~ sophia ~

The tent did not look like much.

A length of faded cloth, patched more times than you could count, staked crookedly into the grass at the edge of the road. A charm of bones and dried herbs hung at the entrance, clinking softly whenever the wind stirred.

You had no interest in the fortune teller, instead wanting to spend the coin your father gave you at the market intending to buy a new doll. However, you had heard squeals of delight from the fellow noble ladies about the fortune lady and the amazing futures she had given them.

Your father mocked fortune tellers, calling them stupid and a waste of coin. Either they would tell you what you wanted to hear or they would try to frighten you. Your father would probably mock you once he learned of your visit.

But curiosity got the best of you.

You stood in front of the tent flaps, contemplating what questions you would want to know.

But you were interrupted.

"Come in, then," the fortune teller called from inside the tent. Her voice was thin but certain.

You hesitated only a moment before ducking beneath the flap.

The air inside was thick with the smell of smoke and crushed leaves and old roots left too long to dry. A small fire glowed between you, its embers low and red. The woman’s eyes caught the light strangely, pale and sharp as frost.

“You’ve got coin for me,” she went on, before you could speak. “Come, child. Sit.”

You did, depositing your coin into her outstretched hand. The woman took it from you, slipping it behind her, and grabbed your hand that was still in the air. Her grip was tight and hard, turning it this way and that, her fingers rough and cold. You couldn’t help but squirm in her grip.

Her thumb pressed into your palm and stilled. A frown tugged at her mouth.

“Ah,” she murmured.

Something in the sound made your stomach twist. “What is it?”

She did not answer at once. Instead, she released your hand as though it had burned her and leaned back, studying your face now instead of your palm.

“How old are you?” she asked. You told her.

"Mm." Her gaze lingered. Measuring. "Young, but old enough."

"For what?" you pressed.

The woman’s lips thinned. For a heartbeat, you thought she might refuse you altogether but then she sighed like someone already weary of what must be said.

"For sorrow."

The word settled heavy between you.

You scoffed. “I did not come for riddles. If you have something to tell me, say it plain.”

At that, she huffed a quiet laugh. “Plain, she says. As if the world were ever so kind.”

Still, she leaned forward again, close enough now that you could see the fine lines etched deep around her eyes.

“You will love,” she said. “There’s no stopping that. It’s in you already, same as breath.”

Your chest tightened despite yourself. That sounds good.

"And when you do," she went on, softer now, "you must remember what I tell you."

Her fingers closed around your wrist, sudden and strong.

"You may love him," she said quietly. "You may take his hand, lie beside him, whisper all your pretty promises in the dark."

You nodded, though your throat had gone dry.

Her fingers tightened around yours, not painful, but unyielding.

“But you must never kiss him.”

The words seemed to dim the little light that remained.

A hollow sound rang in your ears. “And if I do?”

For the first time, something like pity touched her expression.

“Then you will feel it,” she said. “The moment it happens.”

Your heart began to pound. “Feel what?”

She tilted her head, studying you as one might study something already lost.

“The end of him.”

Silence swallowed the tent.

You did not forget.

How could you possibly do that?

The smell of smoke still haunted your dreams. Sometimes you woke with it thick in your throat, as if you had just stepped out of that tent. Even now, years later, you could still feel the fortune teller’s grip around your wrist, tight, unyielding. You could still hear the certainty in her voice when she spoke of something as simple as a kiss.

For a time, you told yourself she was a crook.

That everything she said was nothing more than a trick to part foolish girls from their coin. That the heaviness in your chest afterward was your own doing. Some fear conjured from nothing.

You returned to your father’s hall that day with your coin spent and your thoughts carefully smothered. When your maids asked what the fortune teller had said, you laughed and gave them something harmless. A marriage to a handsome lord, perhaps. A child or two. A future that was soft and ordinary.

Something that would not linger long in your thoughts. But as the years passed, you could hear the woman's voice in your head.

You will love.

The first time someone tried to kiss you, you were twelve.

It meant nothing.

A boy, flushed with wine he was far too young to drink, caught your wrist in the gardens as you made your way back to your chambers. He was laughing, careless, loud, entirely unthinking, as he leaned in with all the confidence of someone who had never been denied.

You turned your head at the last moment.

His lips brushed your cheek instead. Close enough that you felt the heat of it. Close enough that your heart stuttered violently in your chest.

You laughed it off. Made it into a small, harmless joke. The boy never noticed the difference who barely noticed you slipping from his grasp at all.

But in that brief moment, just before he kissed you, something cold had settled in your stomach. Not because you thought he was your true love.

But because of the possibility. Because of how easily it could happen. Because of how quickly everything could end. The thought of this drunk boy's blood on your hands, as absurd as it was, made you feel faint.

After that, you were careful.

Not in any way that would draw attention. You were not foolish enough to make a spectacle of yourself by shrinking away from the world entirely. No, your caution became something quieter. Distance. It wore the shape of indifference.

Men called you charming at first. Then distant. Then, when they grew frustrated, cruel. You never corrected them. Cruelty was safer than curiosity. Cruelty did not invite closeness. After all, closeness could be dangerous.

As you grew into the lady that you were expected to be, suitors would come and go. Some were earnest, some arrogant, some so dull you would forget their names before the evening ended. None of them stayed for a proper courtship. You made certain of it.

There were whispers that would occasionally reach your ears. You were toying with their feelings, took pleasure in their confusion and that there was something wrong with you. But that was fine by you.

You had nearly resigned yourself to spinsterhood. The other option was that you could be married to some aging lord. That would be a rather safe option, because you couldn't see yourself falling in love with a man who could be your great-great-grandpa.

But your father, inconveniently, wished for your happiness. Which meant he would not force such a match, which meant, you would have to choose one yourself.

You found the solution at a feast.

The hall was too loud, too bright, with laughter rising too sharply and voices competing against each other to be heard. You moved through it with practiced ease.

By the second course, you had danced once, refused twice and excused yourself from three seperate conversations. A perfectly ordinary evening.

You slipped from the centre of the hall under the pretense of seeking cooler air, weaving between tables until the press of bodies thinned and the noise dulled to something distant.

And then you noticed him.

Seated at the far end of a table, half-shadowed, a cup dangling loosely from his fingers. His hair, silver-gold, caught the low light. The rest of him seemed to fade into the dark.

A Targaryen.

Of course, only a fool would not know what those locks of hair could be. And yet no one sat beside him. No one watched him. No one seemed to care. You might have passed him by, you probably should have. If no one was here it was probably for a reason.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

You paused and turned.

He had barely moved, only lifted his head enough to look at you properly. His eyes were clearer than you expected. Not sober, no but not lost to the drink either.

You considered ignoring him. But he was still a prince.

“Is it so obvious my prince?” you asked.

“One learns to recognize the expression,” he said lightly. “It’s a familiar one.”

You stepped closer, though not too close, your gaze sweeping over him. The looseness of his posture, the wine staining his sleeve, the complete lack of ceremony in the way he occupied his place.

Prince Daeron, then.

It had to be.

“I could say the same of you,” you said.

“That would be accurate.”

You glanced back toward the hall, at the light and noise and expectation and found you had no desire to return.

When you looked back at him, he was still watching.

“Do you intend to stand there,” he asked, “or wait until someone comes to claim you?”

The bluntness nearly made you smile.

“Does that happen often?”

“Frequently enough.” He gestured lazily to the space beside him. “They assume you’ve been cornered. Or that I have.”

“And which is worse?”

“For you?” he said. “Probably me.”

You sat.

The silence that followed was… easy. Unexpectedly so. He did not ask your name, or your house or your purpose. He did not fill the air with politeness. He simply let you be there.

“You do not behave like a prince,” you said after a moment.

“No,” he agreed.

“You are not troubled by that?”

“It saves people from expecting more than I intend to give.”

Something in your chest settled at that.

“You do not intend to give much, then.”

“No.”

No apology. No pride. Just truth. You held his gaze a moment longer. And understood. Across the hall, someone called your name. You rose slowly, smoothing your skirts.

“It seems you were right,” you said.

“About what?”

“That someone would come to claim me.”

He lifted his cup slightly. “My condolences.”

You hesitated, just for a moment. “Enjoy your wine, Your Grace.”

“Always.”

You left him there, in the shadows, where no one watched. But your thoughts did not follow you back into the hall. They lingered behind. With a prince who asked for nothing. Who expected nothing. Who would never demand closeness. Who would never— You exhaled slowly.

Yes. He was perfect.

Your father did not interrupt you as you spoke. Which could have been worse. He listened just sitting there all silent with one hand curled around his cup.

“You are certain,” he said at last, “this is what you want.”

“Yes.”

“Prince Daeron.”

“Yes.”

He studied you carefully. “You have turned away better offers.”

“I have.”

“More advantageous ones.”

“Perhaps.”

“And now this.” A pause. “Why?”

You met his gaze evenly. “He is of high birth.”

“He is.”

“What could be more honorable than such a match?”

Your father’s eyes narrowed slightly but he did not interrupt.

“He is… suitable,” you added.

“Suitable,” he repeated.

“I believe he will not make an unsuitable husband.”

That, more than anything, seemed to settle him. At last, he leaned back.

“Very well,” he said. “I will not dismiss it. I will speak with his father.”

You inclined your head. “Thank you.”

The match was agreed upon within the next few moons. Your father told you that Prince Maekar had been… puzzled. But not opposed.

“You are certain,” your father asked you one final time, “that you will not regret this?”

For a moment, your mind drifted to a dim tent and pale eyes. To the voice that promise love as though it were inevitable. Then to a prince in the shadows who was so detached and distant from reality. Someone you could never truly fall for since you lived planted in reality. Someone you could never destroy.

“Yes,” you said. “I am certain.”

The wedding is quiet. Not in scale, there are lords and ladies, banners and vows, the weight of two houses that are neatly tied together. But quiet in the feeling.

When you were younger, before you had gone into that tent, you had looked upon your wedding date as if it could be a fairytale. That you would spend the week leading up to it, prancing about in your wedding dress out of anticipation. That you and your lord husband would share this longing for one another. There would be something undeniable between you.

However, standing in front of a large portion of the high lords and ladies, in front of the Septon and a husband who looked like he was just dragged out of bed, you looked back at your younger self and confirmed you were a fool.

After all, how many ladies actually got to marry for love? You had seen enough of the world to know how truly naive you were. Most marry for duty, for alliance, for the careful balancing of houses and expectations.

And you, you married for survival. Your duty was simpler than most. No alliances to secure, no great ambition to fulfill. Only this: That no no dies because of you.

Your wedding was sensible and safe.

At your side, Prince Daeron stands with an ease that borders carelessness. He does not fidget. He does not straighten his posture for the watching court. His cloak sits slightly askew, his expression calm, almost detached, as though this is merely another obligation to be endured rather than a moment to be cherished.

He does not look like a man in love. He looks attentive and maybe a bit curious in a way. He appeared to be an observer in a play, rather than actor in it.

In a way it steadies you. This is what you had wanted. You remind yourself of that, over and over like a prayer. This is what you chose. No longing, no affection, no risk of forgetting yourself in a moment of weakness.

No chance of leaning in and ruining everything.

When the Septon bids you take his hand, you do. Daeron's fingers are warm. Your contact is brief, proper and meaningless. You focus on the absence of feeling.

This is good, you tell youself, this is right.

But as the vows are spoke, as the words bind you together in the eyes of gods and mens, you feel something shift, not between you but within yourself.

A quiet, unsettling thought. It's not fear but something similar. A pitt has falled within you. That this man, this distant and careless prince you had chosen, is now yours and you are his. On this day till the end of your days (which if you kept your distance would be very long days).

You risk a glance at your husband then. And for a fleeting moment, something in his expression changes but like a thought passing, it was too quick to grasp.

You look away and steady yourself. You repeat your mantra again. This is what you wanted. This is safe. This is-

The Septon's voice rises and the audience cheers as you are now wed to Prince Daeron.

The feast stretches long into the evening. Longer that it surely needed to be. There is laughter, music and the steady flow of wine. Faces came up to you again and again offering their congratulations, some were genuine, some were very clearly disguising judgement.

You endure it all with practiced grace. You smile when required, speak when spoken to and allow yourself to be admired, assessed, weighed.

Beside you, Daeron does much the same. Though where you are careful, he is careless. Where you are measured, he is loose, leaning back in his chair, answering when it suits him, ignoring what does not. There is wine at his lips more often than not, but he never seems entirely lost to it.

Not tonight. Not like the stories say. Once or twice, you catch him looking at you. You do not linger on it.

By the time the hall begins to thin, your patience has worn thin with it.

It is expected of you to leave together. The thought sits strangely in your chest. Of course your septa had made sure you knew what was expected on a lady's wedding night. You weren't fearful as you should be.

Prince Maekar had decided there wouldn't be a bedding ceremony, so it was up to you and Daeron to walk up to your chambers alone. As you do, the halls get cooler and the noises fade until it's just the two of you alone for the first time since you met outside that feast.

Inside, the room is warm. It was well prepared by the servants. Candles were already lit, the bed was turned down and you saw a vase of lilacs on one of the end tables.

You stop just inside the doorway, not sure where to go or how this were to go. For a moment, neither one of you spoke.

“Well,” Daeron says lightly, glancing around the room, “this is terribly ceremonial.”

You almost smile. “Is that not the point, my prince?”

“I suppose it is.” He exhales, slow, unconcerned. “Seems a shame to disappoint them.”

Your pulse stutters. You turn to him fully now. Maybe you could avoid the consumation part.

“I think,” you say carefully, “we would both prefer not to perform for an audience that is no longer here.”

His gaze shifts to you, sharper now, a bit more present.

“And what would you prefer?” he asks.

The question lingers in the air. You choose your answer with care. Maybe if you just told him that you weren't looking for romance, you would save yourself from a kiss.

“Something… uncomplicated.”

A pause. You weren't sure if he would catch what it was you were trying to convey. Then, to your quiet relief, he nods. “Yes,” he says. “I think I would like that too.”

The tension in the room eases, just slightly. Enough for you to breathe again.

"But, it is our duties to consummate. So let's do that and we can move on, otherwise I won't hear the end of it until I'm resting in the grave."

He shrugs off his outer layers without ceremony, setting them aside with little care for where they fall. You turn away under the pretense of adjusting your sleeves, giving yourself a moment to gather your thoughts.

This is fine. This is manageable. There is no expectation here you cannot meet.

When you turn back, he is seated at the edge of the bed, watching you, not intently, not with pressure just watching.

“You look as though you’re preparing for a battle,” he remarks.

You huff softly. “Old habits.”

“Mm.” His gaze lingers. “Am I the enemy, then?”

“No.”

The answer comes too quickly. Too honestly. You hesitate, then add, more carefully, “You are… an unknown.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It isn’t meant to be.”

Another pause. Then, unexpectedly—

“It could be worse,” he says. “You might have married someone who expects more of you.”

You study him. “And you don’t?”

“No,” he says simply.

The word settles between you. Something in your chest loosens.

“Good,” you say quietly.

His mouth curves slightly, it wasn't quite a smile, but close. The rest unfolds easily after that. Easier than you expected.

You two speak little but do complete your duties. The little conversations you two had were nothing of consequence. At some point you laugh. And he laughs. Then it is over.

Nothing of consequence. Small things. Meaningless things. The kind of conversation that fills space without demanding anything of it.

When you finally lie down, it is with careful distance between you. It was deliberate. A boundary drawn without words. He does not cross it. not when the candles burn low or the room settles as the wolf hour takes shape. It doesn't take long for the prince to sleep. (He did grab a drink which was stashed in one of the under end tables, downed that and then went to sleep).

You stare up at the canopy above, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing beside you. This is what you wanted.

And yet, as sleep begins to pull at you, you find your thoughts drifting. Drifting to your husband. You turn slightly, just enough to see him in the dim light. His eyes are closed but he looks very peaceful.

The next morning you wake up before him. For a moment you do not remember where you are and then flashes of the night before hit you. You are now a lady married.

Your husband lay next to you. Turning around, Daeron laid exactly where you remembered him being last night. You were a tad bit surprised because you had heard that it was rare for Daeron to stay in one place at night but he was there.

You saw 4 bottles of wine on the end table that were not there the night before. They were all empty meaning that during the night, while you were sleeping he must've drank all of them. That seems like a lot.

He had one arm thrown over his head and the sheets twisted at his waist. His hair was like a messy bird's nest and once again beads of sweat could be found all over his face. His brows were furrowed tightly. He seemed a lot more distressed in his sleep than when he was awake.

You sit up quickly and decide now that you have laid with your husband, you can move on. You doubt that Daeron would come back to your bed (just due to what you have heard before) and it wasn't like you had to have an heir. But if you did, hopefully one time was enough.

You slip from the bed quietly, tugging one of the blankets tight to your chest as you moved throughout the room to dress. By the time the servants arrive you are fully ready for the day.

The days that followed settled into a strange ordinary. Everything at Summerhall was just manageable.

You saw little of your husband outside of the hours that required both of you. Daeron disappeared often. Some morning he would sleep until midday, other nights he vanished entirely into the city or the kitchens or wherever restless princes went when sleep eluded them. You did not ask him anything. He did not explain.

The few times you interacted were pleasant enough you supposed. He would be asleep beside you at midday feasts or share one courtesy dance with you where the smell of wine attacked you. Sometimes he would randomly appear beside you during court functions, mumuring some random observations so dry and unexpected that it would arouse a laugh from you.

The set up suited you. Distance had always suited you.

But you found yourself smiling a bit too much when the prince graced you with his presence. Despite all his faults, Daeron was someone you were becoming accustomed to.

To the sounds of his boots dragging faintly on the chamber floors long after midnight, to the clink of bottles appearing where they weren't before, to him and his long limbs occupying every surface he touched.

You had learned a bit from your few days with your husband. He hated overly sweet wine, he never remembered where he placed his gloves, if he read books (which he did do on an odd day) he would always leave them open and face down and he was rather kind.

Not in obvious ways as he was never one to be gallant or particularly attentive. He did not shower you with compliments or grand gestures. At dinners, he noticed when conversation wearied you and interrupted before you could be trapped too long (before he would rest his head on the table). When court became unbearable, he appeared at your side with some flimsy excuse to pull you elsewhere. Once, after an especially dreadful evening, he handed you a goblet of wine without a word.

You stared at it suspiciously. “Are you trying to poison me?”

“If I were, I’d choose something sweeter.”

You took the cup despite yourself.

“You dislike sweet wine,” you observed after a sip.

“I dislike many things.”

“And yet you drink constantly.”

“That is because sobriety is intolerably repetitive.”

You snorted softly before you could stop yourself. His eyes flicked toward you then with brief surprised.

With how much you realized you liked your husband a panic seized you. You had chosen Daeron for a reason since he would ask you nothing in return for your relationship, which he hasn't. It's just been a civil and convienent companionship. He remained distant enough from you to be safe.

But that did not explain why your pulse quicken whenever he looked at you too long. Or why you had begin to anticipate his footsteps outside your shared chambers on the third night and fifth nights of the weeks (those were the days he always seemed to return to your rooms at some point earlier than usual).

One moment that haunted your thoughts was a rainstorm that had ruined a hunt you were forced to attend. The skies opened without warning, sending nobles scattering beneath cloaks and curses alike. By the time you reached shelter, you were soaked through entirely.

You stood near the entrance of the keep, dripping rainwater onto stone floors while servants rushed frantically around you. Daeron arrived several moments later looking only mildly inconvenienced by the weather. His hair clung damply to his forehead. Water ran down the line of his throat beneath an open collar. You looked away too quickly.

“You’ll freeze standing there,” he said.

“I’m aware.”

“And yet you persist.”

“You’re very observant today.”

“It’s the wine.”

“There is always wine.”

“Exactly.”

You should have gone to your own chambers then. Instead, somehow, you ended up in his. Perhaps because they were closer. Perhaps because neither of you wished to endure the fuss of servants just yet.

It was a mistake, a terrible one.

The room smelled faintly of cedarwood and spilled wine. Rain battered softly against the windows as Daeron shrugged off his soaked outer coat with visible annoyance.

“You know,” he muttered, “I begin to understand why dragons preferred flying.”

You laughed quietly while wringing water from your sleeves. His gaze lifted immediately toward the sound. That was becoming dangerous too, that look he got whenever you laughed around him. It was always slightly startled and pleased. As though he treasured it more than he should.

Your stomach tightened. You turned away quickly, moving toward the fire.

“You stare,” you said lightly.

“So do you.”

“I do not.”

“You looked at my throat for a concerning amount of time.”

Heat flooded your face instantly. “I absolutely did not.”

“Mm.”

Your heart stumbled hard against your ribs.

Daeron seemed to notice it too because his expression altered slightly. The teasing ease faded into something quieter. You took a step back instinctively.

The fortune teller’s voice rose from the graveyard of your memory so suddenly it made your skin prickle.

You may love him. Your throat tightened.

No. No, you thought fiercely. Not him. Anyone but him.

Daeron tilted his head slightly. “You’ve gone pale.”

“I’m tired.”

“That sounded unconvincing.”

You forced a smile. “Then it matches the day.”

For a moment, he simply watched you. Then, mercifully, he looked away first. The tension dissolved enough for you to breathe again. But only barely.

After that, you became careful again. You withdrew in subtle ways. You avoided lingering too near him, spoke less during dinners and retired earlier. You also declined invitations that might leave you alone together too long.

Daeron noticed. Of course he noticed. He simply did not mention it at first. But one evening, as you prepared to leave a feast early, his voice stopped you.

“Have I offended you somehow?”

You turned too quickly. “No.”

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” he said calmly. “Though I admit I’m fascinated to learn what crime I committed to you.”

“You committed none.”

“Then why do you look at me as though I’ve drawn a blade?”

The question struck too close. You looked away immediately. “You imagine things.”

“Frequently,” he agreed. “But not this time.”

Silence stretched. You could feel his attention resting on you steadily. He wasn't demanding or anything like that. Just was simply waiting for his answer.

Finally, he sighed softly and leaned back in his chair.

“Well,” he murmured, lifting his goblet, “if you decide you hate me, I’d prefer advance warning. It seems courteous.”

Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you. Daeron’s gaze flickered toward you again. And there it was. That warmth. That unbearable gentleness hidden beneath all the carelessness.

Something inside you twisted painfully. You left soon after.

That night, sleep did not come easily. Because for the first time in years, you allowed yourself to admit the truth plainly.

You were beginning to love your husband.

And if the fortune teller had spoken true, you were beginning to fear him dying far more than you feared yourself.

The hour was late enough that the keep had gone quiet.

Not truly silent, never that. Somewhere distant, guards still changed shifts and servants still moved through hidden corridors like ghosts behind the walls. But the noise of court had long since faded. The laughter, the music, the endless performance of noble life all swallowed by the deep stretch of night.

You should have been asleep. Instead, you sat near the fire in your chambers with a book open in your lap unread for the better part of an hour. The fire had burned low, leaving the room washed in amber light and shadow.

Your thoughts, traitorous things, had drifted where they often did now. To your husband. To the way he had looked at you earlier that evening when you laughed at something one of the lords had said. To the brief touch of his hand against the small of your back while guiding you through the crowded hall. To the tiredness hidden beneath his usual dry amusement.

They were dangerous thoughts. You closed your book sharpley when a knock sounded at the door. Your frowned. Another knock followed, this one seemed less certain.

You rose carefully and crossed the room. When you opened the door, Daeron was leaning one shoulder against the frame.

His hair was loose and slightly tangled, silver-gold falling untidily around his face. One of the ties at his collar had come undone. There was wine on his breath, though not enough to make him unsteady.

His eyes lifted to yours. "You’re awake,” he observed.

“You are standing at my door in the middle of the night.”

“Yes,” he agreed after a pause. “That does appear to be what’s happening.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. He noticed. His expression softened faintly at the edges.

“May I come in,” he asked, “or have you finally decided I’m intolerable?”

“You are intolerable.”

“But not enough to refuse me entry?”

“That remains undecided.”

Still, you stepped aside.

Daeron walked past you slowly, shrugging off his outer coat as he entered. He looked tired tonight. More than tired perhaps. Worn thin in some quiet invisible way.

You closed the door behind him. "You’re drunk."

“Only conversationally.”

“That is still drunk.”

He wandered toward the fire without ceremony before lowering himself into the chair opposite yours with a long exhale. For a moment neither of you spoke. You had become strangely accustomed to these silences with him. They no longer felt awkward. Merely… shared.

Daeron tilted his head back against the chair. “I escaped a meeting with father,” he said eventually.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"The meetings are so impractical. And inconvenient for me," He said with a pout, illiciting a smile from you. He groaned, "My head hurts as well."

“You could try drinking less,” you suggested lightly.

“That sounds dreadful.”

“You say that about most things.”

“Most things are dreadful.”

You shook your head softly, moving to pour water into a cup before offering it to him. Daeron accepted it without argument, which alone told you something was wrong. Your stomach tightened slightly.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you said carefully.

“That’s because I’m reflecting.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It has been catastrophic for my mood.”

You sat back down slowly, studying him. His eyes remained fixed on the fire now, distant in a way you had begun to recognize.

“You shouldn't stay out so late if they tire you so badly,” you said after a moment.

“I’m aware.”

“Then why go at all?” It was a question that you really were curious about. You are aware that this is a question you probably should've asked him long ago, but better late than never.

He let out a soft hum. "I get to disappear for a while."

“But why?"

"It's calming. You should try it sometime."

“I consider it often.” That finally drew a real smile from him. It was small, crooked and beautiful.

Your pulse stumbled painfully. You looked down immediately. Everything about this was becoming dangerous.

“You know,” Daeron murmured after a while, “they still seem confused by us.”

You frowned slightly. “Who?”

“Everyone.”

“That narrows it down considerably.”

“In the halls, the visiting Lady Tarly asked if I’d threatened you into marriage.”

You blinked. “Charming.”

“I told her you were terrifying and I feared for my life.”

“That was wise of you.”

“I thought so.”

Another silence settled. Softer this time. The fire crackled quietly between you. Then, unexpectedly, Daeron spoke again.

“I still don’t understand it.”

You glanced toward him. “Understand what?”

“Why you chose me.”

Your breath caught slightly. He was still looking at the fire. Not at you. Which somehow made the words feel more honest.

“There were better men,” he said lightly, though the humor in it felt thin now. “Better princes certainly.”

You tried to answer carefully. “You are a prince.”

“Yes, but rather a disappointing one.”

“That is not true.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You’re kind to lie.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Aren’t you?”

Finally, he looked at you then. There was something unguarded in his expression now. Something raw beneath the wine and wit and carelessness.

“I know what people say about me,” he said quietly. “I’m not offended by it. Most of it is true.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“They think I’m a waste,” he continued. “A drunk. A disappointment. Sometimes an embarrassment if they’re feeling particularly generous.”

“Daeron—”

“It’s fine.” He shrugged lightly though the movement lacked its usual ease. “I made peace with that years ago.”

“No one should speak of you that way.”

“But they do.”

His gaze held yours steadily now.

“And still,” he said softly, “you married me.”

The room suddenly felt too warm. You could hear your own heartbeat. You should say something safe now. Something distant. Something that restored the careful space between you both. Instead, you found yourself asking quietly:

“Why does that trouble you so much?”

For a moment, Daeron said nothing. Then he laughed tiredly.

“Because I think,” he admitted, voice rougher now, “you deserved someone better.”

The words struck you harder than they should have. You stared at him. This man. This impossible, gentle, aching man who thought himself unworthy of kindness. Something inside you cracked softly.

Before you realized what you were doing, you had crossed the space between you.

Daeron looked up slightly in surprise as you stopped beside his chair. Too close. You could smell wine and smoke and cedarwood. His eyes searched your face carefully now.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you whispered.

“Why?”

Because you are making it impossible not to love you. The thought nearly terrified you.

Your hand lifted before you could stop it, brushing lightly through the disheveled strands of silver-gold hair falling across his forehead. Daeron went very still. The air shifted instantly. Your breath caught. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. Everything inside you lurched violently.

No no no no— The prophecy crashed through you like ice water.

Your body reacted before your mind did. You pulled back sharply. Daeron froze. The warmth vanished from his expression so quickly it made your chest ache.

“I…” You swallowed hard. “I should sleep.”

The words sounded wrong the moment they left your mouth.

Daeron stared at you for one awful heartbeat longer. Then he looked away. And just like that, the walls returned.

“Of course,” he said quietly.

The distance in his voice was unbearable. You wanted to fix it immediately. To say something that would erase the hurt you had just placed there. But what explanation could you possibly give?

Sorry, I cannot kiss you because I fear it will kill you. Utter madness. So instead you stood there in horrible silence while Daeron slowly rose from the chair.

“I didn’t mean to keep you awake,” he said lightly again, though the ease no longer reached his eyes.

“You didn’t.”

He grabbed his discarded coat. At the door, he paused.

The words hit like a blade between the ribs. Then he left. And the sound of the closing door felt far too much like something breaking.

You did not sleep.

The room felt too large without him in it even though these were your own chambers. You lay still in the bed you had just shared, staring up at the canopy, listening for something that wouldn’t come.

No footsteps returned. No careless stumble of wine and habit. Nothing. Only silence. And with it, the memory of his face when you pulled away.

Not hurt, exactly. Worse than that. Resigned.

Three days passed like that. Three days of absence that should have been normal and weren’t. You told yourself it was relief. That this was what you had wanted; space, distance, safety restored to its proper shape. But the silence in the keep did not feel like safety. It felt like something had been removed and the world hadn’t decided how to fill it yet.

Daeron did not joing you in meals. He did not appear in passing corridors. He did not, as he sometimes did, materialize at your side with a dry comment that made the world feel briefly less sharp. Even the servants spoke of him less, as if the act of naming his absence made it heavier.

By the fourth day, you stopped pretending you weren’t counting.

One night, you decided you would disappear at night. You ventured into the gardens far later than you should be and enjoyed the fresh nightly air.

That was where you finally laid eyes onto your husband. He was stumbling in through one of the gates. You decided to strike up a conversation.

“Coming back so soon?”

Your voice stops him. Daeron stands a few steps behind you, one hand now braced against the wall, watching you with something unreadable in his expression.

“Were you following me?" he asks.

"No, this is pure coincidence."

The garden is now too small for the two of you to exist together.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you continue, not really knowing what you hoped for.

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

He steps closer. You don’t move.

“Why?”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“This was a mistake,” you say suddenly. The words come too fast, too sharp. His expression shifts.

“What was?”

“This,” you gesture vaguely between you. “Us. This marriage.”

A lie. A desperate, useless lie. You don't know what it was that got you speaking of such things. You did not expect to. Perhaps the nightmares of the curse you have been having have finally gotten to you. He studies you for a long moment.

“No,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t.”

You laugh but it’s thin, strained. “You don’t even love me.”

The words are meant to push him away. To make this easier. They don’t. His gaze sharpens.

“Don’t I?”

The question lands harder than anything else he could have said. Because you don’t know the answer. And that terrifies you.

His steps slow as he approaches you, as though giving you time to stop him. You don’t.

“Tell me,” he says softly, “what you’re so afraid of.”

You swallow. You could lie. You should lie. But you’re so tired of it.

“If I kiss you,” you say, your voice barely steady, “you’ll die.”

Silence. Not disbelief. Not laughter. Just quiet.

“And you believe that,” he says.

“I know it.”

A beat. “And you married me anyway.”

Because I thought I never would. Because I thought you were safe. Because I didn’t know—

“I didn’t think it would matter,” you whisper.

Something flickers across his face then. Something you don’t quite understand.

“Hm,” he murmurs. “That’s unfortunate.”

Your heart stutters. “Why?”

He steps closer. Close enough now that you can feel the warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

“Because,” he says softly, “I think it does.”

Your pulse is deafening. This is it. You know this. You’ve always known this. The way he looks at you like— like you are something worth choosing.

“Daeron,” you say, more firmly now, “don’t.”

But your voice betrays you. It isn’t a command. It’s a plea.

He pauses and searches your face for any doubt, for any fear, for permission. He finds all three.

“If I walk away,” he asks quietly, echoing a moment that feels like it belongs to another life, “will you come find me again?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because you already know.

Yes. You always will. Even though you shouldn't. You should keep your distance.

A sad, knowing smile touches his lips. “I thought so.”

Another heartbeat. Another chance. You don’t take it.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

"I am too."

And then he closes the distance..

For one perfect, impossible moment he’s alive beneath your lips. He's warm, real and yours. This is not the kiss you had at your wedding ceremony. That kiss was between two strangers who knew nothing of each other. This kiss was filled with every emotion, every doubt, every worry, every piece of knowledge you had aquirred of each other.

You think— maybe the curse was wrong.

His hand rises, cupping your cheek at last.

And then you feel him still.

Your eyes fly open and you pull away. “Daeron?”

His forehead falls gently against yours. A breath leaves him.

It is soft and final.

The garden is too quiet and too still and you feel everything instantly. Just as she said you would.

The end of him.

Later, much later, you will remember everything in fragments.

The taste of wine on his lips, the fragrance of wood on him, the press of his hand around your waist. And voice, thin and certain:

You will try. You did.

You will fail. You did that, too.

And now, you are left with the silence. And the memory of the only moment that ever felt real.

Tears fell from your eyes as you felt his body slump against you. You knew you needed to call the servants. It was your duty to. To explain to Maekar why his eldest boy laid in your arms.

But for now, Daeron's body was yours to hold. And you did until it was cold to the touch.

Daeron Targaryen dreamed of death often.

Not always in grand ways. Some had dragonfire, some had battlefields, some were just quiet and ordinary.

Sometimes he is drowning in a cup he never finished. Sometimes he is lying beneath a ceiling he cannot name, listening to voices that refuse to become words. Sometimes he is simply walking, and then mid-step the world forgets him.

He never minds them. Dreams are honest in a way waking life is not.

So when the sickness first takes root in him, he does not recognize it as anything new. It begins, as most unpleasant things do, with inconvenience.

A heaviness behind the eyes. A warmth that does not belong to wine. Nights that stretch longer than they should, sleep arriving too easily and leaving too slowly. He tells himself it is nothing. The court is tiring. The air in Summerhall is stale. His father’s expectations are tedious enough to make any man feel ill.

He has always been good at explanations that do not require concern. That is what he tells himself.

That is what he tells you, too, when he can still stand long enough to joke about it.

“It’s only exhaustion,” he says once, leaning back in a chair as if the world has simply become less worth holding up. “Or possibly regret. Hard to distinguish the two lately.”

You don’t laugh. You are watching him too closely now.

That is new. He pretends not to notice.

The dreams worsen before the body does. In them, he is always near water. Not always drowning. Sometimes simply standing at the edge, watching it rise. Sometimes the water is red. Sometimes it is empty. Sometimes it is only a reflection of himself, and he cannot tell which version is real.

In one of them, he turns and sees you. You are not as you are now. You are as you were the first time he noticed you properly, half-shadowed, half-alive, looking at him like he is something you have already decided not to fear.

In the dream, he tries to speak. But his mouth fills with water before the words can form. He wakes coughing. There is wine on the bedside table when he wakes. He drinks it anyway. It does not help. Nothing does.

By the time the maester names it, Daeron has already stopped listening to his own body.

The Great Spring Sickness, he hears vaguely. Something that lingers in the lungs, in the blood, in the spaces between strength and collapse. Something that does not always announce itself with urgency.

He thinks that is rather polite of it. He does not tell you immediately. He should. He knows he should.

But there is something almost embarrassing about admitting that his body is failing him quietly. That it is not dramatic, not heroic, not even interesting. So instead, he continues as he is: half-present and half-elsewhere. Joking when it is required. Disappearing when it is not.

He becomes very good at hiding illness behind indifference. He has always been good at that. And then there is the other thing. The thing he does not name at all. The way you have begun to look at him. Not with fear but a sort of calculation. As though you are counting something he cannot see.

It unsettles him more than the fever. Because he cannot fix it. He is used to fixing things by leaving them alone.

The night before everything changes, he dreams again. This time, he is not alone.

He is standing in a garden he does not recognize, though he knows it is supposed to be safe. The air is too still. The flowers are too white. The sky feels like something pressed too tightly over the world. You are there. You are speaking, but he cannot hear you.

He steps toward you. You step back. He tries to say your name but nothing comes out. And then, very gently, you kiss him.

It is not like the real world. It is softer. Final in a way that feels rehearsed. Like something that was always going to happen, no matter how many choices were made before it.

In the dream, he understands immediately. This is how it ends. Not with sickness. Not with wine. Not with anything he could have argued with. With you. And strangely, he is not afraid.

He is only tired.

When he wakes, there is blood on his lips. He assumes it is a dream still clinging to him. It is not.

He finds you in the garden later. He does not remember walking there. That part is becoming more common.

You speak to him. He answers. It feels like a performance he is watching from a slight distance, like someone else is wearing his skin and doing a passable impression of Daeron Targaryen, drunk and polite and almost intact.

You ask him something about avoidance. He almost laughs. He almost tells you the truth. Instead, he says, “I haven’t.”

Because that is easier. Because that is still true enough to pass. But then you say something else. Something that does not fit into any of his practiced categories.

“This was a mistake.”

And something in him goes very still. Not because it hurts. Because it is familiar. This is how dreams speak. He has heard this tone before. When you say the curse out loud, he almost wants to smile. Of course it would be something like that. Of course it would be absurd enough to survive unchallenged for years inside you.

He wants to tell you that curses are rarely that polite. That death is rarely that specific. That if the world truly wanted him gone, it would not bother with rules like kisses. But he is tired. And you are shaking.

And he realizes, too late, that you believe it more than you believe him. That is the first thing that truly frightens him. The idea that you might already be mourning him while he is still standing in front of you.

When he kisses you, it is not what he expects. There is no sudden ending. No clean collapse. No divine certainty. Only warmth.

Only you.

Only the very brief, unbearable clarity of it.

And for one suspended moment, Daeron thinks: So this is it.

Not because he feels death arriving. But because it feels like the first thing in his life that is fully real.

His hand rises without permission. He touches your face as if confirming you are not another dream. You pull away. He should say something. He cannot find anything worth saying.

Because in the exact same moment, something inside him shifts not violently, not dramatically. Just quietly wrong. Like a bell that has been struck too many times finally deciding not to ring again.

He hears you whisper his name. He tries to answer. But the world has already begun to tilt away from him. Like sleep that has finally decided it will not let him wake again.

And as the garden fades, as your arms tighten around him, as the last shape of your face tries to hold Daeron thinks what a kind death the universe had bestowed on him.

Daeron Targaryen was the first noble in King's Landing to die from the great spring sickness. He had caught the virus while he was in one of his taverns on a night out. And after a few weeks of the virus corrupting him on the inside, it had finally chosen to be done with him.

The first time Egg realized his father was in love with his aunt, it came to him as most truths did in his childhood: carelessly and from the mouth of someone who should have known better.

The afternoon was hot, with the sun beating down hard on Egg's back, slicking it with hot droplets of sweat. It felt unbearable. Dust was also clinging to the air, to his skin and to the back of his throat.

He thought that squiring would be something finer than this. Something worthy of the stories and songs. Instead it was just weight. It was sweat. It was the sour, lingering scent of wine that followed Daeron everywhere he went.

"Seven save me," Daeron muttered, swaying as Egg struggled with the fastening at his shoulder. "Did they give me a squire or a stableboy?"

"I can do it," Egg said eagerly.

"You always can," Daeron replied, listing his cup. "And yet..."

He did not finish his thought. Egg bit down on his tongue and tried again. His fingers slipped. Until by chance or pure stubbornness, the buckle caught.

Egg stepped back and looked up at his perfect work, waiting for some well deserved praise. But recieved nothing. Egg groaned and looked up ready to complain to Daeron but the older boy was no longer looking at him.

His gaze had gone elsewhere, beyond the yard, beyond the garden hedges, fixed on something Egg could not yet see.

"What is it?" Egg asked, rising onto his toes, as though the height might grant him some assistance with the high hedge. It did not.

Daeron did not answer at once. He drank what remained in his cup, slow and unhurried.

"Have you ever noticed the way Father behaves around her?"

Egg frowned. "Around who?" (the boy was now jumping up and down to try and gain some view beyond the hedges).

"Our aunt. (Y/N)"

Egg blinked. "No?"

Daeron hummed softly. "It's nothing. Less than nothing."

Egg wracked his brain trying to come up with some possible answer to what Daeron was insinuating. "Does Father have some problem with her?"

Egg was worried then because you as well as your family were meant to come to Summerhall before coming with them to Ashford for a tourney.

"Quite the opposite." Daeron turned to Egg and wiggled his brows. Egg frowned, knowing what that meant. "That doesn't mean anything."

"No, it doesn't."

"She's married. To Prince Baelor."

Daeron hummed.

"Father wouldn't-" Egg stopped, the rest of the thought refusing to settle into something. "He loved Mother."

At that, something in Daeron's experession shifted.

"He did."

The words hung there, unfinished. Egg waited for more but none came. "She's our aunt."

"And he's our father."

Egg shook his head. "You're wrong."

"Perhaps." Daeron set his empty cup aside and crouched slightly, bringing himself nearer to Egg's height. "Just watch him. You'll see it, or maybe you won't. These sort of things aren't meant to be seen at all."

He straightened, clapping a hand against Egg's shoulder. "Come on. I'll need another drink before I pretened to be a knight again."

Egg followed, though more slowly. He told himself there was nothing. Daeron was just drunk and imagining things.

The second time Egg noticed, no one said a word at all.

It happened in the Great Hall, in the lull between courses, when the noise softened just enough to hear the quieter things. The scrapes of a cup against the table, the half whispers of conversations and all that. The portion of the night where everyone was relaxed.

Egg had not meant to watch. He told himself he wasn't. But Daeron's voice had settled somewhere in the back of his mind and it was impossible to ignore it. So he took Daeron's words to heart. Watch him.

So he did. Egg watched his father from his place at the dinner table next to Aemon (who had his head buried in some large textbook. Egg was slightly concered over his brother's potential future neck problems).

His father sat at the end of the high table by his brother and Egg's uncle. His posture was straight and his expression was carved hard. He spoke when spoken to, nodded whe required and drank very little. There was little to nothing strange about it.

Until, his Aunt (Y/N) laughed.

It was not loud, nothing that would turn heads or draw attention to it. (Y/N)'s laugh was a lovely one and a familiar one to Egg. (The laugh came from a joke that Matarys told her but Egg did not hear what it was. From what he knew of his cousin, Egg didn't think it was a funny joke and his aunt was just being polite).

But Egg saw it. The way his father had stilled. Not entirely or in a dramatic way. But it was as if the statue had been shooken. A breath that was being held onto for a second too long.

Egg frowned. His father did not turn, did not look, his gaze remained fix on Baelor as the two were in a conversation. Maekar did not speak right away. Baelor carried on, asking a question that was answered by some lesser lord sitting next to Maekar. His paused moment slipped past, unoticed by all except for Egg.

It meant nothing, Egg told himself. Less than nothing.

People paused all the time. People lost their places. It was not uncommon. Afterall some people just get lost in their thoughts. It was not-

His father's hand tightened slightly around his cup. So slight it might have been imagined. Egg watched however, as he took a measured drink and set it back down with too much attention than it required.

Still, he did not look. Not at you. Egg found his gaze looking upon you instead. Looking radiant in the red silks that were probably made in Dorne. You had now reached your hand over to your husbands to get his attention, and leaned in to speak with a soft smile.

Prince Baelor and Princess (Y/N). Future King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They looked right. They looked happy. The very pitcture of what Egg thought a loving marriage would look lile. As though the world had placed them exactly where they were meant to be. Egg was content knowing they loved each other.

So Egg went back to his food and started to shift his peas from his plate to Aemon's instead. Content to pretend that he was overanalyzing his father's behaviour.

The third time Egg noticed, it was close enough to touch.

It happened in the gardens, where the air was softer and world felt far away from the Seven Kingdoms. Egg had not meant to follow. At the time it had felt like nothing at all. He was just wandering paths he knew well, doing his best to avoid the maesters and his lessons.

That was until he saw them. He stopped before he could be seen and hid behind a tree.

They stood beneath the shade of an overgrown arbor, where the light filtered through in fragments painting them in gold. It was rather close. Not close enough to be indecent or improper. Just, closer than what was necessary.

(Y/N) was speaking, though it was too soft that the words could not reach Egg. Instead he had to settle on watching the shape of them. As (Y/N) was speaking his father did not interrupt, did not look away. Just gazed at your face.

From the looks of it, you had finished speaking and there was a moment of silence between the two of you. Then, your hand had lifted.

It wasn't anything dramatic. Just brushing your hand against his sleeve. It should have been nothing because it was nothing. But again, his father had stilled. The way his breath seemed to catch, the way his hand at his side tightened just slightly.

He did not pull away, did not reach back, did not move at all. The two of you stood there, closer than what one would expect, with your hand on his arm. To Egg, it looked like a different sort of painting. One he had not seen at the dinner the other night.

Then you stepped back and distance returned. Whatever had just been there, slipped neatly back into place.

His father inclined his said, said something Egg could not hear but it was probably something drab (his father was a rather blunt speaker). Whatever it was, it resulted in a smiling (Y/N). Your smile was smaller and softer and gone quicker than normal.

And then it was all over again.

Egg did not move from where he stood, though he knew he should. He felt as if he was intruding on something. His thoughts felt tangled. Nothing had occured.

With that, he took a step back and starting walking back into the castle.

The fourth time Egg noticed, it nearly did not remain theirs alone.

It was not meant to be a moment at all. That was what made it dangerous.

The corridors were quieter at that hour, the castle settling into itself as the evening wore on. Voices dulled behind closed doors. Footsteps softened. Even the torches seemed to burn lower, their light unsteady against the stone. Everyone was preparing for bed.

Egg had been sent on some errand he no longer remembered.

It did not matter. He would forget it entirely, later.

What he would remember, what would stay, was this:

The turn of a corner. The sound of a voice, too low to make out. And the way he stopped before he understood why.

This time, from behind a corridor, Egg saw them at the far end of the passage, half-shadowed, as though the castle itself meant to keep their secret.

They were close. Too close. Much closer than before in the garden.

Once again you were speaking. Or not. Even in the dimmed hallway, Egg could see you were loosing your composure. The normal picture perfect you seemed frazzle in the dark corridor. Words were spilling out quick but quietly. As if it was something that had been held back for too long.

Egg could not hear them, only feel the shape of them in the air, sharp and unsteady. (He was thinking to himself that he should really work on his sneaking abilities so he could somehow find himself closer so he could properly eavesdrop).

His father said nothing. He only watched you. Not as a prince might. Not as a brother should. As though the rest of the world had fallen away.

Egg’s breath caught, though he did not know why. He should not have been there. He knew that. And yet he did not move.

You stopped speaking. The silence that followed was not empty. It pressed in, taut, waiting.

His father took a step forward. It was small, measured and hesitant. Enough to close what little distance remained between you.

Egg felt it then, that strange, tightening awareness, like a thread pulled too thin. Something was about to happen. Something that could not be undone.

Your hand lifted, hesitant, uncertain, as though you had not meant to do it at all. His father’s followed. Not touching. Never touching.

But close enough that the space between them felt like something real. Something fragile. Something one breath away from breaking.

And for a moment, the two of you didn't move.

Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor. And the spell shattered. Your hand dropped at once. His father stepped back just as quickly, the distance snapping into place as though it had never been crossed at all.

By the time the servants turned the corner, there was nothing to see.

It was just a prince standing where he ought to stand. A lady composed, untouched. Silence, neat and proper, where something else had been moments before.

Egg pressed himself back against the wall, heart beating too fast for something he did not understand.

No one noticed. No one said a word. And yet, Egg knew.

That it had almost—

He swallowed, the thought slipping from him before it could take shape.

It had been nothing.

A step taken. A hand lifted. A moment that came too close to becoming something more.

The fifth time Egg noticed, nothing threatened to happen at all.

There was no interruption waiting in the wings. No footsteps. No tension poised to break. Only certainty.

It happened in a corridor (the same one as before) and he was not meant to linger in, though he had long since stopped believing that mattered. The castle had begun to feel less like a place one moved through, and more like something that simply contained him.

He heard your voice first. And then his father’s.

Egg stopped before he saw you.

You stood facing one another, not hidden, not secret, simply… there. As though there had never been anything to conceal.

Your hands were folded neatly before you, composed and contorlled. The opposite of what you looked like the previous night he had seen the pair of you.

“I leave with Baelor at first light,” you said. Your voice did not tremble. It did not need to.

His father nodded once. “I know.”

No hesitation. No question. Only acknowledgment.

Egg watched the way you held his gaze for a moment longer than was necessary. Not lingering. Not resisting. Just, steady.

“As it should be,” you added quietly.

It was not said like a comfort. It was said like a truth that had already been lived. His father’s expression did not change. But something in him did.

Not outward. Not visible in any way that would matter to anyone else. Only Egg saw it.

The smallest tightening at the corner of his mouth. The faintest pause in his breathing. As though something had been set down carefully, something heavy, something once held too close.

“You will be well,” he said. It was not a wish. It was a fact he had chosen to believe.

You gave a small nod. “As will you.”

And that was all.

No step forward. No reach. No fracture in the space between you. Only distance, held deliberately in place. As if it had always belonged there.

You turned first.

Not away from him in avoidance, but toward what was waiting for you beyond the corridor. Beyond the castle. Beyond this moment entirely.

Duty, already ahead of you.

His father did not watch you leave. Not when it mattered. Not when it might have changed anything.

He simply stood there until your footsteps faded completely, until even the echo had gone soft enough to disappear.

Then he turned away as well.

Egg remained where he was. Not because he was unseen. But because there was nothing left to witness.

Only something he finally understood in full:

Not all loves ended in ruin. Some ended in choice. And in that choice, quiet, certain, unspoken they had already lost each other long before either of them ever reached for anything at all.

The one and probably last time Egg understood how truly doomed they were, it was at Ashford Meadow.

Some loves are loud enough to shake kingdoms. Others live and die in stolen glances, in half-finished sentences, in the spaces between what is felt and what is never allowed to be spoken.

The tourney had turned the world bright again.

Colour returned in banners and gowns, in the gleam of armor beneath the sun, in laughter that carried too far across the fields as though nothing in the world had ever been wrong.

For a moment, Egg believed in that brightness.

He had never seen so much life. Never felt so far from the boy he was meant to be. He had lost Daeron somewhere in a tavern’s chaos and shaved his head in reckless relief, as though shedding identity might make him freer. He had even met a hedge knight, Ser Duncan, before the crowd swallowed him whole.

Then the royal family arrived. And everything began, quietly, to fall into place.

Egg hid among skirts and passing legs as he watched them take their places. His aunt stood near the pavilion.

The wind caught at her dress, lifting it in soft, unsteady motion, and for a moment she looked less like a princess and more like something imagined, something almost too gentle for the weight of her name.

She smiled more easily now. Baelor lived. And so she could, too.

He stood beside her with easy warmth, speaking to those who approached them, his hand resting at the small of her back as though it had always belonged there.

She laughed at something he said, turning toward him, bright and unburdened.

It should have been enough. It was enough.

And still... Egg knew, somewhere deep and unspoken, that in another life, in another shape of the world, it might have been his father standing there instead.

Behind them, Maekar stood at a careful distance, speaking with a lord he was not truly listening to. His attention kept returning, again and again, to where it should not.

There was no grief in it. No rupture. No visible wound.

Only something quieter. Something held too tightly to be named.

Their eyes met once. His father’s. Hers.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat. And yet Egg felt it as something entire. A silence stretched between them, thin, precise, almost reverent.

Until Baelor spoke her name.

She turned. And the moment was gone. The world continued exactly as it should have. But Egg did not move. He watched.

Later, Baelor was called away. And Maekar stepped into his place beside her. It looked like nothing. It was nothing.

A conversation between in-laws. A passing exchange. A courtesy sustained by courtly habit.

But Egg saw too closely now. The ease that should not have been ease. The closeness that should not have existed at all. A handmaiden passed. Words were spoken too quietly to catch.

And then, Maekar offered his arm. She took it with no hesitation. It was a simple thing.

And yet the way her fingers settled there, the way his arm did not move away, the way neither of them corrected the distance. It felt like recognition. Like something remembered instead of chosen.

Too familiar to be coincidence. Too natural to be allowed. A blush rose faintly at his father’s neck. Gone as quickly as it came.

And for a moment, it felt almost right.

Until Valarr came running, bright and alive, breaking everything open again. The spell did not shatter. It simply… dispersed. Like smoke.

The world ended at Ashford Meadow.

It did not, of course.

The sun still rose over Ashford, pale and indifferent. The wind still moved through the fields, stirring banners that now hung heavy and dark. People still spoke, still walked, still breathed.

But something had ended all the same.

Baelor died.

The bells had tolled for what felt like hours, their sound low and unrelenting, echoing through the castle and out across the tourney grounds. Even now, standing among his family, Egg swore he could still hear them, like something lodged deep inside his chest.

They had chosen to burn him at Ashford. Egg wasn’t sure why that made it worse, but it did.

This place had been bright, only days ago. Full of laughter and colour and life. He could still remember it, the banners snapping in the wind, the roar of the crowd, the way everything had seemed so large and full of promise.

Now everything felt hollow.

Egg stood stiffly beside his father, his hands clasped too tightly in front of him. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could.

His thoughts wouldn’t stop circling back. If only he hadn’t left Daeron. If only he had stayed. If only—The pyre crackled. Egg forced himself to look.

Flames climbed steadily, consuming what remained of Baelor’s body. The heat pressed against his face, sharp and unbearable, and still he couldn’t look away.

His gaze shifted. His aunt stood closest to the fire. She did not weep. She did not speak.

She stood as though carved from stone, her face pale, her expression empty in a way that frightened him more than tears ever could.

Valarr stood before her, shaking. Egg could see it even from where he stood. The way his cousin’s shoulders trembled, the way his head bowed forward as though the weight of it all might crush him.

Her hand rested gently in his hair. Not moving. Just there.

Behind them, Kiera stood still and silent, her presence quiet, almost ghostlike.

Egg swallowed hard. He had heard what happened. Everyone had.

Whispers had spread quickly, slipping through corridors and between servants like smoke.

They said she had been the first to reach him. That she hadn’t believed it. That she had demanded a maester, again and again, as though saying it enough times might undo what had already been done.

They said she had knelt beside his body, hands pressed to him, begging the Seven to give him back.

That she hadn’t seemed to notice the blood. That it had soaked into her sleeves, her hands, her skin.

Egg squeezed his eyes shut briefly.

They said Ser Duncan had tried to pull her away. That she had fought him. That she had screamed. Not words, just sound. Raw and broken.

And then his father came.

Maekar had been the one to pull her back. They said she had struck him. That her fists had hit his chest, over and over, as though he were something she could break. That she had cried into him like the world was ending.

Egg opened his eyes. He looked up at his father now.

Maekar stood beside him, unmoving. Rigid. Every line of him held tight, controlled, as though he had locked something inside himself and thrown away the key. Every line of him held tight, controlled, as though he had locked something inside himself and thrown away the key.

Egg wanted to say something. Go to her.

He didn’t know if he would have said the words aloud or not. He only knew the thought pressed against his throat, desperate and insistent.

Go to her. She shouldn’t be alone. Not now. Not like this.

But Maekar did not move.

He stood where he was meant to stand. He did what was expected of him. Nothing more.

Egg felt something twist inside him.

But he had learned, by now, where to look.

So he looked closer.

He saw the way his father’s hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles pale beneath the skin. He saw the tension in his shoulders, in his jaw, in the stillness that was not calm but restraint stretched too thin.

And then it happened. Briefly.

So brief Egg might have missed it, if he hadn’t been watching.

His aunt lifted her head, just slightly. As though something had pulled her attention away from the flames. Her gaze crossed the distance between them. And found his father.

Maekar looked at her. Not as a prince. Not as a brother. Just as a man.

Everything was there. Egg felt it, even from where he stood.

Grief, sharp and consuming.

Longing, familiar, aching, unrelenting.

Regret, heavy, suffocating, endless.

All of it, laid bare in a single look that lasted no more than a heartbeat. It was too much. Too intimate.

Her gaze dropped. Maekar’s jaw tightened. And just like that… It was gone.

The fire crackled. The wind shifted. The world went on.

And whatever might have been… didn’t.

Egg shouldn’t have followed her. He knew that.

Even so, he slipped from the hall, keeping to the edges where torchlight thinned and attention softened. He was careful, quiet and was left unseen.

He told himself he would stop at the doorway. He didn’t.

The hall was dim when she entered, curtains drawn heavy against the day. It felt smaller than it had before. Quieter in a way that pressed at the ribs.

She moved slowly, like each step had to be chosen in advance. Egg lingered just beyond the threshold, half-hidden in the corridor’s shadow.

She crossed to the high table to Baelor’s seat and sat down. For a long moment she did nothing at all. Then, carefully, she lifted her hands. Baelor’s rings caught what little light remained.

Egg’s throat tightened before he could name why. She turned one of them between her fingers. Over and over. Not fidgeting, holding on.

As though stillness might undo something. The door opened again. Egg went rigid. His father stepped inside.

There was a pause in him that Egg did not recognize. Not fear, exactly. Not hesitation either. Something closer to awareness. As though the room had become uncertain ground.

As though he was not sure he was allowed to cross it.

She did not look up. Did not acknowledge him. Did not move. For a moment, he only stood there. Then he crossed the room and sat beside her. Not close. Never close.

Silence gathered between them, dense and unyielding.

“I do not know where to begin,” Maekar said at last.

His voice was quieter than Egg had ever heard it.

She let out a breath that almost broke on its way out. “I do not know either.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt too small the moment they left him.

They stayed anyway. Unanswered.

“You know,” she said after a while, still looking at the ring, “my mother once told me not to love anyone more than my children.”

Maekar did not speak.

“I loved my children,” she continued. “And I loved my husband.”

Something in him shifted at that, barely visible, but real.

“And I loved you.”

The silence that followed did not feel empty. It felt held.

Carefully. Like something fragile that neither of them trusted to fall.

“(Y/N),” Maekar said at last, roughened, “there are no words—”

“You know,” she cut in, not unkindly, but with something steadier beneath it, “in a way, I wish you had meant to kill him.”

The air changed.

Maekar’s head turned slightly, as if the words had weight enough to move him. “How could you say that?”

“It would make things simpler,” she said. “For me. As selfish as that sounds.”

He did not answer. There was nothing to answer. A long pause. Then—

“Do you remember,” she asked, quieter now, “when Baelor and I were betrothed?”

A breath left Maekar that might once have been laughter. It wasn’t now. “Of course I do.”

A faint sound from her. Almost agreement. Almost nothing.

“You said you would burn your entire house down before you let it happen.”

His mouth tightened at the memory, something old and unguarded passing through him and gone again before it could settle.

“I was young,” he said.

“We were all young,” she replied.

Silence returned, softer this time. Less sharp. No less heavy.

Then she moved.

Slowly, she took one of the rings from her hand. Turned it once between her fingers. Twice.

And placed it in his palm.

“Here.”

Maekar looked down at it.

“I cannot take this,” he said. “He was your husband.”

“And he was your brother.”

That landed cleanly. Without argument. Maekar closed his fingers around the ring anyway. Not tightly.

Egg stepped back before either of them could notice him there, retreating into the corridor as quietly as he had come. He did not run. He did not linger.

Some things, he understood, were not meant to be seen all at once. Or spoken.

He understood then that some things were never meant to be spoken. Just simply known and lived with.