HaRuu 🌱

Whenever they talk back to either Bruce or Alfred you’re just in the background like ‘surprised Pikachu face’

Definitely a culture shock

Cuz how on earth can they be talking smack to their elders?

Hence you are the angel child of the family

Being the sensible one in the family

Having designated house slippers and out of house slippers

Getting so triggered when people mix them up

Facing a lot of racist stereotypes

“You’re a Wayne and you’re an Asian, how come your grades are still like this?”

“Because last names and ethnicity doesn’t determine intelligence?”

The boys are ready to throw hands every time someone makes a racist comment or something of the sort

If you know your native language then you bet your ass the boys are going to learn it too

Probably become better at it than you cuz they’re perfectionists

You know more words but their grammar is better

But before they get used to it, they butcher the pronunciation so terribly

So much so that you cringe

Any special holidays?

They’re going to try their best to celebrate it alongside you

Wear the traditional clothes and not make it look inappropriate

Get the special foods and everything

But the thing they have mixed feelings about the most?

Family vacations

To go meet your extended families

“Are all these people really your aunts and uncles? How did your grandparents have so many children?”

“Oh, they aren’t related to me.”

“But you call them Auntie and Uncle.”

“Yeah???”

Never before has Damian hated people more than before

Your grandma and aunts love pinching his cheeks since he’s the youngest of the family

But because he’s the youngest, he’s spoilt by them a lot

Which he enjoys extremely

Tim, Cass and Duke are golden because they’re well-mannered and smart

Bruce, Dick and Jason don’t particularly enjoy it

They hate it

Because they’re all handsome men who have dated around and have had kids out of wedlock and are still not married or looking to get married

Your more conservational relatives are not impressed

“No, auntie, thank you for the offer but I don’t want to date your baker’s daughter. I don’t care if she’s single.”

They don’t understand why you save all the plastic bags in the kitchen

You claim it’s for reuse

But Alfred has never even seen you go to the grocery store

This applies to any type of empty container as well

You’re filthy rich and can afford anything

But without fail, all your hair ties are stored in an empty warhead’s container

Your brothers finding it simultaneously hilarious and frightening when you threaten them with a wooden spoon (Merlin reference harhar)

And also finding it weird that you put all your faith into a tiny bottle of menthol ointment (I’m talking about Tiger Balm yall)

“It’s menthol ointment, it does nothing.”

“It is the key to all your problems!”

“If you say so, sis.”

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

DC Taglist:

@emmacata

@p--e--a--c--h--e--s

@sometimeseverythingsucks

@sokkas-honour

@unstable1902

@lostgirlheart

@missdisapear

As a child, Harry had once stumbled across a series of books Dudley had received for his birthday—a gift he’d promptly discarded in a tantrum after declaring he’d wanted a new gaming system instead.

Harry hadn’t exactly known how to read at the time. He’d pieced words together slowly, sounding them out in whispers late at night beneath his cupboard blanket. But somehow, he’d managed to salvage one of the books from the rubbish bin, thankfully not too stained or torn.

That rescued copy had become one of his most prized possessions.

Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.

He’d read it over and over again until the spine cracked and the pages softened at the edges. He remembered thinking, even at ten years old, how impossibly oblivious Percy was. How could someone be so blind? Annabeth’s feelings were practically written in flashing neon letters. Surely anyone with half a brain—or at the very least, a pulse—could sense what was happening around them.

Harry had thought it ridiculous.

Fate, apparently, had thought it hilarious.

By the time he reached his sixth year at Hogwarts, it seemed the universe had turned around, smacked him square in the face with that old paperback, and laughed.

Because he had somehow managed to fall hopelessly, painfully, irrevocably in love with one of the most emotionally intelligent people he knew—

And you were completely, utterly oblivious.

The irony was cruel.

You, who had noticed Ron’s ears turning red every time Hermione spoke too passionately about something. You, who had quietly pulled Harry aside months before anyone else caught on and said, “Ron’s falling for her, isn’t he?”

You, who had called Seamus out for his embarrassingly obvious crush on Lavender Brown, comparing him to a child tugging at pigtails during playtime just to get a reaction.

You, who could tell Hermione was in a foul mood simply based on the way she tied her hair that morning.

You—who read people like open books.

Couldn’t tell that your best friend was madly in love with you.

And had been for two years.

At first, Harry had thought he was doing a decent job hiding it. He wasn’t exactly known for emotional finesse—Hermione had smacked him upside the head more than once for being clueless—but he figured he could at least manage subtlety.

Apparently not.

Hermione had fixed him with a long, unimpressed stare one afternoon in the common room and said, very slowly, “Harry. You follow every word she says like a lap dog. You are not fooling anyone.”

He’d nearly choked on his tea.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Ron had snorted. Hermione had rolled her eyes.

The worst part?

They were right.

Everyone had noticed.

Everyone—except you.

So Harry tried something different.

He stopped hiding.

He started calling group outings with Ron and Hermione “double dates,” saying it lightly, casually, as if it were a joke—but watching you carefully for any sign of understanding.

There was none.

He’d draped his arm around your shoulders whenever you sat beside him, heart hammering as you leaned into him without hesitation.

You’d only smiled and continued talking, completely unfazed.

Last Valentine’s Day, he’d even gathered the courage to give you a card.

Not anonymous. Not vague.

A proper Valentine.

You’d stared at it for a moment, eyes wide and soft, and then you’d hugged him tightly.

“That’s so sweet of you, Harry,” you’d said. “You didn’t want me to feel left out.”

He’d felt something in his chest cave in so suddenly he’d almost wondered if it would show on his face.

That was the day he’d given up.

You clearly weren’t interested. You clearly didn’t see him that way. Because surely—surely—no one could be that blind. Not you. Not the person who noticed everything.

And yet.

He still didn’t tell you.

He couldn’t.

Because losing you altogether was not an option.

He could survive loving you quietly. He could survive pretending. He could survive swallowing it down every time you curled into his side or stole his jumpers or whispered that he was your safe place.

But he could not survive you walking away.

That would undo him in ways even Voldemort never had.

So he chose silence.

He chose the quiet torture of it.

And he told himself that it was enough.

It had to be.

But Merlin—

You made it painfully, excruciatingly difficult.

It was one of those mornings where his uniform just didn’t want to listen. Harry had barely managed to get dressed. His shirt was wrinkled and stubbornly refusing to stay tucked into his pants, and his tie… well, his tie was acting like it had a mind of its own. No matter how many times he twisted and adjusted it, it refused to sit flat.

Part of him wanted to leave it in his dorm and run late, but he’d already lost two points for Gryffindor yesterday—leaving his robes behind because he was far too warm—and he’d be damned if he lost more, not when Slytherin was creeping up.

So instead, he kept undoing and redoing the insipid tie, the knot now looking like a wriggling little snake.

“Oh, this is driving me crazy.” You said, stepping up to him like you did any other day, batting his hands away from the tie.

Before he could respond, you were behind him, hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. He froze.

“Stay still, Haz.” You reached around him, adjusting the knot with the precision of someone who had done it a hundred times before. Your fingers lingered at his throat, and Harry’s stomach decided to stop functioning altogether.

He watched your soft hands, then flicked his gaze to your face, keeping his breath shallow. He dared not move too much; one accidental graze of your hand on his chest and he was certain he would faint.

“There we go,” You said happily, smoothing down his shirt, “Now you won’t lose us points for being a slob.”

There was a moment of quiet after you stepped back. Harry adjusted his glasses nervously, feeling the faint ghost of where your fingers had been. He tried to focus on the tie, but all he could think about was how effortlessly close you’d been, how natural it had felt for you to reach around him, and how his heart was hammering in his chest for no reason he could explain.

Harry wanted to argue that he was not a slob—he was a fool. A fool for you. But all that came out was a breathless, “Thanks.”

You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Anytime.” And with that, you were gone, leaving Harry standing in the common room, sparks crawling down his body from where your hands had pressed against his shoulders.

It started with a bang.

Not a catastrophic one—not the sort that sent stone crumbling or Death Eaters Apparating—but the unmistakable crack of a spell gone wrong, followed by the shrill screech of something that definitely should not have been screeching at two in the morning.

Harry was upright in bed before he was fully conscious.

“What—?” Ron mumbled from across the dormitory, hair sticking up even worse than usual.

The corridor outside erupted into noise. Doors opening. Voices overlapping. Someone shouting, “Seamus, I swear—”

Harry shoved on a pair of joggers and grabbed his glasses just as the portrait hole burst open downstairs and Professor McGonagall’s voice rang up the staircase.

“All students are to gather in the common room immediately!”

Brilliant.

Within minutes, the tower was chaos—students stumbling down in mismatched pajamas, half-awake and grumbling. Ron looked like he might fall asleep standing up. Dean was laughing. Seamus looked guilty.

Harry was scanning the staircase.

Hermione clambered down, hair in messy braids, Crookshanks tucked into her arms.

And then you appeared.

Sleepy. Disoriented. Rubbing at your eyes.

And—

Wearing his Quidditch jersey.

It swallowed you whole.

The hem brushed dangerously high against your thighs, revealing a pair of barely-there shorts beneath. One shoulder of the jersey slipped lower than the other, the collar stretched from wear. Your hair was a mess, curling around your face, and you looked so soft and warm and real that for a second Harry forgot how to breathe.

You padded over to him barefoot, squinting blearily as you offered him a sleepy smile, and he felt butterflies slam their insistent wings against his diaphragm. No one should look this beautiful straight after waking up.

Heat crawled up his neck.

“I—” He cleared his throat, trying very hard not to look at your legs. Or the way the fabric clung to you, “I don’t remember giving you that.”

You blinked at him, still half-asleep.

“Oh. Yeah,” You said casually, glancing down at yourself as though you’d forgotten what you were wearing, “I think I stole it, like… a year ago or something. It’s my favourite sleep shirt.”

You yawned.

Actually yawned.

As if you hadn’t just detonated something inside his ribcage.

Harry wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

But you didn’t notice.

You shuffled closer without thinking—because you always did—and leaned lightly into his side, your head brushing his shoulder as you crossed your arms against the chill of the stone floor.

It was instinctive.

Unthinking.

Comfort.

His entire body went rigid for half a second before he forced himself to relax.

For one reckless, dangerous second, something warm and foolish bloomed in his chest.

You fit far too perfectly there.

It was hard to believe you weren’t meant to be.

His arm twitched at his side, resisting the urge to wrap around you. To make the picture complete.

Instead, he swallowed.

“You could’ve asked.” He muttered.

You smiled without opening your eyes.

“Like you would’ve said no.”

His gaze drifted down before he could stop himself—the oversized jersey, the way it brushed your thighs, the faint outline of his old Quidditch number pressed against your chest.

His.

And yet not.

You tugged absently at the hem, “Don’t worry. I’ll give it back one day.”

He forced a shrug, “Keep it.”

You hummed contentedly and leaned into him more fully, completely unaware of the war waging inside his skull.

McGonagall was still lecturing Seamus about reckless spellwork. Students whispered. The common room buzzed with irritation and half-suppressed laughter.

Eventually, detentions were handed out and it was declared safe to return to bed. One by one, people began climbing the stairs again.

You murmured a sleepy goodnight and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek before heading up.

Harry watched your retreating figure.

And the name stretched across your back.

Potter.

Something in his chest clenched painfully.

This—this was it.

As close as he would ever get.

The only way he would ever see you with his last name.

On the back of an old, worn jersey.

Harry had been wandering the castle corridors with a tray in his hands—two steaming mugs of tea and a small plate of treacle tart he’d grabbed from the kitchens—because honestly, you looked completely drained, buried under a mountain of books in the library, and he couldn’t just leave you like that.

“Here,” He said softly, setting the tray beside you, “Thought you might need… something.”

You looked up from your notes, hair tumbling across your face, eyes half-lidded with focus. “Haz,” You murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, “You’re a lifesaver.”

Harry felt his chest warm at the soft praise, giving a small, almost embarrassed shrug, “Well… someone had to. You’ve been at this for hours.”

You took a careful sip from your tea, and your eyes flickered up at him, almost surprised. “Exactly how I like it,” You murmured, setting the mug down with a satisfied hum. You leaned back, stretching languidly, hair falling messily over your shoulders, and reached for a tart, “Honestly, you’re amazing, you know that?”

Harry blinked, trying to keep his composure. “The flies are starting to gather here because they think you’re a corpse, you know.” He teased lightly, but the truth was harder to hide. Even like this—bare-faced, hair tousled from running your hands through it constantly, lips soft and slightly bitten—you looked gorgeous. Effortless. Bright. Dangerous in a way that made his chest tighten.

He tried to act casual, sitting on the edge of the table, but his mind refused to cooperate. Every movement you made, every tilt of your head, every lazy stretch—it all pulled his attention like gravity.

Then, as if the universe were deliberately cruel, you looked straight at him. Your eyes softened, warm and unguarded, and you spoke like you weren’t even thinking about the weight of your words.

“You know,” You said casually, almost absentmindedly, “anyone who ends up with you is going to be really lucky.”

Harry froze. His stomach dropped.

“Haz?” You blinked, tilting your head slightly, noticing his silence, “Are you even listening?”

“I… yeah.” He croaked. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to throw the treacle tart at the wall. He wanted—he wanted everything that was impossible.

You smiled softly, leaning back against the table, entirely casual, completely unaware of the storm you’d just unleashed. “You’re such a great friend, you know. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”

Friend.

Harry’s chest tightened painfully, his throat constricting, a lump rising that refused to go down. Of course. Of course that’s how you saw him. All this praise, all this warmth… and none of it was for him in the way he longed for.

You can’t possibly say all this if you don’t have an idea, he thought bitterly. You must know… and you’re saying it anyway.

He remembered all the little ways he had shown he cared—ways no one else would notice. When Hermione had nearly ended up in the hospital wing while cramming for her OWLs, he had stayed behind in the dorm with you, drilling you with flashcards, quizzing you until your eyes drooped. You should have known that this wasn’t ordinary. That this was special treatment.

He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Of course. You’re… right.”

You hummed, picking up your tea again, completely oblivious, eyes returning to your notes, leaving Harry sitting there, trembling slightly, heart racing and shattering all at once.

As soon as February first hit, Valentine’s Day decorations began infecting the castle like a rash—pink banners strung across archways, enchanted cherubs flitting through corridors with tiny golden bows, heart-shaped confetti drifting lazily from the ceiling.

Harry had never thought he’d hate the color red.

But here he was, absolutely detesting the sight of the red paper hearts hanging from every doorframe in Gryffindor Tower.

He should’ve told that blasted Hat to sort him into Slytherin.

At least then the common room wouldn’t look like it had been violently attacked by romance.

He was sitting in an armchair, pretending to read, when Ron dropped heavily into the seat across from him. Seamus sprawled on the sofa, hands tucked behind his head.

“So,” Seamus began casually, like he was commenting on the weather, “Valentine’s Day coming up.”

Harry didn’t look up from his book, “Fascinating.”

Dean snorted, “You finally going to confess your undying love this year, or are we continuing the proud annual tradition of pining in silence?”

Harry’s head snapped up, “Sod off.”

Ron grinned wickedly, “Oh, come on, mate. We’ve got bets going.”

“You have bets?” Harry demanded.

“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding seriously, “Whether you’ll confess, or just stare at her like she’s the last slice of treacle tart on earth.”

Ron shrugged, “My money’s on the staring.”

Harry threw his book down, “I do not—”

“You absolutely do,” Seamus cut in, “Every time she laughs, you look like someone’s cast a Patronus straight into your ribcage.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue.

And then closed it again.

Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, “So? You gonna tell her?”

Harry hesitated.

Just for a second.

Because part of him wanted to.

Merlin, he wanted to.

The thought had been clawing at him ever since that afternoon in the library.

He wanted to drop to his knees. To tell you he loved you and always would. That he would do whatever it took to make you feel like the most special girl in the entire world. That he would adore you until the end of time if you let him.

No one else would ever love you the way he was willing to.

With every single fiber of his being.

With a kind of devotion so limitless, so boundless, so unconditional that it scared even him to recognize it. The kind that made him feel like every cell in his body would willingly come apart if you asked him to.

And then—

Dean laughed lightly, “She probably wouldn’t even realize, to be honest.”

That one landed wrong.

A sharp, painful twinge in his chest that seemed to connect to his stomach, to the tips of his fingers, to his jaw.

Ron nodded, “Yeah. You could get down on one knee and she’d just go, ‘Haz, are you feeling alright?’”

The boys burst out laughing.

Harry didn’t.

Because that was the worst part.

They weren’t wrong.

His jaw tightened.

Ron tilted his head, studying him now instead of teasing, “You ever think maybe she doesn’t know because you let her not know?”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

“That doesn’t even make sense.” He muttered.

“It does,” Ron said, quieter now, “You do everything for her. You look at her like she hung the moon. But you never say it. So she doesn’t have to face it.”

Dean leaned back, voice softer than before, “Or maybe she does know. And she’s pretending.”

That one felt like a punch to the ribs.

So hard he felt his breakfast crawl up his throat.

Harry stood abruptly, “You’re all mental.”

“Just saying!” Seamus called as Harry headed toward the stairs, “Valentine’s Day’s a good excuse!”

“Yeah,” Ron added, “Worst she can say is no.”

Harry paused at the bottom step.

He didn’t turn around.

Worst she can say is no.

But that wasn’t what terrified him.

What terrified him was the moment you’d realize how deep his feelings actually ran.

Because you—kindhearted, careful, endlessly thoughtful you—would pull back.

You’d grow cautious.

You’d stop sitting so close. Stop stealing his scarves. Stop crawling into his bed when you couldn’t sleep.

You’d feel guilty for ever letting it look like he had a chance.

And he would lose you.

Not just the possibility of you.

You.

His best friend.

The girl he had loved quietly for longer than he dared admit.

And that—

That was a risk he wasn’t sure he could survive.

The knock on Harry’s dormitory door was soft.

Too soft for this hour.

He looked up from where he was sitting on his bed, glasses slipping halfway down his nose, “Yeah?”

The door creaked open, and you slipped inside, already in your sleep clothes, glancing at him to make sure he was awake. When your eyes met his, your shoulders relaxed, and you stepped fully into the room.

“Hi.” You said quietly.

Harry’s stomach dropped at once, “What happened?”

You sighed, shutting the door behind you. “Ron and Hermione had a row. It started over something stupid and turned into something not stupid. They’re both pacing like caged animals, and I figured…” You shrugged, “They might need space.”

Harry nodded slowly. That made sense.

“And?” He asked gently.

“So I was wondering if… if it’s okay if I sleep here tonight.” It sounded like courtesy more than a real question—you were already walking toward the bed, looking tired and small in a way that made it impossible to say no.

His heart skipped.

“Course,” He said instead, softer now, “You know you don’t have to ask.”

Your shoulders relaxed immediately. “Thanks, Haz.”

You climbed into his bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifting the blankets and sliding beneath them.

The air shifted.

This wasn’t new. You’d done it before—after nightmares, after late-night talks that blurred into sleep, after studying until your eyes burned.

It wasn’t new.

But something about tonight felt different.

Harry swallowed.

For the first time, the thought flickered through his mind before he could stop it—

Why not Ron’s bed?

Why here? Why were you so comfortable beside him that you didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even consider the empty bed across the room that would stay empty all night if history had anything to say about it?

The question burned at the back of his tongue.

But he bit it down, watching as you settled into his pillow, getting comfortable. He lay down more slowly, painfully aware of every inch of space between you, of the warmth your body gave off in the cool room.

The dormitory was quiet except for the distant whisper of wind against the windows.

You turned onto your side, facing him, “Night, Haz.”

“Good night.” He said quickly.

You hummed softly in response, already drifting off.

It took less than five minutes.

Your breathing evened out. Your body went slack with sleep. One of your hands shifted unconsciously, brushing his shirt before coming to rest there.

Like it belonged.

Harry stared up at the ceiling.

Wide awake.

Every nerve in his body felt lit. He could feel the warmth of you beside him, the steady rhythm of your breathing, the faint scent of your shampoo clinging to his pillow.

You were so close.

So close he could have counted your eyelashes if he’d turned his head.

And you slept.

Just like that.

No tension. No hesitation. No awareness of what this might mean.

Because to you, it didn’t mean anything.

That was what hurt.

You could fall asleep beside him without a second thought, while he lay rigid, afraid to breathe too deeply in case he woke you, afraid that if he didn’t move at all he’d never make it through the night.

He wanted to wrap an arm around you.

He wanted to pull you closer.

He wanted to know what it would feel like to hold you properly, to fit against you the way his body seemed to insist it was meant to. To bury his face in your hair. To memorize the shape of you by heart.

He wanted to ask why him.

Why always him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stayed perfectly still, staring into the dark, listening to the soft sound of your breathing.

That should have been enough.

But as the minutes dragged on and sleep refused to come, a cruel thought crept in—

If you knew.

If you knew how badly he wanted you…

Would you still sleep this easily?

Would you still crawl into his bed without thinking twice?

His throat tightened.

Beside him, you shifted closer in your sleep, your forehead brushing faintly against his shoulder.

And Harry finally closed his eyes.

Not because he was calm.

But because it was easier than letting himself cry.

Harry didn’t remember falling asleep.

If he had at all.

Grey morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and cold, painting soft lines across the dormitory ceiling. For a few seconds, he didn’t move.

Then he became aware of the weight against his chest.

You.

Your back was pressed to his front, your body curled slightly toward him as if you’d shifted in your sleep without thinking. Your hair brushed his chin with every breath. One of his arms was trapped beneath the pillow; the other had somehow slipped around the dip of your waist, pinning you to him.

He released you at once.

And your hips—Merlin help him—were pressed far too close.

He froze, blood rushing from his face and so far south he felt dizzy as his heart began to pound like he’d just finished a Quidditch match. He stared at the wall, terrified that if he moved even an inch, you’d wake up and realise how close you were.

But you didn’t.

You only shifted, nestling back into him, completely unconcerned.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

Of course you don’t notice, he thought bitterly. Why would you?

A moment later, you stirred properly. You stretched, arms reaching forward, back arching slightly—still pressed against him.

“Mmm… morning.” You murmured.

Harry swallowed, “Morning.”

You didn’t jump away. You didn’t gasp. You didn’t even hesitate.

You just rolled onto your back and rubbed your eyes.

“Thanks for letting me sleep here.” You said easily.

He forced a laugh that didn’t sound right even to himself, “Yeah. No problem.”

You propped yourself up on one elbow, perfectly at ease, as though you hadn’t been curled into him moments ago.

It hit him then, sharp and humiliating.

You weren’t embarrassed because, to you, there was nothing to be embarrassed about.

You saw him as safe. Familiar. Harmless.

Not someone whose chest was still tight from the way you’d fit against him. Not someone who’d lain awake for hours listening to you breathe. Not someone who had imagined—stupidly, foolishly—that maybe this meant something more.

You slid out of bed and tugged on his jumper from where it lay across his trunk, “I’m starving. Want to go down to breakfast?”

“Yeah.” He said automatically.

There it was again.

That warm, affectionate smile.

And then you were gone.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Harry stayed where he was, staring at the empty space you’d left behind. The bed was still warm. Your pillow still indented.

He pressed his palm into the sheets where you’d been.

You could curl into him in the middle of the night and wake up tangled in his arms.

And it still didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean.

He fell back against the mattress and covered his eyes with his arm.

Valentine’s Day was a week away.

And he was running out of ways to survive this.

It started with the heat.

Not the warm kind he’d grown used to. Not the soft, almost pleasant flutter that came when you laughed too hard at something stupid he’d said. Not the quiet nerves that lit up under his skin when you linked your arm through his.

This was different.

This felt like something crawling up his spine and settling at the base of his skull.

You were walking beside him after Charms, talking animatedly about something Flitwick had said. Your hands moved when you spoke, brushing his sleeve, tapping lightly against his arm.

Usually he loved that. Usually he leaned into it.

Today, every touch felt like friction.

He nodded along, not really hearing you. The corridor felt too narrow. Too loud. Too bright.

You bumped his shoulder playfully, “Are you even listening?”

“Yeah.” He muttered.

He wasn’t.

He was watching the way your fingers lingered on his sleeve a second too long before dropping away. Watching the way you smiled up at him without hesitation, without thought.

You didn’t think about it.

You never thought about it.

By lunch, it had gotten worse.

The heat had spread — up his neck, across his cheeks. He could feel it burning there. He kept tugging at the collar of his shirt like he could air himself out.

Across the Great Hall, you were laughing with some boy from Hufflepuff. Leaning toward him. Head tilted.

Harry told himself it didn’t matter.

You laughed like that with everyone.

But something about today — something about the way the morning had felt, about the way you’d curled into him two nights ago and slept like you belonged there — made it twist wrong.

You sat across from him, smiling over your pumpkin juice, “You okay, Haz? You’re quiet.”

“I’m fine.” He said too quickly.

You tilted your head, “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

You didn’t push. You never did.

And that made it worse.

Because you trusted him to be honest. You trusted him to be steady. You trusted him to always be there without ever asking why he was there.

The frog in the pot, he thought bitterly. The water heating so slowly he hadn’t realized he was being boiled alive.

By the time you reached the staircase after classes, his nerves were shot raw.

You bumped his arm playfully, “You’re walking like you’re being marched to your execution.”

“Can you—” He started, then stopped himself, “Never mind.”

You blinked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

He took the stairs two at a time.

You followed.

“Harry.”

He didn’t answer.

“Harry, wait.”

He turned at the landing, irritation flashing in his eyes. “What?”

You stopped short. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’ve barely looked at me all day.”

“Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”

Your face fell slightly. “Did I do something?”

That question hit him like a jab to the ribs.

“No,” he said, harsher than he meant. “It’s not about you.”

“Then what is it about?”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

He walked away.

But you didn’t let him.

You followed him up the staircase, your steps quickening to match his longer strides. He was climbing like something was chasing him — like if he didn’t put enough distance between the two of you, he might actually combust.

By the time he reached his dormitory, his chest was heaving — not from exertion, but from the pressure building behind his ribs. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

You followed.

Now it was just the two of you.

The room felt smaller than usual. The late afternoon light slanted through the windows, dust drifting lazily in the air, completely unaware that something catastrophic was about to happen.

You shut the door gently behind you.

“If there’s something you want to tell me,” You said, trying to steady your voice, “just go ahead and say it, Harry.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

He stared at everything else in the room but you.

At his trunk. At Ron’s unmade bed. At the crack in the stone wall. Anywhere but your face.

He wasn’t sure if he was avoiding your gaze because he couldn’t bear to see the hurt there — the kind that would extinguish the flames raging in his chest.

Or because looking at you would only pour oil over them.

You hesitated.

Then you reached for his hand.

The contact was gentle. Familiar.

It felt like static shock.

Like a spark struck from flint. Like something small and bright landing in a room full of gasoline fumes.

His entire body reacted before his mind did.

He jerked away.

“Just—stop it.”

Your hand froze midair.

“What?”

“Stop touching me like that,” He snapped, “Stop acting like everything’s normal.”

Your brows pulled together, “Harry, I don’t—”

“That’s the problem,” he said, abruptly, raking his hands through his already messy hair, “You don’t.”

You stood too, confused, hurt beginning to bleed into your expression, “Don’t what?”

“You don’t think. You don’t notice. You just… do things. You hold my hand, you take my jumpers, you sleep in my bed like it’s nothing—”

Your breath caught, “We’ve always—”

“Yes,” He said sharply, “Exactly. You’ve always done it. And I’ve always let you.”

“Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing?”

“Because you don’t see how it’s killing me!”

The words ripped out of him before he could stop them.

They echoed in the quiet room.

You stared at him.

“What are you talking about?” You whispered.

He let out a hollow laugh that didn’t hold even a trace of humor, “You really don’t know.”

“Know what?”

He dragged a hand through his hair again, pacing now, restless and unraveling. The heat in his chest felt unbearable — like something burning through muscle and bone.

“I thought I could handle it,” He said, “I thought I could just… be whatever you needed. Your safe place. Your spare bed. Your extra person.”

His voice wavered, but he pushed through.

“I thought I could ignore the heat. The nerves. The way my stomach drops every time you look at someone else. I thought I could handle wanting you when there’s no possible future where you want me back.”

His throat tightened.

“But I was wrong.”

You stepped toward him, instinctively, “Harry—”

“No,” He said softly, “Let me say it.”

And finally — finally — he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

“I love you.”

Silence swallowed the room.

“I’ve been in love with you for so long,” He continued, voice shaking now, “that I can’t remember a time I didn’t feel like this. When I’m around you, I can’t think straight. It’s like everything else blurs out. Like I’ve gone blind to the world except for you.”

His hands trembled at his sides.

“And for a while… that was okay. I didn’t want to see anything else. I was perfectly content only looking at you."

His laugh was brittle.

“But it’s not easy, (Y/N). It’s not easy just hoping. Just waiting. Yearning for every single touch like it’s a gift. Taking whatever scraps of affection you hand me and pretending it’s enough.”

His voice cracked.

“I feel like a stray dog sometimes. Grateful for any little piece of love you throw my way.”

Your eyes filled with something as your throat began to ache.

“And I can’t keep pretending it’s not killing me,” He said, quieter now, but more raw than before, “I can’t keep smiling through it. I can’t keep acting like I’m not falling apart every time you don’t see me the way I see you.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

“You’re my everything,” He whispered, “But I’m just one of your things.”

The words nearly undid him.

“And that’s all I’ll ever be to you.”

The room felt too still.

Too tight.

He stood there, stripped bare, like he’d finally set down something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t know how to stand without it.

The heat in his chest wasn’t a flutter anymore.

It was a burn.

And it hurt.

Harry didn’t raise his voice when he told you to leave.

That might have been easier to bear.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t slam the door. Didn’t say anything cruel.

He just looked at you with that exhausted, hollow expression — like he had finally emptied himself of something he’d been carrying for years and didn’t have the strength to hold anything else.

“I think you should go.” He said quietly.

Not angry.

Not cold.

Just… spent.

For a moment, you stayed where you were. Your body refused to move, as if waiting for him to soften. To sigh and rake a hand through his hair and say he didn’t mean it. To reach for you like he always did when things felt wrong.

He didn’t.

He stepped back instead.

And that — that was what made your chest crack open.

You left without another word.

The corridor outside his dormitory felt longer than usual. The torches along the walls flickered gently, unaware that the world inside you had tilted off its axis. Students passed you on the stairs, laughing, arguing, whispering about homework and Quidditch and weekend plans.

Everything sounded distant. Muffled.

You couldn’t quite feel your feet touching the stone as you walked.

By the time you reached your own dormitory, your hands were trembling.

The room was empty when you entered. The late afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, soft and golden, dust drifting lazily in the air.

You shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, staring at the opposite wall.

Your heart was still racing.

Harry’s words hadn’t simply echoed — they had embedded themselves somewhere deep inside you, reverberating in slow, relentless waves. Every time you tried to steady your breathing, to anchor yourself in something solid and familiar, his voice would surface again.

I’m in love with you.

The way it had cracked in the middle. The way it sounded less like a confession and more like a wound finally tearing open.

You could still see him — pacing like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair, shoulders tight with years of something he’d never let himself say. You had memorized his mannerisms over time. The subtle twitch in his jaw when he was frustrated. The way his fingers flexed when he was holding something back. The restless energy that clung to him whenever he didn’t know what to do with his emotions.

You’d thought you knew him.

But tonight had been different.

Tonight he had looked raw.

You pushed yourself away from the door slowly, your back peeling from the cool wood. Your nose burned from the effort of not crying, and when you blinked, the tears spilled over anyway. You didn’t trust your legs to carry you very far, but somehow you made it to your bed before your composure gave way entirely. You sank down onto the mattress and bent forward, pressing your face into the nearest pillow as though you could smother the sound of your own thoughts.

The confession replayed again.

And again.

And then—

You inhaled.

And froze.

That wasn’t your pillow.

You lifted your head, blinking through the blur, and realized your fingers were fisted in black fabric.

Harry’s jumper.

Slightly oversized on you. Sleeves too long. The collar stretched just enough from where you’d tugged it absently while studying.

You hadn’t meant to keep it.

It had been one of those cold nights in the library when the wind rattled the windows and the castle felt more like stone than shelter. You’d shivered once — just once — and he’d noticed. Of course he had.

He’d shrugged it off his shoulders without hesitation, draping it over yours with that casual sort of gentleness that was so uniquely him.

Keep it as long as you want, he’d said.

You never gave it back.

Your throat tightened painfully.

Would you have to return it now?

The thought felt unbearable.

You sat up slowly, the jumper clutched to your chest, your gaze drifting around your dorm room as if you were seeing it for the first time.

Your eyes landed on your nightstand.

The half-open chocolate orange from Honeydukes — the one he’d brought back after noticing you’d been chewing your quill during exam week. He hadn’t made a big deal of it. Just dropped it beside you and muttered something about you needing proper sugar instead of ink.

Next to it, a folded scrap of parchment in his messy handwriting. Practice questions he’d written out to quiz you before Transfiguration. You’d teased him for highlighting almost every sentence.

A tiny golden snitch keychain rested beside your wand. He’d pressed it into your palm in Hogsmeade last winter, cheeks pink from the cold.

Reminded me of you, he’d said, eyes refusing to meet yours.

You’d laughed.

You hadn’t asked why.

It was everywhere.

He was everywhere.

Not in grand, sweeping gestures.

Not in dramatic declarations.

But in the quiet, steady way he had slipped into the empty spaces of your life and made himself at home there.

Your gaze lifted to the moving photographs above your bed.

There were dozens.

Most of them were group pictures—laughing, chaotic, alive. But your gaze snagged on the one from Christmas morning last year. You were mid-laugh, half-hidden by torn wrapping paper. Harry stood beside you, watching.

Not the gift.

You.

At the time, you had thought his smile was simple excitement, pride in having chosen well. Now, with the knowledge of his confession lodged painfully in your chest, you saw something else layered beneath it—something softer, something unguarded. A kind of careful devotion that made your eyes sting all over again.

Now you could see the way his expression softened at the edges. The way his eyes lingered, unguarded. Earnest.

Longing.

How many times had he looked at you like that while you were too busy looking somewhere else?

Your vision blurred again.

You slid off the bed and crouched by your trunk at the foot of it, fingers trembling as you rummaged through folded clothes and books until you reached the small wooden box at the bottom — the one you kept tucked away for things that felt too important to leave out in the open.

You brought it back to the bed and opened it slowly.

Inside were ticket stubs from Hogsmeade weekends. A pressed flower from the lake shore. A few scraps of parchment with inside jokes scribbled in ink.

And then—

You found it.

A modest piece of white cardstock, slightly bent at the corner.

Your favorite flowers charmed along the edges, frozen mid-bloom.

Be my Valentine?

The memory hit you all at once.

A sob broke free before you could stop it, the sound raw in the quiet room. You pressed your hand to your mouth, but it did little to steady you. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. You hadn’t even realized there was something fragile to protect.

But now that he had spoken the truth aloud, your memories rearranged themselves with startling clarity. The way his jaw would tighten when you laughed too brightly at someone else. The subtle shift in his expression whenever another boy lingered too long in conversation. The way his hugs always lasted a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if he were memorizing the feeling.

You had seen the signs.

Some quiet part of you had always known.

It’s been like this for years.

Sneaking down to the kitchens together. Late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered confessions about fears neither of you would tell anyone else. Sitting shoulder to shoulder at Quidditch matches, your knee pressed against his because neither of you ever moves away.

You always thought it was just that.

You and him. Best friends. A matched set.

Your chest tightens painfully.

The realization did not strike like lightning. It did not feel dramatic or explosive. Instead, it settled slowly into place, like something ancient and inevitable finally aligning inside you. You tried, for a moment, to imagine your life without him woven into it so seamlessly—the absence of his steady presence beside you in the Great Hall, the lack of his quiet warmth at your side during long nights, the empty space where his voice should be.

The thought hollowed you out in a way guilt never could.

This wasn’t simply remorse for hurting him.

It was grief at the idea of losing something you hadn’t realized you wanted.

You drew his jumper back into your arms and pressed it against your chest, breathing in the familiar scent as your tears slowed into something softer, more certain.

You loved him.

Somewhere along the way, your heart had chosen him quietly and without ceremony.

And now that you finally understood it, the only thing more terrifying than admitting it was the possibility that you had realized too late.

You hadn’t meant for it to stretch into days.

At first, it was only supposed to be a night. One evening to let the shock settle. To let his words stop echoing quite so violently in your chest. But the more you turned them over in your mind, the more you realized you couldn’t simply run back to him with something half-formed and call it love.

You needed to know.

You needed to be certain that what you were feeling wasn’t guilt twisting itself into something softer. That it wasn’t fear of losing him masquerading as devotion. That you weren’t just trying to patch the wound he’d opened with whatever words would make it stop bleeding.

So you kept your distance.

And it seemed Harry had no problem respecting that unspoken boundary.

He avoided you with a precision that would have been impressive if it hadn’t hurt so much.

He left the Great Hall early. Sat at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table, shoulders angled deliberately away from you. Took longer routes between classes, choosing staircases that added minutes to his walk if it meant not crossing yours. When you entered a room, he found a reason to leave it. When you tried to catch his eye, he found something intensely fascinating to study just over your shoulder.

It wasn’t cruel.

That was the worst part.

He wasn’t punishing you.

He was protecting himself.

Careful not to brush against you in passing. Careful not to linger too close in crowded corridors. Careful with his voice, as though speaking to you too long might crack something open again that he’d only just managed to stitch shut.

You caught him watching you once—only once—during Charms. Professor Flitwick had turned to the board, and for a fleeting second, Harry’s guard slipped. His gaze found you with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs.

There was no bitterness there. It wasn’t resentment.

It was restraint.

And that made your chest ache in ways you hadn’t expected.

By the time Valentine’s Day arrived, the castle was absolutely drenched in pink and glitter from the highest spires to the stone floors below. The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall shimmered a soft rose-gold, petals drifting lazily down from an illusion of endless sky. Pink ribbons curled around every banister. The air smelled overwhelmingly of roses and sugar and something sparklingly artificial.

Harry hated it.

He sat rigidly through breakfast, jaw tight as the owls descended in a flurry of wings and parchment. Bouquets, boxes of chocolates, glittering gift bags—packages thumped down across the tables in rapid succession. Laughter erupted every few seconds as someone unwrapped something elaborate or embarrassing.

It was almost comical that Valentine’s Day had fallen on a Hogsmeade weekend this year.

A miracle.

Or some divine joke at his expense—Harry hadn’t quite decided which.

Dean presented Ginny with her bouquet in person, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. Ron, flustered and pink-eared, kept checking his reflection in the back of a spoon before bolting off to meet Hermione. Even Seamus—Godric, even Seamus—had a date and left with an air of nervous triumph.

One by one, his roommates disappeared, pulled eagerly toward waiting hands and planned afternoons.

Harry remained behind.

He told himself he didn’t care.

He’d endured far worse than a holiday built on pink paper hearts and saccharine declarations.

But something about the exaggerated romance of it all scraped at him today. The floating hearts. The couples walking just a little closer than usual, fingers intertwined as if they were guarding something precious. It pressed against the hollow space in his chest and made it ache more sharply than he’d anticipated.

Stupid, really.

He was the one who had confessed. He was the one who had drawn the line. The one who had told you to leave.

And yet he hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt—not only to spend Valentine’s Day alone—but to spend it carrying the quiet understanding that whatever you had been before could never quite be the same again.

He pushed back from the table abruptly, appetite long gone, and made his way up to Gryffindor Tower. The corridors were noticeably quieter now, most students already filtering toward Hogsmeade or secluded corners of the castle.

The Fat Lady gave him a knowing smile as he muttered the password.

He didn’t return it.

By the time he reached his dormitory, exhaustion weighed heavy behind his eyes. He was fully prepared to throw his bag aside and collapse face-first into his mattress, to sleep the day away and wake up when the castle had returned to normal.

He pushed the door open.

And froze.

The room was dimmer than usual, bathed in the steady glow of candlelight. Flames flickered softly along the mantle and windowsills, casting warm gold across the stone walls. The usual clutter—Quidditch gear, discarded socks, scattered parchment—had been tidied away.

And there you were.

Hands clasped tightly around a small arrangement of flowers, as though you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Your shoulders were drawn back in visible determination, but your expression wavered somewhere between courage and terror.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Harry’s first instinct was disbelief.

His second was fear.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He said automatically, though the words lacked any real sharpness.

“I know,” You replied softly, “But I had something important I needed to ask you.”

His gaze flicked around the room again, as if confirming that this wasn’t some elaborate trick of exhaustion. The candles. The cleared space. The deliberate care in every detail.

“What is this?” He asked, his voice quieter now.

You swallowed, then stepped forward carefully—like you were approaching something skittish, something that might bolt at the wrong movement.

“You gave me a Valentine last year,” You said, the slightest tremor betraying you, “I thought I might return the favour.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes but it was swallowed almost immediately by something harder.

He let out a short, humorless breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Do you realize how cruel you’re being?”

The words hit you square in the chest.

“Harry, I—” You stopped yourself, forcing in a steadying breath, “I came to a couple of… epiphanies since we last spoke.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t interrupt you either.

You took another breath, slower this time, willing your thoughts to line up properly instead of scattering the way they had been all morning. Harry watched you closely, and you could tell he was fighting the instinct to step in, to calm you the way he always did when you spiraled. He knew the signs—the way your fingers twisted together, the way your gaze drifted when you were trying to find the right words.

He let you have the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were small when they finally left you.

And he felt his stomach drop.

There it was, he thought. The careful tone. The softness. The prelude to rejection dressed up as kindness. He’d imagined this exact moment in the worst hours of the night—imagined you standing in front of him with pity in your eyes, explaining gently why you couldn’t give him what he wanted.

His shoulders went rigid without him meaning to. Something inside him began quietly folding in on itself.

“I’m sorry for taking so much time to think about this,” You continued, your voice trembling but determined, “And I’m sorry that you’ve felt this way for—God knows how long—and I was so blind to it. I’m sorry for keeping you at arm’s length and dangling something you wanted in front of you for so long. God, I can’t even imagine how that must have felt, because I’ve only just come to this realization a couple days ago and not being able to be around you has been killing me, and I’m such a terrible—”

“(Y/N), hold on.”

He stepped forward suddenly, closing the space between you before he could think better of it, his hands coming up to gently but firmly wrap around your wrists. Not restraining—just grounding. Anchoring you before you could spiral yourself into something cruel and untrue.

You stopped mid-breath.

Your chest was heaving slightly, eyes bright with unshed tears, and for a second neither of you moved. You had forgotten what it felt like for him to touch you. The warmth of his hands. The steadiness of his grip. A small, frightened part of you had begun to wonder if he ever would again.

Harry swallowed.

He hadn’t expected you to look like this—wrecked and earnest and terrified in equal measure.

You opened your mouth, and he nodded his head faintly, urging you to keep going.

“I—” You drew in a steadier breath this time, “You’re my first thought when something happens. You’re the person I look for in every room. When I’m tired, I want you next to me. When I’m overwhelmed, I look for you without even realizing it. And I kept telling myself that was just friendship. That it was normal.”

Your lips curved faintly, sadly, “But I realized that no matter what label I tried to place on it, what I feel for you, Harry, is not just friendship.”

His grip tightened—barely, but enough that you felt it.

Harry’s breathing had gone noticeably slower. Measured. Like he was forcing himself not to interrupt, not to hope too quickly.

“You’re not just some sort of placeholder,” You continued, your voice steadier now, “Or a spare bed. Or my extra person. Or my safe place because you were convenient.”

The room seemed to still entirely.

The candles crackled softly. Somewhere outside, a burst of cheers rose and fell again, distant and irrelevant to the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

Harry stared at you as though you’d begun speaking in a language he desperately wanted to understand but was afraid to mistranslate.

“If it’s not you,” You said, your voice breaking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady, “then I don’t want anyone else.”

His heart thudded once—hard enough it almost hurt.

“If that’s what love is,” You whispered, blinking away the dampness gathering in your lashes, “then I suppose I’ve been in love with you for a while now.”

For a moment, he didn’t react at all.

It was as though the words had struck him somewhere too deep to process immediately.

You watched it happen—the disbelief first. The instinct to protect himself from false hope. His eyes searched your face desperately for hesitation, for guilt, for anything that might suggest this was born of obligation.

He didn’t find it.

Something in his expression changed then. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But the tightness around his mouth eased. The guarded set of his shoulders softened. His hands, still wrapped around your wrists, shifted—sliding down until he was holding your hands properly now.

Reverently.

“Say that again.” He murmured, his voice rougher than before.

You let out a shaky breath, “I love you.”

The words didn’t tremble this time.

They landed between you solid and undeniable.

Harry’s eyes closed for half a second, like he needed that brief darkness to steady himself. When they opened again, they were shining in a way you’d rarely seen—unguarded, almost overwhelmed.

“You have no idea,” He said quietly, almost helplessly, “how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

There was no accusation in it. No bitterness.

Just awe.

Blinking quickly to keep your tears from spilling over, you lifted the bouquet again with trembling hands. The gesture felt suddenly very small compared to what had just been said, but it mattered to you.

“Harry,” You asked softly, your voice braver than you felt, “will you be my Valentine?”

For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you.

Like he was memorizing this version of you—the one standing in front of him choosing him openly.

His hands left yours only long enough to take the bouquet, setting it carefully aside on the nearest surface as though it were something fragile and precious.

Then he stepped forward.

Hesitantly.

Cautiously.

As though he were afraid that one wrong movement might shatter the moment entirely.

He lifted his hands and cupped your face, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes where tears still clung to your lashes. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you must feel it. He had imagined touching you like this more times than he could count, never truly believing he would be allowed to. Some part of him still waited for the illusion to break, for him to wake up from this dream all alone.

But you were real.

Warm beneath his palms. Trembling slightly where your bodies hovered just short of touching.

The way you looked at him—earnest, anxious and filled with anticipation—anchored him in the moment more surely than anything else could have. If this was a dream, then he decided he would stay in it. He would cling to it as long as it let him have you.

The restraint he had lived with for years finally gave way.

He pulled you into him, not roughly, but with a fierce, aching tenderness, arms wrapping around you as though he feared you might disappear if he loosened his hold. His forehead brushed yours, breath unsteady, and then he kissed you.

It was soft at first. Almost uncertain.

But when your lips moved against his, fitting together like divine puzzle pieces, the rest of the world seemed to dissolve. The candles, the room, the noise of the castle beyond the walls—none of it mattered.

All that existed was the warmth of his hands, the steady press of his chest against yours, and the quiet realization that you were no longer standing on opposite sides of something unspoken.

You pressed closer to him, and he held you as though he had been waiting his whole life to do exactly that.

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"For the union," your father clinked his glass with Baelor's.

"For the union," Prince Baelor nodded. "Might it be happy and satisfying for both of our children."

"Aye," your father nodded. "Might it be fruitful as well," he chuckled and sat down on the armchair to drink from the glass.

Baelor smiled at first but then he frowned as he stared at the liquor inside his glass.

"What is it?" Your father asked.

"You just reminded me of something... Something important... Yet I seemed to forget about it," Baelor mumbled out.

"Which is...?"

"The wedding night," Baelor smiled to himself nervously. "I am afraid my son has stepped into it completely unprepared."

Your father coughed a little as he swallowed the last sip of his drink.

"Surely, the boy must have had–"

"No, never," Baelor shook his head and your father wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb.

"That is unfortunate."

"Perhaps your wife has educated your daughter?" Baelor asked.

"No, she has not. I believe mothers, aunts and septas should not mess with a maiden's head when it comes to a business that is entirely between her and her Lord Husband," your father explained. "It is a Lord Husband that teaches."

"Your daughter's Lord Husband needs teaching himself," Baelor chuckled and they both laughed, shaking their heads.

You and Valarr ate breakfast in your chambers but you went down to eat dinner with the rest of the family. Your father watched you with squinted eyes and he seemed to chuckle when you hissed after sitting down. He looked at Prince Baelor and the Prince nodded.

You glanced at your husband, a bit worried, but he squeezed your hand under the table to comfort you. For some reason, your mother and Lady Jena excused themselves from the table and approached the maid who was responsible for cleaning your chambers and changing the sheets.

You were chewing on the food with a heart feeling heavy in your chest. You felt watched and whispered about, as if something was wrong yet it was being kept a secret.

"Do you know what they're talking about?" You whispered to Valarr but he shook his head.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted the maid nodding her head and showing both mothers your sheet in the corner of the hall.

"That is odd," you mumbled out.

Lady Jena came back to the table first, smiling and nodding at her husband. Then your mother joined the rest and she nodded at your father as well. Him and Prince Baelor chuckled and clinked their glasses together.

"What is it?" You asked finally, making all adults clear their throats and look somewhere else.

"Nothing, my dear. We are simply celebrating," your mother explained but you did not believe her.

"How did you figure it out?" Your father asked your husband suddenly and Prince Baelor choked on his meal slightly.

"Figured out what?" Valarr inquired.

"What to do on your wedding night."

A blush creeped upon the young prince's cheek.

"It is... natural, is it not?"

"Aye, it is," your father nodded with a grin. Your mother kicked him under the table.

"What are you all talking about?" You whined, looking at your husband. You didn't understand why he seemed to be embarrassed.

"Nothing for you to worry about," Valarr assured you and you chose to believe him.

After all, he was a good husband. He treated you well and he knew how to make you feel good.

He certainly proved that on the night before.

His daughter's betrothed had not been present for their welcome, to his disappointment. His daughter had seemed strangely happy at the absence of the Young Prince, however, smiling slightly as Prince Baelor explained his son had not yet returned from his hunt. That happiness was in stark contrast with her current state.

The young lady lifted her skirts slightly as she hurried deeper into the Godswood. She was not sure where she was headed, but the sight of a tall wall in the distance lifted her spirits slightly. She knew the chances of a true escape were more than insignificant, but she did not know what else to do.

She had known of her future duties as a lady and a wife since before she could even read. The prospect of marriage had always struck fear into her heart. She had seen the tears on her elder sister's faces as they stood before a Septon, kissing cruel men old enough to be their fathers. They had all married into great Houses, her father had explained when she shared her doubts, so her sisters should consider themselves fortunate. She had never heard of a notion so nonsensical. Nothing about their lives seemed fortunate to her.

She rather liked her life as an unmarried lady. Her father, despite it all, doted on his youngest daughter. She got away with things most ladies would have received a beating for, and he had never pressured her to find a husband. Until now, it seemed. Likely because he had been plotting this betrothal for many months now, she thought bitterly. It broke her heart to know that her father had not even given her the opportunity to choose a husband for herself.

They had left for King's Landing not even a full day after he had broken the news to her. He probably knew she would have attempted an escape plan, had he given her more time to mull it over. Tears started sliding down her cheeks as she neared the red walls separating the royal castle from Blackwater Bay.

She did not know anything about her husband-to-be, and perhaps that is what scared her the most. If she had heard tales of him, any at all, she might know better what to prepare herself for. Any tale she had heard of the Targaryen princelings, though, had been worse than the last. Prince Aerion is said to be cruel, vain and heartless, while his brother Daeron was a useless drunk. In contrast, she had not heard much of the heir's sons. She did not know whether that was good or bad, but she did not wish to find out. Even her father had remained tight-lipped on their long journey here. She was not sure why he had not tried to comfort her, even if he had to lie about the prince's nature by doing so, but she did not think it boded well.

As she finally approached the wall, she found herself out of breath. Her maid had tightened her corset more than normal this morning, clearly expecting the young lady to meet her betrothed today. She was glad she was spared that humiliation, at the very least.

She happily leaned against the red stone wall when she arrived, heaving slightly. All shame left her as she decided to sit down, her back to the wall as she tried to blink away her tears. The day had barely started, and she was already overwhelmed. The smell of King's Landing as they entered through the gates, the sheer magnitude of the Red Keep, the burning eyes of the onlookers in the outer yard. The careful judgment in her future father-in-law's strange eyes. She could not imagine herself living here, constantly gawked at and constant pressure to be the perfect wife. She already longed for home.

After what seemed like an eternity, she finally found the strength to get up off the ground. She took a few steps back, carefully assessing the wall. She had heard of the grandness of the Red Keep, but this wall did not seem so tall, all the way in the back of the Godswood and with only the Blackwater behind it. Perhaps she was delusional, but she did not think this was an impossible task. She had climbed many a tree as a young girl, after all, and she had become quite proficient at it.

She held a calculating look on her face as she touched some slight dent in the wall, assessing whether her foot would have enough grip to hold on to it, when someone cleared their throat loudly behind her. She jumped away from the wall immediately, turning around so fast she almost got dizzy.

The man in front of her was covered in a black cloak, covering his doublet underneath. His pants and boots were the same shade of black, and she silently mused whether he was a Sworn Brother who had lost his way. He had short brown hair, eyes a color she could not make out at this distance and a curious, kind smile on his face. She had to admit he was quite handsome, though she knew it to be an inappropriate thought.

When she did not say anything, the man decided to speak first.

"Good morrow, my lady. Are you in need of any assistance?"

She shook her head slightly at him, and turned back to the wall. "I am perfectly fine, good Ser, thank you. You may leave me be,” she said.

Unbeknownst to her, the man's amused smile only grew at her words, and he observed her silently.

"I might, if you answer my question."

Her temper rose at his obnoxious response, turning back to him in annoyance.

"Depends on the question," she replied roughly, narrowing her eyes at him in deviance. That only made his smile grow and his eyes sparkle, however.

"What is it are you doing?" He asked, shifting his weight from his right leg to his left, eyeing her curiously. Unlike the people in the courtyard, he did not look like he was judging her for her bad manners or whatever else she lacked in their eyes. He simply seemed genuinely curious, which confused her a great deal. She did not understand him, and that frustrated and scared her in equal measure. Who exactly was he?

"Nothing," she was quick to resort, crossing her arms.

He chuckled at her response, shaking his head slightly.

"It does not appear that way, my lady."

"And yet it is the truth. What business is it of yours, anyway? Are you some sort of guard send to drag me back?"

His eyes lit up at her words. He clearly knew something she did not, and it unnerved her greatly. Men can be so insufferable, she thought bitterly.

"I am not, do not worry. I am merely curious," he replied, tilting his head at her slightly, encouraging her to answer his question.

She contemplated it for a second, before deciding she did not actually care if he knew the truth. What difference did it make, anyway? If he wanted to return her to her father, he would have done so already.

"If you must know, I am attempting to climb over this wall."

The amused look in his eyes did not disappear, though he did seem slightly bewildered.

"Climb…? Whatever for?"

He must not know who I am, she thought bemused. She rather enjoyed this back-and-forth with him, and she had not had the chance to express her true feelings to anyone as of yet. Why not just subject this random guard to it? Let her true feelings get back to the two princes who had sealed her fate. Not to mention her father.

Her brows furrowed at the thought, and his silly question. She turned her back to the man once more, determination flowing through her.

"Because I think he may be a monster," she replied simply as she attempted to hold on to the smokeberry vines. When she tried to pull on it, however, she found they broke off almost immediately. She let out a disappointed huff as she stood back to reassess.

"A monster?" he repeated dumbly. His amused smile had left his face, though she did not see it. His gaze was almost hurt now, eyeing her carefully.

"Yes. I fear for my life, in fact. Now, would you be so kind as to help me?" She turned her head towards him, awaiting his answer. He plainly ignored her question, however, and instead returned one.

"Who is it you speak of?"

She rolled her eyes at him and let out an annoyed breath.

"That, Ser, is none of your business. Now, if you please–"

"I fear I cannot help you until you answer me, my lady," he replied easily, a slightly smug look on his face now. He crossed his arms, observing her leisurely. What a strange man, she thought. Surely he knew who she was now? What other maiden had arrived to the Red Keep recently, with enough fear in her heart to attempt an escape in this manner?

When he did not relent, she huffed again. She stepped closer to him, waving her arms around slightly in annoyance. "Prince Valarr, of course. No one will speak of him, not even my father. That cannot mean anything good. He must be as cruel or useless as his cousins, if not worse."

A chill went down her spine at the thought of him being worse than Prince Aerion. Was such a thing possible? A flicker of emotion she could not place crossed his face. Now that she stood closer to him, the daylight reflecting in his eyes almost made it seem like they were two different shades. She could not determine what that reminded her of, but her stomach twisted slightly at her inability to place it.

"Ah, I see," was all he said, continuing to eye her curiously, shifting slightly on his feet. His lack of words frustrated her. What could he possibly want from her?

"Now, will you help me? Please?"

"One more question, my lady," He did not wait for her reply, but he seemed entertained by the scowl forming on her face. "Do you believe all Targaryens are monsters, as you say?"

She faltered slightly. Did he want to trick her into speaking treason, leading her to be executed?

"I would never speak such treason, Ser. Now, if you please…?"

"You want me to lift you over the wall so you may escape from the Red Keep?" He tried to clarify once again.

"That is what I said, yes," She said, beyond annoyed at his antics now.

"People will notice you are missing, will they not?" He questioned, not caring in the slightest for her clear annoyance.

"That is not my problem, for I will be long gone by then. Do not worry, they won't know you helped me. Now come on, make haste."

He once again stood there silently, not moving a muscle. She was quite done with him now, and attempted to climb the wall by herself. Once again, to no prevail.

"I have no intention of helping you, my lady," he said, a smile in his voice. His eyes twinkled at her, and she finally saw that his left eye was a brown hue, whereas his right eye was a bright blue. It would be quite enchanting to see, if he was not the most vexing man in the Seven Kingdoms in that moment.

"I am a lady in distress," she called out, desperation evident in her voice. "You refuse to help a lady in distress?" She came down from the wall again, approaching him. She stood only an arm's length away from him when he responded.

"I refuse, when that lady in distress is trying to escape the Red Keep, only so that she does not have to marry me."

Her eyes widened in shock at his words, and she took a quick step back. She suddenly remembered where she recognized those eyes. He had the same dual-colored eyes as his father, Prince Baelor. Those judgemental eyes seemed so soft now as he gazed upon her.

"Hello, gevie. I'm Valarr."

Note: gevie means ‘beautiful’ in Valyrian.

Hope you guys enjoyed! If you did, I would really appreciate if you reblog, like or leave a comment!

He held doors open for you even when you were twenty feet away and then just stood there waiting like an idiot. He memorized your schedule 'by accident' and somehow always ended up near your locker. He started hanging around Mr. Clarke’s classroom after school even though science made his brain hurt, just because you were there.

He’d stare during lunch, chin in his hand, smiling like a complete loser while you rambled about scholarships and college applications and how you couldn’t wait to see the world outside Hawkins.

Tommy caught him once and snapped his fingers in his face. “You’re doing the heart-eyes thing again.”

“The what?”

“The pathetic, princess-in-love look. It’s disgusting. I need you to get it together.”

He didn’t get it together.

If anything, he got worse.

The whole school knew. The way he lit up when you waved at him like you waved at everyone else. The way he’d drop whatever he was doing if you so much as looked like you needed help.

Everyone knew.

Except you.

You, apparently, were immune to the obvious because in your head, Steve Harrington was just. . . Steve Harrington. Popular. Nice, lately. Weirdly friendly. Probably like that with everyone.

You never noticed how his entire world tilted toward you.

You had bigger things to think about.

Like getting out of Hawkins.

Mr. Clarke had stopped you after class a week ago, papers tucked under his arm, glasses sliding down his nose. He’d cleared his throat in that hopeful way teachers did when they were about to ask for a favor.

“I’m starting a peer tutoring program,” he’d said. “Colleges love community involvement. It would look very good on scholarship applications.”

You’d said yes before he even finished the sentence.

Anything that helped you leave.

You didn’t hate Hawkins. It just never felt like it belonged to you. It felt small, like a sweater that shrank in the wash. Your dreams didn’t fit here. You wanted big libraries and campus buildings covered in ivy and lecture halls and cities where no one knew your last name.

Your family supported you completely. Your mom already saved college brochures in a neat stack on the kitchen counter. Your dad bragged about you to the neighbors like you’d already made it.

Leaving didn’t feel sad.

It felt necessary.

So you signed up to tutor, figuring maybe a freshman or two would show up for help with algebra or biology. Maybe no one at all. You wouldn’t have blamed them.

Which is why, when you walked into the library after school and followed the little handwritten sign that said PEER TUTORING →, you weren’t prepared to see Steve Harrington sitting at one of the tables.

Waiting.

For you.

For a second, you genuinely thought you’d walked into the wrong place.

Steve didn’t belong here. The late sunlight through the windows caught in his hair, turning it gold, and he looked so out of place it almost made you laugh.

Then he saw you.

And his whole face changed like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He sat up straighter so fast he almost knocked his chair over.

“Hey,” he said, a little breathless, like he’d run here. “Hi. You’re— uh. You’re the tutor, right?”

“. . . Yeah,” you said slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Are you lost?”

His heart actually stuttered.

Lost. God. If only you knew.

“I mean,” you added quickly, “this is the tutoring area. If you’re looking for the magazines or—”

“No,” he said too fast. “No, I’m supposed to be here. I signed up. For tutoring. With you. I mean— not with you specifically. I mean— I guess it is specifically. But like, academically. For school. Obviously.”

You blinked at him.

Steve Harrington. The guy who once asked if The Great Gatsby was a real person.

You stared at the neat pile of books in front of him.

“. . . You need tutoring?” you asked, genuinely confused.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Turns out if you don’t pay attention for, like, three years straight, stuff catches up with you.”

You laughed softly and that sound hit him straight in the chest.

God. He’d do anything to hear that again.

“Oh,” you said, pulling out the chair across from him. “Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at explaining things. What do you need help with?”

Everything, he almost said.

But not the homework.

He needed help with how you were sitting across from him, sleeves pushed up, pen tucked behind your ear, already focuse like this was the most important thing in the world. He needed help with how you bit your lip when you concentrated. How you leaned closer to his side of the table without even realizing it.

Instead, he slid the biology book toward you with slightly shaky hands.

“Cells,” he said. “They’re. . . confusing.”

You smiled at him like this was totally normal. Like he was just another student.

And Steve swore he’d never wanted to be anything more and anything less at the same time.

“Okay,” you said. “We’ll start easy.”

Easy. Right.

Except nothing about this was easy for him.

Because every time your fingers brushed his while passing a pencil, his brain short-circuited. Every time you leaned over to point something out, your shoulder bumping his, he forgot what planet he was on. He nodded along to explanations he barely heard because he was too busy staring at your mouth forming the words.

You thought he was struggling with science.

He was struggling with you.

“You’re actually catching on pretty fast,” you said after a while, surprised. “You’re not as bad at this as you think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re trying. That’s, like, ninety percent of it.”

Trying.

If you only knew.

He’d rearranged his entire schedule to be here. Asked Tommy to quiz him the night before so he wouldn’t look completely clueless. He’d even read the first two chapters so you wouldn’t think he was hopeless.

All because you were here.

Because the idea of you leaving Hawkins one day, chasing some big, shiny future, while he stayed behind. . . it twisted something ugly in his chest.

He wanted you to fly.

He just selfishly wished he could go with you.

“You know,” you said absently, scribbling notes for him, “I didn’t think anyone would actually sign up for this.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you said with a little laugh. “But I’m glad you did. It’s nice helping someone.”

He swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

You kept talking and Steve just. . . stared.

Not in a creepy way. Not on purpose.

He just couldn’t help it.

You had this little crease between your brows when you concentrated. You explained things with your hands, fingers tapping the table, drawing invisible diagrams in the air, and every time you leaned closer to underline something in his book, your shoulder brushed his and his brain turned to static.

He tried, really tried, to look at the page.

Cell membrane. Cytoplasm. Nucleus.

None of it stuck. All he could think about was how close you were.

“Okay,” you said, tapping the paper, “so think of the cell like a tiny city. The nucleus is like the mayor’s office. It controls everything. Does that make sense?”

Steve blinked.

You were looking at him so earnestly, waiting for his answer.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that actually. . . helps. A lot.”

Your face lit up, proud and pleased. “See? I told you. You’re not bad at this.”

God.

He thought, distantly, that this had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Hawkins High’s former golden boy reduced to putty because you told him he understood a metaphor.

Pathetic.

He’d fought monsters. Literally. And this, this tiny smile from you, was what took him out.

You kept teaching, and he kept pretending to follow along, nodding at the right times, scribbling down notes you handed him. But half the time he was just memorizing you instead. The soft little “okay” you said when he got something right.

By the time the session ended, his chest hurt. Not in a bad way. Just. . . full. Like he’d swallowed too much feeling and didn’t know where to put it.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, packing your bag.

He tried not to sound too eager. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

Great. Like this wasn’t going to be the highlight of his entire day.

The week after that, something was different. You didn’t notice it at first because you were busy, always busy but Steve Harrington started showing up in your life.

The first time, you were juggling way too many textbooks outside your locker, stack wobbling dangerously, and before you could even adjust your grip, a pair of familiar hands reached out and took half the weight.

“I got it,” Steve said.

“Oh— thanks,” you said, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. I’m strong. Carrying books is kind of my thing.”

You knew it was not but you laughed, and he swore he’d carry the entire library if it meant hearing that again.

Then you started noticing him at your debate competitions, leaning awkwardly against the back wall of the classroom, pretending he was just “walking by” even though debate club met on the opposite side of the school from literally everything he did. Every time you looked up mid-argument, there he was, watching you like you’d hung the moon, clapping a little too hard when you finished.

In class, he’d somehow snag the seat next to you before anyone else could, sliding into it with an almost shy, “This taken?” even though he knew you’d never say no. He’d save you a chair at lunch, push it out with his foot like it was nothing, cheeks pink when you thanked him like he’d done something special.

And the tutoring sessions. God, the tutoring sessions.

He started getting good. Like, actually good.

He showed up having already read the chapters. He remembered things you’d explained days ago. Once, he even corrected himself mid-problem and you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Wait,” you said, leaning closer to check his work, “this is right. Steve, this is completely right.”

“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.

“Yeah. That’s really good. Good job, Steve.”

Good job, Steve. It was such a normal thing to say.

You said it the same way you’d say it to anyone else. But to him, it felt like you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He actually stopped breathing for a second.

Heat crawled up his neck, ears burning, stomach flipping stupidly like he was thirteen again.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” he muttered, staring very hard at the paper so you wouldn’t see the way his smile went soft and helpless.

You didn’t notice, just kept going, already onto the next question.

He thought, distantly, that if you ever said you were proud of him, he might actually die on the spot.

He thought about asking you out a hundred times.

Every single session.

When you leaned over him to point at a diagram. When your knees bumped under the table. When you smiled and told him he was improving. When you got excited explaining something and grabbed his sleeve without thinking.

The words sat on the tip of his tongue.

Do you maybe want to get coffee sometime?

Do you want to go to the movies?

Do you want to go out with me?

But then he’d look at you talking about scholarships and universities and all the places you were going to go, all the things you were going to be, and something scared inside him would whisper, She’s out of your league.

You were brilliant. The kind of person teachers wrote recommendation letters for without being asked.

He was. . . Steve.

Former jerk. Former king. Current disaster with questionable grades.

Even if no one else believed it, even if the whole school thought you were lucky to have him hovering around, Steve secretly thought the opposite.

He felt lucky you even talked to him.

So instead of asking you out, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He tried harder.

He memorized your favorite authors after overhearing you talk about them with Nancy, went home and borrowed the books from the library just so he’d have something to say. He stayed up reading half-asleep, underlining sentences he thought you’d like. The next day, he’d casually drop, “Oh, yeah, I started that book you mentioned,” like it was no big deal while internally panicking.

Your face would light up every time. “Wait, really? You’re reading that?”

“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “It’s pretty good.”

You smiled at him, completely oblivious, and launched into a ten-minute rant about the book and he listened like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

And Steve sat there every single day thinking the same hopeless, aching thought. If he was brave enough, maybe one day you’d finally see what everyone else already did.

How completely, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you he was.

The opportunity came wrapped in cheap tinsel and paper snowflakes taped crookedly to the hallway ceiling.

You were hunched over the library table with Steve again, pencil tapping against your lip while you explained balancing equations for what felt like the fifteenth time, when the intercom crackled to life with some overly cheerful announcement about the Snowball Dance.

You barely registered it beyond a vague mental note that the gym would be unusable for the next week because student council would inevitably turn it into a dance zone.

Steve, on the other hand, heard the words Snowball Dance and nearly swallowed his tongue.

He tried to act normal, nodding along while you talked, but his brain had completely abandoned chemistry and latched onto one thought like a dog with a bone.

Dance.

Dance meant dates.

Dates meant asking someone.

Which meant maybe, possibly, if the universe was feeling merciful, he could finally ask you. His palms started sweating so bad he had to wipe them on his jeans.

You didn’t notice. You were busy drawing little diagrams and saying, “See? You just move the coefficient here.”

When the session ended, you both started packing up, you sliding your color-coded notes into neat folders, him shoving books into his bag with way too much nervous energy, when a familiar voice drifted over.

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite nerds.”

Nancy.

You looked up immediately, smiling. “Hey.”

Nancy leaned against the table, eyes flicking between the two of you in a way that felt suspiciously knowing. “I was actually looking for you,” she said to you. “What are you wearing to the dance?”

You blinked. “The dance?”

“The Snowball,” she said patiently. “This weekend. You are going, right?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I think so. My mom found this amazing blue dress in the back of her closet. It’s kind of old, but it’s nice.” You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

“And who are you going with?” Nancy pressed, way too casually.

You laughed. “No one? I mean, I’m not entirely sure anyone’s even going to ask me, so I’ll probably just show up and hover near the snack table or something. It’s fine. I mostly just want the extra credit for attendance.”

Steve felt like someone had just set off fireworks inside his ribcage.

Nancy’s gaze slid to him slowly and then she gave him the look.

It was long and pointed and screamed, If you don’t ask her out right now, I will personally strangle you, Harrington.

Steve panicked.

Nancy patted your arm. “Well, you’ll look pretty no matter what,” she said. “Jonathan’s dragging me, so at least we’ll all suffer together.”

You smiled. “Have fun.”

She shot Steve one last sharp stare before walking away.

The silence that followed felt deafening.

Steve’s heart was beating so hard he was convinced you could hear it. You were still organizing your bag, completely unaware that this was possibly the most stressful moment of his entire life.

Just ask her.

It’s not that hard.

It’s literally just words.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He closed it.

Tried again.

“So,” he started, voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. He cleared his throat. “So. Uh. The dance.”

“Yeah?” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“You said you didn’t have a date.”

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s fine though. I’m not super big on dances anyway.”

Right. Cool. This was fine. He was dying.

“Well,” he rushed out, words tripping over each other, “maybe you. . . I mean— if you wanted we could, uh, like go together? If you want. Totally cool if you don’t. I just thought, you know, since we’re already tutoring and yeah.”

He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

You just stared at him for a second. Then you smiled. Like he’d just offered you something nice and simple and not the entire fragile state of his heart.

“I’d like that,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll go with you, Steve.”

He stopped breathing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you laughed. “I mean, you’re basically the only person I talk to after school anyway. Might as well.”

Might as well.

It shouldn’t have made him that happy.

But it did. It really, really did.

The days leading up to the dance were unbearable for everyone around him.

Because Steve would not shut up.

He talked about it constantly. At his locker. In the hallway. During lunch. To Tommy H. and Carol. To random freshmen. To literally anyone who made eye contact for longer than two seconds.

“Do you think blue is, like, a flower color? Should I get her a flower? Is that too much? Do girls still like flowers? What if she hates flowers? Oh my god, what if she hates dancing—”

“You’ve been on actual dates before,” Carol groaned. “Why are you acting like this is your first crush ever?”

“Because it kind of is,” Tommy muttered, annoyed. “He’s gone full loser. It’s painful to watch.”

Steve didn’t even argue. He just grinned like an idiot and kept talking about you.

They were sick of it but he couldn’t help it. He felt like his life was about to start.

When the night finally came, everything felt. . . good.

And then you walked in and you looked like the only thing in the room that mattered.

Steve forgot every single word he’d ever learned.

You smiled when you saw him, waving a little.

“Hey.”

The night blurred after that. He held your hand during slow songs. You talked in the corner about everything and nothing, about college applications and your favorite books and stupid childhood stories. He told you things he didn’t tell anyone, about feeling lost sometimes, about not knowing what came after high school, about being scared of messing up.

You listened and for the first time, Steve felt seen.

You laughed together, danced badly together, shared terrible punch and even worse cookies. At one point your head tipped back when you laughed and he thought, distantly, If this is all I ever get, it’s enough.

Walking you home felt like the end of a movie. His heart was so full it almost hurt.

At your doorstep, you turned to him, smiling, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek.

His brain shut off completely. He thought he might actually pass out.

And then you smiled at him. “Thank you for being such a great friend, Steve.”

Friend.

It hit harder than anything else. Harder than a punch. Harder than rejection.

Friend.

His heart didn’t just drop. It shattered.

He stood there, frozen, mouth open, watching you disappear inside.

The door clicked shut.

He didn’t move. Just stood on your porch for ten whole minutes, staring at the wood grain, replaying everything in his head and feeling stupider with every second. Of course. Of course you only saw him as a friend. Why wouldn’t you? You were you. He was just some guy who needed tutoring and followed you around like a lost puppy. What made him think you’d ever look at him the way he looked at you?

He laughed once, bitter and quiet.

Idiot.

Absolute idiot.

But then something in his chest twisted, stubborn. If he walked away now, he’d regret it forever. So before he could talk himself out of it, he turned back and rang the doorbell again.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please—

The door opened.

It was you.

Hair slightly messy, earrings gone, rings off which told him you were already winding down for the night.

“Steve?” you said. “Did you forget something?”

You stood there in the doorway looking at him like this was the most normal thing in the world, like boys didn’t usually show up on your porch ten minutes after dropping you off at midnight looking like they were about to either confess their love or throw up.

Your hair was half falling out of whatever you’d done to it for the dance, little pieces soft around your face, earrings gone, makeup smudged just enough to make you look real and tired and warm instead of polished and perfect. You had on an old sweater, sleeves too long, swallowing your hands, and Steve thought, distantly, that this version of you might actually kill him faster than the dress did.

“Steve?” you asked again, gentler this time. “Are you okay?”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing.

Closed it.

His brain was screaming at him to abort mission, go home, save whatever dignity he had left, but his heart was louder, pounding so hard he swore you could probably see it through his shirt.

“I— yeah. I mean. No. I don’t know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up for once. “Can we— can we talk for a second?”

Your brows pulled together immediately, worried. You stepped out onto the porch and closed the door softly behind you so you wouldn’t wake your parents.

“Of course. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Yeah, he thought. I fell in love with you and you called me your friend and now I feel like I got hit by a truck.

Instead, he just looked at you.

God.

You were looking at him like you cared.

Like you were already bracing to help him.

It made everything worse and better at the same time.

“I just—” He exhaled hard, hands on his hips, pacing once like he was about to give a presentation. “When you said that thing earlier. The friend thing.”

You tilted your head. “What thing?”

“When you said thanks for being such a great friend,” he said.

“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Yeah. Because you are. You’ve been really sweet lately, Steve. Like, really sweet. You didn’t have to come to my debate stuff or help me carry books or—”

“That’s the thing,” he blurted.

You stopped.

He looked at you like he was about to jump off a cliff.

“I don’t do this for my friends, okay?” he said. “I don’t match ties and memorize your stupid study schedule and wait outside tutoring for forty minutes just to walk you there for my friends.”

You blinked.

“. . . You wait outside tutoring?”

“Yeah,” he said helplessly. “All the time. Because you always show up early and I didn’t want you sitting alone.”

Your brain stalled.

“I don’t read Jane Austen and whatever that other one is— Brontë?— for my friends. I don’t buy strawberry milk when it’s disgusting just because you like it. I don’t sign up for tutoring I don’t even need just to sit across from someone for an hour for my friends.”

Your mouth fell open a little.

“. . . You hate strawberry milk?”

“It’s terrible,” he said immediately. “I don't get how you drink it.”

You stared at him. “Huh,” you said faintly. “So you didn’t match your Snowball tie to my dress on accident?”

Steve froze.

“. . . You noticed that?”

“It was literally the exact same shade of blue,” you said. “I thought it was a coincidence.”

He let out this small, broken laugh and covered his face with his hand. “Oh my god. I spent two hours at the store trying to match it. Nancy almost killed me.”

“Oh,” you breathed.

Oh.

All those times he showed up. All those little things. The books. The seat saving. The tutoring. The way he looked at you like you were saying something important even when you were just rambling about mitochondria.

Your stomach flipped.

Steve dropped his hand and looked at you again, eyes wide and terrified and so soft it made your chest ache.

“I like you,” he said, finally, simply, like it cost him everything. “Not like a friend. Not even a little. I’ve liked you for months. I just— I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that. You’re. . . you’re you. And I’m just me.”

You frowned immediately. “Steve.”

“No, let me finish before I pass out,” he rushed. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just— I couldn’t go home with you thinking I was doing all this because I’m nice. I’m not that nice. I’m selfish. I do it because I want to be around you all the time. Because you’re my favorite person. Because when you talk about leaving Hawkins, it freaks me out because I can’t picture this place without you in it.”

Your heart was beating so loud you could hear it in your ears.

He swallowed.

“So yeah. That’s it. I like you. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.”

For a second, neither of you said anything.

And then you stepped closer.

Steve immediately tensed like you were about to reject him and he was bracing for impact.

Instead, you reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.

He short-circuited.

“Steve Harrington,” you said slowly, “you absolute idiot.”

His heart dropped. “Oh.”

“I thought you were just being nice,” you continued. “I thought you felt bad for me or something. I didn’t think. . . I mean, why would I think you liked me?”

He stared at you. “Why wouldn’t you?”

You gestured vaguely at yourself. “I’m me. I carry six books at all times and talk about scholarships for fun.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Exactly.”

Your throat tightened.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Oh.

The way he looked at you suddenly made sense.

Everything did.

You laughed a little, shaky and fond. “Steve, you’re such a dork.”

He smiled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been told.”

“But,” you said, stepping even closer, “for the record. . . I don’t go to dances with just friends either.”

His brain stopped working.

“. . . What?”

“I said,” you murmured, cheeks warm, “I wouldn’t have gone with you if I didn’t like you too.”

The hope that lit up his face was so bright it almost hurt to look at.

“Wait. Really?”

“Really.”

“Like. . . like like me?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Yes, Steve. Like like you. You’re cute. And you carry my books. And you listen to me talk about boring stuff without falling asleep. That’s basically marriage material.”

He laughed, breathless, disbelieving.

“You’re serious?”

“Steve,” you said softly, “I’ve liked you for a while. I just thought you were out of my league.”

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was purple.

“Out of— are you insane?”

You both laughed, nervous and giddy and a little overwhelmed.

And then you were just. . . standing there.

Close.

Really close.

His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.

You noticed. So you took pity on him and slid your hands up into his jacket, gripping the fabric.

His breath hitched.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, like it was the most fragile question in the world.

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can.”

He leaned in slow, like he was scared you’d disappear if he moved too fast, one hand cupping your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. His lips brushed yours soft.

When you pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots, foreheads touching, noses bumping.

Steve let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “So. . . not just friends?”

You smiled, kissing him again. “Definitely not just friends.”

In the distance a familiar tent appeared, the opulence of it setting it apart from those around it, with rich black and red fabrics and intricately carved black dragon heads circling the top of the tent. Upon seeing the princess approaching the guards at the entrance pull back the tents opening and announce her arrival.

Turning to see his wife at the tents entrance the prince’s face breaks out into a beaming smile, “Ah! My love” he exclaims, abandoning his position in the centre of the makeshift room to meet his approaching wife. Before she knew what was happening the prince had wrapped his arms around his young bride and brought her into his embrace, she giggled as Valarr kissed the soft skin in the crook of her neck. “Leave us” his dismissal was  almost unintelligible as he mumbled against his wife’s skin.

The lady rolled her eyes, amused at her husband’s lovesick display, before turning her attention to his squire Cedric who stood frozen in the centre of the tent, the breastplate to Valarr’s armour still in his hand from where he intended to fix it to the prince before the interruption. “I can help the prince ready his armour” she reassured him before urging Valarr away from her and back towards the table where his armour was splayed out.

His young squire seemed hesitant, no doubt worried he would be under fire if the princes armour was not sufficiently secured before he joined the lists. Sensing his hesitancy Valarr pulled away from the princess and slapped his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder and moved to reassure him, “Do not worry Cedric, I am certain my wife will ensure I am well protected before I join the lists.” This seemed to convince the boy as he quickly moved to lay down the breastplate he had been holding and follow the guards out the tent’s makeshift door.

The couple enjoyed a rare moment of peace, sharing small loving smiles and the princess attempting to suppress a blush under the prince’s loving stare as she moved to pick up the prince’s breastplate and begin to secure it to him. Vallar’s voive broke through the silence, just as his lady wife circled her arms around him to tighten the straps of his armour. “I take it I will be blessed with your favour when I ask my love?” he inquired.

“Do not dare ask for my favour Valarr” the princess exclaimed in shock, tilting her head suddenly to look up at the prince, only now realising how little space their new position afforded them, their faces now just inches apart from one another.

“And why ever not?” he inquired, bemused by her reaction. Valarr pulled his wife into his embrace, allowing his hands to rest on her waist. “Why would I not ask for the favour of my beautiful wife?” he asked it as though the suggestion that he carry anyone else’s favour was unthinkable.

Sighing the princess smiled up at him “Because this tourney is for the young Lady Gwin’s name day and you are one of her champions, if you ask for anyone’s favour it should be her favour you ask for.” She replied, a teasing lilt to her voice.

“Well than I shall not carry any favour if it is not yours” he countered in a similarly teasing tone.

“No don’t do that” she muttered, her mocking gone and a sad glint in her eye that broke the through the jovial atmosphere of the tent, the prince once said that his greatest weakness was her tears. “Gods know I would have fainted if a prince of the realm had asked me for my favour at her age” a small smile graced her face as she continued, “especially such a handsome one” she added, her words caused a grin to spread across the prince’s face and he ran his tongue across his lip briefly as he allowed his eyes to flick down to her lips. “I will not deprive her of that joy” she fixed him with a firm stare before continuing “… and neither will you.”

“My love” Valarr sighed dramatically throwing his head back.

“Please?” she asked sweetly, and how could he refuse her?

Sighing he gave in, “Fine, but you must know you are cruel, … depriving your husband of a token of good luck when I face up against other knights in the lists?” he tuts, shaking his head in jest.

“That is not my intention, and you know it” she countered, but the prince was making a show of his disagreement, the princess rolled her eyes amused by her husband’s teasing. “Fine then” she declared before breaking away from him, much to the prince’s annoyance he did not like to have her out of his reach. The lady reached for the sleeve of her dress and pulled out an intricately embroidered handkerchief, she had embroidered it herself, when they were still just betrothed, it depicted a sleeping dragon, peacefully slumbering in a field of wildflowers. “Here, you can wear this bellow your armour” she declared, tucking the handkerchief between his firm chest and the breastplate she had just secured into place. “This way you can still carry a token of my love and affection while making a show of asking the Lady Gwin for her favour” the lady said raising her gaze to his eyes and leaning in to lay a fleeting kiss on his lips. When she pulled away Valarr chased after her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her into a deeper kiss. After a moment he stared down at her so lovingly it was as though the tourney around them as faded away entirely and the prince lent in to kiss her again.

“By my heart where you belong” Valarr declared in a teasing manner as they broke away from their kiss.

“You’re a fool” she scoffed, pulling away from his embrace to continue to fasten his armour.

“A fool in love with his wife, you cannot fault me for that”

The princess found herself in the royal box alongside the Lord Ashford and his daughter Gwin, seated between Prince Baelor, her good-father and Prince Maekar, to watch the tourney, though she found her gaze wandering to her husband’s armoured figure across the tourney field. He was seated in front of his tent alongside the rest of Lady Gwin’s champions.

Before the princess had realised what was happening Valarr was called to join the lists and tilt against Ser Alister Hightower. Both knights mounted their steeds and readied their lances before taking his place at the end of the tourney field Valarr moved towards the royal box and raised his lance up to Lady Gwin.

“Would you bless me with your favour my lady?” he asked his gaze set on the young Lady Gwin. The princess offered Lady Gwin a small reassuring smile as she rose from her seat, blushing heavily and barely containing her giggles as she looped her favour around Valarr’s lance. As Lady Gwin turned to sit down, she shared a shy smile with the princess before returning to her seat.

Valarr winks to his wife before he spurs his horse on, to take his place at the end of the tourney field. Baelor turned to his daughter-by-law and leaning in he gave her a kind smile, “I assume that was your idea lovely” he inquired.

“I don’t know what you mean your grace” she replied. Baelor suppressed a chuckle at her words and hide a small smile behind his ringed hand.  

The horn rang out, announcing the tilt and both knights rode out, thundering towards each other. The two knights meet in a storm of splinters in the centre of the field as both lances shattered on impact. The impact was jarring and the princess found herself unable to prevent herself from grabbing Prince Baelor’s arm in search of comfort. Valarr faulted in his saddle but righted himself quickly and prepared reached out to grasp a new lance and ready himself to charge again. Baelor reached a hand down to cover hers, his fingers patting hers comfortingly as the two knights charged again, once again they met in the centre of the field and Valarr’s lance struck Ser Alister hard, knocking him to the ground. The princess forced herself to remain in her seat to avoid jumping and hollering in joy and undoubtedly making a scene unbefitting of a princess. Valarr had won the tilt, his eyes meeting his wives across the field as the crowd erupted in cheers, celebrating the young prince’s victory.

Valarr was back seated in front of his tent, waiting to be chosen as an opponent for a tilt. He seemed rather peaceful, undisturbed as he lounged in front of his tent, his black dragon embellished armour making him look every inch the Targaryen prince. That was until his cousin Prince Aerion rode onto the tourney field, he stalked in front of Lady Gwin’s chosen champions, stopping directly across from Valarr. Even from across the tourney field the princess could see how Valarr straightened, the relationship between the princes had long been strained, and she knew that though Valarr was usually level-headed and reasonable, that he would not be able to resist the chance to knock Aerion down. Aerion’s nature is cruel he is a cunning violent monster disguised as a prince of the realm, across the field the Lady’s breathe hitched, she turned to her goodfather to gage his reaction, to see Baelor anxiously playing with the rings on his fingers, though his face remained a mask of calm neutrality. Though Prince Baelor prefers to keep Valarr sheltered, competing only against carefully selected knights so to reduce the risk of his heir being seriously injured during a tilt, the lady had no doubt her husband could hold his own against an honourable knight of Aerion’s ability but Aerion was no honourable knight and would not think twice about using underhand tricks to win a joust if he thought his pride would be wounded.

Valarr stood, intent on meeting his cousins challenge but, Aerion’s voice rang out “Cousin” there was pregnant pause, the crowd almost silent in anticipation while her mind conjured sickening images of her husband lay wounded on a muddy tourney field to satiate the ego of psychotic princeling. “Not to worry I will not embarrass you today” he continued before riding down the row of champions again before halting before Ser Humfrey Hardyng’s tent and calling out to him “Come out, come out little knight!” his voice dripped with condescension “It’s time you faced a dragon.”

Aerion rode out to take his place for the joust. Ser Humfrey rode past him to take his position opposite the psychotic knight. The two knights charged at each other, but where the clash of lances and the spray of splinters was expected, there was nothing, the cowardly prince dodged Ser Humfrey’s lance, steering his horse away. Ser Humfrey replaced his lance and prepared to charge again, on the second charge Aerion’s lance was angled not at Ser Humfrey Hardyng’s shield as it should have rather it was angled towards his horse. Gasps echoed through the crowd as Prince Aerion stabs his lance into the poor creature and forcing Ser Humfrey off course. The horse charged through a fence and after a struggle to stay in his saddle, Ser Humfrey was thrown from his saddle and was pinned to the ground by his dying horse, his screams ripped through the air as Prince Aerion paraded his victory in front of thee stands revelling in the outrage his dishonourable actions have caused.  

The crowd erupted into outraged shouts, disgusted by their dragon prince. One man from the crowd lands a well-aimed blow to Prince Aerion’s helm with a rock, inciting the crowd to climb the barricades, guards rush out to control the crowd, and amongst the chaos Prince Baelor grasps his good-daughter by her arms. He urges her to stand, “Move, you go with guards and retreat back to the castle we don’t want you getting mixed up in the chaos” he urges her with a gentle yet firm push towards the Kingsguard. Ser Donnel Duskendale escorts her back to the safety of the Ashford castle.

The tent was quiet, Valarr left to take his armour off alone, having dismissed his squire. His muscles are tense and his movements jerky, filled with pent up frustration.

“Allow me to help you, my love.” Valarr spun around at the sound of his wife’s voice. She stood near the entrance to the make-shift room back lit by the late afternoon sun and smiling up at him with that soft gentle smile that disarmed him instantly. Valarr sighed and the lady took that as her opportunity to approach him, standing behind him and reaching to undo the clasps holding his dragon armour to him.

A soft sense of quiet settled over the tent, the lady often found that the best answer to her husband’s frustration was silence, allowing him to work through his thoughts before making an attempt to comfort him. So the princess began silently undoing the clasps holding the prince’s armour together, slowly, carefully and meticulously removing the black iron plates of his armour and laying them on the large wooden table in the centre of the tent. Once his armour had been shed she wrapped her arms tight around his middle from behind.

The hum of the tourney outside of their tent could still be heard but as the prince looked down at his loving wife, he felt it melt away. As the princess reached to remove his breastplate Valarr pulled his love’s token from where it sat against his chest, not wanting to see it fall to the floor when the iron keeping it in place was removed. He ran his fingers over it, admiring the dragon design, a sleeping dragon on a bed of wildflowers, he could remember his lady wife first showing it to him. They were sharing a walk through the gardens of the Red Keep; they had only just begun courting and were still flustered in each other’s presents though even now over a year into marriage she still managed to fluster him daily. She looked up to meet his eye, a soft pink blush across her cheek as she shyly stumbled through her explanation of her handywork, she explained that the design represented their union at least in her eyes.

“Why are you pouting?” she said cutting through the silence, a teasing tone in her voice.

He looked over his shoulder so that he could see her face, “I am not pouting.” Her eyebrows rose at that, “I do not pout.” He argued.

She ran her hands up his back feeling his tight muscles relax under her touch, “Something is on your mind, share it with me” she insisted.

“I don’t wish to burden you with my worries” he replied, pulling her to face him fully and grasping both of her hands in his.

“I am your wife,” she replied firmly “your burdens are my burdens, your worries are my worries” he knew his stubborn wife would not drop the topic anytime soon.

“Father has me jousting against lesser opponent and I know you will tell me it is out of worry for my security but what does my safety matter if the people do not see me as a worthy knight”, he sighed out. He ran his thoumbs over her knuckles as he continued, “these people will be my subjects one day and I will need their respect … I will need the respect of the realms lords if I am to lead them but, all they see is a coddled princeling” his voice drifted off and his lady squeezed his hands tight to comfort him. Her cherished handkerchief was still grasped tight in his left hand.

“That is not all”, she replied “speak it so that it may drift away”.

He sighed pulling her closer to gain comfort from the warmth of his wife, “…and I fear for you” he muttered, “Aerion’s actions today were not only a dishonourable, embarrassing display but a reminder to me of the threat he poses. I live in fear that one day he will grow bored.” His eyes didn’t quite meet hers instead his gaze was fixed on something above her head. His voice had lowered as though he feared somehow speaking his fears into existence “…every day I fear Aerion will grow bored of tormenting servants and lesser lords and turn his twisted cruelty onto you, and … what if I am not there to defend you, to stand between you.” He huffed, “It is no secret he has had eyes for you before; he has tried to take you from me before; he had been intent on marrying you before Grandfather betrothed you to me. He has grown bolder in his brutality, what if he grows bored? What if he tries to take you from me? What if he-”. His rambling was cut short when his lady had reached up to press her lips firmly to his, but before he could deepen the kiss, she pulled her head back slightly disconnecting their lips and looking into his eyes.

“You talk too much” she says with a small smile. “I. Am. Not. Going. Anywhere.” She pressed a kiss to his cheeks and then to his lips between each word. “I will not be so easy to take from your side, I am here now and I am here to stay” she asserted “and no psychotic prince is going to change that”. Her words worked to suppress his fears for the time being, his worries would return but for now the prince was content to just hold his love a little closer.

———————

Ever since you were a child you had been fascinated by dragons. To you, they were the most beautiful creatures that had ever existed. However, you had never actually seen a dragon. You would see pictures of them in the books you’d read and dreamed of getting to see one in person.

As it turns out, your wish would be granted. After King Viserys’ death, a struggle for the crown would begin. In order to gain new allies, Queen Rhaenyra proposed that you would marry her oldest son, Jacaerys. Your father eagerly accepted the offer and just like that, you were shipped off to Dragonstone.

Jace was kind and respectful towards you, not to mention he was absolutely gorgeous. He told you he didn’t expect you to blindly obey him and that he would never command anything of you without reason. Infact, he only set one rule, no dragons.

You tried to protest, saying that you didn’t even need to be so close to them, that you simply wanted to look from afar but he would not even allow you that. His rule came out of a place of concern, he was worried for your safety. Dragons could be incredibly dangerous and as the days went on, he got to know you better and fell even further in love. He became even more protective.

So instead, you would stand by the windows and watch as the dragons flew around. The claimed and unclaimed alike would fly all throughout the day, far up in the sky, it was as if they were in their own world. But everyday, multiple times a day, someone would be tasked with flying around Dragonstone to patrol the area. Some days, it would be Baela on Moondancer. Others it was Rhaenys on Meleys. Sometimes it was even Lucerys and Arrax.

Your favorite thing to do was sit outside, either on the rocks or the sand and listen to the different roars of the dragons as you watched. You noted that Caraxes sounded much different from the others and you wondered if it had something to do with the beast's long neck. You were never outside for long before Jace would find you and ask for you to come inside. Sometimes, if he was busy, he would send Luke or Rhaena. He had asked Baela once but she told him if she went out there, she’d take you for a ride on Moondancer. He went and got you himself that day.

You had been sitting on a large rock outside like any other day when Daemon approached you. He was getting ready to patrol on dragonback.

“Lady Y/N,” he greeted, making you look up from your book.

You smiled, nodding your head, “Your grace.”

He smirks, “I wish to ask you if you’d accompany me to the dragon pit today, I see how you admire the dragons from afar but wouldn’t it be so much better to see one up close?”

You can’t help the way you perk up at his offer, but you instantly sigh remembering your bethrothed’s one rule, “I would love to, your grace—“

He holds his hand up, cutting you off, “Please, we are to be family soon, call me Daemon.”

“Daemon,” you clear your throat, “Prince Jacaerys has made it clear that I am to avoid the dragon pit… for my safety.”

He rolls his eyes, “Jacaerys does not control you, besides, I will be there with you, no harm will come to you.”

You nibble your lip, “He really does worry…”

Daemon clicks his tongue, “Did I not just say that I would not allow you to be hurt? Now, would you like to see Caraxes?”

“I would love to…” you breathe out, still worried about Jace.

“Then come now,” he offers you his hand, when you hesitate he smiles and speaks teasingly, “don’t make me command you as your king.”

“Māzīs Caraxes, māzīs,” Daemon called out into the dark. [Come Caraxes, come.]

Slowly, Caraxes stepped into the light causing you to gasp. The dragon lets out a roar and Daemon chuckles.

“Incredible…” you mutter before clearing your throat, “his roar… it’s uh, much different from the others I’ve heard, is that due to his neck?”

Daemon grins at you, “You’re very clever,” he then turns his attention back to his dragon, “lykirī Caraxes, demās, demās.” [be calm Caraxes, sit, sit.]

Caraxes complies with the commands Daemon asks and sinks lower to the ground, breathing out a huff of air, you can feel the warmth even from your current distance.

Daemon approaches the dragon, bringing his hand up to the side of the beast's head, he whispers to him in High Valyrian. You could not hear what he was saying and even if you could you wouldn’t understand but you assume it was more reassurance.

After what feels like ages, Daemon steps away from Caraxes and looks at you, “You may approach.”

You take a deep breath and take a few slow steps forward, annoyed by your speed, Daemon grabs your wrist and drags you forward, making you yelp.

He holds your wrist near Caraxes’ snout, “Allow him to learn your scent.”

You remain as still as possible, watching Caraxes’ expression as he sniffs your wrist. You can feel the warmth of his breath on you, it’s nearly scalding. Caraxes lets out a noise and Daemon chuckles.

“He’ll allow you to touch him.”

“Are you sure?” you squeak out, shocked.

He nods, “Yes, very.”

Shaking slightly, you raise your hand to the side of Caraxes’ head just as Daemon had done moments ago. You then raise your other hand to the other side of his head. you let out a giggle when the Blood Wyrm lets out a breath, pushing his head further into your hands, trying to touch his head to yours.

“He likes you,” Daemon murmurs.

You hum, “I am glad, my betrothed would be sad if I was eaten.”

He chuckles, “He would be,” Daemon pauses as a smirk begins to creep onto his face, “Tell me, Lady Y/N, how much do you know about us Targaryens and our dragons?”

“Not much…” you mumble, petting Caraxes’ scaly skin, “just that you bond with them, communicate in High Valyrian, and can ride them…”

He hums, stepping a bit closer, gesturing towards your stomach, “Well… when the prince puts a babe in you—“

Your face immediately flushes at his vulgar words and you let out a squeak making him chuckle before continuing, “a bit before you give birth, he will pick a dragon egg for the babe… the child and the egg will share a crib, allowing the two to form an even stronger bond.”

You clear your throat, trying to find your voice, “That is…interesting, informative…”

Daemon chuckles and Caraxes huffs out more air, almost like he was communicating with his rider.

“He’ll let you ride him.”

Forgetting your previous embarrassment, you drop your hands from Caraxes, laughing a bit as he tries to nudge his head towards you, you’re shocked as you stare at Daemon, “Really?”

He nods, “Would you like to?”

“Yes.”

“No,” Jacaerys announces his arrival, his hand on the hilt of his sword, “she would not.”

“Jace—“ you begin but are cut off by Daemon.

“Jacaerys, that question wasn’t for you,” Daemon smirks, clearly glad to have gotten under the boy's skin.

Your betrothed glares at Daemon before looking at you, his gaze softens just a bit but you can still see the fire in his eyes, “My love, I have been searching for you, please, come with me now.”

Caraxes lets out a noise that sounds as though he is annoyed. Daemon quickly calms the dragon and you shoot him a small smile before taking Jace’s hand and allowing him to lead you out of the dragon pit.

When he finally let go of your hand, you were far away from the dragon pit and in your chambers.

“My prince, is this proper?” you ask quietly.

He practically scoffs, “I have told you many times to call me Jacaerys or Jace, there is no need for such formal titles since we are to be wed- which might I add, is why my being in your chambers is not so improper.”

“Are you…” you take a breath, “are you angry with me?”

Jace sighs and brings his hand up to your cheek, speaking softly, “No, my love, I was simply worried… I know I should trust Daemon but I don’t like you being alone with him, that’s not mentioning the fact you were so close to a dragon… ”

“I’m sorry, I just…”

“I know, dear, I know,” he pulls you into a hug, holding your head to his chest, “you find the dragons beautiful… and I, I am very protective…” he pulls back and presses a kiss to your forehead.

You frown slightly, using your hands to cup his face, “It is not just the dragons, Jace… I want to understand the bond you have with Vermax, I want to understand your culture… I want to understand you.”

Feeling shy, you look to the ground. Jace is silent for what seems like hours before finally answering.

“I suppose it is true I should have introduced you to Vermax long ago.”

You look up at him, a hopeful glint in your eyes, “Really?”

He hums, “I can not keep you from him forever… and there is an old belief that dragons can feel their riders ‘mates’, that they become just as protective of them as they are with their riders.”

A small grin finds its way to your face, “Then I suppose I’ll have two overprotective dragons looking after me.”

“I suppose you will,” he presses a kiss to your forehead.

Jace introduced you to Vermax soon after, the dragon immediately took a liking to you. He nuzzled against your hands, bumped his head on yours, and would cry when you’d leave. It was clear that the dragon had instantly bonded to you and that became even more abundantly clear when the beast began to seek you out.

You had been sitting in the grass, reading when you heard Vermax roar from above you. Normally he would simply be flying around Dragonstone with the others but today he was looking for you. The dragon landed near you causing the ground to shake. For a moment you were fearful, but then you remembered how Vermax had previously behaved with you and that fear dwindled. He began to crawl towards you and once he was close enough, you reached out to touch the side of his head. Vermax let out a sound of content and laid down in the grass. The dragon began to curl his body around you, there was no doubt that you would smell like dragon later.

Vermax dropped his head near your leg, careful not to crush you under the weight. You opened up your book and began to read once more, you hadn’t even realized you had been outside for so long until Jace found you. Actually, you hadn’t realized he had approached until he spoke.

“I’m beginning to think you’re only marrying me for my dragon.”

You look up at him, “No, I’m marrying you because my Lord father commanded it and I was given no choice.“

There’s a moment of silence before you begin to giggle, much to Jace’s relief, “I’m only jesting, Jace… Perhaps… it was simply out of duty at first but… I find myself more in love with you with every day that passes.”

Warmth begins to creep up Jace’s neck and onto his cheeks, making you laugh again.

You pat the ground next to you, “Come, sit with us.”

Vermax lets out a rumble as Jace sits next to you. The dragon puffs out air, seemingly annoyed.

“Now I’m starting to think he likes you more than he likes me.”

You bump your shoulder against Jaces, “Don’t be silly, my love, he is only protective.”

“He should be protecting you from threats, not me who simply wants to see his beautiful bethrothed.”

“Well, maybe he’s the jealous type… they do say dragons often display behavior similar to their riders.”

Jace huffs, “I was not jealous, regardless, it is almost time to sup, we must be going inside now.”

The prince stands up and offers you his hand and when you take it, Vermax lets out a whine.

Jace chuckles at his dragons clingy behavior, although he knows he shouldn’t. After all, he behaves the same way.

Growing up behind the tall walls of The Eyrie, you had to find some way to entertain yourself. Perhaps if you had been allowed to play with your younger half brother Robin, you would have found some other way to occupy your mind. 

But your stepmother would never have allowed it, always coddling her Sweetrobin. 

With your father always lost in his work or away as the hand of the king, you found yourself sneaking into the Maesters rooms of the castle, reading notes and observing the plants. It didn’t take long for the old man to catch you and, taking pity on the poor young lady of the house, sit you down and teach you about the different herbs. 

You had your fair share of learning from your Septas, of course. As a girl born into nobility, into House Arryn no less, you knew everything a proper lady should know. How to sew, how to plan a dinner, how to speak quietly, how to care for your children. But plants? Herbs? These things were so new to you, and you found yourself infatuated with their properties.

In fact, you were so obsessed, you begged the Maester to allow you a few seeds, so that you could start a garden beside the fountain in the castle. He allowed you, of course, even checking in on your garden and explaining the different conditions each plant needed. You ate up all the knowledge you could behind the walls of the castle, and the fauna was no different.

One topic your stepmother forbade you from learning about though, was soulmates.

You asked the Maester about his soulmate once, back when you were only 10 namedays along. You remember the way his hand twitched, a soft, faraway look in his eye. He was forbidden to tell you anything, but you knew from the look on his face, the question must have brought happy thoughts to his mind.

Even at only 10 namedays, you knew the reason your stepmother didn’t want you learning about soulmates. She planned to marry you off as soon as you were old enough, and she couldn’t have you fantasising about the follies of love and faith in the old Gods when she needed you to marry whoever would be a convenient ally.

The thought wasn’t something you would ever admit upset you. Taking your education into your own hands, you found a book detailing the history of soulmates in the library, where you found that:

‘Not all folk are destined to find their soulmates in this life, but if not in this one, they will be together in another. The soulmate bond signifies more than just a perfect match between two, it is a mark of one soul split directly into two. This is no pairing of hearts, it is one heart beating in two bodies. 

Once a soul becomes whole, it is painful and difficult for this to be undone. It can lead to violence, insanity and even death. This is why many do not search for their soulmates and marry whomever they so choose.’

But there was a bright side to having a soulmate, you knew that. 

You thought about the look on the Maesters face when he thought about his soulmate. The way your handmaiden, Ellie, spoke of her husband Edin. There was a beauty to having a person completely understand you, having a complete soul.

“Y/N!” 

You stopped in your tracks, surprised at the sight before you. 

Your father was home. 

Your father, Lord Jon Arryn, was home with his good friend, Lord Ned Stark. His was a face you had been very familiar with from a young age. He worked closely with your father, so he never missed a family gathering or ball. Even now, when you were a lot older than only 10 namedays, you couldn’t help but smile at the familiar man.

“Father. Lord Stark,” you curtsied politely, watching as Ned rolled his eyes.

“Every time . .” he mumbled under his breath. “Call me Ned,” he told you, the same way he always did when you reverted back to calling him by his formal titles.

“Are you going somewhere?” Your father asked, noticing the small basket you were carrying. 

You quickly pushed the basket behind your back, making both of the men grin in amusement.

“No . . no! I was just–”

“Tending to her garden, my lord,” one of the maids said as she began to lay out breakfast for the two men. “She’s a good green hand too, you should see how well everything's bloomed. We’re using her spices in the kitchen, and I know the Maesters glad she’s growing healing herbs.”

You winced.

Gardening was not ladylike, according to your stepmother. 

But she was never around, always fussing over Robin somewhere far away, so she wasn’t actually aware of what you had been doing the last few years. And your father? He was always away in Kingslanding, not a care in the world about what you were getting up to at The Eyrie.

The servants, maids, chefs– anyone who worked in the castle knew what you were doing in your spare time. It was hard not to notice your overgrowing gardens when they blocked the pathway to the kitchens, but all of the staff assured you that they didn’t mind. You were always sharing your crops with them, offering to help with anything you could, so they treated you like the sunshine of the household. 

They had taken to calling you ‘Sunshine’ even when you weren’t around, partially because of your kind nature (in comparison to what they experience from your stepmother) but partially because of how well the plants grew with your care. You were like the sun, with plants stretching out to reach your light.

You knew the maid meant well, answering your father, but you couldn’t help the fear that overtook you. Would you be in trouble? Would your stepmother find out? While your father wasn’t around much to punish you, his wife often took it upon herself to discipline you whenever she felt it necessary. 

Thankfully though, your father didn’t seem annoyed at this revelation.

In fact, both he and Ned seemed intrigued, the latter inviting you to come sit beside him.

“Plants, aye? Don’t see much of that up at Winterfell,” he says, a hint of sadness in his voice. 

Ned Stark was the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. 

You had never been, but you knew the climate was very different to that of the Vale. A lot of snow, and a coldness you wouldn’t even be able to imagine.

“Actually, there are a lot of herbs that can only grow in the cold,” you said, excitedly. “And almost everything can still grow in the snow, as long as you’re taking care to cover the crops to avoid any snowfall.”

“Only grow in the cold? You’re talking nonsense, girl,” your father took a bite of his food. Despite his words, his tone was casual. Conversational. You rarely got to speak with your father, so it surprised you, but you weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I– I have a list here. I’ve never been able to test it – you know it doesn’t snow here – but I’m sure you can grow all of these things in the North,” you showed Ned your little book, filled with notes and findings that you had made over the last decade.

“Gods . . the girls a scholar, Jon,” Ned laughed, squinting at the book. “Ye should get her sent off to some institution or something!”

Your father chuckled lightly, but it wasn’t cruel. 

“I always knew she would be a smart one,” his eyes were on you now, a small amount of pride in them. 

And you couldn’t help but smile back.

It was reassuring to know that your father wasn’t going to punish you for your gardening, and even moreso calming that Ned also approved. You just hoped no one would mention it to your stepmother. 

The meal continued, with the men discussing something about an unrest in the West, and the Lannisters while you ate your food and sipped your tea. Inside, all you could think about was going to check if your poppies had blossomed, and if Ned Stark knew anything about Winterberries and Baby’s breath, two plants you knew could only grow in the Northern climate.

As if they could read your mind, the conversation turned back to you and Winterfell.

“Perhaps we should take Y/N with us,” your father’s suggestion seemed playful as he took a swig of his wine. 

“Take me where?”

“Up North,” it was Ned who answered you. “Your father’s accompanying me home, we have an important meeting at Winterfell. Would you like to join us, Lady Y/N?”

Would you like to join them? Would you like to visit a beautiful, snowy castle and try to find Winterberries? Would you like to escape from your stepmother and spend time with your father?

You jumped up from your seat faster than ever, clutching your basket.

“Really? May I, father? Please, may I?”

“Cease your whining, girl,” your father groaned, shooting Ned a glare. “Of course you may. What’s all the fuss about, have you not been before?”

You knew you couldn’t blame him. He was, of course, a busy man. But your father was always so . . unaware, when it came to your upbringing. Here you were, nearing 10 and 9 namedays and he didn’t know that the only place you had ever visited outside of the Vale was Kingslanding.

“No, father. I’ve never been to Winterfell,” you said quietly, looking down at the ground.

To his credit, he seemed surprised. 

His white eyebrows shot up, and the man nodded once.

“Then it’s settled. You shall join us in the North–” he looks to Ned, tone teasing as he adds. “If that is okay with his Lordship?”

“It would be my absolute honour, Lady Y/N.”

It was cold.

You knew it would be, but you had no idea how the cold would sit with you. It felt like a sheet of ice had wrapped itself around your bones, enclosing you tighter and tighter in its grasp.

The thick, velvet gloves in House Arryn's signature sky blue colour helped to shield your fingers from the snow as you stepped out of the carriage and looked around.

Winterfell was . . beautiful.

Despite the cold, despite the snow, despite all you had heard and read about the horrors of the North . . all you could see was the beauty of the castle. And if your heart wasn't warm enough at your surroundings, it softened even more when you watched Ned Stark run over to his wife and hold her in his arms.

Everyone knew Ned and Catelyn Stark were true soulmates.

It wasn't completely rare to find your soulmate, you knew that. But for a nobleman and a noblewoman to be soulmates? To find each other and be eternally happy? To not have to sacrifice love or status or family in this life? 

Yes, the Starks were a blessed family. You could only hope to find a fraction of that love with the man you were to end up wedding.

A soft, white glow surrounded the couple in their embrace, evidence of their soulmate bond being at peace. 

"Lady Y/N!" 

You were broken out of your thoughts by a vaguely familiar voice . . that belonged to . . 

"Lady Sansa," you breathed out a smile, nodding to the girl you remember meeting at a ball last Spring. 

She seemed to be excited, as did the rest of her family.

Ned was the one to make your introductions.

"You all know Lord Arryn, this is his daughter, Lady Y/N Arryn," he nodded to where you were standing next to your father, dressed in a cloak that was nowhere near thick enough to shield you from the weather.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all," you offered all of the Stark siblings a smile.

You didn't know exactly how many kids Ned and Catelyn had, but as well as Sansa there was a younger girl and two younger boys who all shared similar dark hair and strong features. The youngest couldn’t have seen more than 3 namedays, a tiny toddler clinging to his mothers skirts.

"This is my good lady wife–" Ned was still holding Catelyn's shoulder. "My daughter Sansa you already know, this is Arya, Brandon and Rickon–"

"Father!" 

Everyone's attention turned to the drawbridge, where two men on horseback arrived.

They were both dark haired, that you noticed, but the first one . . the one with hair that was more of a dark auburn . . there was something about his eyes . . 

They came to a stop in front of the Stark family, Arya rushing over to hug the one that caught your attention.

"Robb!"

Robb. 

Robb Stark, Ned and Catelyn's firstborn and heir to the North.

Robb Stark was tall, with curly dark hair and a beautiful face to match. You didn't know much about the Stark family, only things you had heard from the household at Arryn or from Ned himself, but you didn't know the Stark children were all so beautiful. You almost couldn't stop staring as he spun his younger sister around, laughing as she squealed–

"Robb! Y/N, this is my son Robb, and my other boy Jon," Ned's voice was filled with more pride than you'd heard in all the weeks you had been travelling together, and that made you smile again. “This is Lady Y/N.”

And then Robb's eyes landed on you.

And time seemed to slow down. It didn't completely stop, not in the way Ellie described it to you, but it was as if the flakes of snow that were falling around you were moving 100 times slower. It was like every voice and noise around you settled to a dim hum. Everyone's faces blurred around you and the only other person that you could see as clear as crystal . . was Robb Stark. 

"Lady Y/N," he whispered, his words a soft breath. It was like he was tasting your name. And then he finally noticed your father beside you. "Lady Y/N Arryn?"

You fought a smile. 

Was it possible? Was it truly possible that Robb Stark was your soulmate?

A man of nobility, a man from a good family, with good ties to your father, was to be your destiny. 

Were the Gods truly this kind? Would you be allowed to marry him? Would your stepmother allow it? Could she overrule or convince your father? And what if Robb was already married? Or betrothed? 

An overwhelming stress suddenly clouded your mind, and you knew you wouldn't be able to logically think about all of this with all these new people around, in an unfamiliar place. 

"I . ." You broke his steel gaze, looking away and to your father. "I'm sorry, father. I don't know what– I'm dreadfully cold all of a sudden–"

"I can show you to your rooms!" Arya jumped up, proudly volunteering herself to help you inside. 

You gave her a half hearted smile, still looking down to avoid Robb's stare.

But someone else had picked up on the Stark boy's odd behaviour. 

"No. I will take Lady Y/N," Catelyn announced. She held an arm out for you to take, and you did so gratefully. 

Your father didn't seem too disturbed by your quiet outburst, only nodding at you once.

"It has been a long journey for you, rest well."

"I will," you promised, letting the lady of Winterfell guide you into the castle. "Thank you, Lady Stark," you added, quieter. 

There was a brief period of silence between the two of you as Catelyn led you around the giant castle.

"I haven't seen you since you were a babe. You have grown into a beautiful young lady, Y/N," she finally said.

"Thank you, my Lady."

"And how are your studies? My husband wrote to me while he was at the Eyrie, he mentioned you are interested in plants."

You felt some of your tension melt away at her kind words.

"Yes, it was my intention behind joining my father here. I was hoping to find Winterberries, they're a healing fruit that only grows in the North," you rambled, not noticing the way Catelyn smiled at you.

“Winterberries . . from the children’s tales?”

Winterberries were thought to be a myth in the North, originating from old tales and apparently being able to cure any ailment. They haven’t been seen for centuries, so you understood why people thought them to be unreal, but you had faith.

“They’re real, and I intend to find them,” you said determinedly.

Catelyn nodded once, not wanting to argue with you on this.

"And how is my sister? Does she treat you well?"

Her sister?

And then you remembered.

Your stepmother was once a Tully, just like the current Lady Stark. They were sisters, even if your stepmother rarely spoke of it. In fact, you had only ever heard her mention Catelyn out of bitterness, which explained a lot to you.

Catelyn married her soulmate, while your stepmother was your fathers fourth wife.

"She . . she treats me well," you lied smoothly. It wasn't your place to gossip or speak ill of your stepmother, especially not to her sister.

Catelyn frowned.

"I know my sister can be difficult--"

"No, no! I assure you, she . ."

"You do not have to hide the truth from me, Y/N."

By now, the two of you were entering a guest room. There was a large bed, covered in furs and silks of the Stark house colours, as well as a fireplace that was already lit, for which you were thankful. Catelyn nodded at a window and a servant boy immediately rushed over to close it. The room instantly warmed, and you breathed out a sigh.

"She treats me as well as she is able," you finally settled on, staring across at Catelyn.

She smiled.

"You have a good heart, Lady Y/N."

"Thank you, Lady Stark. And thank you for your hospitality, I'm sorry for leaving so quickly–"

"Not at all, my dear," she cut you off. "I know better than anyone how much of a shock the cold here can be when you come from the south . .” she trailed off, making you wonder what she was reminiscing on. Was she thinking about her life before moving to the North and becoming the lady of Winterfell? 

“Do you ever miss it?” You asked carefully.

She looked down at you, her smile bittersweet.

“I can always travel there, but it will never feel the way it did when I was a girl,” she confessed. “Besides, my children are here. My husband is here, I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

Her voice was so firm, you couldn’t help but be convinced by her words.

“The snow is beautiful here, I don’t think I ever want to leave,” you joked.

Catelyn gave you a look that said more than words could, and you couldn't help but wonder if she knew. 

Did she know about the moment you had shared with her son? That odd pull you could feel right now, urging you to run back to him in the courtyard? Did she know that he was possibly . . maybe . . your . . 

"I . ."

"Shall I send for a maid to draw you a bath? Or help you out of your garments?" She quickly changed the topic.

"No, I– I will manage," you told her.

"I will send someone later to collect you for supper then," she nodded, going to stand in the doorway. "Rest well, Lady Y/N."

You bowed your head as she left.

"Thank you, Lady Stark."

You did not rest well.

As soon as Lady Stark left the room, you threw off your gloves and fell in front of the hearth, seeking warmth. You pulled off your uncomfortable cloak and took one of the furs from the bed, making a sort of faux bed by the fire.

It worked. Partially.

You still shivered after every other breath, but the flames were warm enough to heat up your cheeks as you curled up and tried to close your eyes, thinking out everything that had happened since your arrival in the North.

Ned and Catelyn, soulmates.

All the Stark children, dark haired aside from Sansa. She took after her mother.

Robb and Jon.

Robb. Robb. Robb. Robb--

You squeezed your eyes shut, ignoring the tingling feeling in your palms. That was just your freezing fingertips, right? Not the soulmate bond that you had read about . .

You couldn't know for sure. Not until the two of you touched skin. Which, for some reason, you weren't desperate to do. No, you were scared to know. What if Robb Stark was your soulmate? As the heir to Winterfell, surely he has a wife? Or is promised to someone?

The door to your room opened, but no one was there.

You looked around in confusion, before noticing the small animal crawling towards you.

A small grey hound– no, a wolf pup, was approaching you, slow and careful. You had never seen such an animal before, a slight feeling of fear growing inside you as you shuffled back against the wall.

"Hello there," you said quietly, cautious. You didn't want to startle him. "Where did you come from?"

Of course, the pup didn't answer you.

Instead, he crawled to the edge of your garments, making your breath hitch in your throat. You had heard tales about wolves in the North. They were vicious, merciless. Would he tear your heart out with his claws? Chew it with his . . 

Only he wasn't violent.

He whined softly as he climbed up into your lap, making you let out a puff of air. You laughed once, slowly reaching down to pet the wolf. His fur was soft, and the low rumbling sound he let out at your petting made you smile wider. 

"You're quite cute . . little pup."

He wasn't a rabid, vicious animal, like all the stories about the North paint wolves out to be.

"Perhaps we will be friends."

And it was then that you realised how warm you were. The pup was radiating heat across your lap and to your body, making you melt into your furs and close your eyes as you finally relaxed and fell asleep.

It must have been hours later when you awoke to the sound of a soft knocking on your door.

The pup was still sleeping soundly across your torso, making you smile absent mindedly, before you remembered the knock.

"Yes?"

The door opened, and a man stood in the entrance to your room.

A familiar man.

Jon.

"Lady Y/N," he bowed slightly, a smirk on his lips when he noticed the wolf pup in your lap. "Your father is requesting your presence in the hall."

Supper. Right. Catelyn said you would join them for dinner.

"Thank you," you pulled the furs closer, over your shoulders, not missing the way he was still staring at the animal. "Is– do you know this pup?"

Jon instantly straightened up, shaking his head.

"I do not. But he seems to know you."

You stroked his fur, staring down at the wolf in awe. 

"He's so beautiful . . and he kept me warm while I slept," you told him as you continued to pet him.

"I'm sure his owner will be glad to hear that," Jon's voice still had a teasing lilt to it, and you couldn't shake the thought that maybe Jon knew more than he was letting on. 

Before you could ask him about it, he spun on his heel and began to make his way towards the dining hall.

Jon sat at the far end of the table, which you couldn't help but find odd. 

You were sat beside your father, with Sansa on your other side. She was lovely to talk to, complimenting your dress and asking about life in the vale. She even explained why Jon was sitting separately.

It was because he wasn't Catelyn's son. 

Jon Snow was a bastard, which surprised you. Not only because he looked like the rest of the Stark siblings to his core, but because Ned and Catelyn were soulmates. Had Ned lain with another woman, after finding his soulmate?

"Do you prefer roses or lilies?" Sansa's question pulled you out of your thoughts. 

"Lilies," you answered immediately. 

"Your mother had a fondness for flowers, it follows that you do too," your father said.

"She did?"

You didn't know much about your birth mother. You never met her. She died giving birth to you and only a year later, right after Robert's Rebellion, your father remarried Lady Lysa Tully, your stepmother.

"Aye, that she did," Ned confirmed. "Not a green thumb like you though, Y/N."

You smiled warmly at the new information, not noticing the hard stare Robb was fixing you with from across the table. 

Thick gloves covered your hands as you ate, and no one questioned it. 

In truth, you were coping a lot better with the temperatures around you, but the gloves were for your own safety. You knew Robb would be at Supper and you couldn't risk any skin on skin contact with the man you suspected was your soulmate.

Robb himself was torn.

He noticed the way you were staring at Jon, not knowing that it was out of pure curiosity, not romantic interest. He couldn't understand why you wouldn't look at him, when you were all he could think about all day. 

Why did you not take his hand outside to confirm that you were soulmates? Why won't you take it now? Why were you avoiding his stare? Had he done something to offend you? 

It was driving him crazy, knowing you were his soulmate but you wouldn't even speak to him. 

Because Robb knew, for certain.

He felt his half a soul pulling towards yours outside the castle today, and now again over the table of food. It was reaching out, desperately trying to hook itself onto yours and embed its deep claws there. It wanted to make a home in your heart, but you wouldn't open the door.

You wouldn't even look at him.

Robb tried to respect your wishes, not barging up to your rooms while you rested. 

But this? This meal where he was being tortured by your beauty, your words of grace and thanks towards his parents, your attentiveness to his sister, your praise of his beautiful home–

This already felt like his end.

Desperately, his eyes met his mothers, and he knew she knew. 

She looked between you and Robb, a hint of amusement on her face as she continued to eat and pretended she was none the wiser. 

He looked at Jon next, unsure if his brother would be any help.

Jon just smirked, winking at Robb.

Ass, Robb thought to himself. 

Just as Robb mustered up the courage to speak to you, someone else would ask you a question.

First it was Arya, then Bran, then his father. 

Even his mother asked you something about plants, which made you light up. Robb couldn't help but smile and listen as you explained the properties of some rare poppy.

"I really hope to find some Winterberries while I'm here. I know they're rare, or extinct, according to my book, but if they are real, they only grow in this region–"

"I can help you," Robb blurted out.

Everyone at the table stopped eating. And talking.

Robb, stupidly, realised that these were the first words he had spoken all evening. 

Usually, he would be more talkative than even Arya, but tonight, he had spent the better part of the meal just staring at you in a mixture of fascination and distress. And now he was randomly volunteering himself to go on a quest for some mythical berries?

You looked across at Robb, unsure.

"I mean, no one knows these lands better than I," he corrected himself, trying to emphasise his importance. Which was difficult, when you were finally looking at him. Everyone else melted into a puddle of blurred faces. Everyone but you. "I can help you find the berries you seek."

It wasn't you that answered him, but your father.

"Well that settles it," he was slightly drunk now, nudging Ned. "Your boy can show her the plants tomorrow. What do you say, Ned?"

Robb glanced at his father, trying not to let his worry show.

"You keep her safe," Ned's tone was warning as he stared at his son.

"I promise, father," Robb rushed out.

Finally, you spoke. 

"Thank you."

You were looking at him. 

You were looking at him and you were smiling.

Robb may have stopped breathing.

"My pleasure, Lady Y/N."

Sansa stole you away after supper, a fact that made Robb's face pull into a scowl as he joined Theon and Jon for a late night drink.

"Who pissed in your ale?"

"Robb has a crush," Jon teased, making Theon's eyes widen.

"What? On a real girl?"

Robb glared at them both.

"She's my soulmate," his words were firm, making Jon's eyes widen.

He had noticed the way his brother was staring at you, mooning over your arrival. It was interesting to him; women always fell over their feet in front of Robb, but you had run away from him after taking one look at his face.

Even at supper, you didn’t stare at him like some lost princess, which amused Jon. But finding out that you were his soulmate . . that changed things.

"Soulmate . . bloody hell. I thought you just fancied her," he winced. "That's . . why did she run away then?"

At this, Theon lit up.

"She ran away? Oh, this is brilliant. Lord Robb Stark, the mighty wolf of the North, rejected by his soulmate!"

"She didn't– we haven't spoken about it," Robb defended weakly. "I think she . . she needed space?"

"Maybe she doesn't like the cold? Doesn't want to spend the rest of her life up here," Theon suggested, making Jon roll his eyes.

He remembered the way you were perfectly fine with the temperatures in your chambers, not even needing your cloak to sleep. 

"She's fine in the cold, caught her with the furs in front of the hearth in her room," he told the pair, not even considering the implication in his words.

But Robb did.

"And why the fuck were you in her room?"

Jon winced again.

Theon burst out laughing.

"Your mother sent me to fetch her for dinner," Jon said bluntly. 

"Oh."

"Yes, oh."

All three of them shared a look, before laughing.

"Speaking of wolves," Jon began playfully. "Where's Grey Wind? Haven't seen him in a while."

He was right.

Robb hadn't seen his direwolf all day, and seeing Jon with Ghost was making him realise that. Had he been so occupied with thoughts of you that he had forgotten about his own wolf?

He stood up, drinking the last of his ale and heading out to gardens where he assumed Grey Wind would be resting with Lady.

"You should check the East Wing!" Jon called after him, holding back a laugh.

You were enjoying the North even more than you expected, which was surprising, because you already expected to enjoy it a lot. 

But you had only been here a day and you were already sitting with a girl close to your own age, Lady Sansa Stark, and listening to her explain her braid to you. Sansa was even helping you to create a traditional pattern in your own hair, saying that you would fit in perfectly in the North.

“It’s been lovely having you here, Y/N. I do hope you’ll stay for the Winter, Arya never wants to braid hair with me . . we can practice together!”

Sansa was only a few namedays younger than you, so you could understand her frustration at her younger, more combative sister. 

“You’re lucky to have so many siblings,” you said comfortingly. “Perhaps you could try doing something she is interested in?”

Sansa scoffed.

“Something such as archery? I would rather be shot from the battlements in my undergarments.”

You choked on a laugh.

“Sansa! Do not– do not say such things!”

You both shared a look, before laughing in unison.

It took a while for it to die down, but when it did, you took the ribbons from Sansa and closed your braid. 

You stared at it in the mirror, an odd feeling overcoming you. You had never had your hair done by anyone other than a handmaiden, never playfully talked with a friend. 

Sansa felt like a friend. For the first time in all your years of talking to plants or reading away your sorrows in an empty, neglected castle with only your stepmother to punish you, you were laughing with a friend.

But beneath that, there was something else.

Simmering, just below your skin, your body was pulling you out of this moment. It wanted you to leave, to run towards wherever Robb was. Acknowledging the soulmate bond was the only thing that would calm your restless heart, you knew that.

For now though, you would discuss Sansa’s plans to create a new dress in the sky blue Arryn colours that you had inspired her with.

With every step Robb took towards the East Wing, he felt his heart tighten.

He was almost becoming familiar with the feeling he had been grappling with all day, the sharp ache in his chest dulling to a longing that made him wish he was near you. Just being close to you. Observing you. Listening to you speak. Whatever he could get from you.

"Grey Wind!" He called out, searching the castle for his wolf.

Finally, he heard a howl.

Up the stairs.

“Grey Wind!”

A whine this time, quieter than before. 

Why would the damn dog not heed his call? Why did Robb have to hunt him down? Shouldn’t he come to his master when he calls?

Robb's head snapped to the right, opening the door to the room and finding . . you.

You, with an elegant, Northern braid curling around your hair. You were curled up in front of the fire with Grey Wind in your lap, a heavy Stark cloak covering your shoulders, your eyes wide in surprise.

Robb's sudden entrance had clearly startled you, and he made a mental note to kick Jon in the teeth for this.

Jon knew. 

Jon knew that you had apparently befriended Grey Wind, the traitorous beast cuddling against you with not a care in the world.

"Lord Stark," you seemed surprised. "I . ."

"Lady Y/N," he bowed his head immediately, out of embarrassment. "Forgive me for intruding."

You fought a grin.

Despite your surprise at his entrance, the feeling of being so close to him again calmed your restless body. You felt a wash of peacefulness, making you smile up at the young lord.

“This is your home, can you truly be intruding?"

Robb lifted his head, realising that you were joking with him.

"Aye, that is true. But even so, I am a gentleman. I cannot be barging into ladies rooms like some kind of . ." his thoughts trailed off, watching you petting Grey Wind and noticing how the wolf didn't protest. 

Robb knew his wolf to be aggressive, and untrusting of every human he met. How had you managed to tame the beast in less than a day?

"Animal? Wolf?" You finished his sentence for him, noticing his stare at the wolf in your lap. A thought occurred to you. "Do you know this pup?"

Robb smirked.

"This pup is supposed to be my most formidable ally . . yet you have him as guardless as a newborn babe," he rolled his eyes at Grey Wind’s surprisingly cuddly behaviour.

You blushed, looking down.

"He belongs to you? I apologise, he came in earlier while I was resting–"

"There's no need to apologise, Lady Y/N," Robb couldn't help but smile at the sheepish look on your face. You were apologising for taking care of Grey Wind? Gods, you were as sweet and kind as you were beautiful. "I don't doubt that he trapped you, not the other way round."

You looked back up at Robb, meeting his eyes.

The soulmate bond between you hummed.

"Is he similar to his owner in that respect?"

You both knew what you were really asking. What you were skirting around. 

Robb made sure to be as honest as possible when he answered you.

"I would never do anything to deceive you," he spoke slowly, with intent. 

You swallowed.

Robb's words were so firm, so certain.

You knew what he was saying, the underlying promise in his words.

He wanted to touch you. He wanted you to know that you were soulmates. He wanted you to acknowledge the bond between you.

If you were being honest, the bond was the only thing you could feel all day. 

You knew it was the reason you couldn't rest when you first arrived, your mind and body pulling you away from your room and desperately trying to drag you to him. Fate didn't want you to be apart, even if just to rest and think over your thoughts.

"You think he is deceiving me?" You looked back down at the wolf, who was now sleeping soundly. 

Robb shook his head.

"I'll skin him if he hurts you, my lady."

At this, your arms immediately tightened around the animal. 

Robb noticed.

He already thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world, but he now knew that his feelings extended beyond the soulmate bond. The way you were so polite to his mother, the way you respected and cared for his siblings, and now the way you angled yourself to protect Grey Wind in this moment made his heart soar.

You were more than any eligible, powerful lady he would be expected to marry for a political alliance. You were kind, considerate, and you were definitely smarter than anyone he had ever met, judging by the way you discussed your studies at supper. 

And he knew Sansa was responsible for the braid in your hair, the one that claimed you as a Northern girl. It warmed his heart to see you, his soulmate, as one of his people. Perhaps you didn’t even know it yourself, but that braid . . it awoke something inside the mighty wolf of the North.

"That is a horrible thing to say," you whispered, so quietly Robb wasn't sure he was meant to hear it.

He shrugged once.

"I meant it," he stood his ground, softening slightly as he turned to leave. He gave Grey Wind a small nod, smiling as the wolf lolled his head to the side in acknowledgement. "But I know I can trust him with you. Goodnight, Lady Y/N."

"Can you grow carrots?"

"Yes."

"Potatoes?"

"Yes."

"Even here?" Rickon pressed. 

He was right in thinking that it was too cold for potatoes to grow in the North. Under normal conditions, potatoes couldn't grow in freezing temperatures . . but you knew you could work around that.

"I can use a chamber," you told him, leaning closer to the boy at the breakfast table. "To protect the potatoes, and make them grow."

Rickon seemed to like that idea. 

You both shared a conspiratory smile, which made you think of Robin. You had barely spent any time with your younger half brother, due to his mothers rules, but you liked to think he would ask you questions and look at you excitedly, the way Rickon was doing. 

Robb was watching you from across the table again, and his mother was watching him again.

Ned and your father were holed up in Ned's rooms, discussing some political business, so they would not be joining the rest of you for breakfast.

"You make yourself too obvious, my son."

Robb didn't even look away from you when he replied to his mother.

"Why does she avoid me? Isn't she supposed to . . fall into my arms and we live happily ever after?" He huffed.

The noise Catelyn made was something between a laugh and a cry.

Even your infectious happiness as you discussed fruits with Rickon, the happiness that he could feel through your soulmate bond, wasn't enough to calm his anxious worries.

"I believe she is scared."

At this, Robb's head snapped to face his mother.

"Of me? I would never do anything–"

"Not of you," Catelyn laid a hand over Robb's to calm him. "I know my sister, her stepmother. And growing up with her can't have been kind."

Robb mulled over her words, turning back to watch you laughing with Rickon and Arya. 

You looked so carefree, so happy. It was hard to picture you as anything but the sunshine in every room you walked into.

Catelyn followed her son's gaze, speaking again.

"You should use today as an opportunity. Show her that she can trust you. Show her that you are a gentleman, then she will have no choice but to . . how did you put it? Fall into your arms and live happily ever after?"

Robb groaned at her teasing words.

"Mother! I want to grow strawberries with Lady Y/N!" Rickon shouted, stumbling over to Catelyn with half a bowl of porridge. “Strawberries! Strawberries! Strawberries–!” Needless to say, the boy ended up tripping on his own toes. His porridge ended up falling on himself, making Arya laugh loudly and Robb hold back a chuckle.

Rickon immediately burst into tears.

Catelyn frowned, about to scold the boy when you rushed over, crouching in front of him. 

“Oh, Rickon, it’s okay.”

You took the empty dish from him, cooing words of reassurance that it was 'all going to be well', and he had 'done nothing wrong'. 

Rickon's sobs slowed, his sniffs and cries muffled by your skirts. The boys grubby porridge hands had ruined your garments, Robb noticed, but you didn't seem upset by this.

"I am so sorry," you looked over at Catelyn in fear. "I only meant to discuss crops, I didn't mean for him to get over excited."

The servants had already cleaned away the mess, but you were bowing your head to the lady of the house as though she was going to execute you over a toddler spilling a bowl of oats.

Robb frowned when he realised that you were holding Rickon to the side, as if you were protecting him. As if you were expecting a blow to come and were prepared to take it for the boy. Your fear stretched from you to him through your bond, making his heart skip a beat. 

He could feel what you were feeling, and it made him sick.

Was this what his mother meant when she said that you were used to a different way of life? He would not allow you to ever feel scared in this house– or anywhere, for that matter.

"It is no matter, he spills his porridge every day," Robb lied carefully. 

Catelyn, quick to catch on, nodded in agreement.

"There's no need to apologise, Lady Y/N. This wasn't your fault."

Your shoulders relaxed slightly, and so did Robb's tense heart. 

"Did you ever meet your soulmate?"

It took you all day and all night to gather the courage to ask him that question.

You and your father weren't close by any means, you only spoke to him at mealtimes or at formal gatherings, when introductions were being made. Your stepmother took control of your lifestyle and education whenever the man was away, which was often, as the King's hand. 

But you liked to think he still cared about you, deep down. You may not be his heir, but you were his only other child.

He was out by the stables, talking to Ned when you approached him. The Stark Lord excused himself when he saw you, and you took the opportunity to ask your father a question you never thought you would be confident enough to speak.

He looked at you, confusion obvious on his face.

And then it twisted into a bittersweet smile.

"She was . . a beautiful girl," he began.

"A noble lady?" 

"No," he shook his head. "She wasn't. And I could not shame my father or my house by marrying her . ." he reminisced, a melancholy, faraway look in his eyes. "This would have been . . a long time before you were born. 30 years or so."

So he would have been extremely young . . 

"I can only hope you never have to go through that, my girl," his words were simple, but you knew he meant them. You could feel that he meant them. "Meeting your soulmate but not being able to marry them . . I can think of no worse fate."

You frowned. 

"If I did meet my soulmate . . if he were a nobleman . ."

He tilted his head to the side.

"Do you have something to tell me, girl?"

You froze.

"I just wonder . . would I be able to marry him? I know stepmother worries about political alliances, and I know she discusses my marriage with other houses," you voiced your concerns.

Surprisingly, your father didn't look at you the way your stepmother looked at you when you asked her about soulmates when you were only a little girl, like you were a stupid girl with no idea how love worked.

He looked at you with respect and admiration.

"If you had met your soulmate . . and he was a good man . . from a good family–"

"You would consider the Starks a good family, would you not? You and Lord Stark are good friends," you pointed out.

Your father seemed to put the pieces together, smiling proudly at you.

"I could not think of a more perfect match, Y/N."

You smiled back at him. 

"And your stepmother has no say in your marriage, I can assure you of that."

"I know you lied to me."

Robb's head snapped towards you worriedly.

"I did?"

You nodded, lifting your skirts and climbing onto your horse. Her name was Sunflower, and she had travelled up with you. After the servants at the castle named you Sunshine, you found it appropriate to name your horse after the flower that grew towards the sun.

Robb held his hand out to help you onto the mare but, despite the fact that you still had your gloves on, you didn't take it.

His lips pressed into a thin line at the rejection.

"I could feel it. You lied to me when you said Rickon spills his porridge every day," you told him pointedly.

"You could feel it?" Robb repeated. "And how is it that you could feel it, my lady? Do you possess magical abilities?"

You stared down at him.

Robb smirked, going over to mount his own horse.

"You know how I felt it."

Robb chuckled, knowing that you were trying not to acknowledge your soulmate bond.

"Do I?"

"And in any case, no boy who spills his breakfast every day would cry that much," you defended. "If he were so accustomed to it, he wouldn't have been so upset."

The man, now on his horse, considered your words.

"Are you always this smart? I may find it hard to keep up."

It was your turn to smirk.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Lord Stark."

Robb took you around the outside of Winterfell, showing you where deliveries of food come in and where the people lived. He took you past the woods and towards the Wolfswoods, where he knew wild fruits and other things grew.

You looked around at the snowy landscape, in awe that the trees could grow so tall.

Robb helped you down from your horse, gripping your gloves so tightly you almost thought he was trying to touch your skin beneath them. When soulmates first touched, their skin would burn permanently.

There would be a mark on your fingertips, or your palms, forever reminding the pair of you of your love. 

You knew Ellie's mark was on her palm, from when she high fived her soulmate as a child. The Maester back at the Eyrie must have had it on his forearm, something you suspected because he often held his arm whenever you pestered him about his soulmate.

Robb stared down at you as you regained your footing on the ground, and you knew he was thinking similar thoughts.

So you looked away, dropping his hand and opening your satchel.

You needed to focus on foraging today.

Your father had given you his blessing, but the final decision still lay with you. 

Robb might have been a perfect gentleman to you so far, but you had to consider so many things before you gave in to the soulmate bond. And today was about finding Winterberries, completing the task that you had travelled so far for.

"Hold the basket," you pushed the small wicker object at him, far too busy reading your notes to worry about pleasantries.

"Of course, my lady," Robb's tone was sarcastic. "Is there anything else her majesty desires?"

You winced, realising how rude you had been. 

"I apologise, I was just making sure we're in the right place–"

Robb stood in front of you, lifting the small book from your hands and staring directly down into your eyes.

"We are in the right place, trust me."

You shivered.

He frowned.

"Are you cold?"

He immediately began to pull off his cloak, making you shake your head.

"No, no, I am–"

It was too late.

Robb had already laid his heavy, dark fur cloak over your pretty blue and pink one. 

You were silenced by the weight and warmth of the furs, looking up at him as he stared down at you hungrily. You could feel the soulmate bond, the way he felt proud at being able to help you. You wondered if he could feel your worries, or the way that his cloak made you feel safer than ever.

Neither of you said anything for a moment, just your eyes meeting in a silent peacefulness, until a howl tore through the woods behind you.

Your eyes widened, and Robb grinned, his soft curls blowing in the breeze.

"They won't hurt you, Lady Y/N."

"Are you sure?"

"The North is not as frightening when you're from here."

"But I'm not ‘from here’," you retorted.

"Aye, you're not," he held up the basket cheekily, going into the Wolfswoods. "Best if you stick with me then, don't you think?"

You rolled your eyes, but still followed him.

"These look like . ."

"Devil's gloom," Robb finished your sentence, staring at the berries between your gloved fingertips. "One bite is enough to kill a grown man within the hour. And no antidote."

"That you know of," you said pointedly. "Winterberries can cure any poison." You swung your basket as you left the bush, continuing your journey through the woods.

"Winterberries are a myth, no one alive's seen them!" He called after you. "Oi! What are you doing with that poison? Put those back."

You ignored him, continuing to venture deeper.

There were a few flowers you hadn't seen before, so you crouched down to draw a sketch in your notebook. They were red and yellow, with large petals . . you would have to look them up once you were back in your library. Unless . . 

"Does Winterfell have a library?" You stood up, almost crashing into Robb who had finally caught up with you. 

He seemed startled.

"Yes, yes we do. Do you want to go now . . ?"

You scrunched your face up.

"Now? Are we not having fun?"

Robb tried not to laugh.

He had spent the last 2 hours chasing after you as you danced around the Wolfswoods, a new plant catching your attention every few seconds. If he weren't such a good hunter, he would never have been able to keep up.

"If we head towards Winterfell, I could show you the Godswoods. There's a big heart tree there, you may enjoy that," he offered.

You considered his suggestion.

"Is this your way of telling me you are tired of showing me the berries?" 

Robb looked insulted.

"Lady Y/N . . I am anything but tired of you. In truth, I would rather keep you here with me for eternity. I know once we return to the castle, my family will steal you away from me again," he said these words bitterly. 

"But it is past noon, and I worry one of us may end up eating the wrong berries in our hunger–" he pauses, thinking about it. "Perhaps that is a kinder fate than having to watch Sansa and Jon take my soulmate from me."

You giggled at that. 

"You would rather eat Devil's Gloom than take me back to spend time with your kind siblings?"

"So you admit you are my soulmate?"

Neither of you had said those words out loud, not since your first meeting yesterday.

You were avoiding it out of your own reservations and Robb was trying to respect your wishes, no matter how much it frustrated him. But it seemed that even his patience had its limits. 

He was staring down at you, eyes burning with . . well, you weren't sure what this expression was. It was like that tug in your soul, the one that was distantly pulling you towards him, was snapping. You could feel how his frustration was overflowing, and it made you frown in sympathy.

Robb Stark didn’t deserve the way you had been treating him.

Just because you were unsure, careful, scared . . he shouldn’t have to feel so rejected. Hurt. Confused.

You looked up into his sharp blue eyes, finally deciding to speak the words you had been afraid to say out loud.

"I would be a difficult wife. I would spend all day in the gardens."

Robb didn't hesitate.

"Then I would join you in the dirt, or the snow."

He took a step towards you.

"I wouldn't be a good lady like your mother, I have no experience with running a household, or taking care of children."

"I don't want you to be like her, I just want you to be you," he pauses, staring down at you. "Besides, you did perfectly well with Rickon this morning."

You stared up at him.

“You only met me yesterday, you cannot say with certainty that I am what you want.”

Robb raised an eyebrow.

“You think my soulmate wasn’t made for me? You think I haven’t been watching you take care of the children . . how you patiently wait for your father . . how you selflessly put others first . . or how even Grey Wind chose to protect you.”

He had been watching you?

You hadn’t noticed until now, but it seemed like he was . . obsessed with you.

"Are you not promised to another woman, a proper lady?" You had one last, weak, argument.

Instead of mocking your insecurities, Robb simply shook his head, taking another step closer to you.

"No."

"And do you intend to be?"

Robb took a final step towards you. 

There was now less than half a step between you, the tall lord in front of you invading your space like it was his own.

Which, perhaps, in a way, it was. 

Now that he was so close to you, you could feel a glow beginning to form around you. 

The soulmate bond in you was reaching out to him, the same way he was reaching out to you. It was starting to build, waiting for the two of you to touch so that it could explode in a burst of light.

"Let me make myself clear, Lady Y/N, since you seem to have misunderstood me," his words were low, serious. "I am not betrothed to another. I never plan to be betrothed to another. I never want to look at, to speak to, or to lay with another woman that isn't you. The only woman I wish to love, to wed, to warm my bed, to carry my children, to be the lady of Winterfell, is you."

He was so close now, you knew the bond was about to reach its peak. The glow emanating from his hand as he reached forward to touch your cheek was brighter than before. The pull between your chest and his was stronger than before. 

You made a decision.

And then you let out the breath you had been holding in, taking a step back.

Robb looked at you like you had struck him with a blade.

The heartbreak on his face was as clear as day, a mixture of confused and forlorn.

Before he could say anything though, you began to make your way back in the direction you had come from.

"We should go to the Godswoods. To see the tree," you called over your shoulder, a new determination in your words.

How could you be so cruel?

How could the kindest lady he had ever met, also be the most heartless?

How could you sit there on your horse, avoiding his gaze and stare straight ahead as the two of you rode back towards the castle?

On the way to the Wolfswoods this morning, you had spoken to each other endlessly. 

He told you stories of his siblings, his military training and how he and Theon would avoid classes as children, while Jon would dutifully attend every one. 

You told him about the Eyrie, how you had befriended the household and learnt about horticulture from the Maester. 

You both shared that your fathers were away a lot, but Ned was much more present than your father. You knew your father wasn't a bad man, you just . . didn't know him as a father.

Robb thought about this, racking his brain trying to defend your ruthless rejection of his affections. 

Was it perhaps because you grew up alone? Or because you didn't want to live in the Northern Winter? Were you unsure of how to respond to him? 

Or perhaps . . did you truly not feel the soulmate bond the way he did? Did you doubt his promises? 

What had he done to make you so mistrustful of him?

"This is . . beautiful."

You hadn't spoken to each other the entire journey, Robb too occupied with being completely baffled and offended by your betrayal and you too determined to see your plan through to the end. 

Sunflower came to a stop under the giant heart tree, allowing you to climb down and stare up at the red leaves in wonder. Robb watched as you spun under the Weirwood, fighting a smile at how happy you looked. 

He was supposed to be angry with you.

With your actions, your cruel dismissal of his feelings.

But when you finally looked at him, meeting his eyes with the strongest stare he had ever seen from you, his anger melted away.

He could feel your resolve through the bond between you, and it settled something in his chest. All he had done was worry you were going to reject him, but he couldn't sense any of that from you. You were radiating a calmness that washed over him when you spoke.

"Robb," you said evenly. "Come closer."

Robb. 

You called him by his name, not by some title.

He was now even more confused than before, taking a step in your direction. 

"Y/N," he said simply, mirroring your usage of his given name. "What are you doing?"

He watched as you grinned wolfishly, pulling off one of your gloves. 

His eyes widened.

"I . . Lady Y/N, the cold–" 

You ignored his protests, rolling your eyes. Of course he was worried about your body temperature at a time like this.

You wanted to complete your soulmate bond and he was worried about some snow in the Godswoods?

"Give me your hand, Robb Stark."

What? You wanted his hand?

Robb would easily give you his hand, his arm, his leg– anything you asked him for, so he wasn't at all surprised by his actions when he reached his hand out for you to take.

Which you did.

“Sansa told me that this place is sacred for your people,” you said quietly. “For your family.”

Robb was still in shock from your odd behaviour.

“That it is . .”

And so there, under the heart tree, grinning up at him with a white glow cocooning you both, you took his hand and laid his palm against yours. 

He felt the pain before he realised what it was.

A burning sensation, emanating from where your skin touched his, white light spreading from the both of you as your soulmate bond finally– finally completed itself.

Your heart settled in your chest. And so did his. 

“Valarr, I—” you would choke on your own tears each time you carried a child to term only to lose them before you could ever hold them in your arms.

And every time, he would pull you into his arms.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry,” he would murmur softly, shushing your sobs as he held you close, mourning the loss just as deeply even as he tried to be your comfort.

A loss that the maesters called misfortune. Another that the septas named the will of the Seven. Each time, the court offered condolences, and each time you and Valarr stood side by side, composed and dignified as a royal couple ought to be.

But grief, no matter how carefully hidden, has a way of changing things.

Behind closed doors, the silences between you began to grow longer. The smiles you once shared became sparser, weighed down by sorrow neither of you quite knew how to speak aloud. Yet before the court, you both still played your roles flawlessly.

Because in King’s Landing, the prince and his princess were meant to be perfect.

“Your Grace, do you feel well?”

Your maid’s gentle voice broke through your reverie. You had been staring at the skies above Summerhall for far too long, your gaze distant and unfocused.

You turned to her with a placating smile. “I’m fine, Rose. Come, let’s go.”

Summoned to Summerhall by Prince Baelor, the moment you arrived, Valarr was swept away into discussions with his father and the other men of the court, leaving you with little to do but free time for yourself.

The castle grounds had grown quiet by the late afternoon, most servants busy with their duties. Your steps eventually carried you beyond the courtyards, towards a humble district where smallfolk lived and worked beneath the protection of the castle.

However, your walk was cut short.

An old woman stood near the edge of the road, her back bent with age, her thin hands clutching a bundle of herbs. Yet it was not her frailty that caught your attention.

It was the way unsettling way she stared at you.

Her eyes were too sharp for someone so old—watching you with an unsettling intensity. You slowed, uncertainty prickling along your spine, and then the woman spoke:

“The princess of love and beauty,” she murmured, her voice thin and rasping. “Yet cursed with the misfortune of having shadows strangling the brave prince’s sons in her womb.”

A cold shiver crawled down your spine. The words struck like a blade and it felt as though your darkest nightmares had been dragged into the open for the world to see.

You did not stay to hear more.

Your breath came quicker as you fled— the woman’s voice still echoing, stirring those bleak memories of the silent chambers, the hushed voices of maesters, Valarr’s arms around you while you wept until your body ached.

You only wanted distance—from that witch, from her terrible eyes, from the shame. And in your haste—

You collided with someone.

A solid figure stood in your path, and the sudden impact forced a startled breath from your lungs. Strong hands caught your waist before you could fall.

“Well now...” a smooth, velvety voice drawled above you, low with unmistakable amusement. “Where is the princess rushing off to in such distress?”

You wouldn’t mistake that voice for anyone else’s.

Prince Aerion Targaryen stood before you, tall and imposing as ever, silver hair gleaming in the afternoon light. His grip on your waist was firm enough to keep you from retreating so easily.

“Unhand me, my prince,” you proceeded to say afterwards, and he did. For a three good seconds, he observed the lacy black dress you were wearing, and let out a snort.

“You are not in mourning. Why do you always wear this unseemly dress?”

His words offended you really. It hadn’t even been three moons since you lost your babe, and he dared to ask this?

“I am, in fact, in mourning. Please let me be.”

Aerion snorted again.

“Do not mourn too hard, sweet cousin. A fine fruit can only grow from a good seed. One cannot expect much from… defects.”

Your eyes hardened. “What are you insinuating?”

“I’m merely suggesting that the fault may not lie with you at all, my princess,” Aerion replied, a thin, cruel smile curving his lips.

Valarr’s face rose unbidden in your mind—his gentle patience, the way he would tighten his arms around you on the nights he mourned your lost babes. Never once had he spoken a word of blame. Never once had he let you feel alone in it.

The insult burned hotter than if it had been aimed at you.

“You will hold your tongue, Aerion,” you spat, your voice suddenly sharper, eyes flashing with apparent rage as you didn’t bother to address him properly. “You speak of a prince of the realm. And a far better man than you will ever be.”

Aerion’s smile faltered for the briefest fraction of a second before it returned, colder than before.

“How fiercely you defend him,” he scoffed. “How touching.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur meant only for you.

“Think about it. If it were me, I surely will not fail you. The blood of the dragon runs stronger in my veins than it ever will in his.”

Talking with Aerion always felt like talking to the wall. You didn’t deign him with more response, simply turning on your heel to head back towards the castle.

However, you failed to realize that watchful eyes had taken note of the closeness between you and your cousin-by-law. Only later would you learn that this encounter with Aerion would bring consequences you had never anticipated.

The tale that soon spread was a wild one: you, the princess consort, is having an affair with the Bright Prince himself.

“T-that— that is bloody outrageous!”

You paced restlessly in your marital chambers, righteous anger coursed in your veins— it wasn’t enough that they had insulted you, but to pair your name with that mad prince?

Your husband, calm as ever, only stared at you quietly from his desk.

“You must not believe that treason—” you turned to Valarr in a flurry. “There’s no truth in it! I just stumbled into him while we were at Summerhall, that’s all!”

Valarr remained silent, studying you as he twirled the quill in his hand. He hadn’t voiced any accusation or anything, and it made your heart twist.

“I swear to you—” you pressed on quickly as you approached him, almost breathless now. “I barely spoke to him, and whatever he implied, I shut it down immediately—”

Valarr finally set the quill down. The soft tap of it against the desk sounded far too loud as he rose from his chair. His gaze never left yours as he crossed to where you were, and your heart thudded painfully under the weight of that unreadable stare.

He stopped before you, seemingly disregarding whatever it was you were saying, and it was without any warning when—

“I would never dishonor you like that, dear husband, you must believe me— Mmph!”

He pulled you into a sudden, searing kiss.

His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck as though the gesture alone could silence the storm of words tumbling from your sweet lips. You almost gasped, instinctively curling your fingers around his doublet.

It was nothing like the tender kisses you were used to. The kiss was rough, intense—almost hungry. His grip tightened slightly at your nape as his mouth claimed yours again and again. The force of it made you stumble a few steps back before he steadied you against him.

When Valarr finally pulled away, he sighed, a haze settling into his gaze.

“I do not wish to speak of my vile cousin, love.”

“But those rumors— I swear it, I—”

“Shush,” Valarr smiled then, pressing a finger on your lips. It was soft at first glance, reassuring even—yet it did not quite reach his mismatched eyes, which remained dark and distant. “I know.”

Your prince had always been gentle. He had never let anger rule over him, but sometimes you just wished he would. You looked at him sadly as his dashing blue and brown eyes focused solely on you, thinking of everything he had achieved until now.

The realm might think that the heir of Dragonstone had everything handed to him in silver platter, but they had never seen all the effort he put to remain worthy of it. He was the perfect prince to everyone, yet behind closed doors, only you saw the exhaustion he tried to hide, the endless trainings he would endure, the weight of expectations that followed him like a shadow.

And that only made the guilt inside you feel worse, because he had done everything right, except for one flaw. You.

His wife who had not even managed to give him an heir. Worse still, now these boundless whispers of your supposed infidelity threatened to besmirch his name.

You opened your mouth again, still trying to explain, but Valarr didn’t let you.

He captured your lips once again.

This time there was no restraint at all. His hands slid to your waist, fingers squeezing your flesh as he pulled you firmly against him, the kiss deepening with a fervor that stole the breath from your lungs. There was urgency in the way he held you now—something restless beneath the calm he had worn only moments ago surfacing unbidden.

“H-husband—”

“Quiet,” he commanded, lust taking over him, “—ah, my princess...”

Before you quite realized what he intended, he guided you backwards... and the edge of his desk pressed suddenly against the backs of your thighs.

With a swift motion he lifted you and bent you forward over its polished surface, the scrolls scattering beneath you. Valarr stepped between your knees, devouring your lips with renewed intensity and forced his tongue inside, even rougher this time.

Where he was usually careful and soft, his hands now held you with a more possessive grip. When he pulled you closer, the tug was harsher. When his lips wandered across your skin, the kisses he left behind were hotter and harder.

He was the only Targaryen prince who knew your body best. He knew where to touch, where to caress, where to lick and suck—

And what to do to get you nicely warm and ready for him.

“Look at me— will you?”

He tipped your chin towards him before he entered you in one swift go. The sudden stretch tore a broken cry from your lips as you threw your head back, moaning his name in broken syllables as tears fell from your lashes.

And before long, the chamber fell quiet save for the sounds of your mingled breaths and flesh tangled together, the lamplight flickering softly against the walls as the night became a blur around you.

There would be a grand celebration for King Daeron’s nameday in King’s Landing.

The festivities were to last ten days and nights to remind the realm of the strength and prosperity of House Targaryen. Lords and ladies from across the Seven Kingdoms had already begun to arrive, and there would be feasts and a grand tourney held in the king’s honor.

The first day, however, was reserved for the feast.

The great hall blazed with candlelight, the long tables heavy with roasted meats, fruits, and sweet wines. Music drifted through the hall as servants moved tirelessly between the guests. You sat quietly in your seat, hands folded neatly in your lap as you forced yourself to maintain the composure expected of a princess.

“Greetings to you, my princess...”

And it was impossible not to feel the stares.

Whispers had already traveled faster than ravens through the court, and though everyone only spoke to you in pleasantries and riddles, you could feel the weight of their judgment.

“Pay them no mind.”

You looked up when Prince Baelor spoke gently beside you. Your father-in-law regarded you with a kindness—with those very same mismatched gaze your husband had—that made your throat tighten.

“The court feeds on foolish gossip,” he continued. “It will pass soon enough.”

You managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

His reassurance was sincere, and you knew he meant it kindly, but it did little to quiet the shame that lingered in your chest.

As the evening wore on, the musicians eventually struck up a livelier tune. The feast slowly shifted into dancing, couples rising from their seats as the center of the hall cleared.

You watched absently as the first pairs took the floor... but then your breath caught.

Valarr had stepped down from his seat and extended his hand—not to you. Kiera of Tyrosh accepted it with a bright smile.

Your fingers curled in your lap as you watched them join the dancers.

Kiera moved gracefully beside him, her gown sweeping across the floor as they turned together. They made a handsome pair—your composed prince and the elegant daughter of a powerful lord. The lords and ladies in the hall had noticed as well.

“She suits him…”

“A fitting match…”

Each word sank into your chest like a needle and the longer you sit here, the more you couldn’t bear to watch the dance floor any longer.

Rising quietly from your seat, you began to make your way toward the edge of the hall, hoping to slip away before the sting in your eyes betrayed you, however...

“My princess.”

You froze. Prince Aerion suddenly appeared before you, his silver hair gleaming beneath the candlelight. He bowed slightly and offered his hand, though the smile that followed was anything but respectful.

“Would you grant me this dance?”

Your first instinct was to refuse, but then you realized too many eyes were already on you. Refusing him openly would only feed the whispers further. Biting back your anger, reluctantly, you placed your hand in his.

Aerion led you to the dance floor, and he drew you into the proper steps with unsettling ease.

“You look miserable tonight,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“I am merely tired, my prince,” you replied stiffly and Aerion chuckled, almost tauntingly.

“Such loyalty to a man who leaves you sitting alone while he dances with another.”

“Prince Valarr is my husband,” you hissed.

“Yes,” Aerion’s violet eyes lit with a manic glint, “and yet I cannot help but think you would fare far better with me instead.”

“Do me a favor and cease this nonsense.”

“But it is true.” His grip tightening slightly at your waist as the dance carried you through another turn. “I would never leave you sitting alone while the court talks about you.”

You said nothing. You simply endured the remainder of the dance in tense silence.

The moment the music ended, you pulled away hurriedly. Without waiting for his reply, you turned and left the hall.

The air in the corridors felt cooler, quieter. You exhaled slowly, hoping the distance from the feast would steady your thoughts. Footsteps sounded behind you to disrupt your newfound peace, however.

“Running away so quickly?”

You sighed. “Aerion, please—”

He followed you down the corridor regardless, his long strides quickly closing the distance. Before you could move again, he stepped in front of you, blocking your path in the empty hall.

“You avoid me as though I were a monster,” he said with a faint laugh.

“Because you behave like one,” you snapped.

His smile sharpened. You tried to step past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrists. “Aerion— let go!”

But he did not move. Instead, he pushed you back a step until your shoulders brushed the cold stone wall behind you.

“You deserve better than that dull, careful cousin of mine.” Aerion leaned closer, his face only a mere inch from yours. “A princess should not waste herself on a dragon who barely burns.”

“I will hear no more of this—!”

For a moment, his grip tightened hard enough to bruise, his gaze dark, and the deserted hall suddenly felt far too small.

His hand slid from your wrist to your arm, pressing you firmly against the wall. He leaned down, attempting to seize your lips in a rough kiss—

You turned your head sharply, the contact landing against your neck instead. Panic surged through you as you shoved against his chest.

“Aerion, stop!”

Your voice broke into something close to a shriek as you struggled against him. His hold only tightened as he tried again, heedless of your resistance.

. . .

The banquet hall had become suffocating for Valarr too.

While he had asked Kiera of Tyrosh for his first dance, it was out of courtesy since he had been talking to her. What he had not expected was to see you take the floor with Aerion out of all people.

It made him restless, because even though everything was false, the fact that it had become such a rumor in the first place meant he wasn’t able to protect you. And lately there had been a strained distance between you he had been meaning to mend too.

His gaze moved across the tables, searching instinctively for you. He was thinking maybe he could excuse both himself and you from the feast and retire to your chambers. When he didn’t find you, he stepped out to the corridors.

And that was when he heard it. A muffled cry.

Valarr turned the corner— and the sight that greeted him was one he would never have imagined could happen even in his nightmares.

You pinned against the wall, your dress disheveled, tears in your eyes as you struggled against the man holding you in a very compromising position.

Aerion.

For a heartbeat Valarr did not think. Could not think. That was also when the world seemed to narrow into something blindingly red—

He lunged. His hand seized the back of Aerion’s collar and tore him away from you with brutal force. The sudden motion sent his wretched cousin stumbling back a step before his fist followed like a punishment.

Bam!

The punch landed squarely on his jaw and the Bright Prince staggered under the blow. Valarr’s chest heaved, every muscle in his body coiled tight with rage. For a moment it took everything he had not to strike again.

“Valarr!” you gasped, immediately pulling him back. He turned to you only to find your shaking hands and tear-streaked face— and the sight made his heart lurch in his chest.

Your husband forced himself to step back towards you as he glared at his kin. His voice, when it came, was tight with restrained fury.

“I will regain my honor tomorrow. At the joust.”

Valarr did not wait for Aerion to answer as he took your hand firmly, and pulled you away from the corridor, leading you back towards your marital chambers.

Behind you, Aerion remained where he stood. His cheek throbbed where the punch had landed, but he barely felt it as much as the sting that burned incessantly in his chest.

Because in his own twisted way—

Aerion had already given his heart to you too.

The door to your marital chambers barely closed when Valarr turned to face you and placed both hands on your shoulders, checking you over.

“Did he—” His voice faltered slightly before he forced the words out. “Did Aerion do anything to you?”

You shook your head like a limp puppet, still trying to process what had just happened. The tension in his shoulders loosened only slightly, but it was still there, still burning.

“You cannot challenge him tomorrow.” You started trembling, realizing the gravity of what he said earlier. “Valarr… please...”

He clenched his jaw. “He will answer for what he did.”

“You cannot do this over me!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “The entire court will be watching. If something goes wrong—”

“Something has already gone wrong,” Valarr cut in sharply. “Aerion has insulted me. He laid his hands on you— and you expect me to simply stand by and do nothing?”

“But you will be in danger—”

“I will be fine.”

“You will not!”

Your words echoed in the chamber, and for the first time, you saw how composure slipped from the Young Prince’s face.

“Is your faith in me truly so little?” he questioned, hurt. “Do you truly believe I cannot defeat him in a fair duel?”

“That’s not what I mean— he is a monster!” you said quickly, the words tumbling out in distress. The memory of Aerion’s grip on your arm flashed through your mind, followed immediately by the terrible image of Valarr lying bloodied in the arena. Your stomach twisted.

“You’ve seen how he fights. He has never cared for honor in a tourney. He plays foul whenever it suits him. I don’t want anything to happen to you—”

“But I would do anything for you!”

The words burst from him so suddenly, louder than you had ever him yell before, and you fell silent, wide-eyed.

“I cannot stand idly when my cousin dishonors the woman I love and pretend it means nothing!” Valarr continued, his voice sharp. “I cannot watch you be treated like that and remain silent!”

His knuckles curled into tight fists at his sides, the restraint he had always carried now visibly fraying.

“You think I care about the court’s whispers?” he went on, quieter now, his gaze on you almost painful. “No. Let them whisper.”

You shook your head weakly, tears falling. “Valarr…”

“I hate how they questioned your honor because of what we have been through, but even that is still better than seeing you in childbed again.”

Valarr looked away briefly, as though gathering the strength to continue. His eyes then returned to yours, heavy with something you had rarely seen from him—raw grief, as he shook his head.

“I will not put you through that again if I could help it. I cannot subject you to that ordeal again. Even if we are to remain childless— then so be it.”

His words struck you deep.

“I cannot watch you mourn our lost children again and again.” His blue and brown eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “The pain you feel… I feel it as well. And for all I know, it may be because of me.”

Your heart clenched painfully. This was not what you wanted to hear, and the sight of your composed husband broke down in tears was not something you wanted to see.

“I’m sorry I cannot give you healthy children,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry for taking away the joy that should have been yours. I’m so, so sorry that our marriage has brought you more grief than happiness. I’m sorry...”

So this was why he always apologized to you. You couldn’t bear it any longer.

Before he could say another word, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms tightly around him.

“Don’t say that...” you managed amidst your own tears. “I’m the happiest with you. I could only endure all this with you by my side...”

His arms slowly came around you in return, holding you just as tightly—as though the two of you were the only things keeping the other from falling apart.

Because after all, before the throne, before the realm and its endless expectations— you and Valarr had always been, first and foremost, just two people who loved each other.

“May the luck of the Seven shine upon all the combatants!”

The tourney started at the crack of dawn. Knights in gilded armor lined the field while the stands overflowed with nobles and commonfolk alike, all eager to witness the spectacle.

You sat stiffly in the royal box beside Prince Baelor. Jousts had never excited you, the thunder of hooves and splintering wood only made your heart pound with dread rather than thrill.

The first round belonged to the lords of the realm. Knights from every corner of Westeros rode proudly into the lists as they tilted against one another. The crowd cheered loudly each time a lance shattered or a poor soul was thrown from his saddle.

Yet you barely watched— until a roar suddenly erupted from the crowd.

You looked up just in time to see Aerion lowering his lance after his last winning tilt. Across the field, Ser Leo Tyrell lay sprawled and bloodied in the dust beside his fallen horse.

The crowd cheered wildly as he removed his skull-like helm. Even from afar you could see the cruel curve of his smile. Not long after, he rode toward the royal box, stopping below the platform and looked up at you, making your insides churn uneasily.

“My princess,” he called smoothly, his eyes catching the morning sun. “Please grant me your favor.”

You truly hesitated, because you had wished to grant yours for your husband in the first place. But at Baelor’s urging and the knowledge that the house of the dragon must be seen united in front of these people, you relented.

You silently dropped the wreath to his lance, and he grinned in response.

“I shall wear it proudly,” he told you with a smirk.

You forced yourself not to respond. He rode away soon after, leaving murmurs of the audience who wondered why the prince royal was asking the favor of the princess consort of his own cousin in his wake.

The second round of the joust began not long after.

Many combatants gathered at the center of the field, their armor gleaming beneath the growing sunlight, and the herald raised his staff, announcing:

“Prince Valarr of House Targaryen, Heir of Dragonstone, will choose his opponent of the day!”

Valarr came riding into the arena atop his black destrier, his armor dark and polished like obsidian. He looked calm—almost impossibly so—as he surveyed the line of waiting knights.

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest as you watched your husband rode slowly past the gathered challengers. Then, almost immediately, he lowered his lance and pointed it directly at—

“Prince Valarr chooses Prince Aerion Brightflame, second son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall!”

Gasps rippled through the stands before they broke into cheers. Prince Baelor beside you exhaled slowly, and you clutched your heart.

Your felt sick to your stomach. He really made good on his promise to Aerion. “No...” your voice came out in a croak.

Noticing your distress for a while now, Prince Baelor reached over and gently took your hand.

“He will be fine,” he assured you as you squeezed his palm. You looked at him helplessly, tears already shining in your eyes.

Baelor watched his son ride into position with a thoughtful expression. “My late wife used to worry like you whenever Valarr entered the lists too,” he said then, a nostalgic smile on his face. “She would clutch my arm just as tightly.”

His gaze softened when your first tear fell and you hurried to wipe it. As a father, he was glad that his precious son had you to worry about him. He is in good hands, he thought.

Baelor too had taken measures to keep Valarr safe all this time, but he also knew that for better or worse, his son had inherited certain stubbornness from him, especially when he was after something he wanted.

The two royal princes of House Targaryen lowered their visors... and the first tilt began.

Your heart was in your throat as you knew the truth others didn’t. Valarr was not the most naturally gifted fighter. While Aerion thrived in the field as though born for it, Valarr had to earn his skills through relentless training and work harder than most to simply match what Aerion could.

And it showed. Each pass forced him to fight to remain upright in his saddle.

For the first three tilts, Valarr and Aerion broke their lances evenly. It was during the fourth tilt that disaster began.

Aerion angled his lance downward toward Valarr’s horse and the impact sent the animal crashing sideways. Your husband fell hard into the dust.

A cry escaped your lips, but before you could even breathe, he was already rising, demanding his right for contest of arms.

The clash of their blades echoed across the arena as they struck again and again. The fight was fierce, relentless, the princes accumulating wounds from each other.

Then Valarr knocked the morningstar from Aerion’s grip— the crowd roared as the two abandoned their weapons entirely—

And they fought with their bare hands.

. . .

Valarr’s head was still ringing from the earlier fall. The world swayed with each breath and he could taste his own blood, but he forced himself to remain standing as he lunged at his vile cousin.

Each time he remembered how he had forced himself on you the night before, his blood boiled, and it was what fueled him upright. However, Aerion was always the better fighter— his blows came hard and fast, and Valarr had to take several strikes to the face.

They were clearly wearing each other out. Every strike grew heavier, every breath harsher as the fight dragged on beneath the blazing sun.

Then suddenly—whether by chance or by the Seven’s judgment—Aerion stumbled.

And Valarr seized the moment. He surged forward and struck him again and again, every punch driven by the fury he had kept buried from the night before.

Aerion lost his footing and fell into the dirt. Valarr staggered forward, chest heaving, driving his boot sharply into his cousin’s chest.

“Yield,” he demanded through ragged breaths. “Yield, cousin!”

Aerion glared up at him, his silver hair matted with dust and his own blood, his face badly bruised. For a long moment it seemed he might refuse out of sheer spite as he spat on his boots.

“I yield.”

Done. It is done.

“Prince Valarr is victorious!”

The crowd thundered in cheers, but he barely heard it. His gaze lifted instead towards the royal box.

Towards you, who looked breathtakingly beautiful in the colors of Targaryen crimson and black. Even from the arena floor, he could see the track of tears on your cheeks. His heart warmed so much at the sight of you.

And seeing that, he vowed he would crown you his Queen of Love and Beauty by the time this tourney ended.

“I told you… I bloody told you!”

Your voice rang through the chamber as you hovered anxiously beside him.

Valarr sat at the edge of the bed after a maester finished binding another bruise along his ribs and left. Dark blotches were already blooming across his arms and shoulders, and a shallow cut near his mouth had been carefully stitched. Yet he boyishly grinned at your irked face.

“I only wished to win the victor’s laurel,” he said almost innocently, though the faint wince he tried to hide betrayed how sore he truly was.

“For what?” you demanded, looking pale after enduring days of anxiety that it made your gut not sit well with you, arms crossing over your chest. “So you could come back marred with bruises from head to toe?”

Valarr merely smiled. Because despite the aches in every limb, the memory of this morning still lingered warmly in his mind.

“I name you, my beloved princess... the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The gasp had swept through the stands and everyone was stunned in silence before the cheers and well wishes roared the moment he dipped his lance towards you.

He had fought for eight days just for that, pushing his aching body to the edge so the realm could see exactly what he wanted them to see. A prince utterly devoted to his wife.

To Valarr, that alone had been worth every bruise.

But you were still glaring at him.

“And what if something worse had happened?” you continued, clearly not ready to forgive him so easily, a hand above your heart. “What if—”

But your words faltered as a sudden wave of nausea rose in your throat, the color draining from your face as your stomach lurched unpleasantly. You placed a hand over your mouth.

“What is it?” he started, concern sharpening his voice.

However, you were unable to answer him as the urge to throw up overwhelmed your senses. You turned abruptly, and hurried towards the chamber pot.

Valarr was on his feet instantly despite the protests of his battered body. “My love—”

He reached you just as you finished retching, both arms coming to steady you. “Are you unwell?” he asked, alarmed. “How long have you been feeling ill?”

You wiped your mouth with a trembling hand. The room seemed to sway slightly as you leaned against his bare chest for support. For a moment neither of you spoke as you evened your breath.

It was then that realization dawned on the two of you.

A thought—one both of you had not dared to voice—hung heavily in the air. You remembered that night on his desk, and you almost let out a gasp.

You had gone through this before, and Valarr felt the same fragile spark of hope stir in his chest, but he forced himself to calm down.

Your eyes slowly lifted to meet his, your hands shook slightly as Valarr took them in his own. He held you carefully, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles in quiet reassurance. His mismatched eyes held yours steadily.

“No matter what happens this time,” he declared, “I would stay beside you. I would take good care of you.”

You had heard his vows before—spoken before the gods, before the High Septon, before the realm itself. And never once had Valarr failed to keep his word.

If the Seven chose to bless you this time, then you would welcome the miracle with hope.

And if they did not… You would still have him. And he would still have you.

The wheelhouse had been your father’s idea of comfort.

Cushioned seats, curtained windows. Your house’s sigil pressed into the wood of the door in pale pink and soft green.

You had spent the first two days of the journey with a book open on your lap, pretending to read while the wheels hit every stone and branch on the ground. By the third day, you had given up pretending and simply watched the curtains sway.

The Lord Aldric Sweetbriar sat across from you with his ledger, making small notes with his careful hand. He had barely looked up since you had finally crossed the Crownlands.

You did not interrupt him, you were good at that. It was one of the few things you were genuinely praised for, yet it was depressing.

Outside, the land had changed. You had noticed it gradually, the way you noticed most things; quietly and too late to say anything about it to anyone.

The usual green of the Reach; soft, fragrant, and familiar, had changed into something harder and less forgiving. The air that crept in through the tiny gaps of the curtain was different too. Heavier. It sat in your lungs differently than that of the cool, dewy mornings of Sweetfield; your home, where the mist made the village smell like wet earth and lavender.

Underneath your sleeve, you pressed your fingers to your wrist without thinking. Faintly damp. It has been since yesterday, and it is not entirely because of the heat.

The wheelhouse slowed.

You heard it before you felt it. The driver’s call, the change in the horses’ rhythm. The curtain swayed in the breeze, and you caught a glimpse through the gap.

People. More people than you had ever seen gathered in one place in your entire life. Moving in every direction with the chaos the city had always known in its entire existence.

Letting the curtain fall back into place, your fingers found your wrist again.

Wallflower, you heard your sister Rowan’s voice in the back of your head, insufferable yet full of warmth. You are absolutely going to hate it there.

“We are nearly at the gates,” Your father closed his ledger, then looked at you properly for the first time in hours. His eyes moved over your face, steadily assessing.

“How are you finding the journey?" It was not quite a question, it rarely was with him.

“Well enough,” you said softly. Though it was not much of a response, your father always accepted and understood. Understood that you were nervous in the way you were your whole life. The one where you learned from a very young age to keep away and not let it show on the outside.

Your Lord father nodded. “You will find your footing, daughter.”

You thought back to Briarkeep, in Sweetfield. The way the roses climbed the pale grey stone in the mornings. The way your youngest brother, Celyn always smelled faintly of whatever dirt he had been digging in. You said nothing.

The gates came. The noise swelled around the wheelhouse like water rising, and you sat still, letting yourself drown in it. You could hear horses and vendors, their voices layered together. It was nothing like you had ever known. Not even during the busiest mornings of the village square in Sweetfield, where you can still hear the brook.

The air was nothing like the Reach. It was thick and carried everything with it. Smoke, animals, too many people living too close in vicinity. It was not entirely unpleasant, but entirely overwhelming.

You were the youngest daughter of House Sweetbriar. The last of Lord Aldric’s daughters, the one that came after Rowan. Before her, was Edwyn and Elara. Growing up in the shadows of your older siblings, you spent your entire life finding your way in the space they had long already filled.

As Aldric’s heir, Edwyn had the house. Elara had her good match. Rowan had also found hers.

You had the garden. You had your books. You had Celyn’s tiny hand in yours on the mornings he climbed into your bed before Briarkeep woke.

Now, you had this. Trying to remember how to breathe in air that felt nothing like home.

“They call it the city of a thousand smells,” you said, mostly to yourself.

Your father glanced at you, the corner of his mouth slightly moving. “Who calls it that?”

“A book.”

“Which book?”

“I fear I do not remember.” You did remember. You remembered exactly which particular shelf of Briarkeep’s modest library it was in, how old you had been when you read it, the fact you had read everything on that shelf twice. Though, you thought of it as irrelevant, that nobody had ever thought to ask.

Aldric let out a sound of amusement, before looking out the curtain. “It is not wrong,” he responded.

As the wheelhouse continued to roll on, you thought about what your father wanted from this trip. The thought that sat in your chest the same way it did for weeks.

Lord Aldric had built his life with precision; good trade, good matches, good reputation. Every piece was placed deliberately and well.

Edwyn had married into another steady house from the Reach, his lady wife already with child. Same with Elara. With Rowan, nearly so.

Now, the last daughter, the quiet wallflower of Briarkeep, was being brought to King’s Landing like the final entry in his careful plan.

A connection beyond the Reach, he had told you over supper.

You had considered them. You laid awake in bed considering them. A Lannister would want gold and a name that rang across the Seven Kingdoms, you had neither. A Baratheon would want strength and storms, a lady who could stand tall in a great hall full of warriors, you were the girl that stood at the edge of them.

You had even thought, just once, in a weak moment you were not proud of, about what it would mean to carry a name like Targaryen. Full of dragonfire, to carry a babe with blood closer to the gods than that of humans.

You dismissed the thought immediately. You were only the youngest daughter of a house so minor that half the lords of the Reach would need a moment to think about it. Your house grew herbs, you pressed flowers and read books nobody asked you to read. When you did talk, it was mostly to a boy of six, with innocent eyes that matched her mother’s.

What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?

The wheelhouse rolled to a stop.

Around them, the noise of the city had not quieted but changed. Sounds of boots on cobblestone, distant clangs of armor, and low murmurs.

Your father had descended first, offering you his hand. You took it and stepped down onto King’s Landing for the first time.

The heat was immediate. You felt it on your skin, through the fabric of your dress, resisting the urge to press your cool fingers to your cheeks.

You stood beside your father, and looked up at the Red Keep for the first time. It was enormous. You had read the histories, the accounts of different visitors across generations. None of it had prepared you for the sensation of standing at its feet, at its mercy as the youngest daughter of a lesser house from the quietest corner of the Reach.

Lord Aldric placed a brief hand at your back. It was steady and grounding. The faint smell of his own fragrance made from herbs and oils only found in Sweetfield. It only did so much to comfort you, a reminder of how far you are from home.

Beckoning you forward, you took your first step and followed your Lord father. Wallflower, you still heard Rowan’s voice. You hushed her in your thoughts.

The morning had already started before he was ready for it, which was becoming a habit he utterly resented.

Valarr stood at the window of his chambers while his squire worked at the laces of his doublet behind him, looking out at the courtyard below. Preparations had been underway long before dawn.

Tables being carried. The ebony and red banners being straightened. Servants moving about. There was an urgency that filled the air, that everything needed to be perfect. Perfect for a nameday celebration in the Red Keep.

His nameday.

To him, it did not feel like a celebration. It felt like a deadline.

“Too tight,” he said, without turning.

His squire murmured a soft apology and adjusted. The young prince said nothing.

Watching banners being rehung for a third time, his mind went back to the private conversation he had with his father two evenings ago. The one he had been dreading, but was inevitable.

You are not a boy anymore, Prince Baelor had said. A man of your age, your name, your station. The time has come to think seriously about what comes next.

What comes next? As though it were a simple thing. As though it was not the question that sat in the center of everything now.

The heir of the heir. Second in line to the Iron Throne.

He needed to look for a bride. A future queen of the Realm, to rule by his side when the time comes. He was definitely not ready.

His squire finished with the laces and moved to grab his cloak. Valarr finally turned away from the window, catching his own reflection in the polished mirror across the chamber. 

He thought he looked exactly like someone who was about to spend the entire week being presented to the daughters of every noble house with enough ambition to secure an invitation. He was not particularly happy about it.

Valarr was far from ungrateful. From a very young age, he fully understood the weight of his name and position, and what it required. However, understanding and being at peace with it was not always the same.

A future queen. Someone whose name would sit beside his in the history books, a face he did not yet know. Someone who was somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms right now, perhaps dressing for the festivities, or perhaps already within these walls.

He wondered, briefly, what was she thinking about at this moment.

“Your Grace,” His squire stepped back. “You are ready.”

Valarr looked at himself in the mirror once more. The black doublet he wore was accented by deep burgundy, the three-headed dragon forged in steel at the breast. His dark hair was done more neatly than usual, his silver streak proudly showing.

He thought about the day ahead. The incoming introductions and careful conversations. The noble ladies that would be presented. The Lord fathers who would be watching. All enshrouded by the grand performance of a nameday celebration.

The young dragon prince straightened.

You had read about the Great Hall of the Red Keep.

It was so grand and vast in a way that made you feel your own insignificance, that you were only one person. To be standing in a room that bore witness to power and greatness.

Aldric stood beside you, feeling the complete opposite. That was the thing about your father that you never quite managed to inherit. He could walk into any room, and find his footing within moments, even as a lesser lord that merely dealt with herb trades.

By no means was he arrogant. He was simply a man that held a particular steadiness within himself, a man who knew exactly who he was.

Your father took a breath, straightened his shoulders, and became Lord Aldric Sweetbriar, a man whose house you might not immediately recognize but whose bearing you would not miss.

You secretly envied him for it.

“Come, daughter,” he said, and beckoned you forward into the noise. You only followed because it was you had to.

The hall was already full and continued to get fuller.

You stayed close to your father’s side and tried to do what you always did on occasions like these: observe, rather than participate. It was a strategy that proved to be quite successful at small gatherings in the Reach.

There were lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, some clustered together like in a map. Lannisters in their signature red and lustrous gold. Baratheons standing broad shouldered and loud across the hall, already nursing goblets of wine. 

The familiar Tyrells gathered near the center of the hall, as they always did. Orbiting them were other lords from the Reach that you recognized by sigil. 

Despite being the quietest in the hall, the northern lords were easy to spot. They held their demeanor so differently than those of the south, standing watchfully. You noticed that they had not yet decided to take their thick furs and cloaks off yet, even in the humid air of King’s Landing.

You recognized that particular stillness. Those who were more accustomed to silence rather than southern spectacle. Embarrassingly, you felt an unexpected affinity towards them. Perhaps you could do well in the North.

You continued observing the room, and kept your hands still like Elara had taught you.

Your father was already in conversation with a lord from the Crownlands, warm and genuinely interested. He introduced you briefly, and you smiled. Then you stepped back and let him continue, slightly behind his shoulder like a shadow.

Then you became aware of the women perhaps about an hour in. A group of highborn ladies near the far end of the hall, the kind of women who had been raised in grand castles rather than being merely invited to them.

“Is that a Sweetbriar sigil?”

The voice was not quiet, it was not meant to be. It held the character of someone who had grown up in rooms where their voice was always worth hearing. Then, light laughter. Dismissive and entirely certain of itself.

“The Red Keep allows herb merchants now, apparently.”

You kept your eyes forward, and face entirely still, with practiced grace. Instinctively, you pressed your fingers against your wrist once again. Thinking back to the brook behind Sweetfield, and Celyn’s soft giggles, you pretended to not hear their discussions.

“My dear.”

The voice came from your left. It was warm and unhurried. You turned.

Lady Ellinor Tyrell was not a young girl but a striking woman, the kind of lady that was naturally placed at the center of any space she occupied. You remembered Edwyn’s silly infatuation about her when you were younger, filling your ears with detailed descriptions of her beauty and grace. 

“Lady Tyrell,” You greeted, bowing your head slightly before curtsying.

She looked at you with genuine warmth and slight amusement, like she had heard exactly what had been said earlier. Seeing your father deeper in conversation with the other lords, she gently took both your hands in hers.

“I had thought that was you,” her eyes moved over your face with fondness. “You have grown since I last saw you at Highgarden.”

“I was the age of four and ten, my lady,” your voice came out steadier than you felt. “My father had brought us for the harvest feast.”

“Aye, that is right,” the corners of her eyes creased warmly. “I remember that you spent the whole of the afternoon in the gardens, and nobody could find you for supper. The head gardener spoke of you afterward, and said that you knew more of the medicinal properties of half his plants than most of his staff combined.”

Something in your chest had loosened. “He was far too kind to say so, my lady.”

“He was truthful to say so.” Lady Tyrell then tucked your hand gently through her arm, turning you both away from your busy father.

“How does your Lord father fare? Your siblings? All is well?”

“Yes, my lady. Well enough. My youngest brother Celyn has only just turned seven.”

“The little one,” she said softly. “Seven already. The years do not slow for any of us.”

Gently drawing you forward, she says, “Come, there are some among our company who will be glad of your acquaintance.”

“Lord Fossoway has been asking for your father’s rosemary oil for the better part of the year, and has not had the good sense to simply send a raven to Briarkeep.”

A breath of a laugh escaped you, before you could stop it. Lady Ellinor’s eyes crinkled at the corners.

“There,” she said quietly, only for you to hear. “That is better.”

She then led you gradually toward the gathered group of Tyrells and other houses from the Reach. She always kept you included in the discussions, without making it feel like a charity. The Reach lords and ladies received you with easy warmth and familiarity. You were one of theirs, after all, no matter how small your house is.

Your father caught your eye from across a group of Crownlands lords, giving you a small nod. Well done, hold steady. You heard his voice in your head, before straightening your own posture.

For a fleeting moment, you were not the wallflower of Briarkeep.

Only for a moment.

The hush came without warning.

One moment the great hall was full of noise; voices, laughter, and the clink of goblets across the gathered nobility. Then, it stopped. Not all once, but in a wave.

You felt it reach you before you understood what it meant.

Every head turned toward the doors. Yours did too.

“His Grace, King Daeron the Good of House Targaryen, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

The herald’s voice carried through the great hall, ringing through the stone walls.

“His Grace, Baelor of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir to the Iron Throne.”

The rustle of fabric, and soft footsteps rippled around you. Lady Ellinor inclined her head with graceful precision. You lowered yourself into a curtsy beside her, eyes fixed on the cold stone floor.

“His Grace, Valarr of House Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, on the occasion of his nameday.”

You heard footsteps, slow and measured. Moving through the parted crowd. The whisper of fine fabric. The soft clink of ceremonial armor.

After Prince Matarys, the family of Prince Maekar followed, filling the hall with the full weight of Targaryen blood gathered in one space. You kept your eyes down and your curtsy steady, listening to each name.

Then the herald fell silent. A beat of silence.

Then King Daeron’s voice, older and gentler than you had expected, carried throughout the hall.

“Rise.”

You rose with everyone, before finally taking a look at the royal family for the first and probably only time.

Impossible to miss, you saw the king first. White haired and measured, wearing the crown of his father, Aegon the Unworthy. Beside him stood Prince Baelor. The grey at his temples did nothing to diminish him. If anything, it had only refined what was already there.

When the older prince shifted, your eyes found the one beside him without meaning to.

Prince Valarr Targaryen.

You had heard about him from others’ accounts. The descriptions had been accurate enough, dark brown hair with a silver streak that showed his Valyrian ancestry. Somehow, it still failed to prepare you for the reality of him standing in the same room as you.

He looked on to the hall of people celebrating his nameday, with an expression you could not quite name from a distance.

He did not look unhappy. Nor entirely at ease.

Perhaps a combination of the two.

He did not look your way once. Why would he? There were higher born lords and ladies filling every inch of the hall, daughters of great and wealthy houses positioned carefully within his line of sight.

Prince Valarr stood with his shoulders straight, his face composed, and his eyes moving steadily across the room without once landing on the unremarkable youngest daughter of a lesser Reach house, standing quietly at Lady Tyrell’s side.

You told yourself you were relieved. Mostly.

“He is more handsome than the accounts would suggest, is he not?” Lady Ellinor’s voice came softly at your shoulder, with quiet amusement. You became suddenly aware that you had been staring.

Heat crept up the back of your neck.

“I fear I would not know, my lady,” you said, gathering whatever composure you had left. “I have not read many accounts.”

“No,” Lady Ellinor said, with a sound that was not quite a laugh. “I do not suppose you have.”

You kept your eyes carefully forward, your stomach filling with a slight discomfort; like you had been caught doing something you were not supposed to.

The celebration resumed itself around the royal family’s presence, noise swelling back into the great hall with ease. Lords and ladies continued to move about. Goblets were refilled. Musicians finding their place once again.

It was a nameday celebration. You reminded yourself of that.

Across the hall, you watched as the young prince was received by the first group of lords. You could not hear the words being exchanged from this distance. You did not need to. The men’s postures. The practiced smiles. Their daughters positioned themselves deliberately at their Lord fathers’ sides, lovely and composed. Like they had prepared their entire life for this moment.

Prince Valarr received them graciously. He was patient. Yet, there was something behind his eyes, even at this distance. You recognized it the same way you did for the northern lords.

A person resuming their duties, while something continues to weigh heavy on their mind.

You understood that feeling rather well.

Having detached himself from the Crownlands lords, your father appeared at your side. Lady Ellinor had since separated from you, being pulled away by her own family.

“The royal family,” he observed, in the quiet tone he always used when he took note of something.

“Aye,” you said. “So it is, my lord.”

Aldric was quiet for a moment, surveying the hall with patient yet ambitious eyes. The eyes of a man who had come to King’s Landing with a purpose, and intended to see it through.

“I spoke with Lord Brightwater this evening. A Crownlands house, good standing.” He paused. “He has a son. Second-born. Near your age, from what I understand.”

You looked at your father.

He was not looking at you. He was watching the hall with the same steady expression.

“He seemed a reasonable man,” Lord Aldric continued. “His house is respectable. Not large, but steady.”

You understood what he was not saying. You had always been good at reading between the lines of what he said. 

Do not look toward the prince, my sweet daughter. We are not here for that, and you know it as well as I do.

He did not say any of it. He did not need to. Because he was kind-hearted enough to not speak of it plainly to you.

“I see,” you said softly.

“I thought it worth mentioning,” Your father said gently.

You looked back at the group of lords and ladies, with the young prince at the center of them all. The prince who had not looked your way once and would likely not think to.

You pressed your fingers to your wrist beneath your sleeve.

“Yes,” you said. “Worth mentioning.”

The great hall had received him exactly as he expected it to. A prince of the great dragon house. The heir of the heir.

Valarr moved through the first hour with the careful patience his father had taught him his entire life. Lord after lord. Name after name. Exchanging conversations and pleasantries that always had hidden meanings and agendas underneath them.

Instead of enjoying the feast, he knew his real duty. Matarys drifted past him at some point, with the satisfied and relaxed expression of a youngest son enjoying himself without the weight of obligation on his shoulders.

“How fares my big brother?” His younger brother said, falling into place beside him for a moment with a goblet in hand.

“Well enough,” Valarr said.

The even younger prince looked at him sideways. “You have spoken to four lords in the past hour, and smiled at all of them in exactly the same way.”

“That is called courtesy, dear brother.”

“That is called exhaustion,” Matarys took a long sip. “The Lannister lord has had his eyes on you for the past quarter hour. He has his daughter with him. The one in gold.”

“I am aware.”

“Her beauty is quite astounding.”

“I am also aware of that.”

“But?”

Valarr said nothing. Matarys seemed to understand. He did not push. He simply downed the remaining wine in his goblet, and patted his older brother on the shoulder. He then drifted away into the crowd, like he still had all the freedom and time in his hands.

Valarr watched him go with a combination of envy and affection in his chest.

Making sure to keep his face composed, he let out a subtle sigh before turning back to receive the Lannister lord.

Baelor caught his eye from across the hall. A look that said nothing, yet everything. Valarr gave him the smallest nod in return.

He had lost count of how many conversations he has had. This time, it was a lord from the Stormlands. Broad and direct in the manner of his region. It felt refreshing to him, especially after the Lannister lord that seemed to only speak in glamorous riddles.

Until something in his periphery caught his attention without quite announcing itself.

Near the group of Tyrells and Reach lords. A girl at Lady Ellinor Tyrell’s side, standing with the quiet grace of someone who had been observing everything. There was nothing loud about her. Nothing deliberate. She was simply there. Her stillness was different from the other ladies he had observed this evening.

The highborn daughters were still in the same way an archer’s drawn bow was; calculated and waiting.

She was still in the way a person is when they were genuinely content to observe. She stood still, feeling like no one was watching her.

Valarr did not know why his eyes stayed on her for half a second longer than they should have. There was no obvious reason for it. She was not positioned to be noticed. Her sigil, at a distance, he could not place it. A small rose on green, it must be a lesser house he was not familiar with.

Then the Stormlands lord had said something that required his attention. The prince teared his eyes away from her.

She had not crossed his mind again. Not deliberately.

Though once, near the end of the evening, when the feast had concluded and the lords were beginning to retire to their chambers, Valarr’s eyes moved one more time toward the place the Reach group had been.

She was gone. With her father most likely. Off to retire to whatever chamber had been arranged for them.

There was no reason to notice the absence of someone whose presence he had barely registered.

He noticed it anyway. Briefly.

Then, Matarys appeared at his side to announce that the evening was finally over. Valarr let himself be steered toward the corridor, and put the evening behind him.

He tried to.

Valarr had not slept particularly well.

This was not unusual following the first night of a week-long celebration. There was always a particular kind of restlessness that came after hours of practiced performance.

He dressed unceremoniously, sending his squire away earlier than usual. He stood at the window, watching as the Red Keep woke up in the pale morning light. He stood still until a knock came.

It was not his squire. He knew his squire’s knock.

“Enter,” Valarr said.

Surprisingly, it was his father. He looked like a man who had been awake for several hours and had already put them to good use.

“Come,” Baelor said. “Walk with me.”

Entering his study, Baelor settled into a chair near the hearth. He gestured for Valarr to do the same.

He looked at his son with attention that made Valarr feel seen and measured his entire life, never unkindly. He let the silence sit, comfortable and undemanding.

Until he said at last, “Well.” The single word doing the work of a much longer question.

Valarr took a few moments to think.

“It was the first evening,” he said. “The Lannister lord presented his daughter. A Baratheon cousin. Several other ladies from the Reach.”

“And your thoughts?”

“Gracious. Well prepared. All of them exactly what they were meant to be. Or taught to be.” He paused. “The Lady Lannister especially. I could not find a fault with her if I tried.”

Baelor tilted his head forward slightly. This was his son.

“But?”

Valarr sighed softly, “But I kept looking for the person underneath the preparation and could not find her.” He said plainly, knowing his own father was the one person he could be plain with. “Perhaps she was there. Perhaps I did not look long or well enough.”

Baelor nodded slowly. He did not push. He never did.

After a moment, “There was a sigil I did not recognize. Near the Tyrells, perhaps from the Reach. A pale rose on green.” Valarr said it as casually as he could.

“A lesser house, I think. I could not place the name.”

His father looked at him with an expression that was entirely neutral, yet somehow still managing to be amused.

“Sweetbriar,” Baelor said, without hesitation. He remembered everything. “House Sweetbriar of Briarkeep. A minor house of the Reach. Loyal to the Tyrells for generations. Their trade is in herbs and botanical oils.” A brief pause. “Lord Aldric’s youngest daughter.”

Valarr absorbed all this information with a nod that he deliberately kept measured.

His father’s eyes did not leave his face. “Is she the one who has caught your eye?”

“No,” Valarr said, perhaps a bit too promptly. “I was only wondering, father.”

“Mm.” Baelor said nothing further on the subject. Valarr thought it was considerably worse than if he had said something.

“Only a few days remain,” he said at last. “The young lords and ladies your age are gathering in the gardens this morning. It would do you well to go among them. Not just as a prince looking for a bride.”

He held Valarr’s gaze steadily. “Simply as a person among people.”

Valarr exhaled slowly through his nose as he pulled the study’s door closed behind him.

The corridor was quiet. He stood for a moment with his hand still on the door, thinking about how he wished not to go to the gardens before accepting that he had to go regardless.

He turned away from the door.

“Your Grace.”

Valarr stopped.

The Lady Lannister was standing in the same corridor outside his father’s study, dressed in a gown of morning sunlight. She was as composed and lovely as she had been the previous evening. Donning the same practiced smile.

“My lady,” he said. “Good morrow.”

“And to you, Your Grace.” She gently stepped beside him, with the practiced ease of someone who knew how to handle something when given an opening. “I had heard the young lords and ladies are to gather in the gardens this morning. Might I have the honor of accompanying you, my prince?”

There was no graceful way to say no. There was no reason to say no.

“Of course, my lady,” he said.

The gardens of the Red Keep were at their best in the morning, before the heat of the day settled fully into the air. They were already gathered by the time Valarr arrived.

Groups of lords and ladies dispersed among the paths and flowerbeds, the casual mingling of people who were all here for the same unspoken reason, pretending to simply enjoy the morning air.

The Lady Lannister walked beside him and spoke beautifully of the gardens and the weather, how it reminded her of her home at Casterly Rock.

Valarr was certain that he was adequately present in the conversation; he thought of her as pleasant company.

With mild guilt in his chest, he just wished that he found her more interesting than he actually did.

He then steered her gently toward a certain group of highborn ladies. “The Lady Serrett is there,” he said. “I believe you are acquainted.”

She understood. He could see that she understood. She received it with perfect composure, dipping into a curtsy and a smile that flickered with subtle disappointment.

“Of course, Your Grace. I thank you for the company.”

“The pleasure was mine, my lady.”

After the group had received the Lady Lannister, he continued walking through the gardens, giving small nods and smiles of acknowledgement towards the other groups.

He looked along the paths. The rose arbor. The far end near the fountain where a group of younger lords had gathered.

He did not find what he was looking for.

He stopped.

What exactly was he looking for?

A pale rose on green.

Lord Aldric Sweetbriar’s youngest daughter whose name he still did not know. A girl he had no particular reason to be looking for in the gardens of the Red Keep.

Valarr was looking for her anyway.

He became aware of this with slight discomfort, a realization. He turned away from the gardens. He did not need to be there.

The young prince heads for the library.

The library of the Red Keep was not a place most guests sought out during a nameday celebration. It was tucked away in the quieter part of the castle. It smelled of old parchment and the settled dust of books that had been there for generations.

Valarr had been coming here since he was a young boy. It was the one room in the Red Keep where nobody expected him to be in.

He pushed the door open. Then stopped.

You turned a page. It was a simple gesture. Simple in the same way you breathed in air.

You had found the library by accident the previous evening, slipping away from the corridor while your father talked to yet another lord.

You have not even broken your fast yet, and you are still here. The morning light came in clean through the window beside you. You had your feet tucked underneath you on the chair, which Elara would have had something to say about, with a book open on your lap.

For the first time since leaving the Reach, you felt entirely comfortable.

Then, the door opened. You looked up.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you were on your feet with a speed that almost sent the book flying. You quickly closed it and held it tightly in your hands, before immediately dropping into a curtsy. Heat rose in the back of your neck and ears.

Seven hells. Of all the rooms in this enormous castle. Of all the people to walk through the door.

“Your Grace,” You managed, eyes fixed on the level of his boots. “Forgive me, I did not – I had not thought –” You stopped, trying to collect yourself. “I shall take my leave at once.”

“Please, do not.”

His voice was gentle. Not unkind. Not amused at your expense.

You cautiously looked up from his boots. He was looking at you with an expression you could not name. Not displeased. Curiosity?

“I did not come to drive you out, my lady,” he said. “Sit. Please.”

You sat, slowly pulling your book back to its earlier position. Trying not to look like a person who had not just been caught sitting with her feet tucked under her in the dragon prince’s library reading a book she had taken off his shelf without permission.

Prince Valarr settled into the chair across from you, a look of quiet curiosity on his face.

“May I ask what it is you are reading, my lady?” he asked.

You looked down at the cover. “A history of the Valyrian freehold, Your Grace.” You paused. “I do hope it was not – that is, I took it from the shelf without –”

“It is a library,” he said simply. “Books are meant to be read.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “What do you make of it so far?”

You blinked. The question was genuinely curious, it caught you off guard.

“It is –” You started, carefully thinking. The prince looked at you as though he actually wanted to know. “Considering the subject matter, whoever wrote it was far more interested in dates than in people. I keep finding myself wanting to argue with the written annotations.”

Something shifted in his expression. “I have written those annotations.”

You looked down at the book with sudden horror. Opening the book, you found a passage about the early dragonlords, a small annotation written neatly beside it.

This is not what the Maester Gyldayn wrote. See the Fires of the Freehold, Chapter Fourth.

You stared at it for a moment. Then helplessly, “You are correct that it is not, Your Grace. Maester Gyldayn contradicts this passage.”

Valarr looked at you more properly then. “You have read the works of Maester Gyldayn.”

“I have read most things, Your Grace,” you said, before catching yourself. It came out with more confidence than you had intended to present to a prince of the Seven Kingdoms in a library you had wandered into uninvited.

But, Prince Valarr did not seem to find it presumptuous. If anything, he found it the complete opposite.

“You are Lord Aldric’s daughter,” he said then. Not quite a question. “Of House Sweetbriar.”

You looked at him in shock. “You know of my house, Your Grace?”

“As a Prince of the Realm should,” he said simply. “It is my duty to know of the noble houses that swear their banners to the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Your house is from the Reach, loyal to the Tyrells since the beginning. Your trade is in herbs and oils.”

You stared at him. Not the careful practiced stare of a lady maintaining her composure in the presence of a prince. But a genuine, unguarded stare of someone that finally felt seen, and remembered.

“I–” You stopped. “Yes, that is correct, Your Grace.”

“You were not in the gardens this morning,” he said, before even thinking about it. His expression shifted slightly.

“No, Your Grace.” You kept your voice even. “I find I am better suited to libraries and books than gardens.” You paused, “which is perhaps strange, given that my house trade is botanical.”

“Not strange,” he said. “Honest.” The prince looked at you for a moment with the same quiet curiosity. “You were here yesterday evening as well.”

It was more of an observation than a question. You had not seen him outside the Great Hall the previous evening and yet he somehow knew.

“Yes, Your Grace,” you admitted. “I discovered it by accident. Forgive me, I hope that was not–”

“No need to apologize, my lady,” he said gently. “I have been coming here since I was a young boy. It is the one room in the Red Keep where nobody expects anything of me.” He said it so plainly. “I find that I am protective of it.”

“I understand, Your Grace.” You looked down, before shyly looking back up. “I have a corner of the garden at Briarkeep. Behind the lavender rows where they grow tallest. Nobody thinks to look for me there.”

The prince was quiet for a moment, looking at you with the same expression he had worn since he sat down. One you still could not name.

“You preferred this to the gardens this morning?” he said. “Even knowing the lords and ladies our age were gathering?”

“Your Grace,” you said carefully, “with all respect – I am merely the youngest daughter of a lesser noble house from the Reach. The lords and ladies in the gardens are not gathering for my benefit.”

Something shifted across his face. Not pity. Something more complicated and careful.

“And yet your Lord father has brought you here,” he said.

“My father,” you started, after a small pause, “he is an optimistic man. It is one of his finest qualities.” You looked down at the book briefly. “He has his eye on the second-born son of Lord Brightwater.”

“He is quite ambitious, yes. But he is realistic. That is why we are here, Your Grace.”

You said it steadily, because it was true and because you had made your peace with it, rather than thinking about the alternative. The thought you had long dismissed since before arriving at King’s Landing, that you had no business thinking about right now, sitting in the library with a prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

Prince Valarr was quiet for a long moment.

“Pardon me, Your Grace,” you said then, thinking the silence felt too dangerous to leave uninterrupted. “Do you not want to be in the gardens yourself? I understood that the morning was intended for–”

“For the search,” he said, with a grimace not directed at you. “Aye, it is.”

Valarr leaned back in his chair and looked at the shelves in the room, the morning light moving slowly across the long rows of books.

“My nameday celebration,” he said, “is not entirely a nameday celebration.”

“I know,” you said gently, looking down at your hands.

He looked at you.

“Everyone knows, Your Grace,” you said, with kind honesty. “The daughters who have been brought by their Lord fathers.” You paused. “It is plain enough to anyone paying attention.”

“And you pay attention, my lady,” he responded.

“I do little else,” you said, before thinking about it.

The prince almost smiled. It was close enough that you noticed it and looked away, back at the book in your hands.

“Have you made a decision yet, Your Grace?” you asked, in a quieter tone. Rowan would be slack-jawed if she were here. You were not sure where the sudden courage to ask came from. Perhaps it stopped feeling like a conversation between a crown prince and a lesser lord’s daughter. You could not name this feeling yet.

He was quiet for long enough that you thought you had overstepped.

“No,” he finally said. “I have not.”

You looked up at him.

“Does that surprise you, my lady?” he said.

“A little,” you admitted. “O-Only because you are who you are, Your Grace. Every great house in the realm would consider it an honor beyond measure. I had assumed the matter would be easily decided.”

“Easily decided,” he repeated quietly, more to himself. “Aye. It ought to be.”

“Every lady I have spoken with has been everything she was meant to be.” He looked at the open window, the sunlight getting brighter as the morning began to pass.

“Gracious and accomplished. With names that would sit well beside mine in history books. I have no reasonable objection to any of them.”

You waited patiently.

“And yet,” he continued. “I kept looking for the person underneath all of that.”

“Every exchange and conversation felt like a prepared performance. Every smile and gesture placed exactly where it was meant to be. I stood inside of all of it yet I felt–”

He paused. “Absent. As though it was happening to someone who looked like me while I watched from a distance.”

“I do not think they are false,” he said. “I think they have simply been prepared so thoroughly for this that there is no longer any distance between the preparation and the person. I keep struggling to find where one ended and the other began.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then the silence swelled even more.

Until, “My eldest sister Elara,” you started slowly, “was presented to her husband at a feast in the Reach when she was seven and ten. She spent a year beforehand learning everything about his house, his preferences, his family, the way he took his wine.” You paused. “She is also genuinely fond of him. Genuinely happy. The preparation and the person – they were the same.”

“I am not saying that it is not real,” you continued carefully. “Only that perhaps the preparation does not mean there is nothing underneath it. Perhaps it only means you have not yet been given the proper circumstances to find out.”

Prince Valarr was quiet for a moment. “And what circumstances would those be?”

You thought about it honestly. “Ones that do not feel like an audition,” you said plainly. “A room where nothing is required. Where there is nothing to perform for.”

He looked at you. “A room like this one,” he said, with an unreadable expression.

You suddenly became aware, the heat rushing back to your neck. “I did not mean–” You began.

“I know,” he said quietly, with the sincere intent of not making you feel foolish. “I know you did not.”

He looked at the book in your hands, the small annotations he wrote resting underneath your fingers.

“I do not know your name, my lady,” he started. “I know your house, your father, your trade. I know you have read Maester Gyldayn’s work, and disagree with this author’s treatment of dates.”

The corner of his mouth moved. “I do not know your name.”

You looked at him. At the prince sitting across from you in a library, who had not stayed in the gardens, who had come here instead, who was looking at you with something in his mismatched eyes –

You stopped. His eyes.

You had not been close enough the previous evening. One brown. One blue. Warm earth and still water.

You forgot, for just a moment, what he had asked you.

You told him your name.

Valarr said it once, quietly, as though he was testing the weight of it on his lips. You would sacrifice anything to the Seven to hear him say it once more.

A knock at the library door. Valarr’s expression shifted. Something concealing the openness that had been there a moment ago.

“Enter,” he said.

It was his squire, slightly out of breath. He had been looking for the prince for longer than he wanted to admit.

“Your Grace,” he bowed. “Your presence has been requested. Prince Baelor awaits you in the–”

“Aye,” Valarr rose, without hurry and hesitation.

You rose too, instinctively. He looked at you. For a moment he simply looked, in the same way he had been looking since he sat across from you.

“My lady,” he said. He was the young dragon prince again, not the person who had been sitting across from you, discussing Gyldayn’s work in the quiet of the morning.

“Your Grace,” you replied, dipping into a curtsy.

He held your gaze for just a moment longer than what was strictly necessary.

Then he turned and followed his squire out of the library. The door closed.

You stood beside your chair for a moment, the book still in your hands. Everything in the room felt like the prince had not even stepped foot in here. You sat down slowly.

You opened back to the same page you had been on before the door opened. Reading the same sentence three times.

Then you turned to the small annotations, your fingers gently brushing against the dried ink. His handwriting, small and neat.

This is not what Maester Gyldayn wrote.

You closed the book carefully. You pressed your fingers to your wrist beneath your sleeve.

I do not know your name.

He knew it now.

You were not entirely sure what to do with any of what happened during the last hour.

Sitting in the library for a while longer, with the book closed in your lap, you did not read. Instead, you thought.

You were the youngest daughter of House Sweetbriar. Your father had his eye on Lord Brightwater’s second-born son. In five days, the prince’s nameday celebrations would conclude and you would return to Briarkeep. To the lavender rows and Celyn’s muddy hands.

In five days, the prince would have already chosen a lovely bride worthy of carrying the Targaryen name. Worthy to stand by his side as the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Worthy to read small notes of affection in his neat handwriting. Worthy to get lost in those mismatched brown and blue eyes of his–

You shut the thought down before it could finish itself.

Setting the book on a small nearby table, you stood. Smoothing your skirts the way Elara had taught you.

You were here because your father is an optimistic man with a good eye for opportunity, and a second-born son of a Crownlands’ lord who was by all accounts reasonable and steady.

You were not here for mismatched eyes and written annotations.

You picked up the book once again, before putting it back on the shelf you had found it in.

Then you left the library and went to find your Lord father.

You thought about almost nothing else. Almost.

The great hall was somehow louder on the second evening than the first, which you had not thought possible.

You sat with your father among the Reach lords, several tables removed from the royal family, which was exactly where a house like yours belonged. You kept your hands folded in your lap, and did what you usually did: observe.

Your father was already in conversation with the lord beside him. You let the noise drown you and tried not to think about the library.

You were not succeeding particularly well in that regard.

Until, it happened so suddenly. You were looking at nothing in particular. The lit torches, the three-headed dragon on one of the banners, the other guests between you, a pair of mismatched eyes already looking back.

Your breath caught.

You looked away immediately. Back to your hands, to the untouched goblet of wine in front of you, to your father’s profile as he continued to speak to the lord next to him.

Your neck felt warm.

You did not look back.

Across the hall, Prince Valarr looked away a moment after you did. Just a moment.

Matarys, beside him, said nothing. But he noticed.

The feast continued. The torches began to burn lower. You kept your eyes where you belonged.

You did not look back. Almost.

Lord Aldric Sweetbriar was always gentle about things. Especially to his youngest daughter. Somehow, it made it more difficult to argue with him than if he simply raised his voice.

He had knocked on your chamber door before breakfast, ledger already closed under his arm.

“You will go to the gardens this morning,” he said. “With the other ladies.”

“My Lord father–”

“You will go,” he said again. Same tone. Same eyes. “We are here for a purpose, daughter. Your purpose is not the library.”

You had gone to the gardens.

You found the quietest corner you could, which was unfortunately not very quiet. You sat on a bench, a slight distance from the gathered lords and ladies, a book tucked under your arm like a shield. 

The gardens were beautiful, with the flora being more well kept than those at Briarkeep, which was saying something.

The gathered group’s energy has shifted, as though someone significant had arrived. You looked up.

He had come alone, which surprised you. No squire at his shoulder, not even Matarys. Just the young prince, stepping into the gardens with ease.

He saw you before the group saw him.

For half a second. In that half second, his gaze found the quiet corner you sat in. His expression shifted the same way it did at the library.

Then the crowd turned, the lords and ladies straightening around his presence.

He moved toward you. Not enough to be obvious, just a slight shift in direction. A small step, the beginning of an intention.

Highborn ladies appeared on both sides, along with a young Westerlands lord that extended a hand to him in greeting. The group closed around him.

There was no gracious way to refuse. He went with them. Of course, he did.

Valarr glanced back once subtly. You had already looked back down at your book.

You read the same page four times.

After midday, your father had formally introduced you to Lord Brightwater’s son in the gardens, with the quiet satisfaction of a man ticking something off a carefully planned list.

His name was Lucian. He was tall, brown haired, and well-mannered. He smiled at you, and it felt genuine.

“My Lord father tells me you are a great reader,” he said, walking beside you on one of the garden paths.

“He flatters me,” you said. “I simply have few other hobbies, my lord.”

“I find the same is said of me.” He glanced at you sideways, “What do you like to read, my lady?”

You gave him a real answer, and he listened and responded thoughtfully. It was a pleasant conversation.

He was everything your father had said. Steady, kind, and genuine.

Yet, you waited for something underneath it.

You were still waiting when the walk concluded, your fathers gently separating you both. Lord Aldric looked quite satisfied.

Across the gardens, the young prince watched you walk with the young Brightwater lord.

He then returned his attention to the lord beside him, responding back to his question.

He did not look back across the garden path. He did look back just once.

Matarys, who was a few steps behind him, looked between his older brother and the distant figures of you and Lucian Brightwater.

He said nothing. Not yet.

On the fourth day, you had borrowed yet another book. This one was thinner than the last, a collection of botanical records from the early Andal settlements. It seemed it was forgotten, wedged in between two heavier books in one of the shelves at the library.

It seemed that there was no gathering today. Your chest fluttered, your steps lighter than usual as you approached the empty gardens. 

The sunlight came in low and golden through the hedges, and the air was cooler than usual. It was enough to faintly remind you of home.

You sat down on a bench near the far end of the path, opening your book. Given the circumstances, this was one of the rare times you felt entirely content.

Then, footsteps on the stone path, gradually getting closer.

You had recognized them before you looked. You somehow learned the particular rhythm of his walk, without even meaning to.

Valarr sat down at the other end of the bench without asking, which would have been presumptuous from anyone else. From him, it simply was not.

He looked at the gardens for a moment, thinking about what to say.

“Another one,” he said, nodding at the book.

“Botanical records from the early Andal settlements,” you said. “I found it wedged between two considerably large volumes. It looked forgotten and lonely.”

“And do you have opinions about it, my lady?”

“I have opinions about everything,” you spoke plainly. “I simply do not often say them aloud.”

He turned to look at you. “You say them to me.”

You did not know how to answer. Deciding to look down at the page, you both knew it was already an answer in itself.

The silence had settled between you and the prince. It was comfortable; neither of you felt the need to fill it.

Until, “You have siblings, my lady?”

“Four, Your Grace,” you said. “Edwyn is the eldest and the heir of Briarkeep. My father has taught him well, he will be a good lord.”

“Then Elara. She taught me everything I know about being a proper lady; keeping my hands still and not saying the first thing that comes into my head.”

You looked down at your fingers inching toward your wrist. “For which, I am quite successful.”

“And the third.”

Something warmer moved through your voice. “Rowan,” you looked at a hedge across the path. “Rowan is the kind of girl that fills a room without knowing it. She is bright, yet restless, incapable of keeping her thoughts to herself if there is anyone nearby to hear it.”

Your fingers brushed against the illustrations on the page. “She is the one who started calling me Wallflower.”

Valarr stayed quiet, yet attentive. He was listening completely.

“It was not meant unkindly,” you said. You knew it never had been and you had always known it even when it brought you unease. “Rowan thought it was funny at first. Then it was simply the truth. I had become the name whether I wanted it or not.”

The corner of your mouth moved. “She always meant it affectionately. But, she was also completely certain that she was right.”

“Was she right?” he asked. 

You considered it honestly. “Mostly,” you admitted. “I stand on the sidelines. I observe rather than participate. I am not fond of large rooms full of people I do not know.” You paused. “It still brings me unease when she says it. Which probably means it is true.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, “You said four.”

You looked at him.

“Edwyn, Elara, Rowan,” he said. “That is three.”

You stared at him. Valarr had been paying the same quality of attention to you that you paid to everything else. The realization sat in your chest with a feeling you could not name.

“Celyn,” you responded. “He is the youngest. Seven years of age.”

You took a moment, trying to gather his character in mere words. “He has very strong opinions about the garden. Delivers them with the full authority of a Grand Maester.”

Your mouth curved ever so slightly. “He once spent an entire afternoon in tears because a bee had died near the lavender rows. He felt personally responsible.”

Something shifted in Valarr’s expression, quiet and recognizing.

“He sounds exhausting,” he said.

An amused breath escaped you before you could stop it. Valarr’s eyebrow slightly twitched upward at the soft sound.

“He is the best person I know,” you said simply without hesitation.

Valarr looked toward the hedges for a moment. “I have a Matarys,” he said.

You looked at him.

“He is not seven,” he continued. “He is considerably older and considerably more troublesome.” He says with both exasperation and affection.

“He delivers his thoughts with the confidence of someone who thinks they are never wrong.”

“That is Celyn,” you replied, smiling down at the book still open in your lap.

“Then I apologize, most earnestly, for what is about to come,” he said.

This time, a genuine giggle escaped you. The sound made something flutter inside Valarr’s chest. It was real and unguarded. It was beautiful.

“You can call me Valarr,” he said.

You looked up at him, his mismatched eyes brighter than ever.

“When it is only us,” he continued. It did not sound like a command nor a request, just something honest. He looked toward the path, “Every conversation I have had begins and ends with my titles. Sometimes I feel as though I am merely a title rather than a person.”

He looked back up at you, “you are one of the few people I have spoken with who makes me forget that. I would rather not be reminded of it when it is only us.”

You looked down, “That is a great deal of trust to extend to someone you have only known for four days.”

“Aye,” he said plainly. “It is.”

“Then you must do the same for me,” you said quietly.

He looked at you with a slight crinkle in his eyes. Then he said your name. This time, the way he said it felt like he had known you for the longest time.

You looked back down at your book before he could notice the slight change in your expression.

Afterwards, the conversation flowed easily between you and Valarr. Just two people surprising each other with opinions and knowledge, passing the book to each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You did not notice how much time had passed until more voices began to fill the garden. The morning had ceased to belong to only you and Valarr.

He stood up slowly, before saying your name once again. He bid you goodbye, before walking back up the path to where he came from.

You sat with the book closed in your lap, letting the morning light shine on your face. The same feeling in your chest returned, the one you still could not name.

You were beginning to suspect that it did not need one.

Could the Great Hall get any more lavish? You thought. There were more candles than the previous nights, and more flowers blooming along the tables.

As usual, you sat with your father and the Reach lords. Lucian Brightwater sat nearby, smiling at you when your eyes met. You smiled back. Your father noticed it with quiet satisfaction.

Across the hall, Matarys was having a considerably better evening than his brother. He drifted through like he always did, finding entertainment in whatever space he ended up in.

Tonight, he found himself in the presence of Lady Ellinor Tyrell, sitting at the end of the Reach table. He intended to only stay for one goblet of wine. It ended up being three.

“You remind me of someone,” he told her, at some point during the second drink.

“Do I now, my prince?” she replied amusingly, like she had been told this many times and she never got tired of hearing it.

“My father,” he said. “The way you listen. Like you already know what someone is going to say and are simply giving them the courtesy of saying it.”

Lady Ellinor smiled warmly, “your father is a good man, Your Grace.”

“The best I know,” Matarys said plainly.

They sat with that for a moment. Until, “Prince Baelor is not the only good man I have observed this week.”

Matarys looked at her sideways.

“I speak of your brother,” she said. “The young prince has conducted himself with more genuine care and patience than most men even try to manage in a lifetime at court.”

She paused, then started speaking more softly. “I have also observed that he is considerably more careful about where his eyes rest during the evening feasts than he realizes.”

Matarys said nothing. He was looking at Valarr from across the hall. His private suspicions had just been confirmed by an outside source.

Valarr was listening to a lord to his left with every appearance of complete attention. He was also looking across the hall, thinking that no one would notice the destination of his gaze.

Matarys did, and it landed on you. Sitting several tables away, hands folded as you watched Lucian Brightwater speak to your Lord father. You were not looking back at the royal table, and it was obvious that you did your best not to.

He looked back at Lady Ellinor, a small knowing smile already painted itself on her face. “The gardens tomorrow morning,” she said quietly. “I intend to invite the young Lady Sweetbriar for a private walk.”

Slowly, the same smile made its way to Matarys’ face. “How curious,” he said. “I had thought of suggesting the very same to my brother.”

Lady Ellinor said nothing further. Instead, she raised her goblet slightly to him. Matarys did the same in return.

Neither you nor Valarr has noticed.

Lady Ellinor’s note arrived before breakfast.

Brief and warm; a walk in the gardens this morning. There was no gathering today. Just the two of you.

Having barely touched the bread on your plate, you folded the note carefully and put it away. Your father had read the note from beside you.

He nodded at you in approval, allowing you to leave breakfast with silent permission.

You had arrived before Lady Ellinor and stood at the entrance of the main path. Hearing footsteps getting closer from behind, you smoothed out your skirt in preparation.

“Good morrow, my dear,” Lady Ellinor greeted you. You did the same.

Then, more footsteps coming from behind you. That familiar rhythm.

You turned.

Matarys had appeared at Valarr’s chamber long before his squire usually did. “The gardens,” he said. “Walk with me, big brother.”

Valarr looked at him for a few moments, trying to read his face, as an older brother who had been on the receiving end of Matarys’ schemes since childhood.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you have spent the better part of the week in great halls and dusty bookshelves,” Matarys replied.

“Also because your nameday festivities are concluding soon, and you look like a man who has forgotten what sunlight feels like.”

Valarr hesitated, but went anyway. It was better than staying in his chambers thinking about the end of the week.

You looked at each other across the garden path. Then, from somewhere behind you, the sound of Lady Ellinor’s handmaiden hurrying toward her lady with urgency.

You turned to see Lady Ellinor already a few steps away from you. “Forgive me, my dear,” she called back, “I shall find you again later.”

Before you could respond, she was gone.

Somewhere behind Valarr, the even younger prince’s voice spoke. “By the Seven, I had entirely forgotten. Father wanted to see me this morning.”

“Terrible timing. Sincere apologies.” Matarys’ footsteps were already retreating.

Valarr did not turn around to watch him go. He only looked at you with an expression that was beyond the usual composure of a crown prince; with unguarded honesty.

You looked at each other. “That,” you started carefully, “was not subtle.”

“No,” he agreed. “It was not.”

A small pause. “Prince Matarys,” you said.

“And Lady Tyrell,” he added.

Your lips pressed together against the laugh building in your chest. “I might have to have a few words with Lady Ellinor.”

“I have been having words with Matarys since I was old enough to speak,” he said. “I will save you the effort. It does nothing to help.”

The same laugh from the previous morning escaped, the one Valarr wished to hear again. Perhaps for the rest of his days.

You pressed your fingers briefly to your lips, but it was already too late. He was looking at you with a brighter gleam in his eyes.

He said nothing, only offering his arm to you with ease.

You looked at him briefly, then at the garden path ahead. You took his arm.

It was the easiest walk of the entire week. No lords watching from the corners. No highborn daughters being positioned. No performance.

It was just the two of you on a garden path in the morning, talking the way you had talked in the library and on the bench.

He asked about Briarkeep. You described it honestly; the pale grey stone, the brook, the wet earth. The way he listened intently still caught you off guard.

You asked about Dragonstone. You could tell by his tone that he had complicated feelings about the place.

At some point, the path had curved and you were both in the quieter part of the gardens. The walk slowed naturally.

“There are only two days left,” you said plainly.

“Aye,” he said quietly, “that is true.”

You did not say anything else about it. Neither did he.

You both continued to walk until the path ended at a railing that looked over Blackwater Bay. You both stopped to breathe in the faint salty air.

Valarr turned to face you, catching the way the seabreeze blew strands of your hair away from your face.

You looked up at him. The morning light was fully on his face, and his mismatched eyes were looking at you the way they always did. Except, there was nothing careful about it anymore. Nothing held back or prepared.

Valarr lifted his hand slowly, giving you the chance to step away if you wanted to. You did not. His fingers brushed against your hair ever so gently.

His hand then rested at the edge of your jaw. You did not step away. Though, you were not sure how you were still breathing.

“I have been trying,” he said quietly, “to find a reason not to do this.”

“Have you found one?” you said, voice steadier than you expected.

He looked at you for a moment longer. “No,” he said simply.

It was not a grand gesture. It was not reckless. It was quiet and honest. Like it had always been between you and Valarr.

His lips were soft and warm on yours. His gentle hand at your jaw was careful. It only lasted a brief moment, yet it was entirely certain of itself. More certain than anything else in both your lives combined.

Your hands slowly climbed onto his chest. Your fingers slightly brushed against the three-headed dragon at his breast, where you could feel his heartbeat underneath the fabric. His other hand then wrapped itself around your waist, holding you closer.

When you pulled away, you barely did. He did not move far, his hands staying where they were. Valarr’s face was close enough that you felt his eyelashes flutter against yours.

He only looked at you with the same, genuine attention he gave to everything else you say and do. Except now, absolutely nothing was holding him back. 

You had also noticed something else in his face, like great relief. 

You had also finally recognized the feeling in your chest for what it was. The same one you felt since the library. Probably even before that.

Both of you stayed like that for a while. There was no reason to move. The morning belonged only to the two of you.

You did not speak. You did not need to. The whole week had been full of words; careful and measured. Now, there was simply this.

His thumb moved gently, once against your jaw, as if he was making sure you were real. You pressed your fingers slightly more firmly against his chest for the same reason.

The waves of Blackwater Bay continued to roar below you. Somewhere far away, the Red Keep continued its business, like an entirely different universe from where you were both standing.

You thought back to the journey from the Reach to here. The thought you had quickly dismissed so firmly.

What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?

You tilted your head back slightly to look at him. Valarr was already looking at you with those mismatched eyes of his. Not with the gaze of a composed prince of the Realm. 

But simply a man. A man holding you tightly in the quiet corner of the gardens, like you were going to disappear if he ever were to let go.

Valarr had asked for the audience himself, which was unusual. Normally it was Baelor who called for Valarr to his study. This time, he knocked.

“Enter,” his father said.

Once his son entered, Baelor set down his quill. He gestured for him to sit by the hearth. The fire was lower than usual. Somewhere below, the Red Keep was beginning its preparations for the final evening feast.

Baelor waited patiently, as he always did, letting the silence settle for a bit.

Then, “I have made my decision.”

“I know what you will say,” Valarr continued. “I know what the considerations are. The weight of it, the court’s concern, the questions it will raise,” He paused. “I have thought about it all.”

“I know you have,” Baelor responded, without sounding dismissive.

“She is the youngest daughter of a minor house from the Reach,” Valarr said plainly. “Her family trades in herbs and botanical oils. She has no claim, no great alliance to offer.”

He looked at his father. “She has read Maester Gyldayn’s work. She found the error in the Valyrian freehold text. She talks about her youngest brother the way I talk about Matarys.” A pause. “She says exactly what she thinks, but only when she trusts one enough to say it.”

“And she trusted me with it.”

Baelor looked at him with something careful and attentive. It was deeply familiar.

“I went looking for the person underneath the preparation,” Valarr said. “With her, there was no preparation to look underneath. She was simply herself. Entirely and without apology.”

“I did not know what to do with it at first. Then I did not want to do without it.”

The study was quiet for a few moments. Until, “you have spent time with her,” Baelor said at last.

“Aye.”

“More than what was visible.”

“Aye,” Valarr did not elaborate. Baelor did not need him to.

His father looked at him. Truly. With the same eyes that had watched him grow up in this keep, ones that trusted him enough to make his own decisions.

“Lord Aldric Sweetbriar,” Baelor started, slowly. “He is an honest man. His house is small but his name is clean. Strong and steady. He has never given the crown any cause for complaint in generations.”

Something that almost resembled a smile made its way to the older prince’s face. “You said no,” he said. “When I asked if she had caught your eye, that second morning.”

“I fear I said it too quickly,” Valarr admitted.

“You did,” Baelor agreed. “I noticed.”

“She does not know,” Valarr said. “I have not spoken to her about it. I wanted to speak to you first.”

Baelor nodded slowly. “Then go speak to Lord Aldric,” he said. “Tonight, before the feast. Give the man the courtesy of warning before his world changes considerably.”

His father’s smile deepened, “And then, go find her.”

Valarr stood up, before his father called him once again.

“She sounds,” he said simply, “like someone worth finding.”

The Great Hall had truly outdone itself.

Lords and ladies moved through the hall in their finest dress, knowing that tomorrow they would need to depart King’s Landing, dispersing across the Seven Kingdoms again.

Valarr moved through it all easily, feeling the absence of the weight on his shoulders. Tonight, he actually smiled in ways that were genuine rather than practiced. He managed to actually taste the wine for once.

Matarys pointed it out first, “You look different.”

“I am the same as I have always been,” Valarr said simply.

The younger prince grinned, “You are not.” Then, he nudged his shoulder.

“How were the gardens this morning?”

“Enlightening,” Valarr replied.

Matarys’ grin grew wider.

Later in the evening, Valarr’s gaze naturally moved to the Reach tables.

Your father was there, seated among the other Reach lords, speaking to Lord Fossoway. But the seat beside Lord Aldric was empty.

He was already moving before he had even thought about it.

Excusing himself from whatever conversation he was in, he moved through the great hall. Then to the giant doors, and into the corridor, where the noise of the feast had become distant muffles.

He walked the same way he had walked since he was a young boy, to the quieter parts of the Red Keep, taking turns he had taken countless times.

Valarr already knew where to find you.

You looked up when the door opened. The faint glow of the candle illuminating the side of your face.

“The feast,” you said softly.

“Will continue without me,” he said.

Valarr crossed the room, and sat in the same chair he did that second morning. He said your name softly.

Closing the book on your lap, you said, “you came to find me.”

The candle flickered between you.

“I always seem to,” he said simply.

“I was not supposed to be here for this,” you said quietly, more to yourself than anything. It was not a protest. Just the simple truth.

“I know,” he replied.

“I was here for Lord Brightwater’s second son.”

The corner of his mouth moved, “He is, I am sure, a perfectly reasonable man.”

“He is,” you said. “He was very pleasant.”

“Then it is deeply unfortunate,” Valarr said, “that you spent the entire week in my library.”

A soft, genuine laugh escaped your lips. Then, you both looked at each other, the feeling in your chest settling into something permanent.

He rose from the chair, simply and quietly. He moved towards you. You uncurled your feet from beneath you, moving to stand, but he was already lowering himself on one knee before you.

You stared at him. Words dying in your throat.

Valarr Targaryen, heir of the heir, second in line to the Iron Throne, was kneeling on the floor of the Red Keep library in the soft candlelight, looking up at you with those mismatched eyes as though there was nowhere else in the Seven Kingdoms he would rather be.

He took both of your hands in his. His thumbs resting against your knuckles.

The candle threw golden light across the side of his face. Across the silver streak in his dark hair.

You could not speak. You were not certain that you were breathing.

"I have spent this entire week," he said, quietly, only for you, "looking for the person underneath the preparation." His eyes did not leave yours. 

"Instead, I have found someone who had no preparation at all. Someone who argued with my annotations and told me plainly, in my own library, that she was here for Lord Brightwater's second son."

His lips pressed together briefly.

"Someone who described her little brother crying over a bee with more love in her voice than most people do in a lifetime of grand declarations." He paused. 

"Someone who kept ending up exactly where I was looking."

Your eyes were beginning to do something you refused to allow in the Red Keep library, so you pressed your lips together and held very still.

His hands tightened slightly around yours.

"I know what I am asking," he said lowly. "I know the weight of the name I am asking you to carry. I am not asking you to carry it lightly." 

A breath. "I am asking you to carry it with me. Every part of it." 

His mismatched eyes were very bright in the candlelight. "I would face all of it considerably better with someone beside me who tells me the truth, who reads the books nobody else thinks to read, who finds the quiet corners of every room she enters."

He looked at you, and there was nothing held back in it.

"Who reminds me," he said softly, "that I am only a man."

You looked down at him. The prince who had left his own nameday feast just to sit in the silence with you.

Your free hand moved before you decided to move it. Your fingers found the side of his jaw, gently. He leaned into your touch.

"Have you spoken to my father?" you asked softly.

"I have. He asked very precise questions.” Valarr paused, "I believe I was able to curry his favor."

"He is not an easy man to impress," you said.

"I am aware." His hands were still holding yours. "I made sure I prepared thoroughly."

Then, something broke loose in your chest. A small sound escaped you that was not quite a laugh. Something that happened when your heart was too full.

Valarr looked up at you.

"Well," he said. Very quietly. "What say you, my lady?"

You looked at him for a long moment, kneeling before you in the library where it had all begun. Holding your hands in both of his, the candlelight warm between you, and the final feast’s noise almost non-existent.

You thought of Briarkeep, of Sweetfield. The lavender rows. The brook. Edwyn’s strength. Elara’s grace. Rowan’s brightness. Celyn’s innocence. You loved every piece of it.

You had not expected to find something here that you could love just as completely and certainly.

"Yes," you said. "I accept, most ardently."

Something shifted across his face that you had never seen before and would spend the entirety of life learning the name of. 

Valarr rose slowly, your hands still in his. You rose after him.

He whispered your name. Then he raised your hands to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles.

“My love,” he whispered again. You answered him in the only way you felt that was right.

You closed the distance between you. His hands gently find their way to your cheeks, while your hands rested against his chest.

When you parted, he rested his forehead gently against yours. You stared into his mismatched eyes.

You knew you had a whole lifetime ahead of you, giving you more than enough time to do so, but you never want to miss a single second ever again.

You both stayed like that for a long moment in the quiet library.

What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?

The answer was simple. The same thing you had always offered to the gardens and library shelves at Briarkeep. To your youngest brother, Celyn.

Yourself. Simply and entirely.

The King’s arrival had turned Winterfell on its head.

Trumpets, banners, gold—so much gold. The North had not seen such splendour since the end of the Targaryen dynasty, when Robert Baratheon had taken the throne. Now, it seemed half the realm had come marching behind Robert's royal party.

Gold and crimson, black and stag-marked—southern colours that gleamed far too bright against Winterfell’s muted tones. The northerners looked on, some with curiosity, some with cautious, and a few openly awed as they watched the southern procession wind its way through the gates like a river of colour cutting through snow.

At the head of it rode your father—Robert Baratheon himself—larger than life and twice as loud, his booming laughter rolling over the crowd like thunder. His beard was flecked with frost, his furs heavy and rich, his crown sitting askew in a careless way that had once been considered charming but now looked more like neglect.

You had heard endless stories of his youth—the warrior who had swung a warhammer like the gods themselves had forged it for his hands, the rebel who had taken a throne with fire in his blood and vengeance in his heart. Robert the Usurper. Robert the Conqueror. 

But the man who rode before you now was not that legend. His armour strained against the swell of his belly, his face ruddy from drinking. The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.

You wondered if even he remembered what it had felt like—to be the man the songs still sang of. Now, he was simply a king grown soft, chasing the ghost of glory through the bottom of his goblet and whoring his way through the street of silk.

As for you, you rode among them, sitting tall despite the cold that seeped through your furs and southern silks. Your father had insisted you come north, and you had insisted on riding atop a horse rather than shut yourself away in the carriage with your mother and younger siblings. It had seemed a small act of defiance then, a gesture of freedom. Now, with the wind biting at your cheeks and Joffrey’s endless complaints filling the air, it felt more like punishment.

He had sneered the entire way north—at the chill, the people, the very land itself. “The dreary, filthy North,” he had called it more than once, his tone dripping with disdain. You had ignored him as best you could, your gaze fixed on the horizon, excited to see a different land from the one you grew up in.

You’d always imagined the North as a wasteland of ice and furs, cold and colourless. But when you finally crossed through Winterfell’s borders, the image shattered.

The ancient stronghold rose before you, proud and formidable, its grey stone walls streaked with frost and history. Smoke curled from the forges, filling the air with the scent of metal and fire. There was movement everywhere—men with weathered faces and proud eyes, women calling out to one another across the yard, and children with flushed cheeks laughing as they chased hounds through the snow-dusted courtyard. It wasn’t lifeless at all. It was rough yes, but nothing like the southerners tried to depict.

You drew your crimson cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath ghosting in the frigid air. The cold bit through your clothes, sharp against your delicate skin, and for a moment you thought you might curse your own stubbornness for refusing the carriage. Yet as the wind swept past you again, crisp and fresh, you realized you didn’t hate it as much as you’d expected to.

It was different from the damp, perfumed warmth of King’s Landing. There, beneath the scent of roses and incense, there was always something else—an undercurrent of rot that no amount of perfume could mask. The palace gleamed with splendour, but beyond its stone halls the small folk suffered, and their misery lingered in the air like smog. Even in the height of summer, the city smelled of decay.

You shivered again from the cold. The North was harsh, yes—but there was purity in that harshness, a raw honesty that stripped everything down to what it truly was.

“Gods, it stinks,” Joffrey muttered beside you as the royal party began to dismount, his nose wrinkling as though the very air offended him.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The journey north had nearly rid you of patience for his endless vanity, but you found that ignoring him was the best way to deal with him.

Instead, your gaze drifted to the family lined before the steps of the keep—the Starks of Winterfell. They stood proud and poised, and in perfect unity they bowed towards your father not letting you get a proper look at their faces.

Your father went forward first. For a moment, an uneasy hush fell over the courtyard, as they watched what the King would say. You watched your father approach ordering Lord Stark to stand, but soon after it was all laughter and heavy slaps on the back as he embraced Lord Stark. Your mother followed, cold as a blade at Robert’s side. 

One by one, the rest of the Starks straightened, rising from their bows as your gaze swept over them. There were three younger children—two boys and a girl with untamed, curious eyes that seemed to hold more mischief than fear. The smallest of the boys stood by his mother, his expression bright with childlike wonder, while the other, taller but still retaining his boyish excitement stood by his sister.

Beside them stood an older girl, her light auburn hair gleaming softly. She was beautiful, the kind of beauty that was more seen in the south. Her hands were clasped neatly before her, and her smile, though polite, carried a faint nervousness as her gaze flickered toward your brother. You didn’t miss the faint blush that coloured her cheeks.

But it was the eldest son who drew your eyes and held them.

Robb Stark.

Named after your father’s namesake.

He stood beside Lord Stark with a quiet confidence that needed no boasting to be felt. His hair was dark auburn, catching faint hints of red beneath the pale northern sun, and his stance was strong—broad-shouldered, proud.

He was handsome, though not in the soft, polished way of the southern courtiers you’d grown accustomed to seeing. He was well groomed, yes, but the rugged strength beneath that composure could not be hidden. His build spoke of long hours in the yard rather than idle ones in a hall, his bearing of discipline rather than indulgence.

His eyes caught you most of all—grey as a storm over the sea, sharp and intelligent. There was a steadiness to them, a kind of calm that unnerved you, because it was clear they missed nothing.

And they certainly didn’t miss the smirk your brother sent his sister’s way. Robb’s expression didn’t so much as flicker in response, though the faint tightening of his jaw told you he had noticed, the way his sister blushed in response.

Before you could look away, those grey eyes found yours—and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. 

You had never been one of those girls who giggled over handsome lords or whispered about courtly love behind lace fans. You had seen enough of men like that—vain, shallow creatures who mistook charm for worth. But something about Robb Stark was different. 

Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it, your cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. You fought the sudden, ridiculous urge to look away bashfully, to hide the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.

It was absurd, really—you didn’t even know him. 

For a long, unbroken moment, you didn’t move. It was as though the cold had rooted you in place, your pulse thudding softly in your ears. Then, without warning, Joffrey bumped into you from behind with a muttered curse, snapping the spell cleanly.

You blinked, startled, stepping aside as your brother straightened his cloak with a scoff, clearly annoyed at you. But when you looked back, Robb was already glancing away, his expression unreadable.

The feast that night was as loud and unruly as any your father had ever hosted—though the North’s version of merriment came with more ale and less flattery. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with sound: the crackle of hearth fires, the thunder of mugs striking tables, the low rumble of laughter spilling between bites of roasted meat. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice and the faint chill that crept in from the open doors each time a servant hurried through.

You sat near the head of the table, your place beside your mother. You didn’t have to look at her to know her jaw was tight, her patience thinning with each booming laugh from your father as he entertained the woman on his lap.

Robert was in high spirits, which was to say, he was halfway to drunk before the first course had finished. His laughter echoed down the hall, drowning out conversation, spilling more wine than he drank as he talked with Ned.

You kept your gaze low, pretending not to notice the way your mother’s fingers curled around her goblet, white-knuckled.

It wasn’t until your father slammed his mug down on the table that the laughter faltered. The sound reverberated through the hall like a hammer on iron, silencing even the musicians.

“Come, Ned!” he bellowed, a drunken grin on his face, his words slurred with good cheer. “You’ve given me your friendship, your sword, your counsel—but not your blood.”

A murmur rippled through the hall. Lord Stark blinked, confusion flickering across his usually steady face. “Your Grace?”

Robert gestured grandly down the length of the table, his cup sloshing in one hand as he waved toward you. “Your boy, Robb—and my eldest daughter!” he declared, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who had never considered refusal. “A match that will bind the North and the West! A son of Winterfell, a daughter of the Crown—what say you, Ned?”

A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall. Some courtiers echoed it too quickly, hoping to placate the King, while others bowed their heads, unwilling to draw notice beneath Robert Baratheon’s good humour.

You froze, your hand tightening around the stem of your goblet as your father’s words sank in. Heat crept up your neck, though the hall suddenly felt very cold. You fought to keep your expression composed, the careful mask of royal composure your mother had drilled into you since childhood. But it was impossible not to feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you and Robb.

Across the table, Robb Stark looked up sharply. His storm-grey eyes found yours through the candlelight, steady but startled. There was no arrogance in his stare, no mockery—only quiet disbelief that mirrored your own.

Even your mother stilled beside you. Cersei’s hand froze on her cup, her knuckles whitening as she turned her gaze toward your father, fury flickering behind the mask of a queen’s poise.

“She’s still young,” your mother said tightly, clearly also not having expected this.

You were a woman grown, long past your first blood. Old enough to bear children, old enough for marriage. In truth, it was a miracle you hadn’t been married off earlier.

Robert waved her off with a booming laugh, already reaching for his cup again. “Old enough for betrothal!” he said, dismissive and delighted all at once. “Robb Stark and my eldest girl—the wolf and the lioness! Gods, they’ll make fine cubs, eh?”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you stared at the table before you, unable to look at anyone. It was not the proposal itself that shook you—marriage had always been an eventuality, a matter of alliance rather than affection—but the suddenness of it, the way your life had been offered up like cow at an auction.

The hall erupted again — laughter, murmurs, wide eyes. Lord Stark looked caught entirely off guard, his calm composure faltering for perhaps the first time that evening. Your mother’s jaw, meanwhile, was set in stone, her fingers tight around her cup as if she meant to crush it.

Your father, oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—of the discomfort around him, only roared with laughter and turned to the young man in question. “What say you, boy?” Robert grinned at Robb, raising his cup. “A fine match, eh?”

Across the table, Robb Stark straightened, caught between the weight of his father’s silence and the King’s drunken insistence. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward Lord Stark, as though seeking guidance. But Ned Stark’s face, though grave, gave nothing away.

Robb’s jaw set. Slowly, he inclined his head toward the King, his tone careful and measured. “Your Grace honours me,” he said evenly, the calm in his voice belying the tension in his shoulders. “But—”

He didn’t get the chance to finish.

“But nothing!” Robert boomed, slamming his cup down hard enough to spill wine across the table. “The girl’s comely, and from good stock. I’ll hear no objections!”

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You managed to lift your goblet, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes, though your stomach twisted with humiliation. This wasn’t how you imagined meeting your future husband—announced like an offering at a feast, your worth reduced to bloodlines and the King’s drunken cheer.

When Robert finally turned his attention elsewhere, clapping Lord Stark on the back with enough force to rattle the tableware, you dared to look up again.

Robb was watching you. His gaze thoughtful rather than cold. 

You wondered what he saw—a spoiled lion cub, soft from silk and wine? You wouldn’t have blamed him for thinking it. The Northerners were born of hard work and harder winters; you were born of gold and servants.  And yet, as his gaze lingered for a moment longer before turning away, you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps he saw something else too—something more than what your name and colours proclaimed.

As the feast wore on, the laughter grew louder as everyone grew drunker. You tried to endure it—to play your part, to smile when spoken to—but each passing moment made it harder to breathe.

Finally, when no one was looking, you rose from your seat and slipped away.

No one noticed. Your father was deep in his cups, his booming laughter echoing over the music, drowning out any thought of propriety. Your mother had vanished not long before—where, you neither knew nor cared. You only knew that you needed air.

The courtyard was quiet when you stepped into it, the torches guttering in the wind. Winterfell was different at night—vast and solemn. The cold crept beneath your cloak, but it was a welcome feeling compared to the suffocating heat of the feast hall. You drew the fabric tighter around your shoulders and breathed deeply, letting the icy air fill your lungs. For the first time all evening, you felt the weight in your chest begin to ease.

Your boots crunched softly against the packed snow as you wandered without aim, tracing the paths between torchlit walls. Somewhere overhead, a raven cawed, its cry carrying across the night before fading into the wind. You might have turned back then—returned to the warmth and noise, to the safety of your place beside your mother—had it not been for the sound that broke the stillness.

Steel striking wood.

You paused, listening. The sound came again—steady and rhythmic. Curiosity stirred, and you found yourself following it through the shadowed corridors and out into one of the training yards, half-shrouded in darkness.

There, beneath the pale light of the moon, was a young man. He moved with focus, each swing of his wooden practice sword fluid and measured, the sort of precision that spoke of years of learned discipline. He was focused, wholly absorbed in his task, his strikes landed with a steady rhythm against the straw dummy. He was breathing heavy, every breath came in soft, visible clouds, rising and vanishing into the cold air. Despite the chill, he wore only a simple tunic, the thin fabric clinging faintly to his skin with the sheen of exertion.

The soft sound of your steps must have given you away. He turned sharply, the sword rising instinctively in his hand, and you startled, taking an instinctive step back.

“Apologies,” you blurted, raising your hands slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only taking a breath from the feast and seem to have lost my way.”

He blinked in surprise, eyes widening as recognition dawned. Even in the low light, you could see the resemblance to Robb Stark—the same sharp lines of the jaw, the same quiet intensity—but his hair was darker, brown like Lord Stark’s, and there was a softness to his gaze that Robb did not possess.

“No, it is I who should apologize, Your Grace,” he said quickly, lowering the sword. “I didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” you replied, your tone gentle as you stepped closer. “I didn’t expect to find anyone either. I thought I was the only one hiding from the noise.” You hesitated, studying him for a moment. “In fact, I don’t recall seeing you there. I thought all of Lord Stark’s children were present.”

Something flickered across his face at that—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I… am not officially considered as such,” he said quietly. “Jon Snow is my name.”

Realization struck, sharp and unbidden. “You’re his bastard,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words slipped free like a breath, unthinking—and the moment they did, you saw the subtle hardening in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.

“Apologies,” you said quickly, your voice softening. “I meant no offence.”

He exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “No need, my lady. I’ve heard worse.”

Something in his tone—half resignation, half acceptance—made your chest tighten. 

“Still, it was rude of me to say it as such. It is not a child’s fault for the sins of their father,” you murmured, your voice soft against the quiet of the yard.

He blinked, as though the thought itself surprised him. The training sword in his hand lowered slightly, his fingers flexing around the hilt.

“Most highborn don’t bother to make excuses for bastards,” Jon said at last, the corner of his mouth twisting—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “They just pretend we don’t exist.”

You tilted your head, studying him in the dim light. “Pretending seems to be a southern pastime,” you said dryly. “One I’ve never been very good at.”

That earned you a flicker of amusement—brief, but genuine. The tension in his shoulders eased, his guardedness softening into something closer to curiosity.

“Why are you out here?” he asked after a moment, breaking the silence. “You should be inside—warm, with the rest of them.”

“Yes, I should,” you agreed bitterly, your breath ghosting in the cold. “I should be with everyone, watching my father drink himself into a stupor and insult my mother and his marriage every chance he gets.” You exhaled, a short, humourless laugh escaping you. “Or perhaps I should’ve stayed so I could be congratulated on my upcoming betrothal to your brother.”

Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Robb?”

You nodded once, your mouth twisting faintly. “Yes. The King saw it quite fit to announce the offer among everyone in attendance.”

Jon hesitated, his expression unreadable. “You don’t sound very happy about it,” he said finally.

You gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Would you be?”

When he didn’t reply, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug as you looked away. “I mean no insult to your brother for my bitterness, but when you’re offered like a broodmare, with no inclination or choice in the matter, I think anyone would find it hard to be happy.” The words left your lips without hesitation. “Sometimes I wish I was a bastard. At least then my father would have ignored me, the way he’s ignored the hundreds of other children he’s sired.”

You hesitated, your voice softening, though the bitterness beneath it remained. “You’re lucky Lord Stark is your father, Jon Snow. At least he seems to care for his children. My father only sees us as bargaining chips—useful when needed, forgotten when not.”

Jon’s grip tightened around the hilt of his training sword until the leather creaked. For a heartbeat, he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. Then he set the blade aside, the tip sinking soundlessly into the snow.

“That’s… a harsh thing to wish for,” he said quietly. There was no judgment in his tone—only pity and sadness. 

You let out a dry, humourless laugh, your breath curling white in the cold. “Harsh, perhaps. But honest.”

Your gaze lifted toward the sky. The stars here seemed closer, brighter—so unlike the smog-veiled heavens of King’s Landing. “I used to think being royal meant freedom,” you murmured. “That power could buy choices. But I grew old enough to realize it only meant I was shackled to duty and expectation higher than most. And for a highborn lady, that will always mean being owned.”

Jon studied you for a moment, the way your voice softened around the edges of those words, as though you’d long since grown tired of speaking them aloud.

“I’ve often thought about what it might mean to be born properly a Stark,” he admitted quietly. “What it would be like to be seen. Properly. To belong somewhere.” His lips curved into a faint, self-mocking smile. “You want to be invisible, and I’d give anything not to be.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The cold bit at your cheeks, but neither of you seemed to mind it. The silence was strangely comfortable—a bubble of calm in a world that demanded too much of both of you.

At last, you broke it. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you said softly. “How both of us want what the other has. You’d give anything to be acknowledged, and I’d give anything to be forgotten.”

Jon’s lips curved faintly, but there was little amusement in it. “Seems the gods have a sense of humour,” he murmured.

“Or cruelty,” you countered, your gaze turning skyward again. “They give us everything we never asked for and keep what we want just out of reach.”

Jon followed your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps they think it makes us stronger."

You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft in the cold air. “Then the gods have made philosophers of us both.”

Your laughter seemed to ease something in him. The stiffness in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time, the heaviness in his eyes lifted. When he looked at you again, there was no trace of wariness, only quiet understanding.

“You don’t talk like the other highborn ladies I’ve met,” he said finally.

You smiled faintly. “That’s because most of them are taught to be silent. They’re there to be admired, not heard.”

He tilted his head, considering you. “And you?”

“Oh, they tried to teach me the same,” you said, a touch of dry humour in your voice. “But I’m a shit listener.”

Jon blinked, startled at the sound of you cursing—and then, to your surprise, he barked out a laugh. A real laugh. You found yourself laughing along with him. 

When his laughter finally faded, he studied you again—longer this time, as though seeing something he hadn’t before. “You know,” he said quietly, “I think Robb might like you.”

Your smile faltered at that, the words cutting through the brief ease between you. The reminder of your betrothal fell heavy in the still air.

Jon seemed to realize it, because his tone softened. “Robb will be good to you,” he said gently. “He won’t see you as a thing to be bartered.”

You looked away, the flickering torchlight catching in your eyes. “Maybe not,” you murmured. “But that doesn’t change what I am. I’m a commodity—something to be given to strengthen the ties between the crown and the North.”

The words hung in the cold air like mist. You exhaled slowly, something between a sigh and a laugh escaping you. “You know,” you said, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know if I’ll be good for him. He looks to be a steady man, one born of duty and hard work. I am a daughter of duty, too, but of a different kind. We both know my southern softness would have no place among the strength you Northerners carry.”

Jon’s brows knit slightly as he studied you. For a moment, he seemed to weigh your words, the silence stretching between you before he finally spoke. “You sell yourself short, my lady. The North doesn’t measure strength by calloused hands or sword arms. We measure it by what a person endures.”

You blinked, surprised by the quiet conviction in his tone. The night air curled white from his breath, and for the first time you noticed how young he really was—a couple years younger than you, but already worn by truths older than his years.

“From what I can see,” he said, his gaze steady on yours, “you’d survive Winterfell just fine.”

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard. For a moment, you couldn’t quite find your voice. You had expected pity, perhaps—politeness, or some attempt to comfort a princess who had never known real hardship. But there was none of that in his eyes. Only truth. Quiet, unwavering truth.

Something in your chest tightened, a strange ache blooming where defensiveness had lived for so long. You found yourself smiling faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You say that now,” you murmured. “You haven’t seen me try to walk on ice.”

Jon’s lips twitched, the ghost of amusement playing there. “The North has a way of humbling everyone. You’d learn.”

That made you laugh—soft and breathy in the chill, the sound a wisp of warmth in the frozen air. “Still,” you said after a moment, “your brother deserves a wife who belongs here. One who doesn’t flinch when the wind bites or stumble over snow. I’m afraid I’ll be more trouble than treasure.”

Jon studied you, the faintest edge of warmth in his eyes. “You might be surprised what the North considers treasure.”

When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter, more certain. “You’re far too kind, Jon Snow.”

He gave a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “Only honest.”

You smiled then—truly smiled—and this time it reached your eyes. The tension you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying began to ease. “Then perhaps that’s why the gods sent me outside tonight,” you murmured. “To find a bit of honesty.”

Jon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a familiar voice broke through the night.

“Jon.”

Both of you turned. Robb stood a few paces away, his cloak clasped at the throat, the faint firelight spilling from the hall behind him. It caught the edge of his hair, gilding it copper in the dark, and cast a soft glow over the snow-dusted stones at his feet. His gaze shifted between you and Jon, pausing on you for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.

“Princess,” he said at last, his voice steady but gentler than before. “The King will start a hunt if he finds his daughter missing.”

You straightened, the quiet spell of the courtyard breaking as reality swept back in. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” you said softly. “I only needed air.”

Turning to Jon, you dipped your head politely. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”

He inclined his head in return, that faint half-smile still ghosting his lips. “You as well, Princess.”

With a final, lingering smile, you turned and began the slow walk back toward the hall. “My lord,” you murmured in passing, offering Robb a polite nod as you brushed past him.

Robb hesitated, his mouth parting as if to speak, perhaps to offer his arm or escort you inside. But you were already moving, your crimson cloak trailing behind you like a flicker of fire in the cold.

He watched you go until you disappeared around the corner, the sound of your footsteps fading into the night. Only then did he turn his gaze back to his half brother.

Robb stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You seem to have made quite the impression.”

Jon snorted, bending to retrieve his training sword from where it rested in the snow. “She made one on me first.”

Robb’s brow arched, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity. “Oh? And what’s your judgment then? She seems as prideful as the rest of the lions. You should’ve seen her when the king announced the offer of her hand—it was as if she’d just tasted bad wine.”

Jon shook his head, straightening. “She’s… not like that,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unexpected defensiveness. “She’s kind, Robb.”

Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.

Jon went on, his tone steady but earnest. “She knew nothing of the king’s plans. She was caught unawares—same as you. And still, she spoke kindly of you.” He hesitated, then added, “You know what she said? That you deserve better than her. That you should have a northern wife.”

Robb blinked, caught off guard. “She said that?” He frowned slightly, his tone softening as he considered it. “That’s… not what I expected,” he admitted after a moment, the sharp edge of his usual composure dulling. “Most highborn would rather choke than admit weakness.”

Jon huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost bitter. “She hides it well enough,” he said. “But it’s there. She’s not proud, Robb—she’s trapped. There’s a difference.”

Robb’s frown deepened, though not from doubt. The words settled somewhere deep, unwelcome in how true they felt. “And she told you all this?” he asked finally.

“Not all,” Jon replied, leaning lightly on the training sword. His voice was steady, deliberate. “But enough to see she’s not like the others in her family. She’s weary of being used as a piece in her father’s game, and yet—she still spoke well of you. I think she would be a good match for you. Maybe better than you think.”

Robb’s head turned sharply at that, his brows lifting in disbelief. “Good for me?” he echoed, half a scoff, half a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Jon, she’s the King’s daughter. A lion in silk. I doubt she’s ever known a day’s true labour in her life. The North would swallow her whole.”

Jon’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile, but his eyes stayed steady. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe she’d learn to thrive in it.”

Robb exhaled through his nose, running a gloved hand through his hair. The movement was restless, betraying more unease than he intended. “You’ve spoken to her once, Jon.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed, his tone even. “Once. And in that one talk, she showed more heart than half the court’s done in a lifetime. She looked at me—me, a bastard—and saw a person. You think someone with kindness like that wouldn’t make a good lady for Winterfell?”

Robb looked away, jaw tightening as he tried to process that. “I don’t even know what to say to her,” Robb admitted finally, his voice softer, almost reluctant.

Jon smirked faintly, leaning back on his sword. “Try starting with something that isn’t about her family’s reputation.”

That earned a quiet, reluctant laugh from Robb—low, almost self-deprecating. “Seven hells, you make it sound simple.”

“It is,” Jon said, his tone calm, almost knowing. “You’re just too proud to see it. Stop judging her by her name, and you might realize it too.”

Robb didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. His gaze lingered on the snow where your footprints still marked the ground, the faint imprints already fading beneath the falling flakes. 

By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.

Every corridor hummed with speculation, every corner seemed to hold a conversation half-hushed when you entered. Apparently, in you and Robb’s absence, another offer had been made—one that set the Great Hall aflame with rumour. A match between Sansa Stark and Prince Joffrey.

Now, the question that hung over every mouth and meal was simple: who would it be?

Would the King and Lord Stark bind their houses through you and Robb—the eldest daughter and the eldest son—or through their younger, more fitting pair?

No one knew which way the coin would fall.

As you made your way to the morning meal, the murmur of voices followed you like a shadow.

“A Lannister queen in the North?” one servant whispered, their words sharp in the cold air. “The wolves won’t stomach it.”

“Better the Sansa with the prince,” another replied. “Leave the lioness where she belongs.”

You kept your chin high, every inch the King’s daughter despite the sting of their words. The hem of your crimson cloak trailed behind you, its rich colour out of place among the muted greys and browns of Winterfell.

You had grown used to whispers in King’s Landing—court gossip was as common as breath but for some reason hearing the negative gossip about you here couldn’t help but sting. Still, you did what you always did, you kept your chin high and your steps even, even as the truth settled deep inside you. You were unwanted amongst the northerners.

At breakfast, your mother barely looked at you. The flicker of candlelight caught the hard gleam in her eyes. Her hands were perfectly still on the table, though you could see the faint strain in her knuckles—the only sign of the storm simmering beneath the surface.

It was clear both choices displeased her. Yet you couldn’t tell which she detested more: the idea of her daughter bound to the North, far from her control, or her son tied to a wolf’s daughter and forced to share his throne with the Starks.

Across the table, Jaime lounged with his usual easy poise, though his golden eyes flicked toward you, taking in the deep circles around your eyes. “You look as though you haven’t slept,” he murmured.

You forced a small smile, fingers curling around your cup. “Perhaps. I still haven’t gotten used to the northern chill,” You lied.

“Well,” Jaime drawled, tilting his head, “you’ll have to get used to it soon—if you are to become the new Lady Stark.”

His tone was light, teasing, but you could only muster a forced smile finding no amusement in the situation.

“Don’t tease her, Jaime,” came Tyrion’s voice from further down the table. He was already swirling wine in his cup, despite the early hour, his tone dry as ever. “I imagine it’s difficult to rest when your hand may be sold without so much as a whisper of choice in the matter.”

He lifted his eyes to you then, and for a fleeting moment, his usual mockery softened into something resembling sympathy. “My condolences, niece. The North is cold, but at least the Starks have honour—a rare currency in this family.”

Cersei’s head turned sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Enough, Tyrion.”

Tyrion only raised his cup in mock salute, a faint smile curling his mouth. “Merely admiring our king’s fine sense of timing. Nothing warms the heart like watching a daughter offered off between wine and roast boar.”

Your mother’s glare could have frozen the sea, but Tyrion only smiled into his drink.

Marcella, ever the softest of your siblings, shot him a reproachful look. “Sansa seems sweet,” she spoke up softly, almost to herself. “I think she’d make a good queen.”

Joffrey scoffed, rolling his eyes. “She’s a northern savage,” he declared. “If it were up to me, I’d choose a proper southern lady—someone who knows how to behave at court. Still,” he added, smirking, “she is beautiful. A fine thing for our future heirs.”

A quiet scoff escaped you before you could stop it—sharp, disdainful. It cut through the your brother’s laughter like a blade.

Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, his expression hardening, but before he could speak, your mother’s voice filled the silence.

Cersei’s gaze flicked between her children, then landed on you, her voice deceptively soft. “It doesn’t matter what any of you think. The King will make his decision, and we will abide by it.”

Her eyes lingered on you just long enough for the meaning to sink in: you will abide by it.

You inclined your head slightly, every inch the dutiful daughter she demanded you be. But as you lifted your cup, the faint tremor in your hand betrayed the truth.

At that moment, the heavy doors opened, and Robert entered the hall. His steps were uneven, his crown was once again askew, and his cheeks were flushed still bleary from the night of wine and laughter. The sight of him was enough to sour the air.

Cersei’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of disgust ghosting across her face before she rose in one graceful, practiced motion. “I will take my meal elsewhere,” she said, her voice like ice.

Without another glance, she swept from the room, her gown trailing behind her like a crimson wound, the sound of her heels echoing sharply against the stone until it faded into silence.

You didn’t blame her for her fury—how could you? Your father had humiliated her before half the realm for years, and now he was doing the same with you. But you couldn’t share her anger either.

You’d seen enough of King’s Landing to know that power was never clean, and marriage least of all. Every alliance was a transaction to gain more power. And yet… something about the North unsettled that certainty. There was no pretension here, no gleaming façade to hide behind. The people spoke plainly, worked until their hands were raw, lived and died by loyalty.

It was harsh—but it was honest.

And though you hated the lack of choice forced upon you, though you despised being bartered like coin, there was a small, treacherous part of you that wished your father would choose the match with Robb Stark.

When you slipped away later, wandering through the Godswood, the cold seemed to clear your thoughts. The stillness of the place—the way the wind whispered through the Weirwood branches, the sound of water lapping against ice—was almost kind.

You didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you heard the sharp snap of a branch. Your breath caught, a gasp escaping you as you turned, cloak swirling around your legs.

“Lady Y/N,” Robb greeted, stepping into view, his breath visible in the cold air. A small grey pup padded beside him, tail wagging hesitantly, its eyes bright with curiosity.

“Forgive me,” Robb said, pausing a few paces away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You exhaled slowly, the rush of surprise fading. “You didn’t,” you lied softly, though your heart was still racing.

You gave him a small polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The pup gave a soft whine and trotted toward you and you knelt to meet the little creature. “And who might this be?”

“Greywind,” Robb replied, a trace of pride threading through his voice. “A Direwolf pup—from the litter my siblings and I saved.”

You reached out your hand, letting the pup sniff your fingers before you gently scratched behind his ear. “Greywind,” you repeated fondly, your tone softening. “A noble name for such a handsome little one.”

The pup leaned into your touch, tail swishing through the snow, his small whines muffled by your gloved fingers. Robb watched in silence, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

He hadn’t expected you to kneel in the snow without hesitation—your silks brushing against frost as though you didn’t care, your expression alight with genuine fondness. Greywind sniffed your hand again, ears perked, tail twitching in excitement before pressing his small head into your palm.

A quiet laugh escaped you then—soft, airy, real. The sound startled Robb more than he cared to admit.

“He’s beautiful,” you murmured, stroking the pup’s fur as he licked at your fingers. “So gentle. I thought Direwolves were meant to be fearsome.”

“They will be,” Robb said, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. “He’s only a few moons old. But he’ll grow fast. Father says the bond between a Stark and his wolf runs deep—that they’re born to protect us.”

You looked up at him from where you knelt, your breath clouding in the cold air. The light caught in your eyes then, and something about the way you gazed at him—curious, open, wholly unafraid—made his words falter for just a moment. “That sounds like a rare gift,” you said softly. “The gods don’t give such bonds freely.”

The words lingered between you, carried by the quiet hush of the Godswood. Robb found himself wanting to say something—anything—to keep you speaking, to keep that faint warmth in your voice filling the cold space between you.

“My father says they were born for us,” he said at last, nodding toward Greywind. “To remind the Starks of who we are.”

“And who is that?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, genuine curiosity in your tone.

Robb hesitated, his breath misting in the air. “Honourable,” he said finally. “Loyal. Perhaps too much so.”

You smiled faintly, the expression small but sincere. “Those sound like virtues, my lord.”

“They can be the kind that get men killed,” he replied simply.