The twilight painted the castle gardens in shades of violet as the wind stirred the silk curtains. With the window left slightly ajar, Maekar’s eldest daughter gazed out at the horizon, calmly watching the orange hues fade while the first stars began to awaken across the night sky.

Summerhall, her home, was a beautiful castle surrounded by hills and small groves that vanished into the distance. Tucked away from the world, it had originally been conceived as a retreat for the Targaryens to escape the entanglements of the court, yet it now seemed incapable of keeping them at bay.

Two weeks earlier, a message had arrived from the Red Keep, in which her grandfather, Daeron II, approved his youngest son’s proposal to marry her to Aerion. The decision came as an unexpected blow, for she held no interest in him and felt nothing but repulsion. Casting him from the top of a tower seemed a far more fitting fate for someone so despicable, far from any altar.

Baelor said that one should love one’s siblings, but such teachings from the septas held little weight against Brightflame’s cruelty. Of the king’s four sons, none possessed a particularly difficult nature, making it hard for her uncle to understand what it meant to be forced into a union with a man of such darkness.

If Maekar’s intent was to keep the bloodline within the family, even Daeron would have been the more sensible choice. The man lived devoted to wine and visions, making him a far more manageable fate, lacking any violent nature. Nevertheless, none of those unions would have brought her happiness, for her heart had belonged to another prince since childhood.

Valarr Targaryen, second in line to the Iron Throne and her beloved cousin, had won her heart without ever meaning to. By any measure, he was the perfect man, though her affection had taken root long before he became the admirable young lord so widely praised by the nobility.

That devotion was forged in childhood, when, for reasons neither could explain, they were always drawn to one another. Family gatherings, royal duties, or court events became opportunities to spend as much time together as possible. At first, they played like any other children, but as the years passed, fleeting touches and lingering glances began to betray an interest that went beyond mere kinship.

Finally, one afternoon in the library of Dragonstone, as they waited to be called to supper, what they felt came to light. Valarr pointed to an old passage in a worn leather-bound tome, explaining with enthusiasm the details of a past conquest, unaware that the young woman’s attention was slipping under the weight of his closeness. The space between them on the settee was minimal, and every brush became a constant temptation to close the distance, though she did not dare cross the line for fear of making him uncomfortable.

For that reason, she forced herself to remain composed and focused on the story. Hoping to appear attentive and engaged, she reached out a hand to help hold the book, misjudging the length of her fingers as they came to rest over his. She immediately flinched and withdrew with a soft apology, the sudden movement causing their legs to brush against each other.

Valarr fell silent, noticing the deep flush on her cheeks and the way she looked at him with quiet nervousness. In an instant, the text lost all meaning, and the air grew heavy, thick with an unspoken confession that throbbed, desperate to break free. Somehow, with memories blurred by the intensity of the moment, the distance between them closed until their shared breath turned into a kiss. That single gesture sealed their fate beneath the shadows of the shelves, transforming childhood closeness into an unbreakable devotion.

From that moment on, whenever protocol allowed them to draw close, their hands would find each other in silent complicity, and kisses would bloom far from any prying eyes. The distance that separated them weighed heavily, and so the letters they exchanged became the only solace for the longing that consumed their patience through such prolonged separation.

Both were dutiful children and trusted that, when the time came, they would be able to ask their parents for permission to be together. However, they had not accounted for Maekar having plans of his own, as he had never shown any sign of hastening to find her a husband.

Thanks to that blind trust, the news proved devastating, so much so that the physical toll left her bedridden for two days. Despair consumed her, and she wept without knowing what to do, until, unexpectedly, she found a note from Valarr beneath her pillow, putting an end to her anguish. How it had come to be there, she did not know, but what mattered was the promise written by the prince, who swore to love her and assured her he would never give her to another man. His determination was palpable, and for the first time, both were willing to break the rules, to flee and defy the royal decree.

As if it were any ordinary day, she went about her routine, spending time with the younger members of the family, indulging them with the certainty that, by the next dawn, they would no longer find her in Summerhall. She even dined with Maekar, the man who, without knowing it, had upended her life and driven her to such a drastic decision. Afterward, she sought the solitude of her chambers and prepared a small bag that would accompany her through the adventures and hardships she was soon to face.

With a hint of nostalgia, she looked over her belongings, a few tears slipping free at the thought of everything she was leaving behind. Even so, she was certain of what she wanted and of the suffering that would come from simply going along with it. So when the moment came, she did not hesitate to gather her things and set off along the planned route, leaving that castle behind for good.

Breathless and wary of making any noise, she stepped carefully onto the grass on the other side of the wall, moving forward until the snort of a horse startled her. Instinctively, a hand flew to her chest as she made her way toward the sound, for there was only one person who could be hiding beside that animal at such an hour.

“Valarr,” she whispered in relief, a bright smile lighting up her face.

Cloaked from head to toe, the young man stopped stroking one of the two horses and turned to face her. The dim light did little to hide the intensity of his gaze or the warmth that radiated from their long-awaited meeting beneath the stars.

“My love,” he replied softly, pulling her into a tight embrace. “I finally have you.”

“We were apart for far too long,” she whispered, resting her chin in the curve of his neck as her eyes slipped closed.

“I know,” he murmured, brushing a hand along her back before pulling away. “If it were up to me, we’d stay like this forever, but there’s no time to lose. We have to go.”

Understanding the gravity of the situation if they were discovered, she nodded and pressed a brief kiss to his lips before setting off. The sudden gesture left Valarr dazed for a few seconds, but he quickly helped her onto the mare before mounting his own horse, the one he had ridden to get there.

“We’ll walk first so the sound of the hooves doesn’t alert anyone. Once we’re far enough, we’ll start to gallop,” he said, taking the lead.

With a silent nod, she adjusted her grip on the reins, mirroring Valarr’s cautious pace through the vegetation surrounding the walls. The tension of being discovered kept her senses sharp, turning every rustle into a potential threat until the distance from Summerhall was enough to pick up speed. They rode on in silence, focused on gaining ground and leaving everything behind, exchanging fleeting glances to make sure the other could keep up. At last, when the horses began to breathe heavily, they slowed their pace to catch their breath.

“You said you had everything planned, that I shouldn’t worry, but where are we going?”

“I spoke with my mother’s family. We’ll stay a few days at Blackhaven, stock up on supplies while we decide where to go next. By the time word of your escape reaches them and they connect it to my disappearance during the ‘hunting trip’ I arranged, we’ll already be gone.”

“So you’re supposed to be out in some forest with a group of knights, hunting down a beast to bring back as a trophy?” she asked with a faint, lopsided smile, her eyelids growing heavy as sleep began to take hold.

“Correct. I’ve calculated the days carefully, and I believe we’ll be able to leave the Dondarrions behind before they decide to lock us up and proclaim themselves saviors of the realm for capturing the fugitives.”

She sighed and nodded, her gaze drifting back to the landscape, where in the distance the sky was beginning to lighten. The colors of dawn washed over the hills as the silhouette of Summerhall was finally swallowed by the distance, marking a point of no return in their journey into the unknown.

“They’ll never stop looking for us, especially my father. He has experience leading expeditions in search of a lost child,” she said, a weight settling in her chest at the thought of the stress it would cause him.

“We can send letters to let them know we’re safe, but I have no intention of going back anytime soon. I want to live and explore with you, enjoy it, and then build a family. Once we’re married and have children, no one will be able to tear us apart.” He smiled faintly as the breeze stirred his hair.

“Marriage?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, a spark of excitement stirring at the thought of being joined to him.

“Of course. Our children won’t be bastards. They’ll have a father and a mother who love each other and are bound before the gods,” he said, meeting her gaze with a glint in his eyes.

“I’ve always wanted a wedding true to our roots, not one in keeping with the Faith of the Seven.”

“I know. I remember you mentioned it the last time we saw each other, and it will be so,” he said with a nod, a hint of light in his expression at the mere thought of it. “In fact, we’ll do it today, when we reach the place I chose.”

“So soon?” she laughed, pleased, a flutter in her stomach chasing away the last traces of fatigue.

“I won’t make any more mistakes. This way, no one will ever separate us again.”

The conviction in Valarr’s voice left her captivated as she studied the beautiful lines of his profile. Under the golden light of dawn, the prince’s features seemed carved with a determination she had never seen before.

Feeling as though she was falling in love all over again, she followed him with trust as the sun rose higher in the sky. They made brief stops to drink water and eat what he had gathered on his way to Summerhall, taking the chance to exchange small gestures of affection without fear of being seen by anyone they knew.

Finally, past midday, ruins appeared beyond a green hill, covered in grass that swayed with the wind. Valarr stopped and pointed to the weathered stones, where nature was beginning to reclaim what had once been an imposing structure. In that forgotten corner of the Seven Kingdoms, the surroundings seemed to whisper blessings in a language only they could understand, as if preparing the ground for the rite that would bind them together forever.

“I’ve brought what we need to see this through. It won’t be luxurious, but at least it will be a true wedding, chosen by us, without any impositions,” Valarr said as he unstrapped a bag from his horse.

Moving closer, he set the bag down on a broken stone table and spread a red cloth with golden details. He then placed two cases of different sizes and opened them, allowing her to take in their contents. In the larger one, a golden chalice gleamed, carved with a mastery that evoked the past glory of their house, while in the other rested a dagger with an engraved hilt.

“Where did you get this?” she asked, awestruck, her fingers brushing over the engraved details.

“I borrowed them from the relics office,” he said with a smile that made it clear he had, in fact, taken them without asking. “They’re the same ones Daemon and Rhaenyra used in their time.”

The woman pulled her hand back for a moment, astonished by the historical weight of the objects. These were not simple tools, but fragments of an era when dragons still soared through the skies and the will of their bloodline knew no bounds. According to the records, the couple had been the last to marry under Valyrian tradition, and now they were reviving that legacy to seal their own fate.

“This is incredible,” she breathed, a shiver running through her skin.

“Shall we begin?”

Valarr stepped forward until he stood only inches away, where the heat of their bodies mingled with quiet tension. He took the blade and held it for a moment in silence, waiting for her to nod and confirm she was ready.

At her nod of approval, he lifted her hand and carefully made a firm cut across the palm. Blood welled up at once, thick and dark, running down into the chalice she held. Without hesitation, they exchanged the objects, and she repeated the gesture, opening a wound just as deep.

Following the ancient rite, they pressed their wounded palms together. The heat of their lifeblood mingling became an electric sensation that ran up their arms and into their hearts. With a faint smile, Valarr raised the chalice and drank without taking his eyes off her, feeling both their pulses quicken.

“Blood of my blood,” he whispered, handing her the chalice.

With reverence, she brought the gold to her lips and drank, making sure to leave nothing behind. The thick warmth descended through her throat like a promise, binding her forever to the man who held her hand firmly.

“Blood of my blood,” she repeated with a sigh, setting the object aside beside the dagger.

The man took her by the waist and drew her closer, letting their joined hands rest against their racing hearts. The blood still dripping to the ground now darkened their clothes, but it mattered little, for it would serve as proof and memory of their long-awaited union.

“Now we are one before the gods,” the prince said, sealing their union with a kiss that tasted of iron.

The emotion of the moment was overwhelming, and tears of joy escaped her as she laughed in the midst of their passionate exchange. Valarr followed her lead, smiling as he pressed his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her fevered skin beneath the scorching sun.

Baelor walked with heavy steps and tense shoulders, twisting the signet ring on his finger with a focus that betrayed his impatience. As he drew closer, the shouting grew more violent, a man and a woman speaking over one another. The prince met the noise with a deep sigh and closed his eyes, shaking his head while the two guards who reported the dispute exchanged uneasy glances.

"Both of you, leave."

"As you command, my lord," they said in unison with a bow.

Once they retreated, Baelor closed the distance and pushed open the doors that barely held back the uproar. As was customary, he found Maekar hurling stinging words at the postmistress, a woman burning with rage while involuntary tears traced paths down her face.

"I cannot even argue properly because you start crying!" he roared, raising an arm in indignation. "You do not know your place, and on top of that, you whimper like a whore on her first night!"

"You speak as if you had experience," she spat, sweeping the traces of moisture away with the back of a hand. "No doubt any woman on the Street of Silk would break into sobs at your sight. Who in their right mind would ever offer themselves to someone like you?"

"I should lock you away once and for all for your insolence!" he shouted, beside himself as a scarlet flush crept up from his neck in his agitation.

"Enough," Baelor intervened, stepping forward with a calm that stifled them for a moment as the doors closed heavily behind him. "These tantrums are exhausting. If you loathe each other so much, why do you insist on meeting?"

"The superior of this shameless girl is ill, and apparently she is the only one capable enough to fill the vacancy, which I find an insult to intelligence itself. How far has the Red Keep fallen?" he asked indignantly, resting a hand on his hip with a huff.

"Do not waste your breath trying to understand. It is far too complicated for you," she countered, defending her own competence as she took the chance to hurl the insult back.

Maekar craned his neck and fixed his gaze on her, yet she did not look away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeming intimidated. Meanwhile, Baelor stepped between them in silence, meeting his kinsman’s violet eyes before turning to the woman.

"Go."

After swallowing hard, she drew a deep breath in an attempt to steady herself and nodded before lowering her head. A sting of bitterness tightened her chest at the sight of his disappointment, as it pained her to have faltered under the scrutiny of the man she respected most. For that reason, she fought the urge to cast one last furious glance at the silver-haired prince and abandoned the room.

With a lump in her throat, a hand pressed against her chest to feel the racing beat of a confused heart. Fighting was something she hated, and nightmares of her clashes with the King’s fourth son often haunted her, though to her misfortune, it seemed to be the only way to interact with him. It was impossible to pinpoint when insult became the norm, yet whenever Maekar’s presence closed in around her, only a biting sharpness remained. The reason for such behavior was a truth she chose to ignore, born of a desire so profound it was maddening to accept he would never be hers.

To make matters worse, a similar pull toward Baelor lingered within her, a man even more out of reach given his position as heir to the Iron Throne. At night, buried almost to the head beneath soft sheets, the urge to scream in sheer frustration took hold at having succumbed to two Targaryens. From her place at the seat of the realm, potential suitors came and went throughout the year, yet her attention always drifted back to those two.

"I lost my head, completely," she gasped upon entering the postmasters' hall. "It is truly a miracle from the gods that I have not been executed so far. I must avoid it at all costs."

Deciding to lose herself in the scrolls, the woman tried to let duty drown out the lingering echo of the princes’ voices. The upcoming birthday of Myriah Martell had the entire realm in motion, and messages arrived in waves from every corner of the continent, demanding a grueling task of decryption. Among wax seals and codes of lesser houses, an envelope with no apparent emblem captured her attention by being addressed to her name rather than her official title. It was a secret letter, hidden within the bureaucratic correspondence, seemingly waiting for the exact moment when the solitude of the office was absolute.

Despite recognizing the handwriting and the intent behind the message, she chose to set the envelope aside to focus on the pile of previously sorted letters. These missives carried proposals from various lords of the realm, each offering their daughters’ hands to both the heir and Maekar, for the widowhood of the two men had stirred the ambitions of various nobles.

With a knot in her stomach, she forced herself to process each matrimonial suit, realizing that the beauty and lineage of other women would soon fill the empty spaces in the lives of those she loved most. A moment of silence left her suspended in the void, trapped in the misfortune of loving two brothers whose royal blood marked an insurmountable distance.

Suddenly, the sharp song of a bird near the window broke her thread of thought, forcing a blink to regain awareness of her surroundings. Noting there was no time for lament, she rose from the desk carrying the newly finished transcriptions.

After delivering the missives destined for the Small Council, heavy steps led toward the study of the heir. Upon knocking, a deep and serene voice granted entry from within the chamber.

"I bring the day's correspondence," she announced, trying to keep her voice from faltering before the intensity of those mismatched eyes.

Baelor leaned back slightly in his seat while tracing the woman's face with a mixture of curiosity and exhaustion. He seemed to notice that the weight of the messages was not just that of the paper, but of the news that inevitably had to pass through the postmistress’s hands before reaching the throne.

"Very well. Leave them on the desk."

Obeying the command, the young woman crossed the distance and set the load down in an empty space among the books. Once finished, she gave a bow and turned to leave, trying to ignore how the prince studied her, almost without blinking.

"You argue often with my brother, but when we are alone, you do not speak a word to me beyond what is strictly necessary."

The comment stopped her in her tracks just before her hand reached the doorknob. Glancing over her shoulder, she found Baelor’s expression as composed as ever, though a spark of reproach gleamed in the depths of his gaze.

"My lord?" she asked, slightly alarmed, turning fully to face him.

"Is it because I am the firstborn that you prefer to keep your distance?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, trying to discern the reason for the disparate treatment.

“The manner in which I behave with you is how I usually am,” she explained, striving not to let her expression turn too remorseful. “I–In truth, I do not enjoy arguing.”

Such a confession immediately caught the man’s interest, and he began to toy absentmindedly with the rings on his fingers.

"If that is the case, how is it that you two always end up that way?"

“The prince often looks around as though he abhors the very existence of the world, and that only serves as tinder for the fire of my own frustration. At times, the desperation grows so great that avoiding a confrontation becomes impossible.”

"Why does my brother awaken such emotions in you?" he pressed, something indefinable glinting in the depths of his gaze, where the brown eye and the violet seemed to search for different truths in the woman’s face.

The question unsettled her to the point of leaving her breathless, for the truth was far too bitter and shameful to be spoken aloud. It was impossible to admit that everything stemmed from a selfish desire to be the exception to Maekar’s indifference, to become someone so significant that it would force him to turn his attention to her with something other than irritation in his eyes.

"I... I do not know, my lord," she lied, with a slight shake of her head.

Baelor seemed disappointed by the evasion and let out a heavy sigh that lingered in the silence of the study.

"Then let me know the reason why you do not interact with me," he said, rising to his feet and moving around the desk. “Could it be that I pay attention to what surrounds me, and so there is no need to fight for the recognition I already offer you?”

Those words, delivered with a calmness as sharp as steel, froze the air in the young woman’s lungs. Terror washed over her upon realizing that Baelor had not only observed the disputes, but had deciphered the pathetic motive hidden behind them.

Petrified, unable to look away from the prince’s figure, her heart hammered against her ribs in a frantic rhythm. Parting her lips, she tried to speak, to offer any excuse, but contrary to her wishes, heat rose to her cheeks with a telltale intensity.

"Breathe," Baelor whispered, leaning slightly over her.

The realization that she had been holding her breath came all at once, and a gasp escaped her lips as the impulse to turn and flee took over. However, the prince’s hand caught her wrist gently, yet with enough pressure to prevent any escape, and held her in place.

"Permission to leave has not yet been granted," he reminded, so close that their bodies almost brushed.

"Work... I have work," she stammered as an excuse, looking up pleadingly for him to release her.

"Fulfilling my demands is of greater importance, is it not?" One brow arched, something in his demeanor betraying his enjoyment of the moment.

"What do you desire?" she asked, waiting for an explanation so that he would finally let her go.

The choice of words caused Baelor to swallow and draw a quick breath, while his thumb moved to caress and press against the woman’s pulse. That frantic heartbeat beneath the pad of his finger betrayed the agitation she tried to hide, a physical response the prince quietly savored.

"That is the intrigue I wish to resolve with a sincere answer," he confessed, pulling lightly to draw her closer. "What is it that my favorite Mistress of Posts truly yearns for?"

Involuntarily, the young woman’s gaze betrayed her, drifting down to the prince’s lips. Reading the longing in her expression, Baelor closed the distance and tilted his head, ready to claim the contact both seemed to have implicitly accepted.

However, before they could meet, the crash of the door slamming against the wall broke the spell. Into the room burst a furious Maekar, a storm-dark expression overtaking his face as he found them so close.

"Imagined I would find you here, groveling," he growled, a hand gripping her shoulder to pull her away.

"Have you lost your mind?" she asked, indignant, trying to suppress her embarrassment.

"That is no way to treat a woman," Baelor spoke, stepping forward to position himself, as he had so many times before, in the middle of the dispute.

"You will understand once you hear what I have to say," he promised, raising his other hand to reveal a paper that crinkled under the force of his fingers. "This viper, the protégé you hold so dear, has been using her position for her own gain."

The accusation froze her, but a sickly pallor soon spread across her face as she recognized what he held. It was the letter that had arrived in her own name during the morning, a paper that now looked like a death sentence in the Targaryen’s hands.

"Whatever you think, it is not what you imagine," she said, closing the distance quickly and reaching out to snatch the parchment from him.

A sneer twisted Maekar’s features as a low growl escaped his throat, his arm immediately shooting upward to keep the evidence out of reach. Driven by desperation, the woman pressed her body against his, rising on her tiptoes to reclaim what was hers.

"You're conspiring against the crown!"

"A marriage proposal is hardly a threat!"

"That was an incredibly stupid thing to say for someone who prides herself on her intelligence!"

An answer died on her lips as she looked into his eyes, noticing how close they stood and the faint color flushing the platinum-haired man’s sharp cheekbones. That contact allowed her to feel the buckles of his attire and the stiffness of the fabric against her skin, an improper friction that made her heart race for reasons that had nothing to do with the letter. Panic intertwined with the realization that she was invading Maekar’s space in a way that defied all decorum.

"Do you intend to explain what is happening?" Baelor asked, sounding less patient and conciliatory than usual.

As if the contact burned them, both leaped apart, turning their attention toward the heir with a tangle of conflicting emotions.

"This woman has always seemed suspicious to me since she became a trusted worker for our father, so I have been watching her, and today I finally found evidence," he explained, unfolding the paper and holding it up. "From what I can tell, she has been exchanging missives with someone from the Stormlands regarding a possible marriage."

"I doubt you were able to discern the message correctly. It surpasses your capabilities, so…" she began, attempting to soften the accusation so it would not sound so grave, but she was immediately cut off.

"Silence," the brown-haired man snapped, looking at her with little sympathy before focusing on the note.

The coldness and restrained anger displayed left her speechless, especially since only moments before his desire to kiss her had seemed so evident. That sudden change in Baelor’s gaze, now devoid of any tenderness, felt like a slap in the face.

Noticing how quickly she obeyed, Maekar refrained from rolling his eyes at the difference in treatment. The postmistress never followed his lead, defying every order with a haughtiness that drove him mad. Such a distinction between them, as if one were respected and the other despised, was among the reasons he so easily lost his composure.

"N-No malice was intended," she managed to say, her voice trembling. "They are personal in nature, but not against the realm."

"Then?" Baelor inquired after interpreting what he could from the letter. "How did this begin?"

The pressure of both gazes, so distinct yet equally relentless, drove her to seek refuge in the formality she had practiced so often. Silently, she reviewed phrases and terms that might soften the situation, but the words tangled in her throat in the presence of those she loved.

Even so, amidst the panic, an idea managed to break through like a thread of light in the darkness. There were no poisons, maps, or enemy seals in that correspondence, only something personal and foreign to any conspiracy. Processing this realization, the tension knotting her shoulders eased enough to let her catch her breath. The certainty of not having acted with ill intent restored a hint of the voice that fear had stolen.

"The original intention was for me to remain here working without needing to consider marriage, but a family is interested in starting a business with my father and wishes to seal the arrangement with a union. Since what I do is well known, the prospective suitor began writing to me directly to establish contact," she explained with a final nod.

"Nothing is concrete, but if this were to become known, unflattering rumors would begin to spread over speaking in this manner with a man," Baelor sighed, lowering his gaze to his hand as he returned the paper.

"I know, but they seem to want to settle this quickly. Since it was assumed I would remain unwed while serving the realm, now that a possibility exists, there is a rush not to let more time pass so that I may provide heirs," she replied, the mention of the latter causing a blush to creep from her neck to her cheeks.

Maekar stood with a hand on his waist and shifted from one leg to the other, incredulity painting every feature while his mouth hung slightly open. Surprise seemed to have stripped him of any biting retorts, leaving the study filled only with the tension of that discovery.

"To hell with this, it’s always the same!" he exclaimed, spinning on the spot in indignation.

"Brother," Baelor warned, glancing at him.

"If you do not believe me, I can send all the letters to my master for impartial decoding and results," she commented, the thought that they still doubted her honesty driving her to offer that sacrifice of privacy.

"There is no need to go that far," the brown-haired man reassured her before taking a deep breath. "The truth is simply that we are also being pressured to find wives, so it becomes frustrating when the subject keeps arising wherever we go."

"Ah, yes, the proposals I take to the Small Council day after day," she confirmed, a certain sorrow in her voice.

"You should burn them as soon as you receive them," Maekar snorted, looking at her with his arms crossed as disapproval settled into the set of his mouth.

"That would cost me my head," she said with a snort of laughter, showing such a reaction in front of the brothers for the first time.

"But arguing and insulting me wouldn't?" he asked, slightly irritated by the familiarity being taken.

"I am still alive, am I not? In a way, you must enjoy that I am the only person who does not go around licking the shit off your boots," she smiled with an unexpected pride, the glint in her eyes challenging him to deny that such brutal honesty was the only thing keeping him interested.

"Arrogant, defiant, sharp-tongued, insufferable," he began to list as he drew closer, his presence filling the space until the shadow he cast enveloped her completely. "I pity the man who will be your husband for having to deal with you."

Contrary to how she would have reacted on another occasion, this time she could not help but smile. The thought that Baelor himself had been on the verge of kissing her placed him, in a way, within that same category, making the situation rather comical. Although doubt about the older brother’s true intentions lingered at the back of her mind, the irony of it all granted her a confidence that disarmed the prince’s haughtiness.

"Gruff, cold, foul-mouthed, and grim," she returned the courtesy, stepping even closer. "I pity the woman who will have to settle for you as her husband."

The proximity was significant as they held each other’s eyes defiantly, silently measuring one another’s energy in case they gave way to another of their infamous fights. However, Maekar’s gaze drifted to her lips, and the woman could not help but catch her breath at the intensity of his scrutiny. For a moment, the atmosphere shifted, and the wildest fantasy of sleepless nights seemed on the verge of coming to pass, but the silver-haired prince remembered they were not alone and turned his attention to Baelor’s presence.

Sitting on the edge of the desk, the firstborn’s regal composure stood in contrast to their agitation, though the glint in his stare betrayed that he found the situation far more entertaining than propriety would allow.

"Why did you stop?"

"I do not know what you are talking about," Maekar snorted, turning away and moving to look out the window.

"Should I leave?" she asked, trying to convince herself that she had only imagined it.

"Did I say you were dismissed?" Baelor countered, now standing firmly on both feet. "You still want to run away, yet we have not even begun."

"My lord?" she hesitated, but immediately understood what he meant.

"You should have been honest when I gave you the chance, because now you must answer to two princes instead of one," he said, hands clasped before him as he approached with a steady stride. "What is it that you truly desire?"

The immeasurable beauty of those mismatched eyes urged her to confess, implicitly signaling that this was her only chance. The moment was right, the young woman knew it, but her chest tightened with fear and desperation, unwilling to face the possibility that everything might go wrong.

"Please…"

"Yes?" he tilted his head patiently, noticing how fear was beginning to take hold of her.

"I-I'm nervous," she admitted, interlacing her fingers as she felt the trembling begin to betray her.

Baelor understood that the situation was overwhelming her, so he chose to set aside etiquette and hold her by the shoulders. Gently brushing her with his thumbs, he made subtle motions with his head to guide her to match his breathing and keep her from growing too agitated. The physical contact, carrying a calm that felt out of place amid the prevailing tension, sought to anchor her to the reality of the study before panic could take hold.

"Everything is fine, you do not have to be afraid," he said, giving her a gentle squeeze.

Emerging from a deep reverie, Maekar took in the strange atmosphere, turning to observe the scene with utter confusion. He did not understand why the young woman looked so terrified, nor why his brother held her as if she might collapse at any moment.

"Now what?" he asked, his bewilderment showing through a rough edge. "Why does she look on the verge of tears?"

"Maekar," the brown-haired prince cut in, as if about to meet his gaze. "You are preventing her from telling the truth."

"I do not understand what is happening," he frowned, impatience evident as his attention shifted between them while he waited for an answer.

"Forgive me," she said, distraught. "I do not want to marry the man my father chose."

Baelor looked at her again, caught off guard by the direction the conversation had taken. He had expected her to be more direct, not to choose such a detour, but he would certainly accept the change if it meant the secrets would finally cease to linger in the shadows.

"Has he done anything to you?" Maekar interjected, now standing extremely close at her side. "Were there any threats in the letters?"

"Until recently, I thought I would live alone, serving the realm, and I was content with that. However, if I must marry and fulfill the role of a woman… I would rather it be with someone I love," she explained, biting the inside of her cheek.

"Is there someone like that? Someone you wish to be with?" Baelor asked softly, despite already knowing the answer.

"Yes," she sighed, trembling, lowering her gaze. "It was never meant to be discovered. The plan was to keep it a secret until death."

"Them?" Maekar repeated, his brow furrowing as confusion began to sharpen into a pointed suspicion.

"Both of you ," she admitted at last, her expression twisting as she hid her face behind a hand. "Forgive me. It is wrong and improper, but my heart is greedy and…"

Baelor let his head drop, his expression hidden from view as a smile formed while he squeezed her shoulders once more. The prince’s fingers tightened with a gentle possessiveness, a sign of a silent promise that such longing would not die within the walls of the study. Meanwhile, Maekar remained frozen, mouth agape as memories of every fight resurfaced, searching for any hint that she might truly care for him. The inability to speak was absolute, the echo of past confrontations taking on a new and baffling meaning in light of such a confession.

"Nonsense," the fourth prince said at last, drawing both their attention. "After all our arguments, how can that be true?"

Anguished by what she took as rejection, the young woman fought back tears so as not to sour the moment and took a step back, slipping out of Baelor’s hold. The heir’s touch, once warm and firm, suddenly felt like a chain she could no longer bear in the face of the younger brother’s disdain.

An attempt to explain that the hostility was only a shield, a clumsy way of dealing with her feelings, faltered as the words caught in her throat. The impossibility of justifying why love turned into conflict finally smothered the last of her courage. Without the strength to keep facing them, the young woman turned on her heels and hurried toward the door.

"Act as if this moment never happened. I will continue working until the Postmaster recovers, but once someone else takes charge of the missives, I will return home to follow my family’s plans," she said before quickly leaving the room.

"Wait a damn moment!" Maekar bellowed, striding forward just as she vanished from sight. "Halt!"

The command echoed through the corridor, yet the urgency to escape proved stronger than the obedience owed to the crown. With practiced ease, she slipped into the stone labyrinth of the Red Keep, seeking refuge in corners where the murmur of the court could not reach. For the rest of the day, she kept to the lower levels and forgotten galleries, stretches of cold stone and sparse torches that offered only temporary anonymity. There, among shadows and drifting drafts, time passed in a tense silence, far from the usual routes where guards or servants might easily have spotted her.

Past midnight, when the cold cut to the bone and the castle fell into utter silence, she chose to return. The approach to her chamber became a careful dance through corridors that now felt alien, driven by the resolve not to waste another second in that place. She had lied when she promised to stay, projecting a false sense of control to keep them from ordering her locked away.

However, she had barely stepped into the chambers and begun to rifle through the drawers when the metallic click of the door being bolted cut through the air. With a startled gasp, she turned, only to find the two men she now considered a waking nightmare. The princes’ silhouettes, etched against the room’s gloom, confirmed that the watch had never ceased, that the trap had closed around her long before she crossed the threshold.

"W-What are you doing here?" she demanded, a hint of anger in her voice as she pressed a hand to her racing heart.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Maekar asked, his jaw tight and teeth clenched.

"In the castle," came the reply, as if it were obvious, her gaze instinctively darting around in search of an escape route.

"That’s a lie. No one could find you."

"I wanted solitude. Is that a crime?" Her chin lifted in defiance as she braced herself for another confrontation.

"You abandoned your post, contradicting what you told me in my office," Baelor said, taking a few steps forward.

"Is this your new way of facing life? You always fight, yet when it truly matters, you choose to hide like a rat," the silver-haired prince snapped, stepping in front of her, all patience gone.

Maekar’s presence became an impassable wall, a clear warning that the time for evasion had run out.

"What was I supposed to do? You reacted strangely, and he barely seemed fazed," she pointed out with a listless gesture, forgetting all titles and decorum.

"Woman, do you truly think we receive confessions like that every day?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "Does it seem common to you for someone to step forward and declare they love us both at once?"

"I know the maidens of the Red Keep. I’ve heard how they try to win you both. There are others." A dismissive note slipped into her tone, as if such admiration were nothing out of the ordinary. "I’m no different. Why should I have stayed?"

"If that was your way of flirting with me…" Maekar murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting at the thought of the enmity between them only hours before.

That hint of a smile, even a sarcastic one, dazzled her, marking the first time such an expression had been shown. Her gaze remained fixed, barely blinking, watching the gesture until the presence of the other brother pressed at her side. The warmth of both bodies surrounded her, eliminating any escape route and filling the chambers with an air thick with suffocating expectation.

"It would have taken some time to clarify the situation. Still, we would never have rejected you," he said, leaning in to kiss the back of her hand.

Immediately, she turned, searching for the truth in Maekar’s eyes, who remained strangely calm until his gaze fell, pupils slightly dilated. Without a word, the prince stepped closer and leaned in to claim her lips, the silver hairs of his beard stinging like a hundred warnings that the moment was real. The contact, rough and demanding, marked the end of her flight and the beginning of a chapter that left her trapped between two Targaryens.

"What does this mean?" she asked, summoning courage from who knows where. "If this is a game…"

"After you fled, we talked to clarify what had happened," Baelor said, guiding her so she rested against his chest. "That’s how we realized we’re both drawn to you, something I had suspected for some time." He leaned in without hesitation, leaving a soft kiss on her neck.

"Is that why you were so insistent on my confession?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly as she tried not to shift when he reached to hold her waist.

"I felt it was time to bring everything into the open, to move forward rather than let marriage proposals and constant fighting ruin our future," Baelor confessed, his seriousness vibrating against the nape of her neck.

Those ring-laden hands held her firmly in place, drawing her even closer, if possible, as his lips roamed over exposed skin. Anxiety made her heart pound against her ribs as a glance toward Maekar revealed him watching with absolute hunger, surrounded by an aura never seen before.

Having him in front, admiring her with such desire, prompted her hands to rise and pull him close, finally free from the need to explode in anger at the impossibility of possessing him. Every detail and scar on his face was admired with lingering fascination, the gaze inevitably falling back to the lips that had consumed her moments before. The brush of her fingers over his clothing was a silent claim, a caress that erased years of feigned enmity and made way for a need that could no longer be hidden.

"So you don’t hate me?" she asked, tilting her head slightly and holding back a gasp at the firstborn’s attentions.

Maekar inhaled sharply and lowered his head without breaking eye contact, one hand coming up to cradle her cheek.

"No. Never."

At once, her brow furrowed and tears stung her eyes, welling up as it felt like a miracle that he was finally accepting her. The effort to hold back only made her chest rise and fall sharply against Baelor, while Maekar’s warmth on her face became the only solace she needed to believe this wasn’t some cruel fantasy.

"Seven hells, don’t you dare cry," he growled, twisting his mouth, though he didn’t seem truly annoyed.

"Forgive me… it’s just…"

"I understand," he interrupted with a nod, the other hand moving to hold her near where his brother had a grip. "You’ve frayed my nerves countless times, but never once did I despise you. Still, I know I’ve hurt you…"

"My own approach wasn’t gentle either," she admitted, feeling the need to acknowledge her own part in their friction.

"We’re both to blame," he said, ending the exchange of responsibility.

The roughness of his voice softened as the words left his lips, and the weight of the past seemed to dissolve into the air, leaving only the intensity of the present. Baelor smiled and pulled away from her neck, leaving purple marks that went unnoticed.

"The three of us will be happy," the eldest promised, brushing his lips against her left ear.

"How?" she asked, closing her eyes for a moment.

"Everything is ready, set in motion," he said, caressing the curve of a hip.

"Seeing you gone from your post, we immediately thought you might try to escape, so we acted," Maekar said, pride and a hint of mischief in his voice.

"What did you do?" a shiver ran through her for some reason.

"Word was sent to your family with a marriage proposal," Baelor said, sliding a hand down to rest on her lower belly. "Do you think they’ll go through with their plans, or will they favor the heir to the Iron Throne?"

"With you?" she tilted her face, completely stunned.

"You will be my Queen. That way, no one can ever take you from our side," he said with a soft smile, nodding his head slightly, the glint in his eyes leaving her speechless.

"Are you alright with that?" she asked, worry threading her voice as she looked at the silver-haired prince.

"Baelor will be under immense pressure to choose a new wife when he takes the crown. In contrast, as the youngest prince, I can easily ignore the matter, especially since I already have four sons," he explained, tracing her lower lip with his thumb. "One way or another, we will be together, and this is for the best, the safest course."

"Jealousy is nothing you need to worry about. I will make sure everything stays in harmony, for I would never wish to cause distress to you or my beloved younger brother," he assured with a calmness that only years of diplomacy could grant.

Baelor’s gaze lingered on his brother, who held the stare until finally looking away with a faint flush on his cheekbones.

"This is madness…" she whispered, but rather than stiffen, she relaxed against the elder’s body.

"Everything ahead will be far more intense. Choosing two princes of House Targaryen, you should have imagined what would follow," Maekar said, his need to claim her bordering on desperation.

Waiting no longer, he kissed her again, hands going to gather the fabric of the skirt. Bunching the layers, he exposed her legs, leaving just enough space for a palm to cradle her heat. A muffled sound escaped between them, swallowed by their lips, as Baelor took the chance to touch her breasts and continue his assault on the sensitive curves of her neck.

She caught his wrist as he pushed aside the fabric shielding her, sensing the dampness that had been gathering for some time. At the slightest chance, their tongues tangled and he slid a finger inside, drawing a moan from her lips.

"Damn it, if I had only known..." Maekar growled under his breath, breaking the kiss to brush the corner of her mouth with his. "We could have been doing this for months."

The prince’s confession burned across her face, while Baelor’s hand slid from her belly to rest against the warmth of his younger brother’s nape. The weight of shared regret hung in the air, revealing that the dragons’ patience had reached its limit, and from now on, every corner of the Red Keep would bear witness to their claim.

"There's no point in being frustrated over what wasn’t done before. It happened now because it was meant to," the brown-haired prince said, taking her chin to tilt her face toward him.

A kiss followed, the sensation entirely different from Maekar’s impatience, and her knees went weak. Seeking something to hold onto, she threw her hands back to grip his muscular thighs, gasping and letting her eyes half-open as he took her neck in a firm hold.

The steadfast gazes of the two princes met once more over her face, while the warmth of Baelor’s palm secured a surrender already being traced by the constant touch of the younger brother’s fingers.

A thunder rolled as the heavy iron gates swung open to admit the Blackfyre procession. The carriage advanced at a measured pace, escorted by a line of guards holding formation with impeccable discipline. The horses’ hooves echoed across the courtyard, where all fell into a hushed silence as those present paused in their tasks and lifted their gaze to behold their future queen.

The servant seated beside the driver climbed down and moved to the door to open it. From within, a gloved hand emerged, resting firmly on the arm offered, and a figure stepped down from the ornate coach without the slightest misstep.

Carrying a composed expression, the woman stood with a perfectly straight back, one hand gripping the edge of her cloak with quiet determination. Immediately, her gaze fixed on the staircase leading into the Red Keep, where the heir to the Iron Throne and current Hand of the King, her fiancé, waited with their two children at his sides. A quick glance at the youngsters preceded her full focus on the man who could be her father, the one to whom in just a few weeks she would swear her loyalty in a wholly political wedding.

“Welcome to King’s Landing,” Baelor greeted, a hint of a smile showing through his short beard.

“Thank you,” she replied politely, inclining herself slightly in a gesture of respect.

“I hope the journey was not too tiresome.”

“It would be a lie to say it was entirely pleasant, but at least there were no mishaps.”

Baelor nodded, holding her gaze with the same intensity she offered him, and immediately moved on to introduce his family. Valarr watched her in silence, his courtesy measured, barely revealing what he thought of the union. Matarys, on the other hand, leaned forward more freely, offering a curious smile that briefly eased the tension of the meeting.

“The storm is imminent. Please, come inside,” indicated a high-ranking servant, making sure they were safe.

Offering no resistance, she moved away as the murmurs of the courtyard swelled behind. She continued forward with the same composure displayed when stepping down from the coach, allowing herself a glance upward to take in the castle’s architecture. It was certainly impressive, very different from the place where she had grown up with her mother, but she didn’t dwell on the surprise and began to feel things out.

“Excuse me, my prince. Will I have the opportunity to be granted an audience with the king?”

The request made Baelor watch her in silence for a moment. The young woman’s composure didn’t appear forced, and the question had been posed with a confidence not everyone at court would have dared to show so soon.

“Is there any particular reason you wish to see him? If you have a request or complaint, you may trust me with it.”

“None of that,” she replied lightly, a hint of grace in her voice. “It may sound childish, but I simply hoped to meet my uncle.”

That explanation convinced none of those present, and almost immediately, speculation arose about her true intentions. Suspicions grew particularly after she appeared before the Small Council, whose members were quick to notice how she displayed familiarity with a natural ease unbefitting the daughter of a bastard.

However, in the dawns that followed, Daemon Blackfyre’s daughter devoted herself to following the rules of the Red Keep with admirable discipline, determined to learn as much as possible about that nest of dragons. She took an active part in the preparations for her own wedding and spent long hours studying, showing a genuine interest in perfecting her High Valyrian. In addition, she made it a point to find suitable moments for Baelor and herself to get to know each other better, establishing a solid foundation before the engagement was formally sealed.

The prince never refused those meetings, although he showed little real interest in forging a deeper connection. The treatment he offered was fair, even kind, yet a distance between them remained, difficult to bridge. Baelor had been raised in courtesy and generosity, and in a situation like this, he had no intention of behaving otherwise, fully aware of the importance of maintaining a good relationship with the daughter of one of the crown’s greatest enemies.

Even so, the one who surprised nearly everyone by defying expectations was Aerys, deeply intrigued by the woman who had spent so many years in the Free Cities. The books and scrolls she brought from those lands proved to be a true treasure for him, and gradually, several intellectual meetings began to take shape. Even his wife, Lady Penrose, started to get involved, having finally found another woman capable of understanding the eccentric nature of the Targaryen.

Whether at breakfast or tea, the two began spending time together, which led the young Blackfyre to meet more of the ladies. Thanks to Aelinor’s kindness, several court ladies made an effort, or at least pretended, to set aside their aversion and get to know her beyond the rumors.

The way she began to find her place in life at the castle did not go unnoticed by Baelor. He had to give her credit, for it was no easy task, especially for someone weighed down by a reputation like hers. Even as the days passed, he noticed that she had gathered a small retinue willing to follow her and, with remarkable intelligence, had found the right openings to disarm those who still opposed her. By the time the wedding arrived, Baelor realized that this woman was not merely surviving at court, but patiently laying the foundations of her own influence.

Even so, none could escape the rules set by that arranged union. No matter the power either of them had accumulated, when night fell, marital duty presented itself as the final formality of that alliance. The silence of the chamber was absolute, and both understood that consummating the marriage was the only way to legitimize, in the eyes of the realm, everything they had sworn before the septon.

“My prince,” she called, seeing him drink wine before the fireplace, his gaze lost among the flames.

“We are husband and wife; you may use my name,” he replied, setting down his goblet.

“Understood,” she nodded, stepping forward. “I wish to tell you something, but I hope you won’t take offense at my words.”

Baelor furrowed his brow slightly as he focused on the reality of the moment, noticing the scant space that separated them in the dim light.

“Speak freely. As I said on the first day, whether it is a request or a complaint, I am here for you.”

“Always so kind,” she complimented with a slight smile before taking a breath and growing slightly more serious. “I have heard of the great love you felt for your wife, and I can only imagine how uncomfortable this must be for you. Since my arrival, I have tried to reach out so that we might get to know each other and avoid greater displeasure, but I hope you know that I am more than willing to fulfill the commitment.”

“Most maidens tend to fear their wedding night. Isn’t that the case for you?” he asked, trying to conceal his confusion.

A sudden fire sparked in her eyes as she stepped close, invading his personal space. Slowly and deliberately, she pressed both palms to the prince’s firm chest, letting her fingers trace one of the embellishments on his ceremonial attire.

“On the contrary, Baelor, I’m genuinely excited,” she admitted, her gaze burning into him. “To me, you are a striking man, one I would not hesitate to surrender myself to. Yet, as I said before, I know you have lived and loved, so my only worry is that I might not be captivating enough to spark your interest and bring our marriage to its fulfillment.”

“Do you think I am incapable of performing my duties as a man?” he asked, narrowing his eyes for a moment as he cupped her face in both hands.

“Never. I only wish to respect your boundaries, especially considering I am the daughter of…”

“Shhh,” he said, shaking his head, thumb lightly grazing her cheek. “That man has nothing to do with our intimacy.”

“Then?” she pressed, leaning against him. “Can you endure the desire of a maiden who longs for you more than you can imagine?”

Baelor scrutinized her, uncertain what to think, wondering if this behavior, so unlike how she moved about the castle, might be a ruse to lower his guard. Even so, if he wanted to uncover the truth, he had no choice but to give in and surrender to the immense temptation she represented.

Soon the garments were set aside, their physical closeness serving as the only refuge from the long emotional journey that still lay ahead. Amidst their caresses, they explored each other’s wounds, she marveling at the scars of countless battles that had forged the man now respected throughout Westeros. In turn, Baelor traced with careful hands the marks left by her harsh mother, each lesson carved to shape her into a worthy daughter of Daemon Blackfyre. Before each scar, memories and stories were whispered in secret, the painful tales of the past soothed by kisses that acted as medicine.

Rumors of that fiery night soon spread, and in the weeks that followed, the servants never stopped noting that the couple shared the bed whenever they could. Whispers of astonishment drifted through the corners of the court, accompanied by laughter, both reflecting admiration for the woman, who had drawn Baelor from the ashes and rekindled his former spark.

While the lesser nobles saw the change as a hopeful sign of prosperity, not everyone shared that view. The King’s most loyal men feared that the young woman’s charms had clouded Baelor’s judgment, particularly the possibility that he might seek to father children with her. Their greatest concern, however, was that he might remove Valarr as heir and place one of Daemon’s descendants in his place, proclaiming that the days of rebellion were finally behind them.

They also took note of the cunning with which she navigated the political web, earning the respect of both men and women through her resilience and wit. It was clear she posed a threat, especially since the future queen would not be satisfied with the mere role of a wife, nor stand aside from the affairs of the crown.

"Lady Blackfyre."

The voice made her pause mid-step, her ladies halting beside her as they all turned to see Brynden Rivers, one of the bastards who had managed to elude her the most until now.

"Lady Targaryen," she corrected firmly, letting slip only a faint smile. "I now bear my husband’s name."

Immediately, the man bowed, letting his long albino hair fall forward as he placed a hand over his heart.

"I apologize for such a careless mistake; it will not happen again," he promised as he straightened, watching her with his single red eye. "Might we speak alone?"

The request tensed the attendants, but she nodded and, with courtesy, signaled for them to step aside and enjoy the day.

"How may I serve you?" she asked, moving slightly closer and studying his features with careful attention. "It’s not often we cross paths, so it must be important."

Brynden nodded, admiring the way she took control, subtly chastising him for his habit of avoiding her.

"It is certainly unfortunate how little we have had the chance to interact, but as you know, the Red Keep is a very busy place where it is easy to get caught up in the day’s duties."

"Don’t even mention it," she replied with a touch of warmth, keeping a pleasant demeanor. "I see the same reality in my husband, and though we manage to meet during the nights, the time we share barely suffices to satisfy my heart."

"From what I’ve heard, you keep pace well, actively participating in political affairs."

"I only wish to assist the prince, to lighten the weight of his duties as much as I am able," she confirmed sincerely, aware that it would be absurd to deny something so evident.

"Clearly, your intentions are good; however, your actions have begun to stir the waters," he remarked in a measured voice, yet one heavy with warning. "It is not often well regarded for a woman to step outside tradition and involve herself too deeply in the affairs of men."

"The reaction is predictable, and I am glad it is you who points this out. After all, more than anyone, you know what it means to break the mold and risk overstepping your bounds," she said with a calm smile, as if she had not just alluded to his illegitimate origins.

Brynden nodded as he inhaled, receiving those daggers, bitterly acknowledging Daemon’s aura the more time he spent with her. Though he doubted how she might behave in intimacy, it was clear that without the prince’s presence, this woman was a wall not easily breached.

"Take care, my lady. Keep your wits about you."

Without adding anything more, the man passed by and withdrew, possibly never to see her again. Still, the message was crystal clear, and little effort was needed to understand that she was in greater danger than expected.

Surely her death would benefit those loyal to Daeron, though it would also mark the beginning of a new war. Perhaps that was why Bloodraven had stepped out of the shadows to warn her just how delicate the situation around her had become.

With a heavy sigh, she made her way to her husband’s workroom, frowning absentmindedly. Her gaze swept the surroundings carefully, searching for anything out of the ordinary, while her mind began to note patterns and subtle arrangements that might later signal the presence of danger.

"What are you doing here?"

Startled, she stopped in her tracks when she found Baelor halfway down the corridor. An involuntary smile spread across her face as she closed the distance, holding out her hands for him to take before leaning in to kiss him.

"I came to see you… I missed you."

He smiled and gently stroked her cheek, returning the kiss before deepening it with care. Desire flared instantly, and they moved together in perfect harmony, a synchronicity that sometimes left him surprised and reinforced his caution.

Contrary to what the Small Council might believe, he was neither dazzled nor uncertain about his position or the weight of his duties. The intimacy they had shared was extraordinary, but it did nothing to lower his guard. Before he could even allow himself the thought of love, he needed to understand the intentions that truly guided her.

Yet when the young woman’s usually stoic eyes lit up at the sight of him, he could not deny that his heart clenched with a feeling he had long thought forgotten.

"I cannot stay with you, I have a meeting," he explained, stepping back just a few inches.

"What time will you be done?" she asked, holding him tighter so he wouldn’t leave.

"I don’t know, but I’ll try to make it to dinner with you."

Taking a deep breath, she nodded in resignation and let him go after one last kiss. As Baelor disappeared at the end of the corridor, the warmth in her expression vanished as if it had never been there, and she made her way toward the wing where Aerys and Aelinor resided.

As she moved forward, her gaze lingered on the arches of the windows before reaching the training grounds, where Matarys was honing his swordsmanship. For a moment, she paused to watch, aware that fighting was no simple task and that facing someone willing to kill was far from a game. The young man’s skill proved absorbing, and suddenly, eyes met Valarr’s, who was keeping watch from the side.

Startled, she gave a slight nod in greeting, and he returned it, trying to guess the reason for her attention. She knew the rumors had reached him, for it was said she wished to have a child to take his place as heir, though she had always made an effort to show otherwise. No right way had yet presented itself to earn his trust, but Matarys was friendly, and she hoped he could help her be on better terms with him.

Suddenly, before a step could be taken, someone grabbed her by the hair, and a cold touch grazed her neck. The sting was immediate, and she drew the knife hidden in her clothes, driving it into the attacker’s leg. A palm went to the burning spot, revealing blood, though fortunately the edge of her dress had prevented a deep cut. Spinning quickly to face the attacker, a man far too large to overcome alone came into view. Despite the self-defense lessons learned before traveling to King’s Landing, his strength proved overwhelming, and instinct drove her to flee in order to survive.

Breathless, she ran several meters, silently cursing the fool who had sent her to be murdered in broad daylight. The risk made no sense, yet as she pressed on, it became clear that this part of the castle was strangely empty.

"Help!" she shouted, though her voice trembled and came out strange and weak.

"Silence!" the attacker replied, much closer than she had imagined.

He grabbed her again and, without giving her a chance to react, hurled her forcefully against one of the corridor walls. The blow tore through her back with such violence that it stole her breath, yet she managed to lift the knife and swing it in a futile attempt to create a barrier between them.

As feared, that was not enough, and a kick to the lower abdomen sent her doubling over in pain before she hit the ground. In an instant, the weight of the attacker was upon her as she fought to pin his arms and keep the blade away. She resisted with everything she had, but eventually her muscles gave out, leaving the assassin free to carry out his task.

The pain was beyond imagining as she tried to shield herself with clumsy movements, but the loss of blood was so great that her strength failed her. Consciousness flickered, soon failing to register the surroundings or how, all at once, a crowd of feet entered her line of vision. Shouts and commands spilled from several mouths, yet none of it made sense to her, and at last, she fell into darkness.

Upon waking, the first thing she felt was an intense and horrible dizziness that sent the world spinning. The nausea was so overwhelming that she felt the urge to sit up and retch, yet she only managed dry heaves, overcome by her own weakness.

"Do not move!" someone commanded, their tone thick with alarm and concern. "What do you feel?"

"Everything is reeling," she gasped, squeezing her eyes shut. "My body hurts…"

"Now that she is awake, we may administer milk of the poppy," another voice indicated, which after a few moments she recognized as the royal maester's.

At once, something metallic pressed against her lips while a warm hand cradled the back of her head, where the feel of several rings betrayed who held her. In a near-whisper, Baelor urged her to drink, letting the whitish liquid enter slowly to shield her from the suffering.

Finishing the draught, she exhaled with effort and lay there, breathing heavily, sinking into the softness of the surface that supported her. Nearby, sounds intertwined in a confused ebb and flow, until she discerned the prince asking questions and receiving answers. Soon, with the directives clear, he dismissed the group from the room, finally bringing a peaceful silence that allowed her to regain a moment of calm.

"Too much light," she muttered, squinting as her eyes blinked open.

"Do you want me to put out the candles?" Baelor offered, weighing every gesture with care.

"No, just..." A brief glance settled on a nearby candelabra, a finger rising to point. "Those. So the glare is not so direct."

Complying, the prince took the object and moved it to another corner where its glow would not disturb her. He then approached and sat on the edge of the bed, gently taking the bandaged hand while watching her almost without blinking.

"Do you remember what happened?"

Swallowing and knitting her brow, she studied every detail of his face and noted how exhausted he appeared. Especially the eyes, which held a dull glimmer, betraying little rest and thoughts far too heavy.

"Yes. I went to see you, but you had a meeting, so I thought of visiting Aerys and…"

Hesitant, she lifted her head and glanced down at her body. The sheets covering her made it impossible to discern any details, so, with her other arm, she pushed them aside enough to reveal the bloodstained patches stretching across her torso.

"Three stab wounds and several deep cuts," Baelor informed, head dropping as if under a heavy weight. "You lost a lot of blood and spent days drifting in and out of consciousness."

"I do not remember that," she replied, confused by the sudden void in her memory. "In my mind, I have only just woken up."

"Valarr was the one who noticed the attack and led your rescue. He is a good lad and tried to reach you in time, but he is overwhelmed by the fact that he could not prevent you from suffering such harm."

"I owe him my life," she said at once, heart tightening at the weight of the truth. "I wish to express my gratitude."

"When you are well, you will be able to meet and speak," he promised, with a soft nod.

"My recovery might take some time. It would be better to call for him before he thinks I do not appreciate his actions."

Baelor took a deep breath and looked away, as if trying to organize thoughts he did not know how to voice. For a few moments, conflict seemed to take hold of his features, but he finally sighed and shook his head.

"By my order, this place is under restriction. No one enters or leaves without my permission, and none shall come near you if I am not present."

"Has the one who tried to kill me not been caught?" she asked, with a mixture of alarm and confusion.

"Of course, but the mastermind who orchestrated all this remains in the shadows. I will not allow his objective to be met. Never."

"These days must have been difficult. It is my hope that this event has not damaged the alliance that brought peace to the realm and…"

"It is not because of that," he interrupted, suddenly more serious than before. "The agreement is important, but the precautions taken are because I do not wish to lose you. You are my wife, and how could I live if I let you go without even having cherished you as you deserve?" he asked, suffering etched upon his features as the free hand moved to caress a cheek.

The confession left her frozen, and her eyes widened as she nearly forgot how to breathe. Never had she heard such a declaration from his lips, much less in a tone so heavy with evident pain that it was impossible to prevent something within her from trembling.

"What are you saying?" she gasped, trying to sit up. "I know you are considerate of me, we respect each other, but you speak as if…"

"As if I loved you?" he finished for her, a sad smile suddenly touching his lips. "Yes, I do, though I only came to realize it when you were on the brink of death. That is why I have not moved from your side, praying to the gods that they would not take you, so I might grant you the place I should have given you from the start."

"Considering our situation, what I received from you was more than I could have imagined. You are a great man," she comforted, resting a hand upon his to caress it.

"Even so, that does not change the fact that I understood too late the importance you hold in my heart."

"Look at me, I am still alive," she smiled, trying to prevent him from falling into a spiral of darkness. "We are newlyweds and our life together is only beginning. We have an eternity to enjoy as lovers do, so do not be distressed. When I recover, we can celebrate and taste all the world has to offer," she assured him, before turning her head to kiss the palm that cradled her.

The prince felt his chest tighten with a surge of adoration and drew closer to her, as if the remaining distance between them were unbearable. Carefully, he let her go and rested his arms upon the bed, leaning with utmost delicacy over that fragile body.

"Stay with me," he pleaded, his nose barely brushing against hers.

"I never had any intention of leaving."

Baelor nodded imperceptibly and kissed her, the breath brushing against his skin a constant reminder that she was alive. It was a soft gesture, restrained, holding back the anxiety and the lingering shadows of fear.

Losing another loved one to the soil or the pyre, someone held as family, was a fate he found unbearable. For that reason, never again would he allow them to lay a hand upon her, even if preventing it meant dismantling the very system he was one day destined to rule.

Aerion never imagined that the power of dragons could also pulse beneath the frozen skin of a great wolf of the North. He had always believed that those virtues which had raised his lineage to touch the divine belonged only to the blood of Valyria. However, upon arriving at Lord Ashford’s meadows for the tournament in his daughter’s honor, the last thing he expected to find was a woman fighting with a sword against a lad barely his own junior.

Among the ring of onlookers gathered around the makeshift field, he slowed his pace, a faint furrow marking the brow as he followed every movement of the bout. The ease with which she handled the weapon was baffling, an unexpected skill that was by no means the only thing out of place. Dressed as a man, she wore high boots marked by grass and soil that contrasted with simple garments, though well-tailored enough to betray an origin far from poverty. Even without knowing her name, it was evident that such a figure did not belong among the crowd surrounding them.

The fight was evenly matched, for the young man had yet to build the muscle needed to end with a single blow what was clearly no more than a training match. Even so, he did not yield, and with his teeth clenched he struck again and again while his opponent, faintly amused, began to drive him back toward one of the fences. Some shouts of encouragement rose from the crowd and, at last, the woman delivered a blow so strong against his shield that he stumbled backward. As he flung his arms in a desperate attempt to regain his balance and keep from falling, the rim of the shield lifted out of control and struck the older fighter in the face.

“Sister!” he cried from the ground, his eyes wide with fear.

Startled, the woman turned her attention to herself and to the sudden warmth spreading across her lips. She quickly raised a hand and brushed the spot, only to find her fingers stained red as small drops of blood began to mark the fabric of her shirt.

“Lady Stark!” a maid called out in clear alarm, stepping forward until she was stopped by a small gesture.

“I am well. No tooth has been harmed,” she assured with a faint hiss as the sting of the cut made itself known.

After taking a few steps, she handed the sword and shield to a servant and then noticed the unexpected spectator. Violet eyes and pale silver hair left little doubt as to the house he belonged to, though the way he watched her, almost spellbound, drew a slight lift of her brow.

“What’s the matter? Have you never seen a woman bleed?”

Aerion took a moment to answer, the question breaking him from his deep contemplation.

“Not in this manner,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Is it not more common for the spilling to be kept beneath skirts?”

“Then you have seen very little of women and what they can do when they are not confined to being mere ornaments,” she replied evenly.

“Sister…” the young man called, now back on his feet, clearly eager to pull her away from the conversation.

“You should visit Winterfell. You might be surprised by what awaits you there,” she added with a faintly suggestive smile, giving him a wink.

The Targaryen’s gaze sharpened, scarcely blinking as he watched her spit the blood gathering in her mouth. After that, the wolf simply returned to her family and walked off in the opposite direction, making her way through the crowd until she disappeared.

As the days passed, the scene pressed upon his mind with insistent clarity, each memory stirring an irritating fire that left him troubled and bewildered in equal measure. More than once, while the fields filled with knights and spectators who came to watch the jousts and combats, his eyes swept the crowd in search of the figure who had dared address him so. Yet she seemed to have vanished like snow beneath the sun, and that alone unsettled him enough to draw him toward the North’s encampment. He bit and licked his lips in unconscious gestures of unease, finally yielding to the impulse to approach the pavilion marked with the direwolf of Stark. As a Targaryen prince, he could have walked in and demanded to see her, yet for reasons beyond his understanding, he lingered outside, studying the folds of the canvas for any small opening that might grant him a glimpse of her presence.

The effort proved fruitless, and when he paused to reflect on what he was doing, he chose to step away at a hurried pace. He could make no sense of what was happening to him, yet the memory of her body in the fight, the way she had looked at him and spoken, hemmed him in with a frustration that verged on madness.

By night, in the solitude of his chamber, something within betrayed him. He replayed gestures and glances until desire itself answered in ways that left him troubled and perplexed, unable to understand why he stained his hand white over a woman he barely knew.

Meanwhile, preparations for the joust went on amid the bustle of the celebrations, yet nothing could draw his attention away. His gaze drifted again and again through the shadows of the camp, searching for her among the many figures, only to end each time with the same disheartenment. Her absence sparked an irritation that soon made him volatile and explosive at the slightest provocation, no one able to hold back the dragon eager to claim the great treasure of the North.

Finally, the day of the competition arrived, and mounted on his steed with lance in hand, he rode through the arena among the other contestants until he selected his opponent. The horse advanced steadily across the lists as he carefully scanned the stands, until, as if sent by the gods, he spotted her sitting with the composed elegance of a true lady of noble birth. Checking his gallop, he parted his lips, suddenly feeling as if he were breathing for the first time after carrying a weight on his chest for days. The gray sky seemed to brighten around him, and she smiled with a superior air at the utterly foolish expression on his face. Without giving him time to create a scene or draw attention, she tilted her head slightly, inviting him forward, and he returned to reality to oblige her.

His heart pounded, and a treacherous tingle stirred deep within him, sending an unmistakable warmth through his lower body. Blood surged through his veins, and his breathing grew heavier as he realized that the woman had been no mirage, no whim of his imagination, but someone real, watching him from the stands. The tournament suddenly lost all importance in the face of that revelation, and all he wanted was to bring the event to an end, dismount, reach her among the crowd, and never let her go.

Suddenly, the horn sounded and the shouts erupted. Instinctively, he spurred his horse and rode forward with determination, the thunder of hooves echoing as they met in the first pass, leaving no clear victor. He quickly turned for the second run, this time aiming with greater precision and striking the opposing steed squarely. The animal immediately neighed in pain and collapsed along with its rider, boos erupting from the crowd at the unmistakable foul play.

Aerion barely noticed the commotion, too preoccupied lifting his elaborate helmet to look at the woman of his desire with a smile. Yet the satisfaction swelling his chest vanished instantly when he realized she was watching him with open disappointment. Their eyes met, and she gave a look of displeasure, shaking her head before rising, lifting the hem of her dress slightly, and leaving the arena.

The impact was so strong that he felt the world reel from the sudden shock. The edges of his vision darkened, and instinctively he made for the stables to put his horse away, but he found he could not leave easily, blocked by the stir his actions had caused among the spectators.

“Prince, come with us. We’ll take you to Ashford Castle,” a royal guard said, extending an arm to guide and shield him from any danger.

“No. Take me to the Stark pavilion.”

“Sir?” another escort asked, puzzled.

“Must I repeat myself?” he threatened, the abyss of madness gleaming in his eyes at the patience they were forcing him to expend.

Swallowing hard, both shook their heads and soon led him away, keeping him as well hidden as possible among the crowd that was still whispering about the incident. Finally, as tiny drops of rain began to streak his pale face, the massive tent of the wolves came into view.

As he approached, he drew back the entrance curtain and, with overwhelming relief, found her standing before the table where the wine jugs rested, her back to him. A brief, nervous smile flickered across his face, then vanished like a muscle spasm as his attention shifted to the swordsmen.

“No one else is allowed to enter until further notice. It’s an order.”

The men in white cloaks bowed and stepped back before turning to keep watch, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. With eyes alert to their surroundings, they allowed him to cross the threshold of the marquee and enter a world of colors and objects unlike anything he was used to in the Summerhall.

“Prince Aerion, I don’t recall having extended you an invitation.”

The sound of her voice made his skin tingle and forced him to inhale sharply, his steps slowing as if he were approaching a deity capable of vanishing at any moment.

“I searched for you day and night, but it was impossible to find you,” he said, completely ignoring her mention of his rudeness.

He waited anxiously for some word, some sign that it had been an accident and not a deliberate slight, but she remained with her back to him, sipping from a silver cup.

“You disappeared… did you have to leave?”

With his gaze anchored to her every movement, frustration began to simmer at such absolute indifference. She was finally within reach, so near he might have touched her, yet she did not deign to look his way, and he felt himself beginning to unravel.

Exasperated, he closed the distance until mere inches remained between them, his hands rising with the intent to catch her by the waist.

“Beholding you at the tourney was akin to a dream. Upon my triumph, I longed to approach and dedicate the victory to you, but…”

His monologue was instantly forsaken and silenced by a blow so firm it made his head snap back. For a moment he remained motionless, far too stunned to react as the burning sensation spread slowly across his cheek, staining the flesh a deep crimson. His thoughts scattered like dust upon the wind and he could only stare at her, dazed, unable to comprehend how the woman he so craved had just struck him with such resolve.

“Did you perchance intend to shame me?” she growled through clenched teeth. “Days I spent awaiting the sight of Maekar’s favored warrior, only to find myself witness to a spectacle utterly ghastly and beneath my station. Do you truly believe I would have accepted your favor under such dishonorable circumstances?”

Stupefied by her vision of the events, Aerion took a moment to find his voice, a hard line forming at his jaw while he failed to comprehend how she could have misread his intent so thoroughly.

“After spending countless hours in pursuit, the mere sight of you in the stands left me with but one desire, to conclude the event and reach your side. I wasn’t going to let you slip away again, so…”

“So you stained the pride of the Targaryens with savage tactics,” she concluded, her brow furrowed and clearly unimpressed by his reasoning.

“It was your fault.”

That short and sharp accusation kindled a dull glint in the Stark’s eyes. She immediately seized his chin with a firm grip and angled his face toward her own, a dangerous smile spreading across the wound that had yet to fully heal.

"Spoiled child… Someone must teach you your limits."

Without giving him a moment to react, she released his face and immediately grabbed his hair at the roots, forcing him to follow her to the bed. The movement was abrupt, and once there, she pushed him without much delicacy while locking her feet with his to throw him off balance. Aerion fell full onto the mattress, face down, but almost instantly rolled over to look at her, uncertainty dancing in the violet of his eyes.

“Both of us know that this entire situation was caused by the twisted schemes of your deranged Targaryen mind,” she declared, leaving no room for reply. “Still, I do not entirely dismiss the interest you have shown in me. You still have a chance to impress me if you behave as you should.”

A wave of euphoria washed over the prince, nearly blinding in its intensity, as if a divine bolt had blessed him by revealing that what had nearly cost him his sanity was not yet denied to him.

“What do you want? Just say it and I will do it.”

“So you like to play dirty, don’t you?” she arched a brow, gesturing with malice as she gripped the hem of her dress. “Why don’t you make amends for your mistake by clearing away the secrets hidden beneath my skirts?”

Aerion was left catatonic, lips parted and eyes wide with fervor, unable to even blink. The memories of that first day, those that had never ceased to haunt him while he dreamed of possessing her, came rushing back like an avalanche. Every word, especially her insinuation regarding the monthly cycle of women, made him shudder as he finally understood the nature of her demand.

“Are you serious?” he murmured, his voice low and hurried.

“What’s the matter? Have you never seen a woman bleed?” she asked, echoing the very words she had first spoken to him.

With little modesty, the Stark lifted the layers of fabric covering her body and laid herself bare. Then, with calm movements, she brought her hands to the cord that secured the thick cloths already stained a deep red.

The prince could do nothing but watch as the nudity he had imagined for so many nights finally stood before him. Even so, a tangle of contradictions stirred within his chest, with reason demanding that he put an end to that perversion.

“Stay lying down,” she ordered, climbing onto the bed.

Crawling on hands and knees, she drew close enough to lightly brush her lips against his. She felt a shiver of inner delight at the sigh of longing that escaped Aerion, granting him a brief kiss before settling his pale face between her thighs.

“Listen carefully,” she warned, gripping his hair tightly to force him to meet her eyes. “Refuse, and you will be free. You will never hear from me again and can continue with the meaningless life you were leading. The choice is yours, but this is your only opportunity.”

The Targaryen gasped, his heart pounding against his ribs, nearly forgetting how to blink in the presence of that which stirred his every desire. Amidst the dizziness, the lust, and the apprehension, he thought of his family and how no one had ever managed to guide him. So many men of the House of the Dragon ended up drifting, without a clear purpose in life and subjected to pressures even when the Iron Throne would never be theirs.

He knew the rumors, he knew what the people whispered about him, but he craved no admiration nor respect from anyone other than the woman who had ensnared him from the very first moment. He burned like wildfire and, far from cooling down, he longed to clash against her ice, to provoke her and be aroused by the thought of the punishment she might inflict. At the same time, an unexpected side of him longed to be praised and cared for by her, just like that moment at the joust when her disappointment left him trembling in despair.

The realization was clear and there was no way he could abandon the world that was opening before him. Both were beasts, entirely different, yes, but ferocious creatures destined to bite each other and then lick their wounds. So he was ready, absolutely prepared to surrender to the goddess who gave him a chance to unite with her.

“This is my place,” he determined, wrapping his arms around her bare legs.

The Stark stifled a moan of pleasure and nearly melted at the devotion the dragon emanated from every pore. Immediately, she loosened her grip on his platinum locks and, with delicate grace, stroked them as she descended slowly onto his face.

The corridors of the Red Keep seemed to narrow at Maekar’s approach. The strike of his boots against the stone slabs echoed with a harsh cadence that announced his foul mood long before his shadow turned the corners. With his jaw tight and his hands clenched into fists, he scanned the passageway, his brow so deeply furrowed it looked carved from stone.

“Where the fuck is Aerion!?”

The servants nearby shrank where they stood and quickly slipped away into the surrounding galleries, careful to avoid crossing his path. Everyone knew the temper of the fourth prince—tolerable on his best days, though no one wished to deal with him when anger took hold of him because of one of his sons.

“Do not lose your patience, brother,” Baelor said a few steps behind him.

“That idiot does nothing but embarrass me!”

“I will make sure the parents of the candidates take no offense at his absence. This once we will find some excuse,” the Hand of the King reassured him, trying to be the voice of reason.

Maekar twisted his neck from side to side, making it crack in an attempt to ease the tension. Then, while breathing heavily, a slightly trembling servant approached with her head bowed, caught somewhere between fear and respect.

“E-Excuse me, my lords, forgive the interruption, b-but I saw Prince Aerion not long ago.”

Baelor raised an eyebrow at the unexpected lead, while his younger brother looked at her directly.

“Speak. My patience is short.”

“I-I saw him enter one of the fifth-floor guest chambers with the princess of the castle!”

“You mean my daughter?” the dark-haired man asked, his mood now shifting.

“Y-Yes, my lord,” she replied with a hurried nod.

The brothers exchanged a brief sideways glance before ordering her to lead them to the room in question. They climbed the stairs and turned down a couple of corridors until they arrived, at which point the maid opened the door without looking inside and stepped aside to let them pass.

Upon entering, they found the two Targaryens sprawled in a deep sleep across the marital bed. The clothes they wore were still intact, and the orderly state of the sheets made it clear that no indecent act had taken place. The only thing out of place, something both adults noticed at once, was an open book resting on the young woman’s lap, still held between her fingers to keep it from falling.

At the sight of the scene, strange but not obscene in the slightest, Maekar frowned, unable to understand his son’s behavior. He had expected the worst, that he had taken advantage of his cousin and that he would have to rush to arrange a wedding, but instead he was simply resting with an almost improper peace.

Baelor, for his part, felt a certain indignation at the carelessness of his only daughter. She had never caused trouble and had always been mindful of the precautions she ought to keep around men, which was why he could not understand what had led her to place herself in such a vulnerable position before the arrogant and cruel boy.

“Wake up,” Maekar ordered, taking a few steps forward.

The command went unnoticed, and neither of them stirred much, the boy shifting an arm and letting it fall near the girl’s thigh in search of closeness and comfort. The gesture, entirely unconscious, made the fourth son of the current king twist his expression and deliver a kick to the leg Aerion had dangling off the bed. The prince’s eyes flew open at once and he sat up with an offended look, lips already parted and ready to threaten, until he became aware of those present.

“Up, now,” Baelor said, moving around the bed to stand beside his daughter.

“What happened?” the young woman asked, still disoriented, lifting a hand to block the light.

“Our fathers,” Aerion summarized, barely turning his head toward her, his tone laced with annoyance.

Frowning, she came back to her senses and looked around until she met the heterochromic gaze of her father, whose expression was so serious that the drowsiness vanished at once.

“I hope you have a good justification to explain your absence from the Presentation Feast prepared in your honor, where you left dozens of maidens waiting,” Maekar said without wasting time.

“I do,” he replied simply, with a disinterested expression. “I was studying.”

“Do you take your father for a fool?” he growled, leaning slightly over him as if ready to breathe fire.

“It’s the truth, uncle,” the young woman intervened, sitting up and straightening any disarray in her appearance. “Aerion thinks himself a dragon, but he couldn’t speak High Valyrian even if his life depended on it.”

“I am one,” he corrected, convinced, his tone carrying a clear warning.

Unafraid, she took the book from her lap and smacked him on the head with it.

“Of course you’re not. Until you can speak and read the mother tongue of the Targaryens, you’ll be little more than a lizard.”

“Watch your tongue,” he growled, closing the distance as if that might intimidate her.

“Or what?” she challenged with a mocking smile, holding his gaze.

The air grew charged at once and, for some reason, both their stomachs flipped with an unexpectedly pleasant sensation. Aerion parted his lips and narrowed his eyes, becoming truly aware for the first time of the woman standing before him, whom for years he had regarded as nothing more than a mere relative.

Baelor, incredibly perceptive, intervened immediately and made his daughter leave the bed once and for all, as if he had sensed the change before they had.

“As a princess, you should not have been Aerion’s accomplice. It is impossible that you were unaware of the event being held today, so you should have taken him to the feast or, at the very least, informed us.”

“It was an accident. We simply didn’t notice the passage of time.”

“Lack of attention does not justify what happened. Families from all the kingdoms traveled long distances for weeks, only to find that the host…”

“Enough,” she interrupted, exasperated. “I bear no blame in this. The one who should have been mindful was Aerion, not me, so I refuse to be the target of your scolding,” she said, beginning to walk toward the door.

“Wait,” Baelor commanded, stepping toward her.

“What?” came the sharp reply, brow furrowed as she turned around.

“I don’t ever want to catch you alone in a bed with Aerion or any other man. Never.”

A blush spread across the young woman’s face at the implication, and Aerion snorted before standing up.

“I’ll take responsibility,” he said with a sly smile, clasping his hands in front of him.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Maekar exclaimed, his anger and surprise written across every line of his face.

Baelor, always the most sensible and conciliatory, allowed his expression to darken for the first time, so much so that the room seemed to sink into shadows. He slowly turned toward him, positioning himself in front of his daughter to protect her, and began to fidget with one of the rings adorning his fingers.

“Noble words,” he acknowledged, before lowering his chin and looking at him gravely. “However, I suggest you explain their meaning carefully.”

The tense atmosphere did nothing to erase Aerion’s smile, and he nodded before taking a few steps to close the distance.

“I failed to appreciate the great effort put into my Presentation Feast and caused the princess of the castle to be scolded as well for my own indifference. We were seen together and found in a bed, certain rumors may already be circulating, so I wish to make amends. For that reason, I will use the banquet to announce that I take the daughter of the Heir to the Throne and Hand of the King as my wife, thus silencing any ill-intentioned whispers and fulfilling the purpose of my presence in the Red Keep.”

The room fell silent, and the young woman stood with her mouth agape, unable to comprehend how he could speak with such courtesy and elegance when he had always been a mischievous and spoiled Targaryen. Until now, he had lived being vile and flouting the morals of those around him, so suddenly acting in such a different manner was utterly incomprehensible.

“Marry…?” she interjected, slipping away from her father’s back to get a better look at him. “Are you crazy?”

“Why not?” he tilted his head slightly, feigning innocence. “We get along well, and you’re the only woman I tolerate. Haven’t I treated you well in our encounters?”

“Considering everything I’ve heard about you, maybe, but only because we’re family.”

“Blood ties don’t change anything. My brothers call me a monster because, according to them, I sometimes act like one—but with you, I haven’t been, have I?” he smiled, stepping closer until Maekar stopped him with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“What exactly are you intending?” the blond growled, gritting his teeth.

“I’m not planning anything. I simply found a woman I want as my wife. That was the reason we came to King’s Landing, wasn’t it?” he looked at his uncle as if expecting agreement, but the older man seemed ready to make him disappear.

“You just picked her on a whim, to avoid your responsibility of socializing and choosing a maiden. I will never give you my daughter for such reasons.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Then explain yourself clearly.”

“We’ve known each other since childhood, and of all my relatives, she’s the only one I can be around without annoyance. Our interests align, and now that we’ve grown, I’ve noticed how our bodies react to each other when we’re close. I believe we’ll be highly compatible and able to carry on the Targaryen line with ease.”

Maekar twisted his mouth, but the tension in his expression eased, and for a moment, he seemed to consider the arrangement. In a way, it was almost a miracle that his most unruly son was finally showing the intention to settle down with someone he deemed worthy.

“Ridiculous,” she said, sharp as a sword as she approached the young man. “I am a princess with pride and honor, capable of having any man at my feet and demanding the respect I deserve. Why would I choose someone like you, with such a cruel and volatile temper?”

Baelor lifted his head, clearly pleased with his daughter’s attitude, showing once again that she feared no confrontation with the young man. He realized, however, that this was likely exactly what Aerion valued: a woman with fiery blood who could shine like a dragon and challenge him without yielding.

“I will show my appreciation for you in a way you won’t be able to refuse,” he promised, pleased with himself at the thoughts running through his mind.

“How?”

“You’ll see in time,” he said, taking her hand and leaning in to kiss it. “First, allow me to announce to our parents that I will begin officially courting you. From today onward, I will do everything to make sure you belong only to me.”

The young woman held her breath, tightening her expression to hide the shiver running through her from head to toe, though a faint blush gave her away. She knew she wouldn’t soon forget the feel of his lips on her skin, and that memory would return to her in the quietest moments of the night.

“You speak with a lot of confidence for someone who has never had to work for what they want. Earning my approval won’t be easy, so I hope you’re ready.”

Aerion smiled at the challenge, lightly brushing her palm with his thumb before letting go and straightening up.