𝓐𝓷𝓰𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓪

⋮ ⌗ ┆ A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms ⋆˚꩜｡

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Marvel/MCU ⋆˚꩜｡

The descent into the Dragon Galleries changed the air immediately.

Above, the hall remained full of noise and light and courtly performance.

Below—there was only heat.

Stone corridors widened into carved volcanic passageways, the walls blackened by ancient flame and time. The deeper you went, the more the mountain seemed to breathe around you, warm currents shifting through unseen vents as though something vast slept just beyond the stone.

Behind you came the King.

Then Prince Baelor.

Then Prince Maekar.

And Aerion. He said nothing as he descended. He rarely did. But his attention was no longer on the court above, nor on his family, nor even on the King at times. It was on the mountain itself. On what lay ahead. On what was waiting.

At some point without you noticing, Lord Lyonel Baratheon had followed behind.

Caelor had gone ahead with guards to ensure the lower passages were clear, leaving only torchlight and the slow echo of footsteps as you led them deeper.

The heat intensified.

Then shifted.

Not random anymore.

Directional. Controlled. As though the mountain itself was beginning to recognise who approached.

Aegon broke the silence first.

"It feels like the world is upside down down here," he said quietly, glancing at the glowing seams in the rock.

"It is," Aerion replied at last.

The voice was calm. Flat. But not disinterested.

—

The Dragon Galleries answered your voice before anything else did.

Not with sound. With awareness.

The heat shifted first—subtle, like breath drawn in through vast lungs buried deep within stone. The torches along the basalt walls flickered, their flames bending not with wind but with presence, as though something enormous had stirred far below the carved caverns.

Even the King paused.

The air itself felt heavier down here. Older. Pressed in on all sides by volcanic rock that had once been molten fury and now only barely remembered restraint.

Prince Baelor's hand rested near his sword out of instinct rather than fear.

Prince Maekar did not move at all, though his eyes sharpened in quiet calculation.

Aegon looked upward, as if expecting the ceiling to answer for the pressure in the air.

Aerion, however—

Aerion was smiling again. Not openly. Not kindly. But with something faint and knowing, as though he had finally reached the reason for coming.

You stepped forward into the open space of the galleries.

And the mountain recognised you.

The torches along the nearest basalt pillars bowed slightly in their iron brackets as the heat currents shifted again. The volcanic glow beneath the stone—light bleeding up from the Ashheart depths—painted the entire cavern in a dim, molten underlight. Shadows stretched long and uneven, twisting the carved nesting basins into shapes that looked almost alive.

"You may speak his name," you said quietly.

Your voice carried further than it should have in the vast chamber.

For a moment, nothing answered.

Then you lifted your gaze toward the darkness beyond the nearest heat vents.

"Vezaryn."

The silence that followed was not empty. It was expectant.

Prince Baelor took a small step forward before stopping himself. Even he seemed unsure whether courtesy extended to dragons of this size.

Prince Maekar's expression did not change, but something in his posture had shifted—attention fully forward now, no longer divided.

And then—

The mountain moved. Not tremor. Not collapse. Movement. Deep below the galleries, something vast exhaled.

The sound that followed was not a roar at first, but the beginning of one—low, resonant, so deep it seemed to come from beneath thought itself. The torches along the walls flared violently as heat surged upward through ancient channels carved to contain it, and for a heartbeat, every shadow in the cavern snapped into sharp, unnatural clarity.

Then he rose.

Vezaryn.

He did not emerge so much as the space permitted him to exist within it.

White.

Not the clean white of snow or silk, but something older—bone-white, ash-white, the pale colour of fire after it has burned everything it can. His scales caught the volcanic light and returned it in fractured brilliance, as though the mountain itself had been broken and reforged into living form.

And he was enormous.Not in the way men describe great beasts for legend's sake.

Truly enormous.

His wings, still half-folded as he climbed from the lower galleries, scraped against basalt columns designed generations ago to accommodate him—and still looked too small for what they contained. Each movement shifted air like a storm contained within stone walls. The heat that rolled off him was not discomforting in the way ordinary flame was; it was elemental.

Fundamental.

As though the world had simply forgotten how large dragons were meant to be.

Aegon took an involuntary step back.

Prince Baelor's breath caught, restrained only by discipline.

Even Prince Maekar's gaze lifted slightly, no longer merely assessing—but acknowledging.

Aerion did not move.

He watched Vezaryn rise as though confirming something he had always believed but never seen proven.

Then the White Flame saw you.

And the cavern changed again.

The tension in the air shifted—not toward violence, not toward threat—but recognition.

Vezaryn lowered his head.

The movement was slow. Controlled. Deliberate in a way that made the entire gallery feel smaller around him. When his gaze settled upon you, it was not submission, not obedience—but alignment.

As though mountain and dragon and rider were all briefly agreeing on a single truth.

You stepped forward once.

Then raised your hand slightly.

The gesture was enough.

Vezaryn stopped.

Stone dust drifted from his scales as he exhaled, the breath rolling through the galleries in a wave that made the torches bow again, lower this time, as if paying respect.

Only then did you turn slightly.

"Vezaryn," you said again, softer now. "It is well."

The dragon's eyes-pale, ancient, almost reflective in the volcanic glow—remained fixed on you.

Then, slowly, the pressure in the air eased.

Behind you, Caelthys arrived.

Smaller.

Younger.

But still a dragon in his own right.

Black-marked wings folded carefully as he descended into the gallery from a higher archway, his movement cautious at first—then steadier as he sensed The White Flame's restraint.

The contrast was immediate.

Shadow and ash.

Against bone and fire.

Caelthys circled once, low, then landed at a respectful distance, his claws scraping basalt as he steadied himself. His head lowered instinctively, not in fear—but in recognition of hierarchy older than pride.

"It's alright," you murmured without looking back. "Stay calm."

Vezaryn's gaze shifted briefly to Caelthys.

Not hostile.

Not interested.

Judging distance.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he looked away again. As though the younger dragon was not worth disturbance.

Prince Baelor let out a slow breath he had not realised he was holding.

"That," he said quietly, "is no ordinary creature."

"No," Prince Maekar replied.

There was no awe in his voice.

Only fact.

"It isn't."

Aerion finally spoke. His voice was low, carrying only to those near him.

"It remembers the world before it forgot itself."

You glanced back at him then.

For the first time since entering the galleries, he was not looking at Vezaryn as a weapon. Or a symbol. He was looking at him like something ancient that refused to bow to time.

And then—

Vezaryn moved again.

Not forward.

Not threatening.

Down.

He lowered himself further into the cavern, folding his vast frame with impossible control for something so large, until The White Flame was level with you.

The ground trembled softly as he settled.

The entire gallery felt smaller again.

But calmer.

You stepped closer, resting your hand against the side of his great jaw. The scales beneath your touch were warm—not burning, not harsh—but alive with heat that came from somewhere deeper than fire.

Above you, volcanic light poured through cracks in the ceiling, catching your silhouette in shifting gold and ember-red. Your hair moved slightly in the rising heat currents, drifting as though the air itself had forgotten how gravity worked.

For a moment, in the half-light of the galleries, you did not look like a girl standing in a cavern at all.

You looked like something painted into myth and left to breathe.

Not fragile. Not distant.

Just... inevitable.

Even the King did not speak.

The only sound was the slow, controlled breathing of something that should not have been that large sharing space with stone that should not have been that old.

And behind you—Caelthys watched Vezaryn carefully.

Aerion watched you.

Not the dragon. Not the King. Not even the ancient white mass of Vezaryn coiled like a living relic of the world's first fire.

You.

It was not subtle anymore, and it was not accidental. The sort of attention most men in courts wore like armour was absent from him down here. There was no performance to it. No attempt to disguise it behind courtesy or inherited politeness.

Just focus.

Unfiltered. Unmoving.

As if the rest of the cavern had become secondary geometry.

Vezaryn shifted again in the hollow of the Dragon Galleries, his vast chest rising and falling with a patience that belonged to something that had outlived generations of kings. Each breath sent a slow wave of heat rolling across the basalt floor, distorting the torchlight into trembling bands of gold and ash.

The King had begun speaking quietly with Prince Baelor behind you, their voices lowered now, almost reverent despite themselves. Even Daeron II Targaryen, who had entered the mountain with humour and curiosity, had fallen into a more restrained silence, his gaze fixed on the dragon with something closer to contemplation than delight.

Prince Maekar stood slightly apart, eyes tracking the structure of the galleries rather than the creature itself, as if measuring how the mountain contained what should not be containable.

Aegon had stopped moving entirely.

He looked like a boy trying to decide whether awe or fear was more appropriate and failing to choose either.

And Aerion—Aerion finally moved.

Not forward. Not back.

Just slightly to the side, adjusting his position so that his view of you was no longer obstructed by anyone else in the chamber.

It was so deliberate that it bordered on disrespect, and yet no one called it such. Perhaps because down here, in the presence of something as old as Vezaryn, court etiquette felt thin—like parchment held too close to flame.

Vezaryn slowly ascended again. Just enough to where his large head was at level with you.

You kept your hand resting against the White Flame's jaw.

The heat beneath your palm was steady now, no longer the overwhelming surge it had been at his first arrival. Vezaryn remained still in the lower galleries, vast body coiled into something resembling patience rather than restraint. Even in rest, he filled the cavern in a way that made distance feel meaningless. Every breath he took shifted the air in slow, ancient waves.

Around you, the others remained scattered in small clusters—still watching, still measuring, still trying to reconcile what they had seen with what they thought they knew of the world.

But your attention shifted.

Aegon had not moved back with the rest of his family.

He stood a little apart, half in shadow where torchlight failed to fully reach him, as though he had unconsciously chosen distance over safety without fully realising it. His gaze was still fixed on Vezaryn, but there was something different in it now compared to the others.

Less calculation. Less fear.

More... curiosity that had not yet been trained into caution.

You studied him for a moment.

He did not look like Baelor. Not like Maekar. Not even like Aerion.

Where the others carried the shape of expectation—of duty, of ambition, of something sharpened by years of being watched—Aegon looked... unfinished. Not in weakness, but in possibility. There was defiance in the way he stood there too, though he did not seem aware of it himself. As if some part of him resisted the idea that he was meant to be smaller than this moment.

You turned slightly toward him.

"Aegon," you said softly.

His head lifted immediately, as though startled by being addressed directly rather than through his family.

"Yes, my lady?"

The title came automatically.

Polished. Taught.

But his voice did not carry the weight of it.

You gave him a small smile—subtle, not performative, something closer to understanding than courtly warmth.

"Come here," you said.

A pause.

He glanced briefly toward his brothers.

Maekar was still speaking quietly with the King.

Neither were watching him.

Aerion, however—

Aerion was always watching everything. But even he did not intervene.

Aegon stepped forward.

Slowly at first, then with more certainty as he crossed into the space between torchlight and shadow where the air grew heavier with Vezaryn's presence.

Each step brought him closer to something that should have been overwhelming.

Yet he did not stop. That alone told you enough.

When he reached you, he hesitated just short of the White Flame's massive jaw, his eyes flicking upward as if suddenly reminded of scale in a way words had not conveyed.

"He won't harm you," you said gently.

Aegon looked at you then, uncertain.

"How do you know?"

The question was not defiant. It was honest.

You looked back at Vezaryn.

"Because he can smell your dragon blood and sense your strength."

Aegon exhaled slowly. That seemed to settle something in him, though not entirely.

You shifted your hand slightly on the dragon's jaw, drawing attention to where you stood.

"Would you like to touch him?"

The words landed differently than anything else spoken in the cavern so far.

Not command.

Not invitation in the way courtiers used the word.

Something simpler. A choice.

Aegon blinked once.

Then again.

"I—" he began, then stopped.

His gaze flicked back to Vezaryn, who remained still, his pale eyes half-lidded but aware, following every movement in the cavern without urgency.

"I do not think I am meant to," Aegon said quietly.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched your expression.

"Very few people here are meant to," you replied. "It does not stop them wanting to."

That earned a faint breath from him that might have been a laugh if it had been given permission to exist fully.

He looked back at the dragon again.

Then, carefully, as though approaching something that might vanish if handled incorrectly, he stepped forward.

You did not move away.

Nor did Vezaryn.

Aegon raised his hand slowly. Hesitation lingered in his fingers for only a heartbeat before he placed his palm against the White Flame's lower jaw.

The effect was immediate.

Not violent. Not dangerous.

Awareness.

Vezaryn's vast eye shifted slightly toward him, not narrowing, not threatening—simply acknowledging contact. The heat beneath Aegon's hand deepened, but did not burn. Instead it felt like standing too close to something ancient that had long since decided not to care whether it was feared.

Aegon's breath caught.

"He's... warm," he said quietly, as if surprised by the simplicity of it.

You watched him carefully.

"Yes," you said. "He is alive."

Aegon kept his hand there a moment longer than you expected. Long enough that something in his expression softened without him noticing.

Not awe in the way courtiers wore it like performance.

Something quieter. More private. More real.

Behind you, Prince Baelor's voice drifted faintly as he continued speaking with the King, unaware for the moment of what was unfolding slightly aside from them.

Prince Maekar had noticed, however.

You could feel it in the way his attention sharpened—briefly assessing the interaction, the distance, the risk, the meaning.

Aerion had stopped entirely.

Not intervened. Not moved. Just watched.

Still.

Focused.

As Aegon finally withdrew his hand, almost reluctantly, as though leaving contact required more effort than initiating it.

"That," Aegon said softly, "is nothing like what I was told."

You tilted your head slightly.

"What were you told?"

Aegon hesitated.

"That dragons belong to kings," he said at last.

A pause.

Then, quieter—

"And that they are meant to be feared."

Your gaze flicked briefly toward Vezaryn.

"He is feared," you said.

Aegon looked at you again.

"But not by you."

"No," you agreed simply.

A moment passed.

Then Aegon gave a small nod, as if accepting something that did not fit neatly into anything he had been taught.

"Thank you," he said.

It was not formal. Not rehearsed. Just sincere.

Before anything else could be added, a shift in the air reminded you of the others still present. The King's voice had risen slightly again, calling for the group to return upward. The visit was ending, though none of them seemed entirely willing to leave what they had just seen behind.

You placed your hand once more against Vezaryn's jaw.

"Rest," you murmured to him.

The White Flame exhaled slowly.

Aegon stepped back toward his family, glancing once more over his shoulder at the dragon as he went.

But Aerion did not move immediately.

His gaze followed Aegon for only a moment.

Then returned to you.

Still unreadable. Still fixed.

And now, sharper than before.

As if something in what he had witnessed had altered his understanding—not of dragons—But of you.

The King, however, seemed to recover something of his earlier composure, though it was tempered now. He looked up at Vezaryn properly—no longer as a curiosity, but as a sovereign acknowledging another kind of sovereignty.

"Remarkable," Daeron II said quietly. "And you say there is another."

At that, Caelthys shifted slightly where he stood, wings tightening in instinctive awareness.

"He is here," you replied.

Caelthys lowered his head further, as if understanding the direction of attention being drawn toward him.

He was smaller than Vezaryn in every meaningful sense, but still vast compared to anything outside dragonlord bloodlines. Black-marked scales caught the volcanic glow in jagged patterns, and his eyes reflected the torchlight with a sharper, younger fire.

Prince Aegon took a cautious step forward again, curiosity finally overcoming hesitation.

"He is... yours as well?" Aegon asked.

"Yes," you said simply.

That seemed to settle something in him.

Aerion's gaze shifted—briefly—to Caelthys.

Then back to you.

Not comparing. Not judging. Just noting.

As though everything in the cavern existed in relation to what he was trying to understand about you specifically.

"I believe," Daeron said, voice gentler now, "we have been granted enough awe for one evening."

A few faint, uncertain laughs followed from the edges of the group. Relief, mostly, from those less accustomed to dragonfire filling their lungs.

Prince Baelor inclined his head politely. "Your Grace is correct. It would be unwise to test hospitality too deeply in such... surroundings."

Prince Maekar added quietly, "We have seen what we came to see."

Aerion did not immediately move.

But at last, he looked away from you.

It was slow. Reluctant, almost .As if breaking attention required effort.

"I have seen enough," he said finally.

But his tone suggested something very different.

That he had seen something he did not yet understand.

And intended to return to it.

—

The ascent from the Dragon Galleries felt different.

Not lighter. Not easier.

But quieter in a way that did not belong to absence, but to adjustment. The mountain no longer felt like it was holding its breath. Instead, it seemed to be watching the aftermath of having exhaled.

Vezaryn remained behind in the lower caverns, his presence still filling the galleries even after he had stopped moving. Caelthys followed at your side for part of the ascent before veering off to his own roosting paths, his wings brushing the edges of carved basalt as he disappeared into a side tunnel only dragons would consider natural.

The King walked beside your father now, their earlier ease slightly tempered but not broken. They spoke in lower tones, still conversing like men who had discovered unexpected common ground beneath all their titles.

Prince Baelor walked slightly ahead with attendants.

Prince Maekar remained central but unhurried, his attention drifting between exits, guards, and structural design.

Aegon lingered closer to his brother now, as if the weight of the dragon had rearranged his understanding of proximity.

And finally, Aerion walked behind them all.

Not separated. Not excluded.

Simply positioned as though he preferred it that way.

You noticed, without meaning to, that his gaze was not on the path.

It was on you.

Again.

Still.

Even now.

As if distance had no effect on persistence.

Halfway through the ascent, Lord Lyonel Baratheon's voice echoed faintly from a nearby junction where he had apparently taken a different escorted route.

"I tell you," he was saying loudly to no one in particular, "if my ancestors had dragons like that, I'd have fewer family arguments and more kingdoms."

A burst of laughter followed.

Khaerys, somewhere behind you, replied just as loudly, "You'd also have fewer surviving family members."

"That's also true!"

Even Prince Baelor's mouth twitched slightly at that.

The tension, for all its weight, had begun to settle into something more manageable again. Not comfort. But familiarity returning to structure.

As the group neared the upper galleries, the air cooled slightly. The volcanic glow faded behind stone layers, replaced gradually by torchlight and carved corridors once more familiar in their symmetry.

The King slowed briefly, glancing back toward you.

"You will forgive me," Daeron said, "if I admit I did not expect to be impressed by anything in Westeros anymore."

Your father chuckled lightly. "And yet here you are."

"Indeed," the King replied.

"Humbled beneath a mountain." Prince Maekar added, almost dryly, "Do not make a habit of it."

That earned a brief, quiet laugh from the King.

Aerion did not laugh. But his attention remained fixed on you as the group continued upward.

—

By the time they returned to the Dining Hall level, the atmosphere had shifted entirely.

What had been controlled ceremony earlier now felt like aftermath—conversation louder, movement freer, tension redistributed into smaller, manageable threads.

Servants moved quickly to adjust seating, pour fresh wine, and restore the rhythm of feast and courtly exchange.

Lord Lyonel Baratheon raised his cup again immediately upon seeing the returning group arrive longer after he had.

"So," he called out, grinning broadly, "did the volcano try to eat you, or did you eat it?"

Khaerys answered without hesitation. "It considered it."

Laughter followed again, easing the room further.

The King returned to his seat, visibly more relaxed than before, though still thoughtful. Prince Baelor resumed his composed posture. Prince Maekar's attention returned to governance and observation.

Aegon sat more quietly now, as if still processing what he had seen.

Aerion took his seat once more.

But his eyes did not immediately return to the feast. They moved first to you. Only you. And remained there.

As the hall filled again with life, conversation, laughter, and the distant echo of dragonfire beneath stone, Mount Vezrith settled into a new balance.

Not the stillness it had before the Targaryens arrived.

Something more unstable than that.

Alive in a different way.

The Dining Hall had become something between feast and spectacle. Tables groaned beneath carved platters of roasted meat, spiced fowl, honeyed bread still warm from the ovens, and wines drawn up from deep Vezarion cellars that tasted faintly of volcanic mineral and smoke. Servants moved quickly but carefully, adjusting to the sudden looseness of royal appetite, refilling cups before they could even be set down.

Laughter spread unevenly through the room now.

Not forced. Not polite.

Real.

Lord Lyonel Baratheon had claimed the centre of one long table as though it were a battlefield he had already won, wine in hand, voice carrying over everyone else.

"I tell you," he boomed, slamming his cup down, "if this is what the Crownlands call hospitality, I may never leave again."

A Tyrell lord laughed politely.

A Riverlander nearly choked on his drink.

Somewhere nearby, Khaerys Vezarion loudly declared that Baratheon would last three days before complaining about the heat and trying to wrestle a basalt column.

"I could last a week," Lyonel shot back.

"You would lose to the column," Khaerys replied instantly.

The table erupted.

Across the hall, music had begun again—live instruments now louder, freer. Lutes and drums echoed through the volcanic chamber, the sound bouncing off black stone and returning warmer, fuller, almost unnatural in such a place. It made the entire hall feel less like a carved cavern and more like something breathing with celebration.

And above it all—You.

You moved through the hall in a way that no one quite seemed able to ignore, even when they tried not to look directly.

The chainmail headpiece you wore caught every flicker of candlelight, scattering it into soft violet glints across your hair and temples. Jewellery along your back shifted with every step, gold threads catching firelight like molten veins. The ivory fabric of your dress moved with you rather than against you, as though it belonged more to motion than stillness.

You were speaking to guests. Laughing briefly at something one of the Northern lords said. Accepting a cup of wine you barely drank before continuing on.

And Aerion Targaryen watched all of it.

Not from across the hall this time.

Not distantly.

Directly.

He had not moved from his seat in some time, but nothing about him suggested rest. His posture was still composed, still controlled—but his attention had narrowed to a point that made everything else irrelevant.

He watched the way you spoke to your dragon.

The way you had stood before Vezaryn without fear.

The way The White Flame—creature of legend, older than most houses dared to claim in their histories—had responded not with dominance, but with recognition.

Not obedience.

Trust.

That distinction lingered in Aerion's mind longer than anything else in the hall.

Even now.

He had seen dragons before. He had seen riders struggle, wrestle, impose themselves through force or bloodline or desperation.

What he had not seen—Was ease.

You had not forced Vezaryn to be still. You had asked. And he had answered.

Aerion lifted his cup slowly, but did not drink.

His gaze followed you as you crossed the hall again, pausing to speak with a lady from House Tully. You smiled briefly, head tilted slightly, the movement causing the chain at your temples to shift and shimmer again in candlelight.

For a moment, you looked less like a political figure in a gathering of nobles—And more like something placed into the world deliberately.

Not accidental.

Not ordinary.

Painted, perhaps.

Or remembered incorrectly by those who tried to describe you afterwards.

Aerion's jaw tightened faintly. He had seen many beautiful things in his life.

That was not new. What was new was how thoroughly this one refused to be separated from everything else she was.

Not just appearance. Not just presence. But the way the entire room adjusted around you without realising it.

Even now.

Even as laughter rose again from Lyonel Baratheon's table, even as Tyrell and Tully lords traded stories, even as servants hurried to prevent cups from spilling—The hall still moved around you.

As if you were the axis.

Aerion exhaled slowly through his nose.

Then finally, he drank.

—

The night deepened without announcement. Candles burned lower. Wine flowed more freely. The disciplined structure of court presence began to dissolve into something closer to celebration than politics.

At one table, Caelor Vezarion had somehow ended up seated beside a Lannister lady, both of them deep in conversation that had the faint edge of challenge to it. She laughed at something he said—sharp, amused—and he responded with something equally dry, clearly enjoying himself more than he intended to show.

At another end of the hall, Khaerys was no longer simply entertaining guests.

He was collecting them.

One dance became two.

Two became many.

He moved through the hall with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what effect he was having and had decided to make no apologies for it. He spoke to ladies from half the great houses as though they were old friends, offered jokes, compliments, outrageous claims about his dragon, and somehow made all of it sound like truth.

"I am telling you," Khaerys declared loudly at one point, spinning away from a Lady of House Redwyne mid-laugh, "Caelthys is already faster than anything in the Reach."

"That is not what your brother said," someone called.

"My brother is jealous," Khaerys replied instantly.

The hall roared. Even Aerion's gaze flicked briefly toward him—dismissive, almost bored—but returned to you immediately when you passed into his line of sight again.

You had joined the musicians for a moment.

Not formally. Not as performance.

Just standing near them while they played, speaking quietly, laughing at something one of them said. The movement of your hands when you spoke was more relaxed now. The edges of formality had softened slightly, as if the weight of hosting the realm had loosened in your posture over time.

The chain across your head shifted with every tilt of your expression.

Light caught it.

Released it.

Candlelight made you look, briefly, like something half-remembered rather than fully present.

Aerion realised he had stopped listening to the music entirely. He was only watching you. Again.

—

Near the high table, the King and your father had moved beyond diplomacy entirely.

Daeron II Targaryen leaned back in his chair, laughing openly at something Lord Vaeron Vezarion had said—something clearly not appropriate for a royal hall, judging by the way a nearby maester looked faintly scandalised.

Your father laughed too.

Loud. Unrestrained.

It was not a sound the castle heard often.

"Seven save us," the King said, wiping his eyes slightly, "you are a terrible influence."

"You are worse," your father replied immediately.

"False. I am king. It is tradition."

"That explains everything, then."

They both laughed again.

Wine had clearly removed whatever remaining caution they had once carried.

Prince Baelor watched them with quiet amusement.

Prince Maekar remained composed, though even he looked faintly resigned to the situation.

Aegon, meanwhile, seemed far more entertained than he probably should have been.

Aerion did not look at any of them for long. His attention drifted back to you as you crossed the hall again, this time pausing near your brothers.

Caelor said something low to you that made you smile briefly. Khaerys, passing behind you mid-dance with yet another lady, called out something about "proper Vezarion hospitality," which earned him a warning glance from Caelor and an amused one from you.

Aerion's gaze narrowed slightly. Not in irritation. In focus. Because he had noticed something else now. You were not separate from your family in the way many noble daughters were at feasts like this. You were not placed aside as ornament or diplomatic figurehead.

You moved through them. Between them. Equal in presence, if not in position. And when people spoke to you, they did not lower their voices in the same way they did for queens or princesses. They spoke normally. As if you were simply... there.

Aerion found that more unusual than anything else in the hall.

More than dragons.

More than volcanic castles.

More than The White Flame itself.

—

Eventually, the music began to slow.

Not stop.

Just soften.

The energy of the hall shifted gradually from celebration toward exhaustion. Conversations stretched longer between silences. Laughter came less frequently, but more warmly when it did.

Servants began clearing empty platters. Wine jugs were replaced less often. Even Khaerys, for once, seemed to slow—though only slightly.

Lord Lyonel Baratheon had been reduced to leaning heavily on the table, still talking but with far less volume than before, declaring that he had "defeated at least three wines and possibly a fourth in spirit."

The King himself looked pleasantly tired, still smiling, still engaged, but less sharp around the edges.

Your father remained beside him, still talking, though more slowly now, like men extending a good conversation rather than continuing a necessary one.

Aerion had not changed position all night.

But his attention had.

It had narrowed further.

To you.

Not in bursts now.

Sustained.

You had begun to move toward the centre of the hall again, as servants subtly signalled that the evening was drawing toward conclusion. A slight flush had settled into your cheeks—wine, warmth, and movement combining into something that made you appear less formal than earlier.

Still composed. But softer around the edges.

You tapped lightly against a glass to gather attention.

The hall gradually quietened. Not instantly.But willingly.

Your voice carried easily.

"My lords, my ladies," you began.

A pause.

A faint smile.

"Thank you for coming to Mount Vezrith."

The words were simple, but they landed with a sincerity that made even the more cynical guests quiet fully.

"House Vezarion does not host often," you continued. "So when we do, it is because it matters."

A few faint murmurs.

You continued.

"Tomorrow, mid-day, the festivities will continue. Those who wish to remain here are welcome to do so. Servants will show you to your chambers, and guards of House Vezarion will remain stationed outside each guest's door."

A slight ripple of amusement passed through the hall at that.

"Not to imprison you," you added calmly, "but to ensure no one finds themselves in places they should not be."

That earned a few laughs.

"Some areas of this mountain are not part of your invitation."

A pause.

"And I would prefer you remain among those that are."

More laughter, softer this time.

You lifted your cup slightly.

"To safe travels," you said, "and to tomorrow."

The hall responded with raised cups, uneven but enthusiastic.

A few houses began to stand. Conversations broke into smaller clusters. Some guests clearly intended to retire immediately.

Others lingered, reluctant to leave the atmosphere behind.

Lyonel Baratheon declared loudly that he would sleep "wherever the floor stopped moving," which earned him assistance from two very patient servants.

Several houses—minor lords from the Riverlands and Reach among them—accepted accommodations within the mountain.

Others declined politely, choosing nearby lodgings outside Vezrith instead.

The North began preparing to depart in small groups.

The Vale followed suit more cautiously.

House Lannister remained longer than most, clearly enjoying the lingering attention and wine.

And House Targaryen—Did not move at all.

Baelor remained seated.Maekar remained composed.

Aegon lingered near them, watching the room slowly empty.

And Aerion—

Aerion finally lifted his gaze fully to you.

For the first time all night. Properly. Not observing. Not analysing.

Just looking.

As if the end of the evening had removed all distraction except the one thing he had not stopped watching since the moment he entered Mount Vezrith.

You.

And whatever it was he thought he had seen beneath dragonfire and stone.

The hall continued to empty around him.But his attention did not.

—

The Dining Hall did not empty all at once.It unraveled in layers.

First the Reach, still laughing quietly among themselves as they were guided out by servants with practised patience. Then the Riverlords, slower, more reluctant, their conversations trailing behind them like loose threads. The North followed after, their departure quieter, more disciplined—nods instead of farewells, glances instead of speeches.

House Baratheon lingered the longest of those who intended to leave.

Lord Lyonel stood at the centre of it all, attempting one final toast that devolved into laughter before he was quite finished speaking.

"To Mount Vezrith!" he declared, raising his cup high. "And to the fact that I have not yet fallen into a volcano!"

"That's tomorrow," Khaerys called from somewhere behind him.

"That is an excellent point!" Lyonel replied cheerfully.

He left shortly after, still laughing.

When the great doors finally closed behind the departing houses, the hall changed again.

Smaller now. Heavier.

The noise softened into something more intimate, less performative. Servants moved faster, clearing tables, gathering abandoned cups, extinguishing half-burnt candles. The echoes of earlier laughter still clung to the stone, but even they were fading.

Only a few remained.

House Lannister had chosen to stay the night.

Not out of necessity. Out of intention. They were escorted not far from the hall, their presence still neat and composed despite the hour. The Lady Caelor had been speaking with earlier rose with a final amused glance toward him."You Vezarions do enjoy your theatrics," she said lightly.

Caelor replied without hesitation. "We prefer efficiency. The theatrics are incidental."

"That sounds like something a man tells himself before building a castle in a volcano."

He did not deny it.

They were guided out together, the faint sound of their continued conversation disappearing down the corridor.

And then—Only House Targaryen remained in full.

The King rose first, slower now, the wine and warmth of the evening finally catching up with him. Prince Baelor followed immediately, offering steady support without making it obvious. Prince Maekar stood with less ceremony, adjusting his cloak as if already returning to structure.

Prince Aegon looked reluctant to leave entirely.

Prince Aerion did not look reluctant at all. He simply looked... unchanged.

As though nothing about the night had altered his internal measure of anything.

Servants approached quietly.

"My King," one said softly, "your chambers are prepared."

Daeron Il gave a faint sigh of amusement. "Already?"

"House Vezarion does not delay comfort," your father replied from nearby. "Only decisions."

"That explains a great deal," the King muttered, though there was no complaint in it.

The Targaryens began to move.

You did not leave them alone.

You followed.

Not formally at first—just at the edge of their procession as they were guided through the upper corridors of Mount Vezrith. The stone passages here were less volcanic, more carved and structured, though faint warmth still pulsed through hidden channels beneath the walls.

Torches burned low now, casting longer shadows.

Your footsteps were slightly uneven. Not noticeably so. But enough that Caelor, passing you briefly, raised an eyebrow.

"You are still here," he observed quietly.

"I am escorting guests," you replied.

"You are also drinking less carefully than you think."

"I am not drunk."

A pause.

"You are mildly unbalanced."

"That is not a diagnosis."

"It is an observation."

He continued walking before you could respond further.

Khaerys, who had somehow reappeared from somewhere in the corridors, caught up just long enough to grin at you.

"You're following them like a guard dog," he said cheerfully.

"I am not following them."

"You are absolutely following them."

"I am ensuring they reach their chambers safely."

Khaerys tilted his head. "That sounds like following."

You did not dignify that with a response. He eventually parted ways and went off to his chambers.

The Targaryens were being led down a branching corridor now.

The King at the front, still speaking occasionally to Baelor. Maekar slightly behind them, eyes tracking architecture more than direction. Aegon walking just behind his brother, still quieter than before.

Aerion had slowed—not stopped—but slowed enough that he fell slightly out of alignment with the others.

Which meant, inevitably, that he was closer to you.

You noticed it only when he spoke.

"Your mountain is louder than it pretends to be," he said.

You glanced at him. "It is quieter than it used to be."

"That does not answer the statement."

"It does not need to."

A faint pause.

Then, almost absentmindedly—

"I watched you today."

"I am aware," you replied.

A slight tilt of his head. "Are you?"

You did not answer that immediately.

Ahead, the King's voice echoed faintly as he was shown the royal chambers—larger rooms carved into basalt stone, softened with imported fabrics, fire pits already lit. Baelor thanked the servants politely. Maekar gave a brief nod.

Aegon lingered at the threshold of his room, looking back once more down the corridor.

Aerion did not stop walking.

He simply continued past them.

And you followed.

Still slightly unsteady.

Still very much aware of him beside you.

"You did not seem surprised," Aerion said finally.

"By what?"

"The dragon."

A pause.

"You should have been."

You considered that.

"I think I stopped being surprised by Vezaryn a long time ago."

That earned the faintest shift in his expression. Not amusement. Not disbelief. Something closer to interest deepening.

"That is either arrogance," he said, "or familiarity."

"It is neither," you replied.

A beat.

"It is home."

That made him quiet for a moment longer than before.

The corridor opened into a quieter section now—guest chambers further from the central halls. Servants waited respectfully near doorways, ready to guide each Targaryen to their assigned rooms.

The King was already inside his.

Baelor followed shortly after.

Maekar paused only long enough to assess the guards stationed outside, then entered without comment.

Aegon hesitated again before disappearing inside, offering you a brief, uncertain nod.

And then—Only Aerion remained outside.

He did not move immediately.

Instead, he looked down the corridor once more, as if checking something that had nothing to do with rooms or rest.

Then back to you.

"You are unsteady," he said.

You blinked once. "I am not unsteady."

A faint pause.

"You are slightly unsteady," he corrected.

You exhaled through your nose. "That is still not a diagnosis."

"It is an observation."

A pause.

Then, quieter—

"You walked through the Dragon Galleries as though nothing there could harm you."

"That is because nothing there intended to."

His gaze held yours.

"That is not the same thing."

You did not respond immediately.

The silence between you felt different here.

Less crowded. Less shaped by court and hall and expectation.

Aerion finally looked away first—but only slightly.

"I will see you tomorrow," he said.

It was not a question.

Not a courtesy.

A statement.

Before you could answer, he turned and entered his chamber.

The door closed behind him with a soft finality.

You remained in the corridor a moment longer than necessary.

The torches burned low. Mount Vezrith settled again into its night rhythm—heat beneath stone, dragons beneath silence, a thousand unseen currents moving through volcanic bone.

And somewhere in that stillness, slightly behind the haze of wine and firelight, you became aware of something simple and irritatingly persistent.

Aerion Targaryen was not done looking at you.

Not even close.

—

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

.ೃ࿔*:･ taglist: @qardasngan @0lder-bro @rafecomehome @marianntorres2611 @tempt-ress @remlin-gremlin

The horns sounded once.

The again.

Their call echoed through Mount Vezrith until the mountain itself seemed to answer, the deep note rolling along ancient stone before fading into the Dragon Galleries below.

No herald cried names.

They had no need.

Every guest who entered these halls had already announced themselves by climbing the mountain.

The great bronze doors groaned open.

Cold daylight spilled across the polished black floor, creeping only a short distance before surrendering to the warmth that forever lingered within Mount Vezrith. Beyond the threshold stood the first of your guests, cloaks stirring in the mountain wind as servants stepped forward to relieve them of travelling furs and rain-speckled mantles.

House Arryn entered first.

As old custom demanded.

Their sky-blue banners looked almost out of place against the black basalt walls, yet the contrast only seemed to sharpen the mountain's colours. Lord Arryn offered your father a courteous bow, which was returned with one equally measured. There was respect between the two houses, though neither man had ever been accused of warmth.

House Baratheon followed close behind, bringing with them loud voices and the smell of rain-soaked leather. Their laughter reached the hall before they did, earning a barely concealed sigh from one of your mother's ladies.

House Tyrell arrived clothed in green and gold, accompanied by enough perfume to briefly overpower even the scent of heated stone.

Then came the riverlords.

Then the west.

House Lannister entered as though the mountain had been constructed solely for the honour of receiving them.

Gold flashed beneath torchlight. Crimson cloaks swept across obsidian floors.

Their lord paused only briefly inside the hall, his gaze travelling over the vaulted ceiling before settling upon the walls themselves.

"I had expected..." he began.

His voice carried further than courtesy required.

"...more windows."

A ripple of restrained amusement passed amongst several western knights.

You saw Khaerys smile.

It was never a reassuring sight.

"The mountain was here before your expectations, my lord," he replied pleasantly.

A few nearby lords looked down to hide their smiles.

The Lannister regarded him for a heartbeat.

"I imagine it was."

Khaerys inclined his head.

"As was our hospitality."

The silence that followed was delicate.

Not hostile.

Not yet.

Your father stepped forward before pride could sharpen into offence.

"Mount Vezrith was built for dragons before it was built for men," he said evenly. "Stone serves us better than glass."

The Lord of Casterly Rock studied him for a long moment before giving a shallow nod.

"A practical philosophy."

"We have found practicality keeps more people alive."

The exchange ended there.

Barely.

But the hall had noticed.

So had you.

Whispers drifted almost immediately through the gathered nobles.

Some thought House Lannister slighted.

Others thought House Vezarion unexpectedly amusing.

Your mother noticed neither.

Or rather—

She noticed both and considered neither worth acknowledging.

"Wine," she instructed quietly.

At once, servants moved through the hall.

Conversation returned. Music began again.

The tension dissolved before it could become insult.

Exactly as she intended.

Only then did the horns sound for a third time.

Different. Longer.

The musicians stopped playing almost instinctively.

Even the servants hesitated.

Every eye turned towards the entrance.

The dragon banners of House Targaryen appeared first.

Red upon black.

Behind them came white cloaks.

Kingsguard.

Then princes.

And finally—His Grace.

The King entered Mount Vezrith beneath banners that had not flown within these halls for generations.

Your father stepped forward to receive him.

Around you, every conversation ceased. Even the mountain seemed quieter.

Then, behind Prince Maekar...You saw him.

Prince Aerion Targaryen.

He walked as though every hall he entered already belonged to him.

Silver-white hair caught the firelight with each measured step, his violet eyes moving slowly across the chamber without haste or uncertainty. Handsome enough to justify every foolish song ever written of him.

Cold enough to silence them all.

He looked first to your father.

Then to your brothers.

Only after a long moment did his gaze settle upon you.

It lingered.

Not in admiration. Not in surprise.

Recognition.

And something far more difficult to name.

His eyes moved past you then, towards the cavern beyond the Dining Hall where faint currents of heated air drifted upward from the Dragon Galleries.

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth.

It was not warmth. Not admiration. Something quieter—sharper. The expression of a man recognising something he had been told about all his life, only to find it standing in front of him with a different weight entirely.

Then, just as easily, it was gone.

Prince Aerion Targaryen looked away from the depths of Mount Vezrith and returned his attention to the hall itself. To the stone. To the height of it. To the way firelight bled across volcanic glass as though even flame behaved differently here. His gaze lingered on details rather than people at first—measuring, calculating, storing.

Only then did it settle properly.

On your family.

The King had already begun his formal exchange with your father, words of courtesy and obligation carried across the hall with practised ease. Prince Baelor stood composed at his side, the picture of royal restraint. Prince Maekar's attention was already moving through the room in short, assessing intervals, as though he were accounting for weaknesses without yet naming them.

And behind them, the younger generation followed in quieter formation.

Daeron Targaryen gave the impression of a man who would rather not be there at all, his posture loose in a way that bordered on indifference. And Aegon—youngest of them—kept close enough to his kin to be counted among them, but not close enough to be claimed by their certainty.

Aerion, however, did not belong to any formation at all.

He simply existed within it.

His gaze moved again.

This time it found Caelor first.

A brief assessment. Nothing more.

Then Khaerys, who met it with the faintest tilt of his head, as though acknowledging an equal or a nuisance depending on the outcome.

Aerion's attention did not linger on either.

It moved on.

And then—

It reached you properly.

Not a glance that slipped past. Not an incidental meeting of eyes.

A pause.

Measured. Unhurried.

As though he had finally arrived at the part of the room he had been searching for since entering.

There was no smile now. Only stillness.

You did not look away.

Around you, the hall continued as though nothing had shifted. Courtiers murmured. Servants moved. The King spoke. Yet it all seemed slightly further away than it had been a moment before, as if the space between you and the prince had quietly expanded without permission.

Aerion's head tilted a fraction.

Not curiosity. Not respect.

Something closer to appraisal.

Then, at last, he broke the silence between you without speaking a word.

A faint inclination of his chin—barely there, easily missed by anyone not watching closely enough.

Not a greeting. An acknowledgement.

As if to say he had seen what he had come to see.

And had found it... sufficient.

Before anything else could form from it, Prince Baelor's voice carried across the hall, drawing his attention away as the formalities of introduction resumed. Aerion did not immediately turn, though. For the briefest moment, his eyes remained where they were.

On you.

Then, as though deciding something private, he looked away.

The moment passed.

But not cleanly.

Not completely.

The thought did not finish so much as settle into you.

Across the hall, Aerion Targaryen had already turned away, drawn back into the ordered chaos of royal arrival and formal greetings.

Prince Baelor stepped forward beside the King, voice carrying easily as he acknowledged your father with practiced grace. Prince Maekar followed a pace behind, his presence heavier, more deliberate—less interested in charm than in structure, in security, in control.

And yet, you could still feel it.

That brief moment of stillness where his attention had not been on your house, or your father, or even the King's table.

It had been on you.

Not as a courtesy. Not as curiosity.

As recognition.

"Y/N."

Your mother's voice pulled you back cleanly, without force. You turned your head slightly, just enough to acknowledge her without breaking posture.

Her eyes did not leave the arriving court.

"You are distracted."

It was not an accusation—merely an observation.

"I am not," you replied.

A pause.

"You are," she corrected softly.

Behind you, Khaerys exhaled something close to amusement but said nothing. Caelor did not look at you at all—his attention was already tracking the Targaryen formation with the precision of a man counting exits.

Your father had moved forward to receive the King properly now, the exchange of courtesies beginning in full. Voices rose and fell across the hall in carefully measured tones. Lords bowed. Words were exchanged. Titles offered and returned like coins.

But beneath it all, there was movement.

Subtle. Constant.

The kind that only people raised in courts noticed without being told.

Aerion had not taken his place with the others.

You realised it only when you saw him again, slightly shifted from where he had stood before. Not formally separated, not openly refusing etiquette—simply positioned in such a way that he was no longer contained by it.

Near enough to be part of the royal presence. Far enough to remain his own.

Your gaze flicked instinctively back to him.

And found him already looking elsewhere.

Not at you this time. At the hall itself. At Mount Vezrith. At the walls. At the way heat shimmered through carved basalt like something alive beneath stone skin.

His attention lingered longer there than it ever had on any person in the room.

A dragon's instinct, you thought distantly.

Or something pretending to be one.

"You see him differently," your mother said quietly.

Your eyes did not leave the hall as you answered.

"I see all of them."

"That is not what I asked."

A beat of silence passed between you.

Then, carefully—

"He is not what I expected."

Your mother's expression did not change, but something in her gaze sharpened faintly.

"Few men ever are," she said.

Across the hall, laughter rose suddenly—Baratheon, loud and unrestrained, cutting briefly through the careful restraint of royal arrival. A Tyrell lord attempted diplomacy. A Lannister replied with just enough courtesy to remain polite and just enough arrogance to remain a Lannister.

And through it all, the King stood steady.

Daeron II Targaryen.

Older than most remembered in manner, if not in years. Composed in a way that did not demand attention, yet never lost it. His presence was not loud, but it anchored the room regardless.

You found your eyes moving to him briefly.

Then to Prince Baelor beside him—measured, diplomatic, the sort of man who made peace feel inevitable rather than fragile.

Then to Prince Maekar—silent in comparison, but far from absent. Watching everything. Missing nothing.

And then—Aerion again.

Except now, he had stopped looking at the mountain.

His gaze had shifted.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Not to you this time.

But to the faint opening beyond the hall, where heat currents rose in invisible waves from the Dragon Galleries below.

Something like interest settled in him then.

Not polite. Not courtly.

Hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food or wine.

"Your Grace," your father's voice carried across the hall, cutting neatly through the layered conversations. "Mount Vezrith welcomes you."

The King inclined his head.

"House Vezarion has our thanks."

Formalities resumed.

But you felt it again anyway—that subtle tension beneath everything spoken aloud.

Because Aerion Targaryen was no longer looking at the court.

He was looking at what lay beneath it.

And you realised, slowly, with something like quiet certainty—He had not come here to be welcomed.

He had come here to understand.

Or to take.

And neither option sat easily within a house like yours.

A shift moved through the gathering as servants began to guide guests deeper into the hall, seating arrangements unfolding like a carefully designed map of alliances and hierarchies. Your brother Caelor stepped slightly closer to you without speaking, his presence a silent anchor at your side.

Khaerys, meanwhile, looked far too entertained by the entire affair.

"This is going to go brilliantly," he murmured.

"No one asked you," Caelor replied flatly.

"I'm offering foresight."

"That's not foresight. That's pessimism."

"It's experience."

You did not answer either of them.

Because Aerion had finally moved.

Not towards the king. Not towards the centre of the hall.

But slightly sideways, as though drawn by something only he could feel.

And as he passed the edge of your line of sight, his eyes briefly met yours again.

This time, there was no acknowledgement.

No tilt of the chin.

Only a glance that lasted a fraction too long to be accidental—before he continued walking, as though nothing had occurred at all.

But the air between you had already changed.

—

An hour passed in Mount Vezrith like a slow breath held between stone and fire.

The hall had loosened by degrees since the royal arrival. Not relaxed—not truly—but reshaped. What had begun as a feast had settled into something closer to controlled movement: tables filling, wine being poured, conversation rising in uneven layers across the volcanic chamber.

The King had been seated at the highest table of honour, with Prince Baelor at his right hand and Prince Maekar slightly withdrawn to his left—close enough to be present, distant enough to remain unreadable.

Prince Aerion, however, had not taken the place assigned to him at first glance.

You noticed that almost immediately.

He had chosen a seat a fraction removed from his kin, not out of insult, but intention. A position that allowed him to see the room rather than be folded into it. It was not rebellion. It was observation.

And occasionally—It was you.

Not continuously. Not openly. But every so often, when conversation shifted or laughter broke too sharply, his attention would return, brief and precise, like a blade testing air.

You had learned quickly that Aerion Targaryen did not stare.

He measured.

Across the hall, Lord Lyonel Baratheon's laughter carried above most others, booming and unrestrained as he leaned heavily into the table beside him. Even seated, he seemed built for battle rather than diplomacy—broad-shouldered, weather-worn, and entirely unbothered by the delicacy of court atmosphere.

"A feast in a volcano," he declared loudly, raising his cup. "If I live through this, I'll consider it a victory worth singing about."

A few chuckles followed. Someone from House Tyrell offered a polite correction about decorum. Lyonel waved it away.

"I've seen worse invitations. At least this one isn't likely to collapse under me."

That earned a proper laugh from Khaerys, who immediately leaned closer to Caelor.

"I like him," he murmured.

"You like anyone who is loud," Caelor replied.

"That is not true."

"It is entirely true."

At the royal table, Prince Baelor spoke with one of the riverlords, his tone calm and measured even when disagreeing. Prince Maekar said little, but when he did, the conversation adjusted itself around him without complaint. It was not deference born of fear—it was recognition of weight.

And then there was Aerion.

He had not touched his wine.

He had barely touched his food.

Instead, his gaze drifted—again and again—to the edges of the hall. To the stonework. To the vents where heat rose unseen from deeper chambers. To the faint shimmer in the air that marked Mount Vezrith as something alive beneath its structure.

It was only when the King himself lifted his cup in acknowledgement of House Vezarion that attention shifted fully back to the centre.

Your father rose first.

The hall quietened in response—not instantly, but naturally, as though the mountain itself had learned to listen.

"Lords and ladies of the realm," he began, voice carrying without effort across basalt and flame. "House Vezarion welcomes you to Mount Vezrith."

No flourish. No excess.

Only certainty.

"This place was carved by fire and stone long before it was shaped by our hands. What you stand within is not a hall built for vanity, but for purpose. For strength. And for those who understand that power is not always displayed in what is shown—but in what is withheld."

A ripple passed through the hall—some impressed, some unsettled, all attentive.

Your father's gaze swept once across the gathered houses.

"You are our guests. And while you remain here, you will be safe."

A pause.

"Provided you remain where you are meant to be."

That earned a few restrained smiles—and a few sharper looks from more cautious lords.

Then your mother rose beside him. Where your father was structure, she was clarity.

"Mount Vezrith does not forgive carelessness," she said evenly. "But it does not reward fear either. We expect neither from those who sit at our table."

A Tyrell lady lowered her gaze quickly, perhaps reassessing her perfume choice.

Your mother continued.

"You will find nothing hidden from you here that we intend for you to see. And you will find nothing shown to you here that was not meant to be understood."

A pause.

"Everything else remains ours."

The distinction was subtle. But it landed heavily.

When she sat, there was a brief silence before it softened into conversation once more—carefully restarted, like a fire being coaxed back into manageable flame.

Then, unexpectedly, your father's attention shifted.

To you.

It was not dramatic. Not staged.

Simply a glance that carried instruction without words.

Your cue.

You rose.

The movement drew attention immediately—not because it was unexpected, but because it had been anticipated.

You stepped forward slightly from your place among your family, your voice steady as it carried.

"My lords," you began, "and my ladies."

A brief pause—enough to let the room settle.

"House Vezarion thanks you for your presence within our home. It is no small thing to invite the great houses of Westeros beneath a single roof—especially one carved from living stone."

A faint murmur passed through the hall.

You continued.

"We are aware what is said of Mount Vezrith. Of our dragons. Of our history. Of what lies beneath us."

Your eyes lifted slightly—not toward any one person, but across them all.

"And we are aware that curiosity often arrives before courtesy."

A few sharper smiles this time. Even Lyonel Baratheon looked amused.

"That being said," you added, tone easing slightly, "you are welcome here."

A pause.

"As long as you remember that you are guests in a house that has never needed to ask permission to endure."

That landed differently.

Not harsh. Not arrogant. Simply true.

You inclined your head.

"We thank you for coming."

Then you sat.

For a heartbeat, silence lingered again—not uncomfortable, but reassessing.

Then conversation resumed, louder this time, as though the hall itself needed to recover from the weight of honesty.

Across the room, Khaerys leaned back slightly. "That was impressive," he murmured.

Caelor didn't look at him. "It was necessary."

"It was intimidating."

"That is also necessary."

But your attention was not on them.

It was on Aerion.

He had watched you speak. Properly watched. Not the earlier, passing assessments. Not the brief glances of calculation.

This was different.

You could feel it even from across the hall—that stillness he fell into when something had shifted his expectations.

When you finished speaking, he did not look away immediately.

Instead, he lifted his cup slowly.

Not in toast. Not in mockery.

Simply in acknowledgement.

Then, at last, he drank.

Aerion Targaryen's gaze lingered only a moment longer before he set his cup down with quiet precision, as though even that simple act required intention. Something in his expression had shifted—subtle, almost imperceptible—but no less real.

Not softened. Not brightened.

Sharpened.

Then he looked away, and the moment dissolved back into the noise of the hall as if it had never existed at all.

At the high table, the King was no longer distant.

Daeron II Targaryen sat with your father as though the weight of crowns and kingdoms had been set aside for the evening. A flagon of wine stood between them—then another, then another still—and the careful restraint of courtly exchange had gradually given way to something looser, something far more human.

Your father—Lord Vaeron Vezarion—laughed at something the King had said, a rare sound in a place like this, deep and unguarded, carrying easily across the stone. Daeron responded in kind, a quiet chuckle that turned into a fuller laugh as he leaned slightly closer, as though sharing some private understanding with a man who, by all rights, should have been kept at arm's length.

Instead, they drank as men rather than monarch and lord.

"To think," the King said at one point, swirling his cup as he glanced around the volcanic hall, "that I am told this place is dangerous."

Your father snorted lightly. "It is. That is why it works."

"A refreshing philosophy," Daeron replied, amused. "Most men insist their homes are safe."

"Most men have never built theirs on the spine of a sleeping volcano."

That earned another laugh from the King—short, genuine.

At the edge of the table, Prince Baelor listened politely, smiling when appropriate, while Prince Maekar remained composed, his attention divided between the conversation and the room beyond it. Occasionally his eyes drifted towards the Dragon Galleries, as if mapping the unseen structure beneath stone and fire.

And then your father looked across the hall.

Straight at you.

A small gesture.

Two fingers, subtle but unmistakable.

Come.

You hesitated only long enough to register it.

Then you rose.

The movement did not go unnoticed. Conversations faltered in small pockets as you descended from your place, though no one dared interrupt the King's table directly.

Daeron's eyes lifted first when you approached.

And for a moment, even he seemed to take you in properly—no longer as a name or title spoken in passing, but as a presence in his court.

"Ah," the King said, breaking into a warm smile. "So this is her."

Your father leaned back slightly, visibly pleased in a way few would ever see. "Your Grace."

Daeron gestured lightly with his cup.

"I finally get to meet the lady with two dragons."

A few murmurs rippled nearby—half awe, half disbelief, quickly suppressed.

Your mother, seated not far behind, did not react outwardly. But you knew her well enough to recognise the faintest tightening of attention.

The King's gaze remained on you, not unkind, but deeply interested.

"I am told," he continued, "that House Vezarion has something the realm has not seen in some time.

"Your voice was steady as you replied. "We have what was left to us, Your Grace."

A brief pause.

Daeron's smile widened slightly at that. "A careful answer. I approve."

Prince Baelor gave a small, polite smile from where he sat. Prince Maekar said nothing, but his eyes sharpened slightly—as though measuring the weight of what had just been said.

The King leaned back, considering you for a moment longer.

Then, more lightly, he added, "Tell me—do you truly keep them beneath this mountain?"

A few lords shifted uncomfortably. The question was direct in a way court etiquette rarely allowed.

You did not hesitate.

"Yes."

That simplicity drew a faint exhale of amusement from Daeron.

"Of course you do."

Another sip of wine.

Then, after a beat—

"I would very much like to see them."

Silence, brief but noticeable.

Not because it was improper.

Because it was inevitable.

Your father did not object. If anything, he looked faintly satisfied, as though the request had been expected from the moment the King entered the hall.

Instead, he glanced at you again.

Permission. Responsibility. Both at once.

Before you could answer, Daeron added, more casually, "And I am told there is a white one."

At that, something shifted at the royal table.

Prince Maekar's gaze sharpened.

Prince Baelor's expression grew more attentive.

And further down the hall, Aerion Targaryen—who had not moved for some time—lifted his head. Just slightly.

Your father spoke at last. "Vezaryn."

The King's interest did not waver. "A name worthy of memory."

A faint smile tugged at your father's mouth. "He has ensured he is not forgotten."

Daeron set his cup down.

"Then I would ask it properly," he said, tone gentler now. "Would you show him to us?"

A pause.

Then—

"As well as your other dragon."

This time, his gaze flicked briefly to you.

Not commanding.

Requesting.

Your eyes met your father's once more.

A small nod.

It was done.

—

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.ೃ࿔*:･ taglist: @qardasngan @0lder-bro @rafecomehome @marianntorres2611 @tempt-ress

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⋮ ⌗ ┆ "My wife loves dragons more than me" (and he's not even offended) Aerion Targaryen would absolutely notice that his wife's eyes light up more at the mention of dragons than at his own presence—yet instead of jealousy, it feeds his obsession with her. In his mind, it only proves she is meant for him: a Velaryon woman with sea-borne Valyrian blood, drawn instinctively to fire and scale. He doesn't think "she loves dragons more than me." He thinks: "She understands them like I do. That is why she belongs beside me.

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⋮ ⌗ ┆ The "pity her" misunderstanding Courtiers often whisper that you are too gentle, too sweet, too bright-eyed for someone like Aerion. They assume you are trapped. They are, famously, wrong. What they don't see is Aerion kneeling in front of your chair without hesitation, pressing his forehead briefly to your knee like it is the most natural thing in the world. Not submission in weakness—devotion in belief. To him, you are not beneath him. You're another dragon in human skin.

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⋮ ⌗ ┆ Lap of kings (or at least dragon princes) When you pull him down to rest his head in your lap, Aerion doesn't resist. He melts into it like it is his rightful place. Your fingers in his hair? Instant calm. Your voice praising him after a tourney? Worse than wildfire—he becomes insufferably pleased for days. But what makes it real for him is that your admiration isn't political or practiced. It's warm, immediate, and sincere.

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⋮ ⌗ ┆ The Great Dragon Lecture War Aerion loves to talk. Especially about dragons. Especially to you. He will confidently explain lineage, habits, hatchlings, Valyrian myths—utterly convinced he is enlightening you. You let him finish. Then, gently—but absolutely without hesitation—you correct him. And instead of being offended, he goes quiet. Not angry quiet. Fascinated quiet. Because you lean against him, chin on his chest, and begins explaining it properly—softly, excitedly, as if you're sharing a secret only they are meant to know. That is the moment he realises: he doesn't just want your attention. He wants your mind

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⋮ ⌗ ┆ Your shared dragon theology You don't just like dragons. You choose them. You describe which dragons would suit them both if they still existed: .ೃ࿔*:･which would respond to her calm voice .ೃ࿔*:･ which would obey his intensity .ೃ࿔*:･ which would accept them as a bonded pair rather than rider and beast Aerion listens like it is prophecy. Sometimes he interrupts only to say, very seriously: "Yes. That one would kneel for you." And he means it literally.

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⋮ ⌗ ┆ Bedtime stories in High Valyrian Even in your most intimate quiet moments—when the world outside the room stops mattering—you still ask for stories. Not songs. Not poetry. History. Aerion reading in High Valyrian becomes a ritual. His voice lowers, slower and more deliberate, as if the language itself is a form of closeness. You fall asleep to it often. And he never stops reading just because you're asleep.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

⋮ ⌗ ┆ The obsession goes both ways People assume Aerion is the only one with fixation. They miss how you watch him when he speaks of dragons. How you correct him because you care enough to be precise. How you smile when he kneels without shame. How you genuinely believe—quietly, firmly—that if dragons still ruled the skies, they would have chosen each other without hesitation. And Aerion believes her right back.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

⋮ ⌗ ┆ The truth of them To outsiders: strange, intense, unsettling. To each other: obvious. Two Valyrian-blooded souls orbiting the same fire—one shaped like a man, one like something softer but no less enduring—both convinced they are the closest thing the other has ever had to home.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

I love you i love you i love youuuu 🫪 ur requests are always the best TYSMMM 🫶🏼

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House Vezarion was not built upon Mount Vezrith so much as it was grown into it.

A noble house of the Crownlands, its seat rose from a dormant volcanic peak where stone had long since surrendered to fire. From a distance there were no clean lines, no proud symmetry—only jagged black basalt and the impression of something ancient half-buried in the mountain itself. The castle did not sit atop the rock; it was part of it, carved through fractured obsidian and natural fault-lines as though the mountain had been persuaded, not forced, to yield.

Within it, heat was never absent. It simply shifted in degree.

The deeper one went, the more the air changed—warmer, thicker, alive in a way most stone halls were not. And nowhere was that more evident than in the Dragon Galleries.

A vast network of cavernous chambers stretched through the lower spine of the mountain, where dragons did not merely rest, but belonged. Each had its place: basalt nesting basins shaped by centuries of heat erosion, airflow channels cut with careful precision to temper the volcanic currents, and old stone platforms etched with blood-marked sigils from rites that predated most written histories. It was not decoration. It was tradition, hardened into rock.

And always, the descent continued.

Deeper still lay the Ashheart Pit.

The Central Chamber.

A vast vertical wound in the mountain that opened towards the molten core below. Light from the volcano's heart flickered faintly in the abyss, rising in slow pulses through the shaft, while heat currents drifted upward like breath. Every sound carried here—dragon calls did not echo so much as multiply, as though the stone itself refused to let them die.

It was a place of judgement, of binding, of old disputes settled not by blade or crown, but by presence alone.

Above it all sat the Court of Cinders—the Political Hall your house tolerated more than loved.

A circular chamber of black volcanic glass where authority was not granted by a throne, but distributed through rings of seating, each closer or further from the centre depending on favour, influence, and fear. Power here was spatial rather than spoken.

And beneath even that, sealed away from most eyes, were the Vein Vaults. Ancient storage chambers lined with relics of early Vezarion history—dragon eggs preserved through centuries of failure and hope, obsidian-forged weapons tempered in volcanic fire, and blood-etched records that no maester outside your house had ever been allowed to fully catalogue.

Mount Vezrith did not merely hold history.

It guarded it.

So when House Targaryen proposed a royal feast within its depths, the scepticism that followed was almost instinctive.

—

The common room was warm with emberlight when the matter was raised.

Your family had gathered as they often did—informal in posture, though never in intent. Maps and correspondence lay scattered across the basalt table, half-forgotten in favour of conversation.

Caelor, your eldest brother at four-and-twenty, sat with the quiet authority that came naturally to him now. Khaerys, the youngest at ten-and-seven, lounged as though the room itself belonged to him, though his attention rarely drifted far from anything worth listening to. Between them, you were the only daughter of House Vezarion—nine-and-ten, and already far too used to rooms like this shaping the course of your life.

Your father stood at the head of it all in every sense that mattered. Lord Vaeron Vezarion, forty-nine, head of House Vezarion, and a man whose name carried weight even in silence. Beside him sat your mother, Lady Elyra Vezarion, forty-five, composed in the way only someone raised in the same fire could be—watching, measuring, never once truly still.

It had not always been this way. House Vezarion had bent the knee to the Targaryens generations ago, not out of weakness, but calculation—an end to bloodshed before it could ever reach their mountain. And yet, even in fealty, they had never allowed themselves to feel small. Not here. Not in Mount Vezrith.

"I still don't trust them," Khaerys said at last, breaking the low murmur of the room.

Your brother did not sound uncertain—only decided, as he often did.

He leaned forward slightly, gaze sharp.

"Did you see the way that prince reacted when word reached him about Y/N and Vezaryn? Aerion Targaryen doesn't look at things like that without wanting them. And you think we're meant to believe he'll walk into our home without bringing that with him?"

Your mother's voice cut in before the thought could sharpen further.

"Khaerys. Enough of that language."

It was quiet, but firm in the way only she managed—more disappointment than anger, though neither needed to be voiced outright.

Khaerys exhaled through his nose, but fell silent for the moment.

The story he was circling was one everyone in the room already knew.

Vezaryn.

The White Flame.

One of the largest living dragons still known to exist, and by most accounts the oldest that had not yet returned to ash. Bound not to House Targaryen, but to you—something that had unsettled more than a few within the realm.

And behind that bond lay the beginning of House Vezarion itself.

Vezar.

The first of your bloodline.

The man who had climbed into a dying volcano during a winter so severe it was said the world itself had gone hungry. Inside, he had found not gold, nor prophecy—but a white dragon on the brink of death.

He did not kill it.

He stayed.

For forty days, he fed it, tended it, and refused to leave it to die, even as his own survival grew uncertain.

And when the dragon finally recovered, it did something no creature of its kind was ever recorded to have done.

It bled into stone.

Willingly.

Vezar drank.

What followed was not power in any simple sense. It was change. His bloodline altered over generations—pale hair becoming common, eyes occasionally touched with violet, and an instinct for dragons that no training could ever replicate.

But it came with a cost.

Ash Fever.

A quiet inheritance that thinned your line as often as it strengthened it. Children too saturated with dragon-blood rarely survived infancy. Others burned too easily in the presence of hatchlings.

It was never spoken of lightly.

Your mother broke the silence again before it could settle too deep.

"Stop this, Khaerys."

Not harsh. Just final.

He did not argue further.

That time.

You shifted where you stood, drawing the conversation back before it could spiral into old history and old warnings.

"I think it could be a good thing," you said.

Caelor's gaze flicked to you immediately, scepticism already forming.

You didn't stop.

"It shows we aren't hiding behind Mount Vezrith. We're not afraid to open our doors. If anything, it lets them see what we've always known—what we are. What we've built."

You paused, then added more carefully.

"It's also security. No one walks into this castle without being seen. Without being controlled."

Your gaze moved to your father.

"It's a statement," you finished. "Of power. Not invitation."

Lord Vaeron Vezarion regarded you for a moment—long enough that the room seemed to hold itself still with him.

Then he gave a single nod.

"I think she is right."

The effect was immediate. Subtle, but there.

Your father did not often repeat himself.

"This is a chance," he continued, "for the realm to remember what House Vezarion is. Especially now that Y/N has bonded with two dragons. No Targaryen can claim that."

"Thank you, father," you said quietly. "Then we send the ravens. To the Red Keep. And to every Great House that still believes its name matters."

"So we will," he replied.

A pause.

"Have the ravens prepared."

You nodded once.

"I'll see to it."

And then you turned.

Not waiting for dismissal. Not needing it.

You found the maester in the rookery.

The chamber was alive with motion—wings shifting overhead, parchment rustling, the constant restless sound of birds that had seen too many winters and too many secrets.

When you spoke, your voice carried without strain.

"Send ravens to the Red Keep," you instructed, "and to every Great House worth the name. They are to be invited to a feast and festivities at Mount Vezrith."

The maester nodded at once.

"At once, my lady."

He moved quickly, ink already being prepared, names already forming into obligations.

You remained where you were as he worked.

Above you, the ravens shifted uneasily, as though they understood more than they should. Heat from the mountain drifted through the vents in slow pulses, warm against stone and feather alike.

One by one, the birds were released.

—

The first replies returned within days.

House Arryn accepted.

House Baratheon accepted.

House Tyrell accepted.

House Tully accepted.

House Stark answered more cautiously, their words measured even in ink, but they would send representatives all the same.

House Lannister accepted with the sort of confidence that felt less like agreement and more like expectation, requesting accommodations befitting Casterly Rock—as though the mountain might bend for their comfort.

Then came the final seal.

House Targaryen.

The wax was blackened red, unmistakable even before it was broken.

The maester carried it into the Court of Cinders without delay.

The chamber fell quiet as your father took it.

Lord Vaeron Vezarion broke the seal himself.

No ceremony. No hesitation.

Only the soft crack of wax giving way beneath his thumb.

His violet-flecked gaze moved across the parchment in steady silence. The kind that made even seasoned councillors forget how to breathe properly.

When he finished, he did not speak at once.

He simply folded the letter once.

Then again.

Precise. Controlled.

Only then did he look up.

"His Grace accepts."

A few of the councillors inclined their heads at once, as though the words had weight enough to require acknowledgement.

"He will come," your father continued, "with members of the royal family."

Khaerys let out a low sound from where he stood near the edge of the chamber.

"Wonderful."

It was dry enough to draw no laughter, and yet no one rebuked him immediately either.

Caelor's eyes flicked briefly toward him, but he said nothing.

For a moment, the room held still.

Even the braziers seemed louder against the black volcanic stone, their flames reflecting in fractured patterns across the glass-like walls.

Your father laid the letter down upon the obsidian table at the centre of the chamber with care that bordered on ritual.

"His Grace does not travel lightly," he said at last. "Nor should we expect him to."

Your mother reached for the parchment.

Her movements were unhurried, exact. When her eyes scanned it, they lingered only briefly before she set it down again.

"Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar accompanies him," she observed.

Khaerys gave a soft whistle. "The Hammer and the Saint," he murmured. "That should make for an interesting evening."

Your mother glanced at him. "You mistake solemnity for dullness."

"I usually do," he replied without shame.

A faint, reluctant curve touched her mouth—gone almost as soon as it appeared.

Then your father continued.

"Their sons ride with them."

The shift in the room was immediate.

Not loud. Just... heavier.

Caelor straightened slightly. "All of them?"

"So the letter states."

Khaerys leaned back a fraction in his chair. "Seven save us."

"Those prayers will not be answered here," Caelor said flatly.

"They may still be whispered," Khaerys returned.

Your mother ignored them both.

"Separate them," she said calmly. "Not as titles. As men."

Her gaze moved first to Caelor.

"Prince Baelor?"

"The realm's favourite," he answered without hesitation. "Honourable. Controlled. The sort of man lords trust because they understand exactly what he is."

"And Prince Maekar?"

"Disciplined," Caelor said. "Proud, but measured. The sort of man who counts every step before he takes it."

Your mother gave a small nod. "Reasonable."

"And His Grace?" she asked.

You spoke first. "King Daeron is underestimated."

Khaerys looked towards you.

"By whom?"

"By those who think peace is easily won."

Your father regarded you thoughtfully.

"Go on."

"He inherited a realm divided against itself. Dorne was scarcely welcomed into the kingdom, the great houses mistrusted one another, and yet the realm has known peace."

"Not perfect peace," Caelor remarked.

"No," you agreed. "But peace nonetheless."

Your mother inclined her head.

"A king who understands that every battle avoided is as valuable as one won."

"Some call that weakness," Khaerys muttered.

"Only men who've never had to rule," your father replied.

Your mothers attention shifted to you.

"And his sons?"

You considered it.

Not from ignorance—rather from memory, rumour, and the sort of courtly whispers that always reached even stone-carved halls like yours.

"Daeron," you began, "is said to prefer books to swords... and wine to both."

Khaerys snorted immediately. "I like him already."

You did not look at him.

"And Aegon?" your mother asked.

There was a brief pause—shorter than the others, but deliberate all the same.

Khaerys shrugged. "The youngest."

"That is not an answer," Caelor said flatly.

"It is all there is," Khaerys replied. "He's a boy. Quiet, from what I've heard. The sort people forget to look at twice."

Your father's gaze sharpened slightly.

"People often regret that," he said.

Silence followed the words, heavier than it should have been for something so simple.

Your mother folded her hands.

"Aegon Targaryen," she said, as though testing the name. "The least spoken of... is often the one shaped most carefully."

No one contradicted her.

"And Aerion..."

The name settled differently in the air.

Even Khaerys stopped smiling.

It was your father who spoke first.

"He is dangerous."

No embellishment. No uncertainty. Only fact, spoken as if it had already been tested and confirmed.

Your mother folded her hands.

"There are men who are ruled by anger," she said quietly. "Others by pride. Prince Aerion is governed by both—and neither yields easily."

Khaerys shifted slightly. "I've heard the stories."

"So has every court from here to Dorne," Caelor replied.

Your gaze returned to your father.

"The tourney at Ashford," you said.

A single nod.

"The realm remembers," he agreed.

And so did you.

Prince Aerion Targaryen.

Silver-bright in every tale told of him. Handsome enough to be written into songs, cruel enough that those same songs often ended in hesitation rather than verse. A man spoken of carefully, even by those who claimed not to fear him.

And then there had been Vezaryn.

The White Flame.

News had reached Mount Vezrith months earlier that the ancient dragon had bound itself once more—to you. Not to Valyrian blood in the traditional sense, not to House Targaryen, but to House Vezarion.

The reaction across Westeros had been immediate.

Some called it omen. Others, blasphemy. Most simply watched and waited.

But Prince Aerion had not been among those who waited quietly.

A man like that did not accept that something he considered his world's heritage could choose elsewhere.

Your father broke the silence again.

"I care little for court whispers. Whether the prince arrives with admiration or resentment is irrelevant."

"It becomes relevant the moment he steps into our halls," your mother replied.

He did not dispute her.

Caelor's hand rested briefly against the pommel of his dagger. "Then we make certain he remembers he came here as a guest."

"No," your father said.

The word cut clean through the chamber.

Every head turned slightly.

"We will ensure," he continued, "that he has no reason to forget where he stands."

His gaze moved across each of you in turn.

"Khaerys."

Your brother sighed. "I know what you're going to say."

"You do not."

A pause.

"No unnecessary provocations," Khaerys said at last. "No scandals. No... diplomatic disasters."

"That was not my concern."

A faint grin tugged at his mouth anyway. "It usually is."

Your father ignored him entirely.

"You will remember that every knight, lord, and prince who enters this mountain will judge House Vezarion by your conduct."

"I understand."

"Caelor."

"I'll oversee the guard rotations," he replied at once. "Gate security. Patrol routes. The Vein Vaults will be doubled."

"The Dragon Galleries?" he added after a moment.

"Remain sealed unless escorted by our own blood."

"Understood."

Finally, your father's attention settled on you.

The shift was subtle—but present.

Not command.

Trust.

"And you."

You lifted a brow. "I assume I am to receive the shortest instruction of all."

"You are."

Even your mother glanced at him then.

"You will do what you always do."

Khaerys let out a quiet laugh. "That sounds ominous."

"No," your father said, still looking at you. "She will speak plainly. Ride openly. And remind every guest exactly what House Vezarion is."

Something unspoken settled into the room at that.

Not comfort.

Recognition.

Your mother studied your father for a long moment.

"They will not come only to observe," she said. "Half will come to measure us. The rest will come hoping we fail to meet expectation."

"Then let them measure," your father replied. "They will find nothing lacking."

Khaerys shifted where he stood by a basalt column. "So we're truly doing this. Inviting half the realm into a volcano and trusting they don't collapse from heat or fear."

"No one forces them to descend," your mother said calmly.

"They will," Caelor replied from the edge of the chamber. "Curiosity always outweighs caution where lords are concerned."

"That," Khaerys muttered, "is the most depressing truth I've heard all day."

Your father stepped away from the table.

The sound of his movement ended the discussion more effectively than any command.

"Enough," he said. "Preparation does not falter because men choose to speak too much."

And just like that, it was done.

Not resolved.

Decided.

—

The days that followed moved differently.

Mount Vezrith did not change so much as it tightened—every corridor carrying purpose, every chamber adjusted to expectation. Servants learned quickly where they could stand, and more importantly, where they could not.

Guests would see only what was permitted.

Only what was controlled.

The Dragon Galleries were sealed deeper than usual, sigils reinforced, passages watched not only by guards—but by silence itself. Even seasoned knights avoided lingering too long near the older tunnels where heat rose in slow, living currents from the stone.

You rode Caelthys once during that time.

Not for spectacle.

Because he would not settle otherwise.

His wings carved through the lower volcanic currents of the mountain, where heated air moved like breath through carved vents. Beneath you, the Ashheart currents pulsed faintly—constant, ancient, alive.

And deeper still—

You felt it.

Not sight. Not sound.

Presence.

Vezaryn.

The mountain itself seemed to remember him.

Caelthys faltered mid-flight for a heartbeat, wings tightening instinctively, before you steadied him with a quiet hand along his neck ridges.

"Easy," you murmured. "It's only him."

But even you did not sound entirely certain.

And then—

The day came.

Mount Vezrith did not feel alive so much as aware.

Every stone, every corridor, every seam of volcanic glass seemed to anticipate movement that had not yet arrived. The mountain had always been awake in its own way—but now it was listening.

You stood alone while attendants finished preparing you.

The dress lay before you like something forged rather than sewn.

Ivory silk, light enough to move with breath itself, layered so it shifted rather than clung. It was designed not for courtly fragility, but for heat—for a place where fire was not metaphor but environment.

Gold chainwork traced your back, fastened with precision, old Vezarion patterns catching the firelight as you moved.

And above it—

Not a crown.

Never quite that.

A fitted lattice of fine metal and dark stone, shaped to sit along your hair and temples like something half-born from ritual rather than ornament. When light struck it correctly, faint violet shimmered through the set stones—echoing what lived quietly in your blood.

When you looked at yourself, you did not see softness.

You saw inheritance.

—

Your older brother met you in the corridor.

A single look was enough.

"You will be watched."

"I know."

"That will not change the fact they will stare longer than they should."

"They were always going to stare."

A faint breath left him—something between approval and resignation.

Khaerys appeared further down the corridor moments later, leaning against a carved pillar like he had been there the entire time.

"If the Targaryens were hoping to feel superior upon arrival," he said lightly, "that plan has already failed."

"Try not to provoke them," Caelor said without turning.

"I never provoke anyone," Khaerys replied. "I merely respond creatively to poor judgement."

"That is exactly what I said."

Uou passed between them.

"Come," you said. "Let us not keep the realm waiting on its own arrival."

—

The Dining Hall was already full.

Not crowded.

Positioned.

Every great house arranged with intent, banners hanging against volcanic glass that reflected them like deeper, darker versions of themselves.

Your father stood at the highest permitted point of the hall, watching without expression.

Your mother stood beside him, composed as ever, eyes moving slowly across the gathered lords as though she were already recording their futures.

When you entered—

The room changed.

Not silence. Not awe.

Something more restrained.

Attention tightened. Measured.

You descended without haste.

White against black stone.

Gold catching emberlight.

Every step deliberate, every movement aware.

And for a brief moment, the hall understood something without being told:

You were not decoration. You were not ceremony. You were Vezarion.

Your older brother took his place without speaking.

Khaerys lingered somewhere behind you, already scanning the room like it was a story waiting to misbehave.

And you—

You stopped only once.

At the threshold where the Targaryens would soon be brought forward.

The air was warmer here. Closer. As though the mountain itself leaned inward to listen.

In the distance, horns sounded.

And House Targaryen began to arrive.

—

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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⋮ ⌗ ┆ Aerion initially assumes your affection is political. Aerion grew up expecting fear, obedience, or manipulation. So when you—his Dornish wife smiles at him without hesitation, laughs at his dry remarks, or reaches for his hand of your own accord, his first instinct is suspicion. He waits for the scheme. For the request. For the betrayal. It never comes. After months, he slowly realises... you simply love him.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ He overhears you defending him. He doesn't mean to listen. Perhaps you're speaking to his father or another noble who dismisses Aerion as cruel, unstable, or doomed. You don't deny his flaws. Instead you quietly say, "He has done terrible things. I won't pretend otherwise. But I have also seen kindness in him that no one else bothers to notice." Or— "People expect him to become the monster they already believe he is." Aerion leaves before you notice he was there. That night he's noticeably quieter. You never learn why.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ The forehead kiss. You return very late after tending to court duties. He's apparently asleep. You whisper, "I'm sorry, my dragon... I didn't mean to wake you." You pull the blankets higher around him. You then brush hair away from his forehead, kiss him there, and run gentle fingers through his silver hair. You begin to pull away— Only for his hand to close around your wrist. "You're late." "I thought you were asleep." "I was." "...Liar." "...Perhaps." He never mentions the kiss. But after that night, whenever you're both alone, he'll occasionally lay his head in your lap without explanation. Neither of you comments on it.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Physical affection becomes their language. Aerion isn't someone who says "I love you." Instead— He'll rest his head against yours. Stand closer than necessary. Wrap an arm around your waist when someone looks at you too long. If you're reading, he'll quietly place his feet in your lap simply because he wants to be touching you somehow. It's possessive. But also oddly trusting.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ You understand his "gifts." Normal husbands bring flowers. Aerion brings... .ೃ࿔*:･ An exceptionally beautiful hawk feather. .ೃ࿔*:･ An expensive dagger with dragon carvings. .ೃ࿔*:･ A ruby he won in a wager. .ೃ࿔*:･ The skull of a wolf that threatened your horse. Everyone else thinks it's horrifying. You simply smile. "You thought of me." "...Obviously." "I love it." His chest swells with pride

⋮ ⌗ ┆ The sword lesson. You ask him to teach you. He's amused. "You? Swing a sword?" You answer honestly. "I want to understand why you love it." That catches him off guard. You aren't asking to impress him. You genuinely want to understand what makes him feel alive. During training he's surprisingly patient. Correcting your grip. Moving behind you to adjust your stance. Explaining why each strike matters. For perhaps the first time in his life... Someone is interested in his passions instead of fearing them.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ "My brave dragon." No one else would dare. You say it naturally. "My dragon." "My brave dragon." "My fierce dragon." Every single time— Aerion tries to pretend it means nothing. "Obviously." "...I know." "...You have good taste." Meanwhile— His ears are turning red.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ You learn how to redirect his anger. Not suppress it. Redirect it. When he's furious you never tell him to calm down. Instead— "I know." "Tell me." "They're beneath you." "You've already won." It's enough to make him pause. Because unlike everyone else you don't challenge his pride. You work with it.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ He becomes frighteningly protective. Aerion already thinks of himself as a dragon. In his mind... His wife is his treasure. Dragons don't share treasure. He notices who stares too long. Who speaks disrespectfully. Who stands too close. Most people only receive a cold look. The truly foolish receive something far worse. His reputation becomes enough that people instinctively avoid offending you. Not because they're afraid of you. Because they're afraid of him.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ You praise effort, not violence. One distinction that matters. If he comes back boasting about needless cruelty— You don't encourage it. If he shows discipline. Skill. Patience. Courage. You praise those. "I'm proud of how controlled you were." "You handled that well." "That was worthy of a prince." Without realising it, you're reinforcing the better parts of him.

⋮ ⌗ ┆You are one of the only people who can tease him safely. You catch him staring at himself in polished armor. "You've admired your reflection three times." "It has improved since this morning." You laugh. "It certainly has." He huffs dramatically. "...You mock your prince." "I adore my prince." "...Continue."

⋮ ⌗ ┆ He quietly begins relying on your judgment. He would never admit it publicly. But before important decisions— He'll ask, "What do you think?" Never, "What should I do?" Always— "What do you think?" It's subtle. Yet significant. Aerion doesn't take orders. But he values the opinion of the one person he believes sees him completely and still chooses to stay.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ His treasure You never try to "save" Aerion. You know he has darkness in him. He knows you see it. Yet you also see the intelligence, determination, courage, and fierce loyalty beneath his arrogance. That acceptance doesn't erase his flaws, but it gives him something he's rarely had: a relationship where admiration isn't rooted in fear or ambition. To Aerion, that becomes rarer than any crown or dragon egg—and once he decides you are his treasure, he guards you with the same possessive intensity he believes any dragon would reserve for its hoard.

—

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Morning arrived grey and cold.

For a few moments, you simply stared at the ceiling.

The previous night's conversation lingered somewhere at the back of your mind. Not the words themselves. Just the feeling of it. The strange comfort of another person sharing the silence with you instead of trying to fix it.

A floorboard creaked.

You turned your head.

Dunk was still asleep. Or half asleep.

The hedge knight had apparently lost his battle with the wall sometime during the night. One long leg hung awkwardly off the edge of the bed, his arm folded beneath his head in a position that looked deeply uncomfortable.

You frowned.

How he managed to sleep like that remained a mystery.

Sunlight slipped through the shutters and fell across his face.

Almost immediately, he squinted.

Then groaned.

Then rubbed both hands over his face.

You watched the entire thing happen.

Slowly, Dunk opened one eye. The moment he realised you were awake, he froze.

"Morning."

"Morning."

His voice sounded rough. Not drunk. Just tired.

For some reason, he continued staring at you.

You raised an eyebrow.

Dunk immediately looked away. That only made you more suspicious.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"It wasn't nothing."

The hedge knight shifted awkwardly.

"It was."

"Dunk."

He sighed. The sound was long and suffering.

You recognised it immediately.

It was the same sigh he used whenever he knew he was about to embarrass himself.

You folded your arms.

The silence stretched.

Eventually he rubbed the back of his neck.

"I had ale last night."

"Two cups."

"Aye."

You waited.

Dunk looked briefly towards the door as if considering escape.

Unfortunately for him, you noticed.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

His ears turned faintly red. Nothing good ever followed that.

"I just..." He stopped. "Never mind."

"Dunk."

Another sigh.

The knight stared very intensely at a crack in the wall.

"I wasn't sure if I'd imagined part of last night."

You blinked.

"What part?"

His expression immediately suggested he regretted speaking. All at once, understanding dawned.

For a second you simply stared at him.

Then laughter escaped before you could stop it. Dunk looked horrified.

"No, no—"

"You thought something happened?"

"I wasn't sure!"

"You were snoring."

The words came out between laughs.

Dunk buried his face in one hand.

"You nearly rolled off the bed twice."

His shoulders slumped.

"Oh."

"You also called your horse stubborn."

Dunk looked up.

"I call my horse stubborn all the time."

"You were asleep."

That finished him. The hedge knight groaned and dropped his head backwards against the wall.

"Seven save me."

The laugh that escaped you felt lighter than any you'd managed in weeks.

Dunk noticed. He didn't comment on it. Just smiled quietly before standing.

"Come on."

"Where are we going now?"

"Ashford Meadow."

—

The village was only half awake. Smoke from early fires curled lazily between cottages, and somewhere behind you a horse stamped and snorted as if it also resented the hour.

Dunk was meant to be packing.

He was doing what he usually did when "packing" was required—checking straps, checking knots, checking the same strap and knot again like the world might quietly rearrange itself if he didn't.

You weren't thinking about that.

You were somewhere else entirely.

A patch of open ground between tents became, in your mind, something larger. Something with space for movement. For speed. For a fight that didn't exist except in the shape of your thoughts.

You stepped into it, rolling your shoulders once, then twice, like you'd seen knights do when they thought no one was watching.

Your hand wasn't holding anything.

It didn't need to.

A blade was there anyway.

You exhaled slowly.

Then moved.

A quick shift of weight. A turn that would have been cleaner if your foot hadn't caught slightly in the uneven ground. You corrected too late, stumbling half a step—

"Careful."

The voice came from behind you.

You froze.

Dunk. Of course it was Dunk.

You turned your head just enough to glare at him. "I wasn't doing anything."

He paused mid-knot, looking at you like he was trying to decide whether that was technically true or just mostly untrue.

"You were about to fall over."

"I was not."

"You were leaning like you were about to meet the ground on purpose."

That made you straighten instantly.

Dunk sighed in that long-suffering way he had, the one that suggested he had not signed up for any of this, ever, in his entire life.

Then he stepped closer.

"Show me again."

You blinked. "What?"

"Your footing," he said, like it was obvious. "You're shifting too early on the turn."

"I'm not— I wasn't actually-"

"I know."

That shut you up more effectively than anything else he could've said.

Dunk scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking mildly uncomfortable, like he'd just realised he was participating in something he didn't fully understand.

"Just... do it again," he muttered.

You hesitated, then did.

The same movement. The same imagined strike. The same invisible blade cutting through air that didn't resist it.

Dunk watched for a moment.

Then, almost before you noticed him move, he stepped in.

Not aggressively. Not like a knight correcting a student in a yard.

Just... instinct.

His hand caught your wrist lightly—not to stop you, just to guide the line of it.

"Too wide," he said quietly.

Then his other hand touched your shoulder.

"Here— your weight's wrong."

He shifted your stance half an inch.

Half an inch was nothing.

And somehow it changed everything.

Your balance settled in like it had been waiting there the whole time, patient and annoyed that you hadn't found it sooner.

Dunk seemed to realise, at the exact same moment, that he was standing far too close.He pulled his hands back immediately.

"Right," he said quickly. "That's— that's better."

You didn't move right away.

Neither did he.

For a second, there was only the sound of the camp waking up around you. Boots on dirt. A kettle clinking somewhere. A horse shifting its weight like it was bored of everyone's behaviour.

Dunk cleared his throat.

"I wasn't trying to—" he started.

"I know," you said.

That made him stop.

You looked down at your feet again, then back up at him.

"...Thanks," you added, quieter.

Dunk gave a small nod like that settled something.

—

The roads grew busier the closer you came to the tourney.

At first it was only the occasional traveller.

A merchant here. A hedge knight there. Then banners began appearing. Bright colours moved through the countryside like pieces of a story unfolding.

Lords.

Knights.

Squires.

Men-at-arms.

The roads seemed determined to empty half of Westeros directly into Ashford.

Every inn was crowded. Every field held campfires. Every conversation eventually found its way back to the tourney.

Dunk listened to all of it. Pretending not to. Failing completely.

You noticed him watching knights pass on the road.

Watching the quality of their armour.

The condition of their horses.

The sigils painted on their shields.

There was a boyishness to him whenever tournaments were mentioned.

Not childish.

Just hopeful.

As if some part of him still believed every tourney might be the one that changed his life.

You understood that feeling more than you wanted to.

Hope could be dangerous. But people carried it anyway.

—

Ashford appeared just before sunset.

The sight stole the breath from your lungs.

You had expected a tournament.

You had not expected this.

The fields surrounding the town had disappeared beneath a sea of pavilions and tents.

Hundreds of them. Perhaps thousands.

Bright banners snapped in the evening wind. Smoke curled from cookfires. The distant sound of laughter drifted across the grounds.

Armoured knights moved through the crowds like living pieces of some great tale.

For a long moment, neither you nor Dunk spoke.

The horse continued forward at a slow walk.

Your eyes moved across everything at once.

The colours. The noise. The sheer size of it.

The stories your father used to tell suddenly felt very small compared to the reality standing before you.

"Seven hells," you whispered.

Dunk smiled.

"Aye."

For once, he sounded every bit as impressed as you felt.

—

Finding somewhere to stay proved considerably less magical.

Most of the available ground had already been claimed.

Every decent patch of grass seemed occupied by knights, squires, servants, horses, or all four.

Dunk spent nearly half an hour searching.

By the end of it, both you and the horse were exhausted.

The sun had almost disappeared when familiar voice boomed across the tournament grounds.

"Dunk!"

Several nearby horses startled.

You nearly did as well.

Dunk turned.

A grin immediately spread across his face. The man approaching the both of you was enormous.

Broad as an ox and twice as cheerful.

Black hair. Blue eyes.

A laugh that seemed permanently trapped somewhere in his chest.

He strode through the crowd as though the crowd ought to move for him.

Which, to be fair, it largely did.

"Dunk!" he repeated.

The hedge knight actually looked pleased.

"Ser Lyonel."

Lyonel Baratheon reached him and immediately clapped a hand against his shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him sideways.

You were fairly certain it would've flattened most men. Dunk merely staggered.

Lyonel laughed. "There he is."

"It's good to see you too."

"You look terrible."

"Thank you."

Lyonel grinned.

Then his attention shifted toward you.

For a brief moment, his expression softened. Not pity. Not curiosity. Just warmth.

"And who's this?"

You introduced yourself.

Lyonel greeted you with the same easy friendliness he seemed to offer everyone. Within moments you understood why people liked him.

There was no performance to him. No arrogance. No need to prove himself.

The man simply existed exactly as he was.

Loudly.

His gaze drifted between you and Dunk. A knowing smile slowly appeared. Dunk immediately noticed.

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was."

The smile widened.

Dunk looked exhausted already.

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself laughing.

Lyonel noticed that too.

"Oh, I like her."

"Please don't encourage him."

"I'm encouraging both of you."

"We haven't done anything."

"That sounds suspicious."

Dunk groaned.

Lyonel laughed so hard he nearly bent in half.

Dunk looked as though he regretted arriving at Ashford already.

"You're unbearable."

"Aye," Lyonel agreed cheerfully. "I've been told."

"Often."

"Very often."

The Baratheon lord draped a heavy arm across Dunk's shoulders before the hedge knight could escape.

"Come."

Dunk frowned. "Come where?"

"My tent."

"No."

Lyonel blinked.

"No?"

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm inviting you to."

"I know enough."

Lyonel looked genuinely offended.

"You wound me, Ser Duncan."

"You'll survive."

"I might not."

"You will."

Lyonel's eyes shifted towards you.

"Do you see what I endure?"

You immediately nodded.

"I do."

"Thank you."

Dunk groaned.

The larger knight pointed triumphantly.

"See? She understands me."

"She's known you less than ten minutes."

"Exactly. Long enough."

You followed behind the men with a small grin on your face. You kept your hands wrapped tightly around the reins of the horse as you guided it to wherever it was Lyonel was taking you.

Lyonel's grin widened.

Then his attention shifted briefly toward the darkening sky above the tournament grounds.

The last traces of sunlight were disappearing now. Lanterns had begun to glow across the fields like scattered stars. Music drifted through the evening air from somewhere nearby.

A fiddle. Laughter. The distant sound of men already drinking more than was wise.

Lyonel spread his arms dramatically.

"There's wine."

"No."

"Ale."

"No."

"Roasted boar."

Dunk hesitated.

Lyonel immediately pointed at him.

"There."

"I didn't say anything."

"You thought about it."

Dunk scowled.

The Baratheon lord looked positively delighted.

"You've been sleeping in stables and ditches for gods know how long. Tonight, you're eating real food."

"We had bread."

Lyonel stared at him.

"Listen to yourself."

Dunk rubbed the back of his neck. The gesture alone was practically surrender.

Lyonel turned toward you. "You're coming too."

"I don't think that was a question."

"It wasn't."

"I figured."

"Good."

The grin returned immediately.

"Then it's settled."

—

Before Lyonel could drag either of you away, Dunk insisted on tending to his horse first.

The tournament grounds were crowded, and the hedge knight wasn't the sort of man who abandoned his horse simply because someone offered him ale or roasted boar.

You followed him through rows of tents while Lyonel wandered ahead, greeting half the realm as he went.

By the time you reached the pavilion Lyonel had promised you, darkness had settled fully over Ashford.

Lanterns glowed warmly outside. Servants moved between tents carrying food and drink.

The sounds of celebration seemed to come from every direction.

Dunk immediately made for his horse. The gelding snorted softly as he approached.

"There you are."

You leaned against a nearby post and watched. There was always something oddly gentle about the way Dunk spoke to animals. As though he expected them to answer.

He checked the horse's hooves first. Then its saddle. Then its water. Then checked everything a second time.

"You know," you said, "I think your horse is better looked after than most lords."

Dunk didn't even glance up.

"Aye."

"You agree?"

"Aye."

That earned a laugh from one of Lyonel's men nearby.

The knight was holding a lantern and trying very hard not to smile.

Dunk finally looked up.

"What?"

The man raised both hands.

"Nothing, Ser."

"Aye."

The soldier's grin widened.

Dunk narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"You laughed."

"I did."

"You shouldn't have."

"I know."

The exchange only made the knight laugh harder.

You shook your head.

Lyonel had somehow managed to surround himself with men just as impossible as he was.

Once the horse was settled, Dunk gave its neck a final pat.

"You stay here."

The horse blinked.

"He always talks to it like that?" one of Lyonel's men asked quietly.

"Constantly."

"Aye," the man said. "That explains a lot."

Dunk frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"No idea, Ser."

The answer was immediate. Far too immediate.

You bit back a smile.

Lyonel's man stepped forward and gestured toward the tethering posts beside the pavilion.

"We'll keep an eye on him."

Dunk looked relieved at that.

"You don't have to."

"We do."

The knight smiled.

"Lord Lyonel would have my head if your horse wandered off."

Dunk considered this. Then nodded.

"Aye. Fair enough."

Only then did he finally allow himself to leave.

—

The party tent was enormous.

You realised that before you'd even stepped inside.

Music poured through the open entrance.

Fiddles. Drums. Laughter.

The smell of roasted meat and spiced wine hung in the air.

Inside, dozens of knights, squires, servants and retainers crowded around long wooden tables.

Some were singing. Some were drinking. Some were attempting to do both at once.

One knight appeared to be losing an argument with a loaf of bread.

You weren't entirely sure how.

Dunk stopped dead beside you.

"Oh no."

You looked at him.

"What?"

He pointed.

Lyonel was standing on a table. Of course he was. The Baratheon lord held a cup high above his head.

His voice carried across the entire tent.

"THERE HE IS."

Every head turned. Immediately.

Dunk visibly considered leaving.

"Too late!" Lyonel shouted.

The grin on his face could probably be seen from Dorne.

"DUNK!"

Several men cheered. Someone raised a mug. Another shouted something unintelligible.

Dunk looked horrified.

You laughed. The sound escaped before you could stop it.

Dunk turned toward you.

"You think this is funny?"

"A little."

"A little?"

"A lot."

His expression only made it worse.

Lyonel pointed dramatically across the tent.

"Make room!"

Several men immediately shifted aside. One of them nearly fell off the bench in the process.

Dunk sighed the sigh of a man accepting his fate.

"This was a mistake."

Lyonel heard him.

"It absolutely was."

The Baratheon lord jumped down from the table.

The floor shook slightly.

You weren't entirely convinced that was normal.

Lyonel appeared beside you both moments later.

A mug was placed into your hand. Another into Dunk's.

Dunk looked at it suspiciously.

Lyonel looked offended.

"Drink."

"It's ale."

"Yes."

"You know it's ale?"

"...Yes."

"Then drink it."

You laughed again.

For a brief moment, standing amongst the noise and warmth and impossible energy of the tent, something inside your chest eased.

The mug in your hand was heavier than it looked.

You turned it slightly, watching the amber liquid catch the lantern light.

Dunk hadn't moved. He was still standing just inside the tent like he expected the entire place to collapse if he took another step forward.

Lyonel noticed.

He clapped Dunk on the shoulder again—less gentle this time.

"Sit."

"I'm standing."

"Sit."

"I prefer standing."

Lyonel leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. "You look like you're about to faint."

"I'm not going to faint."

"You looked like that before you said it."

Dunk opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then, reluctantly, he sat. It was not graceful. It was not dignified. It was, however, a decision made under pressure.

Lyonel immediately looked pleased with himself.

"There. Much better."

Dunk took a careful sip of ale, as though expecting betrayal.

You watched him over the rim of your own cup.

"You're worse than the horse," you said quietly.

Dunk glanced at you.

"What?"

"In crowds."

"I'm not bad in crowds."

"You're actively suffering."

"I am not—"

Lyonel cut in immediately. "He is."

Dunk turned his head slowly.

Lyonel raised both hands.

"Don't look at me like that. It's observational truth."

Dunk exhaled through his nose.

The kind of sound that meant he had accepted he was not winning this argument.

Somewhere deeper in the tent, a lute started up again.

The music was louder now. Looser. Less careful. People had clearly stopped caring who was watching.

A man began singing badly. Another joined in even worse.

Dunk took another sip. "This is... loud."

Lyonel grinned.

"It's a tourney."

"It's a headache."

"It's life."

Dunk muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

You leaned back slightly on your bench, letting the noise wash around you instead of through you.It was strange. You should have felt overwhelmed. Instead, it felt almost distant. Like watching something happen to someone else.

Lyonel noticed your expression shift.

He didn't comment directly. He just nudged a plate of food closer to you.

"Eat," he said simply.

You blinked. "I'm fine."

"You're thin."

"I'm not—"

"You are."

Dunk glanced at the plate, then at you.

Then, very quietly—

"He's not wrong."

You stared at both of them. Then picked up the bread.

"Traitors," you muttered.

Lyonel beamed.

Dunk looked faintly relieved.

"You'll get used to him," Lyonel said, gesturing vaguely at Dunk.

"I already am," you replied.

Dunk almost choked on his ale. "I beg your pardon?"

Lyonel laughed loudly again.

"That's the spirit."

Dunk set his mug down carefully. "I feel like I've lost control of this situation."

"You never had control of it," Lyonel said cheerfully.

"That's not helping."

"It's accurate."

You took a bite of bread. It was warm. Properly baked. Not something hard and half-forgotten from a roadside inn.

It shouldn't have mattered. But it did.

Dunk noticed your pause.

"You alright?"

You nodded.

"Yeah."

A lie. Not a big one. Just enough to keep the moment from becoming something heavier.

Dunk didn't push. He rarely did.

Instead, he leaned back slightly, watching the room the way he always did—half alert, half tired, always aware of exits.

Lyonel followed his gaze.

"You're still doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Counting ways to leave."

Dunk frowned.

"I'm not—"

"You are."

Silence settled for a moment. Not uncomfortable. Just honest.

Dunk finally shrugged. "It's habit."

Lyonel nodded like that made perfect sense.

"Aye. Mine's drinking too much wine and arguing with septons."

"That's not a habit," Dunk said.

"It's a lifestyle."

You laughed softly at that. Both men looked at you at the same time.

Lyonel pointed. "There. See? She understands."

Dunk didn't argue this time.

Inside the tent, music swelled louder for a moment, then dipped again as someone started a new song.

The whole world felt slightly tilted here. Not dangerous. Just alive.

Lyonel stood abruptly. "Right."

Dunk looked up immediately.

"What now?"

The Baratheon lord grinned.

"More wine."

Dunk groaned.

Lyonel pointed at him again.

"You're coming with me."

"I'm not—"

"You are."

Dunk looked at you briefly, as if silently asking for help.

You simply shrugged. "Don't look at me."

"That's betrayal."

"That's survival."

Lyonel laughed all the way toward the tables, already calling for more drink before he'd even arrived.

Dunk watched him go. Then looked back at you. "You're enjoying this."

"A little."

"A lot," he corrected.

You didn't deny it. That alone seemed to make Dunk sigh less heavily.

He picked up his mug again, slower this time.

"Try not to let him get you killed," he said.

You raised an eyebrow.

"That's your advice?"

"It's good advice."

Lyonel's voice boomed from across the tent.

"I HEARD THAT, DUNK!"

Dunk didn't even turn.

"I know you did!"

The laughter that followed rolled through the tent like thunder.

—

The music inside Lyonel Baratheon's tent had grown louder, but it no longer felt like something separate from the room. It filled every corner now, slipping between conversations, threading through laughter, pulling everyone into its rhythm whether they meant to or not.

Dunk hadn't noticed when standing stopped being an option.

One moment he was trying to stay near the edge of things, close enough to the exit that his instincts didn't start screaming at him. The next, Lyonel had decided that was unacceptable.

"You look like a man waiting to be rescued," Lyonel said, far too loudly.

"I'm not—"

"You are," Lyonel cut in, grinning like it was personal challenge. "And I refuse to let that stand in my own tent."

Before Dunk could argue further, Lyonel had him by the arm again, steering him back into the shifting crowd.

Dunk's boots caught slightly on the uneven ground. "I don't know how to dance," he muttered.

Lyonel laughed. "No one does. That's the point."

That didn't help.

Somewhere to their left, someone cheered as a jug was emptied. Someone else clapped a rhythm against a table. The whole tent had become a moving thing—unstable, loud, and strangely alive.

Dunk found himself turning in an awkward half-circle as Lyonel dragged him into what could only generously be called dancing.

"It's just stepping!" Lyonel shouted over the noise. "Stepping and not falling over!"

"I can already do that!"

"Prove it!"

Dunk opened his mouth to reply, but the words were lost as Lyonel spun him clumsily in the wrong direction entirely.

Nearby, you had clearly reached the same conclusion Dunk had: that resistance was only making things worse.

"You're doing it wrong," someone told you cheerfully.

"I'm not doing anything," you replied, which somehow only made the person laugh harder.

Dunk caught sight of you again between moving bodies—caught in the same ridiculous current as him, though holding yourself with the stubborn kind of dignity that suggested you were offended by the entire concept of being included.

That was when Lyonel noticed.

"Oh, that's perfect."

Nothing good had ever followed those words.

Before either of you could react, Lyonel planted one massive hand on Dunk's shoulder and pointed dramatically across the tent.

"Dance with her."

Dunk looked horrified.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I absolutely did not agree to that."

Lyonel barked a laugh.

The musicians, unfortunately, chose that exact moment to begin playing something even faster.

The tent erupted into cheers.

You took an immediate step backwards.

"No."

Lyonel pointed at you next.

"Too late."

"That isn't how that works."

"It is tonight."

"It really isn't."

Several people nearby seemed to disagree.

Dunk looked about as comfortable as a horse in a bath. Which would've been amusing if you weren't suffering the exact same fate.

Lyonel looked delighted.

"You two are miserable."

"We're not miserable," Dunk said.

"You look miserable."

"We're standing."

"Aye. Miserably."

That earned laughter from half the tent.

You groaned.

Dunk rubbed a hand over his face.

Lyonel looked ready to continue tormenting both of you for the remainder of the evening

—

Then something changed.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

The laughter nearest the entrance shifted first.

Then voices. Then movement.

A ripple travelling through the crowd.

People began turning. Looking.

The musicians faltered briefly before recovering.

Even Lyonel's attention moved elsewhere.

You followed everyone else's gaze toward the entrance of the tent.

Several men had entered.

Knights, from the look of them.

Well dressed. Well armed.

The sort of men who had never once worried about where their next meal might come from.

The crowd parted almost automatically.

Not out of fear. Out of recognition.

You frowned slightly. "Who is that?"

The question left your mouth before you could stop it.

Nobody answered immediately. Because they were all looking at the same man.

At first, you couldn't understand why.

Then you noticed the hair. Silver. Not grey. Silver.

Like moonlight trapped in sunlight.

The colour looked almost unreal beneath the lantern glow.

And his eyes—

You found yourself staring before you realised you were doing it.

Violet. Not blue. Not grey. Violet.

The strangest eyes you had ever seen.

For a brief moment you genuinely wondered if you'd had too much wine.

The man moved through the crowd without hesitation.

Confident. Effortless.

People made room for him before he even reached them. Not because he demanded it. Because they already knew who he was.

You'd never seen anyone like him.

Truthfully, you'd barely met anyone.

Your father had lived far from towns. Far from castles. Far from courts and kings and all the things stories were made of.

The only Targaryen name you'd ever really known was the king's.

Maekar Targaryen.

That was the extent of it.

Kings existed. Castles existed. Princes existed.

Somewhere.

Far away.

They belonged to songs more than real life.

Yet here one stood. Close enough to touch.

The realisation felt strange.

Like discovering one of the stars had stepped down from the sky and begun walking amongst ordinary people.

You stared for a second too long.

Dunk noticed.

"Prince Aerion," he said quietly.

Your eyes remained fixed on the newcomer.

"A prince?"

"Aye."

The answer came from Lyonel this time.

For once, even he sounded slightly more restrained. Only slightly.

You watched Aerion exchange words with another knight.

You couldn't hear what was being said. Couldn't make out the conversation. But something about him felt sharp.

Not dangerous exactly.

Not yet.

Just... Sharp.

Just enough that his gaze swept across the tent. Across the crowd. Across hundreds of faces.

For less than a heartbeat, his eyes passed over yours. And then he was looking elsewhere. The moment lasted no time at all.

Yet somehow you found yourself still watching long after it had ended.

Beside you, Lyonel let out a loud sigh.

"Well."

Dunk immediately sounded suspicious.

"Well what?"

Lyonel grinned.

"Looks like this tourney just became much more interesting."

You weren't sure why everyone seemed so focused on the prince.

He was a prince, yes. But he was still a man.

He had two eyes. Two arms. A mouth. He laughed like everyone else laughed.

And yet the entire tent had shifted around him.

People watched him without meaning to. People moved aside without being asked.

Even conversations seemed to bend slightly toward wherever he happened to be standing.

It was strange.

You found yourself looking away first.

The musicians had recovered from the interruption and were playing again. The noise slowly returned to normal. Cups raised. Voices rose. Somebody began singing badly once more.

The world continued.

But not entirely. Not really.

Because every so often, your eyes drifted back toward the prince.

Not intentionally.

Just... Curiosity.

The silver hair caught the lantern light differently than everyone else's.

That was all.

At least that's what you told yourself.

Beside you, Dunk had finally escaped Lyonel's attempt to force him into dancing again.

The hedge knight looked relieved enough to have survived a battle.

"You look exhausted," you told him.

"I am exhausted."

"You've done nothing."

"I danced."

"You were pushed."

"It still counts."

Lyonel overheard that

"No it doesn't."

"It does."

"It absolutely doesn't."

Dunk pointed accusingly at the Storm Lord.

"You pushed me."

"I encouraged you."

"You shoved me."

Lyonel looked thoughtful.

"Aye."

A pause.

"That does sound more accurate."

The surrounding table erupted into laughter.

Dunk groaned.

You laughed despite yourself. A real laugh.

One that surprised you as much as anyone else.

For a moment, everything felt easy. Simple.

The kind of moment you would've struggled to imagine only a few days ago.

No blood. No running. No grief clawing at your throat.

Just music. Lanterns. People. Life.

The realisation felt almost uncomfortable. Like wearing new boots that fit properly. Good. But unfamiliar.

Your gaze wandered across the tent again.

The prince had moved further inside now. Several knights stood around him. One was speaking animatedly.

Aerion appeared only half-interested.

He listened. Then said something.

The knight immediately stopped talking.

Not offended. Not angry.

Just... Stopped.

You frowned slightly.

There was something odd about the way people behaved around him.

Not fear exactly.

Though perhaps some of it was.

No.

It was something else.

Like everyone was trying very hard to stay in his good graces.

As if his approval mattered.

Maybe it did.

He was a prince.

What did you know? Very little, if you were honest. Your world had always been small. A cottage. The woods. Your father. Your brother.

Everything beyond that might as well have belonged to another kingdom.

A shout rose from somewhere near the entrance. Someone had started an arm-wrestling contest.

Lyonel immediately turned toward it.

"Oh, now that's promising."

Before either you or Dunk could stop him, the Storm Lord disappeared into the crowd.

Dunk watched him go.

"Aye."

"There he goes."

"Where?"

"Trouble."

You smiled.

The hedge knight looked pleased with himself for that answer.

Then his eyes drifted toward the prince. Only briefly. The smile faded.

You noticed.

"You don't like him."

Dunk looked down into his cup.

"I didn't say that."

You followed his gaze.

Aerion was laughing at something. Perfectly ordinary. Perfectly harmless.

And yet... You found yourself remembering the way Dunk had spoken earlier

A prince. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Still, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something hidden beneath the surface.

Something sharp. The thought lingered.

Then Aerion glanced across the tent again.

This time his gaze didn't pass over you immediately.

For the briefest moment, it lingered.

Not long enough to mean anything. Just long enough to notice.

Then he turned away and continued his conversation as though nothing had happened.

You looked down at your drink.

For reasons you couldn't quite explain, your pulse had quickened.

Across from you, Dunk was frowning into his cup.

Neither of you said anything.

Outside, beyond the lantern-lit revelry and the endless sea of tents, tomorrow's tourney waited.

—

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Aerion spends the first few months of your marriage acting as though everyone else at court is suddenly intolerably stupid.

Not because they've changed.

Because now he has a wife he considers worthy of his attention and everyone else suffers by comparison.

"See? Even she understands it. Why is that difficult for the rest of you?"

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Aerion is insufferable about the fact that you're Dornish.

Not because he looks down on you for it.

Because he thinks everyone else does.

The second someone makes a snide remark about Dorne, Aerion takes it as a personal challenge.

A comment that would've gone ignored before their marriage suddenly earns a sharp response.

Nobody understands when exactly the prince became Dorne's fiercest defender.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ He secretly loves how different you are from the ladies at court.

Most noblewomen in King's Landing are expected to be reserved and careful.

You aren't.

You're quicker to speak your mind, less concerned with courtly expectations, and far more willing to challenge him.

Aerion tells himself this is irritating.

Nobody believes him.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Dornish fashion becomes a point of pride for him.

You arrive wearing brighter colours, lighter fabrics, more jewellery than many ladies at court.

People stare.

Aerion notices.

Instead of encouraging you to blend in, he encourages the opposite.

If they're going to stare, they might as well have something worth staring at.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ He becomes absurdly offended whenever someone suggests you should behave more like a lady from the Crownlands.

His immediate response is usually:

"Why would she?"

As far as Aerion is concerned, adapting to everyone else's expectations sounds suspiciously like settling for less.

⋮ ⌗ ┆Aerion enjoys the fact that Dornish customs scandalise people.

A harmless gesture from you can have half the court whispering.

The more uncomfortable the court becomes, the more entertained Aerion is.

⋮ ⌗ ┆Your confidence fascinates him.

Many people at court treat Targaryens as something almost divine.

You—His Dornish wife absolutely does not.

You'll roll your eyes at him in front of other people.

Correct him.

Tell him when he's being ridiculous.

The first time it happens, everyone expects disaster.

Instead Aerion looks amused.

Which is somehow more alarming.

⋮ ⌗ ┆He asks endless questions about Dorne.

Not publicly.

Privately.

He wants to know about Sunspear, Dornish traditions, childhood stories, old family feuds, regional customs.

At first you assumed he was being polite.

Then you realised he actually remembers everything you tell him.

⋮ ⌗ ┆Summer heat doesn't bother you nearly as much as everyone else.

Aerion finds this endlessly entertaining.

While half the court complains about the weather, you're perfectly comfortable.

He acts as though this is evidence of Dornish superiority.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ He becomes strangely competitive about Dornish food.

The first time you complained that King's Landing food is bland, Aerion takes it personally.

A week later he's demanding cooks learn Dornish recipes.

The results are mixed.

⋮ ⌗ ┆Aerion is fiercely protective of your place at court.

Some lords view a Dornish princess or noblewoman as an outsider.

Aerion takes great offense to this.

In his mind, you're not the outsider.

Everyone else is.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ He enjoys watching you make traditional courtiers uncomfortable.

Not deliberately.

Just by existing.

A woman who speaks too freely, laughs too loudly, and refuses to act embarrassed about either.

Aerion finds the reactions hilarious.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ He absolutely loves when you switch into your native accent after you get angry.

Especially during arguments.

The stronger the accent becomes, the more he knows he's won himself a lecture.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Whenever you talk about missing Dorne, Aerion listens.

Really listens.

Which surprises people because Aerion rarely cares about anyone else's homesickness or feelings.

But he'll sit there for hours listening to stories about deserts, water gardens, and summer feasts.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ If you visit Dorne together, Aerion becomes even more unbearable.

He's already arrogant.

Now he's convinced the entire principality should admire his wife as much as he does.

By the end of the visit, half of Dorne thinks he's ridiculous.

The other half thinks it's funny.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ The thing Aerion loves most is that you never seem intimidated by him.

Dornish culture has a reputation throughout Westeros for producing people who are bold, passionate, and stubborn.

You embody every bit of it.

Where others see a dangerous prince and lower their eyes, you meet his gaze and argue back.

And Aerion, for all his pride, cannot get enough of it.

—

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.

This was super fun to do :3 maybe I'll write a fanfic... Aerion Targaryen x Fem!Dornish reader

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Two-Headed Dragon | Aerion Targaryen x Reader + Ser Duncan the Tall x Reader (complicated feelings) ⋆˚꩜｡

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Aerion Targaryen/Brightflame x Fem!Dornish wife Reader Headcanons ⋆˚꩜｡

⋮ ⌗ ┆ More Aerion targaryen x fem!dornish reader headcanons ⋆˚꩜｡

⋮ ⌗ ┆ Vezarion | Aerion Targaryen x Fem!Dragonrider reader ⋆˚꩜｡

The village should have made you feel better. You had clothes that fit. Shoes that didn't threaten to fall off your feet every third step. A bow over your shoulder. Food in your stomach. A roof over your head. You were safe. For some reason, that made everything worse.

The inn was loud tonight. Not rowdy. Just full.

Men talking over ale. Women laughing at something near the hearth. The smell of stew hanging in the air.

Normal people. Living normal lives.

You sat near the window and watched them.

A little girl chased her brother between the tables. An old man complained about the weather. A merchant argued over the price of oats.

Normal.

Normal.

Normal.

Your chest hurt.

You looked away.

Across the room, Dunk was speaking to the innkeeper about something to do with horses. He was nodding along earnestly, listening as though the condition of a stranger's stable was the most important matter in Westeros.

The sight almost made you smile. Almost.

A knight walked past the window outside. Not a famous knight. Not a lord. Just a knight.

You knew by the armour. By the sword. By the way people moved aside to let him pass.

Your eyes followed him until he disappeared from sight.

Something ugly twisted in your stomach. You looked down at your hands. The scars across your knuckles had faded over the years. Others hadn't. You pulled your sleeves lower.

A knight.

The thought wouldn't leave you alone. Not for the first time. Not for the hundredth.

A knight.

You could shoot. You could hunt. You could ride. Your father had taught you how to survive long before he'd taught your brother.

He used to joke that if the world ended tomorrow, you'd be the one left standing.

You could still hear him laughing.

"Don't tell your brother I said that."

The memory hurt. Because your father was dead. Your brother was dead. And you were sitting alone in an inn wondering why surviving felt so much like losing.

You stared at your reflection in the dark window. You didn't look like a knight. You didn't look like anything. Not really. Not a lady. Not a wife. Not a daughter anymore. Not a sister. Just... You.

And lately, that didn't seem to mean much.

The chair opposite scraped against the floor.

You looked up.

Dunk sat down. He immediately noticed something was wrong.

Of course he did.

The man could miss a charging boar and somehow notice a change in breathing from across a room.

"You alright?"

You looked back toward the window. "Yeah."

Dunk snorted. It wasn't rude, just unconvinced.

"No."

You sighed.

"No."

For a moment neither of you spoke. The noise of the inn carried on around you.

Then Dunk glanced toward the window. "You were watching that knight."

You stiffened. "A little."

"Aye."

Silence.

"You keep watching knights."

You laughed softly. There wasn't much humour in it. "Do I?"

"Aye."

You looked down at your hands. The answer sat in your throat for a long moment.

Then finally—"I wanted to be one." The words came out smaller than you intended. You hadn't planned on saying them. Not aloud. Not to anyone. Certainly not to Dunk.

The hedge knight blinked. For once, he seemed genuinely caught off guard.

"What?"

You swallowed.

"I wanted to be a knight."

There.

Now it was real. Now somebody else had heard it.

The shame arrived immediately after. You stared at the table. Waiting. Waiting for him to laugh. Waiting for him to tell you how foolish it sounded. Waiting for reality.

Instead there was only silence. Long silence. Long enough that you finally looked up.

Dunk was staring at you. Not mocking. Not amused. Just thinking.

That somehow felt worse.

You looked away first. "It's stupid."

"No."

The answer came immediately.

You blinked.

Dunk frowned slightly. "Well." He rubbed the back of his neck. "It's impossible."

Your laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Short. Bitter.

"Aye."

The honesty stung more than cruelty would've. Because at least cruelty could be hated.

Truth just sat there. Heavy. Unmoving.

Dunk shifted awkwardly. "I didn't mean-"

"I know." You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.

"My whole life..." you began quietly. Then stopped. Tried again.

"My father taught me everything… stuff he never even taught my brother."

You stared at the tabletop. "How to hunt."

You paused.

"How to track."

Another pause.

"How to survive." You swallowed. "But none of it mattered."

Dunk didn't interrupt. So you continued.

"Because no matter what I learned, I was still a girl."

The words came out sharper than intended. You hated how much they hurt. "Doesn't matter if I can shoot better than half the men I've met." You laughed quietly. "Doesn't matter if I can ride."

"Doesn't matter if I'd be good at it." The silence that followed felt enormous.

Dunk looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

Thinking. Always thinking before he spoke.

"You might."

You frowned. "What?"

Dunk shrugged. "You might be good at it."

The answer was so simple it stole the air from your lungs.

No speech. No grand declaration. Just... Truth. At least his truth.

You stared at him. Dunk immediately looked uncomfortable.

"As a knight, I mean." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You survived things most men wouldn't."

He paused.

"You've got courage," he shifted in his seat. "And that rabbit never stood a chance."

Despite everything, a laugh escaped you. Dunk smiled faintly. Encouraged.

"Aye."

He pointed a finger at you. "That shot was ridiculous."

The smile vanished almost as quickly as it arrived. You looked back toward the window. Toward the darkness outside. Toward all the things you couldn't be. All the things you wanted.

For a moment, the ache returned. That familiar feeling of being trapped inside your own skin. Inside your own life. Inside a world that had already decided what you were allowed to become.

Dunk followed your gaze.

Then quietly—"There's a tourney at Ashford."

You looked at him. "A tourney?"

"Aye."

Something shifted in his expression. Not excitement exactly. Hope, perhaps. The sort hedge knights carried despite having every reason not to.

"Lots of knights."

You snorted. "That sounds like your idea of heaven."

"Aye."

That earned the faintest smile from you. Dunk smiled back.

Then added, "I was thinking of heading that way."

You glanced down at the bow resting against your chair. Then back at him.

"Ashford."

"Aye."

Outside, the wind rattled softly against the shutters. Dunk stood.

"I'll see if they've got any more stew."

You watched him go. A strange warmth settled in your chest.

—

The inn grew quieter as the night wore on.

One by one, the voices downstairs faded. The laughter disappeared first. Then the music. Then the sound of chairs scraping against wooden floors.

Eventually there was only the occasional murmur drifting up through the floorboards.

You sat alone on the edge of the bed.

The room felt smaller at night. The walls closer. The silence heavier.

Dunk had remained downstairs. Not because anything was wrong.

The innkeeper had recognised him as a hedge knight and insisted on sharing a drink. Then another. Then a story about a horse that had kicked a blacksmith into a pond twenty years ago.

Dunk had looked trapped from the moment the conversation began. You almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

The smile faded as quickly as it came. Your eyes drifted toward the window. Darkness waited outside.

The glass reflected your face back at you.

For a long time, you simply sat there.

Thinking.

The worst thing about silence was that eventually your memories found you.

You saw your brother again. Not as a child. Not as he had been before your father died. Not laughing. Not smiling. You saw the axe. You saw the blood. The look in his eyes.

Madness. Terror. Rage.

You remembered running. You remembered the sound he made. You remembered the awful stillness afterwards.

The room suddenly felt colder.

You squeezed your eyes shut. It didn't help. The memory remained. Waiting. Patient. Like it always did.

Your father used to say grief was a wolf. Leave it outside the door and eventually it would find a way inside.

You wondered if he'd known from experience. Or if he'd simply been trying to prepare you for something.

The village was full of ordinary people. Ordinary women. Women who would marry. Have children. Grow old. Women who belonged somewhere. You looked down at your hands. You had never belonged anywhere. Not really.

Your father had taught you to hunt. To string a bow. To skin an animal. To build a fire. Things boys learned. Things men learned.

Yet none of it had changed anything. You were still a woman.

The word felt heavy. A chain disguised as a fact.

You thought of knights. You always thought of knights. No matter how many times you tried not to. The dream always returned. Like a wound that refused to heal properly.

You wanted a sword.

You wanted armour.

You wanted to ride beneath a banner.

You wanted songs.

Stories.

Glory.

You wanted people to look at you and see someone capable of protecting others.

Instead, the world looked at you and saw a girl. The same way it always had. The same way it always would.

A useless prayer to useless gods.

You stared at the ceiling as your fingers delicately held your cross necklace between them.

The Seven watched over knights. So they said. The Seven blessed warriors. Protected kings. Guided heroes.

At least that's what the septons claimed.

You wondered if they watched girls too. Girls who killed their brothers. Girls who wanted impossible things. Girls who spent their nights trying to silence thoughts that never seemed to tire.

Your throat tightened. No answer came. Of course it didn't.

Outside, the wind rattled softly against the shutters again.

For a moment you imagined your father sitting beside you.

Not speaking. Just sitting. The way he used to after difficult days.

You missed him so much your chest hurt.

The grief arrived all at once. Raw. Sharp. Relentless.

What rage you must feel as you choke on your sorrow.

The thought crossed your mind before you could stop it.

You pressed your palms against your eyes.

Breathed.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Slowly.

The feeling didn't disappear. But it loosened. Enough. Just enough.

The room remained quiet. Tomorrow would still come. The road would still be waiting. Ashford would still be somewhere ahead.

And somehow, despite everything, so would you. You weren't sure if that was strength. Or simply stubbornness.

Perhaps there wasn't much difference.

Eventually you lay down. The blanket smelled faintly of dust and old wool.

You listened to the sounds of the inn settling around you. A floorboard creaked somewhere below. A door closed. A horse snorted outside. Ordinary sounds. Living sounds.

You focused on them instead. One by one. Until the memories became quieter. Not gone. Just quieter.

—

The room stayed dark for a long while.

Long enough that you weren't sure if you had actually fallen asleep or simply stopped existing for a while.

When the door creaked open, you didn't move.

You kept your breathing slow. Even. Careful.

Dunk stepped inside quietly. The sort of quiet that came from a man trying not to wake someone who might already be awake anyway.

He smelled faintly of ale. Not drunk. Just... loosened around the edges.

He shut the door behind him with more care than necessary and stood for a moment, as if checking the room remembered him.

You didn't open your eyes.

He exhaled through his nose. A tired sound.

Then he began to move around the room in the dark. Boots off. Belt placed down.

The small rustle of cloth as he sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, as though his bones had decided they needed to negotiate with him before lying down.

You stayed still. He didn't speak at first.

That was normal.

Dunk wasn't a man who filled silence unless it needed filling.

Eventually, he leaned back against the wall instead of lying down.

Not sleeping yet. Just resting.

Then, as if remembering something he hadn't meant to say out loud, he spoke.

"Talking downstairs," he muttered.

You didn't move.

"Mm," he continued, half to himself. "Got loud. One of the merchants was saying there's knights already heading toward Ashford."

A long stretch of silence was shared between the both of you.

Your fingers tightened slightly under the blanket.

Dunk didn't notice. Or pretended not to.

"Tourneys bring that sort of thing," he said quietly. "Men travel early. Don't like being late where there's coin or glory to be had."

There was another short stretch of silence before he spoke.

"Innkeeper says it's getting busy already."

Another pause.

You kept your eyes closed.

Dunk shifted slightly, the bed creaking under his weight as he adjusted.

"Prince is expected too."

The words landed softly in the dark. Not dramatic. Not emphasised.

Just a fact spoken by a tired man in a small room.

A beat passed. Then he added, almost as an afterthought—"Prince Aerion too."

The name hung there for a moment longer than anything else had.

Dunk didn't follow it up.

Didn't explain.

Didn't seem to think it needed explaining.

He rubbed a hand over his face in the dark.

"Anyway."

"Night."

Dunk shifted slightly, like he was trying to settle his thoughts into something smaller. Something manageable.

You didn't let him.

"Dunk."

Your voice cut through the dark softly.

He stopped moving.

"...Aye?"

Silence hung between you for a moment. You could hear him breathing. Still half awake. Still halfway somewhere else entirely.

You sat up slowly, the blanket slipping from your shoulders.

"I said," you began quietly, "stop talking."

A beat.

Dunk let out a small, confused sound.

"I wasn't-"

"Yes you were."

That made him pause. Not offended. Just caught.

You exhaled, staring into the dark where his shape barely registered against the wall.

"You always do that," you said.

"Do what?"

"Try to make everything smaller."

A silence followed that. Longer this time.

The wind pressed against the shutters again, like it was listening.

Dunk didn't answer right away. When he did, it was quieter.

"I weren't trying to-"

"Yes you were." Your voice softened. Not accusing. Just tired.

"You were making it sound like it's just... knights and coin and travel."

A pause.

"But it isn't, is it?"Dunk said nothing.

That was answer enough.

You shifted on the bed, turning slightly toward him even though you couldn't see his face properly.

"I heard the name," you said.

"Aerion."

Dunk exhaled slowly.

"Aye."

You swallowed. It tasted strange in your mouth. Like something you weren't supposed to say out loud yet.

"Is he... dangerous?"

Dunk hesitated. That alone told you enough.

"...He's a prince," he said carefully.

"That's not what I asked."

Another pause. Then Dunk sighed.

"I don't like talking about men like him in the dark."

A faint, humourless breath left you. "Convenient."

That earned the smallest shift in his tone.

"Aye," he admitted. "It is."

Silence settled again. But it wasn't the same silence as before. This one was shared.

You lay back slightly, still not lying down fully.

Your voice came quieter now. "I don't know what I'm doing."

Dunk didn't respond immediately. When he did, it wasn't clever. It wasn't wise. It was just him.

"Most people don't."

That should've been unhelpful. But it wasn't. It just... landed.

You stared at the dark ceiling. Your chest felt tight again, but not in the same way as before.

Less sharp. Less alone.

"Dunk," you said again.

"Aye?"

A pause.

Then, softer—"Stop talking."

There was a beat where he didn't understand.

Then—

"Oh."

A rustle. He shifted slightly. Not away. Just closer in presence without fully moving.

You didn't explain. Didn't need to. Dunk stayed where he was. Like he'd decided, quietly, that moving away wasn't necessary.

—

First part of chapter two - here

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