Ser Duncan had always known that princes were strange.

That, at least, was something he’d made peace with.

They were born strange, raised strange, and lived their lives in a world that did not much resemble the one the rest of them walked in. They spoke in courtesies that meant threats and in threats that meant nothing at all. They smiled when they were angry and grew angry when there was no cause he could see.

Still, he thought he understood them well enough—he’d been wrong all along.

He knows he is wrong because there he is, seated at a crystal big table amidst the gorgeous midday sun-drenched gardens of the Red Keep, ogling like a big oaf at Prince Aerion Targaryen—no, not at him, but at the lady sitting by his side, near the head of the table.

She is laughing, that is the first thing he is struck by. A melodious, gentle sound, like sweet honey. And then, the second thing that hits him is the sight of Aerion laughing with her as well, very quietly, with his head tilted towards her.

Hearing him laugh with genuine joy must be the most unnatural and eerie sound Duncan has ever heard.

Her hand rests casually on Aerion's forearm, intimately and so naturally, as if that's where it belongs. As if it's always belonged to touch him.

Dunk frowns and then he frowns even harder as his thoughts stumbled over themselves.

He keeps watching as she says something else—he can't hear what—and Aerion gives a slight tilt of his head, not in a scornful way, but in an expression of attention and delight.

Of course, Dunk has seen you before. You are no stranger to the Red Keep. You address the guards by name, thank the servants when they bring you things or offer assistance. Once, you even had smiled at Dunk himself, and he nearly tripped over his own feet when you did.

You are kind, gentle, and sweet. Everything Aerion is not, so Dunk naturally kept assuming you must be some cousin or sister or relative to the royal family.

Dunk just sits there, taller and clumsier than usual, and definitely feeling like a fish out of water among the majority of the Targaryens. He fiddles with his fingers in front of him, like that might stop him from saying something stupid, but it's already too late.

Next to him, Prince Aegon devours a fig with an expression of utter indulgentment; they went through this phase of confusion weeks ago and now seems to find it a source of amusement.

“Is something wrong, Ser?” asks Egg, his mouth partially full. “You’ve got that look on your face again.”

Dunk doesn't respond immediately. His eyes remain locked on the other side of the table, where the shade of the vines reaches upon you and your husband.

Aerion, who usually looks at everyone as if they were insects beneath his boot, is doing the most horrifying act: he is peeling an orange with the greatest of care. In one perfect spiral, he strips the peel and offers it to you along with a faint smile.

“She's Prince Baelor's daughter, right?,” Dunk asks cautiously, leaning toward Egg as far as he can without falling over. “A niece. Or maybe a distant cousin whom Aerion has kindly decided not to terrorize today for reasons of royal courtesy.”

Egg chokes a little on the piece of fig and bursts out in a dry laugh, which sounds more like a little bark. “My Uncle Baelor's daughter? Oh, Ser—”

At that very moment, your laughter fills the air at something Aerion whispers in your ear. The Prince allows himself another smile; not one of those malicious grimaces that Dunk knows so well, but a genuine, gentle one.

You place a hand on his cheek, caressing the edge of his jaw with a tenderness that makes Duncan's stomach churn with unbridled astonishment and revulsion.

“Come on, Ser, let's go meet her!” Egg suppresses a mischievous grin as he tugs on the sleeve of his tall friend's doublet, urging him to stand up as well. “I can see you like her. Let me introduce you, then.”

Dunk lets himself be led along, trying to remember every lesson in courtesy he never really learned, and as they reach the table, Aerion lifts his gaze. His eyes narrow with that characteristic coldness as he recognizes the knight, and all his gentle, carefree demeanor from mere seconds ago seems to vanish when he lays sight on Duncan.

“Ser Duncan,” Aerion drawls the name, his voice reverting to that harsh, extremely contemptuous intonation. “What a surprise. I didn’t know you were coming. It seems you're encroaching on my family's privacy a little more each day—”

“Prince Aerion,” Dunk greets him back dismissively, disregarding what the prince is saying to him, and not even bothering to listen to his passive-aggressive nonsense, since he is too concerned on gazing in awe at you. “My lady.”

“It's a pleasure to have you here.” You flash him a cheerful smile, glancing sideways to see Aerion's plump lips gaping in shock and offense at your side. “Ser...”

You pause for him to introduce himself, and he rushes to do so, inclining his head once more.

“Duncan, my lady,” the tall knight pronounces his name with more trepidation than pride. “At your service.”

Aerion frowns, his eyes squinting with growing annoyance. “Your service? What—”

“You are very kind, Ser Duncan,” you interrupt your prince, struggling to stifle a giggle at his expression of pure bewilderment. “Thank you for taking such good care of Aegon.”

“You don't have to thank me at all, my lady,” Dunk replies, his voice coming out softer. “Looking after Egg—Prince Aegon, is truly an honor. And seeing you here, being so patient... well, it just confirms what everyone at court says.”

You tilt your head curiously, as Aerion stares at him with cautious defiance.

“Oh? And what do they say, Ser Duncan?” you ask with a twinkle of amusement in your eyes.

“That you have a noble soul,” Duncan states with complete conviction, nodding to himself. “One can tell in a heartbeat that you are Prince Baelor's daughter”

And he carries on, even when Egg sneaks a kick to his shin, and the whole dining table drops silent, with everyone turning to look at him with expressions of either bafflement or disgust—in Maekar's case.

“He must be immensely proud to have such a kind and compassionate daughter. Only someone with his blood could have the strength to...“ His blue eyes glance at Aerion with barely concealed distaste, “Well, to spend the entire day entertaining your cousin Aerion and still keep a smile on your face. You are an exemplary cousin, my lady.”

Egg muffles out a strangled laugh and has to cover his mouth with both hands to keep from spitting it out.

Aerion, for his part, is not amused and remains petrified beside you. His lips part, uttering a gasp of outrage, and his violet eyes gleam with a fury that promises a death of agony.

“Daughter?” Aerion hisses, his voice rattling like a viper’s threat. “Did you call her my uncle Baelor’s daughter? And my cousin?”

You blink, glancing first at your husband, whose face is flushing through various hues of red, and then at the tall knight standing in front of you, who is frowning in innocent confusion.

“Ser Duncan...” you begin, trying to maintain your composure as the situation descends into absurdity. “I’m afraid your compass for kinship is a little... misguided.”

“Misgui—what?” babbles Dunk, batting his eyelashes as slowly as an ox that has just been struck on the snout.

Before your husband or you can answer, a soft, vibrant laugh comes from the head of the table. Prince Baelor is leaning back in his chair, attentive to the unfolding scene before him, in his usual courteous silence. His eyes now sparkle with genuine amusement.

“Gods be good, Ser Duncan,” says the King's Hand, his fingers absentmindedly twirling the wine glass he holds in his hand. “I appreciate your loyalty and your high regard for my character, but I fear you are attributing merits to me that I do not possess.”

“Prince Baelor is my uncle-in-law, by marriage, not by blood, Ser Duncan.” you clarify, reaching out to Aerion’s hand, that had been resting on your lap the moment Duncan had arrived at your side. “I am Aerion’s wife, not cousin.”

“W–wife?” Dunk repeats, his voice breaking with disbelief. “Aerion's? But, my lady, you're kind and beautiful and—”

“For five years, you bloody twit!” Aerion explodes, springing up from his seat now in defense of your honor and his own as well. The chair scrapes violently against the floor. “She’s been my wife for five years! My wife!”

You quickly rise to your feet as well, standing between your husband's fit of fury and Dunk's monumental state of embarrassment.

The difference in height is almost laughable: you attempting to calm a fuming Aerion, with Duncan looming over you both, appearing to wish the ground would open up and swallow him now that he has finally realized the mistake he has just made.

You bite your lower lip, battling to keep from laughing, knowing that would only further wound Aerion's pride.

“Calm down, my love,” you coax him gently, pressing both hands on his chest to push him back a step away from Duncan. “I’m sure Ser Duncan meant no harm.” “He called you my cousin!” Aerion retorts, his burning gaze finally dropping from Dunk and focusing on you, relenting at the way you’re gazing at him, fearful of his anger.

His hands immediately curl around your waist, drawing you closer to him reassuringly and further away from the hapless hedge knight.

Dunk is as red as a tomato and his ears are turning crimson.

“Oh fuck— I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, my prince, my lady,” he blurts out, bowing his head apologetically over and over. “I didn't mean to... it's just that she's such a good person, and you're... well, you're...” His voice trails off the instant Egg kicks him again, without even trying to be subtle about it this time. “A thousand apologies to both of you for my clumsiness. Five years... Seven Hells, five years—”

“Cease your stammering, you simpleton!” a sharp voice growls from the other end of the table. “Have you no sense at all in that thick skull of yours?”

Prince Maekar is looking at Dunk with his characteristic loathing, there is a hint of fatigue in his eyes, as if being surrounded by such a load of idiocy is costing him years of his life.

“You've caused enough of a commotion with your lack of brains, Ser,” Maekar went on, glaring at his son Aerion to shut him up as well. “Sit down and keep your mouth shut before I decide that your penance for being a dimwit should be spending the rest of lunch standing next to the horses!”

Baelor breathes out another quiet snicker at his younger brother's interruption, visibly enjoying his nephew's humiliation.

Dunk straightens up at once, rigid as a plank, still pleading for your forgiveness under his shaky breath.

“There's no need to apologize, Ser Duncan,” you try to soothe him, leaning against your husband's chest.

Clinging to your body, Aerion glares at him with hateful, menacing eyes. “I won't forget this.”

“Aerion,” you call out in disapproval, pulling yourself back in his arms so you can face him, but he just keeps eyeing Duncan, who finally stumbles away from you two and back to his seat at the table.

You seize the moment to gently tug at your husban's hand, forcing him to sit back down as well. And he lets himself fall into the chair, still holding you in his arms, and pulling you onto his lap. And you let out a light, melodic laugh as he does, twisting a little in his arms to nuzzle your nose against his affectionately.

The garden eventually settles back into its rhythmic hum of clinking silverware and low conversation. The initial shock of Dunk’s blunder lingers only in the faint, lingering flush on his face as he focuses entirely on his plate, determined not to breathe in the wrong direction.

Aerion doesn't let you go. Even as he resumes eating with his free hand, his other arm remains firmly wrapped around your waist, his thumb tracing idle, possessive circles against over the fabric of your dress. He leans his head against yours appreciatively.

“He thought we were cousins even when we treated each other like this,” Aerion whispers into your ear after taking a bite of his slice of strawberry cake, his words still laced with indignation, although you can taste the sweetness of the pastry in his breath. “How could anyone be so—”

“Oh, hush,” you whisper, your eyes gazing at his with amusement and then you pick up the small silver spoon from the edge of his plate, scooping up a generous portion of the creamy pastry. “Now, stop pouting, my love. Open up for me.”

Aerion’s obeys you, naturally, leaning forward to take the sweet offering from your hand. He chews slowly, his violet softening eyes never leaving your face.

“Is it good?” you ask softly, wiping a tiny stray bit of cream from the corner of his mouth with your thumb and sucking on it to taste the flavor yourself.

“It’s tolerable,” Aerion purrs, and then kiss your lips tenderly, his mouth lingers close to yours as he pulls away, flashing you a mischievous look. “Hmm, that is far more delicious...”

While Duncan sits frozen—staring at his plate as if the roast swan might testify against him—the rest of the table barely bats an eye at the scene unfolding at his opposite side over the table.

For the Targaryens, such public displays of affection are a common occurrence, perhaps too common during family gatherings or outings or feasts.

Maekar, though still wearing a permanent scowl, simply reaches for the wine carafe, maneuvering his arm around Aerion’s sprawling form without a word. He’s seen his son go from a bloodthirsty terror to a purring housecat in your presence too many times to count. To Maekar, your lap-sitting and sweet-feeding is a necessary evil—a price he’s willing to pay for a quiet afternoon without Aerion setting something on fire.

“You see, Ser Duncan?” Prince Baelor calls out, his voice smooth and teeming with mirth as he watches you feed Aerion another spoonful of the cake, but loud enough to make the hedge knight jump in his seat. “The Prince is quite manageable when he is well-fed and well-loved. It is a pity we cannot bottle his lady wife’s influence and distribute it among the rest of the Realm.”

Your husband scoffs, though there's no real heat in it as he tries to steal another kiss between your spoonfuls, making you laugh.

The lists are still roaring when Aerion reins in his horse.

Splintered lances litter the dirt like broken bones. The last of his opponent’s armour is being dragged from the field, dented and humiliated, and the crowd’s thunder has not yet decided whether it is cheering for the violence or the victor.

He gives them both. He lifts his visor with a lazy, satisfied motion, silver hair darkened with sweat, mouth curved in a smile that is all teeth and triumph.

He turns his horse toward the high seats before the noise can crest and spill into something uncontrolled.

He knows where you are.

Then again, he's known since the first pass of the joust, since the moment he felt the familiar heat of eyes on him. His gaze finds you easily, seated among silks and banners, a pale, perfect figure against the crush of colour and nobility.

You are beautiful, Westeros agrees on this much. The court has decided it, the singers have made a hobby of it, and Aerion, vain, terrible Aerion, knows exactly what it does to the spectacle of him.

He raises his lance in your direction, the motion theatrical, deliberate. Not a salute to the crowd. To you.

A ripple of murmurs moves through the stands. A perfect match, they will whisper. The dragon prince and his beautiful wife, all fire and silk and inevitability.

The sort of pairing people like to believe in, as if power arranges itself neatly into handsome shapes.

Aerion’s smile sharpens when he sees the way the eyes turn, frist toward you, then flicking back to him. He wants them to look. He wants them to see what is his. The blood on his armour, the victory in his grip, the woman who waits for him in the high seats like a promise made of bone and beauty.

He does not flinch when the ache in his shoulder blooms with the movement. He does not let the stiffness in his ribs show when he straightens in the saddle.

Pain is a private thing. Pain is for behind closed doors. Out here, he is unbreakable.

Out here, he is Aerion Brightflame, the Targaryen prince.

His horse prances beneath him, sensing the restless energy of the crowd. Aerion leans forward in the saddle, eyes never leaving you, and inclines his head just enough to be insolent.

As if he's asking, did you see that?

His armour creaks as he swings down from the saddle in a fluid, practised motion, boots hitting the dirt with a solid thud. Grooms rush forward with outstretched hands; knights move to flank him, already speaking of injuries and formalities and the order of presentation.

Aerion ignores them all.

He walks straight toward the high seats.

The crowd parts for him instinctively, a path opening through silk and steel and staring eyes. You feel the shift before you see him, the subtle ripple of attention, the way conversation falters and then surges again, louder for having been interrupted.

By the time he reaches the steps, the murmurs are already alive with speculation.

He takes them two at a time.

There is blood on his gauntlet. Dried along the knuckles. You see it as his hand comes up to your chair, as he leans in close enough that the heat of him presses into your space, close enough that the court seems to collectively forget how to breathe.

For a heartbeat, he only looks at you.

There is something feral in his eyes, something bright and reckless and utterly victorious. The dragon still coiled hot beneath his skin. You know this look, it's the look he gets when the world has bent to him, when the noise of it all has gone to his head and made him careless.

Then he kisses you.

It is not gentle or fit for court. It is a claim made in full view of banners and nobles and the stunned silence of a thousand watching eyes. His mouth is warm from exertion, his breath still unsteady from the joust, and the press of him is all heat and steel and triumph. The court gasps as one, a soft, scandalised sound, and Aerion does not care at all.

If anything, he seems to enjoy it.

When he finally draws back, it is only far enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours, close enough that only you can hear him.

“Did you see,” he murmurs, voice low and pleased, “how easily he fell?”

There is a faint tremor in the hand that still braces against your chair. You feel it, but you know he would rather burn the world than let anyone else see it.

Around you, the court finds its breath again. Whispers spark and spread like fire through dry grass.

The dragon and his guarded treasure.

Aerion turns, already half-facing the noise of them, the smug smile back in place. All arrogance and victory.

To you, close enough to feel the heat still bleeding from him, he is a man who has not yet come down from the fight.

The chamber is dim when you return to it, the noise of the tourney muted by thick stone and heavy doors.

The air smells faintly of smoke and oil, the lingering trace of torches and the faint, clean sharpness of the linens changed that morning. You move on instinct now, water poured into a basin, clean cloths laid out, the small tin of salve set within reach. You’ve done this enough times to know the rhythm of it.

And he's late.

You know it's nothing. Knights linger. Princes are delayed by ceremony and tradition. By praise and the hollow rituals of victory.

Still, you find your eyes drifting to the door each time the corridor outside echoes with footsteps.

When it finally opens, it is not Aerion alone.

The maester follows a step behind him, speaking softly, urgently, already in the cadence of someone accustomed to being ignored by princes. Aerion is the picture of indifference, his helmet gone, hair still damp, the remnants of the arena still clinging like heat. His armour is spattered with dirt and darker stains you do not want to look at too closely yet.

“I told you,” Aerion says, voice edged with impatience, “it is nothing.”

The maester sighs. “With respect, Your Grace, it is very clearly not nothing.”

Aerion’s gaze flicks to you, sharp and immediate. Something in his expression tightens, not the courtly mask, but the private one, the one he wears only with you. He does not like being seen like this.

He likes it even less when you are the one who sees.

“Leave us,” he says.

The maester hesitates. You catch the man’s eye and give a small, reassuring nod. He bows stiffly and withdraws, the door closing behind him with a heavy, final sound.

Silence settles.

Aerion stands where he is, armour still on, posture rigid with the effort of holding himself together. The bravado from the lists has not yet bled away; it sits in his shoulders, in the tilt of his chin, in the way he refuses to acknowledge the way his breath is just a fraction too careful.

“You shouldn’t have let him follow me in,” he says lightly, as if the words cost him nothing.

You step closer, slow and unhurried. “You shouldn’t have tried to walk away from him bleeding.”

His mouth curves, sharp and familiar. “I am not bleeding. I'm-”

“Hurt,” you finish for him, gently. You reach for the straps at his shoulder, fingers brushing against the warm metal. “Sit.”

He does not move.

For a moment, the old tension sparks between you; his pride, your quiet refusal to bend to it. Then, with visible reluctance, he exhales and allows himself to lower onto the edge of the bed.

The motion pulls a hiss from between his teeth before he can stop it.

You pretend not to hear it.

The armour comes away piece by piece, the careful unfastening of steel and leather. With each layer removed, you see the marks left by the day, like the bruises blooming dark beneath his skin, a shallow cut along his ribs where a splintered lance found purchase, the angry red of a shoulder that took a blow too hard.

He watches your face as you take it in, waiting for pity, but you give him none.

You press a clean cloth into the basin and wring it out, your hands steady. “You fought well,” you say instead. “You don’t need to pretend you didn’t pay for it.”

His eyes linger on you, searching for something, judgment, perhaps. Finding only the familiar, infuriating calm, he looks away.

“Do not mistake this,” he murmurs, low and sharp. “I am not-”

“Weak?” you offer quietly, dabbing at the dried blood along his side. “I know.”

You work in silence for a while, the room filled with the soft sounds of water and breath.

You press him back against the pillows when he shifts. The bed creaks beneath his weight as he yields, more out of curiosity than obedience, silver hair stark against dark linen.

“Stay,” you murmur, dipping the cloth back into the basin.

His eyes track you as you move. There is a lazy, dangerous glint to them now. “And here I thought I married a gentle woman,” he says lightly. “You grow bold when you have me laid out beneath you.”

You climb onto the bed to reach him properly, one knee on either side of his hips so you can lean over him without straining your arm. The position is practical. You tell yourself that. The warmth of him bleeds up through the thin layers between you, heat meeting heat, and for a moment the air feels too thick to breathe.

Aerion’s gaze darkens.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice low, amused in that cutting way of his, “this would give the court something to whisper about if they were here to witness, wouldn't it? Their perfect match, and here you are, straddling me like you want me to remind you who you belong to.”

You swipe the cloth gently along his cheek, careful of the split skin near his mouth. “I belong to no one,” you say. “And you’re bleeding.”

A corner of his mouth lifts, sharp. “Careful,” he warns softly. “Say that too loudly and I might have to prove you wrong.”

His hand comes up, not quite touching you, hovering at your waist. The possessiveness in him curls close to the surface, instinctive and territorial, a man given to too much power and too many expectations.

“I took that man from his horse for you,” he says, quietly now. “For all of them to see. Do you know what it means for a prince to look back at one woman when the whole realm is watching?”

You lean closer, just enough that he can feel your breath against his skin. “It means you wanted them to look at me,” you say. “Not that you own me.”

For a heartbeat, the teasing falters. Something old and dangerous flickers in his eyes, pride and hunger. Then the familiar smile returns, cruel-edged and beautiful.

“You are my wife,” he says softly. “If I tell the realm to look at you, they will look at you.”

You clean the last of the blood from his face, unhurried. “And in here,” you reply, meeting his gaze, “you will let me tend to you without turning it into a performance.”

His breath hitches, just once, betraying him.

After a while you finish binding the cut along his side with careful, practised hands, fingers smoothing the linen flat against his skin. The work is precise, quiet. When you lean back, the room feels suddenly larger.

Aerion watches you for a moment too long, then the softness goes.

He's never cruel to you, not really, but the prince rises back into him like a tide returning to shore. He sits up, rolling his shoulder once as if testing the limits of the bandage, mouth curving into that familiar, sharp-edged smile. The dragon back in place behind his eyes.

“There,” he says lightly. “You’ve done your duty. The realm can have me again.”

You arch a brow.

He stands, gathering the edge of his robe and pulling it around himself with deliberate care, as though the simple act of dressing is a declaration of command.

When he looks down at you now, it is with that smug, effortless certainty that everyone knows so well.

“Come,” he says, already turning toward the bed. “I will not have you hovering like a nervous septa. If I am to be wounded, I will at least be comfortable.”

The command is lazy, but it is still a command. You follow him anyway.

He draws you into the space beside him. The sheets rustle, candles gutter low. He settles back, arranging you where he wants you, a king placing his favourite piece upon the board.

Outside these walls, he will be Aerion Targaryen, smiling and terrible, completely untouchable. He will let the court see only the polished edge of him, the triumph and the fire.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, smug even in the dark, breath warm against your hair. “You'll need your strength in the morning.”

She was everything Valarr was not allowed to protect from Aerion’s attention; beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal, as though the gods had carved her from moonlight and breath. Her presence softened rooms hardened by ambition; her voice carried warmth even when she spoke of duty and politics.

There was gentleness in her eyes, a kindness that made even hardened knights falter in their speech. She smiled with sincerity, laughed without any mocking tilt, and believed, foolishly, dangerously, in the goodness of those around her.

Including Aerion.

Including Valarr.

Including the world that watched her like prey.

Aerion’s obsession with her was no secret and Valarr knew it.

He had known it from the first day Aerion saw her.

It had been at court, months before the betrothal was announced. Y/N had stood beside her father, hands folded neatly before her, listening as the king spoke of alliances and futures. She had worn pale silk that caught the light, her hair braided simply, as though she had not understood how every gaze in the hall would be drawn to her.

Valarr remembered turning to Aerion then, only briefly, only out of habit.

It was a mistake.

Aerion had been smiling.

Not the sharp, mocking grin he wore when he bested someone. Not the lazy curve of his mouth when he bored of conversation.

This smile was intent.

Focused.

Hungry.

He looked like a dragon wanting to devour a lamb.

“Well,” Aerion had murmured, not taking his eyes off her, “isn’t she exquisite?”

Valarr’s stomach had tightened.

“She is spoken for,” Valarr said flatly.

Aerion had laughed softly. “So is half the realm.”

That had been the beginning.

Now, months later, the torment had become ritual.

The tournament grounds were alive with noise; steel ringing against steel, horses snorting, banners snapping in the wind. Valarr stood near the lists, helm tucked under his arm, sweat cooling on his skin as he watched the next bout assemble.

Aerion approached like a shadow given form.

“Well fought,” Aerion said lightly. “You nearly took Ser Harlan’s head off.”

Valarr didn’t look at him. “If you’ve come to mock, do it quickly.”

Aerion chuckled. “Impatient. Is that for me, or for her?”

Valarr stiffened.

“She asked about you,” Aerion continued pleasantly. “Your sweet Y/N. Wondered if you’d be fighting again before supper.”

Valarr turned sharply. “You spoke to her?”

“Briefly.” Aerion shrugged. “She was radiant, as ever. Concerned. It’s charming how she worries.”

“You have no right—”

“No right?” Aerion raised a brow. “Cousin, we are family. And she is soon to be family too, is she not?”

Valarr’s hand tightened around his helm.

Aerion leaned closer, lowering his voice. “She smiled when I told her you fought like a man with something precious to lose.”

Valarr’s jaw clenched. “Stay away from her.”

Aerion’s eyes gleamed. “Or what?”

The unspoken truth hung between them.

Or nothing.

Because Valarr knew the cruel truth he could never escape.

Aerion always got what he wanted.

That night, Y/N sat by the window in her chambers, candlelight painting her features soft and luminous. She was brushing her hair when Valarr entered, his presence filling the room with tension he could not shed.

“You’re late,” she said gently, smiling at him in the mirror.

“The tournament ran long,” he replied.

She rose at once, crossing the room to him. Her hands found his, cool and reassuring. “You weren’t hurt?”

“No,” Valarr said quickly. “I’m fine.”

She searched his face. “You’re troubled.”

Valarr hesitated. How could he tell her that the man who laughed with her at supper looked at her like conquest? That every kindness Aerion showed was a calculated cruelty aimed at him?

“It’s nothing,” he lied, giving her a brief kiss on her forehead.

She nodded, trusting him as she always did. “Your cousin Aerion spoke of you today.”

Valarr’s blood went cold. “Did he?”

“Yes. He said you fought bravely.” She smiled. “He seems… fond of you.”

Valarr forced a tight smile. “He enjoys games.”

Y/N laughed softly. “He does have a sharp tongue, but I think there is warmth beneath it.”

Valarr closed his eyes briefly.

If only she knew.

Weeks passed. The taunts grew sharper.

Aerion praised her beauty too openly. Commented on her kindness in ways that sounded like claims. He found reasons to be near her, at feasts, in gardens, during council gatherings where she had no business but was invited nonetheless.

Always with a smile.

Always with Valarr watching helplessly.

One evening, Aerion intercepted Valarr in a quiet corridor.

“She wears blue tonight,” Aerion said casually. “It suits her.”

Valarr stopped walking. “Why do you do this?”

Aerion tilted his head. “Do what?”

“This,” Valarr snapped. “You know what you’re doing.”

Aerion stepped closer. “I’m admiring what is admirable.”

“She is not yours.”

Aerion’s smile faded, just slightly. “Not yet.”

The words were soft.

Terrifying.

Valarr felt something break then, something brittle and long-strained. “If you touch her—”

“You’ll what?” Aerion interrupted. “Challenge me? Defy me? Beg?”

Aerion leaned in, voice a whisper. “You know how this ends.”

Valarr did. He had always known.

Because Aerion had never been denied.

Not crowns.

Not dragons.

Not people.

And Y/N—sweet, ethereal Y/N—was standing far too close to the fire.

When Aerion finally spoke to her alone, it was in the gardens at dusk.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said gently, approaching her beneath the flowering trees.

She turned, startled, then smiled. “I enjoy the quiet.”

“So do I,” Aerion said. “Especially when it leads me to pleasant company.”

She blushed faintly. “You flatter too easily.”

“Only when it’s deserved.”

They walked together, Aerion matching her pace. He spoke kindly, thoughtfully, of books, of music, of duty and the weight of expectation. He listened when she spoke, truly listened, and she found herself relaxing despite herself.

“You care for Valarr deeply,” Aerion said at last.

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation. “He is good and honorable.”

Aerion nodded. “He is fortunate.”

She glanced at him. “You speak as though you envy him.”

Aerion smiled. “Perhaps I do.”

Something in his tone made her uneasy.

But she did not yet know the shape of the storm.

And Valarr, watching from afar, felt the future closing in.

Because Aerion was patient and inevitable.

And the cruel truth waited, smiling, with fire in its eyes.

Valarr did not remember deciding to go to her.

He only knew that his feet carried him through the corridors of the Red Keep as though pulled by a cord tied directly to his chest, tight and aching. The torches blurred past. His thoughts were a storm: Aerion’s voice, Aerion’s smile, Aerion’s certainty echoing again and again in his mind.

Not yet.

By the time he reached Y/N’s chambers, his breath was uneven.

He did not knock gently.

She opened the door herself, surprise flickering across her delicate features before relief softened her expression.

“Valarr—”

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him with more force than necessary.

She turned fully to him then, eyes searching his face. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment, he only looked at her.

Candlelight wrapped her in gold. Her hair was loose, falling over her shoulders in soft waves, her gown simple but clinging where it mattered, as though it had been made for his hands alone. She looked at him with concern and trust and quiet devotion and something in him fractured.

“I can’t lose you,” he said hoarsely.

Her breath caught. “Valarr—”

He crossed the space between them in two strides and cupped her face, his hands warm and trembling despite all his training. She gasped softly at the suddenness of it, but she did not pull away.

Instead, she leaned into him.

“I can’t,” he repeated, pressing his forehead to hers. “I won’t.”

“Lose me to what?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

He kissed her.

Not gently. Not cautiously.

His mouth found hers with a hunger that startled them both, weeks of restraint breaking all at once. Her lips parted beneath his, a soft sound escaping her as she clutched at his tunic, fingers curling into the fabric as though anchoring herself to him.

“Valarr,” she breathed against his mouth, her voice unsteady.

He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, savoring her warmth, the familiar sweetness of her, the way she responded so readily, so completely, as though she had been waiting for this same release.

His hands slid to her waist, firm, possessive, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. She could feel the tension in him, coiled and urgent, and it sent a shiver through her.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured, her lips brushing his jaw.

“So are you,” he replied.

She laughed softly, breathless. “Because you’re frightening me.”

He stilled at once. “I would never—”

“Not like that,” she said quickly, lifting her hands to his cheeks. “You frighten me because you want me.”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

The word was bare. Honest. Heavy with promise.

She kissed him then, tentatively at first, as if asking permission. When he answered her with a low sound and drew her back into him, her courage blossomed. Her hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, fingers threading into his hair as she kissed him more boldly.

He groaned softly, resting his forehead against hers once more.

“If I don’t slow,” he said, voice rough, “I won’t stop.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she did not pull away. “Then don’t stop.”

The invitation was quiet.

Devastating.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then the delicate line of her throat, his lips lingering there as though memorizing her. Her head tipped back instinctively, her breath hitching, her hands tightening on him.

“Valarr,” she whispered again, and this time his name sounded like a plea.

“I am yours,” he said fiercely, lifting his head to look at her. “Do you hear me? Whatever comes, I am yours.”

Her eyes shone. “And I am yours.”

He kissed her once more, slower now, deeper, the urgency tempered by reverence. His hand slid up her back, resting between her shoulders, holding her as though she were something precious and fragile both.

They stayed that way for a long moment, breathing each other in, the world outside the chamber forgotten.

Until Valarr pulled back, just enough to rest his brow against hers again.

“There is something I haven’t told you,” he said.

Her smile faded, replaced by concern. “What is it?”

He hesitated.

Because speaking Aerion’s name felt like inviting poison into the room.

But the truth pressed at him, insistent and sharp.

“My cousin,” he said finally. “Aerion.”

Her brow furrowed. “What about him?”

Valarr closed his eyes. “He wants you.”

Silence fell between them.

Her breath slowed. “Wants me… how?”

Valarr opened his eyes and met her gaze. “The way he has always wanted everything he sees.”

She drew back slightly then, not from Valarr, but from the weight of his words.

“He’s been kind to me,” she said uncertainly.

“He is kind to what he intends to claim,” Valarr replied bitterly.

She looked shaken now. “Valarr, surely you exaggerate—”

“I am not,” he said, gripping her hands. “And that is why I came to you tonight. Because if he moves against us—”

“He won’t,” she said, though doubt flickered in her eyes.

“He will,” Valarr said quietly. “And I need you to understand the danger.”

She searched his face, then nodded slowly. “Then we face it together.”

Something in her certainty nearly undid him.

He pulled her back into his arms, holding her tightly, his lips pressing into her hair.

“I swear to you,” he murmured, “he will not take you from me.”

Unseen beyond the chamber walls, fate listened and smiled.

Because Aerion Targaryen had never failed to take what he desired.

And now, desire had sharpened into something far more dangerous.

The Great Hall burned with excess.

Candlelight glimmered against gold and silver, laughter rang too loud, and music flowed in practiced waves meant to drown out thought.

Y/N sat beside Valarr at the high table, serene in appearance if not in spirit. Her silver gown clung softly to her form, luminous beneath the firelight, her beauty drawing eyes no matter how she tried to fade into the background.

Yet she felt exposed.

She could feel Aerion’s gaze as surely as if it were a physical thing; hot, unwavering, intolerably precise.

Each time she lifted her eyes, she found him watching her, not with the careless interest of a courtly admirer, but with something far more focused.

As though the noise of the hall meant nothing.

As though she were the only constant in the room.

Valarr noticed her tension. He leaned toward her, his voice low. “You’re pale.”

“I’m only warm,” she replied, managing a small smile.

“Do not leave my side,” he said, firmer than before. “Not tonight.”

She covered his hand with hers. “I won’t.”

But the hall pressed closer with every passing moment. Voices overlapped. Laughter rang too sharp. When Valarr was drawn into conversation once more, she rose quietly, intending only to step away long enough to breathe.

She did not realize she was being followed.

She had not gone far when Aerion’s voice reached her. “Moonlight suits you better than fire.”

Her heart jumped before she could still it. Turning, she found him standing just within her space, his presence immediate and deliberate. He had left the light of the hall behind; shadows carved his handsome features sharper, more dangerous.

“My prince,” she said carefully, “I should return.”

“You will,” he replied, calm and certain. “After.”

She glanced back toward the feast. “After what?”

“After you stop pretending you don’t know,” he said.

They stood beneath a tall archway overlooking the dark gardens below. Moonlight spilled through the windows, pale and cold, stripping the warmth from everything it touched.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

Aerion studied her as though she were something rare, something he had taken the time to understand. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Her voice tightened. “I am betrothed.”

“Yes,” he said. “To Valarr.”

She lifted her chin. “Then this conversation should end.”

Aerion stepped closer.

Not hurried. Not aggressive.

Certain.

“You mistake courtesy for restraint,” he said softly. “I have shown you only what the court allows. Not what I want.”

She remembered Valarr’s words.

Her breath faltered. “You shouldn’t want—”

He reached for her then.

His hand closed around her jaw, firm, unyielding, tilting her face upward whether she wished it or not. Before she could draw breath to protest, before thought could catch up to instinct, his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was not gentle.

It was not searching.

It was a claim.

His lips pressed against hers with unmistakable intent, holding her there, unmoving, as though the world had narrowed to that single point of contact. There was heat in it; control, obsession, a terrible certainty that left no room for misunderstanding.

Her hands lifted instinctively, catching against his chest, not yet pushing, not yet yielding. Her breath hitched sharply, the shock of it ringing through her.

When he finally drew back, it was unhurried.

Her lips still burned. Her pulse thundered.

Aerion did not look away.

“There,” he said quietly. “Now you know.”

Her voice trembled. “You had no right.”

He smiled, not amused, not apologetic, but satisfied. “I take rights, my lady. I don’t ask for them.”

“That was wrong,” she whispered.

“No,” he replied. “It was inevitable.”

She shook her head, fighting the confusion rising in her chest, anger braided tightly with something far more frightening. “You’ve put me in danger.”

His gaze darkened. “You were always in danger. You simply hadn’t realized it yet.”

She stared at him, breath shallow. “You don’t even regret it.”

“No,” Aerion said plainly. “I wanted to brand myself on you. So I did.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

“You should go back to him,” Aerion continued, stepping aside at last. “Smile. Sit at his side. Be the dutiful betrothed.”

She swallowed. “And you?”

“I will watch,” he said. “As I always have.”

She turned away from him then, her steps unsteady as she made her way back toward the light. The sounds of the feast rushed in again—music, laughter, voices—but none of it reached her.

When she returned to the high table, Valarr looked up at once.

“There you are,” he said. “I was beginning to worry.”

She forced herself to smile, though her lips still tingled, though her heart had not slowed. “I’m sorry. I needed air.”

He studied her face, frowning slightly. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she said too quickly.

Across the table, Aerion lifted his goblet.

Their eyes met.

His smile was slow. Possessive. Certain.

And in that moment, Y/N understood, with chilling clarity, that the kiss had not been a transgression Aerion feared the consequences of.

Who is he? You ask yourself over and over, wondering if you've ever seen that face and those eyes before.

But you're sure that if you had seen him, you would never forget his name.

It doesn't take long for one of your guards to signal him to come to your table, where you are sitting next to your father, quietly watching the other guests celebrate and toast.

When his eyes, reminiscent of the gentlest sea, lock onto yours, it's as if suddenly everything just makes sense. Something clicks in your mind. The reason you are there and he is there that night, is because of each other.

He approaches with uncoordinated, clumsy steps, flashing you a shy little smile before looking at your father and giving you both an awkward little bow with his head.

He is munching noisily on a piece of pastry he is carrying in his big hand. He smiles at you once more, visibly flustered and visibly quite hungry.

“Have you ever been punched in the face before?” your father asks him for no apparent reason, studying him carefully.

You shoot him a disapproving look, gently shaking your head in embarrassment.

“I beg—” the tall gentleman responds, his voice laced with a noticeable stutter, forcing his eyes to move away from your beautiful face and look at the Lord sitting in front of him, clearly confused, “I beg your pardon, Ser Lyonel?”

He does knows your father. That surprises you, since judging by the worn-out clothes he's dressed in, the messy state of his hair, and the ravenous manner in which he's devouring his slice of cake as if it were the first meal he's had in days, you suspect he's not a man of noble lineage. However, he's not uneducated, at least. So he must know you too.

“Big men get punched more than little men,” Lord Lyonel calmly explains, twirling his treasured dagger on his fingers, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the newly arrived man. “Did you know that?”

“He's just messing with you, Ser,” you join the conversation, looking up at him again, your eyes scanning his face, his strong jawline, his pretty lips, his sharp nose, and his bright blue eyes. You could get lost in them, you fear. “He likes to mess with people.”

“I... I meant no disrespect, Ser, my lady,” the man apologizes anyway, lifting his free hand in a gesture of appeasement, “honest.”

“What have you brought me?” your father still asks back like a spoiled little child, in a dull tone of voice.

“Um... uh, Ser, I...” the big man clears his throat, his face reddening as he catches your gaze fixed on him. “I beg your pardon. I... I didn't realize—”

“You wish to curry my favor some. Yet you come with an empty hand. Lord Cafferen, the smug cunt in red...” You sigh softly as you hear Lord Lyonel start to explain, gesturing toward the drunken man dancing a few steps away from your table, “...he is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this... bauble from his family's cellars, for he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head. You've come for my head, then.”

“W–What? No!” the blond man vehemently denies, vigorously shaking his head. “N–no”

“Then, why the fuck are you in my tent?” your father demands to know, his tone thick with impatience as he points at him reproachfully.

That's your call.

“He's my guest, father,” you interject before the unknown man can say a word, smiling innocently at your father, who frowns as he turns to look at you, skeptical. “I told him he did not need to bring you a gift because he is my friend. My special guest.”

Then you turn your head, slowly, intentionally and your eyes find his again, those big, ocean-blue eyes. You lift your chin slightly and give him a complicit, gentle smile.

Your eyes sparkle with complicity and a hint of danger.

And the blond man almost drops the pastry at that. 

His ears burn red instantly, and his mouth opens as if he means to protest—to deny it, to correct you, to say he’s no one special at all really—but no sound comes out. Your smile steals the words right out of his throat.

Your father’s sharp eyes flick from your face to the man's towering form, lingering there longer than comfortable. His dagger stills in his hand.

“Your… friend,” he repeats slowly, tasting the word like it might be poisoned.

“Yes,” you answer easily, still smiling, still holding the giant man's gaze. “My friend.”

“I've never seen him before in my life,” Lord Lyonlel replies in an exasperated tone, not quite believing your words. “How can he be your friend, my dear?”

“I met him today,” you explain, nodding your head, “and I wanted to introduce him to you at tonight's feast.”

Lord Lyonel lets out a thunderous laugh that makes the wine glasses on the table rattle. The sound, rough and unexpected, seems to slightly deflate the tension in the knight's broad shoulders.

“You met him today and he's already a 'special guest'?” Lyonel stops playing with his dagger and points at Dunk with the hilt. “A dangerous position for a man who doesn't know what to do with his hands when a lady is looking at him.”

The young man blushes intensely, putting the piece of cake on the table and wiping his hands on his clothes. That makes you smile. “I am Dunk, my lord. Ser Dunk.”

“That's ridiculous.” Lyonel nods and cracks a small chuckle. “Ser Dunk from where?”

“He's had enough of your questioning for one night, father,” you snap in a determined voice, standing up with an elegance that contrasts with the awkwardness of the giant in front of you.

You take a step toward Dunk and finally, he has the opportunity, the privilege of seeing you completely, in that beautiful golden dress, that you carry with such elegance and grace as you move. The silky golden fabric has brown and dark details around the shoulders and waist, shaped like branches and flowers, wrapping around your body like he'd want to with his hands.

The difference in height is almost comical; you have to tilt your head back to hold his gaze, but you don't hesitate to do so. You are bold, fierce, and dangerously gorgeous, the most gorgeous thing he has ever seen. And that has Dunk gasping for breath.

“Ser Dunk,” you say his name so sweetly that he thanks the Gods for being named that way. You extend your hand toward him. “Do you like dancing?”

Dunk looks down at you, utterly dumbfounded. He can feel your father's gaze on him, and perhaps that of every man in the tent, eyes full of jealousy. 

He holds your gaze as he takes your hand very gently, as if he were handling the most delicate and precious thing in the world. “Doesn't everyone, my lady?”

A small, sly smile appears on your lips at his response. You got what you wanted.

Dunk holds your hand so reverently that it almost seems as if he fears you might faint if he squeezes a little harder as he guides you to the center of the tent.

“That's the right answer, Ser,” you reply with a twinkle in your eye. “Although I fear those lords out here think 'dancing' means stomping on my feet while bragging about their castles. I hope you are... different.”

Dunk swallows loudly, feeling the heat of your skin against his, his fingertips sparking warm sparks across the back of your hand. “I... I'm very big, my lady. My feet are like bloody boulders. I wouldn't want to...”

By the Seven's will, you are praying in your mind that it will be as big as his whole being.

“Oh, do not concern yourself with that,” you interrupt him, giving him a gentle but firm tug to pull him closer to you, giving him more confidence and allowing you to lower your voice to a more confidential tone, “If you step on me, I will have an excellent excuse to force you to carry me around camp until I heal. Does that not seem like a fair deal to you?”

Dunk lets out a kind of gasp, a mixture of nervous laughter and amazement, while his cheeks turn a shade of red that would rival the Lannister banners. The idea of carrying you across the camp seems to leave him speechless for a second, caught between the panic of hurting you and the wonderful mental image of holding you in his arms.

“That would be... scandalous, my lady,” he manages to say, though his eyes sparkle with charming shyness, “And I doubt your father would allow me to make it to the third tent before declaring that my head would look better on a pike.”

“Then I suggest you be careful,” you wink at him, guiding his big hand to your waist.

Despite his evident nervousness, Dunk moves with a surprising lightness for a man of his size. At first, his movements were stiff, as if he were a wooden puppet, but your gentle guidance and the way your fingers caress his shoulder helped him find the rhythm of the lute and drum.

“Actually...” he begins, bending his head so that his voice is drowned out by the clamour of the feast and only audible to you, “my name is Duncan, my lady. Though everyone calls me Dunk.”

“Duncan,” you repeat, savoring the syllables. “Now that's a name fit for a knight.”

“I’m no knight,” he murmurs. “Not really. Not yet.”

He ducks his head slightly, embarrassed, and you notice how long his lashes are when he does.

“I have to thank you,” he whispers just after, guiding you in a slow turn that takes you even further away from the main table. “For what you did just now. With Lord Lyonel. You saved me from... well, I don't know exactly what, but I'm sure it wasn't going to end well for me. Lying to your own father for a stranger... that's a kindness I don't deserve.”

“Lie?” you ask, raising an eyebrow with feigned innocence. “I didn't lie, Ser. I said you were my friend. And friends we are, are we not?”

His thumb brushes, almost unconsciously, against the fabric at your waist—an accidental touch that makes him stiffen, terrified he's overstepped.

“I... I'd like that,” he finally says, softly. “Being your friend, I mean.”

“You dance better than you let on, friend,” you remark lightly, glancing up at him.

He snorts quietly. “I’ve danced with horses more than people, if I’m honest.”

You laugh—a clear, bright sound—and his mouth curves into a grin so wide and unguarded it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. It transforms his whole face, softening the sharp lines, making him look younger somehow, softer.

He guides you through another turn, his grip firmer this time, and when you return to him, you're closer than before. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body through the layers of fabric. And certainly close enough to have you yearning for him. Dunk yearns for you as well.

Step after step, the movements grow easier, more natural. You begin to feel the strength in his frame—not stiff, not clumsy, but controlled, careful. Every time he spins you, it’s with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. Every time you come back to him, he catches you like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.

You notice eyes on you then.

Lords watching with narrowed gazes. Ladies whispering behind their cups. Envy, curiosity, scandal simmering quietly at the edges of the feast.

“Everyone is looking at you,” he notices as well, gazing down at you, his fingers lightly squeezing your hand. “And they all want to kill me.”

You slowly shake your head, flashing a playful smile at him. “Everyone is looking at you, Ser Duncan”

He blinks at that, clearly unconvinced, but before he can argue, the music begins to slow. The drums soften, the lute draws out the last lingering notes, and the dancers around you start to drift apart, clapping and laughing as the song comes to its end.

Reluctantly, Dunk lets the final step settle.

His hand lingers at your waist a second longer than necessary—still proper, still careful—before he seems to remember himself and draws it back, clearing his throat.

“That was…” he searches for the word, brows knitting together, “…very nice.”

You smile at him. “That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”

His lips twitch. “I meant it as the highest praise I know, my lady”

You laugh softly, mercifully sparing him from your teasing for a moment.

“Come,” you say, slipping your hand back into his without ceremony. “You’ve earned a proper meal.”

You have a keen eye for detail, but you don't have to make much of an effort to figure out that he doesn't fit in a place like this. He doesn't exactly come from a wealthy background, and he's probably not used to feasting like this. So, you're delighted to urge him to enjoy the occasion.

You lead him toward one of the tables, weaving easily through the crowd as servants move to refill platters and cups when they see you approaching.

Dunk follows half a step behind you, still holding your hand. He looks so out of place at your side, standing like an looming tower of shadow behind you.

His big body next to yours is definitely arousing you. But you have to be careful. There, under the watchful, treacherous, and envious eyes of others, you can only hold his hand. You'll be able to do more when it's just the two of you. Soon, you hope.

You stop near a table heavy with food and gesture grandly.

“Eat,” you command lightly. “Before you faint and cause a scandal, Ser.”

Ser Duncan hesitates. “Are you sure, my lady? I wouldn’t want to take—”

“Oh hush,” you interrupt him as you have already done several times that evening, already reaching for a piece of bread and pressing it into his hand. “I insist. If you faint in the middle of my father’s feast, it will be terribly embarrassing. For him.”

“Thank you,” his voice drops sheepishly. “Truly.”

He eats then—careful at first, then with more confidence once he realizes no one is about to drag him away or punch him in the face. You watch him with amusement, resting your elbow on the table, chin in your palm.

“So,” you begin casually, “did you truly come here just for the food? Since you don't intend to assassinate my father, I see.”

He swallows, then smiles softly. “At first, yes. I was looking for someone.”

You raise an eyebrow, already anticipating his answer, “and now?”

He meets your gaze, steady despite the nerves. “I found something much better.”

Dunk seems to realize, a second too late, just how boldly that might sound.

“I—” he starts, then stops, color flooding his face again. He hastily wipes his hands on his trousers and straightens, suddenly reduce to nothing but nerves and babbling. “Forgive me, my lady. That was… forward. I didn’t mean to presume. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I— I shouldn’t speak as if I had any claim to your attention.” He bows his head slightly, earnest to the point of pain. “I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

He is truly pathetic. And you love it.

You hum softly, amused.

“If you truly overstepped, Dunk,” you reassure him, “I would have told you already. And I would have had you kicked out of here.”

He looks up at you then, searching your face as if afraid he’s misread everything.

“And,” you continue, your thumb brushing against his on the table, tantalizingly, you bite your lower lip, “I don’t think honesty is something that needs apologizing for.”

His breath leaves him in a slow exhale. “You’re very generous.”

“No,” you correct, eyes glinting with quiet amusement. “I’m very aware.”

Dunk looks at you as if stars were hanging from your hands, as if your eyes held the light of the sun itself, with every blink of your eyelashes bringing a beat of his heart. He looks at you with the closest semblance of true love you will ever encounter in your life.

It's hard to believe. The way you have bewitched him, body and soul, and he has barely known you since just today.

“I didn’t expect…” He stops, frowns slightly, then tries again. “I didn’t expect to be seen.”

Your expression softens.

“You’re very hard to miss, Ser Duncan,” you confess, very gently.

You don't think twice about reaching out and brushing some of the flour off his knuckle. The contact is brief, polite... and yet he remains perfectly still, not daring to breathe.

“Do you think I have any chance of making it through the tournament?” he blurts out all of a sudden, looking at you like he’s mesmerized.

“Well,” you say, reaching out and tapping his chest with one finger, right over his heart, “that simply won’t do.”

He blinks. “M-my lady?”

“You cannot die,” you inform him matter-of-factly, as if stating an obvious truth. “Not now. You can't hesitate.”

His blond brows knit together. “I— I beg your pardon?”

You lean a little closer, lowering your voice, playful but firm. “I only just met you today, Duncan. It would be terribly rude of you to go and get yourself killed before I’ve properly decided what to do with you.”

His mouth opens. Closes. His ears turn red again. He blushes like a love-struck boy.

“That’s… that’s not how death works,” he breathes out after, weakly.

You smile wider. “You’d be surprised how persuasive I can be.”

He laughs then—really quiet, disbelieving, warm. “I’m not worth bending fate for, my lady.”

That makes you still.

Your teasing fades, just a little.

“Don’t say that,” you murmur. “You’re worth more than you think. And besides—” your eyes sparkle again, mischief returning, “—I would be quite cross if the first man who ever danced properly with me decided to get himself skewered.”

Dunk swallows hard. “I’ll try not to.”

“No,” you correct gently. “You’ll succeed.”

Your father’s voice carries across the big tent, calling for you, and you know you cannot linger much longer with your newest whim. Your new craving.

You straighten, smoothing your dress and Ser Duncan watches you stand, gazing at the way the torchlight catches in your hair, the gold of your dress glowing like something unreal.

“I must go,” you announce softly.

Dunk’s smile falters—not fully, but enough for you to notice. He sets his plate aside, suddenly very sad.

“My lady,” he calls for you, then hesitates, with his hands half-curled at his sides. “Will I… will I see you again?”

There it is. The question he’s been holding back all night. The kind of revelation you've been eager to hear from him since you first saw him.

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it, entertained by the sight of him squirming just a little.

“Well,” you say slowly, eyes dancing between his lips and his eyes, gleaming with shameless desire, “that depends.”

“On what?” Dunk asks, hopeful and terrified.

You lean in closer, just enough that only he can hear.

“You survive the tournament,” you whisper. “And I’ll consider it a personal favor.”

You raise your hand, now bolder, without fear, and brush a lock of his bronze hair off his forehead, a brief touch that makes him flinch like a puppy desperate for affection.

“I don’t make promises to dead men, my sweet knight”

“Then I’ll live,” his breath catches. “I swear it, my lady.”

“I’ll find you, then,” you promise. “Good night, Ser Duncan.”

“Good night, my lady.”

You don’t look back as you return to your father’s side.

Dunk presses a hand to his chest, right where you tapped him earlier, and lets out a shaky breath.

He is no one. He is dirt and brutish. You are silk and grace.

You are golden and he is brown.

And yet you said ‘I’ll find you’.

Most of your time spent together had come from conversing casually at events, or during council meetings whenever you both had been waiting for your parents to finish their work. You’re a few years younger than Caitlyn, so she had offered to help you with any work you had been doing at Piltover Academy. You were a good student as well, matching her intellect. Caitlyn, despite trying to focus on your homework, would find her gaze drawn to you. Watching your eyes light up whenever you talked about something you were interested in, a small, unconscious smile gracing your lips, had easily captivated her.

That was when you were both younger, though. Now, she can't help but take notice of the beautiful woman you had become. All short skirts and fitted tops, sundresses and carefully chosen accessories, you’re like a warm sunbeam that Caitlyn can’t draw her eyes away from. 

It all starts with Caitlyn going shopping in the main streets of Piltover, and she steps into a local boutique filled with cute clothes and handmade jewelry. It's not really her style, but her eyes catch on a stand filled with silk ribbon, and it reminds her of the ribbons you occasionally wear in your hair. And oh, you'd just look so pretty in that shade of purple and-

She leaves with three of them.

A few days later, you’re at a statue unveiling of some old general in Piltover’s army, and Caitlyn sees you again. And fuck you just look so pretty in your white maxi skirt and cropped tank that shows off just a hint of midriff, and Caitlyn can’t stop staring. She finally gets herself together, glancing down at the lavender silk ribbon in her hand. Should she give it to you now? Should she wait? What if you didn’t like it? Worse, what if you don’t like her even after figuring out she’s smitten with you?

Caitlyn immediately clams up, deciding it’s better to give it to you anonymously. She darts off to the area where everyone’s bags and coats are under the guise of finding something she had forgotten in her bag. Once there, she grabs a notepad from her own bag and writes a note:

I thought this would look lovely on you. 

Yours,

Anonymous 

After attaching it to the ribbon and quietly slipping back into the crowd, Caitlyn can’t really focus on the ceremony. She tries, she really does, but the sound of your casual laughter in conversation unwillingly draws her attention. She also tries not to eye you when you politely make conversation with Caitlyn’s own parents, but, well, she’s long since given up on that one. Maybe she’ll have better self-control in the future.

|------» ~~~ «------|

Any thoughts of self-control die the moment you step into the coffee shop where Caitlyn is sitting with Jayce. Because you’re just so beautiful, wearing some lavender sundress and sandals and holy shit is that-?

Caitlyn’s mouth goes dry at the sight of the silky lavender ribbon in your hair — the one she had bought for you — tied around two pigtails hold your hair half-up. She can’t tear her eyes away, even as you step up to order and smile brightly at the barista. So much so that Jayce turns around to see what she’s looking at before turning back to her with a puzzled expression. “Uh, Cait? You good?”

She snaps her jaw shut, nodding tightly. “Yeah,” she lets her eyes linger on you for a second longer. “Everything’s perfectly fine.”

Jayce glances in your direction once again before a knowing smile dawns on his face. “Oh,” he turns back to Caitlyn, eyes smug and teasing. “You like-"

“Shut up,” Caitlyn hisses, glaring deeply at him, half because she doesn’t want you to overhear this and half because she doesn’t want Jayce to have another thing to hold over her. 

Jayce just raises his eyebrows, taking a sip of tea as if waiting for her to explain.

Caitlyn just sighs, glancing down at her own pristine teacup. “I- how can I not?” She mumbles, glancing at you. “She’s, well…perfect.”

|------» ~~~ «------|

And because you just had to go and look so ridiculously, effortlessly, beyond gorgeous in the lavender ribbon, of course Caitlyn has to go and buy five other colors. Because who is Caitlyn if not willing to spend her seemingly endless amounts of money on the little things her love crush likes. A tiny part of her also preens at seeing you so happy to wear something she gave you, as if she’s subtly showing everyone that you’re hers. But she’d never admit to that, of course.

And every time she manages to slip you a ribbon, she leaves another tiny note.

These suit you so much, I thought it would be a shame not to have more.

I think this color will look so nice with your hair.

Please take these ribbons as my way of telling you how beautiful you are.

Your ribbon collection continues to build: baby pink, forest green, crimson red, the lightest grey that reminds you of clouds on a cozy winter morning. You smile every time you find a new one in your bag, keeping the notes safely tucked away in a small box in your closet. You read them from time to time, gently tracing a finger over the words as if you can feel the affection they convey. 

Experimentally, with all this ribbon, you don’t confine it to just your hair. You tie it around your ankle, thinking it looks cute (Caitlyn agrees, smiles way too long when she sees it on you in passing). Then, around your wrists: a pair of bows. And when you show up at her house to drop off something from your family to the Kirammans, Caitlyn’s eyes go wide when she catches sight of the ribbon carefully tied around your upper thigh — just peeking out from the short skirt you’re wearing. 

Holy fucking shit is all Caitlyn manages to register in her mind. She doesn’t pay attention to whatever you’re talking about with her mother. She just pays attention to the gift she gave you, a symbol of her, tied around your thigh. She’s highly tempted to step forward and grab the end of it, untying it just to replace it with her hand and squeeze-

Pull yourself together.

And she does, barely. Manages to mumble out a few weak words as you depart, missing the smug smile that graces your features as you turn to leave. Misses the way you turn a little faster than necessary so your skirt spins and she gets another view of the ribbon wrapped around your thigh. You leave, Cassandra goes on with her business, and all is normal again.

You’re a strong presence in Caitlyn’s dreams that night.

|------» ~~~ «------|

And then one day, there’s a knock on Caitlyn’s office door, and she calls an official-sounding “come in” only for you to enter. Caitlyn stands up a little too quickly, clearing her throat and straightening her uniform. She moves out from behind her desk to face you. “This is- uh- a surprise,” Caitlyn murmurs, eyes flitting to the navy blue ribbon laced through your high ponytail, your hair half up. She’s sure she hasn’t bought you a navy ribbon yet.

“My father sent me to ask if the gala for your mother’s birthday next week will still be in your ballroom?” You ask, shifting nervously. It’s a simple question, one that you don’t really need an answer to.

Luckily, Caitlyn is too distracted to notice. She just blinks, forcing her mouth to move. “Um, right. Yes, it’s going to be held there.”

You nod, your eyes locked with her piercing blue ones. “Okay. Yeah. Sorry for the interruption, I just happened to be nearby and he, uh, wanted to know.”

Even still, Caitlyn only half registers your weak excuse. Her eyes narrow at the ribbon. It’s different than the silky ones she’s bought you: thinner and less shiny. So, instead of formulating one of her usual, sensible responses to you, she can’t help but let her curiosity spill out. “Your ribbon.”

“My-" you touch your hair lightly. “My ribbon?”

“Where is it from?” She asks, flatly. For the past weeks, the only ribbon you've been wearing has been the ones she's been giving you. Was this an old one of yours? Did you buy it recently? Or is it from someone else? Something in her chest tightens at the last idea.

She’s not prepared for the smile you flash her. “Well” you sigh, tilting your head a little as if the answer is obvious. “I thought that since my anonymous gifter keeps buying me ribbon, I should have one in her color.”

…

Wait.

It takes a second of blank staring before Caitlyn’s jaw drops. “You-" she stumbles in her wording — an extremely rare occasion she’s been taught to avoid. But all her composure is lost with you.

“Me,” your smile holds a hint of satisfaction that Caitlyn kind of just wants to scream at. Or kiss off your face. Either one.

“You knew?!” Her tone is incredulous, like she’s been so secretive that she can’t conceive how you found out she was the one gifting you these ribbons. “How?!”

“First of all, I know your handwriting. Remember how you gave me corrections on my schoolwork when we were younger and our parents had council meetings?”

“I-" Caitlyn stutters, a hue of pink dusting her cheeks. 

“And second,” you continue, not quite done. “You haven’t been very subtle about it. You seem to forget something in your bag at every event we’re at together, and then the ribbon happens to appear in mine after you come back.”

Caitlyn’s quiet for a few moments. “Oh.”

You smile. "Yeah, oh."

Caitlyn's blue eyes meet your own, devoid of her usual composure to show her slight nerves. "So...?" her voice is almost anxious.

"So," you repeat, gently reaching up to touch the navy ribbon in your hair again. The one that perfectly matches her navy Enforcer's uniform she's wearing right now. "I wore this...for you."

Caitlyn takes a shaky breath, heart pounding. "Does that mean-?"

She's cut off by your soft lips against her own. Your kiss is gentle and chaste, just a peck, and she barely has enough time to process what's happening before you pull away. "I like you," you say, your smile turning shy.

Caitlyn blinks at you, dazed. She's normally always so in command, so in control of her every action — whether that's in her Enforcer duties or her sharpshooting competitions or just her life in general — but with you, all hope of control always seems to fade. 

She steps even closer to you, gently reaching out a hand to trail along your cheek. "I like you too," she murmurs, and this time, you fear you're the one that's losing your composure because her gaze looks so loving and tender that it makes your cheeks burn. 

And when Caitlyn kisses you again, deeper this time, you allow yourself to sigh against her lips. She kisses you as if you're something fragile, something to be treasured and cared for. And you know, in that moment, that she'll do anything for you.  That, if you asked for the moon, she'd personally find away to fly amongst the stars to take it for you. 

"Are you mine?" Caitlyn asks the second she pulls away with a gentle nip to your bottom lip that makes you shiver. 

"I always have been," you mumble, letting yourself bury your face in her shoulder to hide your flushed cheeks. 

The air was thick with expensive perfume, velvet words and politics. Senators with fabricated smiles moved like currents through golden light, their laughter overlapping with the soft strings of the Nabooian quartet tucked into one corner of the ballroom. Glasses clinked. Conversations sparkled. 

Anakin felt her before she even entered the hall properly. The soft tug in his chest told him she was close, and when she stepped into view, adorned in metallic green robes that kissed the floor, hugged her curves and shimmered as she moved, he nearly forgot to breathe. 

And so did everyone else. 

She looked like a whispered sin.

Men turned. Women glanced. Senators whispered. Generals approached her. Every damn set of eyes in that room followed her. Of course they did because she looked like the brightest star of them all. 

Anakin could feel them, sense their intentions as they approached her with too-wide smiles like the itch of static across his skin. Their attention wasn’t polite, it was hungry.

His eyes saw her having polite smiles, he heard her laughter, rare but dazzling, curved through the air like sunlight on water, and it struck him, standing across the room in ceremonial Jedi robes, how damn bright she was.

And how many men wanted to bask in her glow.

She was the kind of woman people gravitated toward. A quiet sun in the middle of a storm. A cathedral in a world of shacks, commanding awe. 

He stood across the ballroom, robed in Jedi formality, a guest and a ghost. His hands stayed folded behind his back, his expression neutral. But inside, he was seething as yet another advisor leaned just a little too close, whispering something into her ear that made her smile, and his fingers curled into a fist.

For hours, she moved like light across the floor, drawn into every orbit. People hoarded her attention, called her name, asked for things, fed off her warmth. She smiled, laughed, and even joked. All while never looking at him. Not even once.

Then it happened, some Republic attaché leaned in to say something, too close, and she turned her head to hear him better, her shoulder brushing his chest. His hand hovered just behind her waist. Not touching, not quite.

But Anakin felt it, felt the heat surge like a detonation in his chest. A sharp, hot pang hit low in his gut.

He hadn’t touched her in weeks, some mission in some Outer Rim dustbowl, he couldn’t even remember the name now. All he could think about in that moment was the ghost of her skin under his callus fingers, soft, smooth, velvet-warm and seared into his memory like a brand.

And now others were close enough to smell her perfume.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, willing the fire down, but it simmered. Oh, it simmered. Another man stepped up to her side, clearly emboldened. Flirting again. Anakin’s knuckles whitened behind his back.

She plucked the flower the man offered her, twirled it between her fingers, and, finally, looked up. Across the room, past every other face. Right at him and her smile changed. Slow. Private. Not for anyone else. She knew what she was doing and she loved it. He could feel the pulse of her amusement, soft and golden behind her ribcage, glowing just for him.

And that was enough to cool the burn. For now.

She excused herself a few moments later, slipping away with the tail of her gown floating behind her, weaving through polished diplomats and oblivious senators. He waited precisely ten seconds before following, every step practiced restraint.

The cool night air of Coruscant swept over the balcony, a quiet haven away from the noise and glitter of the gala. The hum of air traffic and muffled music were distant, irrelevant things. All Anakin saw, all he ever saw, even in his dreams, was her.

She leaned against the railing like she owned the city, like the stars were her playthings. The wind caught her hair just enough to make him ache.

“You looked cozy in there,” he said, voice low, sharp at the edges. “Your... fan club seemed enthusiastic tonight.”

She didn’t turn. Just let the silence stretch, knowing it’d get to him. It always did.

“Fan club?” she echoed at last, tone light, teasing. “Sounds like jealousy, Skywalker.”

Anakin scoffed and folded his arms. “Interesting choice of company tonight. You always did like the dramatic types.”

She turned, one brow lifted. “You mean politicians?”

“I mean men who seem to forget that you are clearly out of their league.” He stepped closer, boots nearly silent, heat radiating off him in waves.

“You know,” she continued, tilting her head slightly to the side, “if I do have a fan club, I’m pretty sure you started it. That whole brooding stare-from-across-the-room thing? Very compelling.”

His jaw ticked. “Right. I’ll remember to blink next time I watch you let half the Senate fall in love with you.”

Her eyes glittered as she turned to face him. “You were watching.”

“You knew I was.”

“Practically vibrating,” she teased. “If you glared any harder, you’d have ignited the Chancellor’s carpet.”

The Force crackled faintly between them, quiet, intimate, like the brush of fingers on bare skin. He didn’t have to reach for her emotions; they poured into him like sunlight and wildfire. She was amused. Charged. Testing him.

She took a step closer. Barely there, but it was enough. “Maker, you’re jealous,” she murmured, delighted at how much tension it was in his jaw and arms. “That’s adorable.”

That did it.

In one smooth, sudden motion, Anakin pressed her back into the shadows of the balcony, out of sight. Her breath caught as the cold stone met part of her spine and his body followed, flush against hers, every line of him pressed with unrelenting intent, the warmth of his palm burning the small of her back. His metallic hand caught her jaw, tilting her face up, not rough, but firm.

His eyes burned gold in the dark as the shadows wrapped them in silence, covering their secret. 

“Do you know how hard it is not to touch you when they do?” he hissed, breath hot against her cheek. “Not to shout that you’re mine?”

She smiled slowly, challenging. “You don’t need to shout.”

He growled softly, teeth clenched. “Right, because you’re the one who loves to be loud.”

She didn’t deny it. “I love to shout your name,” she purred as her fingers found his belt, tugging him even closer.

Their mouths crashed together in a kiss that had no business being soft. It was hot, messy, desperate, brutal in its restraint. Tongues sliding, biting, fighting for dominance, hands gripping wherever they could, pulling the other deeper, like the weeks apart hadn’t worn their restraint down to shreds.

He groaned into her mouth when she bit his lip, and she gasped when he pressed his big leg slid between hers with sinful precision, and Anakin swallowed the sound greedily.

The world outside didn’t exist. There was only this, this fire, this want, this ache they weren’t allowed to name. And the Force around them swirled, tight and humming, their shared emotions tangling like limbs in the dark. Possession. Desire. Frustration. Love, blistering and untouchable. 

They kissed like they were starving. Like they might not get the chance again. Like it wasn’t enough to be his in secret, she wanted to be his in blood, in breath, in everything.

When they finally pulled apart, panting, her lipstick smudged, his hair a mess, and her dress rumpled, he still didn’t move.

He leaned his forehead to hers, eyes closed, hand on her cheek now, softer. But the tremble in his chest hadn’t gone.

“You are mine,” Anakin whispered.

Somewhere inside, he knew this was dangerous.

But her hand running in his hair, tugging softly, her lips swollen and smirking beneath his, and the feeling of her emotions bleeding into his own, her heart thudding against his. “Always.”

It all made him reckless.

Made him Anakin.

The halls of the Jedi Temple bathed in a golden wash of sunlight that stretched through high windows. It was a sanctuary, quiet and disciplined, above any kind of distraction. 

Anakin stood with his arms crossed, flanked by a line of teen knights finishing saber drills under his supervision. The hum and clash of practice blades echoed through the open-air courtyard, mid morning sun painting golden light across the pale stone floors.

He was focused, they all were. Until he wasn’t anymore.

A tug. It started like a subtle itch in his chest. That familiar flutter of energy in the Force that only she caused. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Then came the whispers. The laughter. The telltale shift in attention that shouldn’t be happening in a Temple. 

Anakin turned and there she was. She had always made a mockery of Jedi rules just by simply existing.

She moved through the courtyard like a comet, bright, elegant, entirely out of place and somehow right there. The sun kissed her skin and made her glow. Hair swept back, face glowing, wearing that rich blue gown that fitted her like a globe and stole breaths left and right. 

Poor young Jedis, they barely stood a chance.

He watched, arms still crossed, as they began to trip over themselves for her, far too eagerly.

A taller knight stumbled forward, lightsaber already off, bowing too low. “Senator, would you care for a demonstration?”

Another, younger, grinned, straightening his robes with unnecessary flair, puffed up his chest and opened his mouth to talk, but was cut short by a third that stepped in beside her, charming and overly familiar. “Senator,” he said, smirking, offering his arm. “Perhaps I could escort you to the Grand Hall? The Temple’s layout can be disorienting, after all.” 

“Actually,” another interrupted, “I was just about to take my morning walk, can I show you the gardens?”

Anakin narrowed his eyes. The younger knights, barely past their trials, surrounded her like moths to flame. Soon, he was sure the entire practice floor was about to break in spontaneous combat displays.

They were all smiles and flushed cheeks, tripping over each other for a chance to impress her but all she did was smile politely, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. 

Anakin moved, dangerously calm, all coiled control and silent warning. The kind of movement that sliced through space like a saber unsheathed, needing no sound to be final. He stepped into view like a storm rolling over a bright sky. Shadows clung to his silhouette, jaw set, blue eyes hard. He towered over the young knights who were still mid-stammer and mid-swoon.

Her eyes found his instantly and a smile, bright, amused, knowing exactly what this was, appeared on her tempting lips. “General Skywalker,” she greeted, honey-smooth and just this side of smug.

“Senator,” he said, voice all clipped politeness, but there was a glint in his eye only she could read. “You’re expected elsewhere. Please—come with me.”

It wasn’t a request. Not really.

She tilted her head, clearly entertained, and followed without protest. Behind her, the poor knights stood shell-shocked and heartbroken.

Anakin took her the long way, through narrow passages and shadow-laced halls that only he would know. Hidden corridors carved into the Temple’s bones, tucked from sight and sound. No one followed. No one dared. No one ever did when he didn’t want them to.

The tension thrummed between them. Unspoken. Electric. She could feel it through the thread they never dared name. That quiet, intimate current that pulsed like a live wire between their hearts. It made her skin prickle and her mouth curl.

“You’re brooding,” she said lightly, brushing his hand with hers.

“They were drooling,” he replied, jaw clenched, walking too fast.

She laughed softly. “You’re a menace.” Force humming quietly between them in familiar warmth. 

He didn’t deny it. Just opened the door to his quarters and tilted his head towards the inside. His eyes burned hotter than the twin suns. “They were idiots.”

“They were children,” she said, shrugging off her shawl. “It was flattering, sure. But harmless.”

She stepped into his space and reached for his tunic, smoothing invisible wrinkles just for the excuse to touch him.

His hands found her waist like magnets, urgent, desperate. Like his world only started spinning when she was close. Like he’d been starving for the feel of her. “You’re mine,” he muttered, voice rough, low.

The second she pressed against him, the tension snapped. His shoulders dropped and his breath hitched. She always did this to him, only she ever could.

The smile she gave him lit up every star in his chest.

“Possessive much?” she teased, lifting her gaze beneath her lashes. Her hand rested against his chest, gentle pressure just over his heart. “You’re lucky that’s sexy.”

“They don’t even see you,” he growled, lips brushing the edge of her jaw as he inhaled her. “Not really. Not like I do.”

Her fingers slid into his hair, threading through the waves of it, soft and slow. His anger began to dissolve under her touch.

“I know that,” she whispered, grounding him. “You don’t have to prove anything, Ani.” Her lips brushed his, featherlight. “I only have eyes for one Jedi Knight,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

A sharp breath left his lungs, forehead pressed to hers. He didn’t speak. Just stood there and felt her. Let her presence, her truth, her kiss soften all the edges. As it always did.

“You’re the only one,” she said, voice softer now, brushing her lips against his. “The only one who gets to take me home.”

He said nothing. He just clenched his jaw and looked at her like she was the entire galaxy, beautiful, untouchable, and he didn’t know how to protect her from it without claiming her. But Anakin was ready to go to the end of time to keep her safe, even if it meant destroying himself in the process.

She kissed him, soft and slow, with reverence, her thumb brushed along his jaw and his hands finally moved. One slid around her lower back, the other tangled in her hair, cradling her like something both sacred and dangerous.

“You were planning to come early,” he said, voice rasping low. “Just to see me.”

She smiled against his lips. “Took you long enough to figure it out, my love.”

He kissed her, deeper, hungrier. Less about proving, more about having. Reverence disguised as hunger. Possession disguised as devotion.

They didn’t speak again for a while. Not when she tugged him toward his bed. Not when his hands ran down her back like he was mapping out the constellations of her skin. Not when his mouth marked her skin like scripture. Not when she gasped his name like it anchored her. Not when he murmured her name like a prayer. And definitely not when the Force pulsed around them, holding the world at bay.

She had come early and now, thanks to him, she’d come more than once… and would definitely be late to her meeting, with love bites and traces of him in places only he could see later in the night.

But that had always been the danger, with her, time bent, it didn’t really matter. The world waited. Only she existed.

And if anyone asked, well, he was General Skywalker. And no one dared question him.

She was trying to work. Key word, trying. Because trying didn’t stand a chance when Anakin Skywalker was in the room. Her focus kept going to him.

He wasn’t even doing anything, not really. Just existing, sprawled across the soft seating like it was his throne, golden and smug. His presence filled the space like a storm fills the horizon, vast and crackling, impossible to ignore. She could feel him under her skin, behind her ribs, humming through her bloodstream even with five feet and a desk between them.

And he knew it, of course he did, he could feel the effect he had on her.

“You know,” he said casually, leaning back and resting the back of his head in his intertwined fingers, “we should go away.”

She didn’t look up from her datapad. “Go away?”

“A vacation.” He was already picturing it, voice wrapped in sunlight. “Just the two of us. There’s a place, far, far from here, remote, beautiful, where no one would recognize us.” He looked at her. “It will be like we are an actual couple instead of Senator and Jedi.”

Her fingers paused above the screen, the weight of the idea pressing into her chest like warmth. She could see it too, for a moment. Feel it like a dream she wanted to believe in.

“I would love nothing more,” she said honestly. “But I can’t, Ani.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” he sat up, affronted, like she’d personally insulted the sun. “It’s two weeks. The Senate can survive without you. Miraculously, I know.”

She sighed, still not looking at him. “I’m sure it can. But I have propositions to review, bills to finalize, votes to prepare. Important meetings—”

He stepped around her desk and popped a dramatic hip like the galaxy's most petulant god. “More important than me?”

She narrowed her eyes, slow and sharp. “You know exactly what you mean to me.”

“Do I?” he said dramatically, crossing his arms and turning around like a tragic holo actor. “Because right now it feels like my heart is being shoved to the bottom of your schedule.”

She let out a breath and leaned back in her chair, folding her hands across her stomach as she studied him.

“Our love is everything to me,” she said carefully. “But my work matters too. It matters for people who don’t have the luxury of sneaking away. Our work matters, Anakin. What we do matters.”

“To me there’s nothing more important than you,” he said standing there with his back to her, arms crossed like a storm cloud, radiating disappointment in dramatic waves.

She stared at his back, lips twitching. “That better not be a pout.”

“No,” he grumbled, “it’s… noble heartbreak.”

She laughed softly, Maker help her, she adored this ridiculous man. “You’re such a menace.”

“And yet here you are,” he said, not turning around. “Still not on vacation with me.”

She stood, walked towards him and slid her hands around his waist, resting her chin between his shoulder blades. “What can I do to prove to you that you matter the most to me?”

“The damage is already done,” he said with great theatrical flair.

A laugh almost escaped her lips, but she pushed it back, and in a swift motion she stood in front of him. Her fingers found his jaw, warm, strong, and tilted his face down to hers.

“My sweet sweet Ani,” she whispered, her lips slow, hot, reverent, against his, making him melt, just a little. “If you want proof,” she murmured, “then let me show you what you mean to me.”

She kissed him, soft and deep, hands threading through his hair possessively, it silenced every protest he thought about making. 

The kiss was heated, frantic, like they’d been starving for each other and finally allowed to feast. It was instant combustion. No slow burn, no delicate teasing. Just raw need, all fire and ache and knowing. He exhaled into her mouth, his hands tangled in her hair, then moved down to her waist, clutching like gravity itself had shifted and he was grounding himself. 

She tasted like stars and defiance. He kissed her like she was air and flame all at once. The fire she lit inside him was hers alone to command.

When her mouth grazed his neck, what was left of his composure unraveled like silk and his lips met hers again. He walked them back, blindly, not breaking the kiss, not once, her mouth still pressed to his, until she hit the bookshelf. He pinned her there, one hand cradling her head so she wouldn’t knock into the shelves. Books toppled behind them like falling stars as his mouth found her throat, her collarbone, her name falling from his lips like a prayer he’d been dying to say.

She gasped, breathless and burning, and he kissed her harder, like he needed to brand himself into her soul.

Then he moved again, his hands were already back on her, mapping the lines of her body like sacred territory. He knew every curve, every reaction, how she’d shiver when he kissed just below her jaw, how her breath caught when his fingers traced her spine. They collided again, lips bruising, hands insistent.

But it wasn’t just need, it was knowing. The kind of knowing that came from worship and war, from battles fought side by side and promises whispered in the dark. 

When the desk hit the backs of her thighs, he lifted her onto it, his free hand shooting out to sweep everything off the surface in one violent motion, datapads, files, a stylus, a small potted plant, all crashing to the floor as if the whole galaxy could wait while his was mouth still on hers, and she pulled him in like gravity had given up and left only them.

They moved together in a rhythm as old as time, sharp gasps, soft moans, whispered names, a symphony of want and devotion echoing off polished wood and walls that had seen too much and still not enough.

Her legs wrapped around his hips, her heels locking at the small of his back, pulling him into her, into this, and he thrust into her, the sound she made shattered him. Her head fell back, exposing her throat, and he kissed it reverently, like a knight bent before a goddess. 

She was wrapped around him, tangled in his body like ivy on stone. Her hands were in his hair, his tunic, her voice in his ear, guiding him, worshipping him. His mouth dragged over her neck, her chest, every place that made her tremble.

His hands moved over her body like he knew every inch of her in his bones, because he did. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t guess. He knew her like he knew the hilt of his saber, like breath, like instinct. He knew what would make her gasp, what would make her moan, what would unravel her completely. And she gave herself to it, to him, because she knew him just the same.

When the desk groaned in protest, he lifted her into his arms, and she laughed breathlessly against his mouth as he carried her to the little velvet sofa, limbs tangled, breathing ragged. He continued to worship her there, whispering her name like it was a secret spell that bound the universe together. She pulled him in with her eyes, with her hands, with the soft, broken sound she only ever made for him.

Every movement, every sound, every glance between them was instinct, history, devotion. They didn’t have to speak. They knew.

And when they finally collapsed on the floor, sweaty, undone, breathless and wrecked and more whole than ever, he hovered over her, brushing damp hair from her face, his heart pounding against hers.

“You are everything to me,” she whispered, cupping his cheek.

His lips curved into a crooked smile as he pressed his forehead to hers. “No,” he murmured. “We’re everything.”

The gala was crowded, loud, and glittering with too much fake gold and not enough sincerity. She floated through it like she always did, charming, gracious, intelligent. Every word laced with purpose and diplomacy. She was dazzling, magnetic. Untouchable.

Anakin had been watching her from across the room, he always is, with admiration, with love blossoming in his chest, but tonight his jaw was clenched so tightly it could shatter in any moment. 

Senator Vanto of Andosha was practically glued to her side, as he had seemed to be lately. He had been circling for weeks like a blood-slicked nexu. It started with a look across the Senate, followed by sugar-drenched pleasantries echoing in marble halls and smiles that lasted a second too long, then a fleeting compliment with a lingering hand on her back. Then he started to get more bold, a too-close whisper over a datapad, every time she laughed the man leaned in closer, taking every possible opportunity to have a hand on her, his eyes devouring her like a predator savoring the kill.

Anakin had seen it all, every touch, every glance from the Senator over the last few weeks, and it burned through him like acid, each and every single time, and she didn’t see it. Or worse, she refused to.

Now, in that glittering cage, every time he even breathed close to her, every time she flashed that too-perfect public smile, Anakin’s vision blurred at the edges. And when the senator started parading around with a hand on the small of her back, his filthy hand on her smooth velvety skin, fingers grazing the open back of her gown like he had the right, like he could, Anakin’s blood boiled.

And she, she laughed, not her real laugh, the one she gave him in quiet moments beneath tangled sheets, but the polite one she wore in public. It didn’t matter. It burned all the same. 

Without a word, he turned on his heel, strides clipped and purposeful. He didn’t care who saw. Let the whole damn Senate speculate. Let them whisper. He didn’t care. He launched his fighter and left.

By the time she got home, the apartment was dark. Cold. But not silent. Anakin was there, pacing like a caged animal, shoulders tight with barely restrained fury.

She didn’t even get her shoes off before the storm hit. “Something wrong Ani?” she asked, the door barely clicking shut behind her.

He turned, the heat in his eyes sparking like wildfire. “You really have to ask?”

She blinked at him, confused, tension curling at the edge of her spine. “I don’t understand.” She frowned, “If you’re upset about something, say it. Don’t just, brood,” she said, unwinding the earrings from her lobes. 

“I’m not brooding,” he snapped. “I’m trying very hard not to explode.”

She scoffed. “Well, you’re doing a terrible job.”

“Just like you were at keeping Senator Vanto’s filthy hands off you,” he said, sarcasm dripping like venom. 

Her breath caught. “Are you really going to start again?” she snapped, looking at him through the mirror in the room, pulling the pins from her hair, letting it tumble over her back. “I’ve told you, he’s a colleague. That’s all.”

Anakin stood dead center in the room, arms stiff at his sides, fists clenched so hard his knuckles were white. “A colleague who practically breathes down your neck every time you’re in the same room. And you let him!”

Her laugh was cold, sharp. “Let him? You think I let him?”

“I don’t think,” he said, voice jagged. “I saw you with my own eyes!”

“I was doing my job!” she said loudly, turning towards him. “Talking, negotiating, building rapport, which is what I’ve always done. What do you want me to do, Anakin? Be rude? Push him away in front of the entire Senate chamber just to make you feel better? Throw a drink in his face and declare I belong to you?” 

“I’m asking you to see it,” he bit out. “He touches you like he owns you.”

“I don’t belong to anyone!” she yelled, sharply and coldly. 

“I thought you said you were mine,” he said, lower now, his voice breaking at the edges.

“I’m not a possession, Anakin.”

“No,” he said, quieter, rawer. “But you are mine, just as I’m yours, because we chose each other. Because what we have is real. And he’s trying to take you from me,” he said, touching his chest.

Her laugh then wasn’t cold, it was shattered. “You sound insane.”

He stepped closer, too close. “And you sound blind.”

The room froze.

Her face hardened, voice tightening like she was holding back something sharp. “Do you hear yourself right now? He’s not the problem here, Anakin. You are.”

That cracked something in him, clean through the middle, cracking his chest open.

“No,” he said, voice rising. “I’m the one who’s stuck waiting while he gets to stand beside you, hover over you, touch you. Me, the man that has loved you since the first time he saw you, who would burn the galaxy down just to keep you safe, gets crumbs behind closed doors! So excuse me if I’m sick of pretending this doesn’t bother me!”

Her heart stung like it had been slapped. “You think this is easy for me? Hiding, lying, splitting myself in two just to make this work—”

“Then maybe it’s not worth it,” he snapped.

She flinched, like he’d hit her. Her mouth opened, then closed, her voice caught behind the pressure building in her chest. 

The silence that followed was instant and total. The air turned to glass between them, fragile, sharp, suffocating, waiting to shatter.

Her voice dropped to just a whisper. “Is that really how you feel?”

He faltered. He didn’t mean it. But pride, stupid, stubborn pride, held his tongue hostage and wouldn’t let him soften. “Maybe it is.”

Her breath hitched, then turned away from him, jaw clenched so tight it trembled. “Then go,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself, holding herself together with the last thread of her control she had before shattering.

Anakin didn’t move, said nothing. His jaw ticked, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. He stared at her back for a long moment, at the way her shoulders rose and fell like she was holding it together, barely.

He wanted to take it back. Maker, he wanted to. He wanted to cross the galaxy that appeared between them and fix it, he wanted to hold her and not go.

But he didn’t, and instead turned on his heel and walked out, again. Jumping on his fighter and going away, leaving her in the quiet wreckage of their home.

The silence echoed through the apartment like a thunderclap as she stood there, still in her gown, her earrings in her hand, hair loose caressing her back, and shaking. The lights hummed softly above her. The room felt cavernous without him in it.

And all she could do was stand there, alone, tears pulling in her eyes, surrounded by the wreckage of what they’d built, and wonder, maybe this time, they’d broken something they couldn’t fix.

A full day passed.

She hadn’t moved much, buried under blankets, curtains drawn to shut out the light that mocked her with its warmth. Her datapad buzzed every few hours with messages and alerts, unanswered. The Senate could wait. The galaxy could wait. For the first time in years, she let herself unravel. The senator, the leader, the unshakable voice of reason, reduced to someone wrapped in silence and tears. There was the steady hum of sorrow beneath her skin and the raw ache of something lost, sobs coming and going in waves, breaking through moments of numb silence. She tried to hate him. Tried to hate herself. Neither feeling stuck. Only grief for what might already be gone did.

By late afternoon, the tears had run dry, replaced by something hollow. She pulled herself out of bed, her muscles aching like she had fought a war in her sleep. The shower steamed the mirror, the water was hot, steady, cleansing, grounding her just enough to feel like maybe she could start over.

Maybe.

But she wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

She was wrapping her robe around her when the knock came. She frowned, confused. No one was supposed to visit. The few people who might, had the good sense not to.

When she opened the door, Senator Vanto stood there.

Concern painted across his features like a poor artist’s attempt at sincerity. “You weren’t at the Senate today,” he said, stepping inside uninvited. “People were asking. I was worried that you perhaps were ill.”

She blinked, unsettled. “I... wasn’t feeling well.”

He smiled, taking a slow, familiar step toward her. “I figured as much. I thought maybe I could help. Maybe you needed someone to talk to.” His eyes dragged over her, landing on her exposed collarbone where the robe dipped. “Or just someone.”

A chill slid down her spine and she tightening the piece of clothing around her.

She moved toward the sitting area, creating distance, hoping he’d take the hint. “Thank you for your concern, but really, I’m fine.”

“I know,” he said smoothly, following her, “but maybe it’s time you stop pretending you don’t need anyone.” He looked her over, the flush skin, her bare legs, her wet hair. “You need someone who can take care of you,” he reached out, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. 

She stepped back, discomfort. Her skin prickled, but not the way it did when Anakin touched her. There was no warmth here, no tenderness. Just a creeping, nauseating wrongness.

“I said I’m fine.” Again, she rounded the sitting area and tried to put as much distance between them as she could. 

But he followed, again, too closely, too comfortably. With every inch she gave, he took more.

“You’ve always kept yourself surrounded by politics, war, rules, men who are never really there for you. Jedi who disappear when it matters most.” He said it with meaning, with venom. “But not me,” he sat and pushed her to sit with him. “I wouldn’t leave you alone, not even for a second.”

Her knees hit the cushions before her mind registered what had happened. Her stomach turned. “Vanto—”

“I mean it.” His voice dropped. “You need a man who’s strong enough to handle you. Someone who knows what to do with a woman like you.” His eyes drifted down. “Someone who knows how to touch you.” His hand landed on her thigh, firm, possessive. 

Her blood froze. The hand was not delicate, not gentle. It burned. Her skin crawled under it.

“I can give you what he never could.” His voice slithered around her. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

She tensed, tried to inch away, but his hand gripped tighter. “Let go of me,” she pushed his hand away. “It’s time for you to go,” she said, standing sharply.

He stood too, moving in close, cornering her. “Come on, darling,” he said with a twisted smirk on his lips. 

She backed up. Her robe slipped slightly off one shoulder again, she yanked it up with trembling fingers.

“You can stop pretending now. No one’s watching.” His hand caught her arm.

She yanked back. “Don’t touch me.”

But he didn’t stop and his grip tightened. “I’ve seen the way you look at me—”

“There’s no way I look at you,” she snapped, breath catching. “Let go of me.”

“No more playing game,” he smirked again.

“Stop it—” she twisted, trying to break free.

“No more hiding.” His other hand gripped her side, fingers digging through the thin robe like claws.

She gasped. “Please, no.”

The fear started creeping up her throat like acid.

Her skin was on fire where he touched her, not in the way Anakin lit her nerves with heat and reverence, but like poison seeping into her bones.

“You’ve got no one here but me.”

She whimpered, voice cracking. “I said no—please don’t—”

He leaned in, tried to kiss her.

She twisted, shoved against him, her voice shaking, heart in her throat. “I said no—!”

And then—The door burst open with a crash.

A wind tore through the room as if the stars themselves had followed him in.

Anakin stood there, eyes burning, jaw locked, the fury of a thousand suns radiating off of him. His voice was low, guttural, animalistic.

“Get. Away. From her.”

Vanto startled, letting go just long enough for her to stumble back. She shoved him hard, scrambling to the other side of the room.

And before she could even breathe, Anakin crossed the room in three strides. The Force lifted Vanto off the ground like he weighed nothing, like a ragdoll, choking him mid-air. His feet kicked helplessly as Anakin stalked forward.

“You dare to touch her,” Anakin growled, his voice was cold. Controlled, but barely. 

He threw him against a wall and with his free hand, took his lightsaber and ignited with a snap-hiss of blue death. “You hurt her.” His face was carved in stone, his rage blistering, terrifying, as he pointed with his saber at him.

“Try fighting like a man,” Vanto stood up, coughing. “Without your Jedi tricks.”

Anakin’s lips twitched. A slow, dangerous smile, not at all kind. “Oh, it would be my pleasure.”

The saber shut off with a snap, and he launched forward.

The fight was brutal. No rules, no honor, just raw and animalistic fury unleashed in the flicker of a heartbeat. 

She stood frozen, robe clenched tightly around her trembling frame, breath caught in her chest as she watched the man she loved, her sweet Ani, unravel.

Anakin was a storm, all fire and anguish and vengeance, striking with the kind of force that only came from years of buried grief, unspoken heartbreak and possessive love in every strike. Metal met flesh with a sickening precision. Blood splattered. Vanto swung wildly and desperate, landing a few hits, but they barely registered. 

Anakin was relentless, built for combat. Designed for it. He wasn’t born like that, for war, but he was made into it. War had carved him into a weapon, he was honed by pain, but underneath the fury still lived the boy who once only wanted to protect the people he loved. And now, seeing her hurt, that boy was screaming and the man he had become answered with rage.

“Anakin, stop!” she cried, breathless, panic bleeding into every syllable. “Don’t—please, he’s not worth it!”

In the chaos, as she tried to break them apart, to stop the devastation, Vanto’s fist swung. It wasn’t meant for her. But it found her anyway. It hit her, colliding with her cheek, sharp and brutal.

The sound, sickening, wrong, echoed through the room like a thunderclap. She gasped, stumbled, a cry of pain tearing from her throat as she crashed into the side table and fell. The thud of her body hitting the floor split the air.

Everything stopped. He punched her. She was on the ground, pain flashing in her glassy eyes, blood on her hand and a cut in her porcelain skin.

The sound she made, that wounded sound, more raw than war, more real than anything he’d ever heard, broke something in him so violently that his breath left him in a single, strangled gasp. 

The world narrowed and all he saw was her, his word had fallen hurt and all his anger turned to something worse. 

She was hurt. Because he hadn’t stopped it. Because he hadn’t been fast enough. Because he had left and was almost too late, again.

That was it, he snapped. 

Anakin tackled Vanto with everything he had, not as a Jedi, but as a man who had seen the only thing that kept him sane, the source of his happiness, hurt and afraid. There was no humanity left as he charged. The punches came fast, the anger white-hot. He didn’t hear Vanto’s protests, and didn't care because all he saw was a danger to her. He threw him across the room, pinned him again, and hit him harder.

All he felt was heartbreak made flesh, striking out at the thing that dared hurt what mattered most to him.

Every hit said: You don’t touch her. Every hit said: You don’t get to make her afraid. Every hit said: She is mine to protect.

Only when Vanto was unmoving, groaning, bleeding, broken on the floor, did Anakin stop.

He stood there for a moment, chest heaving, fists trembling with fury. His eyes were wild, dark with something primal, something unbearable. A small whimper reached his ears and he turned around. She was still on the floor, broken and shaken.

The door opened again. Security. Too late.

Anakin rushed to her side, kneeling, hands shaking as he cupped her face. “Are you okay?” His voice cracked, desperate. “Look at me. Tell me you’re okay, please.”

He touched her cheek, gently, like she was made of light and grief and might vanish or shatter if he pressed too hard, and she whimpered at the contact. It wasn’t fear this time, nor pain. But because something in her had broken open, and he was the only one who could hold it together.

“This is all on me,” he breathed, horror and panic folding into his voice. His eyes burned, rimmed red. “Maker, forgive me—” His breath stuttered. “I shouldn’t have left. I should’ve—”

Her wide, tear-glossed eyes met his. “You came back,” she whispered, voice so small it broke him. Her trembling fingers touched his cheek, catching a tear as it slid down his face. “You came back right when I needed you.”

His face twisted with emotion, grief, relief, love that nearly broke him in two. “Of course I did,” he choked out. “I’ll always come back.”

Her lip quivered. “Don’t leave me again,” she pleaded. Her voice was broken, raw, but somehow softer.

He closed his eyes, forehead resting against hers, as if that could fuse them together and keep the world from breaking them again.

“Never,” he whispered, voice raw and aching. “My love, never.”

Behind them, security restrained Vanto’s broken, barely-conscious body. There was shouting. Movement. But none of it touched her. None of it touched him. But none of it mattered.

She leaned into Anakin’s touch, into the only thing that felt real, like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. And maybe it was. 

“Just hold me,” she whispered. “Hold me like only our love matters in this world. Hold me like only you know how to.”

Even if the fire of his rage still clung to him like a second skin, he was hers, and she was his. He was the safest place she had known. 

He was home.

Without a word, Anakin gathered her into his arms, carefully, reverently, as if she were made of sacred things. He held her like she was the only truth he’d ever known, the only fight that ever mattered.

And in that moment, with her curled against his chest, with her tears soaking his tunic and his heartbeat steady against her ear…