*Leila* just for shits and giggles

✴︎ 209 AC

THE AFTERNOON HEAT in Lys clung to the skin like damp silk, thick with the scent of salt wind drifting in from the sea, crushed rosewater from the perfumed courtyards, and incense curling lazily from a hundred painted temples. The air shimmered against pale marble walls, soft and luminous in the sun, as if the whole city had been carved to be looked at rather than lived in. Yet none of it felt real to you. In your mind, the world smelled of rain and smoke and the sea. Of wet stone streets, damp castle halls, and fires burning late into cold evenings. It smelled like the sort of place where important things happened.

You sat upon the old wooden swing in the center of the courtyard, its ropes creaking softly each time you pushed yourself higher with the tips of your slippers. Your dark green skirts fanned around your legs like spilled ink, brushing against the pale stone beneath you.

But your attention was fixed on the strip of sky above the rooftops.

“I am to be married,” you announced suddenly, unable to contain the smile pulling at your mouth. Across from you, your sister paused midstroke while brushing out her hair. She stared at you with immediate suspicion rather than excitement.

“Who,” she asked carefully, “would marry you?”

You laughed under your breath and leaned back against the swing ropes, letting yourself sway lazily. “A prince of fire and blood,” you said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We shall spend our evenings reading poetry by candlelight while musicians play in the next room. He will understand me entirely. We will speak of philosophy and history and make the court less dreadful than it is.”

She snorted. “You make him sound like a savant.”

“He is not a savant,” you replied with mock offense. “He is a prince.”

“Yes, but is he aware we are poor?” she asked flatly. “Truly poor. Not tragic-poetry poor. Actual poor. Father died owing money to half of Lys. We still even need to water down the wine.”

You waved a dismissive hand. “That is beneath his concern.”

“Is it?”

“Yes. Prince Aerion and I are to concern ourselves with finer matters.” You hopped down from the swing, smoothing the creases from your skirts before lifting your chin with practiced dignity.

The silver brush slipped from her fingers and struck the stone with a sharp crack. For a moment she only stared at you.

Then, very quietly, she said, “Prince Aerion?”

You smiled wider. “Yes.”

“The Targaryen prince?”

“Yes.”

“From Westeros.”

“Yes, from Westeros.”

The color slowly drained from her face.

“The ravens arrived this morning,” you continued brightly, crossing the courtyard toward her. “Mother accepted immediately, of course. By the end of the year I shall be in King’s Landing. A princess of the Seven Kingdoms.” You clasped your hands together. “Doesn’t it feel strangely destined?”

“No,” she answered at once.

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh, tilting your head back toward the sky. “You are determined to ruin this for me?”

“They do not even have dragons anymore,” she snapped, stepping closer now, her voice tightening with unease. “The last one died years ago. Westeros is cold and filthy and full of miserable lords killing each other over chairs. And the prince…” She hesitated. “I’ve heard things.”

“From whom?”

“Merchants. Sailors from King’s Landing. Men who know better than to invent stories about princes.”

You brushed past the warning without care. “Sailors invent stories for sport.”

“They say he’s cruel.”

“And people said Father was clever,” you replied lightly. “The world exaggerates.”

She looked unconvinced.

You turned away before she could continue, lifting your face toward the blazing evening sky. Somewhere beyond the sea was Westeros. Somewhere beyond the horizon was a prince with silver hair and violet eyes and a destiny grand enough to pull you from this gilded, decaying life at last.

“If there are no dragons left,” you mused, “I suppose I shall simply have to hatch one myself.”

She stared at you as though you had finally lost what little sense you possessed.

“You cannot hatch a dragon.”

“Why not?” You asked ridiculously.  

“Because dragons are dead.”

You shrugged. “So were we, practically.”

For the first time since the conversation began, genuine fear crossed her face. Without another word, she bent quickly to retrieve her fallen brush and hurried toward the house.

“I am finding Mother,” she muttered under her breath. “She has completely lost her mind.”

Aerion Targaryen was absolutely losing his mind.

He stood beside the tall arched window of the great hall, watching the Blackwater glitter darkly beneath a veil of grey cloud, one hand clasped tightly around the hilt of his sword as though it alone was preventing him from saying something unforgivable. In his other hand sat the problem itself. A letter.

Its seal had already been broken hours ago, yet Aerion still held it like he might somehow strangle better news out of the parchment if he stared hard enough. Its contents were simple enough to feel insulting.

A marriage.

No. Not just any marriage, an arranged match with a daughter of some Lysene house clinging to old Valyrian pride it no longer truly held. 

He exhaled slowly through his nose. He had not asked for this. He would not pretend otherwise. Westeros had its customs, its alliances, its endless games of blood and crown—but there were lines he did not intend to cross without reason. 

A prince of the dragonlords should not be bound to someone who did not carry their look, their blood, their unmistakable mark of Valyria. Silver hair. Violet eyes. The old fire, faint but undeniable. 

It was not sentiment. It was sense. 

His jaw tightened as he turned away from the window.

He would not be paraded through courts beside a bride who looked like a foreign ornament—pretty, perhaps, but wrong. 

And alas! You paraded into the throne room smiling. Actually smiling. The doors of the great hall opened with all the usual dreadful ceremony, guards standing straighter than necessary while servants scrambled uselessly around your luggage. Aerion watched the entire thing from beside the Iron Throne with the exhausted disbelief of a man witnessing a public execution and slowly realizing he was the one being executed.

You walked into the hall looking pleased with life. 

No!

Absolutely not!

Gods… you looked so delighted. The sight alone offended him. 

Your dress swept over the stone floors in soft sea-green silk, expensive enough to suggest House Rogare had once been rich and stupid rather than merely stupid. Gold thread shimmered at the sleeves. Pearls hung from your throat. Your dark curls had half-fallen from their pins during the journey, though you either had not noticed or did not care.

Dark hair. Aerion stared harder. Green eyes. He felt his right eye twitch. Now he felt personally insulted by both. 

You stopped in the center of the hall and looked up at the ceiling with genuine wonder.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed softly.

Aerion glanced upward too. It was a ceiling.

“You look taller in your portrait,” Aerion remarked flatly the moment you approached. The hall felt still and you blinked once, clearly uncertain whether you had been insulted yet. 

“Oh.”

Aerion lazily glanced toward one of the guards nearby. “Send her back. Find me a tall one.”

Aerion’s eyes flicked sideways just in time to catch the pointed look his father sent him from beside the throne. Maekar merely narrowed his eyes in warning, the expression of a man very clearly imagining the satisfaction of striking his son across the back of the head in front of the entire court and deciding against it only because foreign ambassadors were present. But Aerion could only justify his words by pointing at the snorting courtiers lazily– “See? Funny.”

You smiled politely in the careful way people did when they were not entirely certain whether the prince was joking or truly his words were no jest.

“I see.”

“I’m kidding,” Aerion said. Then, after a beat: “Mostly.” 

“Oh,” you said politely. “Very amusing.” It was not convincing.

The maester—Gladys, and very likely the sole architect behind this catastrophic match, stepped in quickly, no doubt sensing yet another disaster beginning to unfold before the previous one had even settled.

“Prince Aerion, may I present Lady—”

“Yes, yes, the bride,” Aerion interrupted. “I gathered.”

You stepped forward then, bright-eyed despite everything that had already occurred. Aerion stepped back all the same, his eyes moving over you from head to toe like he was already finding faults.

“I wished to bring something from Lys,” you explained warmly. Aerion’s mind immediately went to Lysene courtesans. Lys was famously full of them. Or worse—poetry. Music. Some sort of embroidered love token. Gods. Aerion suddenly regretted existing.

But instead, you reached carefully into your sleeve and withdrew a tiny spruce branch wrapped delicately in ribbon. Not jewels. Not a book. But a fucking twig. 

You held it out to him with both hands.

“I present this branch of spruce,” you said warmly. Aerion looked at the branch. Then at you. Then back to the branch again. Seven Hells!

“It is an evergreen,” you continued earnestly, entirely unaware that several grown men nearby were visibly fighting for their lives trying not to laugh. “I hoped it might symbolize our feelings toward one another. That we shall remain caring and faithful all our lives.”

Aerion took the branch between two fingers as though it might stain him. 

“She gave me a twig,” he observed quietly. 

Aerion tilted his head slightly. “She’s not inbred, is she?”

The maester nearly swallowed his own tongue. “There has been no indication of—”

“I assure you,” you cut in quickly, chin lifting with a sudden dignity, “I am entirely of sound mind, Your Grace.” And you were. You also very nearly said something about how funny it was for a Targaryen to be asking that question in the first place. Very nearly. But you did not.

Aerion considered this. The evidence currently suggested otherwise. You brightened again anyway.

“I also wished to thank you for your letter.”

The man frowned immediately. “My what?”

“The letter you sent to Lys,” you continued. “The one speaking of devotion and companionship.” Your expression brightened almost painfully. “It was beautiful. I read it several times aboard the ship.”

Aerion stared blankly for a long moment. Then he looked towards the maester. Said maester suddenly became fascinated by the floor. 

“Oh,” Aerion said slowly. “That letter.” 

“You wrote it, did you not?” you asked, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes. “Yes,” Aerion said, as if recalling something mildly inconvenient. Your face, already bright, lit further at the answer, as though this confirmed something deeply meaningful. How utterly naive. 

“I hoped,” you continued carefully, “that perhaps our love might grow slowly. Like a flame becoming large enough to warm an entire kingdom.”

Aerion nearly recoiled. Love. Gods above, help him. You really believed him. He exhaled through his nose. “That sounds exhausting,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Your smile faltered for the first time. Only briefly. Then returned again with terrifying optimism.

“And I hope I shall make you happy,” you said sincerely.

Aerion stared at you as though you had personally invented inconvenience. “You’re perfect,” he replied flatly. 

The maester abruptly stepped forward before the conversation could collapse any further into disaster, hastily announcing that the wedding would take place on the morrow. Gods. As though there were any risk of you fleeing in the night. You looked far too pleased with all of this. 

A young woman stepped forward from the line of servants and bowed her head. Meriel, you thought her name was—though truthfully, you had barely listened when the maester introduced her. Your attention had remained entirely fixed on the prince before you. Or rather, on the very obvious fact that the prince was looking absolutely anywhere except at you.

The windows. The banners.The Iron Throne. Or that one specific crack in the floor that suddenly seemed to fascinate him beyond reason. Anywhere.

It should have embarrassed you, perhaps. Another girl might have wilted beneath it. But you had not crossed the Narrow Sea expecting instant devotion. Marriage, especially royal marriage, surely required patience. Time. Understanding.

And Prince Aerion, you were beginning to suspect, might require an impossible amount of all three. Still, you smiled.

He still did not look at you.

One of your Lysene servants stepped nervously forward beside the luggage, a pretty thing with blonde curls and nervous eyes. She had spent the entire journey seasick and terrified of Westeros.

Aerion glanced toward her absentmindedly while adjusting his gloves.

“You’re pretty,” he remarked casually.

The girl blinked, startled, before flushing pink. “Th-thank you, Your Grace.”

You stared at him. Ah. You thought slowly. So it would take a great deal of time.

Aerion, meanwhile, had already grown visibly bored with the entire exchange. He turned away with the restless air of a man abandoning an event halfway through because it had failed to entertain him quickly enough.

“I must tend to my whores,” he announced.

A loud throat-clearing echoed through the hall.

Aerion barely paused.

“…Horses,” he corrected lazily. “Horses.”

Several courtiers lowered their heads immediately, shoulders shaking with poorly hidden laughter. “Going riding,” Aerion added with a dismissive wave before disappearing out of the hall entirely.

Meriel led you through the winding corridors of the Red Keep while servants hurried ahead carrying trunks that had absolutely not survived the voyage gracefully. Somewhere behind you, one had burst open entirely, scattering silks across a staircase and nearly killing a guard.

The keep itself felt colder inside than it had from the courtyard below. Not merely in temperature, but in spirit. Long stone halls. Narrow windows. Tapestries heavy with dragons and dead men. Still, you smiled as you walked.

“He seems lovely,” you said softly.

Meriel glanced at you.

“Mm,” she replied carefully. “Aren’t you gorgeously optimistic?”

You laughed under your breath. “It has been said.” Your fingers brushed lightly over the stone wall as you walked beside her. “I simply believe there is no other sensible way to be.”

Meriel made a small sound that suggested she strongly disagreed.

—

The wedding itself passed in a blur of incense smoke, candlelight, and exhaustion.

You scarcely remembered entering the sept. Only the weight of eyes following you down the aisle, the sound of your skirts dragging softly over stone, and Aerion standing at the altar looking like a man attending his own execution. Beautiful, unfortunately.

The septon droned on endlessly while Aerion looked bored enough to die from it. When the vows were finally spoken and you were presented to the court, your heart leapt despite yourself.

“Presenting Prince Aerion Targaryen and his wife—”

You smiled brightly and opened your mouth to speak.

“It is a—”

“No,” Aerion interrupted without even looking at you. “You don’t talk, my love.”

A stunned silence followed. “Oh,” you said after a moment. “Of course.”

Somewhere in the crowd, someone coughed very violently into their sleeve. Aerion looked entirely pleased with himself.

Then, as if suddenly remembering he was expected to behave like a husband for at least one consecutive minute, he gestured lazily toward the side doors of the hall.

“So,” he announced, “a wedding gift for my new wife seems in order.”

The doors opened. And into the hall lumbered an enormous bear. You gasped. A real bear.

The court erupted into chaos almost immediately. One lady shrieked. A knight stumbled backward into a candelabra. The animal itself looked equally confused by the entire arrangement.

Aerion smirked faintly at your expression.

“You wrote in your letters that you wished to see one.”

You stared at the beast with open amazement. “You remembered?”

“No,” Aerion answered honestly. 

The bear sneezed violently onto a nearby lord.

You thought it was wonderful.

—

By the time you finally reached your chambers again hours later, half the candles had already burned low.

Your gowns had been unpacked incorrectly. One of your necklaces was missing. A servant was crying quietly in the corner over a broken perfume bottle.

“Oh,” you said distractedly while searching through a trunk, “they’re somewhere, I’m sure.”

Meriel stood nearby watching the disaster unfold with the calm expression of someone already accustomed to royal households collapsing around her.

“Princess,” she said carefully, “where are the rest of your clothes?”

You looked around vaguely.

“An excellent question.”

Then you smiled suddenly, almost breathless.

“Me. A married woman.” You sat carefully at the edge of the bed, touching the fabric beneath your fingers like you still scarcely believed any of it. “How I dreamt of this.”

Meriel’s expression softened slightly.

“Congratulations,” she said quietly. Then, after a pause: “Madam… if I may speak plainly.”

“You may.”

Meriel hesitated.

“You do know what to expect tonight?”

You looked up at once, mildly offended.

“You suppose me more naïve than I am.”

“She explained it to you?”

“My mother explained everything.”

Meriel looked unconvinced already.

You folded your hands neatly in your lap, repeating it carefully from memory.

You spoke with complete sincerity.

“The man caresses you softly, pressing his lips to yours.”

Meriel blinked once.

“Your breasts and skin awaken and shiver with palpitating joy.”

Meriel blinked twice.

“Between your legs quivers and moistens with longing. He enters you and you become one.”

Meriel stared at you in silence.

“Your bodies meld, your souls mesh. As a sensation takes hold of you, you fall into a black sky filled with the shiniest of stars.” You smiled faintly to yourself. “You float for a time in ecstasy, before waves of pleasure push and pull you back into your body.”

Meriel’s face had gone completely blank.

“Your body ushers forth yelps, and sometimes song, before he and you explode within, collapsing together, spent and unified.” You sighed dreamily. “Then you lay together, laughing softly, weeping occasionally with ecstatic joy, and finally, he wraps his arms around you, whispers poetry softly into your ear, and you fall into a… delicious sleep.”

A long silence followed.

Meriel nodded slowly.

“…Yep,” she said at last. “That’s pretty much it.”

You smiled, reassured.

Outside your chamber windows, the storm clouds over Blackwater Bay deepened into night. Candles burned lower. Servants slowly disappeared one by one.

You waited.

And waited.

Aerion never came.

Months passed after the wedding. An astonishing amount of absolutely nothing had occurred within the marriage.

You and Aerion had been moved south to a smaller palace not far from Summerhall, supposedly for peace, privacy, and “the strengthening of the marital bond,” which sounded lovely in theory and deeply embarrassing in practice considering your husband still treated your existence like an administrative inconvenience.

The palace itself was beautiful, at least. Warm stone walls, open gardens, olive trees twisting beneath the sun, and fountains that actually worked, unlike the ones in King’s Landing that smelled faintly of death.

You spent your mornings wandering the gardens with books you never finished because you were too busy imagining dramatic future conversations with Aerion where he suddenly realized you were enchanting and regretted everything.

These conversations never occurred in real life. Mostly because Aerion was never there.

He hunted constantly. Rode constantly. Hosted drunken dinners for men who laughed too loudly and broke furniture. Once, he returned at three in the morning carrying an injured falcon and demanding a maester because “the bird understands him emotionally.”

The falcon died and Aerion mourned for nearly two days.

You considered poisoning him on the third.

At court dinners, he would sometimes remember you existed and stare at you with vague surprise, as though you had appeared suddenly from the walls.

“Oh,” he’d say. “Wife.” 

Once, during supper, he had pointed at you with a fork and asked a servant, “Does she always sit there?”

You had thrown a grape at his face. He looked delighted by it for reasons that still irritated you deeply. 

And then there was the matter of the marriage bed. Or rather, the complete and ongoing absence of it. Weeks passed, then months– nothing. Not even an attempt. Which would have been less humiliating had the entire palace not clearly noticed.

Servants noticed and servants talked. One maid fainted dramatically after discovering untouched marriage sheets and whispered something about curses. Another began leaving fertility charms beneath your pillows.

At first, you wondered if perhaps Aerion was shy. Then you remembered he was physically incapable of shame. 

So eventually, you decided to take matters into your own hands. It had seemed reasonable at the time. 

You had spent nearly an hour preparing yourself beforehand, which now embarrassed you deeply in retrospect. You wore a softer gown. You brushed perfume oil against your wrists. You even practiced appearing casually alluring in the mirror, though midway through it you realized you mostly looked constipated.

Still determined, you walked to Aerion’s chambers yourself. No husband could possibly ignore such effort.

And for one glorious moment, when the guards opened the doors without question, you truly believed things were finally about to improve. Then you walked inside.

And found Aerion entirely naked, beneath the Lysene servant he had once casually called pretty the day you met. 

A long silence followed. Aerion looked up from the bed. Blinking slowly. Not even ashamed but merely inconvenienced. 

“Oh,” he said.

You stared at him.

The servant stared at you, and looked ready to leap directly out the window. 

Aerion looked between the two of you with visible irritation, as though you had interrupted him. Then, somehow making the situation infinitely worse, he leaned back lazily against the pillows and glanced between the two of you like this was a mildly awkward dinner arrangement rather than marital betrayal.

“You’re welcome to join us, if you like”

You left before murder became politically difficult to explain.

Behind you, you vaguely heard Aerion sigh in annoyance, as though you had been the difficult one in this situation.

You had had enough. Enough that you stopped waiting for footsteps outside your chambers at night. Enough pretending this marriage was merely delayed instead of rotten at its center.

Divorce was impossible. You knew that much.

Escape, however—

Escape remained an option.

You found Meriel before dawn while most of the palace still slept. Candles burned low along the corridors, their flames trembling each time wind slipped through the stone passageways. Meriel looked startled seeing you awake so early, though the expression disappeared quickly once she saw your face.

“I want to leave,” you told her quietly.

Meriel stared at you for a moment. “Leave where?”

“Away from here,” you replied. “Anywhere else.”

Meriel lowered her eyes.

“I need a large traveling trunk,” you continued, voice steadier now that the decision had finally been spoken aloud. “And a carriage. Something discreet enough not to invite questions.”

Understanding settled over her face slowly.

“You mean to flee.”

“I mean to survive.”

For a moment, Meriel looked almost sympathetic. Then she nodded once.

“I shall arrange it.”

But later that same morning, Meriel went to Aerion instead.

She found him in the training yard watching two knights beat each other senseless while he drank wine far too early in the day. Sunlight flashed against the practice swords each time they collided. Aerion barely looked at her when she approached.

“How is she?” he asked lazily.

Meriel hesitated only briefly. “Unhappy.”

“Hmm.”

“She wants to leave.”

That earned his attention. He hummed, “you want something in return.”

Meriel straightened slightly at that, speaking with a confidence that sounded practiced rather than natural.

“My father was stripped of his lands for siding with the Blackfyres years ago. My family lost everything. Our titles. Our place at court.” Her hands tightened together. “I have served loyally ever since.”

Aerion tilted his head slightly.

“You want your status restored.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Then, unexpectedly, Aerion let out a short laugh beneath his breath and lifted his goblet vaguely toward her.

“Gods,” he murmured, almost impressed. “You’re awful.”

—

The trunk was prepared before sunrise the next morning. Reinforced oak, iron latches, large enough to pass for travel storage without inviting suspicion. You climbed inside before the courtyard fully stirred awake, heart pounding painfully against your ribs while the lid shut heavily above you.

Darkness swallowed everything. And for a while, relief almost overtook fear. The carriage moved steadily beneath you. Wheels against stone. Horses breathing hard. 

Distance growing with every turn. You were leaving. Finally.

But then the carriage stopped.

And you felt the trunk— the trunk you were in being carried. You shoved hard against the lid. Locked. And then you heard water. Cold seeped through the bottom edges of the trunk while the men carried it farther. Panic struck instantly, violent and absolute.

“No,” you gasped, throwing your shoulder hard against the lid. “No—!”

The trunk sank lower.

Freezing water rushed through the cracks faster now, swallowing the remaining air inside in brutal gulps. Your hands slipped against soaked wood as you shoved desperately against the lid, panic turning your thoughts into something sharp and senseless.

Above you, the voices had gone quieter. One of the men laughed nervously. Another muttered that perhaps this had gone too far.

Then silence.

For one horrible moment, you truly believed Aerion had left.

That this was how it ended, not with greatness or love, but alone in darkness inside a wooden box because your husband found cruelty entertaining.

Above the waterline, Aerion watched the lake for another long moment, expression unreadable. Then, with a bored sigh, he turned his back as if preparing to leave entirely.

The men shifted uneasily beside their horses. One looked pale. Another muttered a prayer to the Seven beneath his breath.

And then suddenly—

Aerion laughed.

“Oh, Gods,” he said between amused breaths, turning back toward the lake. “You thought I was serious.”

The men stared at him. Aerion grinned broadly now, gesturing lazily back toward the shore. “Bring her back before she actually dies.”

Relief visibly swept through the soldiers so quickly. They rushed forward immediately, dragging the trunk back toward land with frantic urgency. The moment it struck the shore hard enough, the weakened latch snapped open completely.

You spilled out with it.

Water poured from your soaked gown as you collapsed onto the mud choking violently, coughing hard enough to make your ribs ache. Wet curls clung against your face while the world spun sickeningly around you.

Above you stood Aerion.

Dry and perfectly composed.

One hand rested lazily over the hilt of his sword while amusement still lingered openly across his face. You looked up at him with absolute hatred. Aerion only smirked.

Then, as though this had all been a mildly entertaining interruption to his afternoon, he turned toward his men.

“Come along.”

The soldiers immediately began mounting their horses again. And just like that, they left you there. You walked back to the palace alone.

Soaked shoes scraping against dirt roads. Wet skirts heavy around your legs. Your entire body trembling. By the time you returned to your chambers, you already knew.

Meriel. Of course it had been Meriel. And worse— Aerion had not even granted her what she wanted. No restored titles. No lands. No reward.

The realization hollowed something inside you completely.

That night, your chambers were unusually quiet. You sat before the mirror still wrapped in blankets, staring numbly at the knife resting across your lap while candlelight flickered weakly against the walls.

Meriel stood nearby. At some point, she glanced toward the blade and asked mildly, “Would you like a cake with that knife, Princess?”

You let out a humorless laugh.

“Do not try to stop me,” you said quietly. “Just leave me be.”

“I would not presume to speak,” Meriel replied at once, folding her hands neatly before her. “For the Princess is so smart and book-readingly that I am certain her judgment must be sound.”

You looked down at the knife again.

“I am resolved.”

Meriel nodded once and turned toward the servant boy lingering nervously near the doorway.

“Fetch a bucket for the blood.”

The poor boy blinked. “Yes, miss.”

“And towels too,” Meriel added calmly. “There may be some overflow.”

“What am I to do?” you whispered instead. “Just live forever at someone else’s whim?”

“God forbid.”

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the knife.

“I truly believed,” you admitted quietly, “ever since I was a child… that greatness waited for me somewhere.” Your voice shook slightly now, though whether from anger or heartbreak you no longer knew. “A great life. Something important. Like the gods Himself placed me here for a reason.” You stared blankly at the candlelight trembling across the room. “That I was meant to change something.”

Meriel was silent for a moment.

Then softly:

“Why did he make you a woman, then?”

You let out a hollow laugh beneath your breath.

“For comedy, I suppose.”

And so, months later, breakfast with Aerion had become less a marital routine and more a daily exercise in surviving each other.

You sat across from Aerion beneath the open arches of the summer dining hall while servants moved quietly between tables carrying fruit, fresh bread, and wine.

Aerion looked half-awake, dressed lazily in black riding clothes, one boot unlaced.

He stabbed violently at a pear.

“The Ashford Tourney begins next week,” he announced suddenly. “You’re coming.”

You blinked once. Then coughed delicately into your sleeve and Aerion looked up immediately. You coughed again, but weaker this time.

“Oh dear,” you murmured sadly. “I fear I may be terribly ill.”

Aerion stared at you blankly. Then rolled his eyes.

“Tragic.”

You placed a hand dramatically against your chest. “I believe it may worsen if exposed to excessive sunlight.”

“How brave of you to battle through it during breakfast.”

You ignored him with dignity.

Aerion leaned back in his chair, watching you with open annoyance.

“You do realize people will ask questions if my wife refuses to appear beside me.”

“Then tell them I died.”

“That would create paperwork.”

Aerion stood abruptly, already bored with the conversation. And then paused.

He glanced toward your stomach.

“You’re not pregnant yet, are you?”

Silence.

You narrowed your eyes slowly. “Aerion,” you said carefully, “you have not stepped foot inside my chambers since the moment we married.”

He blinked once. As though genuinely forgetting this detail. Then his face twisted slightly with irritation.

“Annoying.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

Annoying?

Annoying?

Aerion was already pulling on his gloves.

“We should probably do something about that eventually,” he muttered distractedly.

“You think?” You shot him a sharp look across the table. “What a groundbreaking conclusion.”

Aerion finally glanced at you properly for the first time that morning, the inside of his cheek pressed lightly beneath his tongue as he studied you with lazy irritation.

“You’ve been in a terrible mood lately.”

You laughed in disbelief. “Lately?” 

“Yes.” Aerion blinked. 

“I walked into your chambers months ago and found you naked with another woman. Then you nearly had me drowned in a lake.”

“And I offered to include you,” he pointed out immediately, gesturing vaguely in your direction like this had been an act of staggering generosity on his part rather than insanity. “As for the lake, that was clearly a joke.”

“A joke.”

“Yes.”

“You sealed me inside the trunk.”

“You survived.”

“You watched me drown.”

Aerion frowned slightly at that. “That feels dramatic. You were underwater for hardly any time at all.”

You stared at him.

“And besides,” he continued, now sounding faintly offended himself, “I came back.”

You shut your eyes briefly. Enough.

Instead, like an angry child trying very hard not to throw something, you planted both hands flat against the table and stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him for even another second. 

Aerion sighed through his nose, already irritated by your irritation.

Then he waved vaguely over one shoulder as he started toward the courtyard.

“Later.”

The moment he disappeared through the arches, your composed expression collapsed entirely.

“I hate you,” you muttered venomously into your wine.

Life within the small palace quickly settled into an exhausting rhythm of endless feasts.

Aerion hosted them constantly.

The halls filled night after night with second sons of noble houses and young knights who had little to inherit but still too much pride to behave accordingly. Men who, by unfortunate circumstance of birth order, had little to do besides drink themselves stupid, chase women through corridors, lose fortunes over dice, and wake the next morning only to begin the cycle again.

They clung to Aerion all the same.

Not out of affection, he was too sharp, too unpredictable, too openly violent when irritated for that— but because he funded the entire arrangement. The wine, the food, the horses, the tours, the endless indulgence of it all. Aerion paid for their comfort, and in return they laughed at his worst remarks on command. Because if Aerion said something once, and then repeated it slowly while glancing at the room, it meant they were supposed to laugh.

Even when it wasn’t funny.

Especially when it wasn’t funny.

While they drank themselves into stupors below, you found your escape elsewhere.

The library.

It became yours almost by instinct.

Quiet, tucked away from the noise of feasting, it smelled of dust, old parchment, and forgotten ink. Most of the palace ignored it entirely, which suited you perfectly.

Most afternoons, while the men stumbled around the courtyards half-drunk and shouting at one another, you remained hidden among the shelves with a book open across your lap.

You had always loved reading.

Your mother used to tell you that knowledge was the only thing in this world that could not easily be taken from a woman. Knowledge meant power, she would say while correcting your Valyrian translations at the dinner table. And power meant importance. Change.

You had carried those words with you across the Narrow Sea. Held onto them tightly.

Because despite everything; the miserable marriage, the endless feasts, the loneliness of this strange country, you still believed you had been meant for something more than sitting quietly beside a prince while men spoke over you.

You wanted to do something that mattered.

And near the edge of the nearby village, just beyond the palace grounds, sat an old abandoned cottage slowly collapsing into itself beneath climbing ivy and years of neglect. You wanted to turn it into a school. Not for noble girls. Noble girls already had tutors and books and futures decided for them.

You wanted a school for girls who had nothing at all. Girls who could not read their own names. Just a place where girls could learn to read without asking.

And with that thought, you swallowed your pride. The next morning, you joined Aerion on a hunt.

It was not an invitation so much as you appearing beside him as he mounted his horse, which he regarded with immediate suspicion. 

“You’re coming?” he asked.

“I would like to see the forest,” you said simply.

He stared at you for a long moment as though trying to determine whether this was an inconvenience or a threat. Then he shrugged, already losing interest.

“Fine.”

The hunt itself was chaos.

Aerion, however, was in a rare good mood— amused, and almost tolerable. The kind of mood where asking him for anything felt marginally survivable.

So when the ride slowed briefly, you took your chance.

“There is something I would like to do,” you began carefully.

Aerion did not look at you. “That sounds expensive.”

“It is not—”

“Everything is expensive,” he cut in.

You hesitated.

Then, quietly, “There is an abandoned cottage near the village. I would like to turn it into a school.”

“Do what you want,” he said, already bored, adjusting his reins. “Just don’t make it inconvenient.”

You stared at him for a moment.

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “It’s a cottage.”

A pause.

Somewhere behind you, a hunter laughed too loudly at something Aerion had said earlier and then immediately laughed again, louder, as if reminding everyone it was supposed to be funny.

Aerion rode on without waiting for your response.

And just like that, it was done.

No discussions. No debate. Just permission given carelessly, like throwing coins at a beggar to make them disappear. But it was enough. You would take it.

You began preparing soon after.

The cottage sat at the edge of the village like a forgotten thought—half-collapsed roof, broken shutters, weeds pushing through the stone floor. Still, you stood in it for a long time the first day, imagining voices inside it. Girls reading aloud. Chalk on wood. Something small, but alive.

Meriel came with you more than once after that, wordless at first, then slowly softening into the idea of it.

It almost felt possible.

Until it didn’t. 

You came back after supper. The sky had already turned dark. From a distance, something felt wrong. The air smelled wrong. Then you saw it.

The cottage.

Burned.

Not damaged. But burned.

Blackened beams collapsed inward like broken ribs. Smoke still curled faintly into the night sky, as though whatever had been done had not yet finished being cruel. Meriel went very still beside you.

You walked forward slowly, as if approaching it carefully might undo it.

It did not.

By the time you reached the ruins, there was nothing left that could pretend to be a school.

Only ash.

—

The palace was loud.

Drunken laughter spilled through the halls. Music echoed off stone. Someone was singing badly again.

You found Aerion in the main hall, seated at a long table surrounded by men who laughed too loudly at everything he said. A cup hung loosely in his hand.

He did not look up when you entered.

You walked straight toward him, and the people noticed immediately. You stopped in front of him.

“You burned it,” you said.

Aerion blinked once.

Then, slowly: “Oh.”

He leaned back in his chair with the languid ease of a man already bored.

“You didn’t say it was for girls.”

“Women in the villages here cannot read,” he added. “They’re not taught.”

Your hands tightened at your sides.

“That is not—”

“And they should not be,” Aerion said, cutting in.

“Women are for seeding, not reading.”

Laughter rolled through the hall.

You stared at him like he had spoken in a language you no longer recognized.

“…I told you I wanted a school,” you said slowly.

“Yes,” Aerion replied, as if that explained everything.

“And you burned it down.”

“I did,” he confirmed.

No hesitation. 

You exhaled sharply through your nose.

“Well, you may go. I forgive you, of course, as I am a man of gentle heart and enormous cock.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

“You are disgusting,” you hissed.

“You do not lie to me again.”

The glass left his hand without warning. It shattered against the pillar beside you—but by then, you had already moved. A thin cut sliced across your right palm, blood beading slowly against your skin. Barely a scratch.

Aerion watched the fragments scatter across the floor before his gaze drifted back to you, a faint amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Ooh,” he drawled. “You’re admirably quick.”

You did not give him any more time to give comments as you turned to leave, anger radiating. You seethed while walking back to your chambers.

The next day there was another feast.

Meriel told you to go to tell the court that you are still alive and breathing.

Aerion was in unusually good spirits that evening, laughing too loudly at something one of his men said. And because when Aerion repeated a joke, they laughed as though it had been genius. Even when it isn’t. 

You mostly ignored all of it.

Instead, you found the bear.

It had been brought to the palace courtyard as one of Aerion’s strange, impulsive gifts, something from the hunt, something alive that had survived him when most things did not.

You sat with it quietly for a while, fingers brushing through its fur while the feast roared on inside. It was easier than people. It did not speak. It did not mock. It simply existed beside you without asking anything.

“Maybe you’re the only one here,” you muttered softly, “who hasn’t tried to ruin my life.”

The bear shifted slightly under your hand.

For a moment, it almost felt like it understood you. 

And then- the sound of an arrow splitting air. It happened too fast to process properly. A sharp twang from the training platform where Aerion and his men had decided, in their usual brilliance, that the courtyard was suitable for target practice even during a feast.

The arrow struck clean.

Right through the animal. The bear collapsed instantly.

You stared at it for a moment too long, as if waiting for the world to correct itself. But it did not. And then you stood.

Across the courtyard, laughter broke out.  “Good shot,” someone called.

Aerion’s voice followed lazily, unconcerned. “Oh, dear. Someone’s cross.” he spoke lazily when he saw you cross the courtyard in a straight line. Aerion was still smiling when you reached him. With no hesitation, you raised your hand and slapped him on the cheek. Hard. 

The sound cracked through the hall and silence followed immediately. Even the music faltered. You didn’t wait for anything else. You turned and left.

—

The library was quiet in a way the rest of the palace never managed to be. Not merely silent, but softened, as though even sound was reluctant to disturb it. Dust floated through thin shafts of light from the high windows, drifting over rows of old parchment and ink-stained ledgers, the smell of aged wood and forgotten knowledge clinging to everything. 

It was the only place in the entire palace that did not feel like it belonged to Aerion, as if even his presence hesitated at the threshold.

You did not sit at a chair. You sat on the floor between shelves, knees drawn in loosely, staring at nothing in particular while your breathing slowly unraveled. Then your hands began to shake, then enough that you stopped trying to hide it at all. The crying came after that, uneven and broken, sharp breaths caught between anger and humiliation and grief until none of them could separate cleanly anymore.

You did not expect him to follow you.

Aerion did not speak immediately when he entered. He stood there for a moment as if assessing whether this was worth interrupting, then eventually crossed the room and sat down across from you.

“We’ve got problems, haven’t we?” he said at last.

You did not answer.

Silence stretched, thick and unbothered.

“I suppose you are the only person in my life,” he added after a moment, almost thoughtfully, “who has not loved me.”

A breath of disbelief slipped out of you before you could stop it, half-laugh, half-sob.

“It is inconceivable to me,” he continued, as though your reaction was irrelevant, “and says nothing good about you.”

You looked up sharply at that.

He met your gaze without hesitation, unflinching, almost curious.

“If you had shown me an ounce of kindness,” your face twisted as you eyed him, “I was ready with a heart full of love.”

And then, because he could never resist undermining even his own seriousness, his eyes flicked over you and he added, almost offhand, “You look really pretty when you’re angry.”

That was it. Something in you cracked fully open.

“My heart is breaking,” you said, and this time the words came out broken with it, tears spilling freely as a muffled sob forced its way through your throat. “I miss home. I’m lonely for family, friends, fun, ideas, strawberries—”

“And I need my cock sucked,” Aerion interrupted flatly.

You froze.

“What?” you asked in disbelief, staring at him like you had misheard the language entirely.

“Well,” he said, leaning back slightly as if this were logical, “we’re sharing, right? Our needs?”

“Just let me go home, please.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

He glanced away for a moment, as though considering something practical. “Strawberries, I’ll work on.”

Then, more to himself than to you, he added, “What happened to that happy little girl who gave me a twig?”

“She died,” you said immediately.

Aerion sighed through his nose. “Seems overly dramatic.”

He looked at you again, then added, “I am mostly kind to you. Do I beat you?”

“I suffer the blows of your disdain daily,” you hissed, pushing yourself up until you were standing over him where he still sat.

Aerion tilted his head up at you slightly.

“It’s not the same as actual blows, though, is it?”

“Well—”

“What, you don’t know?” he cut in.

Before you could react, he stood. His hand closed around your shoulder, firm enough to stop you from stepping back, and then—suddenly, sharply—he struck you in the stomach.

The breath left you instantly. You doubled slightly, stunned more than anything, pain blooming hot and immediate through your middle.

Aerion watched you bend forward.

“Well,” he said calmly, releasing you, “compare, and get back to me.”

You straightened slowly, shaking.

“Mother and Father never acted like this. My mother was a saint,” he replied. Then, after a beat, he added, almost reflexively, “I’m glad she’s not alive to see this. Not that I’m glad she’s dead. I’m not—”

He stopped himself, as if realizing he was losing his own argument, and exhaled sharply through his nose.

You were still staring at him, unblinking.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You’re a disappointment to me, too.”

Then, after a pause, his voice sharpened again.

“I do not need a wife with a poisonous mouth and a dry cunny. I will shut you up at my pleasure.”

“You will try and fail,” you said immediately, voice raw.

“You will be happy,” he continued as if you had not spoken. “You will die here in content old age, having given me many hours of pleasure and service, and many heirs. Boys, preferably.”

His gaze flicked over you, sharp and assessing.

“I do have a temper and some rage. You cannot cross me. Especially not in front of others, or you will pay. Endlessly.”

A pause.

Then, quietly, final in a way that was almost certain.

“And you will never win.”

I hope he loses.

Not in the polite way other wives were taught to think it, no soft prayers whispered into candlelight, no folded hands asking for a safe return, no devotion. You did not want safety for him. 

I hope he loses the tourney, you thought, watching him across the courtyard as he adjusted his riding gloves, I hope he falls off his horse. I hope the impact is sharp enough to silence him permanently. I hope something in him breaks in a way that cannot be repaired.

Your finger tapped against your gown once, then again, then again, a quiet rhythm of imagined outcomes. You found yourself thinking of it too easily: the snap of bone, the sudden stillness of a body, the stunned silence of a crowd that had cheered him only moments before.

Other wives would have been praying. You found yourself praying for injuries.

He would not come back with laughter still clinging to him. He would come back quiet, maybe even regretful. Or not at all.

Outside the palace entrance, the air was bright and unforgiving. The horses were already prepared, restless beneath their riders, the sound of metal and leather filling the space like a ceremony you had no interest in participating in. Aerion adjusted his riding gloves with careless precision, as though nothing in the world had ever resisted him for long.

You stood beside him. You did not speak. You did not wish him well.

You only performed the smallest, most formal curtsy you could manage. Whether it was even correct no longer mattered.

Aerion glanced at you briefly, as if expecting something more. When nothing came, he simply turned away and mounted his horse.

Then he left.

And the gates closed behind him.

—

Days passed slowly after that.

The palace did not change much in his absence, which you found irritating. The halls remained full, the servants continued their routines, the air still carried the same polished emptiness. If anything, it only made his presence feel less necessary in hindsight, as though he had always been an unnecessary noise in a room that functioned perfectly well without him.

You filled the time carefully.

The library became your refuge again, its silence more honest than anything else in the palace. You spent hours there among books you did not always read, simply existing in a space that did not demand anything from you. When even that became too heavy, you returned to embroidery, though not of flowers as was expected—but insects. Spindly things, sharp-winged things, delicate and unpleasant in a way.

Meriel came and went quietly, as she always did, saying little unless spoken to.

Time passed in a strange, suspended way.

Then one afternoon, a servant came running through the corridor, breathless, face pale and twisted with panic.

“He died!”

The words echoed too loudly down the stone hall.

“The prince died!”

For a moment, everything stopped. Even the air felt like it paused to listen. You looked up slowly from your work. Your fingers still rested on the fabric, unmoving.

Someone nearby gasped. Another voice immediately began asking questions, overlapping, frantic.

A second servant reached you, hesitating as if unsure whether you were supposed to collapse or celebrate or scream. His eyes darted away quickly, as though afraid of your reaction either way.

But then—

A flicker at the corner of your mouth. Barely there.

Something almost like relief, almost like laughter, almost like—

No.

Not yet.

Before it could form properly, Meriel arrived. And the moment you saw her face, you already knew something was wrong. She did not look panicked. She did not look confused.

Composed in a way that made your stomach tighten instantly.

She stopped in front of you.

And spoke clearly.

“Prince Baelor died.”

Silence.

Oh.

You felt it land slowly.

Not Aerion. Not your husband. Not your imagined ruin finally delivered.

Someone else. Someone entirely different.

Your fingers loosened slightly on the fabric in your lap.

And for a long moment, all you could think was:

Oh.

When his lips pressed to your cheek, he should've known. All those years of being an ER attendant were ingrained in his brain, his bones. Yet he couldn't rationalize why you were so still, so cold. Panic seeped in as he began to jostle your shoulder, crying out your name in fear. He couldn't believe it. You were just here. In his arms last night, a warm body pressed against his. Footsteps bounded the stairs as his yelling grew louder, your son and daughter-in-law rushing to check what was wrong.

It wasn't until Jack, your son & daughter, their spouses, and grandkids surrounded your bedside at the hospital that reality had sunk in. It sat in his chest, heavy and aching. Cardiac arrest, the silent killer. It had taken you away from him in one swift blow. His hand gripped your hand so gently now as he pressed his lips to the wrinkled skin atop it, your ring still glinting and shimmering the way it did the day he proposed. This wasn't supposed to happen like this. Jack was the one with the terminal illness, not you. No, you were supposed to be the one who held him in the night and let him pass peacefully. It was supposed to be him who went first.

Head hurts. The jolt of what felt like a train coming to a stop made your eyes fly open. You gasped for air as you sat up, hand pressed of your heart.

Where the fuck-

"Let me guess, you weren't expecting it?"

The kid sat in front of you, swimming in a suit made for an adult.

"Who- Who are you?" You searched around in a panic. "Where's Jack?"

The kid was gone, and the aisle of the train car you were in was filled with people finding their way to an exit, many of them in nurse gowns. You contemplated staying on the train, but there was a gnawing feeling telling you to get off now. Outside the train was a platform station, with only one set of escalators that ascended to who knows where. Following the mob of people, all equally as confused and disoriented as you were.

You entered a lobby filled with people; a few were hounding you with brochures and promises of parties. A help desk was in front of a flipping marquee with times and destinations for places that made no sense to you. A young girl was working behind the desk, headphones over her ears, a white blouse, a brown skirt, her hair pulled back with a red ribbon.

"Hi.. Do you.. work here?" You approached the desk hesitantly, the young girl rolled her eyes at you.

"No, honey, I just like to sit back here and pretend I do." Great, sarcasm.

"Look I don't what I'm doing here I was just-"

"This is the junction. Now, take a seat, and your AC will be with you shortly." She cut you off with a wave of her hand.

You walked away from the desk with your tail tucked between your legs, finding the first seat. You sat there watching the room slowly dwindle in numbers. You were still in your pajamas from the night before, the soft baby blue cotton pajama, the sight of your hands caught you off guard. They were soft, smooth, with no signs of age or wrinkles as you turned them over. Your nails were even perfectly manicured with a baby pink polish, before you could even question it, when a woman in a similar suit to the young girl at the help desk called your name as she looked around the waiting room.

"T-That's me.." You shot up out of your seat. She approached with a soft smile.

She was beautiful, with deep skin, complemented by blonde hair pulled half up with a red ribbon. She held out her hand, long almond nails with a French tip. She shook your hand.

"Sorry about the wait. I'm Anna, your AC."

"AC? What does that stand for?"

"Your afterlife coordinator," Her voice soft, all too familiar with the typical reactions with souls who've crossed over.

"That's not.. I'm not dead! I-I can't be I was just sleeping-" Panic started to settle in. Anna flipped open the folder in her arms.

"Cardiac Arrest, in your sleep, it was peaceful. You should be lucky; most people don't get that. Follow me." She was picking up pace with her back turned now.

"Look I was at home in bed, with my husband- Oh my god, Jack--"

"And you died, hun. Look, here," She pulled out a handheld mirror, holding it up to you.

There you were but... you were 25 again. How was this possible?

"When people get here, your form reverts to the version of yourself that was happiest. That's why we get a lot of kids around here, though not many teenagers," She walks off again with the mirror

"My husband Jack, he's still on the other side I have to get back to him."

Anna keeps walking until she's lead you to a balcony overlooking what was essentially a convention center, endless booths offering various things.

"This is the junction, the trans between life and eternity. Your husband is still alive, so he is still in the life part; you, on the other hand, are here. You can't go back. I'm sorry." She's somewhat sincere, but there's a hint of exhaustion. You're sure she's had this talk numerous times. "Let's get you to your room."

She leads you to an elevator with a gentle hand on your shoulders. Your mind was reeling. In the blink of an eye, you had died in your sleep beside your terminally ill husband. You had promised to stay by his side through it all, and now here you were, in the afterlife. Your heart ached for him, hoping he was okay.

"This is where you'll be staying until you choose the right, eternity for you. We'll get into that later." The room had a queen-size bed, an upscale kind of hotel set up with a sky view.

"I'm already dead, what kind of later is there really?" You muttered looking out the window.

"Acceptance is a good step," Anna said cheerfully. "We have some of your favorite clothes in the closet for you to check out. Maybe it'll do you some good to change."

Anna had disappeared after that. You approached the closet, which was filled with your favorite clothes throughout your life. You reached for the long burgundy dress, memories flooding back of the night you wore it out for Jack on a date night. It was fitted and flattering in all the right places. You slipped it on with the black kitten heels.

You wandered out to explore the Junction. You quickly found your way to a bar; at least there was alcohol in the afterlife. The bar only had two other people sitting in the booths, and the bartender was a young woman. She was pretty, with mousy blonde hair clipped back; her bangs were perfectly imperfect.

"What can I get you, hun?" She spoke without glancing up from the glass she was cleaning.

"Vodka-anything.." You leaned over the bar top.

"First day?" She finally looks up at you. Her hazel eyes looking over you with a soft smirk.

"Yeah... So are you an angel or something?" You asked quietly, a bit skeptical of everything.

"Oh no. Just a bartender,"

"You gotta have a job in the afterlife then?"

"Only if you want to stay here," She slides the drink over. "So what are you thinking about? Where do you want to go from here?"

"I'm not sure. Somewhere sunny, maybe, then again, my husband never really liked the hotter climates. We couldn't stay there long." The bartender looks up at you with curiosity.

"Did your AC tell you the rules?"

You shook your head as you threw back the whole drink in one go; you hadn't done that in quite some time. She smiled softly watching you face twinge in disgust a bit before pouring another drink.

"There are only a few. You can only pick one eternity, no switches or visiting other eternities. Eternity is eternity. Go against the rules, you end up in the void."

"Is that hell?"

"Close, just an empty black hole of space."

You sighed, throwing back the 2nd drink, a slight but beginning.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this. I died in my sleep. My husband is terminally ill with cancer. I was supposed to take care of him through it till the end..."

"Sorry to hear that. The worst part of death is the guilt you have for the ones you left behind." She gives you a soft smile.

"You been here long?" You ask her. The smile never reaches her eyes, something in it.

"38 years, I think, time works kinda funny in here. Once you've been here as long as I have, you get used to it."

"You waiting on someone?" You asked, the alcohol was hitting harder now.

"Yeah... my husband." She turned back to cleaning glasses.

It had only a few weeks since you had passed, Jack's health had deteriorated rapidly. His diagnosis had predicted he had at least another year. He never left that hospital the day you passed; the stress of your death weighed too heavily on him. Your daughter held onto his hand as the stayed by his bedside,

"You can let go, Dad. Go be with, Mom. I know she's waiting there for you." Those were the last words he heard before the darkness settled over him.

Jack Abbot died approximately 3 weeks after you.

"There's no way to know, right? You're not hiding some magical time keeping clock that will tell me when my husband is gonna die just so you can get rid of me sooner?" Anna laughed shaking her head.

"No, believe me, I think something like that would make these things easier. You just gotta do you. I have no doubt he'll come find you when the time is here." Anna says sincerely with a gentle hand on your shoulder. "I think you're really gonna like this eternity, I think you'll love it even more once Jack is there to join you."

"Anna, can I ask you something?" You had grown quite fond of her company; you're not sure if this was her life's calling, but it certainly felt like it. "Is it possible to just stay one more day? I just have this gut feeling telling me he's gonna..."

She gives you that look, the same look when you initially got here, in denial about death.

"Honey, you don't want to spend your afterlife waiting for him. He will get here when it's time... Trust me when I say he will. Now, your train leaves in-"

You began to tune out her voice when you saw him. It had to be him. It looked exactly like him, 40 years younger, but it was Jack. It was him.

"Jack... Jack! Anna that's Jack, Jack!" You rushed past her.

Jack was looking around, confused, his head whipped around in your direction. He was here, really here. You pushed past the numerous people who grunted in annoyance.

"Oh my god, you're here, Jack, god I missed you so much-" You smothered him in a hug, he held you back just as tightly holding back tears as he pet your hair.

"Is this real? Is this heaven?" He mutter hoarsely into your hair, tears dripped onto your bare shoulder.

"Not exactly, but right now, close enough," You laughed into his neck, peppering his face in kisses. Anna watched, her own heart was overjoyed to see this couple reunited.

You pulled back to really take in Jack. He looked so young again, he didn't even look this young when you met him. His salt and pepper curls had been traded in for a deep auburn you only ever saw in photos. So this is what he looked like at his happiest...

"So you must be the famous Jack Abbot? Your wife here has spent every moment wondering and waiting for you to get here."

"I have, every moment apart from you felt like an eternity waiting for you to get here. I missed you... Did you miss me?"

He was taking in your appearance now. You were a spitting image of the version he met on your first day at PTMC. His hands were warm as they gripped your waist and face.

"You can't even begin to imagine. So, what is this place?"

"It's-"

"Anna, back away from my client"

"I'm not near your client." Anna bit back at the preppy man approaching.

"Back away, I've been waiting 33 god damn years for this one to show up," The man pulled Jack away by the shoulders.

"Excuse me- What are you doing?" You asked as the man led Jack a few feet away.

"That's my-" Jack was cut off.

"I'm Ryan, I'm your afterlife coordinator. I know this can be overwhelming, so just take a deep breath, and just breathe in and... out." Jack was put off by the man in front of him, who was gently nudging his head in the direction of the crowd.

That's when Jack saw her... There she was, walking steadily towards him, in a cotton sundress. Her blonde hair was perfectly tousled, and their eyes locked. The idea of ever seeing her again had never crossed his mind until now. You watched with a scowl, anxiety and confusion pumped through you. Why was the woman from the bar walking towards your husband with such determination?

And why was Jack so stunned to see her....?

She stopped in front of him, hands reaching up to his face with tears in her eyes. You approached from behind Jack.

"Isabel..." His hand cupped her face, stomach doing back-flips as he looked at her.

Your stomach dropped; it was her. The wife he lost. Here she was, more beautiful than you could have ever pictured, perfect. Her eyes shone so brightly as she looked up at Jack, like her missing piece had finally come.

"Jack?" Your voice wobbled as you spoke. He broke his grip on her face, remembering you were here too. His hands trembled as he backed away, looking at both of you. His first love and his last love.

"Jack, I've waited 33 years for you..." Your head whipped in the direction of her voice.

"Is this-"

"First wife and second wife, rough." Ryan muttered to Anna

"I prefer 'current wife', thanks." You turned to the two gossips behind you.

Jack was frozen in place, trembling, eyes flitting between the two of you. Ryan and Anna looked between the two of each other.

"I think Jack needs a breather and a change of clothes, uh, Ryan can you-" Anna spoke up as Ryan ushered Jack towards the elevator.

You turned to Isabel, the woman whose ghost you spent a chunk of your relationship with comparing yourself to, living in her shadow. She turned to you, seeing her replacement, the woman who had filled the space she had left behind when she passed.

"So... your Jack's ex wife?" You asked, unable to help size her up. She did the same to you.

"No, I'm his wife."

"I'm his wife," You said, shaking your head, laughing like a psycho. This was probably the closest to a psychotic break you'd experience.

Isabel huffed as she made her way to the elevator. You turned to Anna, a pleading look for help on your face.

"Okay... so I think we could probably work something out so you can get that extra day of stay..." She says giving you a nervous smile and nod.

The reality had hit you like a truck, knocking the wind out of you; Jack would have to choose between you and her. Who would he want to spend eternity with?

The love he lost or the love he had.

the first letter was written with tears blurring the ink, your hand trembling so violently the words were nearly illegible. it was a litany of grief and fury, a desperate plea to a sleeping god.

they have taken you. taken you from me. your father calls it a punishment, a cure. i call it a cruelty that eclipses even your own. i will write every day, aerion. i will fill the narrow sea with my words until they carry you home to me. do not let lys make you forget.

the ship sailed on the morning tide. you watched from the highest tower of maegor’s holdfast, a small, stone figure against the grey sky, until the speck of his ship vanished into the mist. the red keep felt like a tomb.

for weeks, the letters were your lifeblood. you wrote of the stifling silence of your chambers, of the cold politeness of the court. you wrote of your dreams, always of him, of his sharp, cruel smile and the surprising gentleness of his hands when he thought you were asleep. you poured all the love you had into those scrolls.

the first replies came, carried by raven, his familiar, sharp script a balm to your soul.

they were short, always. lys is a cesspit of perfumed lies. the wine is watered. the women are tiresome. i think of you.

it was enough. it was a thread connecting you across the sea, proof that the man you had painstakingly uncovered was still there, buried beneath the weight of his exile.

but the sea was vast, and lys was a paradise built to ensnare the senses. you knew what your husband was like. you knew the allure of easy pleasure, the thrill of a fight in a pleasure house, the ego-stroking adoration of courtesans who saw only a prince’s purse and not the fractured soul beneath. it was an inevitable current, and you feared he was a man who could not resist it.

the replies grew shorter. the heat is oppressive. then they grew longer, but the content changed.

i won a duel today. a braavosi with more coin than sense. he cried like a child.

he spoke of battles, of wagers, of the quality of the steel, but no longer of the quiet moments, of the thoughts that kept him awake at night.

you wrote on, your own letters becoming more desperate. and the replies that came were from a stranger.

lys agrees with me. i am thinking of staying. the climate is better for my health.

your heart froze in your chest. you wrote back, your hand shaking with a new kind of fear.

what do you mean, staying? your place is here. your duty is here. i am here.

he never answered that letter.

months turned into a season. the ravens from lys stopped coming altogether. you told yourself he was busy. you told yourself his duties kept him from writing. you told yourself anything but the truth, which was a cold, creeping vine around your heart…he was forgetting you. he was caught up in the fighting and the fathering of bastards, and he kept telling himself he would respond tomorrow, but tomorrow never came.

the quill felt like a lead weight in your hand, but you lifted it. the ink in the well was as dark as your despair. you wrote until your soul was hollow, scraped out, leaving nothing but an echoing cavern where hope used to live.

then came the spring. the spring sickness.

it started as a whisper, then a crash. it swept through the city like a scythe, reaping a harvest of the young and the old, the strong and the weak. you locked yourself in your chambers, the air thick with the scent of burning herbs and fear. you had prayed for a child for so long, a living, breathing piece of the man you loved, a tie that might bind him home. and now, it seemed the gods had answered your prayer with a cruel joke.

the labor was short, brutal, and silent.

he was tiny, so terribly small, but he was perfect. a tiny, silver-haired babe, with the faintest, shimmering scales on his skin that caught the candlelight like dragon's glass. he had his nose, you thought, a small, delicate thing. and he had his father's eyes, you were sure of it, even though they would never open to see the world.

he was a poor, silent babe who never drew breath.

they took him from you, and the silence that followed was louder than any scream. it was a physical weight, a pressure in your chest that made it hard to breathe. you lay in your bed, your arms empty, your body aching with the phantom weight of him, and you felt as though you had been split in two. there was the you that existed before, and the you that existed now, a gaping, bleeding wound where your future had been.

and so, you wrote to him of your grief.

aerion, you began, your hand steady, betraying none of the tremor that shook your entire body. i write to you with the heaviest heart a woman can bear. the spring came, and it brought a gift, and it took it away in the same breath.

you told him about his son. you described the silver hair, the scales of a stillborn that marked him as targaryen. you wrote of the eyes that would never see his father’s face, of the tiny hands that would never grip his finger. you wrote with a cold, dead precision, as if you were dictating a report from a battlefield.

he was beautiful, aerion. he was our son, and he was gone before he could even be named. i held him for hours, waiting for a miracle that never came.

you paused, the quill hovering over the page. the pain was a physical thing, a beast clawing at your insides, trying to tear its way out. it felt as though your very bones had been hollowed out and filled with ice.

the grief is a pain so profound it has split me in two. i walk through the castle and i see his face in the flames of the torches. i hear his cry in the wind. i reach for him in the night and my hands find only empty blankets. they tell me it will get easier with time, but they are fools. it steals the memory of the warmth, the memory of the weight of him, until all i am left with is the shape of the loss.

you signed your name, the scratch of the quill the final, pathetic testament to your love. you sealed the letter, the wax a red, angry wound on the parchment. and then you waited. you waited for a reply that would never come, for a comfort from a man who had already forgotten you. you waited for a ship on the horizon, for a word, for a sign. but the only ships that came were bearing more corpses, and the only word from lys was silence. you had written to him of the greatest loss of your life, and he had been too busy, too distracted, too far gone to even read it.

the last of your strength ran out, and as spring sickness swept through the city, in your fevered delirium it took you.

you called for him. for your son. your last thought was not of anger, but of a profound, heartbreaking sorrow. he would never know.

two years later.

the ship that bore aerion targaryen back to king’s landing was a warship, sleek and black, a stark contrast to the gilded pleasure barges of lys. he was a man changed. he was harder, leaner, his face etched with new scars and a cold, cynical ennui.

lys had been a paradise, and like all paradises, it had rotted from the inside out. the fighting had grown dull, the women tiresome, a nagging reminder of a life he hadn’t truly wanted. he thought of the wife he had left behind with a pang of guilt that he had long since learned to ignore. he would see her. he would make it right. eventually.

he strode through the corridors, his purpose hardening with every step. he would find her. he would go to your rooms, and he would find you there, perhaps reading by the window, perhaps angry with him, but you would be there. he saw ser gerold hightower at his post outside the king’s solar.

"ser gerold," aerion bit out. "my wife. where is she?"

the lord commander of the kingsguard was a statue carved from stone and duty. his grey eyes met aerion’s without a flicker of emotion. "prince aerion. you have returned."

"do not mock me," aerion snarled, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. "where is my wife?"

ser gerold’s expression did not change. "i serve the king, my prince. and the king has no daughter-in-law."

the cold dread turned to ice in his veins. this was not just a lie…it was an erasure. were they pretending she never existed? playing a stupid joke? he turned on his heel and marched towards your chambers, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. he remembered the way perfectly. third floor, overlooking the godswood, the door with the carved silver dragon on its surface.

he reached the corridor. it was just as he remembered. but the door was wrong. it was plain, unadorned dark oak. the dragon was gone.

he threw it open.

the room was not yours. it was a generic, sterile guest chamber, smelling of beeswax and disuse. the furniture was all wrong. the bed where you had lain together, where he had held you, where he had woken from nightmares to find your hand in his, was a plain, four-poster monstrosity. the tapestries you had chosen, the ones depicting the conquest of old valyria, were gone. the desk where you had written your letters was missing. the scent of you—of lavender and skin and home…was gone, replaced by the stale air of a room long abandoned.

he took a step inside, his boots loud on the stone floor. he ran a hand over the mantlepiece. it was bare.

"where is it?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "where are her things?"

he spun around and stormed back into the hallway, his eyes wild. he saw a chambermaid, linens piled in her arms. "you!" he roared, grabbing her by the shoulders. "the woman who lived in this room! where are her things? her gowns, her books, her jewels! where did they go?"

the woman looked at him with genuine pity, and that was somehow worse than the fear. "my prince," she said softly. "no lady occupies this room. this room is kept for visiting lords!"

the pity in her eyes was the final straw. he shoved her away, her pile of linens tumbling to the floor. he didn't care. he was already moving, his long strides eating up the stone corridor, his mind a maelstrom of denial and fury.

his father, maekar, stood by the map table, his back to the door. he didn’t turn. "is she at her family’s home? she would never go there without word from me. she would never abandon me. you will not lie to me. where. is. my. wife?"

maekar turned slowly. his face was a mask of grim resolve, his eyes tired and heavy. "she is gone, aerion. she is gone, and you will let her be."

aerion stared at him, his chest tight. he wanted to believe it was a lie. "gone?" aerion advanced into the room, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "you erased her! you took her room, you have everyone in this cursed castle lying to my face! what did you do? did you have her killed? did you ship her off to some silent sister convent to be rid of her? answer me!"

the control he had been clinging to shattered. the rage he had felt in the empty room, the fury at the chambermaid’s pity, the cold fury at aegon’s lies, it all coalesced into a single, white-hot inferno. he slammed his fist down onto the map table. the intricate carved wood of the westerosi map splintered under the force. he grabbed the heavy iron figure of the iron throne and hurled it across the room, where it crashed against the wall with a deafening clang.

he swept his arm across the table, sending scrolls, maps, and inkwells flying. a pool of black ink spread across the floor like blood. he was a whirlwind of destruction, a dragon loosed in a stone cage, smashing and tearing at everything in his path. he stood in the center of the wreckage, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged gasps. he stared at his father, his vision blurred with a haze of tears and fury.

maekar had not moved. he had simply watched his son’s rampage, his expression unreadable. when aerion finally fell silent, the king spoke, his voice quiet, but carrying the weight of absolute authority.

"she is gone, aerion," he said, his voice heavy with a sorrow so deep it was almost worse than anger. "you will accept this, as you accept my command. it is done."

he saw it then, in his father’s eyes. it wasn’t just command. it was pity. and it was the final, cruelest blow. "where did she go then? taken her things with her?"

"no," maekar said, his voice dropping to a low, solemn tone. he took a deep breath, as if the words physically pained him. "she is dead, aerion."

the world tilted on its axis. "what?" he whispered, the word barely audible. "dead? what nonsense is this? she was…she was healthy when i left."

"the spring sickness," maekar said, his gaze unwavering. "it took her last year."

aerion stared at his father, his mind refusing to process the words. last year. she had been dead for a year. while he was drinking and whoring and fighting in lys, she had been dying. the guilt he had so expertly suppressed came rushing back, a tidal wave of crushing, suffocating force. he felt the air leave his lungs, his vision swimming.

"no…" he choked out, shaking his head in denial. "no. i would have known. i would have been told. the letters…"

"the letters stopped, aerion," his father said softly. "she wrote to you every day. until she couldn’t."

he couldn’t breathe. he stumbled back a step, his hand flying to his chest as if to physically hold his heart together. he remembered the letters. he remembered the stack of unopened scrolls on his desk, the ones he kept telling himself he would get to. he remembered the last one he had received, the one he had thrown into the fire without reading, her frantic script a tedious reminder of a life he was eager to escape.

"i have to…i need to see her things. i want to have my wife’s things…" he rasped, turning and fleeing the throne room, not caring about the protocol, not caring about the shocked whispers of the court.

maekar only nodded and provided aerion with the location of where your things were stored, up high in a cellar with all of the past heirlooms of the targaryen wives and husbands.

he threw the door open. he searched through the room and found your desk and a carved wooden box that belonged to you. his hands trembled as he opened it. it was filled with letters. dozens of them. all in her elegant, familiar script.

he sank to the floor, pulling them into his lap. he read them one by one, his vision blurring with tears he hadn’t shed since he was a boy. he read of her loneliness, her love, her desperate hope. he read of the child he had never known about, a son, lost to the fever. he read of her final, heartbreaking plea for a word, any word, from the husband who had abandoned her.

he reached the bottom of the box. there was one last letter. it was thicker than the others, sealed not with her personal sigil, but with the official wax seal of the red keep. his heart hammered against his ribs as he broke the seal.

it was not a letter. it was an invitation—a notice to attend the funeral services for prince aerion targaryen’s late wife.

he couldn’t breathe. the words on the page swam before his eyes, the elegant, formal script blurring into a meaningless smear of black ink. the invitation was dated from over a year ago. it was an invitation to her funeral. a funeral he had missed, because he hadn’t bothered to open a letter with the king’s landing seal.

a sound tore from his throat, a guttural, animalistic noise of pure agony. it was the sound of a man being ripped in two. he dropped the invitation as if it burned him, his hands flying to his hair, his fingers tangling in the silver strands as he rocked back and forth, a meaningless, desperate rhythm.

the box of letters lay scattered around him on the floor, a paper graveyard of her love, her hope, her pain. each one was a knife twisting in his gut. he had replaced her memory with cheap wine and the hollow laughter of courtesans, with the fleeting thrill of a duel and the meaningless siring of bastards who would never carry his name. he had traded his wife, his child, his honor, for a gilded cage of hedonism, and now the door had slammed shut, and he was trapped inside with nothing but the echoes of his own colossal failure.

he had chipped away at the fortress he had built around himself, and she had been the one to do it. she had endured his rages and his coldness, had seen the monster and loved the man trapped within. she had dismantled his walls, brick by painful brick, and he, in his infinite arrogance, had walked out of the ruins and left her there, alone. he had been so desperate to prove he didn’t need her love that he had thrown away the only thing that had ever made him whole.

the silence in the room was a physical weight, pressing down on him, crushing him. it was the silence she must have felt in her last days. he remembered her voice, the way she used to whisper his name in the dark, the way she had defied him, her eyes flashing with a fire that matched his own. he remembered the feel of her hand in his, the scent of her hair, the way she looked at him as if he were not a monster, but a man worthy of being loved.

he found the last letter she had written, the one about their son. his hands shook so violently he could barely hold it. he had a son. he had a son, and he had let him die without ever knowing he existed. he had let his wife face that alone.

he was a monster. not the one people whispered about, the arrogant, cruel prince. this was something far worse. he was a man who had been given the greatest gift in the world, love, and had thrown it away for nothing.

he stayed there on the floor of the desecrated room, surrounded by the evidence of his love and his loss, until the sun rose and set, and rose again. he did not eat. he did not sleep. he simply held her letters and read them, over and over, until the words were seared into his memory, a permanent, painful brand on his soul.

he would read them for the rest of his life. he would carry her words, her memory, as his penance. it was a punishment, his father had said. and now, finally, he understood. it wasn’t the exile to lys. the punishment was this. the punishment was coming home to find that the only person who had ever truly seen him was gone, and that he had no one to blame but himself.

he gathered the letters into his arms, clutching them to his chest as if they were her. he pressed his face to the parchment, inhaling the faint, lingering scent of her perfume, a ghost of a scent that was already fading.

It had been a little over two years since his wife's death when he decided that maybe he was ready to get himself back out there.

He met you at a restaurant where you were waiting tables as a way to have some extra money while you finished college.

You were beautiful, always had this bright smile on your face, even if you were tired, and the light in your eyes hadn't been dulled by years of loss.

After a few weeks of talking and sharing small talk whenever the restaurant wasn't busy, Jack asked you out.

Dating you was easy.

You always listened to him when he talked about his job, old army stories, and you were understanding when he told you about being a widower. You paid attention to the stuff he liked and the ones he didn't. You always brought him a little treat or some random thing that made you think of him when you two saw each other.

You were the perfect girl, sweet, giving in a way that you don't see often.

He remembers the first time he got you flowers. 

His wife's favorites used to be tulips, and as he made a quick run by the flower shop before heading to see you, that's exactly what he grabbed.

When he handed them to you, you were over the moon. You kissed him and told him how much you loved them.

He knew your favorite flower. Pink carnations. You had briefly mentioned it one day as a lady carrying a bouquet of those same flowers walked past you on your way to a coffee shop.

But Jack didn't even think of them until you came back from the kitchen with the flowers put into a vase and placed it on the center of the table. “There. They look perfect.” You'd said with a smile.

“You really like them?” Jack asked from his spot on the couch.

You turned to look at him, the words leaving your mouth quickly, “Of course I do.”

“They're your favorite?” He pushed.

Something small flickered in your expression. You lowered your head for a brief second to cover it, but Jack saw it.

“I love all flowers” You answered lightly, shrugging. “I just like that you thought of me.”

You deserved so much better than him. You deserved someone who would love you with the same intensity and thoughtfulness you loved him with. Because even if you hadn't said those three words to him yet, he knew how hard you were falling.

He knew he had to tell you, but he didn't know how he'd be able to look at you and break your heart. He'd seen you cry a few times when you saw an emotional video online or a sad movie, and the sight always made his chest tighten. 

He did care about you after all.

Jack's head was buried in the crook of your neck, kissing and nipping on the skin there as he thrusted into you. Your legs were locked around his hips, wanting to feel as much of him as you could, your nails dug into his back every time the tip of his cock brushed against your sweet spot.

Jack was so drunk in the feeling of your pussy clenching around his cock and the warmth of your skin that he didn't realise what was slipping from his lips.

“Lisa,” his voice came out almost as a moan, breathing fast and uneven.

Your small, confused “what?” Was what let him know of his mistake.

Your body went limp under him, your legs loosening around his hips before you let them drop to the bed again.

He raised his head from your neck.

Your eyes had started to well up with tears, your bottom lip trembling as you tried to not let them fall. Your hands pushed his chest. “Please get off.”

You pushed yourself up with your elbows once Jack pulled out and sat on the edge of the bed. You covered your body with the soft sheets. 

Jack picked up his boxers from the floor, sliding them on before he scrambled for an apology. “Hey–I’m so sorry– I didn't–”

Jack knew you had had some bad experiences surrounding sex, you talked to him about how some of your ex boyfriends made you feel insecure and like you weren't pretty enough. Sex was a vulnerable thing to you and it had taken a while before you told him you wanted to have sex. 

“Don't.” You cut him off, shaking your head as you wrapped the sheets around you tighter.

The air in the room felt so thick it could be cut with a knife, all that you could hear was the sounds of your sniffles.

He wanted to say something, but nothing would come out. Nothing was good enough. Nothing could repair what he had done. Nothing could make him go back in time and make him communicate with you the way he should have.

“Is this the first time you've thought of her… when we…” You asked, looking at him through wet eyelashes.

He exhaled deeply, bracing himself for your reaction. He shook his head. “No.”

“Oh.” You whispered, squeezing your lips together as the tears finally started slipping through your eyes. 

“Baby, please don't cry.” He spoke gently, like he was talking to a scared animal. He tried to reach for you but you only moved away from him.

You shook your head. “I feel so stupid.”

He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself when he saw you get up from bed and pick up your clothes from the floor with shaking hands.

“Wait– what are you doing?”

“I'm going home.” You didn't look at him as you began dressing yourself. A part of you felt dirty, used.

“Let me drive you at least.” He said, voice tight with emotion. He didn't like hurting you and he didn't want to be back to being all by himself in his house. Even if he didn't love you, he cared about you and he enjoyed your company. “It 's late.”

“I really don't want to be around you right now, Jack.” Once you finished putting your clothes on, you turned to look at him. “Why didn't you tell me before?”

“I didn't want to hurt you.”

You let out a broken, humorless laugh. “Wow. Great answer.”

Jack ran a hand through his face, forcing back his own tears. “I'm really sorry. You're wonderful, you really are… It's just… you're not her.”

You nodded quietly, and Jack thought that you slapping him in the face would've hurt less than seeing you look so defeated.

You bent down to grab your bag from the floor and slung it over your shoulders. “Goodbye, Jack.”

Thanks for reading. I hoped you liked it and consider rebbloging, leaving a comment or sending an ask if you did.

Inside, though, the air changed. It smelled like laundry detergent and garlic butter, and the vanilla candle she only lit when she wanted the space to feel warm and intentional. The laminate floors imitated wood grain with a repeating pattern that became obvious if you stared long enough. Near the kitchen, one corner had started to peel, the edge curling upward like a lifted sticker she kept meaning to fix. The baseboards didn’t quite meet at the seams; a faint shadow line marked where precision had run out.

But it was hers.

The living room glowed beneath a soft yellow floor lamp, casting everything in a quiet, forgiving light. An IKEA bookshelf leaned slightly to the left — just enough to notice if you were looking for flaws. It was crammed with thick engineering textbooks: Power Systems II, Advanced Circuit Analysis, binders exploding with neon sticky notes, loose circuit boards tucked carefully into plastic trays. Tangled charging cables were neatly wrapped and arranged to look deliberate rather than chaotic. In one corner, a small potted plant drooped stubbornly, still alive despite irregular watering and long study nights.

The couch was second-hand, dark gray and a little too firm, with one cushion that dipped more than the others. A knitted throw — uneven stitches and slightly mismatched yarn — rested folded over the arm. Her mother had mailed it the previous winter. It wasn’t perfect. That was why she loved it.

The TV hung slightly crooked on the wall.

She knew it was crooked. She had measured the studs three separate times before drilling, her knuckles scraped from threading the cables through the drywall herself. The right side dipped slightly lower than the left. She noticed it every time she sat down.

And she was proud of it.

Tonight, she had changed into a soft cream knit sweater, slightly oversized so the sleeves slipped over half her hands. Dark high-waisted jeans hugged her hips. She stood barefoot against the cool floor, her hair brushed carefully and tucked behind one ear. She had added a touch of mascara and small gold hoops she’d bought on sale, convincing herself they looked minimalist rather than inexpensive.

Nothing flashy.

Just intention.

On the tiny dining table, she had set two plates. Pasta steamed gently in a ceramic bowl she’d found at a thrift store. Garlic bread rested wrapped in foil to keep warm. A fourteen-dollar bottle of wine stood between two mismatched glasses — one thick and sturdy, the other thin and slightly cloudy from too many washes.

Her phone buzzed.

I’m outside.

Her heart leapt in a way that still surprised her after three years. She hurried to the door and pulled it open.

Valarr stood there, slipping his phone into the inside pocket of his charcoal wool coat. In his other hand, he held a small paper bag from the upscale grocery store down the street — the one she only walked into when she wanted to feel ambitious.

“I remembered,” he said lightly.

Inside the bag were strawberries, bright and perfectly shaped. A box of the granola bars she liked, but had complained were overpriced. A small container of Greek yogurt she bought only when it was on sale.

“You didn’t have to,” she said, smiling widely as she stepped into him.

He wrapped one arm around her waist without hesitation, his hand settling warm against her hip as if it belonged there. He kissed her softly at first, then deeper, smiling faintly against her lips the way he always did when she leaned into him.

For a moment, everything felt uncomplicated.

When he stepped fully inside, the apartment seemed to draw inward around him. His charcoal-tailored coat fit perfectly across his shoulders. Beneath it, a deep navy cashmere sweater hugged his frame, the crisp white collar of his shirt peeking at the neckline. Slim black trousers fell cleanly to polished leather shoes that likely cost more than her monthly rent. A silver watch gleamed subtly at his wrist — understated but unmistakably expensive to anyone who knew.

He smelled like winter air and clean cologne.

And she smiled as though none of it intimidated her.

“Come in,” she said brightly, tugging his hand. “Okay, wait — look.”

She pulled him toward the living room, gesturing proudly at the wall.

“I mounted it myself. And I hid the cables — see? I ran them through the wall. It took me three hours because I kept hitting studs in the wrong place, but I figured it out.”

She laughed at herself, cheeks flushed.

“And I finally figured out how to mirror from my laptop so we don’t have to squint at your tablet anymore.”

She was glowing — not because of the TV, but because she had built something with her own hands.

Valarr’s smile was faint, careful. “You did all this yourself?”

“Yeah,” she grinned. “YouTube and spite are powerful tools.”

She moved quickly to the table.

“Oh — and my mom and little brother sent a care package.”

She opened the box with a kind of reverence that softened her features. Inside were small containers, wrapped carefully, and a flash drive.

“It’s not much, but look — he sent this 3D animation he made.” She opened her laptop and turned it toward him. “Remember, I told you he was taking that animation course for credits? Turns out he really loves it. I think he might switch into fine arts.”

Her voice warmed.

“He pretends he doesn’t care if it’s good,” she said with a soft laugh, scrolling through the animation again, “but he keeps asking for feedback. Oh — that reminds me. Please message him when you have time. He wants help with something.”

Valarr’s mouth curved faintly. “Let me guess,” he said, already knowing the tone. “It’s about a girl.”

She grinned. “He said it’s ‘hypothetical.’”

Valarr shook his head. “It’s never hypothetical.”

He didn’t mind it — the late-night texts from her brother, the awkward screenshots of conversations asking, “Is this smooth or is this cringe?” The way he’d once spent twenty minutes drafting a response for him, only for her brother to panic and send something completely different.

There had been video calls too. Casual ones. The kind where her brother would pop into frame and say, “Hey, man,” like they’d known each other longer than three years.

Valarr had never corrected him.

“I’ll text him,” he said simply.

And she smiled in a way that was entirely unguarded.

“And my mom picked up extra hours, so she slipped me grocery money. I told her not to, but she won’t listen.”

There was no embarrassment in her tone. Only affection.

Valarr’s gaze drifted again around the apartment — the narrow kitchen barely visible beyond the counter, the fridge cluttered with magnets and one slightly faded family photo. Her engineering notes lay spread across the coffee table, equations half-solved and streaked with highlighter.

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

“Always,” she replied lightly. “Full-time engineering. Full-time job. But it’s temporary. Once I graduate…”

Her eyes brightened as she spoke.

“I’ve been looking at internships. There’s this grant for sustainable microgrids that could really help. And maybe we could go to that farmer’s market this weekend? I saved a little extra this month — not much, but enough for something fun.”

She looked at him with hopeful warmth.

“Oh — and my mum and brother really want to meet you. They’re thinking of visiting during summer break. She found cheap economy flights, and they could come during reading week.”

She said it with excitement — with openness.

As if there were no distance at all.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ☽ ⋆ ☾⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡

That was it — the moment she mentioned the flights.

In his world, flights were not something you searched for at midnight while comparing layovers and baggage fees. They were not planned around reading week or booked only when prices dipped low enough to justify them. If Valarr wanted to leave the country, he left. If he needed to land somewhere by morning, arrangements were made. There were jets for that. There were assistants for that. There were entire teams whose sole purpose was to make inconvenience disappear before he ever had to acknowledge it.

He did not look at grocery prices. He did not stand in an aisle doing mental math over yogurt brands. He had never calculated how many tutoring shifts it would take to cover a weekend outing. He had never refreshed a scholarship portal with his heart lodged in his throat, praying a GPA had not dipped below a required decimal.

And standing there in her warm, slightly crooked apartment — beneath the faint hum of that yellow lamp, surrounded by textbooks she quite literally could not afford to fail — he felt the distance between them as something tangible. It pressed into his chest like a quiet weight. Like a seam in the floor slowly widening under both their feet.

Because for her, everything was measured.

Her grades were measured. Her hours were calculated. Her spending was measured. Her scholarship demanded excellence with no room for exhaustion, no allowance for burnout. If she slipped, the funding disappeared. Tuition doubled. Rent became impossible. There would be no family trust, no quiet bailout, no legacy cushion waiting to soften the fall.

And she carried all of it without ever once asking him to carry the burden for her; only to give the support where it was requested, not demanded.

That was what he loved about her.

He loved her stubborn resilience — the way she squared her shoulders and treated impossible workloads like puzzles meant to be solved. He remembered the night she had fallen asleep on her notes, highlighter still in her hand, only to wake up thirty minutes later and mutter, “Voltage collapse can wait, but pasta cannot,” before dragging herself to the stove. He remembered the way she laughed when her simulation crashed after three hours of work, shaking her head and saying, “Guess we’re rebuilding the grid from scratch,” instead of crying.

He loved that she refused to let him pay for everything. He remembered trying to slip his card to the waiter once, and she had kicked him lightly under the table before insisting, “We’re splitting it. I saved for this.” She had grinned at him like it was a victory. He loved that she treated a simple farmer’s market trip like a grand expedition, waking up early, clutching her reusable tote bag, narrating the price of tomatoes as if they were rare artifacts.

More than that, he loved how she made him feel safe in ways money never had.

She made him feel accepted without expectation. When he had come to her after a brutal board meeting, shoulders tight with pressure he couldn’t explain, she had simply listened. No strategy. No agenda. Just a quiet presence and warm hands wrapped around a mug of tea, she had pushed into his grip. “You’re allowed to be tired,” she had told him once, brushing her thumb over his knuckles. No one in his world had ever said that to him.

She saw him — not the surname, not the succession plan, not the future CEO — but the man underneath it. She remembered small details: how he preferred his coffee too hot, how he hated cilantro but pretended not to when it was served at corporate dinners, how he got quiet when he was overwhelmed. When he caught a cold one winter, she showed up at his apartment with soup and scolded him for answering emails while feverish, tucking him into blankets like he was something precious rather than powerful.

She encouraged him in ways that felt dangerously freeing. When he admitted he sometimes wondered what life would look like if he didn’t inherit everything, she hadn’t laughed. She had leaned forward, eyes bright, and asked, “Okay. So what would you choose instead?” As if it were possible. As if he were allowed to choose.

She brought humour into spaces that had always felt rigid. He remembered her dragging him into that haunted house on Halloween, her hand gripping his while she shrieked dramatically at fake ghosts. He had almost not made it that night — obligations, family expectations — but he had arrived late, breathless, and she had beamed at him like he had crossed oceans. He had laughed more in that single hour than he had in weeks.

She celebrated his victories as if they belonged to both of them. When he closed that massive deal — the one that had kept him in conference rooms for weeks — she had been waiting in her tiny kitchen with pasta simmering on the stove, pretending she wasn’t checking her phone every five minutes. The moment he walked through the door and told her it was done, she didn’t hesitate. She laughed, dropped the wooden spoon straight into the sauce, and threw herself into his arms, eyes bright with a kind of pride that felt almost reverent.

“I knew you could do it,” she’d said, like she had been in the boardroom beside him instead of studying circuit diagrams at her cramped dining table.

She hadn’t been allowed to stand next to him in the photographs. She hadn’t been mentioned in the speeches. But she was the first place he went afterward. The first door he knocked on. The first person he wanted to see when the congratulations became too loud and too formal.

What he never forgot — or tried not to — was that she had a major lab project due that same week. A project worth nearly half her grade. She had been running on four hours of sleep, eyes strained from simulation software, fingers smudged with pen ink and highlighter. And still, she had stayed up an extra three hours after finishing her calculations just to bake him congratulatory muffins.

They weren’t perfect. One had sunk in the middle. Another leaned slightly to one side. But she had iced them carefully anyway, piping a slightly crooked “You did it” across the top of the tallest one.

The next morning, when he picked her up on his way to work — dropping her off at campus before heading to his office — she handed him the small container with shy excitement, like it was something fragile.

“I didn’t know what flavour boardroom-success is,” she had joked softly, “so I went with chocolate.”

She had a lab presentation in two hours. Dark circles under her eyes. Backpack slung over one shoulder.

And she still looked at him like he had just conquered the world.

With her, he was not a legacy. He was not a strategist. He was not a succession plan mapped out in quarterly reports.

With her, he was just Valarr.

He loved the way she would ramble about sustainable microgrids and then pivot mid-sentence to show him a video her brother had sent. He loved the way she spoke about her mother with admiration instead of embarrassment. He loved the way she believed in building something slowly, honestly, from the ground up.

He loves her.

And that was the worst part.

Because loving her meant acknowledging that what he was about to do would hurt something real — something safe, warm, and human—in favour of something that merely made sense.

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When she handed him the wine and said lightly, “Okay, sit. Episode three. And you are not allowed to fall asleep this time,” she was smiling — that easy, teasing smile she always wore when she was trying to carve out softness from exhaustion.

He didn’t sit.

The pause was small at first. Just a beat too long. She noticed immediately. The smile faded, not dramatically, just enough that the light in her eyes dimmed.

“Val?” she asked, searching his face.

He exhaled as though steadying himself for impact.

“I don’t think this is going to work.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t harden his tone. But the words moved through the room like a fracture running down glass.

She let out a short, confused laugh. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“About what?”

“About long term.”

The brightness drained from her face in real time.

“You’re always busy,” he continued carefully. “You’re exhausted. We barely see each other.”

Her eyebrows pulled together, disbelief flickering into hurt. “I’m busy because I have to be,” she said, her voice tightening around the edges. “My GPA has to stay high, or I lose my scholarship. I can’t just relax. I can’t afford to.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“But that’s my fucking reality,” she shot back, tears rising before she could stop them. “I don’t have a safety net, Val. One bad semester and everything collapses. I’m not doing this because I love stress. I’m doing this because I need that degree.”

Her hand pressed flat against her chest, like she was trying to keep her heart from climbing out.

“I always make time for us,” she continued, words spilling faster now. “Even if I’m drowning in midterms, I sacrifice sleep to see you. I save up money so we can go out. I have never — not once — used you for money.”

His jaw flexed.

“It’s not just that,” he said quietly.

There it was.

“Our families are different. Our lifestyles. Our expectations.”

Her face went frighteningly still.

“So this is about money,” she said, her voice lowering. “And the fact that I don’t come from it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It kind of is.”

“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under.”

“Then explain it to me,” she pleaded. “Please. Explain it.”

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t say that his parents already had someone else in mind. He couldn’t admit that he had never told them about her because he had been afraid they would make him choose.

Instead, he said the safest thing he could.

“I think we want different things.”

Her breath left her in a broken sound.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t make it vague because you’re scared.”

He looked away.

And that look felt like abandonment.

“Then let me meet them,” she said suddenly, desperation sharpening her voice. “Let me meet your parents. If this is about expectations, let me try.”

His head lifted quickly. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Why?” she demanded. “Why is it not a good idea?”

“It would complicate things.”

“For who?”

“For everyone.”

She stared at him as though he had physically struck her.

“You’ve never introduced me,” she said slowly, each word cutting cleaner than the last. “Three years, Valarr. Three years and I’m still a secret. You take their calls when you’re with me. You step outside. You lie about where you are.”

Her voice cracked violently.

“You were celebrated for that big fucking deal, and you spent the entire day with your family. I couldn’t even call you because you told me you couldn’t talk. But somehow you came to me that night like I’m some hidden afterthought.”

Her breathing turned uneven.

“When I achieve something, you and my family are the first people I call. The first. I’ve never hidden you. What the fuck do you mean by ‘make it work’?”

He stepped toward her instinctively. “I love you.”

“You love me?” she choked. “Then why am I a secret?”

He tried to pull her into him, hands settling on her arms, but she shoved against his chest. Her fists hit him once, twice, three times — not hard enough to injure, just hard enough to express everything she couldn’t contain.

He absorbed it, wrapping his arms around her anyway.

And then she broke.

She collapsed into his chest, sobbing into the cashmere of his sweater.

“You bastard,” she cried, her voice muffled. “Why now? Why wait three fucking years?”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

She pushed him away again, creating space between them.

“Then leave,” she sobbed. “If you’ve already decided, then just leave.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice finally cracking under the weight of it. “I don’t.”

“You already have!” she screamed. “You chose them. You chose what makes sense. So go make sense somewhere else.”

He reached for her one more time, wiping tears from her cheeks with trembling fingers.

“Please,” he whispered. “Don’t do this like this.”

“Just go,” she cried, her voice breaking apart. “Please just fucking go. I can’t breathe when you’re standing here.”

He froze.

He did love her.

But not enough to defy everything he had been raised to protect and uphold. He was the next CEO after his father. His future was mapped in contracts, mergers, and alliances. Even next week’s schedule was already dictated.

His eyes flickered to the framed photo on the table.

Halloween.

She had dragged him to a haunted house and bought the tickets herself. He had almost not come because he was taking his younger brother trick-or-treating. He had arrived late — breathless, apologetic — and she had smiled like it didn’t matter. They had spent one ridiculous hour screaming at actors in fake blood, and he had laughed — genuinely laughed — in a way he hadn’t in months.

Afterward, she had packed homemade pasta into a cheap plastic container and insisted he take it home.

He had thrown the container away before stepping into his house that night — red sauce still smeared along the cheap plastic lid — because he couldn’t justify walking through marble floors and curated art pieces with something so unmistakably hers in his hands. In his world, nothing was accidental. Nothing was messy. Everything was deliberate. And her pasta, warm and homemade and wrapped in love, had felt too real to survive under chandelier light.

Now he stood at the door of her apartment, coat draped over his arm, fingers tightening around the handle. For a second — just one — he almost turned back. He almost stepped toward her instead of away. He almost chose the harder thing.

He looked over his shoulder.

She was standing in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped around herself as though trying to hold something inside. Her mascara had smudged faintly beneath her eyes. The soft yellow lamp cast her in gold, making the room look warmer than it felt. The crooked TV hung behind her like a stubborn badge of effort and pride.

For a heartbeat, he imagined walking back. Pulling her into him. Saying he’d fight. Saying he didn’t care what anyone thought.

But the truth pressed in from every side. Board meetings. Expectations. His father’s voice. The weight of inheritance that had been placed on his shoulders long before he knew how to carry it. He saw it clearly — not just the resistance, but the years of quiet war that would follow. The compromises. The resentment. The slow erosion.

Fuck me, he thought.

He loved her.

But love didn’t erase the structure he had been built inside.

And somewhere deep down, he feared that even if he turned back now, the difference between them would keep bleeding through every polished room, every family dinner, every expectation he could never quite shake.

They were just too different.

His jaw tightened. The moment passed.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time, almost to himself.

Then he opened the door.

It closed behind him with a quiet click that sounded unbearably final.

Inside, the pasta on the table continued to cool untouched. The garlic bread stiffened slowly in its foil. The lamp hummed steadily, indifferent to what had just fractured beneath it.

She stood there long after the hallway footsteps faded, her chest rising and falling unevenly. Her hands trembled at her sides until her knees finally buckled. She sank onto the couch beneath the slightly crooked TV she had mounted with scraped knuckles and stubborn determination.

The room felt too small and too large at the same time.

She grabbed her mother’s knitted blanket — uneven stitches and all — and pulled it over her face. The first scream tore out of her before she could stop it, raw and ugly and uncontained. It broke into sobbing that shook her whole body, grief spilling out in waves she couldn’t hold back.

Because he hadn’t just left.

He had chosen a world where she did not fit.

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Two pink lines stared back at her from the edge of the sink, impossibly bright against the cheap white plastic. The bathroom light hummed faintly overhead, a small electrical buzz she had never noticed before but now couldn’t tune out. It felt too loud, too sharp in the narrow space. Her hands trembled just enough that she had to place the test carefully on the counter before she dropped it. The tile beneath her bare feet felt colder than usual. She lowered herself slowly onto the edge of the bathtub, knees nearly brushing the cabinet in the cramped room. A toothbrush sat in a chipped ceramic holder. A towel hung slightly crooked. A thin crack ran across the mirror, splitting her reflection into two uneven halves. The word “positive” didn’t flash anywhere on the test, but it didn’t need to. The meaning was clear, steady, unarguable.

Her mind didn’t race — it stalled. Valarr’s face flickered into her thoughts, not angry, not cruel, just distant and composed, the same expression he had worn when he chose what made sense. She pressed her palms against her knees to steady herself, telling her body what her thoughts could not. She had been late because of stress, because midterms were brutal. After all, she had barely been sleeping. After all, her scholarship depended on maintaining a high enough GPA to survive another semester. That had to be it. But the evidence sat on the counter, silent and unmoving. “I can’t,” she whispered to the empty room, the words barely audible over the hum of the light. The test didn’t respond. It didn’t accuse or comfort. It simply existed — and now, so did this new, irreversible truth.

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A few days later, she walked to the campus coffee shop instead of taking the bus.

The air was cold enough to sting her cheeks, and she welcomed it. She needed something steady beneath her feet — pavement, gravity, the rhythm of her own steps. The walk gave her something to focus on besides the echo of the bathroom light and those two pink lines she hadn’t stopped thinking about.

She didn’t order coffee anymore.

Not until she figured things out.

The smell of espresso drifting through the open café doors made her stomach turn slightly. It used to comfort her — that bitter, sharp scent of late nights and problem sets. Now it felt like something she wasn’t allowed.

But she could have apple pie.

Three dollars and seventy-five cents.

She stood in line longer than necessary, staring at the display case while students in heavy coats shuffled impatiently behind her. The pie slices were unevenly cut, the crust a little darker on one side. Nothing fancy. Just warm and familiar.

“You deserve it,” she murmured under her breath before ordering.

It sounded like something her mother would say on the phone after a challenging exam week.

The shop was alive with noise. Espresso machines hissed and spat steam in bursts. Milk frothed with a mechanical whine. Chairs scraped against tile. Laughter flared too loudly near the window where a group of undergrads crowded around laptops and energy drinks. Someone’s headphones leaked tinny music.

Midday rush.

She wore a faded university hoodie, the fabric softened by too many washes. The sleeves were pushed up past her wrists, exposing faint indentations from where she had been leaning on her desk too long. Black leggings. Sneakers with frayed laces she kept meaning to replace. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun that refused to sit neatly, loose strands brushing against her temples. There was no mascara today. No gloss. Just exhaustion.

She carried her tray to her usual corner table near the wall outlet and opened her laptop out of habit. Simulation software blinked across the screen — graphs shifting, numbers recalculating. She stared at them, but they might as well have been written in another language.

Her mind had been elsewhere all morning. The café was loud — espresso machines hissing, milk steaming, chairs scraping against tile — but the noise barely reached her. Once, unconsciously, her hand drifted to her lower stomach. Just once. The motion was small, instinctive, as if she were steadying something fragile. She pulled it back quickly, glancing around as though someone might have seen, might have understood something she wasn’t ready to say aloud. When the barista called her name for the pie, she stood too fast. The legs of her chair scraped loudly against the floor, drawing a few distracted glances. She turned — and walked straight into someone solid.

Her shoulder hit first, then her balance tipped forward. The small plate in her hand wobbled dangerously. Before she could brace for impact, strong hands caught her at the waist. Not grabbing. Not possessive. Just steady. Grounding. “Whoa there.” The voice was warm, lightly amused without crossing into mockery. She looked up.

He had silver hair, slightly tousled as if he’d run his fingers through it absentmindedly. Under the café’s overhead lights, it softened what might otherwise have been sharper features. He wore black jeans that fit well without appearing tailored, boots scuffed just enough to look worn rather than neglected, and a dark charcoal Henley beneath a fitted leather jacket. The leather was good — supple, the kind that aged into character — but he wore it as if it were nothing special. A thin silver ring caught the light as his hands steadied her. He looked expensive too, but not in the polished, curated way she had grown used to. There was no performance in it. No signal. Just ease.

His smile tilted to one side, crooked and effortless. “I think,” he said smoothly, “you just fell for me.”

Despite everything heavy and complicated pressing against her ribs, a laugh slipped out. It startled her as much as it did him. “Did you practice that?” she asked, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

He nodded solemnly. “Only twice this morning.”

The corner of his mouth twitched as he released her the moment she found her footing. There was no lingering pressure from his hands, no attempt to prolong the contact. He stepped back enough to give her space but not so far that it felt like retreat. His eyes dropped briefly to the stack of textbooks and the open simulation running across her laptop screen.

“Electrical engineering?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.

She blinked at him, still slightly off balance. “I’m sorry,” she said carefully, “are you in one of my classes? Because I don’t remember seeing you.”

His grin widened. “I enjoy living,” he replied. “So no.”

That did it. She smiled fully — the first unguarded smile she’d felt in weeks. It stretched across her face like a muscle remembering its purpose. He extended his hand. “Aerion.”

She hesitated for only a heartbeat before placing her hand in his. His grip was warm and steady, confident without squeezing, present without overwhelming. It was the kind of handshake that didn’t try to dominate.

“I was just grabbing coffee,” Aerion said, nodding toward the counter where his drink waited. “But if you’re on a break from stress limits and voltage collapse, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

She almost said no. The instinct to retreat tugged at her — back into her chair, back into her thoughts, back into the quiet weight she was carrying alone. The scholarship. The future. The two pink lines she hadn’t told anyone about. “I think I’m okay,” she said softly.

He didn’t push. “Fair,” he replied easily. “But I wouldn’t mind getting your number.”

There was no smirk behind it. No entitlement. Just interest, plain and uncomplicated. Maybe it was exhaustion that made her say yes. Maybe it was loneliness. Perhaps it was the way he was looking at her — not like she was something fragile to protect or something complicated to assess. Just like she was there.

“Okay,” she heard herself say.

They exchanged phones, fingers brushing briefly as they handed them back. He slid his into his jacket pocket and stepped back, hands settling casually at his sides. “No pressure,” he added. “But I’m usually around this time. In case gravity betrays you again.”

She rolled her eyes, but warmth lingered in it. “I’ll watch my footing.”

He gave her one last amused glance before turning and weaving through the crowded café. He moved easily, instinctively finding space between tables and conversations. People shifted without quite realizing they were doing it. He was confident, unbothered, unaware that he had just flirted with his cousin’s ex. Unaware that she was carrying something far heavier than textbooks.

She watched him go longer than she meant to, tracking the easy line of his shoulders, the relaxed set of his posture. Then her phone buzzed in her hand.

She looked down.

Hey, sorry — couldn’t wait. How are you for a Friday two weeks from now? Movie. My treat. 🙂

Her chest tightened — not painfully, just differently. Two weeks from now. Two weeks ago, she had been crying beneath a crooked TV in a too-small apartment. Now someone was asking her out with a smiley face and no visible calculation behind it.

The café noise blurred into background static as she stared at the screen. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel weighed against invisible standards. She didn’t feel dismissed or hidden or measured. She felt noticed.

And somewhere beneath the anxiety, beneath the uncertainty, beneath the fear — there was the slightest flicker of something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel since everything fell apart.

Hope.

the maesters, called high and far from the citadel to see if they could be of any use in helping save the life of the prince, watched as you refused to be parted. 

baelor looked as though he was only asleep. his eyes were shut peacefully, his chest rising with even breaths, his skin as warm as you remembered. but somehow, despite all that the maesters did, he would not open his eyes.

you recall, maybe in the two or three days after baelor had been brought back from ashford, that your maids had pleaded with you to leave his side, to seek respite. to eat something more than scraps, to sleep in your chambers instead of the chair you had set near his bedside. 

they had since stopped asking. 

you stepped away only to soak in the tub, asking for the hottest water that they could manage, sitting alone until it turned tepid and until your tears had run out. then you’d dressed and gone back to your husband’s side.

you think it was valarr, the elder of your husband’s sons from his first marriage, that tried to convince you that this is not what his father would have wanted. you’d only looked at him sadly—he was closer to you in age and you had always gotten along well with him, but even he could not hide the fear and sadness behind his mismatched eyes. 

he was frightened, and usually, he sought out his father when he felt that way. 

and yet here he was, trying to offer you comfort where there was none to be found. baelor’s qualities shone in him brightly. 

valarr had already suffered the death of one parent, and now, on the precipice of losing another, he still tried to convince you to eat and sleep.

but there was nothing that could convince you. kiera, valarr’s wife, had tempted you with the offer to go pray in the sept with her.

that too felt sweet, as fleeting as it was. kiera was not westerosi, she did not know the gods you had grown up with, but she still offered.

you had caught a glimpse of the two hugging and crying outside of baelor’s chambers when you were headed back in a clean gown with washed hair. the very sight of their tears made you start crying again, even more so when you sat down beside him and wished that there was something you could do to wake him up. 

baelor always said he loved the smell of your hair. you thought something magical might happen, something out of a song or an old story you would one day tell your children. that he might wake up and say those sweet words that always make you flush, make you feel special and loved and have since the day you met him. 

but stories are for children, and the knife cuts even deeper when you realize any child you could have had would not know baelor. not ever get to see him, to rest in his arms, to be comforted by him.

and you—how could you ever try to marry again? how could you ever replace him? his gentle smile, his sweet laugh, the way his eyes shone when he saw you as though it was the first time all over again. 

you had been but a frightened girl when the match was made. you had expected little, not allowing yourself to believe tales of his chivalry and kindness, trying to save yourself from being disappointed.

he had surpassed even your wildest expectations. perhaps that is why this hurts even more—since the day in the sept when he had replaced your family’s cloak with the red and black one of his house, you can’t recall a moment in which you had felt fear.

you think it is because baelor is a balm to the wounds of the world. 

you had never felt uneasiness throughout your marriage until he told you he would be participating in the trial of seven, that he would be fighting for ser duncan.

and you had never known true fear, horrid and dark and burning through you, until you saw maekar’s mace hit him, and you saw him collapse in front of all those at ashford meadow.

even now, nothing in the past days has compared to that feeling. it washes through you time and time again. when you fall asleep with your head near baelor’s hand, it comes back to haunt you in your dreams. 

you awake, each time, hoping it was just a nightmare. that you’re in bed, warm beside your husband, that he’ll whisper in your ear to go back to sleep, that it was just a bad dream. 

instead you awake to maesters. they fuss over your husband and beg you to get sleep and rest in your chambers, and you don’t have any energy left, though you wish you did. you’d shout at all of them—beg and scream at them to do something, to do anything, to fix your husband’s wounds and make him return back to you as he’d always promised. you’d yell that you don’t have your own chambers because you and baelor shared them, that you don’t know what it is to sleep without your husband.

instead you stay quiet, shaking your head politely when they ask if you need anything further. you hold baelor’s hand and pray to the mother to watch over your husband. 

-

you’re walking back to the chambers, donning a fresh gown and with a new history book to begin reading aloud to baelor, when you see him outside the door.

you’re not cruel, but you can’t help but think that it is the worst when maekar comes to visit. his grief is all stored behind his violet eyes. though you know it was an accident, that he would never harm his brother on purpose, you still wish that perhaps, he would leave you alone with baelor.

you’re not cruel, you never have been. but you can’t comfort maekar when he is the reason your husband is on the verge of death, on the verge of leaving you forever. when you look at maekar all you can see is the life you should have had with baelor, dark haired, kind daughters and stoic sons and years of joy that have been so quickly taken from you.

you do not wish to speak to anyone else today. perhaps if you say it kindly, he will listen, and you prepare yourself as you approach. but as he hears your footsteps, he turns quickly, his expression unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.

“come quickly,” maekar says, and the tone of his voice makes your heart beat faster. “baelor is awake.”

you drop your book in the hallway. you rush inside as quickly as your feet will take you, the maids moving quickly in the opposite direction, likely to go find valarr and matarys. the noise that leaves you is entirely unladylike, a desperate, pleading sob mixed with a shout, as you forgo your seat and sit directly on the edge of the bed. 

your hands find his, vision blurred with hot tears that rush down your face. you blink, watching as your husband’s eyes find yours, and you smile, for what may be the first time since he closed his eyes two weeks ago.

“husband?” you say quietly. he looks at you but he doesn’t reply for some time, like he’s still piecing together his thoughts.

you feel relief course through your veins. it’s a feeling like nothing else you’ve ever felt before, a special type of joy. the fear of spending your life alone, widowed so young and without the love you had only just began to know fading with each passing moment.

you hold his hand tighter, looking back at maekar with a smile, knowing how he must be feeling right now. the guilt had been swallowing him whole, and it had been affecting you too, in different ways, wondering what you could have done to make him listen to you that day. if only you’d been more convincing, or perhaps, told him about the babe growing in your stomach…

that might have made him stay safely by your side rather than leaving to uphold honor and duty.

such a man was your husband, that he—

you feel baelor’s fingers slip away from your grip. you turn back quickly, worried that something’s happened, that he’ll have fallen asleep again, that you’re still in this waking nightmare, just when you thought it was almost over. 

“baelor?” you whisper, eyes brimming with fresh, hot tears. 

“i…” he trails off, voice hoarse, sounding especially unlike himself. “i don’t-”

you reach over for a goblet of water, as maekar comes to his brother’s side and helps him sit up. the maesters continue their fussing as you give him the cup, and he takes a small sip.

he looks towards maekar, smiling at his brother, even in this state, and you can only imagine how that must feel for the two of them. you feel relieved for your brother-by-law too, that he does not have to live with the guilt and pain hanging over him for the rest of his days.

your husband was awake, and—

when he looks over at you, his smile fades a little. 

“i… i cannot recall what happened-” he starts, his attention mostly on maekar. “brother, i-”

“that’s alright,” you interrupt, taking your seat by his side. you bring your hand to his arm, but before you can, he moves it away. “you’ve been through a great ordeal. we are just so happy you are awake.” 

you try to set aside the stinging feeling in your chest. baelor has never avoided your touch like this, even in front of his family. perhaps it’s because the maesters, you think, trying to soothe yourself. 

you have to soothe yourself. there’s no one else besides baelor who can help you with that task, and even now—

“and my sons? where are they?” baelor asks, and maekar glances towards you. he seems to know what is coming before you do. you answer him quickly, smiling again, ignoring the tears as they fall down your face. 

“the maids have gone to find them, and kiera, too. they should be here any moment,” you say, wiping your eyes with your hands. you blink at him, and then at maekar, and then—

“kiera?” he questions. you look between him and maekar in confusion. “i am sorry, my lady, forgive me. may i have a moment alone with my brother?”

time feels almost frozen. you stare at baelor, your mind spinning. the room feels entirely too hot. the ties of your gown seem almost suffocating. 

i’m not a lady, you think sadly, i’m a princess now. i have been a princess since the day in the sept when you made me your wife. 

more tears come, and you wipe them away, trying to fight the battle inside your head. it’s all a mistake, you think, all a misunderstanding—

maekar says your name and you’re snapped out of your thoughts.

“perhaps we should give him a moment,” maekar says, and as he looks at you, you can almost read the thoughts inside his head. 

how sorry he is. how guilty he feels that he almost killed his brother. the relief that baelor’s alive, the pain of understanding what his actions have caused.

“he’s only just awoken,” you plead, your words coming out in between sobs. “he just needs time, i beg, please-”

your vision is blurry once again, and you wonder how there can still be tears inside of you. 

you could fill a well with them, you think, choking back a cry. that is what baelor would always say, because you cried too much and too often and over the smallest things, even when they were shed of happiness.

and he always said he hated seeing you cry.

“do not cry, my lady,” baelor says, and his words only make you feel worse—still trying to be kind and polite, even in his state. “if you could give us only a moment. perhaps you could find me my wife, jena?” 

You open your mouth. What comes out is not yes, not immediately, because you are your father's daughter and your father's daughter does not walk into things without stating the terms plainly.

"I am not a knight, Egg. I am a woman who has barely trained in secret in a yard that was never meant for me, with a sword that was never truly mine, and I have never once faced a foe who came at me in earnest." A beat passes and you sigh. "If I fail his trial, it is Ser Duncan who dies for my shortcomings. You understand that."

Egg's expression does not flicker. It is one of his most aggravating qualities.

"You won't fail," he says, as if he were telling you that your house sigil is a dragon with three heads.

You pinch your eyebrows, "That is not an argument, that is wishful thinking—"

"You won't," he says again. Quieter this time. Certain in the way that only Egg can be certain. "I know you. I have always known you. And I am asking you."

Pulling him into a tight hug, you let your fingers caress the back of his head, while you fight the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks.

"I will take Ser Duncan’s side," you say. "Let's go scavenge some armour."

The trial of seven smells of blood and fear and churned earth, and it is nothing like the yard at Summerhall.

The yard had a barely willing master-of-arms and the unspoken agreement that everyone present would prefer you uninjured by suppertime. This field has men who want you dead, and you discover the distance between those two things the moment the first blow lands: in the shock from sword hand to jaw, in the feet moving before the mind does.

You keep Maekar in your sight and do not let him go. He is your north. The point by which you navigate this grey and ringing dark.

He is not fighting. He is searching — Aerion, always Aerion, his eyes locked on his son through the smoke and the press of bodies, his mace arm clearing a path that his mind is barely cognizant of.

Baelor is three feet to his left.

Your father's body has not registered this.

Your father's body has not registered much of anything except the single desperate imperative driving it forward — get to him, get to him, get to him — and in approximately two seconds that imperative is going to put a mace through your uncle's skull and your father is going to have to live the rest of his life knowing what his hands did whilst he was not himself.

One second.

No. Absolutely not.

You move. The blow that was never meant for anyone it loved finds the one person on this field who was paying attention.

White. Dark. White.

Still standing. Somehow.

Aerion yields shortly after. You hear it from very far away, as though the sound has to travel some impossible distance to reach you. The fighting stops, and the world stops with it, and you find that you have been moving — drifting, really, stumbling in a direction that feels like toward — until you arrive at the place under the archway where your uncle Baelor is speaking quietly with the hedge knight, Ser Duncan, who looks half dead himself.

Baelor’s eyes turn to you as you stumble near them both. His hand presses on your shoulder, helping you remain upright. He calls for the maester before moving to stand behind you.

He is speaking. Something about the fight and then something kind.

"Your helm," he says. "Here, I'll—"

Wait, you think, but thinking has become unreliable, and by the time the thought has formed his hands have already done it, lifted it free, and the air is very cold against the back of your head.

Baelor stops, letting out a prayer.

When you turn, you see that his face has gone the colour of old ash. His eyes have found something behind you that they cannot seem to leave.

"Forgive me, uncle, I can expl—"

Then Egg is there, coming around from behind you, and the sound he makes is not a word, not quite, it is something that was a word before grief got to it, and you think distantly that you will have to comfort him about this later, once you recover, that he will need you to tell him that all is well.

You will tell him, you decide.

Later.

Baelor's arms come around you, and the world goes somewhere quiet and still, and very, very soft.

Egg comes out of the fog looking nothing like himself, which is the first warning, and everything like a boy who has just lost something irreplaceable, which is the second, and Maekar has always been good at reading warnings and equally good at wishing he wasn't.

He is crying. Maekar's first coherent thought is that he has not seen this boy cry since his mother died, and his second thought, arriving hard on the heels of the first, is that whatever has caused it today should also cause him to cry.

Maekar takes his son by the shoulder. Lets himself be taken in return. Follows where he is led without asking, because asking would require him to hear the answer spoken aloud, and he is not ready for that yet.

"Father." Egg begins and then stops and seems to lose the thread of whatever he wants to say, his face crumpling at the edges in a way that costs Maekar something he cannot name. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It was my fault, it was my idea, I asked her to, I didn't think—"

He sees the helm first. The ill-fitted helm, sitting beside a still form. He has never seen that helm before in his life.

Then Baelor looks up at him, and Maekar knows. He does not know how he knows, but he does, the way you always know the thing you have most feared before you are told it.

He goes to his knees in the dirt. He is not a man who kneels easily. He has not knelt in years. He kneels now.

Your face, when he sees it, is peaceful in a way it never quite was in life. You were always moving, always turning toward something, always with some light in you that could not stay still. The light is gone now.

He had not known you were here. He could not have known. He says this to himself and finds it does not help at all.

You came for Aegon. You came for the hedge knight. You came because you believed in the rightness of it, the way his own blood had always believed in rightness too fiercely for their own safety. You came wearing armour that did not fit because no armour in the world was made to fit you, because he had never allowed the world to make room for what you were.

He had not known you were here.

The blow was meant for Baelor.

He had not known you were here.

That is the sentence he will carry for the rest of his life, the one he will turn over in the dark hours, wearing it smooth with use. It will not become easier. He does not expect it to.

He reaches out and takes your hand. The gauntlet is still on it, too large for your hands, held on with straps pulled to the last notch. He should have seen. If he had looked closer at anything, at any of it, he should have seen.

Ser Duncan the Tall is somewhere nearby. Maekar does not look at him. He is not capable of looking at anything except your face and the harrowing stillness of it.

Baelor's mouth opens. Closes. He is a man who has never once in his life been without the right word, who has always had language the way other men have weapons. But he reaches now and finds nothing, and the nothing stretches between them like a wound, and Maekar understands with a cold and total clarity that this is what grief looks like when it is too big for either of them to hold.

You had wanted to prove yourself to him. He knows this without being told, knows it the way he knows all your quiet wants, the ones you never said aloud because you understood, somehow, that he would refuse them, and you were too clever to be refused when you could simply go ahead and act. 

You had been right. You had fought today, and he had seen it without knowing who he was watching, and you had been right.

He had not known you were here.

He thinks of every time he said not outside Summerhall and believed he was protecting you. He thinks of how you used to look at him when he relented, when he could not hold the line of no against the force of your wanting, the way your whole face opened up, as though you had been waiting for him to simply see you.

He had seen you. He had just never allowed himself to look long enough to understand what he was seeing.

Around him, Ashford goes on being Ashford. Somewhere a horse moves. Somewhere men speak in low voices about what comes next, about the laws and the obligations and the what-is-to-be-done of it all. The world has opinions about the morning.

Maekar has only one.