hey boy

Right now, that rhythm was being tested to its absolute limit on a patient crammed into the makeshift overflow area near the ambulance bay. The man on the gurney was large, aggressive, and reeked of cheap bourbon and woodsmoke, his upper thigh torn open by a jagged piece of shrapnel or a ricochet from the festival grounds. He was thrashing, his eyes rolling back in his head as he roared obscenities, fighting the very hands trying to save his life.

Frank was leaning over him, his broad shoulders tensed as he applied heavy, two-handed pressure to the femoral artery, his face a mask of fierce, locked-in concentration. You were positioned just opposite him, your fingers deftly trying to establish a secondary IV in the man’s uninjured arm while the chaos of the ER swirled madly around you.

Just a few feet away, Dr. Abbot was shouting orders, his voice cracked with exhaustion as he directed a trauma team toward a crashing teenager. Dana was somewhere down the corridor, her authoritative tone echoing as she managed the triage nightmare at the front doors. Everyone was stretched to their absolute breaking point, operating on instinct and sheer willpower.

"I need that line running now!" Frank barked, not out of anger toward you, but to be heard over the deafening noise of a nearby heart monitor screaming and the desperate sobbing of a girl two bays down. "He's losing his pressure. We don't have time for him to be fighting us."

You nodded quickly, your voice calm and steady as you spoke to the thrashing man. You told him he was safe, told him that he was at the hospital and that Frank was going to fix his leg, but the words didn't seem to penetrate the thick fog of his intoxication and terror. The man gave a sudden, violent heave, his free arm flailing out wildly. His fingers clawed frantically at the heavy tactical waistband of his cargo trousers, diving beneath the blood-stained fabric of his shirt.

It happened in a terrifying, fragmented blur that defied the frantic speed of the room. You saw the dark glint of steel before your brain fully processed what it was, a compact handgun snagging on his belt as he yanked it free in a blind, paranoid reflex.

"Gun! He’s got a gun!" someone screamed from the corridor. It sounded like Robby, his voice cracking with a raw, primal panic that instantly silenced the immediate vicinity.

Time seemed to violently liquefy. Frank’s eyes widened, a sudden, horrifying comprehension dawning on his features as he instantly let go of the wound, lunging across the gurney in a desperate, instinctive attempt to smother the weapon or shield you. The patient fired blindly into the air, the deafening roar of the gunshot exploding inside the enclosed space, shattering a nearby fluorescent light fixture in a shower of sparks and white dust.

From down the hall, the immediate, instinctual response was instantaneous; voices shouted to get down, and a chorus of bodies hit the linoleum floor as medical staff and ambulatory patients dropped to seek whatever cover the flimsy privacy curtains and stainless-steel carts could provide.

But the man’s wrist snapped sideways as he recoiled, the weapon discharging a second time before Frank could pin his arm to the mattress.

There was no grand explosion of pain, just a sudden, violent impact against your ribs that felt like being struck full-force by a swinging baseball bat, knocking the breath entirely out of your lungs. The momentum threw you backward, your feet tangling in the stool behind you, and you went down hard against the cold, hard floor, the bag of saline you had been holding bursting against the metal leg of the gurney.

For a second, the world went completely silent, the ringing in your ears drowning out the screams, the shouting, and the heavy thud of security guards finally tackling the gunman to the ground just inches away from where you lay. You stared up at the cracked ceiling tiles, wondering vaguely why the air felt so thick, why it was suddenly so incredibly difficult to draw a single breath.

Then the silence shattered, and the world rushed back in with a terrifying, agonizing roar. Frank was on his knees beside you before you could even register that you were on the floor, his hands trembling in a way you had never seen before as they hovered over your chest. His face was entirely drained of colour, his lips parted in a silent gasp of horror that quickly transformed into a frantic, breathless plea. "No, no, no, please, God, no," he muttered, his voice stripped of all its usual authority, sounding entirely small and broken.

His palms came down hard against the left side of your upper abdomen, just beneath your ribs, and the sudden, searing agony that ripped through your torso made your back arch off the floor, a choked, ragged scream tearing from your throat. The fabric of your scrubs was already turning a deep, heavy crimson, the warmth of your own blood soaking through his fingers as he pressed down with everything he had.

The immediate area exploded into a frenzied, chaotic scrum of activity, but this time, the emergency was you. Robby was there in an instant, his face pale and eyes wide with shock as he dropped to his knees on your other side, "I’ve got the back, Frank, I’ve got the exit wound, keep pressing!" Robby yelled, his voice shaking as he tried to stabilize your writhing frame.

Jack appeared above you, his authoritative calm momentarily cracking as he took in the sight of one of his own nurses bleeding out on the floor. "Get a gurney over here now! Someone get me a chest tube tray and two units of O-negative!" Jack roared, his commands snapping the stunned onlookers into motion.

Samira was right behind him, her hands steady despite the visible tremor in her jaw as she ripped open a pack of trauma dressings, quickly tucking them under Frank’s straining hands. Dana was on the radio, her voice cutting through the hospital page with a sharp, trembling urgency, calling for an immediate surgical consult and clearing a path straight to the operating theatres.

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet, shallow gasp and the sound of it seemed to fracture something deep within him. "Stay with me, do you hear me? Look at me, sweetheart," he begged, leaning down so close that his sweat-dampened hair brushed against your forehead. His eyes were wild, swimming with tears that he refused to let fall. "Don't you dare close your eyes. You breathe for me, come on, just keep breathing."

The vulnerability in his voice was terrifying; this was a man who stared down death every single day without flinching, but looking at you, he looked utterly defeated, stripped entirely of his medical armor.

With a coordinated heave, Frank, Robby, and Jack lifted you off the blood-slicked floor and onto a clearing gurney, the sudden movement causing the agony in your chest to flare into a blinding, white-hot sheet of pain that threatened to turn the world completely black.

You gasped, your fingers clawing blindly at the air, and Frank instantly caught your hand in his own, his grip incredibly tight, almost crushing, yet it was the most comforting thing you had ever felt. He didn't let go, not even as Jack began cutting away the remnants of your ruined scrubs, exposing the neat, horrific puncture wound where the bullet had torn through your muscle and bone.

“Shit, this doesn’t sound good," Jack muttered, his stethoscope pressed firmly against your skin, his expression grim. "Dr. Mohan, give me that scalpel, we need to drop a tube now before they arrest."

"Frank," you whimpered, the word barely a whisper, your vision beginning to tunnel, the bright fluorescent lights of the ER fading into a hazy, shimmering blur.

"I'm right here, I’m not leaving you, I swear to God I’m right here," Frank cried, his voice breaking completely as he used his free hand to wipe the blood from your lip, his thumb caressing your cheek. He looked up at Jack, his eyes blazing with a mixture of terror and fury. "Do it fast, Jack, please, just do it fast."

You felt the sharp, sudden sting of the local anesthetic, followed almost immediately by the heavy, suffocating pressure of the chest tube being inserted between your ribs. It was an invasive, brutal sensation, a choked sob tearing from your throat as you tried to pull away from the pain.

Frank held you steady, his strong arm wrapping around your shoulders to keep you pinned to the mattress, his face pressed against the side of your neck as he whispered frantic, broken promises into your skin. "You're okay, you're doing so well, just hold onto me, sweetheart. I've got you."

As the tube found its mark, a dark, heavy rush of blood and trapped air hissed into the collection chamber, and suddenly, a massive, cooling relief washed through your lungs. You could breathe again, the suffocating weight lifted from your chest, even as the profound exhaustion of blood loss began to pull you down into the dark.

The gurney was suddenly in motion, rattling violently as it was pushed out of the trauma bay and down the long corridor toward the elevators. Dana was there at the doors, holding them open, her face pale as she reached out to briefly touch your leg, her voice fierce as she looked at the surgical team waiting for you. "Take care of them," she ordered, her tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.

Frank walked alongside the moving bed, his hand still locked in yours, his eyes on you, his thumb tracing endless, soothing circles against the back of your hand.

When they finally reached the double doors of the surgical suite, the anesthesia resident stepped in front of him, gently but firmly placing a hand on Frank's chest. "Frank, you need to stay here. We've got them, we're going to take care of them, I promise."

Frank stopped, his sneakers skidding slightly on the polished floor, his chest heaving as he fought the urge to push past the man. He looked down at you, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with a profound, terrifying helplessness, his grip loosening only when the momentum of the gurney forced your fingers to slide apart.

"I'll be right here," he called out, his voice echoing down the sterile hallway as the heavy doors began to swing shut, separating you from his sight. "Right here when you wake up. I love you, do you hear me? I love you!"

As the darkness finally took you, the smell of antiseptic and the bright, shadowless lights of the operating room fading into nothingness, the last thing you felt was the lingering warmth of his hand against your skin, and the steady, unbreakable promise of his voice.

Everything felt incredibly heavy, as though your limbs had been poured full of wet sand, and your throat was dry and parched, tasting of stale plastic from the oxygen cannula resting beneath your nose. For a long moment, you simply drifted in that twilight space, aware of a dull, throbbing ache radiating across the entire left side of your chest, a deep-seated soreness that flared into a sharp pinch every time you tried to take a deep breath.

But beneath that pain, and the overwhelming exhaustion pulling at your eyelids, there was a profound, grounding warmth enveloping your right hand.

Slowly, with an effort that felt almost monumental, you forced your eyes open. The harsh, chaotic glare of the emergency department was gone, replaced by the soft, dimmed shadows of a private recovery room in the intensive care unit. The blinds were drawn against the morning light, casting long, quiet bars of grey across the linoleum floor. And sitting right beside your mattress, his frame uncomfortably curled into a stiff hospital armchair, was Frank.

He looked entirely shattered. He was still wearing his scrub trousers, though he had swapped his blood-stained top for a faded, oversized grey university sweatshirt that looked as though it had been pulled from the bottom of his locker. His elbows were resting on the edge of your mattress, his face buried in the crook of his arm, his fingers tightly, desperately interlaced with yours.

As you shifted your weight slightly, trying to ease the pressure on your chest tube site, a soft, involuntary whimper escaped your lips. The sound was barely audible, but it acted like an electric shock to Frank. His head snapped up instantly, his eyes bloodshot, dark shadows bruising the skin beneath them. For a fraction of a second, his expression was blank with a raw, lingering terror, but as his gaze focused on your open eyes, his face cracked, a look of profound, overwhelming relief washing over his features.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice incredibly thick and hoarse, rough from hours of silence and unshed tears. He shifted instantly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your chest ache for reasons completely unrelated to the bullet wound. "Hey, beautiful. Don't try to move too much, alright? You're okay. You're safe."

"Frank," you croaked, the word catching in your throat, sounding small and entirely broken.

"I'm here. I'm right here," he murmured, his touch lingering against your skin as if he needed the physical contact to completely convince himself that you were truly alive. He reached for a small plastic cup on the bedside table, dipping a pink foam swab into some ice water before gently pressing it against your cracked lips. "Just a little bit, sweetheart. Your throat's going to be sore from the ventilator, just let it sit there."

The cool moisture was an absolute blessing, and you closed your eyes for a moment, letting the relief wash over you. When you opened them again, you looked down at the heavy, white dressings taping the chest tube firmly to your ribs. The memory of the gunshot, the sudden, violent impact, and the terrifying sight of Frank kneeling over you in a pool of your own blood came rushing back with a vividness that caused your heart rate to spike on the monitor.

Frank noticed the rhythmic acceleration of the beeping instantly. "Hey, look at me, honey," he commanded softly, squeezing your hand a little tighter. "The guy's gone. Security took him down, police have him. The hospital is secure. You are out of danger, I promise you."

"You... you look terrible," you managed to whisper, a faint, weak attempt at a smile touching the corners of your lips.

A ragged, wet laugh spilled from his chest, his shoulders dropping as he leaned his forehead gently against your shoulder, his breathing heavy and uneven. "I have never been so terrified in my entire life," he confessed into the fabric of your hospital gown, his voice trembling in a way that made your throat tighten. "I’ve seen a lot of things in that department. A lot of blood, a lot of close calls. But when you went down... when I saw what that bastard did... I froze. My brain just stopped working because the only thing that mattered was that it was you."

You squeezed his hand back with what little strength you had, your heart swelling at the raw vulnerability in his tone. "You didn't freeze," you murmured softly. "You caught me. You held me."

"Because I couldn't let you go," he said, pulling back to look down at you, a single tear finally escaping and tracking down the rugged line of his jaw. "Robby, Jack, Samira... they all practically had to drag me out of the operating theatre doors. Dana sat with me in the hallway for four hours while you were under. She kept telling me to go home, to wash the blood off my clothes, but I couldn't leave this building knowing you were in there. Collins kept checking the surgical log every fifteen minutes just to give me updates. Everyone's been by, sweetheart. They’re all terrified for you, but they're all waiting to see you."

"Tell them thank you," you whispered, the exhaustion beginning to pull at your consciousness again, your eyelids growing heavier by the second as the hospital pain medication kept you drifting.

"I will. I'll tell them all," Frank murmured. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "You just rest now. I'm not going anywhere. I’ll be right here when you wake up again, and I’ll be here when we finally get to go home. I love you so much."

As the darkness drifted back in to claim you, softer this time, devoid of the terror and the pain of the ER, you let yourself sink into the mattress, completely enveloped by the steady, protective warmth of his presence and the quiet, reassuring beat of his heart right beside you.

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The first gift Daemon Targaryen ever gave his daughter was not a doll.

It was a Valyrian steel dagger.

“You cannot give that to an infant,” Rhaenyra said, staring down at the silver-haired babe sleeping peacefully in her father’s arms.

Daemon looked at the weapon, then at his daughter.

“She will grow into it.”

“She cannot even hold up her own head.”

“All the more reason to begin preparing her.”

The dagger was confiscated.

The second gift was a tiny silver crown, custom-made to fit a head that had barely grown enough hair to hold it in place.

The third was an entire chest filled with gowns sewn from silk imported across the Narrow Sea.

The fourth was a pale mare from the Reach, purchased before you had even learned to walk.

By the time you were five, you owned more jewelry than most noblewomen acquired in a lifetime.

By the time you were seven, Daemon had commissioned a private library because you once mentioned that the Red Keep’s collection did not contain enough stories about the stars.

By the time you were ten, he had purchased an entire ship after you said you liked the carved seahorse on its prow.

“You are going to ruin her,” Rhaenyra warned him.

Daemon watched as you stood on the docks, delightedly waving to the sailors now assigned to your entirely unnecessary vessel.

“She is a princess.”

“She does not need a ship.”

“She liked it.”

“She liked the carving.”

“And now she has both.”

Rhaenyra sighed.

Daemon smiled.

There were few things in this world that Daemon Targaryen loved gently.

You had always been one of them.

You were his first daughter, born small and quiet, with a soft heart that seemed entirely at odds with the fire in your blood. Where Daemon met the world with sharpened steel and bared teeth, you greeted it with patient smiles and open hands.

You apologized when servants bumped into you.

You carried spiders outside rather than allowing guards to crush them.

You cried when a kitchen boy burned his hand and remained beside him until the maester arrived.

Daemon did not understand where such sweetness had come from.

He protected it viciously.

The only thing he had never been able to give you was a dragon.

An egg had been placed in your cradle, as tradition demanded.

It had never hatched.

A second was brought from Dragonstone when you were three.

It remained cold.

When you were old enough, Daemon walked with you through the caverns beneath the Dragonmont, searching for some sign that one of the unclaimed dragons might accept you.

None did.

You had said nothing as the keepers led you away.

You had held your head high through supper and smiled when your younger sisters spoke excitedly of flying.

Only after the castle had gone quiet did Daemon find you curled beside the stone hearth in your chambers, your face hidden against your knees.

He lowered himself beside you without speaking.

For a while, you both watched the flames.

“I am sorry,” you whispered eventually.

Daemon’s expression darkened.

“For what?”

“For disappointing you.”

The words were barely audible.

They wounded him more deeply than any blade ever had.

Daemon turned toward you.

“You have never disappointed me.”

“I am a Targaryen who cannot claim a dragon.”

“You are my daughter.”

You glanced at him through tear-damp lashes.

“That should make it worse.”

“It makes it irrelevant.”

“But everyone else—”

“Everyone else is not you.”

Your lower lip trembled.

Daemon reached out, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“The dragons are old, stubborn creatures,” he said. “They are proud and temperamental, and most of them possess less sense than a drunken sellsword.”

Despite yourself, you gave a watery laugh.

“They have overlooked the greatest treasure in Westeros.”

“You do not mean that.”

“I have never meant anything more.”

He rose and extended his hand.

“Come.”

“Where are we going?”

“To show you that you are not without a dragon.”

It was well past midnight when Daemon led you onto the darkened fields beyond Dragonstone.

The wind coming off the sea pulled strands of silver hair across your face. You clutched your cloak around your shoulders and followed your father toward the enormous shape resting beneath the cliffs.

Caraxes raised his long head before you had taken more than a dozen steps.

The Blood Wyrm’s rumble moved through the earth beneath your slippers.

You stopped.

Daemon did not.

Caraxes had always known you.

When you were a babe, Daemon had carried you close enough for the dragon to breathe your scent. The dragonkeepers had protested until Caraxes lowered his head and gently pressed the warm end of his snout against your tiny blanket.

Your first word had not been father.

To Daemon’s everlasting offense, it had been something resembling Caraxes.

You had spent your childhood slipping the dragon pieces of roasted meat from your plate, brushing soot from his scales, and falling asleep beside his warm flank while Daemon trained nearby.

Caraxes had never been yours.

Yet he had always behaved as though you belonged to him.

That night, he moved toward you, his long neck curving until his enormous head rested in the grass at your feet.

You placed a trembling hand against his scales.

Caraxes released a low, crooning sound.

“He knows,” Daemon said.

“Knows what?”

“That you are upset.”

Your eyes filled again.

“I wish he had chosen me.”

Daemon stepped behind you, resting his hands on your shoulders.

“He did.”

You looked back at him.

“Not in the way dragons choose riders,” he continued. “But he has known you since the day you were born. He would burn armies for you.”

Caraxes huffed warm air across your skirts.

Daemon’s mouth curved.

“And apparently he would also like you to scratch beneath his jaw.”

You laughed and obeyed.

The Blood Wyrm’s eyes drifted half-closed with pleasure.

“Do you wish to fly?” Daemon asked.

You hesitated.

“Now?”

“The sky does not close at night.”

You looked from him to Caraxes.

“But I am not his rider.”

“No,” Daemon agreed. “You are mine.”

He lifted you into the saddle before climbing behind you.

Daemon wrapped one arm securely around your waist as Caraxes rose.

The first rush of wind stole the breath from your lungs.

Then Dragonstone disappeared beneath you.

The sea became a sheet of black glass, the moon scattering silver across its surface. The clouds opened around you, cool mist brushing your cheeks. Your father’s arm remained firm around your middle, his chest warm against your back.

Caraxes climbed higher.

You laughed.

The sound carried into the night.

Daemon lowered his head beside yours.

“Still believe you have no dragon?”

You rested your hands against the leather of the saddle and looked down at the world spread beneath you.

“No.”

After that, you flew with Daemon whenever he would allow it.

Which was often.

He took you across Blackwater Bay at sunrise, over the forests of the crownlands in autumn, and above the towers of King’s Landing when the streets below glittered with festival lanterns.

You sat before him as a child and behind him when you grew older, your arms wrapped securely around his waist.

Caraxes always seemed to know when you were coming.

He would lift his head before you appeared and release a pleased cry that echoed through the Dragonpit.

The dragonkeepers whispered that the Blood Wyrm was calmer when you were near.

He allowed you to touch his face, clean the smaller scales around his horns, and sleep against him during long summer afternoons.

Once, after a lord’s son mocked you for failing to claim a dragon, Caraxes snapped at the boy so fiercely that he fainted.

Daemon gave the dragon an entire sheep as a reward.

“You encouraged him,” Rhaenyra accused.

“I did nothing.”

“You told Caraxes, and I quote, ‘Well done.’”

“He showed restraint.”

“The boy wet himself.”

“I said restraint, not mercy.”

The court continued to pity the princess without a dragon.

You never understood why.

You had Caraxes.

You had your father.

And between them, no one in the Seven Kingdoms could have made you feel unprotected.

Then came Gwayne Hightower.

The betrothal was announced during a council meeting.

Daemon nearly overturned the table.

“A Hightower?”

King Viserys closed his eyes.

“It is a politically advantageous match.”

“It is an insult.”

“It will strengthen ties between our houses.”

“It will strengthen my desire to commit murder.”

“Daemon.”

“My daughter will not be handed to some green-cloaked peacock because Otto Hightower wishes to tighten his grip on the throne.”

Across the room, Otto’s expression hardened.

“This is not about my ambitions.”

“Everything you do is about your ambitions.”

“Father,” you said softly.

Daemon turned.

You sat near Rhaenyra, your hands folded neatly in your lap.

Unlike your father, you had not reacted with anger.

You looked nervous, certainly, but not afraid.

Daemon’s face softened by a degree.

“You do not have to marry him,” he said.

Viserys sighed.

“She has not even met him properly.”

“Then she is already better off.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warned.

“What?”

“You are behaving like a child.”

“I am behaving like a father.”

“A deeply irrational father.”

“My daughter deserves better than a Hightower.”

Otto lifted his chin.

“My son is an anointed knight from an ancient and respected house.”

“He wears green.”

“Green is our house color.”

“Exactly.”

You pressed your lips together.

Daemon’s gaze snapped toward you.

“Are you laughing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

Your shoulders shook.

The sight did nothing to improve his mood.

The first time Gwayne arrived at the Red Keep after the announcement, Daemon made him wait outside the council chamber for nearly an hour.

Entirely on purpose.

“He has been standing there since the bells,” you reminded him.

Daemon continued sharpening Dark Sister.

“Has he?”

“You know he has.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Father.”

“He should develop patience. Marriage requires a great deal of it.”

“Being married to me?”

“Being married beneath my supervision.”

When Gwayne was finally allowed inside, he entered with the composed expression of a man determined not to acknowledge that he had been deliberately insulted.

He was dressed in the deep green of his house, his auburn hair swept back from his face. He bowed first to you, then to Daemon.

“My princess.”

“Ser Gwayne.”

His eyes met yours.

For a brief moment, you forgot your father was glaring at him from three paces away.

Gwayne smiled.

It was not the polished smile of a courtier.

It was warm and slightly nervous.

You smiled back.

Daemon’s chair scraped sharply against the floor.

“So,” he said.

Gwayne looked at him.

“So?”

“You wish to marry my daughter.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

Gwayne glanced at you again.

Daemon noticed.

His scowl deepened.

“I have admired the princess for some time.”

“Admired what?”

“Her kindness.”

Daemon blinked.

It was not the answer he had expected.

Gwayne continued carefully.

“I have seen her visit the lower courtyards with food during winter. I watched her sit with an injured stable hand until a maester came. I have heard servants speak of her with genuine affection rather than obligation.”

You stared at him.

You had not known he had noticed any of those things.

“And you believe that qualifies you to marry her?” Daemon asked.

“No.”

“Good.”

“I believe loving her might.”

The room fell silent.

Daemon leaned back.

“You have met her twice.”

“Four times.”

“You were counting?”

“Yes.”

“That is unsettling.”

“I thought it was romantic,” you murmured.

“It was,” Rhaenyra said from the doorway.

Daemon glared at both of you.

“No one asked.”

The unfortunate truth was that Gwayne Hightower was very difficult to dislike.

Daemon tried.

He tried with admirable dedication.

He arranged early morning training sessions and struck Gwayne hard enough to leave bruises beneath his armor.

Gwayne returned the next morning.

Daemon spent an entire evening describing, in vivid detail, every terrible thing he would do if Gwayne caused you pain.

Gwayne listened patiently.

When Daemon finished, he asked whether the list had been arranged by likelihood or severity.

You laughed so suddenly that wine nearly came from your nose.

Daemon did not find it amusing.

Gwayne remembered the names of servants.

He thanked cooks.

He listened to Viserys discuss old Valyria for nearly two hours without once appearing bored.

He brought flowers for Rhaenyra and a book of Dornish poetry for Helaena.

He treated you with a gentle attention that never felt rehearsed.

When you spoke, he listened.

When you became quiet in crowded rooms, he did not demand that you entertain him. He simply stood beside you until you felt comfortable again.

He learned that you liked candied lemons but disliked lemon cakes.

He learned that you preferred silver jewelry to gold.

He discovered that you read when you could not sleep and began bringing you books from Oldtown.

Once, after hearing you mention that a ribbon on a market stall was pretty, he returned to purchase it.

“You did not need to do that,” you said as he tied the pale blue silk around your wrist.

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because you liked it.”

The answer sounded so much like something Daemon would say that you stared at him.

Gwayne’s brows rose.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

From the other side of the courtyard, Daemon watched with narrowed eyes.

Rhaenyra followed his gaze.

“You like him.”

“No.”

“You do.”

“I tolerate his continued existence.”

“He reminds you of yourself.”

Daemon looked offended.

“He does not.”

“He buys her unnecessary gifts because she looks pleased.”

“That proves nothing.”

“He threatened a lord last week for speaking poorly of her.”

“The lord deserved it.”

“And now he is standing beneath the sun holding a parasol because she mentioned being warm.”

Daemon turned back toward you.

Gwayne held the parasol in one hand and your basket of flowers in the other while you knelt beside a patch of lavender.

He looked perfectly content.

Daemon frowned.

“He is holding it incorrectly.”

“Of course.”

Your favorite visits were to the Dragonpit.

Gwayne was less enthusiastic.

It was not that he was a coward.

He simply possessed a sensible awareness that Caraxes was a fire-breathing creature large enough to swallow him whole.

Daemon took great pleasure in this.

The first time Gwayne accompanied you, Caraxes raised his head and fixed one enormous golden eye on the knight.

Gwayne stopped walking.

Daemon smiled.

“Something wrong?”

“Not at all.”

“You have gone pale.”

“It is warm.”

“It is never warm in here.”

You slipped your hand into Gwayne’s.

“He will not hurt you.”

Caraxes released a rumbling growl.

Gwayne watched a thin curl of smoke rise from his nostrils.

“That does not sound particularly reassuring.”

“He is only curious.”

“He appears hungry.”

“He has already eaten,” Daemon said.

Gwayne glanced at him.

Daemon smiled wider.

“Mostly.”

“Father,” you chided.

Caraxes lowered his head toward you.

You released Gwayne’s hand and approached without hesitation, pressing both palms against the dragon’s warm snout.

The Blood Wyrm crooned.

The terrible sound softened into something almost affectionate.

Gwayne’s fear momentarily gave way to wonder.

You stood before one of the largest and most dangerous creatures in Westeros, your silver hair catching the glow of the torches, your forehead resting gently against crimson scales.

Caraxes was careful with you.

Almost impossibly so.

“He loves her,” Gwayne said quietly.

Daemon’s smugness faded.

“Yes.”

“Did he ever try to bond with her?”

“No. His bond is mine.”

Gwayne nodded.

“But she is part of you.”

Daemon looked at him.

Caraxes shifted, curling his long neck around you protectively.

“So he considers her his,” Gwayne finished.

Daemon studied the knight for a moment.

“You understand dragons better than I expected.”

“My sister was fond of telling me that creatures often understand love more easily than men do.”

“Your sister is irritatingly correct.”

You turned.

“Gwayne, come closer.”

He hesitated.

Caraxes stared.

You held out your hand.

Gwayne had faced tourneys, battlefields, and your father’s interrogation.

Approaching Caraxes was somehow worse.

Still, he moved toward you.

Slowly.

Caraxes growled when he came within several feet.

Gwayne stopped.

You reached back and took his hand.

“He is protective.”

“So I have gathered.”

“He needs to know I trust you.”

“And how do we convince him of that?”

You guided Gwayne’s hand toward Caraxes’s snout.

“Try not to smell frightened,” Daemon advised.

Gwayne shot him a look.

“That is tremendously helpful.”

Your laughter seemed to settle the dragon.

Caraxes’s growl faded.

Gwayne’s palm finally touched one crimson scale.

The Blood Wyrm huffed warm air over him.

Gwayne’s cloak flew backward.

He remained standing.

After a moment, Caraxes pulled away without attempting to bite off any part of him.

You beamed.

“He likes you.”

“He tolerated me.”

“From Caraxes, that is practically a declaration of love.”

Daemon crossed his arms.

“He has poor judgment.”

Caraxes turned his head and knocked Daemon sideways with his snout.

Gwayne coughed into his fist to disguise his laughter.

You did not bother disguising yours.

A few weeks later, Gwayne watched you fly for the first time.

Daemon had invited him to observe.

Invite was perhaps the wrong word.

Daemon had informed him that if Gwayne intended to marry a Targaryen princess, he should witness what he was attempting to take away from Dragonstone.

The implication was clear.

You mounted Caraxes behind your father, wrapping your arms around Daemon’s waist.

Your gown had been replaced by riding leathers embroidered with silver thread. Your hair was braided away from your face, and excitement made your eyes shine.

Daemon looked over his shoulder.

“Ready?”

“Always.”

Caraxes launched himself from the cliff.

Gwayne’s heart stopped.

The dragon dropped toward the sea before his wings opened.

Your laughter reached the cliffs.

Gwayne stood frozen, watching Caraxes climb into the sky.

You looked small against him.

Small, but not afraid.

Daemon guided the dragon through the clouds, then turned back toward Dragonstone.

As Caraxes swept low above the cliffs, you stretched one arm into the wind.

You looked radiant.

Not like a princess who had been denied a dragon.

Like a woman who had never needed to own the sky to belong in it.

When Caraxes landed, Gwayne approached as you climbed down.

Daemon placed both hands around your waist and lowered you safely to the earth, though you were perfectly capable of dismounting alone.

Your cheeks were flushed from the wind.

“Well?” you asked Gwayne.

He stared at you.

“Well what?”

“What did you think?”

“I think I understand why poets struggle.”

You blinked.

Daemon groaned.

Gwayne stepped closer.

“There cannot possibly be words for how beautiful you looked.”

Your cheeks turned warmer.

Daemon moved between you.

“There are many words. None need to be spoken.”

“Father.”

“What?”

“You invited him.”

“I invited him to watch. Not to become unbearable.”

The days passed more quickly after that.

Your betrothal no longer felt like something arranged by kings and councils.

It felt like walks through the gardens.

It felt like Gwayne carrying books to your chambers because he had noticed you were tired.

It felt like quiet conversations beside the sea and his cloak around your shoulders when the wind turned cold.

It felt like his fingers brushing yours beneath the supper table.

It felt like laughter.

It felt, increasingly, like love.

One afternoon, Gwayne found you alone on a balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay.

Caraxes and Daemon were distant shapes in the sky.

You watched them until they disappeared behind the clouds.

“Do you ever wish he were yours?” Gwayne asked.

You knew immediately whom he meant.

“Caraxes?”

“Yes.”

You considered the question.

“When I was younger.”

“And now?”

You smiled.

“No.”

Gwayne leaned beside you.

“Why not?”

“Because loving something does not always mean possessing it.”

His gaze settled on your face.

You continued watching the sky.

“Caraxes belongs to my father. Their bond is something ancient and rare. I would never want to change it.”

“But you love him.”

“Very much.”

“And he loves you.”

“In his own terribly loud way.”

Gwayne smiled.

You turned toward him.

“Does it concern you?”

“What?”

“That I have no dragon.”

“No.”

“Your family may prefer—”

“My family is not marrying you.”

His answer came without hesitation.

Gwayne reached for your hand.

“You are kind when you have every reason to be proud. You are gentle in a family that has taught the world to fear its fire. You make servants smile when you enter a room, and children follow you through the halls because they know you will stop for them.”

Your eyes stung.

“You sit beside dragons without needing to command them,” he said. “You do not need one to prove who you are.”

You lowered your gaze.

Gwayne lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles.

“I would choose you if you had ten dragons.”

He kissed your hand again.

“I would choose you if you had none.”

Naturally, this was the precise moment Daemon landed in the courtyard below.

He looked up.

Saw Gwayne kissing your hand.

And shouted something in High Valyrian that made Caraxes roar.

The wedding was held on Dragonstone.

Daemon had initially insisted it take place nowhere else.

“If the Hightowers wish to attend, they know where to find us.”

Otto objected.

Daemon was delighted.

The ceremony was beautiful, though not small.

Nothing involving Daemon’s daughter could ever be small.

Silver banners moved in the sea wind. Thousands of white flowers covered the stone walkways. Musicians played from the balconies, and enough food had been prepared to feed half of King’s Landing.

“You said it would be intimate,” Rhaenyra remarked.

Daemon surveyed the crowded hall.

“It is.”

“There are six hundred guests.”

“I excluded several houses.”

You wore silver silk embroidered with pearls.

Your hair was arranged in Valyrian braids, the small crown Daemon had given you as a child resting upon your head after being remade to fit you.

Around your throat hung a ruby pendant in the shape of a dragon.

A gift from your father.

When Daemon came to escort you, he stopped in the doorway.

You smiled nervously.

“Is something wrong?”

He said nothing.

His eyes moved over your gown, your crown, your face.

For once, Daemon Targaryen appeared entirely without words.

“Father?”

“You look like your mother,” he said quietly.

Your expression softened.

Daemon approached and adjusted a strand of hair that did not need adjusting.

“I can still end this.”

You laughed.

“No.”

“I could.”

“I know.”

“One word, and Gwayne Hightower will never cross your path again.”

“Because you will send him away?”

Daemon looked toward the window.

“Something like that.”

You took his hand.

“I love him.”

His jaw tightened.

It was not anger.

Not truly.

Daemon had spent your whole life ensuring that you never had to reach for anything he could not give you.

Now you had found something beyond his keeping.

A life that would carry you away from him.

“I know,” he said.

“And he loves me.”

“I know that, too.”

“You admit it?”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

You kissed his cheek.

Daemon closed his eyes.

For a moment, he held you as he had when you were little—one hand at the back of your head, the other wrapped tightly around you.

“You will always have a home here,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“If he displeases you, come back.”

“Father.”

“If his family displeases you, come back.”

“I will.”

“If Oldtown is too cold—”

“It is warmer than Dragonstone.”

“Then if it is too warm.”

You laughed against him.

Daemon sighed.

“Visit often.”

“I promise.”

When you entered the hall on your father’s arm, Gwayne forgot to breathe.

Daemon noticed.

“Hm.”

Rhaenyra stood nearby.

“What?”

“He looks frightened.”

“He looks in love.”

“Similar conditions.”

Gwayne’s eyes remained fixed on you as you approached.

He looked at you as though the hall had emptied.

As though the music had faded.

As though you were the only thing left in the world.

Daemon placed your hand in his.

He did not release it immediately.

Gwayne waited.

Daemon tightened his grip.

“Father,” you whispered.

“I am considering my options.”

Gwayne, to his credit, did not attempt to pull you away.

Finally, Daemon released your hand.

“If she cries,” he said under his breath, “Caraxes will find you.”

Gwayne nodded solemnly.

“I assumed as much.”

“If she is unhappy—”

“Father.”

“—Caraxes will find you.”

“You already said that.”

“It bears repeating.”

The vows were spoken.

The cloak was placed around your shoulders.

When Gwayne kissed you, the hall erupted in applause.

Daemon did not clap.

He was too busy staring at Gwayne with the expression of a man reconsidering the political consequences of murder.

At the feast, Gwayne barely left your side.

He brought you wine, though you had not asked.

He moved your chair away from the draft.

He remembered to place candied lemons on your plate.

Daemon watched all of it.

Rhaenyra leaned toward him.

“You approve.”

“I do not.”

“You cried during the vows.”

“There was smoke from the torches.”

“You were standing outside.”

“It traveled.”

“Of course.”

Late that evening, Gwayne found Daemon alone on the cliffs.

The sea spread dark beneath them.

Caraxes rested nearby, one golden eye half-open.

Gwayne approached cautiously.

“I wanted to thank you.”

Daemon did not turn.

“For threatening you?”

“For trusting me with her.”

“I do not trust you.”

“You allowed the marriage.”

“Viserys allowed the marriage.”

“You could have stopped it.”

Daemon glanced at him.

They both knew this was true.

Gwayne looked toward the open doors of the hall.

Inside, you were laughing with your sisters.

“I know you believe no one is worthy of her.”

“No one is.”

“I agree.”

That earned Gwayne his full attention.

“I cannot promise that she will never be sad,” Gwayne continued. “Or that our life will always be easy. But I can promise that she will never question whether she is loved.”

Daemon remained silent.

“I will listen when she speaks,” Gwayne said. “I will protect her without attempting to cage her. I will bring her home whenever she asks.”

“Home?”

“Here.”

Daemon’s expression shifted.

“And when she wishes to fly,” Gwayne added, looking toward Caraxes, “I will never ask her to remain on the ground for my comfort.”

The Blood Wyrm lifted his head.

Gwayne swallowed.

Daemon stepped closer.

“My daughter has spent much of her life believing there was something missing from her because no dragon chose her.”

“There is nothing missing from her.”

Daemon studied his face.

“No?”

Gwayne looked through the open doors.

You had noticed them now.

Your eyes found his across the distance.

You smiled.

Gwayne smiled back.

“She has always been the sun,” he said. “Dragons have simply been circling her.”

Daemon followed his gaze.

His daughter.

His little girl.

Still smiling.

Still safe.

Still loved.

“Take care of her,” Daemon said.

“With my life.”

“If she misses Dragonstone—”

“I will bring her.”

“If she wishes to stay for months—”

“I will wait.”

“If she asks for a dragon—”

“I will remind her that she already has one.”

Caraxes released a low rumble.

Gwayne glanced toward him.

“Two, perhaps.”

Daemon almost smiled.

Almost.

“Welcome to the family.”

Gwayne’s expression softened.

“Thank you.”

“I was speaking to Caraxes.”

The dragon huffed.

Gwayne laughed.

Daemon did not, but some of the sharpness left his face.

Behind them, your voice carried across the terrace.

“Gwayne!”

He turned immediately.

You stood beneath the torchlight, one hand holding your skirts.

“Come dance with me.”

Gwayne bowed to Daemon.

“Prince Daemon.”

“Hightower.”

Gwayne returned to you.

You took his hand and pulled him into the hall.

Daemon watched as Gwayne rested one hand at your waist.

You whispered something that made your husband laugh.

Caraxes lowered his head beside Daemon.

“She is happy,” Daemon murmured.

The Blood Wyrm crooned.

“Yes,” Daemon said. “I know.”

the end.

-----------------

Bonus Scene: An Unexpected Visitor

Your new home was a Hightower estate several hours beyond King’s Landing.

It was not Oldtown—not yet.

Gwayne had suggested spending your first year somewhere closer to Dragonstone so that the change would not feel quite so severe.

He pretended the decision had been practical.

You knew better.

The estate was beautiful.

The stone walls were covered in climbing roses. The gardens stretched toward a clear lake, and your chambers had been arranged with every comfort Gwayne knew you preferred.

He had filled one room with books.

He had ordered blue silk curtains because they reminded him of the ribbon he once tied around your wrist.

He had even instructed the kitchens to keep candied lemons prepared.

You loved your new home.

Still, there were mornings when you woke expecting to hear Caraxes outside.

On those mornings, Gwayne held you a little closer.

“You miss them,” he said one evening.

You sat together beneath a tree overlooking the lake, your head resting against his shoulder.

“A little.”

“Your father or the dragon?”

“Yes.”

Gwayne laughed.

“You know we can return whenever you wish.”

“We visited last week.”

“Then we will visit again.”

“My father will think you cannot survive without his supervision.”

“Your father already thinks that.”

You smiled.

Gwayne kissed the top of your head.

A deep roar shook the sky.

Every bird in the trees scattered at once.

You sat upright.

Gwayne went still.

Another roar followed.

It was long, sharp, and painfully familiar.

Your face brightened.

“No.”

Gwayne stared toward the horizon.

A red shape moved through the clouds.

“No,” he repeated.

You were already on your feet.

“Caraxes!”

The Blood Wyrm descended over the estate.

Servants screamed.

Guards scattered.

Horses broke free from their handlers and fled toward the fields.

Caraxes swept over the towers so low that several roof tiles tore loose beneath the force of his wings.

Gwayne stood frozen beside the tree.

“This cannot be happening.”

You ran toward the courtyard.

Caraxes landed in the center of the gardens, crushing a fountain and half of a carefully maintained hedge beneath his claws.

He lifted his head and released a triumphant cry.

You laughed.

“Caraxes!”

The dragon lowered himself the moment he saw you.

You reached him and threw your arms as far around his snout as you could manage.

Caraxes crooned so loudly that the windows trembled.

“You came to see me,” you whispered, scratching beneath his jaw.

His golden eyes drifted closed.

Gwayne approached with extreme caution.

Behind him, guards stood with weapons raised.

“Lower those,” he ordered.

One of the men stared at him.

“My lord, the dragon—”

“Belongs to my wife’s father.”

Caraxes opened one eye.

Gwayne corrected himself.

“And apparently also to my wife.”

The guards lowered their weapons.

Gwayne stopped beside you.

“Did your father send him?”

“I do not think so.”

“You think he escaped?”

Caraxes huffed.

The gust nearly knocked Gwayne backward.

You looked up at the dragon.

“Did you leave the Dragonpit without permission?”

Caraxes gave a rumbling sound.

Gwayne stared.

“Is he answering you?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did he say?”

“That he has no regrets.”

“You cannot possibly know that.”

Caraxes turned and demolished the remainder of the fountain with his tail.

Gwayne looked at the shattered marble.

“Never mind.”

A rider arrived less than an hour later.

He galloped into the courtyard on an exhausted horse, nearly falling from the saddle.

“My princess!”

You turned from where you sat against Caraxes’s foreleg.

The dragon had made himself comfortable in the destroyed gardens.

The messenger stumbled toward you.

“Prince Daemon sends word that Caraxes has escaped the Dragonpit.”

Gwayne looked at the enormous dragon occupying his courtyard.

“Yes,” he said. “We had gathered that.”

“The prince is on his way.”

Your eyes widened.

“My father is coming here?”

The messenger nodded breathlessly.

“He said—”

The pounding of another horse interrupted him.

Daemon entered the gates at speed.

He dismounted before the animal had fully stopped and strode into the courtyard.

His gaze moved from you, to Gwayne, to Caraxes, to the ruined fountain.

Daemon placed his hands on his hips.

“Caraxes.”

The dragon did not move.

“You disobedient beast.”

Caraxes closed his eyes.

“Do not pretend to be asleep.”

You covered your smile with your hand.

Daemon pointed toward the sky.

“Dragonstone. Now.”

Caraxes remained exactly where he was.

Gwayne looked between them.

“Does this happen often?”

“No,” Daemon snapped.

You raised a brow.

“Father.”

“Not often enough to be considered a pattern.”

“Caraxes escaped twice when I visited Driftmark.”

“An oversight.”

“And once when I stayed in King’s Landing.”

“Poorly secured chains.”

Gwayne stared at the dragon.

“He crossed half the crownlands because he missed her?”

Daemon looked offended.

“Obviously.”

Caraxes opened one eye and nudged you with his snout.

You laughed, placing both hands against his face.

“I missed you, too.”

The dragon purred.

Daemon sighed.

“You have spoiled him.”

“You gave him a sheep whenever he frightened someone who insulted me.”

“They deserved it.”

Gwayne rubbed a hand over his face.

“How do we convince him to leave?”

Daemon studied Caraxes.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“For her to tell him.”

You looked at the dragon.

Caraxes looked at you.

“I cannot ask him to leave immediately. He has only just arrived.”

Gwayne glanced at the ruined garden.

“Of course.”

“He can remain for supper.”

Gwayne stared at you.

“Your guest has destroyed our fountain.”

“He was excited.”

“He also crushed the roses.”

“They will grow back.”

Caraxes released a pleased trill.

Gwayne looked toward Daemon.

Daemon shrugged.

“She wants him to stay.”

“You are her father.”

“Yes.”

“Tell her this is unreasonable.”

Daemon’s expression became confused.

“Why would I do that?”

Gwayne closed his eyes.

By sunset, Caraxes had eaten three cows and fallen asleep across the western lawn.

Daemon remained for supper.

He criticized the wine, the chairs, the distance between your chambers and the nearest guard post, and the fact that Gwayne had not yet installed a dragon landing platform.

“We did not anticipate regular dragon visitors,” Gwayne said.

“You married my daughter.”

“I married a woman without a dragon.”

Daemon took a drink of wine.

“And yet.”

Outside, Caraxes rolled onto his side and flattened another row of hedges.

Gwayne watched through the window.

“I will have a platform constructed.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you.”

Gwayne’s irritation disappeared immediately.

Daemon noticed.

“Hm.”

After supper, you walked outside with Caraxes.

The dragon lowered himself so you could rest your forehead against his snout.

“I am happy here,” you assured him.

Caraxes rumbled.

“Gwayne takes good care of me.”

The dragon glanced toward your husband.

Gwayne stood several paces away, his hands clasped behind his back.

Caraxes exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

“I believe he is still deciding,” you said.

“I had hoped the wedding indicated his approval.”

“Caraxes is thorough.”

Daemon approached with your traveling cloak.

“Come.”

You turned.

“Where?”

“Caraxes will not leave without you.”

Gwayne’s brows rose.

Daemon draped the cloak around your shoulders.

“We will fly to Dragonstone. Hightower can follow tomorrow.”

Gwayne stepped forward.

“My wife is not leaving in the middle of the night.”

Daemon stared at him.

Gwayne stared back.

You looked between them.

Caraxes growled softly.

“No one is fighting,” you said.

Neither man moved.

You sighed.

“Gwayne may come with us.”

His face went pale.

Daemon smiled.

“Excellent idea.”

The three of you mounted Caraxes.

You sat before Daemon.

Gwayne sat behind him, holding the saddle with such force that his knuckles turned white.

“You may wish to hold on,” Daemon advised.

“I am holding on.”

“To something secure.”

“I am.”

Daemon looked down at Gwayne’s grip.

“That strap is decorative.”

Gwayne immediately wrapped both arms around Daemon’s waist.

You burst into laughter.

Daemon looked deeply offended.

“Remove your hands.”

“You told me to hold something secure.”

“Not me.”

Caraxes launched into the air.

Gwayne shouted.

You laughed harder.

The Blood Wyrm climbed toward the stars, carrying his rider, his beloved princess, and one deeply unfortunate Hightower across the darkened sky.

You looked back at Gwayne.

His eyes were tightly closed.

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

“Is it not beautiful?”

“I have not looked.”

Daemon turned Caraxes sharply.

Gwayne’s arms tightened around him.

“If you strangle me,” Daemon shouted over the wind, “she will be widowed before reaching Dragonstone.”

“Fly straighter!”

“Caraxes dislikes straight lines.”

Caraxes roared in agreement.

You laughed until tears filled your eyes.

Below you, the world stretched silver beneath the moon.

Ahead, Dragonstone rose from the sea.

Your father’s arm was secure around you.

Your husband was clinging desperately behind him.

Caraxes flew happily beneath you.

Perhaps the court had been right.

You had never claimed a dragon of your own.

But as Caraxes carried you home through the clouds, you knew you had never truly needed to.

He had claimed you long ago.

Grief reverberated through stone walls, war-torn and weary, unable to endure another loss. She stood rigid before the widowpane, the world pressing in around her. Vast, indifferent, unyielding as the soil claimed another soul. But it was her soul buried with her love. Drowned with her love. Her lungs filled with water; each breath was a struggle. The endless landscape beckoned her. Whispering for her to join him. The weeds ready to entwine her body in a cruel embrace.

She would not fall. No, she would soar. A dragon does not bow to the soil. Their home was the endless sky above. A dragon takes flight. And within her, a dragon stirred, growing in her belly. She would soar.

"Princess, we beg you to sit."

The maids clung to her with a merciless grip. Worry seeped through every crack in the castle. She mindlessly moved towards the window. The air drew her in, pressing against every stone, as though it too longed to welcome her. Soon, she would join her beloved. The maids desperately urged her, placing their trembling hands upon the princess. So seldom would they be so brash. Their nails bit into the soft flesh of her arms, pulling her from the precipice.

No. Forsake the Gods, for they could not intervene now. The heavens had opened, and she would face their wrath for her choices. How could she bear the news? Surely he would not forsake her for joining him. Certainly with joy, he would welcome his babe and wife. There would be no pain then when faced with her husband.

She pressed forward, her hands grazing the clouds. The door burst open, torn from its hinges. The guards seized her, forcing her onto the bed.

The endless world pressed heavily on her breast. A scream tore from her throat. Glass-shattering, flesh-ripping, until her voice broke into sobs. She choked on her sobs. Drowning in her own tears. Spluttering as her body betrayed her mind. Against her will, it fought for air. It fought for life. And that, more than anything, was her dismay.

Noise dissolved into darkness, taking her vision with it. Her body convulsed beneath the weight of woe. For some time, the world moved around her. Yet, she remained frozen, trapped in sorrow's grip.

Her ears rang, struggling to separate the chaos of sound until one word pierced through. "Breath."

The command shot through every vein, igniting a fire. How long had she been lost in the pit of her despair? When had Rhaenyra come to her side? Her lungs burned with the fresh air. Her chest was rising and falling in an erratic rhythm. Rhaenyra bent close, face stained with anguish, fresh tears still carving their mark upon her cheek. Again and again, Rhaenyra whispered the mantra, willing her to breathe.

The two gasped for air. Their chest rising in a broken rhythm, the cold stone beneath her was jarring. Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, refused to look away from Rhaenyra’s. Around them, the maids and guards stood helpless, a silent witness to the sorrow neither could mend. Rhaenyra was first to break from the haze, pulling the princess's head to her chest in a fierce maternal hug. She inhaled Rhaenyra's scent, so achingly similar to her son's

She bellowed. If the soil was not to claim her, they would have to face her in her suffering. They would face the hollow depths of her heart, empty as her soul, ripped from her love. Her love. Her only love. Gone as the war claimed another victim. Death knew no bounds to its cruelty. Her sweet husband did not deserve to be struck from the sky. Did not deserve to be torn from his dragon. His body was condemned to drift endlessly, denied the peace of rest.

"My love," she called out, struck with grief at the notion her call would never be answered. Never again will he heed her call. Never shall her husband comfort her through her pain. Never shall she bask in his laughter. Never again shall she bask in his warmth.

"Let us help the princess," Rhaenyra hailed through unsteady breaths. The guards swarmed her side once more. Hoisting her with the utmost care for her and the babe. She stumbled over her feet as the guards stilled for their next command.

"She cannot stay here," Rhaenyra's voice echoed through her mind. Distant from the noise swirling in her head. "Place the princess in a chamber without a window she can reach." Rhaenyra's voice commanded the room with ease, despite her own bleeding heart. "Leave the room bare." She cautioned the ladies with a single glance, "Do not abandon the princess to her thoughts."

The castle blurred as she was dragged to her new cell. Her mind betrayed her, conjuring shadows of him through the corridors. The halls he would forever haunt with her memories. Every alcove was plagued by a phantom so similar to his form. The chamber was cold, so devoid of the life she had grown accustomed to. She curled upon the sheets of the lonesome bed. Her eyes fixed longingly on the light that blared from a window set too high upon the wall.

Dragonstone, born of dragonlords. Wrought in fire and sorcery. Its visage was often grim, grey, bleak and lifeless. Fog clings to its stone like a veil, heavy and unyielding over its head. The war echoed Dragonstone's nature. Devoid of light and love. A place where happiness rarely dared to bloom.

"Do you wish to frighten your husband?" He questioned. His voice knew no anger when addressing his sweet wife. No matter his mood, warmth hung on to every word.

"I wish to fly." She declared to the world. Wind laced its icy hands through her hair, painting her nose a sweet red. The soft spritz of drizzling rain only cooled them further. She was a light upon the stone, seeping her warmth in every crack. Cold and war seldom touched Jacaerys when she was near. Against the bleak grey stone, her presence was impossible to overlook. She moved with a quiet grace. It was as if a golden warmth clung to her, softening the harshness around them.

He could not resist the smile carving its way onto his features. So dear she was, tempting every blissful emotion from him. "I would urge you not to attempt to."

"It has been so long since you have let me accompany you and Vermax."

"Your condition does not favour such activities." His arms wrapped around her growing abdomen, ever so careful of the growing life. "You ought to rest."

"Rest. Rest. Rest." Her voice was a charming mockery of his. Humorous even to herself, she could not contain the plethora of giggles.

"Tease me?" He pulled her to his side and gently sat upon the soft grass. She allowed him to hold her to his lap, finding the sweet warmth of his chest behind her back. "I encourage you to mock me if you will heed my pleas." He bumped her nose with his own, a sweet display of pure affection. "Rest, wife, our babe does not yet have the endless bounds of your energy."

She made no sound of protest at resting in his lap. Her fingers idly pulled at the grass beneath her. Perchance, it was frustration lingering unspoken. Perhaps it was a restlessness etched into her bones, he could not tell. He did not mind. He did not blame her for weariness. Nor did he blame her for the life pressing against her at cruel hours of the night.

She never complained. Her lips would utter nothing but delight. She carried her swelling abdomen with subtle pride. Though never one to boast, she felt a secret triumph when walking the halls. No other woman would bear his child. Only she would. She longed to make him proud, and so she bore their babe with devotion. Fortune had favoured her where it had been so unkind to other mothers. No sickness in the early months, no swollen feet, only the occasional kick against her ribs or bladder. Though the weight upon her abdomen grew tiring, her joy outshone every discomfort. Each day brought fresh excitement at the thought of their growing family.

"It is not long now, another moon. Perhaps two." She sighed in content as his lips brushed a tender kiss upon her shoulder.

"Our lovely boy." He mumbled between kisses.

She sneered, her lips upturned in a smile. The most precious smile in the entire realm, born from his love. "How are you so sure the babe is a boy?"

He shrugged as though the fates had whispered their secret to only him. "I just know."

She pursed her lips and turned her chin defiantly. "I think it will be a girl."

He laughed, charmed as ever by her defiance. Soft but relentless. He cherished that she was no placid wife. Not a wife cowed by his stature but an equal. Bearing his name and child. "Neither will disappoint me, wife."

"Have you thought of names?" She reached for his hands. She played with them, her own dwarfing at his size, finding love in their warmth.

"Truthfully, I have not, my love"

"No? Will you wait to name the babe?"

“Names are a serious affair, my love,” he murmured, pressing kisses into her palms.

"Oh, are they?" She teased, soft giggles escaped her rosy lips at the tickles upon her palm.

“They are carried for a lifetime. They are the few things that truly belong to you. I believe you do not know your child until you first look into their eyes.”

Her smile turned sly, her voice laced to tease. "And if all else fails, and we see nothing. We can always name them Aegon or perhaps Aemond. I hear it is not so common." He did not take to it lightly, already mumbling and grumbling as her laughter wrapped around them.

Laughter faded, carried off by the gusts of wind as they fell into a serene tranquillity. The silence dragged on, though comfortable, it was loaded with what they wished to ignore from bringing up so often. Her fingers drifted back to the blades of grass, restless in their anxious play. He, in turn, fiddled with the pendant around her neck, soothing the metal as though it could soothe her.

He sighed. He could not bear to see her in this state. He stilled her hand, gently halting their ministrations. "You need not worry, my love."

“War is always cause for worry.”

"But it is you who needs not worry." His lips brushed her shoulder, then her neck, then her lips. Tender and reassuring. "It will end soon. My mother will claim what is hers, and this will be past us."

It was not enough. The promise of an end was never enough. It hurt him to know he could never soothe the blaze of worry besetting her mind. It hurt him that there was nothing he could do but promise that this soon shall end.

"Do not intervene," She could see it, his desire to interject, to end her worries. She did not give him the opportunity. "I know your desire to fight for your mother. It is an admirable one." She swallowed harshly, her throat tightening with emotion. "I worry, Jace. I worry about you."

He melted, showering her with love as though to protect her from the harms besetting the realms. "My love, do not worry. I will never leave you. The war will be over, and we will spend our lives forgetting this brief moment in time."

His words did little to soothe the storm raging in her chest. How she despised the way her husband rode off to fight in his mother's name. Despised the endless rallies for support. Each time he left, she prayed before the Sept for this to be done. For their lives to return to a comfortable peace. She prayed that by the time their child drew its first breath, these battles would be long past.

"The rain is lovely." It was all she could say. He hummed, agreeing as the soft spritz of rain chilled them. The last signs of summer.

The wind howled in agony, clawing at the stone walls of the castle. For days, the rain had not ceased. Befitting of the atmosphere within the castle. It was as though the heavens themselves mourned Jacaerys. The rain mirrored her own despair, but could not quite compete with her agony. Night after night, she wept, her sorrow like the clouds, implacable. His death was etched into every fallen tear.

The midwives and maesters moved in frantic haste within the confined chambers. The hearth burned ceaselessly for hours, flames fragile in defence against the wet, suffocating night. Blood seeped between her legs. Unnoticed until one of her ladies came to prepare her for slumber. Numbness plagued her body, the pain dulled by the persistent visions of her husband's death.

Servants darted in and out of the chamber. One rushed through the stone castle to summon the Queen. To bring Rhaenyra to the princess’s side. Yet she could not help but feel it should not have been Rhaenyra here. It should have been her husband. Her sweet love. He should have stood beside her, guiding their babe into the world. Not his mother. Still, she could not deny the babe’s grandmother the right to witness the birth of her grandchild. Even as her heart ached for the presence of her love.

She paid no mind as Rhaenyra scurried into the chamber. Nor when Daemon appeared to witness what fuss dared a servant to enter their chamber so late. Her gaze remained blank, the same hollow gaze she bore every day since. Her mind twisted through the endless memories of her beloved, as though by sheer thought she might summon him back into existence.

"Please, princess, you have to push." The midwives begged their eyes, pleading not only for the princess but also for Rhaenyra's intervention.

Rhaenyra did not falter in the face of her daughter-in-law’s vacant expression. She moved to the girl’s side, whispering softly, “Darling girl.” She pressed a tender kiss upon her brow. With gentle hands, she brushed the sweat clinging to her forehead. “It is time. Push.”

For a fleeting moment, Rhaenyra’s presence lulled her back into awareness. That fragment of consciousness was enough for pain to rudely surge through in a horrid display of torrential agony. A scream tore from her throat as her frame convulsed. She felt unbearably sweaty, unbearably sore, the pressure in her pelvis a weight no human should endure. She tangled in the bloody sheets. Writhing in her torment. No matter her mind, she could not force nature to halt. Still, her mind refused to heed the commands of her body.

"Jace would not want this." Rhaenyra pleaded with her eyes, wrought with distress.

What could Rhaenyra know of Jace’s wishes? She was his wife. This was her child. It was their baby, tearing its way into this world. A bitter urge surged through with a sick thought to threaten to punish Rhaenyra for her words. A sick urge to prove she alone knew what Jace would have wanted. How she resented Rhaenyra for the very war that took her husband. Yet all she could do was writhe upon the sheets. Her body betrayed her mind as it obeyed the commands of nature. She could not halt the waves, driving her to push. Could not silence the rhythm of life that pressed forward despite her reluctance. Nature would prevail. Nature was indifferent to her anguish. The world would only carry on.

The storm halted for no one. Through the night, its fury echoed the torment swirling within her. The pain did not relent, nor did the persistent contractions. It was hours before the first signs of progress. Hours before, the midwives glimpsed the breach of the babe’s head. The world seemed to collapse inward, narrowing around the single mantra repeated by all of the women around her. Push.

This was not how it was meant to be. Jace should have been by her side. His hand clasping hers as they awaited the first joyous wail of their child’s first breath. He should have held their babe first. Cradled in the safety of their father's arms, showered them with the love he had carried long before their birth. Before finally finding himself at his wife’s side, watching over his family. There had never been a moment when Jace did not want his child. Never a moment did he not love them. Now, there was never a moment he would know them.

At last, the midwife placed the babe upon her chest. The small wailing pink babe, wrapped snug. She searched desperately for her own features, hoping her heart might find solace in them. But the child bore little resemblance to her. His features were strong. Unmistakably his father’s. There was no doubt whose blood ran through this child, no doubt who had sired him.

"Does he have a name, princess?" A hopeful midwife inquired, however silent the chamber fell.

She had dreamt of the babe for many moons. Many nights she spent beside Jace in deep discussions, bordering on a playful argument, about their babe. Laughing, arguing, imagining. Whose eyes, smile, whose fire the child would carry. It was a tender battle. A sweet war or love between expecting parents. Neither parent minded losing. Either way, the babe would be theirs.

That was then, when she had not thought how it would be only her to know. Only she would see who won the battle. The answer belonged to her alone, and grief warped it into something unbearable. Her grip on reality faltered, slipping away yet again. Memories blurred, voices tangling into a cacophony, and silence pressed against her mind. Until thought itself slipped away.

Her brows knit. Her lips parted. Wavering open and closed. “Jace?” The name broke from her like a plea, fragile, searching. She peered down at the babe, confusion clouding her gaze.

Rhaenyra stilled beside her. Face wrought in the similar display of despair, both for her lost son to war and her son's wife lost in her mind. The midwives and maesters did not move. Respect held them silent. Pity held them still. In that silence, the princess’s confusion folded back into grief, wrapping her in the cruel truth of his absence.

The castle pulsed with warmth. Alive with the firelight and laughter. Flames blazed at the hearths, warming the ample guests. Expensive wines spilt freely into eager mouths. The halls filled with a heated glow. A glow was visible even in the deepest alcoves of the castle.

"My prince, you must not follow." She giggled, pressing her palms to her lips to stifle the sound, eyes darting between every passing figure. "The talk that will ensue if we are caught.

"Idle tongues will find scandal whether we give them a reason to or not." His body closed around hers, shielding her from wandering eyes.

Often, they played this game. Whenever she visited the castle, whenever their families sought counsel together, it was always the same. She ran and he chased. She pretended to resist but relished being caught. Though her hopeful eyes betrayed the depths of her desire that he would never stop running. She lost count of their meetings. Hidden in alcoves, tucked away in the library, and once even in her chamber. Though the memory of that night wrung her with fear of how they could have been caught. Her father would forsake her if he knew how close she flew to ruin. How each meeting made it harder for her not to surrender and give him everything.

She tried, for a brief moment in time, to slow his pursuit. She learnt quickly that Jace was not one to concede. How could the court not see? How could they all be so blind? He was besotted. Flowers arrived at her chamber daily. Endless walks were offered only to steal her company. At feasts, he danced with no other lady. His gifts grew costly, his attentions more apparent, his courtship undeniable.

They knew this spelt trouble. Still, their youth betrayed reason. They still indulged. The red string of fate bound them too tightly, for they could not wander far from each other. So they continued their clandestine meetings. Unwilling to let go of the perilous sweetness of being caught.

Her palms rested against his chest. Not in an attempt to push him away. Oh, how she wished to take hold of his tunic and pull them flush together. "But it is not just talking when you seek me in these ways. Is it?" Her eyes teased, daring him to admit his intentions were anything but pure.

Jacaerys paid no mind to the provocation. Partially, as he did not wish to confess how right she was. How pretty the flush of her cheeks, the song of her laughter made it inconceivable for him not to ravish her mouth in hidden alcoves. He could not do much but stare upon her blushing form. Her eyes were darting so often to ensure no unwanted onlookers. Despite the gossip that would ensue, she made no attempt to leave. She lingered, cornered, so very sweet, and so very his.

"Do not marry him." The words escaped before he could leash them, raw and reckless.

Her lips wavered, spluttering for an appropriate answer. "It's hardly my choice."

He shrugged, dismissing her father’s will as a trifling obstacle. When faced with the world, there was little he would not burn in pursuit of her hand. "Beg your father not to marry him."

She scoffed, though her heart betrayed her with longing. "And then? Your mother discusses your union with Helaena."

His shoulders went great taut at the mention of the possible alliance. His mother had mentioned it in passing. The promise of peace between alliances. He would not refuse if his mother instructed and arranged the union. That is what he hoped. He hoped that when the time to perform his duty came, he would not waver. But then he sees her, flushed in their momentary clandestine meetings. He, too, knows then that duty could not eclipse desire.

"Alicent will not accept such a proposal." His jaw clenched, slowly grinding his teeth.

She cupped his face, thumbs tenderly brushing across the skin. "And if she does? What then, Jace? Am I made your mistress? How unfair for Helaena. She is a sweet girl, and you may come to love her."

Her kindness cut him deeper than reproach. She would forsake herself to comfort him. He caught her hands, pressing them to his heart. "I doubt it."

"But you do not." She smiled, endeared by his petulance. "You may come to love her. If not, you will form some companionship. Besides, I do not wish to live my life wandering the shadows only for a taste. I will be insatiable. I will starve for the taste of you."

"Then marry me." He closed in on her, his nose bumping hers in pure affection.

Her cheeks bloomed with a rosy colour. Her gaze fluttered away lest she surrender so quickly. Worried that if she looked too long, she'd fold there and drag them before the Septon. "Do not make promises beyond your realm of making. Your mother is not interested in a lowly noble girl. Helaena is her decision, and you-"

"And you will humour me." He cornered her, further pushing her flush against the warmth of his chest. She could but giggle and fluster before his brazen acts. "Alicent will not accept the proposal. If I see the truth, what then? Will you marry me?"

She could all but bite her lip. Wishing to contain the hopeful smile. There was no harm in entertaining the idea? To dream that her lover might not only be hers in her heart but hers in the eyes of the realm. "How foolish of a girl I would be to say no."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, a silent invitation. He wasted no breath, claiming her lips that burned with fiery longing. He cradled the back of her head to deepen their affection. There was no duty between her lips, no alliance to be formed. Only her desire burned solely for their forbidden love.

A sudden clatter of metal against stone split them. Her hands flew to her chest as though she could still the frantic beating of her heart. Aegon staggered through the hallways, spilling wine and goblets. A drunken spectacle of incivility, muttering in annoyance at servants who struggled to steady him.

She stifled a laugh, pressing her hand to her mouth once more. “He is ghastly. Hard to believe the King sired that.”

“His mother insists he should be considered for the throne.”

“Surely not. What would he do? Sit upon the Iron Throne, drowning in wine and whores? No different than many kings, but hardly a better fit than your mother.”

“He will not trouble us,” Jace sighed, turning back to his love. He was sure Aegon was too drunk to care. His hands cradled her face, eager to reclaim their passionate moment.

“For now.” Her gaze lingered on Aegon, stumbling as Alicent swept in to scold him. Her eyes were fixed on the dowager Queen, a sense of dread crawling up her spine. Dread for the storm brewing. Dread for the tension heightening between the families. “Though I suspect he is not the one we should fear.”

Jace’s jaw tightened with disdain. “I do not think we will ever have to worry about her. Her schemes shall never ruin our moments of love.”

She toyed with the chain around her neck, eyes fixed on the pendant. A silver dragon charm, Jace had given her when she lamented having no dragon of her own. The gift had become her constant companion, lying upon her chest where her heart still ached for her husband. Her fingers drawn to it in idle moments as though the pendant carried a quiet pulse of his presence. Not long after he had gifted her the pendant, he had asked for her hand. She pleaded with her mother to let her wear the necklace on her wedding day, though it sat awkwardly against the delicate fabric of her gown. Still, she wished not to part with her dragon. Time and time again, her gaze lingered on the silver dragon resting upon her heart over the wails of her own dragon.

"The babe is hungry." The nursemaid pleaded once Rhaenyra entered the chamber. At her chest, the babe wailed. Not even the steady rocking of the nursemaid's arms could calm him.

"Have the princess feed him." Rhaenyra urged, slightly annoyed, taking her grandson from her arms.

"She won't move my Lady." The nurse grumbled in a voice still laced with pity. "I have brought the babe to her face, yet her gaze is locked. Unmoving in her mind."

Rhaenyra sighed, her agitation for the princesses' ongoing sombre moods increasing. "Princess." The endearment lacked affection. "My darling girl. Do not let your boy suffer."

Rhaenyra hurriedly placed the babe in her arms, giving the princess no choice but to break from her melancholic haze. Her baby dragon wailed at first, quieting down as though he knew the chest in which he had been laid. His tears swiftly dried. His small mouth searched instinctively for his nourishment. She sighed, loosening her shift over one shoulder so he could latch on. Rocking him without thought, the notion just seemed natural. His soft coos between suckles were the first notes of contentment she had heard from him all morning.

Rhaenyra's gaze lingered upon her form. She could not tell if the look was disappointment or pity. The castle's eyes had long mirrored the same weight. Pity for the woman who had become a miserable shell of her former self. Disappointment for the mother who failed day after day. Judgement pressed in from every direction. Constantly humiliating her in its perseverance. To be looked upon by Rhaenyra with those burdened eyes. As though more were expected of her, it was a wound deeper than any blade. It weakened her further. Driving her back into the cold embrace of despair. Isolation began to feel safer than the world's constant scrutiny.

She could not bear it any longer. Her eyes flicked from Rhaenyra to the soft bundle in her arms. He was content, hands flailing for his mother's comfort. "I do not feel myself anymore." She admitted to no one in particular. Welcoming the world to carry her confession. She could not find it in her to care when everyone knew. Rhaenyra hummed in a silent agreement as though she, too, did not know the princess anymore.

"All he does is cry." She swallowed at the hard lump agitating the back of her throat. "All I do is cry." Her eyes rimmed red, closed as tears threatened. "I birthed him with all my sorrow. I have cursed my boy with endless suffering."

Her poor babe deserved more. It should have been Jacaerys here. He would have done better. He would never have abandoned their child to drown in his own grief. How could she look upon her child without remembering the times she lay motionless, listening to her dear babe's cries go unanswered? Already she had failed him, before she had even been given a true chance to try.

Her grief‑stricken admission broke Rhaenyra’s composure. The words, raw and steeped in self‑hatred, struck Rhaenyra with a misery of her own. "All babies come into the world screaming and crying. But look how his tears dry when he lies upon his mother's chest. You did not birth him with your sorrow."

It comforted her for a moment. It was true, the babe calmed the moment he lay upon her chest. Still filled with innocence. Trusting the embrace of his mother.

"Jacaerys laid with you with love in his heart. It was with joy that he cried for days when he learned you were with child. Think of all the happiness and love sewn into your babe's blood."

The memory drew a fragile smile to her lips. Jace had wept for days. His pride overflowing as he proclaimed to the world that their love had sired a child. He could scarcely look at her for too long without tears welling in his eyes. And it was true. They had brought forth a babe born of pure devotion. Her babe's blood tied by the passion their parents had shared. In that realisation, sorrow loosened its grip for a brief moment. She felt a flicker of relief, believing that Jace’s love remained with her still, cradled contentedly in her arms.

She was restless. Utterly restless as she waited for the day to arrive. As dawn broke, the thought of being readied into her bridal gown stirred a flicker of contentment within her. Her chest warmed with the notion. Tomorrow, she would finally be wed to her love. After months of pleading with her father, she finally bore fruit. Her final night alone dragged on endlessly. She ran the brush through her hair again and again, as though each stroke might hasten time. A peaceful smile lingered on her lips as she hummed softly to herself, suspended between impatience and anticipation.

Her chamber door cracked open, seeping light into the halls. She jumped from her seat at the sudden intrusion. Her eyes hurried to find familiarity in the figure. "Jace?"

"I apologise." He whispered in a hushed tone as though he wished not to invite eager, unsolicited ears. He diverted his eyes once he glanced at her. Prepared for bed in nothing but her shift, her form peeked beneath the sheer fabric.

Her face burned with a rosy red as she scurried to find her nightgown. "What business do you have in my chambers, my love?"

He turned, offering her a moment of privacy, however much he wished to leer upon her beautiful form. "Tomorrow we wed." His voice trembled with devotion, barely containing the swell of love that consumed him.

She felt similarly. Every moment carried a ball of anticipation in her belly. Her hands slid across his chest before curling around his neck. "I shall not sleep. My blood buzzes with joy."

He chuckled, hands wrestling on the dip of her waist. Carefully needing the soft flesh. "You must sleep. 'Tis the last night you shall sleep alone."

She leaned her chin upon his chest, a silent plea beneath her sweet gaze. "How do you leave me another night with the torture of your absence?"

His hands travelled lower. His palms are dancing with a possible invitation for more. "If you wish me to stay, I would not dream of leaving."

Her eyes widened, though they betrayed a gleam of desire. "Jace." She warned.

He only laughed softly, wrapping her in his arms, urging space to forsake them. The kisses fell in a trail starting upon her crown. Then her forehead. Her brow, her nose, her lips, her jaw. Her neck in the familiar spots he knew she loved before threatening lower. She gasped audibly. Never was he so brazen in their previous meetings. He halted, lingering for any sign of protest that she did not wish for more.

"We are to be wed, and we shall spend a lifetime with one another." He uttered, noticing as her chest heaved with a peculiar blend of anxiety and passion. "Longer than the time we have spent apart. What is one night sooner?"

"You think I will give in to temptation?" She chuckled. Her resolve faltered as he continued his attention.

His eyes echoed her desire, gleaming with possibilities the night had to offer. "You are a temptation itself."

She threw her head back, throat bubbling with sweet laughter. "Unfair, I was not lounging about my chambers, hoping you would barge in and glance upon what should be your surprise for your wedding night."

His smile was boyish, guilty yet unrepentant. "I got my surprise early. You are beautiful. Exquisite"

She flushed, hiding her face against his chest. His words carried the same adoration she had always known. Only now it was laced with hunger.

"Time is most cruel." She complained, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck. Her eyelashes fluttered against his skin, sending shivers down his spine. "It's slow when we so wish for it to hurry."

"It's almost as though it is up to us to make the most of our time."

She thought of the wedding. In the singular moment, their hands would be bound. From then on, she would never know a day without him. The only regret she imagined in the years to come was that she had not loved him sooner. That she had not seized every fleeting moment before eternity stretched out before them. Even with forever promised, she longed to have gathered more of the present into her embrace.

"There might come a day I regret not spending another night with you." She muttered, her mind racing as she pondered the situation.

"Such a day will not come," he vowed, certain their hearts would never part.

"There is no wrong. We are to be wed so soon. Tomorrow will be ruled by merriment. I would hate for us to be so tired come the time we are alone."

"I shall never be devoid of energy in your presence."

She blushed, feeling the depths of his excitement upon her lower abdomen. "I can feel." She teased.

"I apologise, my love." Flushed with momentary shame, he pulled back as though not to force her to endure his desire.

"Do not. It warms my heart that you wish for me so desperately," she guided him until her knees brushed the bed. Falling back, she awaited his choice. "It warms me in more ways than one."

He did not follow, not yet, not til he was sure her wishes matched his own. "Do you wish for me to take my departure?"

She slowly shook her head, biting at the sensitive skin on her lips. Her hands reached for him, tugging at his tunic. He yielded, covering her body with the largeness of his own. Their lips met, and passion surged. His hands lingered at her knees, inching higher as desire overcame restraint.

She woke in a foul mood. From the moment she opened her eyes, the memories of last night crawled back. Unwelcome and unbidden. Oh, how she cursed the feast. Cursed those who attended. Cursed herself for going. Cursed her naivety. A feast meant as a celebration had soured into her own humiliation.

Every Lord and Lady had come upon the Queen's request. She had attended simply out of duty. She would rather have spent the evening listening to her son's soft coos as she read aloud poems Jacaerys once recited to her. But Rhaenyra had summoned her herself. Only upon arrival did she realise how suspicious the Queen's intentions were.

"Where is my son?" She demanded, tone still sharp from the night before.

The nursemaid barely looked up, paying no mind to the princess's tone. "He is with the queen, my lady."

She clenched her teeth. Agitation crawled up her spine as she stormed off, nursemaid on her tail. Each step weighed heavily with anger. She could not believe how Rhaenyra's scheming had blindsided her. It was not unusual for Rhaenyra to request her presence at such festivities. It was, however, highly unusual for her to encourage lords from houses she did not care to remember to entertain her all night. Lord after lord attempted to press her for dances, ply her with wine and vie for her attention. Their sudden interest perplexed her. That was until she later realised it was Rhaenyra's doing. It was the Queen's deliberate meddling.

"What are you doing?" She inquired, chest tight with fury.

Rhaenyra did not flinch. She tickled her grandson's belly, smiling. "He sat with me during counsel. He is to be King one day."

Her rage flared hotter. "He is far too young to begin his instruction. He does not need to be surrounded by hardened lords and their crude chatter." She lifted her pudgy babe, his hand reaching for the pendant swaying before his face, before handing him to the nursemaid. "His ears are too young for such poison."

"Princess, it is not an issue. I assure you the boy is fine." Rhaenyra attempted gently.

"That is solely my concern."

Rhaenyra's patience thinned. "He is my boy's son. It concerns me."

"He is my boy." She spat, teeth bare, defensive and ready to fight. "It will always concern me most."

The Queen’s composure cracked, anger threatening her as well. "Are you upset about last night's affairs?"

Her fury spilt over. "How dare you? How dare you encourage men to mingle with me? Have you no respect for your son? I was his wife. I do not need any lowly lord's flattery."

"It has been some time, princess. Months. You are alone." She attempted to reason with her. "No one in the realm would begrudge you if you opened your heart to love again."

She shook her head. Her body recoiled at the thought. "It is not open to love, nor does it desire love."

"You will forsake love entirely?" Rhaenyra pressed, her presence firm but not domineering. "Why? Must you still punish yourself? Does guilt eat at you still? You are not incapable of love, nor will a new love replace Jace. You are allowed to love."

"I will not speak on this matter anymore." The mention of Jace’s name struck a raw nerve. She screeched, as though the wound had been torn open anew. "You may be Queen, but this is beyond your realm of rule. You will not orchestrate such treachery against my love again." She turned to leave, her son fussing at the sharpness of her tone. "And do not take my son from his crib without consulting me," she warned.

Rhaenyra scoffed, shaking her head. "I have had many sons, princess-"

She turned on her heel, her anger preventing her from knowing better than not to feed into every fight "So you know better?"

The implication was there, it hung heavy, and it did not escape Rhaenyra's notice. The queen had stiffened as though preparing herself for the worst of the princess's blows. She ought to back down now, to tuck her head and hurry out before she truly regrets her words. But she could not.

These days, she was quick to rage. It seemed day by day she was tested. She was never someone quick to anger, a trait Jace had acknowledged himself. Though now it was though there was always a simmering pit of anger at the base of her stomach waiting for anyone to ignite it.

"Speak then", Rhaenyra's voice was cold and challenging.

"What will you have me say?" she hissed. Resentment long and festering finally broke free. She looked around her in mock search. "Where are your boys?"

The words hung heavy. She regretted them instantly. She knew how Rhaenyra loved her sons. How little she wished for them to be complicit in the war. But grief clawed for blame, for someone to carry the weight she could not. Had her whole family not waged war, she would not be without a husband. Her boy would not be without a father.

"With what foulness has corrupted your heart?" Rhaenyra spat back her offence mounting. Her voice was laced with signs that she genuinely felt hurt by the girl's words. "I don't recall this woman as the one my son begged for. You think he peers upon you with pride? Where is that girl?"

"Gone."

"No, she stands before me. Hidden beneath her cowardness. Incapable. Bowing to fear."

She huffed a sardonic laugh, breaking halfway into a sob, she refused to let escape "What do you know of what I fear?"

"You fear life beyond my boy. You fear there is life after his death. You do not know yourself because you fear discovering what you can be without him."

"Save me your lectures. I need not hear it from you."

"Heed not to mine. Lecture me openly I shall save you from any punishment. What do you have to say?"

Her voice faltered, guilt twisting into accusation. “Was it worth it? He fought for you. He died for you. And yet it was not you who reaped the consequence. It was not you who was struck down. Was it worth your boys? Was the throne worth it?”

"I did not wish for my son to fight my battles." Rhaenyra faltered, her voice cracking under the weight of loss.

Her throat burned, tears spilling freely now. “And yet he did. And still you sit upon your throne as though unscathed. All I see is the woman who got what she wanted at the expense of everyone. I bleed openly from a wound that will never close. As far as I know, my son lives, and yours do not. I do not need lectures from such a mother. It will always concern me most."

She turned from the hall, ignoring Rhaenyra’s further words. Hot tears rained down her face. A storm perpetually swirling within her chest. She needed someone to take the blame. For anyone to admit this war had not been worth it. Everyone else seemed to move on. They had exempted themselves from the ruin they had wrought. But she was still here, carrying grief like a brand upon her chest. Searching for someone to grieve him as openly as she did. Searching for someone to understand that her love had not died with him.

Sunlight pressed through the lace curtains, the delicate beams scattering across the chamber. The air still carried a faint perfume of oils and candle wax mingling with the faint smell of their coupling. Light bounced off the sheets covering their tangled bodies. Their love lay exposed to the tender glow of dawn.

She stirred, twisting in the sheets and mess of limbs. Her eyes caught the rising sun. Beside her, Jacaerys law sprawled in perfect contentment. His dark curls haloed by the light. His breath was steady and untroubled by the world. The sight of him so unguarded and utterly hers made her chest ache with sweetness,

Yet the world beyond this bed was already stirring. The muffled clatter of servants echoed through the stone walls. A reminder that time was not theirs alone. She clutched the sheets to her chest. Her limbs still tangled with his. Her heart leapt as the memory struck her straight to her chest. Their wedding. Today. In mere hours, the entire realm would bear witness to their union.

"Go, you must go now." Her eyes widened, urgency breaking through the haze of love. She shook him gently, whispering, "My ladies will be here soon. They cannot see us in such a state." Jacaerys blinked awake, groggy, his lashes heavy with sleep. He rubbed his eyes, protesting with a low sound that made her blush despite herself.

He did not move with such haste, preferring to wake slowly. He only chuckled, slow and lazy, his smile softening her panic. His body held on to no shame. He did not hide from her nudity, nor his own. Rather, he gazed at her with unyielding adoration, as though their love was the only truth in this world. "Let me look upon you one last time," he teased, his voice deep and husky. His words meant to wring laughter from her worry.

"Jace, you will see me tonight and every night after that. You will indulge in those moments henceforth. You must take your leave. We do not have time."

He did not listen. He gathered her into his arms. The sheets fell uselessly to the floor. "No, let me look upon you one more time. I beg, my love." His hands trailed lazily up her sides before lingering at the pendant still resting upon her chest. The only thing they had not discarded the night before. He did not say much for a while, his eyes just peering into her own. His eyes flickered watching her, as though he was deep in thought.

"What difference shall it make from tonight?" She chuckled, blushing and still trying to cover herself with whatever sheet she could grasp from him.

"Because we will never be here again." He murmured softly. His voice gave no way that this was meant to tease. "I will never be a love-struck boy again. I will be a man. A husband." His words silenced the world around them, honing in on the space between their bodies. Only for them. Her heart pounded at the words. Stilling at his admission before rapidly pounding beneath her ribs. Her brain turned with the implication. This would be the last moment before they were man and wife. Their days of clandestine meetings were over. Never would they have the need to hide and steal moments when time now offered them the world.

"I will never know you like this again." He said, casting each sheet aside. This time, she did not fight for the sheets back but rather let him remove any barrier between them. She could not find it in her to care about the discarded sheets or how she lay bare before him. His words had undone her, stripped her of fear more thoroughly than his hands ever could.

He kissed her in a blazing trail with pure love. First her stomach, her chest, her throat, then her cheek. Each was a promise. "I am prepared to love you in every way you come to me." He mumbled between kisses. "Change how you please, there will never be a version of you I will not love."

She melted her mind, clouded with only him. Her apprehension left her as they tangled their limbs once more, bodies closing in on one another. He pulled back and bumped his nose against hers in affection. "But let me love you one more time just as you are now. I have the privilege to love you in every way for the rest of time. I do not want to miss a moment."

All fight left her, surrendering as the sun climbed higher. She melted into his form, tangling them limbs once more. Time was not a worry when they had forever to share it. They did not need to worry about the sunrise or the maids. Not when time bent to their will. This moment would stretch on before it would fall into the funny grips of time.

The sun rose high in the sky, glimmering against the last signs of rain clinging to every leaf. The earth felt warm beneath her, releasing the final moments of the day before night came to claim it.

Her child crawled on the grass, fingers tugging at the blades to reveal the soil beneath them. Dark, wet and fragrant with the smell of replenished earth. He giggled at his discovery. His joys knew no bounds, his world vast and waiting for him. She smiled, a warmth blossoming through her chest as she watched her baby dragon. She encouraged him. Encouraged his happiness, his fearlessness. For him to explore without fear of the hidden anguish in this world.

Rhaenyra slowly approached, her presence heavy after weeks of silence. Shame had kept her away from Rhaenyra. Guilt gnawed at her stomach for striking the wound of loss. A loss they both shared. Only the two could understand the pain of such a wound. The love for their child, and the hollow ache left behind once they were gone.

Lowering herself beside the princess, Rhaenyra’s gaze softened at the boy’s unbridled joy. “He reminds me so much of Jace at that age,” she murmured, extending a fragile branch of peace.

She felt her throat tighten, only nodding. Words would betray her if she dared open her mouth. So for some time her eyes remained fixed on her child as though searching for herself in his reflection. A familiarity she had lost quite some time ago.

"I do not know me, my lady," she confessed at last, her voice trembling under the weight of uncertainty.

"Few of us do, when sorrow endures." Rhaenyra's voice held no judgment, just opportunity.

"I will always miss Jacaerys." She admitted, though her tears were slow to come. So often she had cried, she did not have it in her anymore to shed another tear. "He was my love, and I knew only the love he gave. Grief has become my sole companion. So constant I do not remember life without it. Happiness and warmth are momentary. It always yields to this permanent ache. I miss him," She admitted her voice wavering as she struggled to admit what she held so hidden for so long, "but i miss myself too."

"Sorrow has its way in forcing change. It carves us whether we will it to or not."

"I was not ignorant. We were at war. I had thought many times he may not return. I knew there was that chance and I knew if it happened I would experience the depths of grief." She admitted, the words ashy in her mouth. The wind threatened the spill every secret it carried. "But I believed I would not change. That this grief would weigh upon my chest, but that it would still be my chest."

She diverted her gaze, her eyes drifting to her son. He crawled, babbling a plethora of nonsense without knowledge of his mother’s pain. She smiled, happy for a moment that her son was happy. Her heart was grateful that his joy was untouched. How often she prayed he would never have to endure such sorrow.

"I keep remembering the person I was with Jace. These memories I play on loop everyday. Remembering me and that I was still the woman he loved and that love would help me carry on now that he is gone." Tears threatened, her eyes rimmed red. "But I am not that girl in those memories anymore."

Rhaenyra only nodded. She knew better than the way in which grief stormed through the world, carving its change with no regard for who it harmed. How few people came unscathed by its touch. She, too, had lost more than most, fragments of her heart scattered across the graves of children she would forever miss.

"I wish I were as fearless as Jace. He courted me openly, defied my father, and asked for my hand without hesitation. He came to me simply because he wished for me." She admitted smiling, though her eyes betrayed the constant ache. But the memories were too sweet to bow down to this constant grief.

"Jace was unlike you in many ways. You cannot keep searching for answers within him. He can do no more than leave you loved. He cannot live for you. Your boy cannot live for you." Her voice held a motherly tone she had heard so often when Rhaenyra addressed Jace.

"I fear I died with him."

Rhaenyra sucked in a harsh breath, "You did not-"

"No. I did not die with him." Her smile was pained, "That is what I fear. That for so long I believed I was gone, and it hurts to wake some days knowing I am here. Alive with purpose still. It feels wrong. Unfair."

Rhaenyra nodded. Death did not know how to play fair. Many were taken, though they deserved better. "Death seldom bows to fairness." She agreed, her brows furrowed in contemplation. "Though it is better to live, no matter how brief the moment. The moment Jace had was beautiful. He was loved from the moment he came into this world to his very last breath."

She nodded, a pained smile gracing her lips. Rhaenyra was right. However brief he was here. Jace was here. Beautifully alive for just a moment, and she of all people had the privilege to bask in just how lovely he was. For so long in her life, all she knew was happiness because of him.

"I will not love again." It was not an attempt at punishing herself, but rather her admitting a truth.

"Do not deny yourself love, just because you lost yours."

"No, that is not it. This is not punishment. I was luckier than most. From the moment I met Jace, I was never unloved. To live through such unwavering devotion was unlike anything I will experience. For that, I am grateful, but I loved just as strongly as he had. I've given all my love. To Jace and our boy. I was allowed to love Jace for a moment, and my boy, I will love for a lifetime. I have no love left to give but to myself."

Rhaenyra smiled through her words, the last of the sun warming the earth to lull them into a moment of content. "Jace would be proud of you."

Her eyes flickered between memories of Jace, just as she had for so many months now, before flickering to their child. For a fleeting moment, the world was still. The ache remained. Grief still pressed upon her chest, but slowly it made space for peace. The last light of day kissed her skin, and she breathed. Alive and grateful, for she was at last at peace.

The bird begins before the sun has properly entered the room. 

Daeron hears it first in the soft, irritating edge between sleep and waking: three thin notes, a pause just long enough to be noticed, and then the same three notes again, delivered with the small, tireless confidence of a creature too stupid to understand offense. It is not loud enough to be called a disturbance, even, and at least a disturbance would have a body to blame. A servant at the door, a shouted order in the yard, Egg losing an argument with someone twice his age and twice as tired. Something with a cause, at least, and therefore something that might be made to stop. 

This is only a bird, and the damn creature goes on. 

He frowns into the pillow and tries, for a few breaths, to sink back under sleep. The dream he has left behind does not return. There had been no blood in it, he thinks dimly, because there is no sharpness under his ribs, no old taste in his mouth, no waking heat behind his eyes. Only the heaviness of linen, the stale warmth of his own breath against the pillow, and that bright, repeated sound worrying at the room. 

Daeron shifts. 

The bed is warm beside him, but the warmth is not where he expects it. 

That wakes him more than the bird has. 

His hand moves before the rest of him does, sliding over the sheet with the blind certainty of habit. There was a time when he would have noticed the motion while making it, when every inch crossed in bed would have seemed like a request made too loudly. Now his fingers find the fold of your nightdress, then the solid curve of your hip beneath it, and his body settles around that knowledge before his mind has the chance to become severe about it. 

You are there. 

Farther than usual, but there. 

He opens his eyes. 

You are lying flat on your back, hands folded over your stomach, staring at the ceiling with an expression of such fixed disgust that for a moment he forgets to be tired. You look less like a woman woken too early than like a judge who has been forced to hear a very poor defense and is deciding how much contempt can be shown without speaking. 

The bird calls again. 

Your eyes close once, slowly. When they open, they remain on the ceiling. 

Daeron makes some rough sound into the pillow, not quite a word. 

“That bird,” You say, in a voice made low by sleep and sharpened by hatred, “has been doing this for half the morning.” 

He lifts his head a little. One side of his face is creased; he can feel it. His hair has fallen into his eyes, and his hand is still on your hip.  

“It is barely morning.” 

“I know. That is part of the crime.” 

The corner of his mouth moves before he means it to. He tries to press it back into sleep, but there is no sleep left now, only you staring at nothing with the grim patience of a woman at war. 

The bird repeats itself. 

You inhale through your nose. 

“It did it yesterday too,” You continue. “And the day before. I thought the first morning that perhaps it was ill, or lost, or being slowly killed. But no. It just…sings like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Wrong.” 

Daeron turns his face toward you fully. 

You do not look at him. “Do not make that face. You know what I mean.” 

“I have made no face.” 

“You are about to.” 

He is. He can feel it happening, traitorous and warm at the edges of his mouth. “I only wondered whether the charge was musical or personal.” 

“It can be both.” 

“Against the bird?” 

“Against every bird here, if they insist on continuing like this,” Your hands remain folded over your stomach, the picture of composure except for the obvious desire to murder something winged and helpless. “The birds in Dorne know how to begin a morning. They do not stand outside a window and hammer the same three notes into a person’s skull until she begins to regret every choice and political arrangement that brought her within hearing distance.” 

That does it. 

The laugh comes before he has time to dress it into anything else. 

It starts as a breath, rough and startled, and then breaks out of him with no shape fine enough to hide behind. His shoulders move. He turns his face partly into the pillow, but that only muffles it; it does not stop. The sound shakes loose somewhere low in his chest, warm and surprised and entirely without strategy. He is laughing at the bird, at the solemnity of your indictment, at the idea of all Summerhall’s diplomacy undone by one shrill creature outside the window. He is laughing because your face is still so sincerely offended. He is laughing because his hand is on your hip and the sheet is twisted around his leg and nothing in the room is asking him to bleed for the privilege of being there. 

You go quiet. 

That should stop him. It does not. If anything, the stillness catches the laugh in him and turns it softer, deeper, harder to govern. He has laughed in rooms full of men who wanted him amusing. He has laughed into cups, through smoke, under his father’s stare, over the ugly edge of a joke he knew would leave a mark. He knows the sound a man can make when he means to escape before anyone sees where the blade has entered. 

This is not that. 

He does not know what this is until it has already happened. 

The bird sings again, persistent and absurdly proud of itself. 

You turn your head toward the window with such cold betrayal that he loses the last of his restraint. He laughs into the pillow, helpless now, one hand tightening once on your hip as if the pleasure needs somewhere to go. 

“If you encourage it,” You complain, and your voice has shifted oddly, though he is too far gone to understand how, “I will hold you responsible for the rest of its education.” 

He tries to answer. He cannot. The attempt only turns into another broken breath. 

“It is not funny, Daeron.” 

That is plainly untrue, and you must know it, because something in your mouth changes as you say it. Not a smile. Not yet. The beginning of one, perhaps, or the memory of why other people might be weaker than you in such circumstances. 

He manages, at last, to lift his face from the pillow. “I beg your pardon.” 

“You do not.” 

“No,” He admits, still breathless. “No, I do not.” 

For a moment the morning hangs there, foolish and pale and full of the bird’s ridiculous noise. 

His laughter begins to leave him by degrees. It loosens from his ribs first, then from his throat, until what remains is heat in his face and an ache along his cheeks, unfamiliar enough that he notices it. The smile stays behind. He feels it there with a sudden, exposed awareness, as if he has woken a second time and found himself in some less defended version of his own body. 

You are looking at him. 

Daeron’s first instinct is to make some dry remark, anything small and ugly enough to put a railing around the moment. Nothing comes. His mind, usually so quick to locate a door, offers him only the shape of your face against the pillow and the fact that your anger has thinned without entirely leaving you. You look almost puzzled by him. No, not puzzled. Caught. 

Your hand lifts from your stomach. 

He watches it come toward him and does not move away. 

Your fingers touch the side of his face. 

There is no ceremony in it. You do not take his chin or make him look at you; he is already looking. Your fingertips pass lightly along his cheek, over the pillow-crease there, then to the corner of his mouth, not quite touching it. As if you mean to find where the laugh had been and are uncertain, at the last second, whether such a thing can be touched without frightening it off. 

Daeron goes still. 

Your thumb brushes once beneath his eye. 

The bird is still singing, but for a few breaths he hears it from a distance, as though the room has thickened around the two of you. You do not say anything about his smile. That is worse and better than saying something. He could defend himself from words. He could step around praise, turn aside tenderness, make a jest of being admired if he had to. Your silence gives him nothing to push against. 

Your gaze drops to his mouth and returns to his eyes. 

The smile wavers. It does not disappear. 

Something in your expression goes softer then, very briefly, before you seem to remember yourself. Your fingers leave his face, though not quickly, and you turn your eyes back toward the window with the tired dignity of a woman resuming an interrupted grievance. 

“There,” You say after a moment. “Listen. It has started again.” 

He almost laughs again, but it comes out only as a breath. 

“I heard it. I was listening.” 

“You were not. You were laughing at me.” 

“I was laughing near you.” 

“You were laughing at me, and now you are trying to make it sound less treasonous because you know I am right.” 

He shifts closer on the pillow, propping himself on one elbow. “I know you believe you are right.” 

“That is usually what being right feels like.” 

That pulls another smile from him. Smaller this time, but still dangerous. He sees you notice it and immediately look away, as if the window has become urgent. 

The bird gives its three notes again. 

You make a small, aggrieved sound low in your throat. “It is the repetition, that is what I cannot forgive. If it sang badly once and moved on, I could be generous. But it chooses to return to the error. Again and again.” 

“Perhaps it is attempting consistency.” 

“It is succeeding at being unbearable.” 

“That is also a kind of consistency.” 

“You see? This is what I mean. You are taking its side.” 

“I am trying to understand the accused.” 

“The accused has no defense.” 

He presses his lips together, though the effort is poor. You see that too. 

“Do not laugh again,” You warn, but there is not much force left in it. “I am serious. I have been awake too long already, and I refuse to be turned into morning entertainment by a bird and my own husband.” 

The words settle warmly in him before he can decide whether to make anything of them. 

My own husband. 

It is hardly the first time you have said the word. It should not matter. It is a practical fact, legal and public and old enough now that servants arrange their mornings around it. Still, there are ways the word can land differently depending on the hour. In a hall, it can be title and obligation. In anger, accusation. In this bed, with your hair loose and your eyes narrowed toward the window, it feels almost warm. 

Warm enough to be believed. To be trusted to mean something. 

Daeron lowers his head back to the pillow and turns onto his side, facing you. His hand is still where it has been all this time, resting against your hip beneath the sheet. You have not moved it. You are warm under his palm. He lets his thumb move once, not quite a caress, not quite nothing. 

You stop glaring long enough to look down at his hand, then back up at him. There is no warning in your face. Only sleep, annoyance, and something quieter beneath both. 

“You are very pleased with yourself.” You say, something honest behind the playful accusation. 

“I am pleased with nothing. I am a loyal husband enduring a difficult morning.” 

“You are pleased because I said the birds are wrong and you think that is amusing.” 

“It is a little amusing.” 

“It is true.” 

“Those are not enemies.” 

“You would say that. You have no standards where birds are concerned.” 

“I did not know I was meant to have standards.” 

“You are a prince. Begin anywhere.” 

That almost undoes him again, but this time he manages to keep the laugh in his chest. It warms there, moving under his ribs without breaking loose. He looks at you and sees, to his own surprise, that you are not only annoyed now. You are watching him from the corner of your eye, badly pretending not to. 

He wants to make you do it again. 

Not laugh. Not exactly. He wants the look back. The one from a moment ago, when your hand had come to his face before either of you had decided what the morning was allowed to be. The want is clean, which makes it difficult to hold. There is no shame already attached to it, no dread standing ready behind it. Only the wish to be the cause of that look once more. 

The bird sings. 

You close your eyes with a slow, suffering patience. 

“Gods,” You mutter. “I cannot live like this.” 

“It has been perhaps five minutes.” 

“It has felt like several years.” 

“Should I call for a guard?” 

“Absolutely not. If you call for anyone, they will speak, and then there will be both bird and person. No.” 

“A raven, then. We might send to Dorne for better birds.” 

You open one eye. “Do not mock my homeland before breakfast.” 

It has been months since you’ve spoken of Dorne as home, and some starved part of him has made note of that with careless desperation. Dorne was home and now it is homeland, and it may not be intentional, it may not even be a reflection of anything, and there has been nowhere else that replaced Dorne as home for him to think it means anything. And yet, the thought lingers, yet another scrap saved away, yet another piece to hoard. 

“I would never.” 

You roll onto your side then, facing him more fully. The movement brings your knee against his leg beneath the sheet, your shoulder nearly to his chest. The distance that woke him narrows until it is only linen and breath. For a few moments you simply lie there, looking at him, and the irritation drains from your face by fractions. Sleep has made you softer around the eyes. The morning has left one side of your hair flattened and the other side in disarray across the pillow. 

He loves the sight before the thought has time to become itself. 

It comes as a bodily thing first: a pull in his chest, a warmth under the hand still resting at your hip, the faint, foolish urge to press his mouth to your temple and say nothing. He does not move. The impulse is too plain. Plainness still has the power to unnerve him, even here. 

You reach for his wrist. 

At first he thinks you mean to move his hand from your hip. He lets you have it at once, fingers loosening before you ask. You draw his hand upward, slow and practical, and set it near your temple. 

He understands that. Or thinks he does. 

His fingers begin to open gently, ready for whatever tenderness you are asking of him. There are nights when this has become its own language between you: pins loosened, braids undone, his hand learning the weight and patience of it. Even in the morning, half-awake, his body knows the beginning of the gesture. 

You make a dissatisfied sound and tug his wrist higher. 

He stops. 

You drag his hand over the side of your head and place his palm firmly over your ear. 

Then you settle your cheek against his chest. 

Daeron blinks down at you. 

You sigh as if, after long suffering, civilization has finally offered you one useful invention. 

“There.” You mumble into his nightshirt. 

His hand covers your ear. His fingers rest where you have put them, careful against your hair and the side of your head, but not for tenderness. Or not only for tenderness. He has been made into a wall. 

The bird sings again beyond the window. It is muffled for you now, perhaps. It is perfectly clear for him. 

He stares at the top of your head. “Is this what you wanted?” 

“Yes.” 

“My hand.” 

“Yes.” 

“Over your ear.” 

“You are not stupid, Daeron. Please do not start practicing now.” 

He presses his lips together. The laugh rises, but this time it stays mostly silent. You feel something of it anyway, because you shift against his chest with a faint, warning hum. 

“I was only clarifying my duties.” He says. 

“Your duties are very simple. Keep that there. Be warm. Do not speak unless the bird stops or the room catches fire.” 

He looks down at you. Your eyes are closed now. Your hand has curled loosely in the front of his nightshirt, holding him without effort. There is a crease between your brows still, but it is fading. The whole force of your outrage has reduced itself to the small firm pressure of your head against him and the insistence of his palm over your ear. 

After a moment, you add, softer and already nearer sleep, “And do not move.” 

So he does not. 

The morning continues without needing anything from him. Light gathers slowly over the ceiling. Somewhere outside the room, the household has begun to stir: a distant footstep, wood complaining in a corridor, the muted scrape of something carried carefully past a door. The bed keeps its warmth. Your breathing steadies by degrees against his chest. 

The bird sings, and Daeron listens to it because you have made him the one who must. 

It is still a dreadful sound. 

It is also, he thinks, not the worst thing to wake to. 

His palm remains over your ear. His arm lies around you, not holding tightly, only keeping the shape you have given him. Every so often your breath moves the linen over his chest. He can feel the place on his cheek where your fingers had touched him. The smile has left his mouth, but not entirely from the rest of him. It lingers strangely in his ribs, in the loose warmth of his face, in the hand kept carefully where you placed it. 

The bird gives its three notes again. 

You do not stir. 

Daeron closes his eyes. 

He does not sleep, not yet. He stays awake inside the small, ridiculous office of his body: warmth, his hand over your ear while morning makes its poor music at the window.