

His heart nearly leapt from his chest.

He took her hand again, more gently this time. “Of course, Princess. Anything to see that beautiful smile.”

A faint flush dusted her cheeks pink.

And something in his chest felt impossibly light.

It had only been a few moons. Perhaps it was foolish to feel so much, so quickly.

But every day beside her felt different from the life he had known. She looked at him as though he mattered. She listened. She spoke to him with a softness he had never been granted before.

With her, he was not the forgotten son. Not the expendable brother.

He was simply Hans.

And so, quietly, without announcement or witness, he made a vow.

He would love her fiercely. Gently. Entirely.

He pressed another kiss to her knuckles, softer this time.

His heart was no longer haunted by the echo of twelve jeering voices.

He had been sent away from them.

And for the first time in his life, he felt free.

The following day, Hans sat nestled against the pale roots of the great tree, his back resting against its smooth white trunk. Red leaves drifted down from the branches above, some catching in his hair, others settling on his trousers.

He left them there.

He turned a page in his book.

Softly, he read aloud to Helaena, who sat beside him among scattered blooms. Flowers lay pooled in her lap as she carefully wove their stems together.

Another page turned.

It was peaceful here.

No loud voices.

No shoving hands.

No laughter meant to wound.

Just the hush of leaves and her quiet presence at his side.

Another page turned.

Then Helaena shifted closer.

He barely noticed until something light settled atop his head.

“I’m glad you chose this path instead,” She said softly.

Hans paused mid-sentence.

He looked up slightly, catching sight of soft petals at the edge of his vision, woven flowers resting like a crown upon his hair.

Then he looked at her.

Helaena reached up and gently cupped his cheek, her touch careful, as though he were something fragile.

Why did she always look at him that way?

As if she could see through every wall he had built over the years.

He did not have to be loud.

He did not have to be cruel.

He did not have to be anything but himself.

He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

She kissed him back.

As nervous as he had once been to meet a princess, he found himself quietly grateful now, grateful to whatever gods had brought him here.

To this garden.

To this peace.

To her world of insects and lizards, dragons and flowers.

And to the strange, gentle fate that had allowed him to belong within it.

Chapter Text

Sansa Stark

“He’s the best husband I can find for you, Sansa.”

Jon paced before the hearth, the firelight catching in his dark hair. He rubbed his hands together as though trying to warm them, though the room was not cold. He looked older than he was — as if the weight of Winterfell, of their name, had already settled across his shoulders.

“He’s kind. Respectful. Honorable. No one has ever spoken ill of him.”

Sansa sat quietly, her fingers resting against Ghost’s thick white fur. His tail flicked lazily against the floor. Red eyes lifted to meet her blue ones, and she let out a soft breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“I know,” She said gently. “Thank you.”

In three quick strides Jon was before her. He dropped to one knee so they were eye to eye, and took her hands in his. His grip was warm — firm, but careful, as though she were something precious.

“I swear to you,” He said, voice low and steady, “If he ever hurts you — if he so much as disrespects you — he will answer for it. I will protect you. And Arya. Until my last breath.”

And she knew he meant it.

Because that was Jon. That was Robb. That was Father.

Honorable. Protective. Unyielding when it mattered most.

Sansa squeezed his hands, though her vision blurred. She would be brave. Stark girls were always brave.

“I know,” She whispered, smaller than she meant to sound.

Jon gathered her into his arms, strong and steady as the walls of Winterfell itself. She buried her face against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and smoke. For a moment — just a small, fragile moment — the world beyond his embrace did not exist.

And she let herself pretend she was still only his little sister, and not a bride promised to the South.

Willas Tyrell

The window creaked beneath the lash of the wind. The night air had turned sharp, and perhaps it was the cold that made his leg ache more than usual.

He rubbed it absently, fingers moving in slow circles, while his other arm lay draped across his forehead. The room was dark—no candles lit, no hearth burning. He should have been asleep.

Some nights it was the pain that kept him awake. Other nights, the nightmares.

Tonight, it was neither.

Tonight, it was Sansa Stark.

She was younger than he was. Younger and already touched by more grief than most twice her age. He remembered the letters Margaery had sent him about her, ink pressed with careful excitement. They had been friends once. Close, even.

Before everything.

Willas’s breath faltered, and he closed his eyes.

He could have refused. Could have insisted Loras take the match instead. They were closer in age. It might have made more sense. But Loras was still grieving, even after all these years. The man he had loved was gone, and that wound had never truly closed.

Willas would not place another burden upon his brother’s shoulders.

And Garlan was already wed.

So it had to be him.

His fingers continued their slow circles over the old injury, the ache easing under his touch.

Could he make her happy?

Would he be enough?

He had never expected marriage. Never expected a lady to look at him with hope or affection. He had long ago he had named Garlan his Heir.

He was a broken knight who never truly was one.

His throat tightened. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, though none fell.

If he could not mend the past, if he could not protect Margaery from what had come, then he would protect her friend.

He would make Sansa Stark safe.

And if the gods were kind, perhaps… he might make her happy too.

Sansa Stark

Highgarden was more welcoming than she had expected.

Soldiers saluted as she passed. Smallfolk waved and called out greetings. The air smelled of flowers and warm earth. She turned slowly in her saddle, eyes wide.

It was just as Margaery had described—winding gardens, roses climbing stone walls, sunlight catching against pale towers that seemed almost to glow. A maze nestled in green. Color everywhere.

Beautiful.

When she dismounted, her Stark men remained close and silent. Watchful. They had survived a different kind of hell. And gods help anyone who dared harm her here. Jon would bring a storm worse than winter itself.

“My lady. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The voice was soft. Measured.

Sansa peeked over her horse’s neck and saw him standing before her—draped in green and gold, roses embroidered into fine cloth. He was tall and broad-shouldered but lean, his beard neatly trimmed, hair the rich brown of tilled soil. His eyes matched it.

“Hello, my lord,” She replied gently.

Sansa stepped away from her horse, smoothing her skirts. She could not be a frightened girl anymore.

She was a lady of Winterfell.

He bowed his head with a faint, careful smile—though there was stiffness in the way he stood. Her gaze drifted downward and found the cane in his hand.

Ah.

She had almost forgotten. The tourney accident. The shattered leg.

She wondered if the pain was constant or if it visited him only on colder days. She could not imagine living with such a reminder.

“It’s a lovely place,” She said, lifting her eyes to his.

He studied her for a moment and she caught it. The worry. Quickly masked.

“Thank you,” He replied. “I hope your ride was swift and easy.” A pause. “You may call me Willas. There is no need for formality… unless you prefer it.”

Her hands folded neatly before her.

“Sansa, then.”

His smile softened.

“Very well, Sansa. Would you like to see your chambers? They overlook the meadows. I thought the view might be… peaceful. Your men will be housed in the barracks, warm meals are prepared, and space has been made for them.”

He was kind.

Littlefinger had been kind, too—in tone.

But every word he spoke had carried venom beneath it.

Willas did not feel like venom.

He felt like sunlight.

And she did not yet know what sunlight might burn.

“Thank you,” She said, motioning for her men to follow the servants. They hesitated before obeying.

She had not brought much.

There had not been much left to bring.

“Come,” Willas said gently. “It is only a short walk. You may rest, bathe if you wish. Food will be sent to you.”

He turned, his pace steady and unhurried. The cane tapped softly against marble as they walked. She matched his speed.

The world did not need to move quickly.

Sometimes slow was safer.

The halls were as magnificent as she remembered from Margaery’s letters—bright tapestries, open archways, sunlight pouring through tall windows.

This had once been a place she had dreamed of.

King’s Landing had sparkled too.

Her fingers tightened in the fabric of her dress.

“Are you well?” Willas asked quietly.

She looked at him only briefly—then away.

“Yes. Of course.”

A lie.

But honesty had once nearly destroyed her.

He hummed softly and did not press.

When they reached her chambers, he opened the door.

The room was larger than she expected. A carved bed draped in fine linens. Cabinets and chests. A writing desk. A vanity with a polished mirror. A balcony overlooking endless green.

So much space.

So much freedom.

Why?

Weren’t they meant to marry?

Weren’t husbands meant to claim what was theirs?

“This is yours,” Willas said. “Do with it as you please. Make it your own. This is your home too.”

Home.

Winterfell had been home.

Was it still?

“Thank you,” She whispered.

He stepped back, giving her space.

“I will send maids to assist you. And… tonight there will be a family dinner. You are welcome to join us. But I understand if you are not ready.”

Another pause.

“I will see you again soon, Sansa. Rest well.”

And then he left her.

Alone.

Free to move about as she wished.

Not locked away.

Not watched.

She stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the way he leaned his weight into the cane as he walked.

He did not hide it.

The room smelled faintly of pastries and fresh linen.

Sansa stepped inside slowly.

It felt like stepping into a dream.

Willas Tyrell