Shell

You had been at the party for exactly forty-three minutes when you decided you had officially stayed long enough to leave without seeming rude.

Not that anyone would notice.

The thought came quietly, without bitterness. You had become good at slipping in and out of places without drawing attention. Lecture halls, dining rooms, dorm gatherings. You occupied space carefully, always conscious of where you stood and whether you were blocking someone’s way.

The hockey house was packed.

Music shook the walls, loud enough to pulse beneath your shoes, and every room seemed to hold twice as many people as it reasonably should. Someone had opened the windows despite the cold, but the air still smelled like beer, perfume, and too many bodies pressed close together.

Your roommate had promised she would stay with you.

She had said it three times while doing her makeup.

“We’ll go together, stay for an hour, and leave together.”

Twenty minutes after arriving, she had disappeared upstairs with a boy whose name you did not know.

You had received a text shortly afterward.

Don’t wait up! Love you!!!

You doubted she did.

Not in a cruel way. She simply did not know you well enough to love you. You had been assigned to live together at the beginning of the semester, and although she was friendly, there was a difference between being friendly and being friends.

You had learned that difference slowly.

You stood near the edge of the kitchen, holding a plastic cup filled with something fruity and overly sweet. You had taken two cautious sips before deciding you did not like it, but keeping it in your hand gave you something to do.

Around you, people shouted over the music.

A group of girls near the refrigerator laughed loudly at something one of them said. Two boys were arguing about a game you had not watched. Someone stumbled into you, sloshing beer over the back of your hand, and barely paused long enough to mutter an apology.

You wiped your fingers against the side of your jeans.

Forty-four minutes.

You could leave now.

You had already opened your phone to request a ride when someone spoke beside you.

“You look like you’re planning a prison break.”

You glanced up.

And then farther up.

Dean Di Laurentis stood beside you with one shoulder resting against the kitchen counter, a lazy smile curving across his face.

You knew who he was.

Everyone at Briar knew who Dean was.

Even if you had somehow missed the hockey games, the campus newspaper articles, and the stories repeated in whispered tones at parties, it would have been difficult not to notice him.

He was tall, blond, and unfairly handsome in the polished sort of way that made him look as though he had stepped out of an advertisement. His pale sweater fit him perfectly, pushed up at the forearms, and there was a confidence in the way he carried himself that suggested he had never once entered a room and wondered whether he belonged there.

You immediately became aware of everything you were doing.

The way your hair had started to frizz near your temples.

The awkward bend of your elbow.

The fact that you had been staring at your phone like it contained emergency evacuation instructions.

“I wasn’t planning a prison break,” you said.

Dean glanced at your phone.

“You were looking at ride prices with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.”

You locked the screen.

“I was thinking about leaving.”

“Already?”

“I’ve been here almost an hour.”

He looked around the crowded kitchen as if taking inventory.

“Honestly, that might be enough.”

You stared at him.

That was not the response you had expected.

Dean lifted his own cup toward the room.

“Someone broke a lamp twenty minutes ago, Garrett is threatening to ban half the freshman class from the house, and I’m pretty sure there’s a guy crying in the laundry room.”

“Why is he crying?”

“No idea. I didn’t ask. He looked like he needed privacy.”

A surprised laugh escaped you.

Dean’s smile widened.

It was not the practised grin you had seen him give girls across campus. It looked warmer up close. Less calculated.

“There it is,” he said.

You frowned. “What?”

“I was starting to think you couldn’t smile.”

Your face heated.

“I smile.”

“I believe you now.”

You looked down at your cup, suddenly wishing you had left two minutes earlier.

He must have noticed the shift because his expression softened.

“That came out wrong,” he said. “I only meant you looked miserable.”

“That isn’t much better.”

“You’re right.” He placed a hand over his chest. “I’m doing terribly.”

You laughed again, quieter this time.

Dean leaned closer, though not enough to crowd you.

“Can I start over?”

“You can try.”

He straightened and extended his hand with exaggerated formality.

“Hi. I’m Dean.”

You looked at his hand.

“I know.”

“That sounded ominous.”

“Everyone knows who you are.”

“Good things, I assume.”

You raised your eyebrows.

He sighed.

“Devastating.”

You hesitated before slipping your hand into his.

You told him your name.

His fingers closed around yours briefly, warm and gentle.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said.

Something about the way he said it made the words feel sincere.

You pulled your hand away before you could think too much about it.

Dean gestured toward your cup.

“What are you drinking?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s concerning.”

“My roommate handed it to me.”

“Where’s your roommate?”

“Upstairs.”

He followed your gaze toward the ceiling, understanding arriving quickly.

“And she left you down here alone?”

“She didn’t force me to stay.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You shifted your weight.

“She wanted to have fun.”

“And you don’t?”

“I do.”

Dean looked around again.

“Just not like this?”

You nodded.

He studied you for a second, not in a way that made you feel inspected, but as if he were genuinely considering what you had said.

“What do you do for fun?”

The question caught you off guard.

“What?”

“You said you like having fun. What does that look like?”

You almost asked whether he was making fun of you, but his face held only curiosity.

“I read.”

“Scandalous.”

“I go to the movies.”

“Alone?”

“Usually.”

He frowned slightly, and you immediately regretted saying it.

Not because there was anything wrong with going to the movies alone. You told yourself that often enough. But people tended to react in one of two ways: pity or disbelief.

Dean surprised you again.

“What was the last thing you saw?”

You told him.

He had seen it too.

Within a few minutes, the party receded around you.

He had strong opinions about the ending. You disagreed with nearly all of them. He accused you of defending a character who had made objectively terrible choices, and you argued that he was ignoring the entire point of the story.

“You’re wrong,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You are, but it’s cute that you’re committed.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you always become condescending when someone disagrees with you?”

“Only when I’m right.”

“You must be condescending a lot, then.”

He grinned.

“There she is again.”

You tried not to smile.

You failed.

Dean took your untouched drink and exchanged it for a sealed bottle of water from the refrigerator. He did not make a comment about it or ask whether you had had too much. He simply handed you the bottle and continued talking.

You noticed things about him gradually.

He listened.

Actually listened.

When you mentioned transferring to Briar, he asked why. When you said your previous school had not been a good fit, he did not push for details. When you told him your major, he asked what you wanted to do with it rather than making the same tired joke everyone else made.

You learned that he was studying history.

You had not expected that.

“You sound surprised,” he said.

“I am.”

“You thought I was majoring in hockey?”

“I thought you were majoring in parties.”

“That’s my minor.”

You rolled your eyes.

He laughed.

People interrupted him constantly.

A girl touched his arm and asked him to dance. One of his teammates shouted something from the living room. A boy you vaguely recognized wanted to know where the extra cups were.

Dean responded to each of them, but he always turned back to you.

As if the conversation had not ended.

As if you had not become invisible the moment someone more interesting appeared.

It was such a small thing.

It should not have mattered as much as it did.

After nearly an hour, the kitchen became too crowded to breathe comfortably.

Dean noticed before you said anything.

“Want to go somewhere quieter?”

The question sent a small pulse of alarm through you.

He seemed to read it immediately.

“The porch,” he clarified. “Not a bedroom.”

Mortification flooded your face.

“I didn’t think—”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

You looked away.

Dean smiled, but there was no cruelty in it.

“We can stay here.”

The kitchen erupted into shouting as someone attempted to climb onto the counter.

You winced.

“The porch is fine.”

He led you through the crowd without touching you until someone stumbled into your path. Then his hand settled lightly at the small of your back.

It was barely there.

Still, you felt it through the fabric of your sweater.

Outside, the air was sharp and cold.

You inhaled deeply.

The porch wrapped around the side of the house, dimly lit and mostly empty. Music still filtered through the walls, but it was muted now. The night felt calmer beyond the glow of the windows.

Dean dropped onto the top step and looked up at you.

“You can sit. I don’t bite.”

“I’ve heard otherwise.”

He stared at you for one stunned second before laughing.

The sound was bright and genuine.

You smiled despite yourself and sat beside him, leaving a careful amount of space between you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You watched your breath fog in front of you.

Dean leaned back on his hands.

“So why did you really come tonight?”

“My roommate asked me.”

“That’s the only reason?”

You considered lying.

Instead, you shrugged.

“I thought maybe I should try harder.”

“At parties?”

“At meeting people.”

His expression changed.

Only slightly, but enough for you to notice.

“You don’t know many people here?”

“I know people.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

You picked at the corner of the water bottle label.

“I transferred at the beginning of the semester. Everyone already had their groups. It’s hard to join when people have known each other for years.”

Dean was quiet.

You worried you had made the conversation uncomfortable.

You usually did that eventually. People liked quiet girls until the quietness revealed itself to be something heavier. Loneliness made others uneasy when spoken aloud.

You rushed to soften it.

“It’s fine. I like being alone.”

“Sometimes,” he said.

You glanced at him.

Dean’s gaze rested on the dark yard ahead of you.

“Sometimes you like being alone,” he continued. “Other times, you’re alone because no one thought to invite you.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You looked down.

“That sounded depressing,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“No. It’s just…”

“Accurate?”

You nodded.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Then Dean bumped his shoulder against yours.

“Tonight wasn’t a complete failure.”

“No?”

“You met me.”

You let out a small laugh.

“And you’re very humble.”

“It’s one of my best qualities.”

“I don’t think you know what humble means.”

“I’m a history major, not an English major.”

“That excuse doesn’t work.”

“It was worth trying.”

You smiled at your shoes.

His shoulder remained against yours.

You did not move away.

The conversation shifted again. Somehow, you ended up telling him about getting lost during orientation and walking into the wrong lecture hall. He told you about accidentally calling one of his professors “Dad” during freshman year.

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“In front of everyone?”

“Full lecture hall.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Your mother and I are disappointed in you.’”

You laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth.

Dean watched you.

The laughter faded when you realized he was staring.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

The air between you changed.

Not suddenly.

It had been changing all night, growing warmer beneath the jokes and easy conversation, but now there was nowhere else to look.

Dean’s eyes lowered briefly to your mouth.

Your pulse jumped.

You knew his reputation.

You had heard the stories.

Dean Di Laurentis did not flirt without purpose. He did not sit on cold porch steps discussing movies and embarrassing freshman memories because he wanted friendship.

You should have stood.

You should have thanked him for the conversation and ordered your ride.

Instead, you remained still.

Dean lifted one hand slowly, giving you plenty of time to stop him. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from your cheek.

“You’re nervous,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“You keep telling me how I feel.”

“You keep lying.”

You swallowed.

His thumb lingered near your jaw.

“Tell me to stop.”

You should have.

Instead, you whispered, “I don’t want you to.”

Dean’s expression softened.

Then he kissed you.

You had expected confidence.

You had expected him to kiss like someone who knew exactly what he was doing and knew that you knew it too.

You had not expected gentleness.

His mouth moved slowly against yours, warm and careful. He did not pull you closer until you leaned toward him first. Then his hand slid to the back of your neck while the other settled at your waist.

The kiss deepened.

Your fingers curled into the front of his sweater.

Dean smiled against your mouth.

“What?” you murmured.

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I know.”

“That’s distracting.”

“Sorry.”

He kissed you again, and he did not sound sorry at all.

The porch door swung open.

Cold light spilled across the steps.

“Dean, have you seen—”

The boy stopped.

You jumped away so quickly you nearly dropped the water bottle.

Dean turned, visibly annoyed.

“Logan.”

Logan’s gaze moved between the two of you.

A slow grin appeared.

“I didn’t see anything.”

“You’re currently looking directly at us.”

“I’m going blind as we speak.”

“Go away.”

Logan lifted both hands.

“Garrett wants to know where the spare keg is.”

“In the garage.”

“Thanks.”

He disappeared inside, still grinning.

You covered your face with both hands.

Dean laughed.

“This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“Your friend is going to tell everyone.”

“Logan has walked in on much worse.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

Dean gently pulled your hands away from your face.

“Hey.”

You looked at him reluctantly.

“No one’s going to bother you.”

You believed he meant it.

That frightened you more than if he had been careless.

Because this was supposed to be simple.

He was Dean.

You were a girl he had met at a party.

You knew how this worked.

You knew better than to confuse attention with affection.

Still, when he asked whether you wanted to leave the porch, you did not say no.

His room was quieter than the rest of the house.

You stood just inside the doorway while Dean closed it behind you, leaving the noise on the other side.

For the first time all night, uncertainty crossed his face.

It disappeared quickly, but you saw it.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he said.

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

He stepped closer.

“Do you?”

You nodded.

Dean studied you for a moment.

Then he reached for your hand.

His fingers threaded through yours.

“Tell me what you want.”

No one had ever asked you like that before.

Not as a challenge.

Not impatiently.

As if the answer mattered.

You looked at him, at the boy everyone claimed never cared enough to ask.

“You,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened.

He kissed you again.

The rest of the night became a collection of soft, blurred moments.

Quiet laughter when your knee bumped awkwardly against his.

His forehead resting against yours.

The way he asked if you were all right and waited for an answer.

The unexpected tenderness of his hands.

The room growing still around you.

And eventually, sleep.

You woke before sunrise.

For a few seconds, you did not know where you were.

The room was dark except for the faint gray light filtering through the curtains. A heavy comforter covered you, warmer than the thin blanket in your dorm. Something solid rested against your waist.

Then you remembered.

Dean slept beside you.

He was sprawled on his stomach, one arm curved loosely across the space where your body had been. His blond hair had fallen over his forehead, and without the easy smile or bright confidence, he looked younger.

Softer.

You watched him breathe.

A dangerous warmth opened in your chest.

Last night returned in pieces.

The porch.

His laugh.

The way he had listened to you.

The way he had looked at you as though you were someone worth noticing.

You turned toward him.

For one foolish moment, you imagined staying.

You imagined him waking and smiling when he saw you. Maybe you would talk for a while. Maybe he would remember the things you had told him. Maybe he would ask to see you again.

Then reality settled over you.

You knew who he was.

More importantly, you knew who you were.

Dean Di Laurentis woke beside beautiful, confident girls who understood the rules. Girls who could leave smiling because they had never expected anything more.

You were already making last night mean too much.

You could feel it happening.

The way your heart had tightened when he asked what you did for fun. The way you had stored every small kindness as though it were rare.

For him, it had probably been easy.

Dean was charming because charm came naturally to him. He made people feel special because he knew how.

That did not mean you were special.

The thought hurt, though it should not have.

You had agreed to one night.

He had never promised more.

The kindest thing you could do for both of you was leave before he had to make that clear.

Carefully, you lifted his arm and slid out of bed.

Dean shifted.

You froze.

He murmured something unintelligible and buried his face deeper into the pillow.

Your chest ached.

You found your clothes quietly.

His sweater lay across the desk chair, and for a moment, you remembered him draping it around your shoulders when you had complained about the cold.

You picked it up.

The fabric still smelled faintly like him.

You almost put it on.

The thought was so embarrassing that you folded it instead, smoothing the sleeves before placing it neatly on the chair.

Your phone had several messages.

Two from your roommate.

One asking whether you were safe.

Another, sent an hour later, containing nothing but several question marks and a winking face.

You ignored them.

Before leaving, you looked back at Dean.

You considered writing a note.

Thank you for last night.

Too formal.

I had a nice time.

Too hopeful.

Maybe I’ll see you around.

Too pathetic.

You opened the door without writing anything.

The hallway was empty.

Downstairs, the house looked different in the early morning. Cups covered every surface. Someone was asleep on the couch with one shoe missing. The air smelled stale and sour.

You stepped outside.

The cold hit your face immediately.

By the time your ride arrived, the sky had begun to lighten.

You did not look back.

Dean woke reaching for you.

His hand moved across the sheets, searching for warmth.

He found only an empty space.

His eyes opened.

For a moment, he thought you might be in the bathroom.

He rolled onto his back, blinking at the ceiling while the memories of the night before returned.

You laughing on the porch.

Your fingers curled into his sweater.

The sleepy way you had said his name.

A smile formed before he could stop it.

He had not planned anything beyond the party.

He rarely did.

But he wanted breakfast.

He wanted to know whether you drank coffee.

He wanted to finish the argument about the movie because you were still wrong and he had thought of three more reasons to prove it.

The bathroom door stood open.

Empty.

Dean sat up.

Your clothes were gone.

His sweater had been folded carefully on the chair.

He stared at it.

Something unpleasant shifted in his chest.

“Hello?”

The room remained silent.

He checked his phone.

Nothing.

He had given you his number at some point, hadn’t he?

No.

He frowned.

He had been too busy talking. Too busy kissing you. Too certain there would be time in the morning.

Dean got out of bed and pulled on sweatpants.

He checked the hallway.

Then the kitchen.

Then, absurdly, the porch.

You were gone.

No note.

No number.

Nothing.

He stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the door.

This was new.

Girls did not usually leave before he woke up.

Some did, of course. He was not arrogant enough to think it had never happened. But usually there was a text. A number written on a receipt. A teasing message sent later.

You had disappeared as if the night had never happened.

Logan wandered into the kitchen wearing a T-shirt and boxers.

He stopped when he saw Dean.

“You look weird.”

Dean ignored him.

Logan opened the refrigerator.

“Where’s your friend?”

“Gone.”

Logan glanced over his shoulder.

“Already?”

Dean’s jaw tightened.

“Apparently.”

“You get her number?”

“No.”

Logan slowly closed the refrigerator.

“You didn’t get her number?”

“I was going to.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

Logan looked around the empty kitchen.

“Solid plan.”

“Shut up.”

Dean poured himself coffee from the pot someone had left on overnight, took one sip, and immediately poured it into the sink.

Logan leaned against the counter.

“What was her name?”

Dean told him.

“Do you know her last name?”

“No.”

“Major?”

Dean answered.

“Dorm?”

Dean hesitated.

“No.”

Logan stared.

“Wow.”

“Why do you keep saying it like that?”

“Because you usually know everything about a girl within five minutes.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is absolutely true.”

Dean dragged a hand through his hair.

He could still hear your voice.

You had told him you transferred. You had told him what you studied. You had mentioned a lecture building and a professor you liked, but he could not remember the professor’s name.

He should have asked more.

He thought he had.

He thought there would be more time.

Logan’s amusement faded.

“Do you want to see her again?”

Dean looked toward the front door.

“Yes.”

The answer came too quickly.

Logan noticed.

His eyebrows rose.

Dean pointed at him.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was going to ask whether you had finally developed human emotions.”

“Go put on pants.”

Logan grinned.

“This is incredible.”

“There is nothing incredible happening.”

“You like her.”

“I met her last night.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“You checked the porch.”

Dean went still.

Logan’s grin widened.

“I saw you through the window.”

“I thought she might be outside.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because you were hoping she hadn’t actually left.”

Dean hated him.

He hated that Logan was right more.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Garrett entered the kitchen, looking exhausted.

“Why are you two arguing before nine in the morning?”

“Dean has a crush,” Logan said.

“I do not.”

Garrett paused.

He looked at Dean.

Then at Logan.

“On who?”

“No one.”

“The girl from last night,” Logan supplied.

Garrett opened a cabinet.

“The quiet one?”

Dean frowned. “You saw her?”

“She was sitting with you on the porch.”

“Do you know her?”

“No.”

Dean’s shoulders fell before he could hide it.

Garrett noticed.

He turned slowly.

“Wait.”

Dean reached for a clean mug.

“Don’t.”

“You actually want to find her?”

“I said don’t.”

Garrett smiled.

It was worse than Logan’s grin because Garrett looked genuinely delighted.

“Dean Di Laurentis has been ghosted.”

“I have not been ghosted.”

“She left without giving you her number.”

“We forgot.”

“You forgot?”

“We were talking.”

Both boys stared at him.

Dean’s irritation sharpened.

“What?”

Logan looked at Garrett.

“He didn’t get her number because they were talking.”

Garrett nodded solemnly.

“This is serious.”

“You’re both idiots.”

Dean abandoned the mug and headed for the stairs.

Behind him, Garrett called, “What does she look like?”

Dean stopped.

He turned despite himself.

Garrett’s expression was still amused, but there was something helpful beneath it.

“If we see her around campus,” he said, “we can tell you.”

Dean described you.

He began with your hair.

Then your eyes.

The sweater you had worn.

The way you tucked your hands into the sleeves when you were nervous.

Logan’s amusement slowly disappeared.

Garrett stared at him.

Dean realized he had said too much.

He cleared his throat.

“She’s short,” he finished. “Quiet.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched.

“Very helpful.”

Dean flipped him off and went upstairs.

His room felt wrong when he returned.

Too quiet.

He picked up the sweater from the chair and unfolded it.

One strand of your hair clung to the fabric.

He brushed it away.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his phone.

He searched your first name.

Too many results.

He added Briar.

More results appeared, but none were you.

He tried your major.

Nothing.

Dean dropped the phone beside him.

This was ridiculous.

He barely knew you.

One night did not mean anything.

He had spent countless nights with girls he never saw again. That was the arrangement. No expectations. No disappointment. Everyone left happy.

You had left.

So why did it feel different?

He looked at the empty side of the bed.

Because he had not wanted you to.

The realization sat heavily in his chest.

Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, he had gone to sleep beside someone already looking forward to the morning.

And you had vanished before it arrived.

You avoided the hockey house after that.

It was not difficult.

You had never gone there before, and you had no reason to return. Your roommate asked questions for nearly three days, but you gave vague answers until she lost interest.

You had met someone.

You had left with him.

It was fine.

You were fine.

You repeated that last part often.

In the mornings, while getting dressed for class.

At night, when the dorm became too quiet.

Whenever you saw blond hair across the quad and your heart reacted before your mind could correct it.

You did not regret the night.

That was the problem.

You remembered too much of it too fondly.

You remembered how Dean had made space for you in every conversation. How he had noticed when the kitchen became overwhelming. How carefully he had touched you.

You had expected to feel embarrassed afterward.

Instead, you felt lonely.

Lonelier than before because now you had something to compare it to.

For one night, someone had seen you.

Then you had left before he could look closely enough to change his mind.

It was better that way.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

Dean would move on quickly.

He might not even remember your name.

And eventually, you would stop glancing toward every crowded room, searching for him despite praying he would not be there.

You would return to your quiet routines.

Classes.

The library.

Dinner alone with a book propped open beside your plate.

You would become invisible again.

It had always been safer that way.

What you did not know was that across campus, Dean Di Laurentis had begun looking for you everywhere.

And each day he failed to find you, he became a little less convinced that one night had been enough.

The first year of your marriage passed in laughter.

Dragonstone became home far more quickly than either of you expected.

Not because of the castle.

Dragonstone was cold.

Wind howled through the ancient halls. Salt coated every window. The stone seemed to hold winter inside it, even during summer.

It became home because Harwin was there.

Because every morning he kissed your forehead before training.

Because every evening he came looking for you, no matter how late the hour.

Because every night he whispered the same three words before sleep.

"I'm home."

He never said Dragonstone was home.

He always said it while looking at you.

Marrying Harwin meant marrying three little shadows as well.

Jacaerys was nearly always reading.

Lucerys climbed everything that looked remotely climbable.

Joffrey...

Joffrey simply appeared.

One moment he was nowhere to be found.

The next, he was sitting on your kitchen table eating berries he had absolutely not been given permission to eat.

"My prince."

He looked up with stained lips.

"Yes?"

"Where did those come from?"

"The bowl."

"I can see that."

He grinned.

"I was hungry."

Harwin entered the room just in time to hear that.

"So naturally you stole them."

"I borrowed them."

Harwin folded his arms.

"Did you intend to return them?"

Joffrey looked thoughtfully at the handful of berries.

"...No."

You burst into laughter.

Harwin tried not to smile.

Failed.

It happened so gradually that you hardly noticed.

The boys stopped knocking before entering your rooms.

Luke began bringing you seashells after every walk along the beach.

Jace asked your opinion before important lessons.

Joffrey insisted bedtime stories could only be read by "my lady."

Daemon found the arrangement endlessly amusing.

"You've been adopted."

You looked up from the embroidery in your lap.

"I don't believe that's how adoption works."

"It does today."

Joffrey nodded solemnly.

"It does."

Rhaenyra smiled into her tea.

"I warned you."

"You did."

"I believe my exact words were, 'They'll decide you're theirs.'"

"You were correct."

Luke ran into the room at that very moment.

"My lady!"

You looked up.

"I found a crab."

"How wonderful."

"It bit me."

"I'm less surprised."

"It was very rude."

Harwin laughed so hard he nearly dropped the cup he was carrying.

You had expected jealousy.

Not from Rhaenyra.

From yourself.

You expected to resent the easy way Harwin smiled whenever Jace accomplished something remarkable.

The tenderness in his eyes when Luke fell asleep against his shoulder.

The pride that shone across his face every time Joffrey laughed.

Instead...

You loved watching him.

One afternoon, Harwin sat beneath an old tree with all three boys sprawled around him.

Jace was reading aloud.

Luke was absentmindedly braiding flowers into Harwin's hair.

Joffrey had somehow convinced Caraxes' tail—at a safe distance—was waving specifically at him.

You smiled.

Rhaenyra joined you quietly.

"He looks happy."

"He does."

"I worried."

You glanced at her.

"About what?"

"That loving you might make him pull away from them."

You looked back toward the boys.

"He couldn't."

"No."

Rhaenyra smiled softly.

"He couldn't."

After a long silence, she added,

"Thank you."

You frowned.

"For what?"

"For never asking him to choose."

You looked at her in surprise.

"I never would."

"I know."

She reached over and squeezed your hand.

"I know."

Six months into your marriage, you and Harwin began hoping for a child.

At first...

It was exciting.

You laughed over possible names.

Harwin insisted every little girl would somehow inherit your smile.

You insisted every little boy would climb furniture exactly like Luke.

He disagreed.

"They'll climb worse."

"Worse?"

"They'll have my confidence."

"And your common sense?"

He looked offended.

"I have excellent sense."

"You once tried to wrestle a bull."

"I won."

"That is not the point."

The first moon passed.

Then another.

Neither of you worried.

"These things take time," Harwin said.

You nodded.

They did.

A year passed.

Still nothing.

The excitement faded into quiet hope.

Hope became waiting.

Waiting became counting.

Counting became disappointment.

You began recognizing the expression on the maester's face before he spoke.

Not yet.

Try again.

Perhaps next moon.

Always gentle.

Always kind.

Always heartbreaking.

Harwin never blamed you.

Not once.

Not even by accident.

When you apologized after another difficult visit with the maester, he looked genuinely confused.

"What are you apologizing for?"

"I know you wanted children."

"I do."

Your heart sank.

He immediately reached for your hands.

"With you."

He emphasized the words.

"I wanted children with you."

Fresh tears filled your eyes.

"What if I can't?"

Harwin cupped your face.

"Then I still have you."

"It isn't enough."

"It is for me."

You closed your eyes.

"It shouldn't have to be."

He rested his forehead against yours.

"We'll grieve that together if we must."

The boys noticed long before you realized they had.

Children always did.

Jace began lingering after lessons.

Luke stopped asking when there would be a baby.

Joffrey simply hugged you more often.

One rainy afternoon, you found Jace alone in the library.

He closed the book the moment you entered.

"My lady?"

"Yes?"

He hesitated.

"I heard the maester speaking."

Your heart stopped.

"I wasn't trying to listen."

"I know."

"They said..."

His voice became very small.

"...that you were sad."

You sat beside him.

"I am sometimes."

"Because of a baby?"

You nodded.

Jace stared at his hands.

Then quietly asked,

"Are we not enough?"

The question stole your breath.

"Oh, Jace..."

He looked frightened by his own words.

"You always smile at us."

"I do."

"But if you had your own children..."

You wrapped your arms around him before he could finish.

"You are not filling an empty place."

His shoulders trembled.

"You never were."

He hugged you tightly.

"I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"That if you finally had a baby..."

His voice cracked.

"...you wouldn't love us anymore."

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

"I could have ten children."

He sniffled.

"And?"

"There would still only be one Jacaerys."

A tiny smile appeared.

"There would still only be one Luke."

Another smile.

"And only one impossible Joffrey."

Jace laughed.

You kissed his forehead.

"You three taught me how to love children before I ever had one."

His eyes filled again.

"I love you."

You smiled through your own tears.

"I love you too."

That evening, Harwin found Jace asleep in your lap.

You were sitting beside the fire with a book half-open.

Neither of you had moved for nearly an hour.

Harwin leaned against the doorway.

"You'll lose feeling in your legs."

"I already have."

"Then why not wake him?"

You looked down at the sleeping prince.

"He needed this."

Harwin's expression softened.

"He asked if we'd stop loving them."

Harwin closed his eyes.

Pain crossed his face.

"He heard?"

"He heard enough."

Harwin walked over and carefully lifted Jace into his arms.

The boy barely stirred.

"He worries too much."

"So do you."

Harwin smiled faintly.

"I wonder where he learned it."

You reached up and brushed a curl away from Jace's forehead.

"He'll always know he's yours."

Harwin looked at his sleeping son.

"I hope he knows he's yours too."

Your eyes filled.

"I don't deserve that."

Harwin looked at you as though you had spoken complete nonsense.

"You've earned it every day."

Later that night, after the boys had gone to bed, Rhaenyra knocked softly on your chamber door.

She carried wine.

"I brought medicine."

You laughed.

"For what ailment?"

"The sort only friendship cures."

You let her inside.

Neither of you spoke for several moments.

Eventually she said quietly,

"I remember wanting another child after Joffrey."

You looked at her.

"I never told anyone that."

She smiled sadly.

"I know."

"I wanted another baby before..."

Her gaze drifted toward the sea.

"Before Harwin left King's Landing."

You listened.

"I used to think the gods were punishing me."

Your heart ached.

"Then I met Daemon."

A genuine smile crossed her face.

"And I realized the gods weren't punishing anyone."

She reached across the table.

"They simply don't tell us when our prayers will be answered."

Tears gathered in your eyes.

"What if they never are?"

Rhaenyra squeezed your hand.

"Then you will still have a husband who worships the ground you walk on."

You laughed softly.

"And three boys who already think the sun rises because you asked it to."

"I don't know about that."

"You haven't seen the way Joffrey looks at you."

You smiled despite yourself.

"He is very sweet."

"He is completely yours."

The words settled warmly inside your chest.

Not enough to erase the ache.

But enough to make breathing easier.

One evening, months later, you stood alone on the cliffs watching the dragons circle overhead.

Harwin found you there.

He always did.

"You've been quiet."

"So have you."

He stood beside you.

"The maester came today."

"I know."

"He spoke to me."

You turned.

"What did he say?"

Harwin looked out toward the sea.

"He said we should stop making ourselves miserable."

Your eyes stung.

"He said sometimes the greatest act of love is accepting the family you already have."

Silence.

Harwin reached for your hand.

"I don't know if he's right."

You swallowed.

"I don't either."

"But I do know this."

He turned toward you.

"If the gods never give us another child..."

His thumb brushed your wedding ring.

"...they cannot take away the family we've already built."

At that very moment—

"My lady!"

Luke's voice echoed across the cliffs.

You both looked back.

All three boys were running toward you.

Joffrey waving wildly.

Jace trying and failing to stop his brothers from sprinting near the cliff's edge.

"We found dragon eggs!"

Luke shouted.

"They're empty!"

Joffrey corrected proudly.

"They already hatched."

Harwin laughed.

"I see our scholars have arrived."

The boys reached you moments later.

Without hesitation—

Joffrey wrapped himself around your waist.

Luke grabbed Harwin's arm.

Jace simply stood beside you.

Close enough that your shoulders touched.

You looked down at them.

Then at Harwin.

Your heart still ached.

It probably always would.

But as Joffrey slipped his little hand into yours and Luke excitedly tried to explain dragon shells over Jace's increasingly exasperated corrections...

You realized something.

The waiting had not stolen your ability to love.

If anything—

It had only made your heart larger.

And perhaps...

Just perhaps...

The gods were not finished with your story yet.

Trust did not return like sunrise.

It did not spill over the horizon all at once, warm and golden, chasing every shadow from the earth.

It returned like the tide.

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

Some days, it came close enough for Alyssa to believe she could feel it brushing against her feet.

Other days, it pulled away so sharply that all she could see was the wreckage left behind.

Gwayne learned this quickly.

He learned it in the way she sometimes reached for him without thinking, only to stop herself halfway.

He learned it in the way she allowed him to walk beside her through Dragonstone’s dark halls but never behind her, never where she could not see him.

He learned it in the way she no longer flinched every time he entered a room, but still turned toward the door first.

Always the door.

Always measuring whether it was open.

That, more than anything, haunted him.

The Red Keep had taught his wife to count exits.

And he had helped build the cage.

Dragonstone did not welcome Ser Gwayne Hightower.

It tolerated him.

Barely.

The servants watched him with narrowed eyes. The guards never turned their backs. The lords loyal to Rhaenyra spoke around him rather than to him.

Daemon made no effort to disguise his hatred.

Each time Gwayne entered the war chamber, Daemon’s hand drifted toward Dark Sister as if by habit.

“Careful, Hightower,” Daemon would murmur. “I have been waiting for you to twitch wrong all morning.”

Gwayne would bow his head.

“I shall endeavor to disappoint you, my prince.”

Alyssa heard that once from the doorway and nearly smiled.

Nearly.

That was often how their days were measured now.

Nearly.

Nearly a smile.

Nearly a laugh.

Nearly forgiveness.

Gwayne gave Rhaenyra everything he knew.

He told her of Otto’s cautious strategies, Aegon’s arrogance, Aemond’s restlessness, Criston Cole’s pride, the movements of ravens, the loyalty of certain commanders, the weaknesses in King’s Landing’s harbor defenses, the guards most likely to look the other way for coin, and the ones who would sooner die than betray the Greens.

He spoke for hours.

Sometimes until his voice grew rough.

Rhaenyra listened with a stillness that reminded him painfully of Viserys.

Alyssa listened too.

Always from the edge of the room.

Always silent.

Until one evening, as Gwayne finished explaining how Otto stored certain sensitive correspondence in the Tower of the Hand, Alyssa spoke.

“Would those letters include messages about me?”

The room quieted.

Gwayne looked at her.

“Yes.”

Her face did not change.

“About using me against Rhaenyra?”

“Yes.”

“About cutting pieces from me and sending them across the sea?”

Rhaenyra’s hand tightened on the painted table.

Daemon went very still.

Gwayne swallowed.

“Yes.”

Alyssa nodded once, as if confirming something she had already known.

“Then I want them burned when King’s Landing falls.”

Daemon looked at her.

“When?”

Alyssa’s eyes lifted.

Not frightened.

Not fragile.

“When.”

For the first time, Daemon smiled at her the way he smiled at warriors.

“With pleasure, little dragon.”

That night, Gwayne found Alyssa on the cliffs.

He always found her there now.

Never in closed rooms if she could help it.

The wind was violent, whipping her silver braid across her shoulder. Aster slept curled on the rocks below, one wing tucked close, smoke drifting lazily from her nostrils.

“You were brave today,” Gwayne said.

Alyssa did not look at him.

“I do not feel brave.”

“That does not mean you are not.”

She was quiet for a long moment.

Then—

“I used to think bravery meant not being afraid.”

“So did I.”

“And now?”

Gwayne stepped closer, stopping at the distance she preferred.

“Now I think bravery is doing what fear begs you not to.”

Alyssa looked at him then.

“Is that what you did?”

The question was not cruel.

That made it harder.

He shook his head.

“No. Not at first.”

Her gaze returned to the sea.

“No. Not at first.”

He deserved that echo.

He deserved worse.

As moons passed, Alyssa began to live again.

Not as she had before.

Never that.

The girl who stole lemon cakes and believed love was enough had died somewhere behind a locked door in the Red Keep.

But another woman rose in her place.

Quieter.

Sharper.

Still gentle, but no longer naive.

She trained with Baela in the mornings, first with daggers, then with a sword. She was clumsy at the beginning and cursed so creatively that even Daemon laughed.

She flew Aster every afternoon.

At first, only over the cliffs.

Then farther.

Out over the sea.

Through clouds.

Toward the edge of storms.

Each flight returned color to her cheeks.

Each landing made her stand taller.

Sometimes Gwayne watched from below, his heart in his throat.

Not because he feared she would fall.

Because every time she rose into the sky, he knew she was choosing whether to return.

And every time she did, he understood it was not because of him.

That was important.

She was no longer a girl tethered by love.

She was a dragonrider who came back only because she wished to.

Their marriage became a thing carefully rebuilt from ruins.

At first, they did not share a bed.

Gwayne slept in the guarded lower chambers.

Alyssa slept near Rhaenyra’s apartments, doors unlocked, Aster within calling distance.

Then, slowly, they began to spend evenings together.

A walk along the cliffs.

A cup of tea by the hearth with the door left open.

A game of cyvasse that Alyssa won because Gwayne was too distracted watching her hands.

“You used to let me win,” she said one evening.

He looked offended.

“I never let you win.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I was being gallant.”

“You were being obvious.”

He smiled.

Alyssa stared at that smile for a moment.

Her own softened before she could stop it.

Then she looked away.

But she did not leave.

That was enough.

The first time she touched him without needing comfort, it was almost accidental.

They were in the library.

Rain struck the windows, and Alyssa stood on a ladder reaching for a book on an upper shelf.

Gwayne looked up.

“Careful.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You have said that to me since I was sixteen.”

“And you have ignored it since you were sixteen.”

“I survived.”

“Barely.”

She reached too far.

The ladder shifted.

Gwayne caught her by the waist before she could fall.

For one breath, she was pressed against him, hands braced on his shoulders.

Both of them froze.

His hands loosened immediately.

“Forgive me.”

Alyssa did not step away.

The rain whispered against stone.

Her eyes searched his face.

Once, he would have kissed her without thinking.

Now he waited.

Alyssa lifted one hand slowly and touched his cheek.

Just that.

Her fingers trembled.

His eyes closed.

The touch lasted only a moment.

Then she withdrew.

“I am not ready,” she whispered.

He nodded, though his heart was breaking and healing all at once.

“I know.”

“But I wanted to.”

His eyes opened.

Alyssa looked almost frightened by her own confession.

Gwayne bowed his head.

“Then I will be grateful for the wanting.”

Her mouth trembled.

“You say things like that and make it very difficult to stay angry.”

“I can leave and return with something foolish to say, if that helps.”

A laugh escaped her.

Small.

Surprised.

Real.

Gwayne looked at her as though the sound had split the heavens open.

Alyssa covered her mouth, but she was still smiling.

“Do not look so pleased with yourself.”

“I would not dare.”

“You are absolutely daring.”

“Yes,” he admitted softly. “A little.”

And for the first time in a long while, she did not punish herself for smiling at him.

But healing was not a straight road.

Some nights, Alyssa woke screaming.

Sometimes she dreamed Otto stood at the foot of her bed with a knife.

Sometimes she dreamed Gwayne locked the door and walked away.

Those nights were the worst.

The first time it happened after she allowed him back into her chambers, Gwayne woke to the sound of his name.

Not tenderly.

In terror.

“No, Gwayne, please—”

He sat up instantly.

Alyssa was curled on the far side of the bed, half tangled in blankets, tears on her face.

He reached for her, then stopped himself.

“Alyssa.”

She woke with a gasp.

For one horrible moment, she stared at him as though he were the dream.

Then she scrambled back.

“Do not touch me.”

He moved away at once.

“I won’t.”

Her breathing was ragged.

The fire had burned low. Shadows crawled across the walls like bars.

Alyssa pressed a hand to her mouth.

“I dreamed…”

“I know.”

“You locked it.”

His chest tightened.

“The door?”

She nodded, shaking.

“You locked it and told me it was for my own good.”

Gwayne closed his eyes.

Shame rose sharp and sickening.

When he opened them, he got out of bed slowly, crossed the chamber, and opened the door wide.

The guards outside glanced in surprise.

Gwayne ignored them.

Then he walked to the far side of the room and sat on the floor with his back against the wall.

Alyssa watched him.

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving the door open.”

“And sitting on the floor?”

“So you know I will not come closer unless you ask.”

Her face crumpled.

“Gwayne…”

“It is all right.”

“It is not.”

“No,” he admitted. “It is not.”

She stared at the open door.

At him.

At the space between them.

Then she began to cry.

Not loudly.

Not violently.

Just with exhaustion.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I love you and fear you in the same breath.”

His eyes filled.

“I know.”

“I hate that you made me afraid of you.”

That broke him.

His voice was barely sound.

“So do I.”

A long silence followed.

Then Alyssa lifted one trembling hand.

“Come here.”

He moved carefully.

Slowly.

As if approaching a wounded animal.

When he reached the bed, he did not climb in.

He knelt beside it.

Alyssa touched his hair first.

Then his cheek.

Then she leaned forward and rested her forehead against his.

“I need time,” she whispered.

“I will give you all of mine.”

She closed her eyes.

Neither of them slept much after that.

But the door stayed open.

And Gwayne stayed beside her.

Not as a guard.

Not as a jailer.

As the man who had finally learned that love did not mean holding tighter.

Sometimes love meant making sure the door could open.

The war did not pause for healing.

Ravens came.

Ships burned.

Lords declared.

Men died in fields Alyssa had never seen.

Rhaenyra tried to shield her sister from the worst of it, but Alyssa would not be shielded anymore.

“I was kept ignorant once,” she told Rhaenyra. “Never again.”

So she learned.

She sat at the painted table. She listened to war councils. She spoke when she had something to offer and stayed silent when she did not.

Some men still looked at her as the young princess they remembered.

The sweet one.

The harmless one.

They learned quickly.

When Lord Celtigar once suggested Alyssa remain out of strategic discussions because “the princess has suffered enough already,” Alyssa turned her gaze on him and said,

“My lord, I suffered because men made decisions about me in rooms I was not allowed to enter. I will not repeat the arrangement for your comfort.”

Daemon laughed for a full minute.

Lord Celtigar never suggested it again.

Gwayne’s knowledge saved lives.

A raven route intercepted.

A false landing avoided.

A Green informant uncovered before he could poison supplies.

Each act earned him slightly less hatred.

Not acceptance.

But space.

Ser Erryk stopped glaring at him every morning.

Baela began speaking to him in full sentences.

Jacaerys, who had once refused to be in the same room as him, asked him about Oldtown’s defenses.

Daemon still called him “Hightower” like an insult.

But one evening, after Gwayne corrected a map that had mislabeled a narrow approach near the Honeywine, Daemon grunted.

“That was useful.”

Gwayne blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do not make me say it twice.”

Alyssa, standing nearby, hid her smile behind her cup.

Gwayne saw.

It warmed him for days.

The true turning point came with the raven from King’s Landing.

It arrived near dawn.

Black wings soaked in rain.

Rhaenyra read it once.

Then again.

Her face hardened.

Alyssa knew before her sister spoke.

“What is it?”

Rhaenyra looked up.

“Aegon demands your return.”

Gwayne went still.

Alyssa’s stomach twisted.

Rhaenyra continued, voice cold.

“He claims you were abducted by your husband under Daemon’s orders. He offers pardon if you return to King’s Landing and publicly renounce me.”

Alyssa laughed once.

No humor.

Only disbelief.

“And if I do not?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes moved to Gwayne.

Daemon took the letter and read aloud.

“Should the princess continue in rebellion, her marriage to Ser Gwayne Hightower shall be declared void, and her person attainted as traitor to the crown.”

Gwayne’s hand tightened on the back of a chair.

Daemon smiled darkly.

“Your nephew has a gift for romance.”

Alyssa reached for the letter.

Rhaenyra hesitated.

Then handed it over.

Alyssa read every word.

Slowly.

Carefully.

When she finished, she folded the parchment.

“May I answer?”

Rhaenyra studied her.

“As you wish.”

Gwayne looked at her.

“Alyssa…”

She met his eyes.

“I am not afraid of their ink.”

She wrote the reply herself.

Not as a frightened girl.

Not as a hostage begging mercy.

As a princess of House Targaryen.

To Aegon of House Targaryen, who calls himself Second of His Name,

I was not abducted.

I was imprisoned in the Red Keep by men who crowned you unlawfully while our father lay dead and unburied.

I escaped by the courage of my husband, Ser Gwayne Hightower, who chose honor after too long among those who had forgotten it.

You may declare my marriage void if it pleases you.

You may call me traitor.

You may send ravens until every rookery in the realm is empty.

I will not return.

I will not renounce my sister.

Rhaenyra Targaryen is the named heir of King Viserys and the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

I am her blood.

I am her subject.

I am no longer your prisoner.

Princess Alyssa Targaryen

When she set down the quill, the room was silent.

Then Rhaenyra stood and kissed her brow.

Daemon looked delighted.

“Send copies to every lord in the realm.”

Alyssa blinked.

“What?”

Daemon picked up the parchment.

“If they wish to make you a symbol, little dragon, we may as well give them one worth fearing.”

Gwayne stared at Alyssa with something like awe.

She noticed.

This time, she did not look away.

The letter spread.

Across keeps.

Across ports.

Across camps.

The imprisoned princess who had refused Aegon became a story.

The Hightower knight who freed his Targaryen wife became another.

Greens called it treason.

Blacks called it devotion.

Singers, being singers, made it more romantic than it had been.

Alyssa hated most of the songs.

“They make it sound as though I swooned into your arms while you fought fifty men,” she complained one evening.

Gwayne looked up from sharpening a dagger.

“You did nearly swoon on Aster.”

“From starvation and exhaustion, not passion.”

“Shall I request they amend the verse?”

“I will throw myself into the sea.”

“You would climb back out just to argue with the next verse.”

She paused.

Then reluctantly nodded.

“Probably.”

He smiled.

She smiled back.

It lasted longer this time.

Eventually, Rhaenyra allowed Gwayne to carry a sword again.

Not Dark Sister, as Daemon dryly noted.

“Tempting though it would be to see it reject you.”

But a plain castle forged blade.

Gwayne accepted it as though receiving knighthood anew.

He bent the knee before Rhaenyra, sword held across both palms.

“I swear myself to you, Queen Rhaenyra of House Targaryen. I swear to defend your claim, your house, and your people. I swear no loyalty to Aegon, to Otto Hightower, or to any crown set against yours.”

His eyes flicked briefly to Alyssa.

“And I swear to spend my life proving that vows, once broken, may still be honored again.”

Rhaenyra touched the sword.

“Rise, Ser Gwayne.”

Daemon leaned toward Alyssa.

“If he betrays us now, I really do get to kill him.”

Alyssa sighed.

“Yes, Daemon.”

“Excellent.”

Gwayne rose.

Alyssa was waiting.

She looked at the sword, then at him.

“You look more yourself with one.”

“I do not know who myself is anymore.”

“Good.”

His brows lifted.

She stepped closer.

“Perhaps this one will be better.”

He looked down at her.

Something open and aching moved between them.

“I hope so.”

Alyssa touched the hilt of his sword.

Then, softly,

“So do I.”

Their first kiss after Dragonstone happened in the godswood.

It was not grand.

No music.

No dragonfire.

No dramatic vow beneath the stars.

Alyssa had been crying.

That was the truth of it.

She had received a trunk from King’s Landing—things left behind in her chambers. Rhaenyra had ordered them recovered through loyal hands.

Dresses.

Books.

A cracked hairbrush.

A ribbon Luke had once tied around Aster’s horn as a joke.

And, beneath folded linen, her wedding cloak.

Green and silver.

Hightower and Targaryen stitched together.

Alyssa took one look at it and broke.

Gwayne found her beneath the dark trees, clutching the cloak to her chest.

“I hated it,” she whispered.

He sat beside her carefully.

“The cloak?”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“I hated that I still wanted it.”

His throat tightened.

She looked at the embroidery.

“I wore this when I thought nothing could touch us.”

“I remember.”

“I was so happy.”

“So was I.”

Her face twisted.

“I miss her.”

Gwayne did not ask who.

He knew.

The girl she had been.

The wife who trusted without needing proof.

The princess who believed families did not destroy one another.

“I miss her too,” he said.

Alyssa looked at him sharply.

He lowered his gaze.

“But I love who you are now.”

Her lips parted.

Not in surprise exactly.

In pain.

As if those words had found a wound and warmed it.

“You love broken things, then?”

“No.”

He looked at her.

“I love the woman who survived.”

Tears spilled over.

Gwayne lifted a hand, then stopped.

Alyssa saw.

She leaned into him herself.

His arms came around her slowly.

So slowly.

As though he feared the moment might vanish.

She pressed her face into his shoulder and cried until the cloak slipped from her hands.

When she lifted her head, he was crying too.

Not loudly.

But enough.

Alyssa touched his cheek.

“You waited.”

“I said I would.”

“This time you did.”

His breath caught.

She leaned closer.

He did not move.

She kissed him.

It was soft.

Uncertain.

Full of grief.

Full of love.

Full of everything they had lost and everything they had not.

When she pulled away, Gwayne kept his eyes closed for a moment, as though afraid opening them would wake him.

Alyssa gave a watery laugh.

“You may breathe.”

He did, shakily.

“Forgive me. I forgot how.”

She rested her forehead against his.

“I have not forgiven everything.”

“I know.”

“But I want to keep trying.”

His hand trembled against her back.

“That is more mercy than I deserve.”

“Probably.”

He laughed, broken and relieved.

Alyssa smiled.

Then kissed him again.

By the time spring touched Dragonstone, Alyssa no longer slept with the door open every night.

Only some nights.

Gwayne never commented.

He simply opened it when she needed it.

Closed it when she asked.

Stayed when she reached for him.

Left when she needed space.

Trust, Alyssa learned, was not the absence of fear.

It was the slow accumulation of proof.

Gwayne gave her proof in small ways.

He never stood between her and an exit.

Never answered for her.

Never told her what was best.

Never wore green unless she placed it in his hands.

One morning, she found him in their chamber holding an old green tunic with a strange expression.

“You can wear it,” she said.

He looked up.

“I did not want to upset you.”

“It is only a color.”

“No,” he said quietly. “It isn’t.”

She walked to him and took the tunic.

For a moment, she remembered another green gown. Black thread. Locked doors.

Then she breathed.

And handed it back.

“It was a cage,” she said. “Now it is cloth.”

His eyes softened.

“You are certain?”

“No.”

She smiled faintly.

“But I would like to be.”

He wore it that day beneath a black cloak.

Daemon called him “festive.”

Alyssa laughed so hard she had to sit down.

The war did not end cleanly.

Wars never did.

There was no single battle where all wounds were avenged, no glorious morning where grief vanished with the enemy’s banners.

But in time, King’s Landing fell to Rhaenyra.

The city gates opened.

The Red Keep, for all its arrogance, stood silent as black banners rose where green had once flown.

Alyssa returned on Aster.

Gwayne rode behind her.

Not because he had no horse.

Because she asked him to.

The city looked smaller than it had in her nightmares.

The Dragonpit was scarred but standing.

The streets smelled of smoke and fear.

At the gates of the Red Keep, Alyssa paused.

Her hands tightened around Aster’s saddle.

Gwayne felt the change in her body.

“We do not have to go in today,” he said.

She stared at the doors.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”

Inside, the corridors remembered her.

Every step echoed.

Every turn carried ghosts.

Here was where Alicent had called her sweet girl.

Here was where Otto had passed without meeting her eyes.

Here was where Gwayne had walked away.

At her old chamber, Alyssa stopped.

The door was open.

No guards.

No lock.

Dust covered the furniture.

The window still faced the sea.

For a moment, she could not move.

Gwayne stood beside her.

Not touching.

Waiting.

Alyssa entered.

Her hand brushed the desk where her letters had been taken.

The hearth where she had sobbed for Luke.

The bed where she had learned love could become loneliness.

Then she turned to the door.

“Close it.”

Gwayne went still.

“Alyssa?”

“Close it.”

He obeyed, though every movement cost him.

The door shut.

The sound was small.

Final.

Alyssa stood in the center of the room.

Her breathing quickened.

Gwayne took one step forward.

Then stopped.

“You are safe,” he said.

She closed her eyes.

For a moment, she was back there.

Prisoner.

Wife.

Traitor.

Girl.

Then she opened her eyes.

Walked to the door.

And opened it herself.

The corridor waited beyond.

Empty.

Free.

Alyssa exhaled.

Gwayne’s face crumpled with quiet understanding.

She looked at him.

“I needed to know I could.”

He nodded, unable to speak.

She crossed the room and took his hand.

“I know,” she whispered.

And this time, when she stepped through the doorway, she brought him with her.

Otto’s letters burned at dusk.

Alyssa watched from the courtyard as Daemon tossed the bundles into a brazier one by one.

Correspondence.

Orders.

Plans.

Her name written in cold ink over and over.

Princess Alyssa remains valuable.

The threat must be credible.

Her discomfort may prove useful.

If Rhaenyra refuses, escalate.

Gwayne stood rigid beside her, face pale with fury and shame.

Alyssa took the last letter herself.

It was the one Gwayne had dreaded most.

Otto’s recommendation that a piece of her be sent to Dragonstone.

She stared at the handwriting.

Then placed it into the fire.

The parchment curled.

Blackened.

Vanished.

Alyssa looked at the flames until there was nothing left.

Then she turned to Gwayne.

“It is done.”

His voice was hoarse.

“It should never have begun.”

“No.”

She took his hand.

“But it is done.”

Daemon sighed from beside the brazier.

“A touching moment. Shall I fetch a harp?”

Alyssa looked at him.

“You are unbearable.”

“And yet beloved.”

“Debatable.”

Gwayne coughed to hide a laugh.

Daemon pointed at him.

“No.”

Gwayne immediately looked solemn.

Alyssa laughed anyway.

That night, in the chamber that had once been their prison, Alyssa slept.

Not easily.

Not dreamlessly.

But she slept with the door closed.

And when she woke before dawn, Gwayne was beside her, one hand resting open between them.

Not gripping.

Not holding.

Offering.

Alyssa placed her hand in his.

He stirred.

“Are you all right?”

She watched the gray light move across the ceiling.

“I think so.”

He turned carefully toward her.

“That sounds new.”

“It feels new.”

He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles.

She let him.

More than that, she smiled.

“Gwayne?”

“Yes?”

“I forgive you.”

He went utterly still.

Alyssa turned her face toward him.

“Not because it no longer hurts. It does.”

His eyes filled.

“I know.”

“Not because what you did was small. It was not.”

“No.”

“And not because you saved me. That was not enough on its own.”

His breath shook.

“Then why?”

She brushed her thumb over his.

“Because you stayed after saving me. Because you listened. Because you let me be angry. Because you stopped trying to decide what safety meant for me.”

A tear slipped down his temple into his hair.

Alyssa touched it.

“And because I want a life that is larger than what happened to me.”

Gwayne broke then.

Silently.

Completely.

He bowed over their joined hands and pressed his forehead to her fingers.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I will never stop earning this.”

“You better not.”

A laugh tore out of him, half sob.

Alyssa leaned forward and kissed his hair.

Then his brow.

Then his mouth.

This kiss was different.

Not careful from fear.

Not trembling with grief.

It was still soft, still tender, but beneath it was something stronger.

Choice.

They had been married once by fathers and politics.

They chose each other now.

Months later, they renewed their vows on Dragonstone.

Not because the first vows no longer mattered.

Because they mattered enough to speak again with wiser hearts.

There was no grand court.

No cheering crowd.

Only Rhaenyra, Daemon, Baela, Rhaena, Jace, a few loyal friends, and Aster curled nearby like a silver moonlit mountain.

Alyssa wore black and silver.

Gwayne wore black too, with one small green ribbon tied around his wrist.

Alyssa had placed it there herself.

“Are you sure?” he had asked.

She had smiled.

“I will not let Otto Hightower own a color for the rest of my life.”

Now they stood facing one another above the sea.

The wind carried salt and smoke.

Rhaenyra held their joined hands.

“Princess Alyssa of House Targaryen,” she said softly, “Ser Gwayne of House Hightower. You were bound once before the realm broke. Today, you bind yourselves again, not by command of king or council, but by your own choosing.”

Alyssa looked at Gwayne.

She remembered the boy in the garden.

The husband at their wedding.

The man at the council table who hesitated.

The traitor who unlocked her door.

The prisoner who let her anger be holy.

The husband who had learned to love her without caging her.

“My vows are not the same as before,” Alyssa said.

Gwayne’s eyes softened.

“No?”

“No.”

She took a breath.

“I do not promise to be easy to love.”

His mouth trembled.

“I do not need easy.”

“I do not promise to forget.”

“I would never ask it.”

“I do not promise never to be afraid.”

His voice broke.

“I will leave every door open.”

Alyssa smiled through tears.

“But I promise to choose you freely. Not because I am naive. Not because I think love solves all things. But because I know what it costs now, and I still want you beside me.”

Gwayne bowed his head over their hands.

For a moment, he could not speak.

Then he looked at her.

“I promised once to protect you and mistook protection for possession. I promised to stand beside you and failed when standing beside you meant losing everything else.”

His voice shook.

“I make no pretty vow today. Only a true one. I will never again love you by taking away your choice. I will never again confuse silence with peace or obedience with honor. Wherever you go, I will walk beside you if you ask, behind you if you need space, and away from you if that is what freedom requires.”

Alyssa began to cry.

Gwayne did too.

“I choose you,” he whispered. “Not above honor. As honor. Not above truth. As truth. Not above family. As the family I should have chosen first.”

Aster rumbled softly.

Daemon muttered, “Even I felt that one.”

Rhaenyra elbowed him.

Alyssa laughed through her tears.

Then Rhaenyra smiled.

“Then choose.”

Gwayne slipped the ring onto Alyssa’s finger.

The same ring.

Reforged.

Alyssa placed his onto his hand.

Then she rose on her toes and kissed him while the sea crashed below and dragons cried above.

This time, no one laughed.

No one applauded at first.

They simply watched two people who had walked through betrayal, war, and grief decide that love, when remade with truth, could still be sacred.

Then Daemon clapped once.

Loudly.

“Excellent. Now may I stop threatening to kill him?”

“No,” Alyssa and Rhaenyra said at the same time.

Gwayne smiled.

“I find it keeps me humble.”

Daemon pointed at him.

“I am beginning to dislike you less.”

“A terrifying honor, my prince.”

Alyssa leaned into Gwayne’s side.

This time, without fear.

Years later, singers would still get the story wrong.

They would sing of a princess stolen from a tower and a knight who rescued her with a shining sword.

Alyssa hated that version.

Gwayne did too.

Because she had not been rescued like some helpless maiden from a song.

She had endured.

She had chosen.

She had flown.

And Gwayne had not saved their love in one daring night.

He had saved only her body.

Their love had been saved afterward, slowly, in open doors and honest words and mornings where he stayed without demanding forgiveness.

So when their children asked for the story, Alyssa told it properly.

She told them their father had been wrong.

She told them he had been brave.

She told them both things could be true.

And Gwayne, sitting beside her with their youngest asleep against his chest, never interrupted.

Only held her hand.

Only listened.

Only loved her the way she had deserved from the beginning.

Freely.

Patiently.

With every door open.

End of Part IV

___________________

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Xaden Riorson did not lose his composure.

He didn't.

He simply... recalibrated his expectations.

Because when he walked into the Riders Quadrant courtyard expecting to meet Garrick for patrol, the last thing he expected to see was Ridoc Gamlyn spinning his little sister around like she weighed nothing before kissing her forehead.

"...Again," Ridoc grinned. "One more spin."

She laughed. "Ridoc, put me down before I throw up."

"That's a risk I'm willing to take."

Xaden stopped walking.

Garrick followed his gaze.

"...Oh."

Silence.

Ridoc looked up.

His smile disappeared.

"...Huh."

Your smile disappeared too.

"...Hi, Xaden."

Xaden spoke with terrifying calm.

"Explain."

Ridoc looked around as if another Ridoc might appear to take responsibility.

"No?"

Three hours later...

Every single rider knew.

Mostly because Ridoc had spent those three hours running for his life.

"HE'S TRYING TO MURDER ME!"

"I'm trying to correct a mistake!" Xaden shouted after him.

"YOUR SISTER ISN'T A MISTAKE!"

"You are!"

Ridoc vaulted over a table in the mess hall.

Bodhi watched him sprint through.

"...How long has this been going on?"

You sighed.

"Six months."

Bodhi blinked.

"Six months?"

"We were keeping it quiet."

Ridoc burst back through the doorway.

"I NEED A PLACE TO HIDE!"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

Xaden walked in a heartbeat later.

Ridoc immediately pointed at Bodhi.

"He encouraged us."

Bodhi's mouth fell open.

"I absolutely did not—"

Xaden glared.

"...Traitor," Bodhi muttered.

The sabotage began the next morning.

Ridoc woke to find every piece of clothing he owned hanging from the tallest tower.

He looked up.

"...Really?"

Xaden leaned over the edge.

"I missed one boot."

Ridoc sighed.

"I appreciate the honesty."

That afternoon...

His saddle disappeared.

His daggers vanished.

Someone had replaced all of his shirts with ones two sizes too small.

"Why?" Ridoc asked.

"You'll be uncomfortable."

"I already am!"

The following day...

Ridoc entered his room.

There was a note.

Stay away from my sister.

He flipped it over.

There was another note.

Seriously.

He checked under his pillow.

Another note.

I can keep doing this forever.

Ridoc sighed.

"...That's honestly impressive."

You found Xaden sharpening a dagger later that evening.

"Are you done?"

"No."

"You stole his boots."

"He has other boots."

"You dyed his blanket purple."

"He looked good with it."

"You told Sgaeyl he called her 'slightly intimidating.'"

"...That one may have been too far."

Ridoc refused to surrender.

Instead...

He doubled down.

Every morning he greeted Xaden cheerfully.

"Good morning!"

Silence.

"Beautiful weather."

Silence.

"I kissed your sister."

Xaden threw a knife.

Ridoc ducked.

"Little aggressive before breakfast."

"You know," Garrick said over dinner, "most people would've broken up by now."

Ridoc smiled.

"I know."

"So why haven't you?"

Ridoc looked across the room where you were laughing with Violet.

His expression softened immediately.

"Because she's worth it."

The joking disappeared from his voice.

"I'd let her brother kill me a hundred times."

"...That's probably going to happen."

"Probably."

You finally cornered Xaden two weeks later.

"You like him."

"I tolerate his continued existence."

"You like him."

"He breathes too loudly."

"You smile when he annoys you."

"I smile because I imagine pushing him off cliffs."

"You've stopped trying."

"...I got tired."

"No," you said gently.

"You realized he wasn't going anywhere."

Xaden didn't answer.

Unfortunately...

He was right.

Ridoc wasn't.

Not after months.

Not after sabotage.

Not after being threatened daily.

Not after Xaden had "accidentally" assigned him every unpleasant patrol possible.

Because every single night...

Ridoc still found you.

Even if it meant climbing walls.

Sneaking through windows.

Or bribing Bodhi.

"I am not accepting payment anymore," Bodhi informed him one evening.

"What if it's pie?"

"...Continue."

One rainy night...

Xaden returned unexpectedly.

Ridoc was halfway through climbing your window.

He froze.

Xaden stared.

Ridoc smiled weakly.

"...Good evening?"

"You climbed."

"Technically I'm still climbing."

"You couldn't use the door?"

"You usually threaten me at the door."

"...Fair."

Ridoc blinked.

"...Fair?"

Xaden sighed.

"You make her happy."

Ridoc stayed very still.

"So I've noticed."

"You treat her well."

"I love her."

The words came out so easily that neither of them seemed surprised.

Ridoc looked toward your window.

"I didn't mean to."

Xaden folded his arms.

"It just happened."

"It usually does."

"I know I'm an idiot."

"You absolutely are."

"But she laughs."

Xaden looked through the window where you were pretending not to eavesdrop.

She looked happier than he'd seen her in months.

Comfortable.

Safe.

Ridoc noticed his gaze.

"I'll spend the rest of my life making sure she keeps smiling."

For the first time...

Ridoc wasn't joking.

Xaden was quiet for a long moment.

Finally...

"If you hurt her..."

Ridoc nodded immediately.

"You'll kill me."

"No."

Ridoc frowned.

"No?"

"I'll let her do it."

You called from inside.

"I heard that!"

"You were supposed to," Xaden answered.

Ridoc laughed.

"So..."

Xaden sighed the sigh of a man accepting defeat.

"So."

"I have permission to use the front door?"

"No."

"The window?"

"No."

"The roof?"

"...I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

Ridoc grinned.

"I'll take it."

As Xaden walked away, Garrick—who had apparently been hiding around the corner the entire time—stepped out with a smirk.

"You gave up."

"I accepted reality."

"They're disgustingly in love."

"They are."

Ridoc leaned into your window with the biggest smile Xaden had ever seen.

You immediately reached for his hand.

Xaden watched the two of you laugh over something incomprehensible.

He rubbed a hand over his face.

"...I hate that he's good for her."

Garrick patted his shoulder.

"You'll survive."

"I won't enjoy it."

Across the courtyard, Ridoc spotted him.

With absolutely no sense of self-preservation whatsoever, he waved enthusiastically.

"GOODNIGHT, FUTURE BROTHER!"

A dagger embedded itself in the wall an inch from Ridoc's head.

Ridoc looked at it.

Then back at Xaden.

"...He's warming up to me."

From somewhere behind Xaden, Bodhi snorted.

"You are going to die with that level of optimism."

Ridoc just smiled, squeezed your hand, and kissed your forehead.

"Worth it."

The first time Rhaenyra noticed, she nearly laughed.

Not because they were doing anything scandalous.

Because they weren't.

Jacaerys was sitting in the gardens with a book open in his lap, pretending to read while Helaena knelt in the grass several feet away, completely absorbed by a line of ants carrying flower petals twice their size.

They had not spoken in nearly ten minutes.

Jace turned a page.

Helaena tilted her head at an ant.

Another five minutes passed.

Still nothing.

Rhaenyra looked to the maid beside her.

"...Have they quarreled?"

The maid smiled.

"No, Princess."

"They have not said a word."

"They rarely do."

Rhaenyra watched another moment before Jace quietly leaned over.

"The red one has fallen behind."

Helaena followed his gaze immediately.

"Oh."

A tiny frown.

"It is carrying too much."

Jace closed his book.

Without another word, he found a small twig and laid it across a puddle, giving the ants another way around.

Helaena watched the tiny creatures cross it.

"They'll make it now."

"I thought so."

Silence settled again.

Comfortable silence.

Rhaenyra shook her head.

"They're odd."

"They're happy," the maid corrected gently.

The habit continued.

If Helaena disappeared, someone eventually found Jace nearby.

Sometimes they walked through the gardens.

Sometimes they sat by the dragonpit watching Dreamfyre sun herself.

Sometimes she talked about beetles with shells that shimmered green in summer.

Jace never laughed.

Instead he asked questions.

"What do they eat?"

"Leaves."

"How long do they live?"

"Not long enough."

"That seems unfair."

"It is."

Their conversations were simple.

That was what Helaena liked about him.

He never expected more.

It took Otto considerably longer to notice.

"What is this?" he asked sharply one afternoon after spotting them leaving the library together.

"They borrowed books," Alicent answered.

"They are together every day."

"They're cousins."

Otto made a face as though that somehow disproved everything.

"Cousins become spouses in this family."

Alicent looked away.

She knew that all too well.

The idea came from Otto soon enough.

"Helaena will marry Aegon."

It was spoken as though the matter had already been settled.

As though Helaena herself were no more than another seal pressed into wax.

Alicent said nothing at first.

Later that evening she found her daughter sitting by the window, carefully holding a moth that had landed on her sleeve.

"Helaena?"

"Mm?"

"Would you be content... marrying your brother?"

The moth took flight.

Helaena watched it disappear into the dusk before answering.

"No."

The answer came so quickly it startled Alicent.

"No?"

"I love Aegon."

Another pause.

"But he is my brother."

"As husbands often are."

"I don't want him to be."

There was no anger.

No tears.

Only quiet certainty.

Alicent suddenly wished she'd asked years ago.

A few days later, Rhaenyra found Jace pacing outside her chambers.

He froze when she opened the door.

"I was looking for you."

"So I gathered."

He scratched the back of his neck.

"I wanted to ask something."

"You've worn a path into my floorboards already. You may as well."

He looked strangely nervous.

"If... if Helaena is promised to someone..."

Rhaenyra raised a brow.

"...Yes?"

"I would like to ask for her hand."

She blinked.

"You know she's your cousin."

"I know."

"You know half the realm already thinks we're strange."

"I know."

"You know your grandsire may faint."

A reluctant smile tugged at his lips.

"I had hoped."

She laughed so loudly Syrax stirred outside.

"Oh, Jace."

He looked miserable.

"I am serious."

"So am I."

She stepped forward and fixed the collar he'd been fussing with for the last minute.

"You look at her the way your father looked at me."

His cheeks turned crimson.

"I do not."

"You do."

"I don't."

"You absolutely do."

When Viserys heard, he smiled into his wine.

"I wondered when he'd finally ask."

Daemon snorted from the other end of the table.

"I was beginning to think the boy planned to court her until they were sixty."

Viserys chuckled.

"They're shy."

"They're painful."

"They're sweet."

"They're painful."

Daemon cornered Jace later that afternoon.

"So."

Jace sighed.

"So."

"You intend to marry sweet Helaena."

"I do."

"You've got my blessing."

"...do I need it to marry her?."

Daemon shrugged.

"she's my favorite niece."

"...she's your only niece"

"She smiles about as often as I apologize."

Jace frowned.

"...Is that often?"

"No."

Meanwhile, Otto was furious.

"Helaena belongs beside Aegon."

"No," Alicent answered, surprising even herself.

Otto stared.

"What did you say?"

"I said no."

"You would risk—"

"I would spare my daughter."

For a long moment neither spoke.

Finally Otto collected his papers with a sharp snap.

"You are allowing sentiment to cloud your judgment."

Alicent watched him leave.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps she had allowed duty to cloud it for far too long.

By the time the betrothal was announced, no one who truly knew them was surprised.

Luke grinned.

"I thought you were already promised."

Jace nearly choked on his drink.

"We weren't."

"You spent every afternoon together."

"We were reading."

Luke looked toward Helaena.

She smiled shyly over the rim of her teacup.

"...Sure."

"I was."

"If you say so."

The wedding itself was smaller than expected.

Viserys insisted on family.

Rhaenyra insisted on flowers.

Helaena insisted the ceremony wait one hour because there was a butterfly resting on the sept door "and it would be rude to disturb it."

Everyone waited.

Even the High Septon.

Daemon muttered something about the realm being held hostage by an insect.

No one listened to him.

Least of all Helaena.

When the butterfly finally flew away, she smiled brightly.

"There."

"We may begin now."

Daemon rubbed a hand over his face.

"I've fought in wars," he murmured to Rhaenyra.

"I've survived Stepstones."

She smiled knowingly.

"And?"

"I've never lost an argument to a butterfly before."

Rhaenyra laughed so hard she had to hide it behind her sleeve.

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

It was a Valyrian steel dagger.

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

Daemon looked at the weapon, then at his daughter.

“She will grow into it.”

“She cannot even hold up her own head.”

“All the more reason to begin preparing her.”

The dagger was confiscated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She is a princess.”

“She does not need a ship.”

“She liked it.”

“She liked the carving.”

“And now she has both.”

Rhaenyra sighed.

Daemon smiled.

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

You had always been one of them.

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

You apologized when servants bumped into you.

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

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

Daemon did not understand where such sweetness had come from.

He protected it viciously.

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

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

It had never hatched.

A second was brought from Dragonstone when you were three.

It remained cold.

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

None did.

You had said nothing as the keepers led you away.

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

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

He lowered himself beside you without speaking.

For a while, you both watched the flames.

“I am sorry,” you whispered eventually.

Daemon’s expression darkened.

“For what?”

“For disappointing you.”

The words were barely audible.

They wounded him more deeply than any blade ever had.

Daemon turned toward you.

“You have never disappointed me.”

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

“You are my daughter.”

You glanced at him through tear-damp lashes.

“That should make it worse.”

“It makes it irrelevant.”

“But everyone else—”

“Everyone else is not you.”

Your lower lip trembled.

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

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

Despite yourself, you gave a watery laugh.

“They have overlooked the greatest treasure in Westeros.”

“You do not mean that.”

“I have never meant anything more.”

He rose and extended his hand.

“Come.”

“Where are we going?”

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

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

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

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

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

You stopped.

Daemon did not.

Caraxes had always known you.

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

Your first word had not been father.

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

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

Caraxes had never been yours.

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

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

You placed a trembling hand against his scales.

Caraxes released a low, crooning sound.

“He knows,” Daemon said.

“Knows what?”

“That you are upset.”

Your eyes filled again.

“I wish he had chosen me.”

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

“He did.”

You looked back at him.

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

Caraxes huffed warm air across your skirts.

Daemon’s mouth curved.

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

You laughed and obeyed.

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

“Do you wish to fly?” Daemon asked.

You hesitated.

“Now?”

“The sky does not close at night.”

You looked from him to Caraxes.

“But I am not his rider.”

“No,” Daemon agreed. “You are mine.”

He lifted you into the saddle before climbing behind you.

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

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

Then Dragonstone disappeared beneath you.

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

Caraxes climbed higher.

You laughed.

The sound carried into the night.

Daemon lowered his head beside yours.

“Still believe you have no dragon?”

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

“No.”

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

Which was often.

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

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

Caraxes always seemed to know when you were coming.

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

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

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

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

Daemon gave the dragon an entire sheep as a reward.

“You encouraged him,” Rhaenyra accused.

“I did nothing.”

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

“He showed restraint.”

“The boy wet himself.”

“I said restraint, not mercy.”

The court continued to pity the princess without a dragon.

You never understood why.

You had Caraxes.

You had your father.

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

Then came Gwayne Hightower.

The betrothal was announced during a council meeting.

Daemon nearly overturned the table.

“A Hightower?”

King Viserys closed his eyes.

“It is a politically advantageous match.”

“It is an insult.”

“It will strengthen ties between our houses.”

“It will strengthen my desire to commit murder.”

“Daemon.”

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

Across the room, Otto’s expression hardened.

“This is not about my ambitions.”

“Everything you do is about your ambitions.”

“Father,” you said softly.

Daemon turned.

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

Unlike your father, you had not reacted with anger.

You looked nervous, certainly, but not afraid.

Daemon’s face softened by a degree.

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

Viserys sighed.

“She has not even met him properly.”

“Then she is already better off.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warned.

“What?”

“You are behaving like a child.”

“I am behaving like a father.”

“A deeply irrational father.”

“My daughter deserves better than a Hightower.”

Otto lifted his chin.

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

“He wears green.”

“Green is our house color.”

“Exactly.”

You pressed your lips together.

Daemon’s gaze snapped toward you.

“Are you laughing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

Your shoulders shook.

The sight did nothing to improve his mood.

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

Entirely on purpose.

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

Daemon continued sharpening Dark Sister.

“Has he?”

“You know he has.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Father.”

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

“Being married to me?”

“Being married beneath my supervision.”

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

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

“My princess.”

“Ser Gwayne.”

His eyes met yours.

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

Gwayne smiled.

It was not the polished smile of a courtier.

It was warm and slightly nervous.

You smiled back.

Daemon’s chair scraped sharply against the floor.

“So,” he said.

Gwayne looked at him.

“So?”

“You wish to marry my daughter.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

Gwayne glanced at you again.

Daemon noticed.

His scowl deepened.

“I have admired the princess for some time.”

“Admired what?”

“Her kindness.”

Daemon blinked.

It was not the answer he had expected.

Gwayne continued carefully.

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

You stared at him.

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

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

“No.”

“Good.”

“I believe loving her might.”

The room fell silent.

Daemon leaned back.

“You have met her twice.”

“Four times.”

“You were counting?”

“Yes.”

“That is unsettling.”

“I thought it was romantic,” you murmured.

“It was,” Rhaenyra said from the doorway.

Daemon glared at both of you.

“No one asked.”

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

Daemon tried.

He tried with admirable dedication.

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

Gwayne returned the next morning.

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

Gwayne listened patiently.

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

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

Daemon did not find it amusing.

Gwayne remembered the names of servants.

He thanked cooks.

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

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

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

When you spoke, he listened.

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

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

He learned that you preferred silver jewelry to gold.

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

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

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

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because you liked it.”

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

Gwayne’s brows rose.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

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

Rhaenyra followed his gaze.

“You like him.”

“No.”

“You do.”

“I tolerate his continued existence.”

“He reminds you of yourself.”

Daemon looked offended.

“He does not.”

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

“That proves nothing.”

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

“The lord deserved it.”

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

Daemon turned back toward you.

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

He looked perfectly content.

Daemon frowned.

“He is holding it incorrectly.”

“Of course.”

Your favorite visits were to the Dragonpit.

Gwayne was less enthusiastic.

It was not that he was a coward.

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

Daemon took great pleasure in this.

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

Gwayne stopped walking.

Daemon smiled.

“Something wrong?”

“Not at all.”

“You have gone pale.”

“It is warm.”

“It is never warm in here.”

You slipped your hand into Gwayne’s.

“He will not hurt you.”

Caraxes released a rumbling growl.

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

“That does not sound particularly reassuring.”

“He is only curious.”

“He appears hungry.”

“He has already eaten,” Daemon said.

Gwayne glanced at him.

Daemon smiled wider.

“Mostly.”

“Father,” you chided.

Caraxes lowered his head toward you.

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

The Blood Wyrm crooned.

The terrible sound softened into something almost affectionate.

Gwayne’s fear momentarily gave way to wonder.

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

Caraxes was careful with you.

Almost impossibly so.

“He loves her,” Gwayne said quietly.

Daemon’s smugness faded.

“Yes.”

“Did he ever try to bond with her?”

“No. His bond is mine.”

Gwayne nodded.

“But she is part of you.”

Daemon looked at him.

Caraxes shifted, curling his long neck around you protectively.

“So he considers her his,” Gwayne finished.

Daemon studied the knight for a moment.

“You understand dragons better than I expected.”

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

“Your sister is irritatingly correct.”

You turned.

“Gwayne, come closer.”

He hesitated.

Caraxes stared.

You held out your hand.

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

Approaching Caraxes was somehow worse.

Still, he moved toward you.

Slowly.

Caraxes growled when he came within several feet.

Gwayne stopped.

You reached back and took his hand.

“He is protective.”

“So I have gathered.”

“He needs to know I trust you.”

“And how do we convince him of that?”

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

“Try not to smell frightened,” Daemon advised.

Gwayne shot him a look.

“That is tremendously helpful.”

Your laughter seemed to settle the dragon.

Caraxes’s growl faded.

Gwayne’s palm finally touched one crimson scale.

The Blood Wyrm huffed warm air over him.

Gwayne’s cloak flew backward.

He remained standing.

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

You beamed.

“He likes you.”

“He tolerated me.”

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

Daemon crossed his arms.

“He has poor judgment.”

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

Gwayne coughed into his fist to disguise his laughter.

You did not bother disguising yours.

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

Daemon had invited him to observe.

Invite was perhaps the wrong word.

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

The implication was clear.

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

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

Daemon looked over his shoulder.

“Ready?”

“Always.”

Caraxes launched himself from the cliff.

Gwayne’s heart stopped.

The dragon dropped toward the sea before his wings opened.

Your laughter reached the cliffs.

Gwayne stood frozen, watching Caraxes climb into the sky.

You looked small against him.

Small, but not afraid.

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

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

You looked radiant.

Not like a princess who had been denied a dragon.

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

When Caraxes landed, Gwayne approached as you climbed down.

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

Your cheeks were flushed from the wind.

“Well?” you asked Gwayne.

He stared at you.

“Well what?”

“What did you think?”

“I think I understand why poets struggle.”

You blinked.

Daemon groaned.

Gwayne stepped closer.

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

Your cheeks turned warmer.

Daemon moved between you.

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

“Father.”

“What?”

“You invited him.”

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

The days passed more quickly after that.

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

It felt like walks through the gardens.

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

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

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

It felt like laughter.

It felt, increasingly, like love.

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

Caraxes and Daemon were distant shapes in the sky.

You watched them until they disappeared behind the clouds.

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

You knew immediately whom he meant.

“Caraxes?”

“Yes.”

You considered the question.

“When I was younger.”

“And now?”

You smiled.

“No.”

Gwayne leaned beside you.

“Why not?”

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

His gaze settled on your face.

You continued watching the sky.

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

“But you love him.”

“Very much.”

“And he loves you.”

“In his own terribly loud way.”

Gwayne smiled.

You turned toward him.

“Does it concern you?”

“What?”

“That I have no dragon.”

“No.”

“Your family may prefer—”

“My family is not marrying you.”

His answer came without hesitation.

Gwayne reached for your hand.

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

Your eyes stung.

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

You lowered your gaze.

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

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

He kissed your hand again.

“I would choose you if you had none.”

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

He looked up.

Saw Gwayne kissing your hand.

And shouted something in High Valyrian that made Caraxes roar.

The wedding was held on Dragonstone.

Daemon had initially insisted it take place nowhere else.

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

Otto objected.

Daemon was delighted.

The ceremony was beautiful, though not small.

Nothing involving Daemon’s daughter could ever be small.

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

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

Daemon surveyed the crowded hall.

“It is.”

“There are six hundred guests.”

“I excluded several houses.”

You wore silver silk embroidered with pearls.

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

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

A gift from your father.

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

You smiled nervously.

“Is something wrong?”

He said nothing.

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

For once, Daemon Targaryen appeared entirely without words.

“Father?”

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

Your expression softened.

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

“I can still end this.”

You laughed.

“No.”

“I could.”

“I know.”

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

“Because you will send him away?”

Daemon looked toward the window.

“Something like that.”

You took his hand.

“I love him.”

His jaw tightened.

It was not anger.

Not truly.

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

Now you had found something beyond his keeping.

A life that would carry you away from him.

“I know,” he said.

“And he loves me.”

“I know that, too.”

“You admit it?”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

You kissed his cheek.

Daemon closed his eyes.

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

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

“I know.”

“If he displeases you, come back.”

“Father.”

“If his family displeases you, come back.”

“I will.”

“If Oldtown is too cold—”

“It is warmer than Dragonstone.”

“Then if it is too warm.”

You laughed against him.

Daemon sighed.

“Visit often.”

“I promise.”

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

Daemon noticed.

“Hm.”

Rhaenyra stood nearby.

“What?”

“He looks frightened.”

“He looks in love.”

“Similar conditions.”

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

He looked at you as though the hall had emptied.

As though the music had faded.

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

Daemon placed your hand in his.

He did not release it immediately.

Gwayne waited.

Daemon tightened his grip.

“Father,” you whispered.

“I am considering my options.”

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

Finally, Daemon released your hand.

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

Gwayne nodded solemnly.

“I assumed as much.”

“If she is unhappy—”

“Father.”

“—Caraxes will find you.”

“You already said that.”

“It bears repeating.”

The vows were spoken.

The cloak was placed around your shoulders.

When Gwayne kissed you, the hall erupted in applause.

Daemon did not clap.

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

At the feast, Gwayne barely left your side.

He brought you wine, though you had not asked.

He moved your chair away from the draft.

He remembered to place candied lemons on your plate.

Daemon watched all of it.

Rhaenyra leaned toward him.

“You approve.”

“I do not.”

“You cried during the vows.”

“There was smoke from the torches.”

“You were standing outside.”

“It traveled.”

“Of course.”

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

The sea spread dark beneath them.

Caraxes rested nearby, one golden eye half-open.

Gwayne approached cautiously.

“I wanted to thank you.”

Daemon did not turn.

“For threatening you?”

“For trusting me with her.”

“I do not trust you.”

“You allowed the marriage.”

“Viserys allowed the marriage.”

“You could have stopped it.”

Daemon glanced at him.

They both knew this was true.

Gwayne looked toward the open doors of the hall.

Inside, you were laughing with your sisters.

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

“No one is.”

“I agree.”

That earned Gwayne his full attention.

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

Daemon remained silent.

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

“Home?”

“Here.”

Daemon’s expression shifted.

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

The Blood Wyrm lifted his head.

Gwayne swallowed.

Daemon stepped closer.

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

“There is nothing missing from her.”

Daemon studied his face.

“No?”

Gwayne looked through the open doors.

You had noticed them now.

Your eyes found his across the distance.

You smiled.

Gwayne smiled back.

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

Daemon followed his gaze.

His daughter.

His little girl.

Still smiling.

Still safe.

Still loved.

“Take care of her,” Daemon said.

“With my life.”

“If she misses Dragonstone—”

“I will bring her.”

“If she wishes to stay for months—”

“I will wait.”

“If she asks for a dragon—”

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

Caraxes released a low rumble.

Gwayne glanced toward him.

“Two, perhaps.”

Daemon almost smiled.

Almost.

“Welcome to the family.”

Gwayne’s expression softened.

“Thank you.”

“I was speaking to Caraxes.”

The dragon huffed.

Gwayne laughed.

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

Behind them, your voice carried across the terrace.

“Gwayne!”

He turned immediately.

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

“Come dance with me.”

Gwayne bowed to Daemon.

“Prince Daemon.”

“Hightower.”

Gwayne returned to you.

You took his hand and pulled him into the hall.

Daemon watched as Gwayne rested one hand at your waist.

You whispered something that made your husband laugh.

Caraxes lowered his head beside Daemon.

“She is happy,” Daemon murmured.

The Blood Wyrm crooned.

“Yes,” Daemon said. “I know.”

the end.

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

Bonus Scene: An Unexpected Visitor

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

It was not Oldtown—not yet.

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

He pretended the decision had been practical.

You knew better.

The estate was beautiful.

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

He had filled one room with books.

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

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

You loved your new home.

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

On those mornings, Gwayne held you a little closer.

“You miss them,” he said one evening.

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

“A little.”

“Your father or the dragon?”

“Yes.”

Gwayne laughed.

“You know we can return whenever you wish.”

“We visited last week.”

“Then we will visit again.”

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

“Your father already thinks that.”

You smiled.

Gwayne kissed the top of your head.

A deep roar shook the sky.

Every bird in the trees scattered at once.

You sat upright.

Gwayne went still.

Another roar followed.

It was long, sharp, and painfully familiar.

Your face brightened.

“No.”

Gwayne stared toward the horizon.

A red shape moved through the clouds.

“No,” he repeated.

You were already on your feet.

“Caraxes!”

The Blood Wyrm descended over the estate.

Servants screamed.

Guards scattered.

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

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

Gwayne stood frozen beside the tree.

“This cannot be happening.”

You ran toward the courtyard.

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

He lifted his head and released a triumphant cry.

You laughed.

“Caraxes!”

The dragon lowered himself the moment he saw you.

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

Caraxes crooned so loudly that the windows trembled.

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

His golden eyes drifted closed.

Gwayne approached with extreme caution.

Behind him, guards stood with weapons raised.

“Lower those,” he ordered.

One of the men stared at him.

“My lord, the dragon—”

“Belongs to my wife’s father.”

Caraxes opened one eye.

Gwayne corrected himself.

“And apparently also to my wife.”

The guards lowered their weapons.

Gwayne stopped beside you.

“Did your father send him?”

“I do not think so.”

“You think he escaped?”

Caraxes huffed.

The gust nearly knocked Gwayne backward.

You looked up at the dragon.

“Did you leave the Dragonpit without permission?”

Caraxes gave a rumbling sound.

Gwayne stared.

“Is he answering you?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did he say?”

“That he has no regrets.”

“You cannot possibly know that.”

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

Gwayne looked at the shattered marble.

“Never mind.”

A rider arrived less than an hour later.

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

“My princess!”

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

The dragon had made himself comfortable in the destroyed gardens.

The messenger stumbled toward you.

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

Gwayne looked at the enormous dragon occupying his courtyard.

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

“The prince is on his way.”

Your eyes widened.

“My father is coming here?”

The messenger nodded breathlessly.

“He said—”

The pounding of another horse interrupted him.

Daemon entered the gates at speed.

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

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

Daemon placed his hands on his hips.

“Caraxes.”

The dragon did not move.

“You disobedient beast.”

Caraxes closed his eyes.

“Do not pretend to be asleep.”

You covered your smile with your hand.

Daemon pointed toward the sky.

“Dragonstone. Now.”

Caraxes remained exactly where he was.

Gwayne looked between them.

“Does this happen often?”

“No,” Daemon snapped.

You raised a brow.

“Father.”

“Not often enough to be considered a pattern.”

“Caraxes escaped twice when I visited Driftmark.”

“An oversight.”

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

“Poorly secured chains.”

Gwayne stared at the dragon.

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

Daemon looked offended.

“Obviously.”

Caraxes opened one eye and nudged you with his snout.

You laughed, placing both hands against his face.

“I missed you, too.”

The dragon purred.

Daemon sighed.

“You have spoiled him.”

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

“They deserved it.”

Gwayne rubbed a hand over his face.

“How do we convince him to leave?”

Daemon studied Caraxes.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“For her to tell him.”

You looked at the dragon.

Caraxes looked at you.

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

Gwayne glanced at the ruined garden.

“Of course.”

“He can remain for supper.”

Gwayne stared at you.

“Your guest has destroyed our fountain.”

“He was excited.”

“He also crushed the roses.”

“They will grow back.”

Caraxes released a pleased trill.

Gwayne looked toward Daemon.

Daemon shrugged.

“She wants him to stay.”

“You are her father.”

“Yes.”

“Tell her this is unreasonable.”

Daemon’s expression became confused.

“Why would I do that?”

Gwayne closed his eyes.

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

Daemon remained for supper.

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

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

“You married my daughter.”

“I married a woman without a dragon.”

Daemon took a drink of wine.

“And yet.”

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

Gwayne watched through the window.

“I will have a platform constructed.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you.”

Gwayne’s irritation disappeared immediately.

Daemon noticed.

“Hm.”

After supper, you walked outside with Caraxes.

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

“I am happy here,” you assured him.

Caraxes rumbled.

“Gwayne takes good care of me.”

The dragon glanced toward your husband.

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

Caraxes exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

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

“I had hoped the wedding indicated his approval.”

“Caraxes is thorough.”

Daemon approached with your traveling cloak.

“Come.”

You turned.

“Where?”

“Caraxes will not leave without you.”

Gwayne’s brows rose.

Daemon draped the cloak around your shoulders.

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

Gwayne stepped forward.

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

Daemon stared at him.

Gwayne stared back.

You looked between them.

Caraxes growled softly.

“No one is fighting,” you said.

Neither man moved.

You sighed.

“Gwayne may come with us.”

His face went pale.

Daemon smiled.

“Excellent idea.”

The three of you mounted Caraxes.

You sat before Daemon.

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

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

“I am holding on.”

“To something secure.”

“I am.”

Daemon looked down at Gwayne’s grip.

“That strap is decorative.”

Gwayne immediately wrapped both arms around Daemon’s waist.

You burst into laughter.

Daemon looked deeply offended.

“Remove your hands.”

“You told me to hold something secure.”

“Not me.”

Caraxes launched into the air.

Gwayne shouted.

You laughed harder.

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

You looked back at Gwayne.

His eyes were tightly closed.

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

“Is it not beautiful?”

“I have not looked.”

Daemon turned Caraxes sharply.

Gwayne’s arms tightened around him.

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

“Fly straighter!”

“Caraxes dislikes straight lines.”

Caraxes roared in agreement.

You laughed until tears filled your eyes.

Below you, the world stretched silver beneath the moon.

Ahead, Dragonstone rose from the sea.

Your father’s arm was secure around you.

Your husband was clinging desperately behind him.

Caraxes flew happily beneath you.

Perhaps the court had been right.

You had never claimed a dragon of your own.

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

He had claimed you long ago.

There was something cruel about hope.

It never arrived loudly.

It slipped into stolen glances across dinner tables, lingering touches when someone handed you a book, the way a pair of hazel eyes softened whenever they found yours in a crowded room.

Hope whispered.

And that made it so much harder to silence.

You had spent nearly three years in Velaris convincing yourself that Azriel simply cared for everyone that way.

He was thoughtful.

Protective.

Patient.

It wasn't love.

It couldn't be.

Not when everyone knew where his heart belonged.

Elain.

You watched it constantly.

The way he lingered near her gardens. The careful gifts left anonymously. The quiet smiles that appeared whenever she laughed.

You never blamed him.

How could you?

Elain was sunshine wrapped in kindness.

You had loved her your whole life.

Still...

It hurt more than you cared to admit.

So you did what you'd always done.

You loved quietly.

—

"You're leaving already?"

Cassian's voice echoed through the River House as you pulled your cloak tighter.

"It's getting late."

"It is barely sunset."

"I have reading to do."

"You've read the same book four times."

"I like it."

Mor snorted from the couch.

"She just wants to escape your terrible stories."

"They're excellent stories."

"They're mostly yelling."

You smiled despite yourself.

"I'll see everyone tomorrow."

As you reached the front door, another voice stopped you.

"I'll walk with you."

Azriel.

Of course he would.

He walked everyone home.

Because he was kind.

Nothing more.

—

Velaris glowed beneath the stars.

Music drifted from riverside cafés while lanterns reflected against the Sidra.

Neither of you spoke immediately.

Silence had never been uncomfortable with Azriel.

It settled around him like another pair of wings.

"You've been quiet lately," he finally said.

You laughed softly.

"I've always been quiet."

"You've been...sad."

Your heart squeezed.

"I'm alright."

"You don't have to pretend with me."

That almost undid you.

Because pretending with Azriel was all you had left.

"I'm fine."

His shadows drifted closer.

One brushed against your wrist before disappearing again.

You pretended not to notice.

—

A week later, Elain mentioned she was meeting Azriel in the gardens.

You smiled.

Of course she was.

So when Nesta suggested everyone have tea outside, you politely declined.

"I have errands."

"You hate errands," Nesta deadpanned.

"I suddenly love them."

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

But let you leave.

You wandered Velaris for nearly two hours before returning home.

The gardens were empty.

Only Azriel remained.

He sat alone on a stone bench.

Looking disappointed.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

She must have left.

Maybe they had argued.

Maybe she had finally told him she couldn't return his feelings.

The thought made your chest ache for them both.

"You shouldn't sit out here alone."

He looked up immediately.

"I've been waiting."

"For...Elain?"

His brows furrowed.

"For you."

"Oh."

You blinked.

"Oh."

"I asked Elain where you'd gone."

"...You did?"

"She said you suddenly remembered errands."

Heat crawled into your cheeks.

"I did."

"She also said you were avoiding me."

You stared at the flowers.

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"...Perhaps a little."

The confession hung between you.

Azriel sighed.

"Did I do something?"

"No."

"Then tell me why."

Because I love you.

Because watching you love my sister is breaking my heart.

Because every time you smile at her, I have to remind myself that she deserves happiness more than I deserve you.

Instead, you whispered,

"I thought you wanted to spend time with Elain."

Silence.

Long enough that you risked looking at him.

Azriel looked...

Confused.

"Why?"

You almost laughed.

"Because..."

You gestured vaguely.

"Everyone sees it."

"The gifts."

"The gardens."

"The way you look at her."

Realization slowly spread across his face.

Then something that looked suspiciously like horror.

"Oh."

Your stomach dropped.

"I shouldn't have said anything."

"No."

He stood.

"No, you should have."

He ran a scarred hand over his face.

"I have been an unbelievable idiot."

"I don't understand."

"The gifts were because she likes gardening."

"...Yes."

"I asked for her help."

"...Yes."

"I look at her because she's your sister."

You frowned.

"I still don't understand."

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

Soft.

Disbelieving.

"My shadows have been trying to tell me for months."

"They're not very good communicators."

"They've been screaming."

One of them nudged your shoulder as if agreeing.

You smiled despite yourself.

Azriel stepped closer.

"So have Cassian."

"Cassian?"

"He keeps asking when I'm finally going to tell you."

Your heartbeat stumbled.

"...Tell me what?"

His hazel eyes searched yours with a vulnerability you had never expected to see.

"That I have never been in love with Elain."

Your breath caught.

"I care about her."

"But not the way everyone assumes."

"Especially not the way you assumed."

"I..." Your voice failed.

"I thought—"

"I know."

His expression softened.

"I should have realized."

"You kept pulling away."

"I thought you were tired of me."

"Tired of you?"

The idea was so absurd you laughed.

"I've been in love with you since the first time you brought me that ridiculous stack of books because you remembered I liked stories."

"You remembered that?"

"I remember everything about you."

His shoulders relaxed like he'd been carrying the weight of the world.

"I've loved you since you thanked me."

You blinked.

"For books?"

"No."

His smile was impossibly gentle.

"You thanked me like I had done something extraordinary."

"You always thank everyone."

"I know."

"But no one had ever thanked me like that."

Emotion tightened your throat.

"I thought someone like you could never love someone like me."

"Someone like me?"

"You are..."

You looked at the legendary spymaster.

"Wings and shadows and impossible things."

"And you?"

"I'm just—"

His hand found yours.

"You are the kindest person I've ever known."

"You make my family laugh."

"You remember everyone's favorite tea."

"You leave blankets over sleeping friends."

"My shadows adore you."

As if summoned, several wrapped gently around your intertwined hands.

"They've adored you long before I admitted I did."

A tear slipped free.

"You really aren't in love with Elain?"

He smiled.

"No."

"I think she'd be rather offended if she knew she's accidentally been stealing another Archeron sister's happiness."

You laughed through watery eyes.

"She would probably scold both of us."

"Almost certainly."

"And Feyre."

"And Nesta."

"Cassian would never let us hear the end of it."

"No."

"He absolutely would not."

You leaned into him.

His forehead rested against yours.

"So..."

"So?"

"Would it be alright if I finally stopped pretending we're just friends?"

Your answer was a kiss.

Small.

Shy.

Perfectly you.

His smile against your lips was brighter than any sunrise over Velaris.

Some misunderstandings took weeks to unravel.

Others disappeared the moment two stubborn hearts finally chose honesty.

And as Azriel's shadows danced happily around the two of you, you could have sworn they were celebrating long before either of you had caught up.

There were certain truths everyone at Dragonstone knew but no one spoke aloud.

Prince Jacaerys had Ser Harwin Strong’s eyes.

Prince Lucerys had his smile.

Little Joffrey had inherited the same determined frown Harwin wore whenever someone challenged him.

The boys were Velaryons by name.

Princes by birth.

Rhaenyra’s sons.

But the resemblance remained.

It followed Harwin through every hall and courtyard like a shadow.

You knew the whispers before you ever knew him.

Everyone did.

You knew he had loved Princess Rhaenyra once.

You knew he had fathered her sons.

You knew that love had ended not because it had disappeared, but because the world had never allowed it to exist honestly.

And none of that frightened you.

What frightened you was the first time Harwin Strong smiled at you and made you wonder whether you might be foolish enough to love him anyway.

You met him in the training yard.

It was not romantic.

At least, not at first.

You had been carrying a basket of linen to the lower chambers when a wooden practice sword flew through the air and landed directly at your feet.

You stopped.

Slowly looked down.

Then looked up.

Prince Lucerys stood across the yard with both hands clasped over his mouth.

Jacaerys stared at him in horror.

Joffrey, much younger and far less concerned, burst into laughter.

Harwin Strong stood between them.

For one moment, no one moved.

Then Harwin closed his eyes.

“Luke.”

“I did not mean to.”

“That does not make it less dangerous.”

“I was aiming for Jace.”

“That does not improve matters.”

You bent and lifted the wooden sword.

Luke hurried toward you.

“I am sorry, my lady.”

He looked genuinely miserable.

You handed him the sword hilt first.

“No harm done.”

Harwin approached behind him.

He was larger than you expected.

Broader.

Stronger.

The sort of man who seemed built to fill doorways and battlefields.

Yet when he looked at Luke, his expression was not harsh.

Only patient.

“Again,” Harwin said.

Luke’s face fell.

“Again?”

“The apology.”

The boy turned back to you.

“I am sorry I threw a sword near your head.”

“Better,” Harwin said.

You tilted your head.

“Though perhaps next time, aim lower.”

Luke brightened.

Harwin stared at you.

Jace tried not to laugh.