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Jacaerys felt the bite of the arrows like a brand, pulsing like another denominator of what was to come, to swallow him whole. One in his neck, one near his heart, and others in places he couldn’t name, but remembered your hands and mouth touching countless times before.

The Gods were cruel to punish him right where your sweetness had been, where your love had touched and imprinted itself onto him, now stained by sharp steel and blood.

He hopes you’ll have it in your heart to forgive him, for he cannot do so for himself. The more the world feels like a distant memory, the more his heart aches, its beating slowing, as if trying to mimic the syllables of your name one last time before it inevitably stops. One last call out to you, willing to see if you would answer, even if he knows that to be impossible.

Would you cry, he wonders, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. Would you curse him? Would you hate him? Would you damn every moment you’ve spent together, turning it into poison and ash?

Jacaerys would not fault you if you did, but his chest feels hollow at the prospect of causing such vile emotions to bloom in your tender heart, most of all towards him.

You are his most precious jewel, and losing his life is one thing, but knowing that means losing you as well? It tears at him more than those arrows have.

He thinks of his mother, who was so delighted knowing he had found someone to love, and someone to be loved by in return, truthfully and wholeheartedly. You two were meant to have a Valyrian wedding in a few moons, as it is custom, and he had been ardently awaiting to see how beautiful you would look in traditional garments. Trying to imagine it now, just as he had many times before, feels like another arrow aimed straight at his heart, plunging deep. Now, he will never get to teach you how to recite the vows in High Valyrian, won’t get to see the sparkle of joy in your eyes when you’re face to face, exchanging them, binding your destinies together for all eternity, even in death.

Death. Jacaerys supposes that if he dies without binding his soul to yours before his ancestors, he won’t have any pieces of himself that he knows will certainly be kept in the sanctity of your heart.

But maybe it is better this way, for you will not have to carry such a heavy burden ensnared in the crevices of your chest, reminding you of all you’ve lost; of all he’s made you lose.

It might seem callous of him to think so, but the thought of you mourning him brings warmth to his veins, even through the chill of the sea. Knowing you have loved him enough to let tears fall from those pretty eyes of yours makes the inevitable hurt a little less.

Someone had cared for him and felt strongly enough to weep at his departure. That, in itself, is a gift. One of the many you had given him. You yourself have been the greatest one, blessing his days and easing his worries with nothing but a look, a word, a kiss. It had come like breathing to you, and he had never felt like he was out of air until now.

The sea is seldom merciful, and no matter how much he tries to beg the Gods to spare him, Jacaerys knows this time it might be in vain.

But how can he not beg? How can he not plead? If not with his voice, then with the remaining beatings of his heart, with the last vestiges of the memories he has of you.

He wishes he would’ve said I love you more often, for it seems like he had been scarce in his vocalization of it. Now, every day doesn’t feel like enough, because no matter how hard he tries, his throat is clogged with water and the words he means to say, if only for the last time. He would’ve hoped it enough to ease the grievances he knows you would feel upon hearing of his demise.

Jacaerys wonders if you would eventually surrender yourself to another. If there would come a day where another man would sweep you off your feet, chipping away at all the parts of Jace burrowed deep in your flesh and blood. The thought makes him want to weep. You forgetting him, replacing the memories you have of him with those of another, as if painting anew on an old canvas one has no use of anymore.

If his promise would’ve rung true, Jace would be by your side now, celebrating the victory at the Gullet, hugging his mother, then you so tight it would’ve knocked the air out of you both. He would’ve twirled you around while laughing, leaning in to press a multitude of kisses onto every patch of skin he could reach, knowing it’ll make you laugh, cheeks flushed, looking at him like he’s your whole world.

May that be the last thing he wishes for before the sea takes him. May your face be the last thing on his mind before there is nothing but darkness, engulfing every bit of light that was you. May he always remember you, even when buried beneath the sea and the sand, wishing for nothing than to hear your voice saying his name one last time, your gaze softening upon looking at him, and maybe, if the Gods allow him one last mercy, the feel of your soft lips upon his own.

He knows he is not worthy, for if he were, Jacaerys would’ve held onto his promise to come back to you, to his mother, to the Realm. But he couldn’t. The Gods were ever cruel and took from him the very essence of his being, cursed to wait for his impending doom.

And wait, he had. Was it another punishment to still feel like he was hanging on but never sinking deep enough? To will him to replay every single memory of you and imagine thousands of others? To feel so close but so far away from the object of all his affections and desires?

Jacaerys would know you anywhere, he thinks. Even blind, hard of hearing, or sinking into nothingness, he would not fail to know you are close.

So why does it feel like you are? Is this another cruel trick before the ancestors welcome him to them? He swears he can feel the soft lilt of your voice somewhere in his vicinity, and it makes him want to move, to lean towards it and taste it. Make sure it’s real.

Please let it be real. To the Old Gods and the New, let it be real. Don’t dangle such hope in front of him only to take it away, for it would feel like getting speared with arrows again and again and—

“I shall watch him,” your voice sounded, just as sweet and lovely as he remembered, but also tired, croaky at the edges. What had happened? Why were you — “You need rest, my queen. Let me, for now.”

My Queen? Mother?

The sounds were a bit muted, but he could hear footsteps, then the creaking hinges of a door, followed by a thud.

A long, hitched sigh followed, the one people do when they try not to let it show they were hurting, right before the tears inevitably fall.

Were you crying? He couldn’t bear when you were. That pretty face he loved so much, marred by tears, undid him every time.

Jacaerys had to see, had to make sure you were okay, that nothing had befallen you too, that the Gods had been merciful to an angel such as you.

He was struggling. His body was not responding the way it should, barely able to feel his hands and feet properly. But that didn’t matter now, for he only needed his eyes to will open so he could glimpse you, even if it was all a cruel fiction of his imagination, probably allowing him one more wish before taking him to the depths forever.

Please.

Please let him see his wife. His lady. His love.

Please.

One last time is all he asks.

If the Gods had ever looked down upon him and smiled, let them look down and smile once more. Grant him this one mercy. Just this once. Only this once.

He knows he’s begging, but what is there to do other than implore with all the strength left in him for one last look at you? In case he is to meet his end soon, let the sight of you be what he goes down feasting upon.

Blessed be The Mother, for I beg for one last mercy, for I shall gaze upon the one I hold most dear before my death and meet my end with a settled heart—

Jacaerys wonders if you are wearing one of your soft gowns, the ones he loves most, for you look like a Fae from the library tomes you so love. Would you still wear the necklace he had given you, or have you thrown it away in a fit of grief and anger because of his recklessness? He wouldn’t fault you for it. Just wished he could give you another to atone for his many sins, for how much sorrow he must’ve brought you.

But he is wrong.

You are wearing the pendant. Your fingers are wrapped around it, settled at the base of your throat, holding so tight your hand shakes, lips pressed to it, murmuring to yourself, eyes closed in prayer.

Are you praying for him to come back to you, just as he was? The thought makes warmth bloom beneath his ribs, licking upwards towards his chest, weaving until it finds his heart, willing it to beat faster. Even so close to dying, he supposes, you still manage to affect him just the same.

If this is but a dream, he hopes he never wakes up. Because standing here, looking at you, just as beautiful as the day he lost you, brings him more peace than any prayer he could’ve uttered. You are so pretty. His pretty girl. Always, always so very pretty. Even now, looking worn out, expression pinched, and hands shaking.

He wants to see your eyes, at least once, before he can't do so again.

"M-may you look at me, my love? For I want to—"

Jacaerys is startled from finishing his sentence by the loud gasp you let out, body jumping beside him, startled and alert, like a doe sensing hunters on its tail. Your eyes are so, so wide with disbelief, watching him with the sort of bewilderment one would when seeing a creature unknown or some oddity come to life. Why were you looking at him like that? If this were but a dream, then why—

"Jace," you whisper, shaky and soft, like a petal swept by the wind, hands trembling so hard the pendant slips through your fingers. "Jace," he hears you repeat, as if the sound of his name in your mouth is something foreign you have to taste again. "Gods, Jace!" Your voice cracks along the syllables of his name, before moving closer, gazing at him with those pretty eyes he near plead to see, now teary and wide, sweeping over him as if checking to see if he's whole. He knows he isn't, for the battle must've left him with more than grievances and a hollowness in his chest that could only be filled if he still had a chance to live.

Your movements are shaky and hesitant, wanting to reach for him but shackled by a fear he does not know yet. Why won't you touch him? He can tell you want nothing more than to feel him beneath your palms, and yet you waver. Why? If this is to be the last mercy before his death, why is he imagining his beloved faltering instead of pressing close, so close and grasping at him like the air one needs to breathe?

Jacaerys tries to lift a hand, grimacing when his body again does not count him as its master, and makes it hard to move properly, feeling a sharp pain lance through his forearm, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. One to which you react instantly, shaking your head as you plead with him not to move, cradling his hand between both of yours, letting Jace feel the softness of your skin again. "No, no, my love, do not move," you sniffle, blinking back those stubborn tears lining your pretty eyelashes. "Please, you must rest. The Maesters said you are not to tire yourself any further."

The Maesters? What ever could you mean?

Blinking his eyes rapidly to dwindle the fog clinging to his vision, Jacaerys's breath catches when your own room comes into view, surrounding both of you. He supposes his imagination could not help but want to remember you in the place where you felt most at ease, the one where you shared your first kiss, first bedding, and many, many other milestones that now feel like a vice around his heart, squeezing tight. Will this be the last time he gets to pine for what once was and for what could never be again?

"H-how do you feel?" Your voice shakes again, snapping him out of his reverie, gaze finding its way back to yours, feeling himself melt just at the sight of you anew. Gods, you couldn't be more gorgeous. "You had been asleep for half of a fortnight. We didn't know if you would ever wake—"

And oh, his heart shatters into pieces when your words trail off into hiccuped sobs, soft chin wobbling, not being able to hold the weight of your grief and sorrow. His sweet wife was crying beside him because of his own foolishness, and there was no punishment severe enough for his transgressions. He could be put to the sword, and it would never erase the guilt in his chest at making you shed even a tear.

It takes him but a few moments to rear his mind from blame to the words you spoke, eyes widening in bewilderment as he registers the information you bestowed upon him. "Asleep?"

His voice is rough and unpolished from disuse, and he's watching you like you brought both salvation and perdition to his door.

But you only nod, squeezing his hand tighter, bringing it up to your mouth to press warm lips upon his skin, feverish and lingering, before cradling the back of his hand against your tear-streaked, warm cheek. "Yes, my love," you confirm, tone lightening with pure relief. "The Gods were watching over you, breathing life into you anew, just like we prayed for."

Breathing life back into you.

Does that mean—

But he cannot hope yet. What if this is nothing but another trickery? The cruelest way to tear his heart asunder by making him believe he escaped from the unforgiving claws of the sea and is now granted another chance at spending a lifetime with you?

Jacaerys can feel a lump form in his throat, near choking him, his lashes dampening rapidly. "Do not forsake me, please," he pleads, willing his hand to clutch at your fingers again, with what little strength he has. "I cannot bear knowing this is but a dream." It is hard to speak as his chest heaves, blubbering like a child as he begs for a miracle from you, who he now hopes is all flesh and bones and not smoke and ash in front of him.

Your expression pinches, studying him carefully, as you so often used to do with your tomes and books in the low candlelight before bed, thumbing each page as you uncovered the secrets written through the dried ink. He feels like one now, as your eyes narrow, before those soft lips part in a round shape, understanding dawning on you.

"Oh, my sweet prince," you whisper, voice damp from your tears, but then the sweetest sound of all accompanies the wetness of your eyes.

A laugh.

Amidst all this confusion, all this befuddling turmoil between dream and reality, you laugh as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, and your mouth dared to form the shape of happiness again.

You turn your head to press a fervent kiss to his hand before moving closer, cradling his face between your palms. Thumbs soften the traces of tears onto his own pale cheeks from being under slumber for so long, willing to see a flush to them soon. "I am flesh and bone, not a mere mirage," you assure, another soft, disbelieving laugh tinkling between you, as if the mere thought of him believing this to be a play of the mind is ridiculous. "The Gods brought you back to me, just as I wished for, my love."

Gods, he thought he'll never get to hear that sound fall from your lips again. It makes his vision blur with tears, lips trembling as he chokes back from babbling again like a babe, but eager to quiet the ghosts of his mind that insist this is a delusion.

"P-prove it to me," he hiccups wetly, no longer preoccupied with how weak he must look, nothing like a prince and all like a man at the end of his hope, begging you to pull him towards salvation. "Please, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," his tongue wraps around the endearment like it never forgot it, full of longing and desperation. "Show me I still have you, for I cannot bear the thought of losing you again—"

He feels his heart breaking and mending itself back together over and over, waiting for you to grant him this one certainty in his hopelessness.

And Gods, you do.

Your lips are on his before he can blubber another supplication, palms tilting him the way you want to as you slot your mouths together so, so tenderly, like two wings of a butterfly touching while they flutter.

He feels it. He tastes it. Your tears, his tears, your promise, his desperation.

Jacaerys wishes he were stronger, for his body is weakened by the tragedy that befell him, not being able to grasp you as fiercely as he would if his limbs had not forsaken him. He can only will his fingers to brush against the folds of your skirts onto the bed, curling into the material until his hand shakes with the ardent want of closeness; of wanting to do more but being cursed into only hoping.

"You have me," you whisper against his mouth, branding the truth on his lips as you continue kissing him. He can feel you smiling into it, and it is unbecoming of him how that only makes him weep harder, his own tears trailing down your cheeks and chin now, too, from how close your faces are pressed together, smushed in your eagerness to prove what he so feared was nothing but a cruel twist of his mind. "And I have you, dārilaros ñuha."

Gods, your tongue tangles around the words so clumsily, no matter how many times he had patiently taught you the right way before, and still, he would never trade it for the world. Jacaerys wants to hear it a thousand times more, and then tenfold that, for the rest of his days.

He's overwhelmed. All the hopelessness he felt before, thinking he would never get to hear the sound of your voice, taste the sweetness of your lips, feel the warmth of your love. And now you are offering him all of those and more, and he feels like he cannot breathe if you dare stop for even a moment.

"Avy jorrāelan, " he sobs, trembling lips barely able to return the soft kisses you so kindly confer to him still. "Avy jorrāelan. Always," the words tumble from his mouth, choked and utterly devout. "Not a moment went by when I did not plead with the Gods to bring me back to you. I curse the sea for trying to wrench me from your side. For its greed and its cruelty, for—"

But you silence him with a firmer press of lips, swallowing the last of his blubbering with the sweetness of your mouth, tasting salt and love and life. You exhale shakily, drawing back so your gazes meet, lips brushing, leaning to nuzzle your noses together as you whisper, voice fervent with conviction. "No more talk of misfortune," you say, nudging his cheek in reprimand with the tip of your nose. "Let me rejoice in having you again."

Jacaerys had always been weak to your whims, never one to deny you anything, least of all when spoken with such longing, such relief, bodies close and shaking with lingering grief and solace alike.

He nods, gathering strength enough to nuzzle you back, eyes fluttering at the feeling, to which you shakily let out another one of those honeyed laughs as you whisper. "But do not think I shall forgive you for trapping me in mine own chambers before rushing to battle with such recklessness."

Oh.

In the midst of all this, he forgot the events that led him to this whole predicament. Closing his mother's door, then yours, vowing to come back in the end, no matter the cost.

"But I have—"

"Coming back in such a state is hardly enough for me to count this as you honoring your vow," you say, eyes narrowing, even teary and full of adoration as they were. And he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything, but the fullness of his chest as it filled with so much love for you, it damn near burst open. "We shall discuss more of this when you've healed properly."

"Yes, my lady," he whispers, having the gall to look a bit sheepish, but alas, a small smile curls at his lips, the normalcy of your reprimand willing his senses into solace.

You harrumph, trying to show displeasure, but he knows there is too much relief blooming between you two now, softening even this attempt at being stern.

He makes an effort to tilt his chin up until his lips brush your tear-streaked, warm cheek, kissing it softly, not moving for a very, very long time.

"I'm sorry," is pressed against the damp skin, and he knows it'll take time and an exuberant amount of grovelling to will you to forgive him, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

Now that he has escaped death's grasp, he has a lifetime ahead of him to try to gain your favour.

And Gods, what a fortunate way to live out the rest of his days.

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ñuha jorrāeliarzy — my love

dārilaros ñuha — my prince

Watching him pull out the heavy wooden chair opposite her—watching him sit down, lean his arms flat on the dark grain, and look at her without a drop of posturing or venom—sent a sharp, disquieting thrill of shock straight through her chest.

He was entirely dressed down, stripped of the heavy, dark velvet doublets, formal padded tunics, and polished leather armor he usually wore to project the imposing image of an heir to the throne. Here in the damp gloom of the vaults, he wore only a plain, loose linen shirt, unbuttoned slightly at the collar, with the sleeves rolled roughly past his elbows to reveal forearms bruised from dragon-riding and sword practice. His dark hair was messy, uncombed, and sticking slightly to his forehead from sweat and exhaustion.

Without the rigid silhouette of his highborn tailoring or the cold sheen of steel to shield him, he looked unexpectedly... soft.

It was an understated, striking beauty that Melara hated herself for noticing. Beneath the dim, amber glow of the oil lamp, the harsh angles of his jaw were softened, revealing the smooth, youthful flesh of a boy who was still so terribly young. His eyes were wide and dark, fringed by thick lashes that cast long shadows across his cheeks, giving him a quiet, tragic grace. He looked less like a warrior prince and more like a noble portrait painted in quiet candlelight. It was an quiet, raw comeliness—a stark contrast to the harsh, ash-stained faces she had grown used to in Asshai—and as much as she detested the sudden, traitorous flutter of appreciation in her chest, she could not pretend it wasn't there.

It threw her completely off her axis, leaving her feeling dangerously, uncomfortably exposed.

In Asshai, she had learned to read people like scrolls—to spot their vanity, their cowardice, and their hidden greed within seconds of meeting them. She had built her entire survival on staying three steps ahead of arrogant men, keeping her own heart encased in ice. But sitting across from Jacaerys in the quiet, the vast and suffocating weight of his crown suddenly pressed into the room, making her own existence feel impossibly small.

Melara had spent her life fighting for mere breath—fighting to be seen as more than Highgarden’s refuse, fighting to survive the blood-soaked streets of the Shadow Lands, fighting to hold onto her own mind. Her struggles were solitary, raw, and desperate.

But looking at Jacaerys now, seeing the dark, bruised circles carved beneath his eyes and the subtle, relentless tremor in his hands, she felt the crushing magnitude of a completely different kind of burden. He was not just fighting for his own life; he was carrying the weight of an entire dynasty, the grief of a murdered brother, the fragile sanity of his mother, and the terrifying expectation to be a savior to a realm preparing to tear itself apart. He bore the blood of Old Valyria, yet he sat before her stripped to the bone, asking for help from a girl the world deemed a nameless bastard.

The realization hit her like a physical blow, cracking the icy armor she had spent years constructing. Her own vulnerability—the sharp, humiliating reminder of her illegitimacy, her fear of being cast out, her terrifying lack of control over her own visions—suddenly met his raw, agonizing desperation halfway across the dark oak table.

She stared at him in the dim light, her heart giving a slow, heavy thud against her ribs. She was standing on shifting, dangerous ground. The arrogant prince she had constructed in her mind didn't exist—or at least, he was far more complex, far more bruised, and far more beautiful than she had ever given him credit for. And for the first time since landing on this cursed island, Melara realized she had vastly underestimated the boy who was supposed to wear the crown.

Melara didn't pull back. She forced her pale, trembling hands to settle flat against the surface of the open tome between them. Her fingers brushed the ancient, faded ink of the High Valyrian script, her knuckles stark white beneath the flickers of the solitary oil lamp.

"You speak of magic as if it is a trick played by charlatans at a town square, Prince Jacaerys," Melara began, her voice low, smooth, and stripped of the purring, sarcastic bite she usually used to keep him at bay. "You think of spellcasters as creatures who wave their hands and command the dark to bend to their will. It is not so simple. Asshai taught me that the world is built on balance. Power is never given; it is traded."

Jacaerys' eyes didn't stray from hers. "Traded for what?"

"Life," she said bluntly. "Vitality. Blood."

She lifted her left hand, brushing back the dark hair hanging over her shoulder to expose her temple. Beneath the golden lamplight, the stark, silver-white streak gleamed like fresh frost against black earth.

"Every vision, every shift of the shadow, takes something from the caster," Melara explained, her dark eyes locking onto his. "The fire does not yield its secrets out of kindness. It demands a toll. It drains the warmth from your veins, leaves ice in your bones, and ages you in pieces. When you look at me and see an 'abomination,' you see a girl who paid in her own blood to survive a world that wanted her dead."

Jacaerys stared at the white lock at her temple. For a fraction of a second, his jaw slackened—a subtle, almost unnoticeable crack in his rigid posture. He had assumed her magic was a weapon she wielded with cruel delight. He had not considered that every time she looked into the flames, she was carving away pieces of herself.

"And my presence?" Jacaerys asked softly, his voice rough. "You said my mind was messing with your sight. You said... I scorch your thoughts."

Melara let out a slow, quiet breath, her chest rising and falling beneath her dark robes. "Blood magic requires icy, absolute detachment. In Asshai, I learned to silence every human feeling—fear, rage, grief—so the flames could show me truths stripped of passion. But you..." She paused, her gaze dropping briefly to his plain linen sleeves, to the bruised skin beneath and lets the words die on her tongue.

Jacaerys swallowed hard, his throat working tightly. He looked away for a brief moment, his dark brows drawing together as her words struck the raw, bleeding wound beneath his armor. He hated that she knew. He hated that this bastard girl could feel the suffocating chaos he worked so hard to hide from his mother's council.

Yet, there was no hostility in the air now. The razor-sharp hatred between them hadn't dissolved into warmth or friendship—they were still two strangers forced into a dangerous game, still wary of the sharp edges they both carried—but the toxic paranoia had shifted into a tense, fragile truce.

"If we are to survive this court—if we are to make this ridiculous betrothal believable to my mother's lords," Jacaerys said slowly, turning his eyes back to her, his tone grounded and resolute, "we cannot go on like this. I do not trust your shadows, Lady Melara. And I doubt you hold much respect for my titles."

"None at all, My Lord Prince," Melara replied, a faint, ghost-like shadow of her old humor touching her lips before vanishing.

"Fair enough," Jacaerys conceded, leaning in slightly closer. "But my mother needs us united. The lords are watching for a tear in our seam. If they see us pulling apart, they will devour us both and send you to the pyre. I will cease treating you as a curse in these halls. But in return, I need you to stop hiding in your tower. Show me what your fire sees. Prove to me that my mother's faith in you is not a fatal delusion."

Melara looked at him—really looked at him. They were not friends. They were not allies borne of affection. They were two desperate survivors backed into a corner, holding blades to each other's backs while facing a realm ready to burn them alive.

"Very well," Melara murmured.

Melara reached into the deep inner fold of her dark sleeve and drew out a small, iron-sheathed dagger. The metal gleamed dull and cold in the amber glow of the single oil lamp between them.

Without breaking eye contact, she drew the fine edge across the fleshy pad of her left thumb. A dark, thick drop of blood welled up instantly. She leaned forward over the table, holding her hand over the brass rim of the lamp, and allowed the single drop to fall directly into the pool of burning oil.

The flame hissed violently, sputtering a tiny plume of dark grey smoke.

"Now," Melara said softly, her voice carrying a strange, hollow echo that caused the hairs on Jacaerys' arms to stand on end. "Yours."

Jacaerys froze. His posture went instantly rigid, his dark eyes snapping from the hissing lamp up to the small blade in her pale hand. Every instinct drilled into him by his tutors, his guards, and his mother screamed against it. In Westeros, blood was sacred; to give your blood to a stranger—let alone a shadowbinder who practiced the dark arts of Asshai—was an act of unthinkable folly.

"My blood?" Jacaerys asked, his tone dropping into a guarded, cautious murmur. "Why?"

"Because you are the storm that blurs my sight, Prince Jacaerys," Melara replied, her voice steady, an unyielding anchor in the damp gloom of the archives. "Your fire, your terror, your grief—it scorches my mind when I try to read the flames alone. If you want truth instead of shadows, your blood must anchor mine. Unless, of course, your courage fails when faced with an inch of steel."

It was a blatant provocation, but it lacked her usual mocking malice. It was a simple, stark, a challenge.

Jacaerys swallowed hard, his throat working tightly as he stared at the edge of the blade. He looked at her dark, exhausted eyes, at the stark silver streak at her temple, and realized that if he refused now, the fragile bridge forming between them would collapse entirely. He would remain blind, locked in the dark while the world burned around him.

Slowly, deliberately, Jacaerys extended his right hand across the narrow wooden table, palm upturned.

"Do it," he said softly.

Melara didn't hesitate before he could change his mind. She reached out, her cool, slender fingers wrapping around the back of his hand to hold it steady. Her touch was shockingly cold—like polished marble left out in a winter gale—and it sent a involuntary shudder straight up Jacaerys' arm.

She pressed the tip of the iron blade against the center of his palm and drew it back in a short, precise line.

The sting was sharp and sudden. Jacaerys gritted his teeth, a low hiss escaping his lips as the hot blood welled up instantly, pooling in the shallow crease of his hand. Melara guided his arm forward, tilting his palm just enough over the brass vessel.

A heavy, dark crimson drop fell into the lamp.

The effect was instantaneous and terrifying.

The small amber flame did not just hiss—it flared with a violent, roaring snap, exploding upward into a brilliant, bruised purple light that illuminated every dark archway of the subterranean vault. The temperature in the room plummeted in a single heartbeat. The ambient, damp warmth vanished, replaced by an icy, biting frost that crystallized on the edges of the ancient parchment books scattered across the table. Jacaerys gasped, his breath pluming in pale, thick clouds in the freezing air.

"Look into the fire, Jacaerys," Melara commanded, her voice dropping into an otherworldly whisper. "Do not fight the heat. Let your blood speak."

Jacaerys, his palm still throbbing from the cut, forced his eyes toward the swirling, violet embers.

At first, there was only a thick, sweet-smelling smoke that stung his nose with the scent of ozone and crushed winter berries. But as he stared, the shadows within the lamp began to twist, align, and stretch into impossible, crystal-clear shapes.

Jacaerys’ breath hitched in his chest.

Through the dancing violet flame, he saw a vast, breathtaking expanse of winter. He saw a grand, ancient fortress built of dark, towering stone clinging to the side of a jagged mountain range, draped in fresh, brilliant snow. Above it, soaring through a crystal-blue sky, was a dragon of brilliant green, its wings catching the freezing northern wind with absolute, breathtaking grace. He felt the phantom rush of cold air against his face, a sudden, overwhelming surge of deep honor, unwavering alliances, and quiet, unshakeable purpose.

He saw the Vale. He saw Winterfell. He saw a path through the dark to secure his mother's crown.

Beside him, Melara had intended to look into her own corner of the embers, expecting the same strategic clarity. But as she watched Jacaerys' face—watched the tense, bruised angles of his jaw soften into a look of genuine, awe-struck wonder, his dark eyes wide and glowing in the purple light—she found herself completely distracted.

For a single, quiet moment, she forgot the fire entirely. She sat frozen, mesmerized by the sudden, rare transformation on his face. Stripped of his royal mask and his defensive fury, his beauty in the firelight was startling, almost painful to look at. She was intensely intrigued, a strange, burning curiosity pulling at her chest.

What does he see? she thought, her heart giving a strange, irregular thud. What could possibly bring such peace to a boy so utterly consumed by war?

"I see..." Jacaerys breathed, his voice barely a whisper, still staring entranced into the violet light. "I see the North. I see snow... and an army."

He slowly dragged his eyes away from the flame, turning his head to look at her, the wonder still lingering in his expression. "What do you see, Melara? What does it show you?"

Melara blinked, tearing her gaze away from his face, feeling a sudden, sharp prickle of heat flush her cheeks. To cover her momentary lapse, she pressed her left thumb hard against her bleeding palm and turned her eyes fully into the center of the brass vessel.

"Let me see," she murmured.

The warmth in the room vanished completely. The soft violet light snapped brutally, shifting into a deep, sickly, blood-red glow.

The breath was violently ripped from Melara's lungs.

The image of the peaceful, snow-covered North shattered like glass. In its place, the embers twisted into the dark, suffocating passageways of the Red Keep. She saw two rough, hooded shapes slipping through the stone vaults like rats in the dark—a butcher and a ratcatcher, reeking of grease and fresh copper. The vision lurched forward, plunging her into a gilded bedchamber.

She saw a tiny, innocent child sleeping beneath heavy velvet covers—Prince Jaehaerys. And then, standing in the corner of the dark room, an imposing, terrifying figure emerged from the shadows. A sharp, pale face framed by silver hair, a dark leather eye-patch, and a single, blazing sapphire eye burning with pure, unadulterated wrath.

Aemond.

She saw the flash of steel in the moonlight. She heard the horrifying, sickening sound of a blade biting through flesh and bone—a son for a son, an eye for an eye—and the screaming of a mother echoing through stone halls.

Melara let out a loud, strangled gasp, recoiling from the lamp so violently her chair screeched against the stone floor. She slammed her hands against the edge of the dark oak table, knocking a stack of ancient scrolls onto the floor, and scrambled to her feet in absolute horror.

Her chest heaved, her breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. The vision receded, but the icy horror clung to her skin like grease.

Jacaerys jumped to his feet instantly, his own vision forgotten. The awe on his face vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp surge of alarm. "Melara!"

He stepped around the corner of the table toward her, his hand reaching out instinctively and taking her bloodied palm. For a brief second, the defensive, guarded prince was entirely gone; in his place was a genuine, terrifying flash of concern. He watched in horror as the color drained completely from her face, leaving her skin a ghostly, sickly pale. The stark silver streak at her temple seemed to gleam almost painfully white, the magic having drained her vitality. She looked as though she might collapse right before his eyes.

"What did you see?" Jacaerys demanded, his voice tight, laced with a raw mix of fear and concern as he took another step closer and grabbing her hand tighter. "Melara, answer me! What was it?"

Melara glanced towards her hand in his, letting her eyes linger there before she backed away from him, her shoulder hitting the dark wood of a tall bookshelf. Her hands were shaking violently inside her long, black sleeves, her dark eyes wide and wild as she stared at him—stared at this honorable, rigid prince who believed so fiercely in courtly duty and clean battles.

If she told him what had been set in motion in the dark—if she told him that a helpless child was about to be butchered in his bed to pay for Lucerys' death—she would break him. It would destroy the fragile, desperate strength he was trying so hard to build. The war was turning into a bloodbath of monsters, and Jacaerys Targaryen was still a knight playing by the rules of men.

"Melara, talk to me," Jacaerys pressed, his tone almost pleading now, reaching for her wrist. "What is coming?"

"No," Melara whispered, her voice trembling, stripped of all its cool, melodic confidence. She pulled her arm back, wrapping her robes tightly around her chest as if trying to keep her own shattered soul together. "No."

"Melara—"

"I must meet with your mother," she interrupted sharply, her voice cracking with a sudden, icy finality. She forced her chin up, though her face remained ghostly pale and sweat slicked her brow. "Immediately."

"Tell me what you saw first!" Jacaerys demanded, his anger flaring back up to cover the terrifying knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach. "We made a pact! You said we would not keep shadows between us!"

"Some shadows will burn you alive if you touch them, Jacaerys!" she hissed, her dark eyes flashing with a terrible, tragic light.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and rushed toward the arched iron door of the archives. Her heavy dark skirts swept frantically across the stone floor, the door groaning open and slamming shut behind her, leaving only the echoing thud of her footsteps fading into the cold, dark passageways.

Silence crashed back into the vault.

The lamp on the table sputtered one last time before dying out completely, returning the room to the dull, amber light of the torch sconces.

Jacaerys stood entirely alone in the gloom, his chest heaving, his mind spinning in a chaotic, agonizing whirlpool. He felt hollowed out. It felt as though they had managed to take two fragile, extraordinary steps forward into the light, only to be dragged three steps back into a nightmare he couldn't see. She had looked into his eyes, shared her magic, and given him a glimpse of hope—only to slam the door in his face and leave him standing in the dark once more.

Bitter, familiar frustration flared in his chest. He raised his right hand to rub his face, intending to curse her name into the empty room.

He stopped.

He looked down at his right palm.

Where Melara had drawn the iron blade across his skin—where a deep, bleeding slice should have been throbbing with pain—there was only a faint, clean pink line. The cut was entirely gone. The skin was smooth, warm, and completely healed, leaving not a single drop of blood behind.

Jacaerys stared at his palm in the dim light, his breath catching in his throat. He ran his thumb over the unblemished skin, a strange, overwhelming chill settling deep within his bones as he realized what she had done before she fled.

The cold salt wind howled relentlessly through the high, stone archways of Dragonstone, biting through the thin silk of Melara’s dark dress, but she barely felt the freezing chill.

Her heart hammered violently against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that echoed the madness echoing in her mind. Her skin felt slick with cold sweat, and the stark silver-white lock at her left temple throbbed with a deep, sickening ache—the unmistakable physical toll of the shadow-magic draining her vitality. The horrifying images from the brass lamp were seared permanently onto the back of her eyelids, playing in a terrifying, relentless loop: two hooded shapes moving through the subterranean passageways of the Red Keep, reeking of sewer grease and cheap tallow... a tiny, innocent child sleeping soundly beneath heavy velvet blankets... a single, terrifying sapphire eye glinting with pure malevolence in the moonlight... and the flash of cold steel descending into soft flesh.

To her, the vision was an impending, dark horror—an inevitable, bloody escalation that would tear down whatever fragile nobility remained in this war and drag every soul in this keep into a pit of mindless, unspeakable slaughter.

Her dark skirts swept frantically across the damp stone floors as she practically ran down the long corridor toward the Queen’s royal quarters. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps that hissed in the quiet night. She reached the heavy, iron-reinforced oak doors of Rhaenyra’s outer chambers, her hands shaking so violently she could barely pull back her long sleeves to knock.

Before her knuckles could touch the dark wood, a tall, imposing shadow stepped smoothly out from the dark recess of an alcove, cutting off her path entirely.

Daemon Targaryen stood bathed in the flickering amber light of a solitary wall torch, wrapped in a heavy, fur-lined mantle of black and red. His arms were folded loosely across his broad chest, his long silver hair spilling over his shoulders in untamed waves. His dark, sharp eyes swept over her disheveled, panic-stricken form with an expression of razor-sharp, utterly insufferable amusement.

"A bit late for a stroll through the keep, isn't it, little shadow-weaver?" Daemon murmured smoothly. His voice was cool, rich, and dripping with an effortless, lethal arrogance that made Melara’s stomach turn. "Or have the drafty vaults in the Sea Dragon Tower driven you out of your dark little hole?"

Melara stopped abruptly, her heels skidding on the cold flagstones. She forced her chin up, though her face remained ghostly pale and sweat slicked her brow. "I need to see the Queen, Prince Daemon. Immediately."

Daemon didn't budge an inch. A slow, mocking smirk curled the corner of his lips as he looked down his sharp nose at her. He took a deliberate, languid step forward, his towering frame casting a massive, suffocating shadow over her.

"My wife is sleeping," he said softly, his tone dropping into the patronizing, smooth drawl one might reserve for a troublesome hound or an overly dramatic child. "She does not need to be disturbed by the hysterical vapors of a bastard who spent her evening staring too deeply into oil lamps and scared herself of the dark."

"You do not understand," Melara hissed, taking a step closer despite the danger he represented, her voice trembling with a desperate, razor-thin edge. "I saw blood spilling in the Red Keep! I saw a shadow creeping through the dark passageways, stepping over innocent sills—I saw a boy, Daemon! A child in his bed, and a blade falling! The cycle of vengeance is turning, and it is going to consume us all! Something utterly monstrous is about to happen in King's Landing!"

Daemon’s smirk didn't falter, though a fraction of a second's absolute stillness passed through his dark eyes—a momentary, razor-sharp freeze that vanished as quickly as it came, replaced instantly by his bored facade. He let out a dry, quiet huff—a low, condescending laugh that sent an icy shiver straight down Melara’s spine.

"Silly child," Daemon purred, reaching out with two long fingers to flick a microscopic speck of ash from his leather cuff. He stepped closer, leaning down slightly so his sharp silver-haired head was level with hers, his scent of salt, smoke, and old steel washing over her. "You run through these corridors like a frightened hen because a flame gave you a nightmare. You come knocking on royal doors, breathless and shivering, speaking in riddles like some common hedgewitch trying to earn an extra coin at a tavern."

"It was no nightmare—"

"Quiet," Daemon interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, losing its playful edge and hardening into pure, dangerous dragon-steel. "You are playing at war, Melara, but you are utterly out of your depth. The Greens murdered Lucerys in cold blood. They tore a boy from the sky and scattered his flesh in the sea. They drew first blood. Whatever horrors fall upon King's Landing are the natural, inevitable consequences of their own treason, not your cryptic nonsense. If a blade finds a neck in the Red Keep, it is justice, not a curse."

Melara stared at him, her dark eyes wide with sudden, sickening realization. The callousness in his voice wasn't just arrogance; it was an absolute, cold detachment that made her skin crawl. "You speak as if you invite it," she whispered, her voice cracking. "You speak as if you want the world to drown in blood."

"I want our enemies broken," Daemon replied softly, a dark, terrifying glint flashing in his gaze. "I want them to learn that you do not strike a dragon without watching your world turn to ash. Now, take your shadows, take your useless warnings, and run back to your bed before I decide your hysterical interjections are a nuisance to this keep."

"Daemon?"

The low, heavy creak of wood cut through the tense standoff.

The heavy oak door swung open, revealing Rhaenyra Targaryen standing in the threshold. The Queen looked hollowed out, as if the very life had been scraped from her bones. Her silver-gold hair hung loose and uncombed over a long, dark velvet robe, and her eyes were swollen and rimmed with angry red from endless nights of weeping for Lucerys. She leaned heavily against the iron frame of the door, her exhausted gaze shifting from her husband’s broad, unyielding back down to Melara’s pale, sweat-slicked face.

"What is this noise?" Rhaenyra asked, her voice thick with raw, suffocating grief. "Daemon? Melara... what is happening?"

Daemon turned smoothly, his lethal posture melting instantly into a gentle, attentive grace as he stepped toward his wife, placing a supportive hand at the small of her back. "Nothing for you to weary yourself with, my love. The girl has had a nightmare and thinks her braziers are whispering secrets to her again. I was simply instructing her to return to her quarters so you could rest."

"It was not a nightmare, Your Grace!" Melara interjected fiercely, pushing past the aura of menace Daemon radiated. She dropped heavily onto one knee on the cold stone floor, her dark skirts pooling around her, her hands trembling violently as she looked up at the grieving Queen. "I looked into the fire tonight with Prince Jacaerys. We bound our blood to the flame. The vision was not a dream—it was clear, sharp, and bleeding!"

Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed, a faint flicker of guarded, royal focus breaking through the fog of her grief at the mention of her eldest son. "Jace? You were with Jace? What did you see, Melara?"

Melara swallowed hard, the foul taste of iron and ash heavy on her tongue. The sheer terror of the vision, combined with the crushing weight of the keep's suffocating atmosphere, seemed to crash down on her shoulders all at once. She felt utterly exposed, exhausted, and desperately out of place. She had spent her entire life surviving in the dark, lawless shadows of Asshai—detached, self-reliant, and answerable to no one. Here, trapped among dragonlords, ancient royal grief, and lethal court politics, she felt like a fragile glass vessel being thrown repeatedly into a raging inferno.

"I saw... I saw a terrible darkness slipping through the Red Keep," Melara faltered, her voice cracking, her usual icy, calculating composure completely shattering into raw, unvarnished fear. She pressed her trembling palms against her knees to hide how violently she was shaking. "I saw hooded men moving in the dark... a child sleeping in his bed... a blade... and a debt being collected in cold blood. A son for a son, Your Grace."

At those words—a son for a son—a subtle, violent shiver passed through Rhaenyra’s frame. The Queen’s eyes tightened, her breath catching in her chest. It was the exact phrase Daemon had whispered in the dark of the painted table room only days ago.

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the corridor. Daemon stood beside his wife, his hand remaining on her back, his jaw set in a hard, unreadable line as he watched Rhaenyra’s reaction closely.

Melara looked up at the Queen, a sudden, desperate admission of vulnerability pouring from her lips before she could stop it. "I... I do not know if I am meant for this, Your Grace. I am no courtier. I am no grand lady of a House. My magic is cold, bitter, and unforgiving, and it is dragging me into a war I do not fully comprehend. I feel... I feel as though I am merely a pawn being moved across your battle map, destined to be consumed by the fire the moment I am no longer useful."

Rhaenyra stared down at the girl kneeling before her. For a long, painful moment, the grief in the Queen’s dark eyes warred with the heavy, inescapable burden of her crown. She let out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to drain whatever little strength she had left. The raw, open wound of Lucerys' death was too vast, too agonizing to leave room in her heart for the cryptic warnings of a shaken shadowbinder.

Rhaenyra stepped forward and reached down, placing a cool, surprisingly gentle hand on Melara’s trembling shoulder, drawing her slowly up from the flagstones.

"You are no pawn, Melara," Rhaenyra whispered, though her tone carried the heavy, unreachable distance of a woman drowning in her own tragedy. "You are tired. The dark magic you work takes a heavy, cruel toll on the body and the mind, and you have allowed your thoughts to linger too long in the shadow of fear."

"Your Grace, please listen to me—"

"Enough, child," Rhaenyra said softly, but with an absolute, unyielding royal authority that sliced through Melara's desperate plea instantly. "Whatever dark shadows you see creeping through King's Landing, the Greens brought every drop of it upon themselves the moment they tore my boy from the sky and sent him into the sea. I will not spend my nights trembling over the safety of Hightower's bloodline."

The Queen smoothed the dark velvet of her robe, her eyes locking onto Melara’s with a quiet, sharp focus that signaled the end of the discussion.

"You must rest," Rhaenyra continued, her voice leaving no room for argument or appeal. "You have a long, exhausting journey ahead of you. You leave at dawn with Jacaerys."

Melara froze. The breath was violently knocked from her lungs. "What?"

"Jace takes flight for the North tomorrow," Rhaenyra explained quietly, a faint, fragile glimmer of maternal pride touching her pale, devastated face. "He flies to secure the allegiance of the Vale and Winterfell. And you will travel alongside him—as his betrothed, and as his shield."

The words hit Melara with the force of a physical blow. Her mind spun in a dizzying, terrifying spiral. Winterfell? The North?

She had only just established a fragile, terrifyingly intimate truce with Jacaerys in the subterranean archives hours ago. She was still reeling from the shock of his softened jaw in the firelight, his willingness to slice open his own hand for her magic, and the quiet, unexpected beauty of the vision he had seen. And now, without warning, she was being commanded to ride alongside him into the freezing, unknown expanse of the North—thrown directly into the heart of his royal duties, bound to a prince whose immense burden she was only just beginning to truly understand.

Melara stood frozen in the cold, dim hallway, feeling more isolated and profoundly out of place than she ever had in her life. She was a bastard from the Reach, a shadowbinder trained in the darkest corners of the world, and yet she was being dragged across the Seven Kingdoms as a gilded ornament and a mystical weapon for the heir to the Iron Throne.

"I... I understand, Your Grace," Melara whispered barely above a breath, her voice swallowed by the howling wind outside the narrow stone windows.

"Good," Rhaenyra said, offering her a faint, weary nod. "Go to your chambers, Melara. Pack your things and prepare yourself."

With a final, lingering look of profound exhaustion, Rhaenyra turned and stepped back into the quiet darkness of her bedchamber.

Daemon lingering in the archway for a second longer. He didn't utter a single word, but as his dark, violet-tinged eyes swept slowly over Melara's pale, shaken form, a cold, viciously mocking smirk touched his lips. He let his gaze linger on her trembling hands, enjoying her utter helplessness, before he pulled the heavy, iron-bound oak door shut with a loud, resounding thud that echoed down the empty corridor like a tomb door closing.

Melara stood entirely alone in the freezing stone hallway, her chest heaving, her heart heavy as lead, and the terrifying weight of an unthinkable storm settling firmly onto her shoulders.

Underneath the bitter resentment, however, was a deeper, colder dread. She couldn’t shake the horrors she had witnessed in the flames. Melara had traveled far and wide in her young life, seeing her fair share of strange and terrible things; she had even used her magic to inflict harm when cornered and left with no choice. But the vision in the archives—the flashing blade, the single sapphire eye, the terrible pool of dark crimson—was burned onto the back of her eyelids. When she had first set foot on Dragonstone, she had genuinely believed it was her final sanctuary, a place where she could prove her worth and earn a quiet, safe life. But the things she had seen were no mere coincidences. Her iron mind was beginning to falter beneath the crushing weight of this path she had been thrust into.

The carriage jolted violently as its iron-rimmed wheels caught on an uneven stretch of rock, pulling Melara abruptly from her downward spiral of exhaustion.

She smoothed down the dark velvet of her skirts—a hue so deep and rich it verged on Targaryen crimson, making her feel as though she were wearing a gilded leash—and adjusted herself against the plush, cushioned bench. She braced her nerves, holding her breath for the suffocating tension of sharing a confined space with Jacaerys Velaryon for the next several hours. She expected his stiff, unyielding posture, the sharp set of his jaw, and the quiet, simmering disdain in his dark eyes.

Instead, the velvet seat opposite her was entirely empty.

Melara blinked, a sharp pang of suspicion instantly overriding her dread. She leaned closer to the rain-streaked glass, parting the heavy curtain just enough to peer outside.

There was no sign of him riding alongside the wheelhouse among the modest retinue of guards. But just as a fleeting spark of relief began to bloom in her chest, the sky above them fractured with a low, reverberating roar.

The carriage shook softly—not from the uneven road, but from the immense gust of wind that swept over the roof, casting a massive, sweeping shadow across the path ahead.

Melara rolled her eyes, letting the velvet curtain snap shut with a huff as she sank back against the headrest.

Of course.

Jacaerys hadn't deigned to ride in a carriage like a mortal man, nor had he left her behind. He was up there, mounted on Vermax, hovering over her journey like an inescapable storm cloud. He had effectively banished her to a velvet cage on wheels while he soared free through the heavens, ensuring that even from hundreds of feet in the air, his presence remained heavy, oppressive, and inescapably central to her universe.

A bitter sigh escaped her lips as she pulled her fur-lined cloak tighter around her shoulders. It was going to be an agonizingly long tour.

By late evening, the rain had softened to a persistent, misty drizzle, painting the mountain pass in dreary shades of slate and charcoal. The relentless drumming against the wooden roof of the wheelhouse had settled into a dull, hypnotic tap, matching the agonizingly slow pace of their journey away from Dragonstone. Inside, the air was stifling, thick with the scent of damp velvet, wet leather, and the iron-tinged chill of an impending mountain autumn.

Melara rested her head against the padded interior of the carriage frame, watching the faint light flicker in the brass oil lamp swinging overhead. Her book lay forgotten on the cushion beside her. Reading was impossible when every dip in the road rattled her bones, and every few leagues, the faint, low thrum of dragon wings vibrated through the carriage floor like a distant, rhythmic heartbeat.

Across from her sat Talla, her hands folded neatly over a piece of dark linen in her lap. Talla was a quiet girl from a minor house sworn to Driftmark, assigned to Melara by Rhaenyra under the polite guise of a handmaiden. In truth, Melara had spent the first few days assuming the girl was merely another eye for the Queen, a subtle spy sent to watch her every move. Yet over the long, grueling miles, Melara had noticed the small, quiet mercies Talla offered: a extra blanket tucked into her seat without a word, a warm cup of spiced tea offered when Melara’s hands were trembling from cold, and a deliberate, respectful silence that lacked the harsh, judging glare of the Targaryen guards.

Melara picked up her leather-bound volume again, flipping it open to a random page merely to drown out the oppressive creak of the wood.

"You're very quiet, Talla," Melara said, her voice cutting gently through the dull hum of the carriage. She shifted her legs, trying to find a comfortable position on a bench that felt increasingly like a velvet-lined coffin. "Or is it standard procedure for the Queen's maids to pretend they are made of stone?"

Talla didn't look up immediately. She pulled a silver thread through her linen with a tiny snip before setting her needlework down.

"I am merely matching your mood, Lady Melara," Talla replied softly, her tone respectful without being overly subservient. "You have looked all morning as though you are riding toward your own execution."

"Am I not?" Melara scoffed quietly, folding her arms across her chest. "I am being paraded through the realm like a captured war trophy. A living symbol of a fragile, forced truce. All while the Prince of Dragonstone circles above us like a hawk waiting for a rabbit to bolt."

"Prince Jacaerys is not a hawk, my lady," Talla offered gently, keeping her eyes modestly lowered. "Though I know his presence above us feels heavy."

Melara arched an eyebrow, intrigued despite her exhaustion. "You sound as though you know the Prince well, Talla. You grew up in the lower halls of High Tide before coming to Dragonstone, didn't you?"

"I did, my lady," Talla murmured. "My father served the Sea Snake’s master-at-arms. I spent my youth in the shadow of the Velaryon court."

Melara leaned forward slightly, starved for anything—anything at all—that might shed light on the brooding boy flying high above them. "And what does a girl in the lower halls see that the noble lords miss? You must have seen him before he was dressed in dragonlord armor and burdened with crowns."

Talla hesitated, her fingers nervously pleating the fabric of her apron. She looked up, her dark eyes gauging how far she could stretch her tongue without slipping into dangerous waters. "It is not my place to gossip about the royal family, Lady Melara..."

"We are trapped in a wooden box in the pouring rain, Talla. There are no royal guards in here," Melara pressed, her tone dropping into a warm, coaxing whisper. "And besides, I am merely curious about the boy who looks at me as if I set fire to his home. Tell me something real about him. Please."

Talla looked down at her hands, taking a soft breath before yielding to the gentle pressure.

"He was not always so grave," Talla admitted softly, keeping her voice low so it barely carried over the rain. "When he was younger, before the court left King's Landing, he was... far more stubborn than he would ever admit to you now. He had a fierce temper when he failed at his lessons, particularly with his tutors."

Melara tilted her head, a small spark of amusement touching her eyes. "Jacaerys? Throwing tantrums?"

"Oh, constantly, my lady," Talla whispered, a faint, secret smile breaking through her rigid composure. "I remember when the Sea Snake presented him with his first proper silver-mounted dagger for his tenth name day. Prince Jacaerys was so eager to show off his form that he managed to drop it straight into the harbor off the docks of High Tide within an hour of receiving it. He was so mortified that he lied and claimed a thief had snatched it straight from his belt."

Melara let out a low, disbelieving laugh. "He lied?"

"He had half the castle guards combing the lower docks for three days hunting an imaginary thief," Talla continued, warming up as she saw Melara’s genuine smile. "Until the tide went out, and a stable boy found the dagger stuck upside down in the mud right beneath the pier. Lord Corlys laughed until he cried, but Princess Rhaenyra made the Prince apologize to every guard he’d sent out in the cold. He couldn't look anyone in the eye for a week."

A genuine smirk spread across Melara's lips. The image of the solemn, stoic Prince of Dragonstone squirming in embarrassment over a lost dagger was a stark, delightful contrast to the arrogant youth who had glared at her across the painted table.

"So he is human after all," Melara mused, leaning back against the plush cushions. "Not just a statue of duty."

"He tries very hard to be a statue," Talla said softly. "Especially now. But..." She paused, her voice dropping into an even quieter register, darting a cautious glance toward the curtained window.

"What is it?" Melara asked, catching the sudden shift in Talla's mood.

Talla smoothed her skirts, her expression growing guarded once more. "There was... tension in the keep before we left, my lady. My father’s men heard it from the upper guard. Before this tour was decided, Prince Daemon fought bitterly with Prince Jacaerys."

Melara’s interest flared. "Daemon? Why?"

"Prince Daemon wanted you kept at Dragonstone under heavy guard—or sent away entirely," Talla whispered, leaning in just a fraction. "He did not trust your intentions. But Prince Jacaerys refused to yield. He told the Princess that if there was to be a truce between your houses, it had to look real to the realm. He told Daemon that hiding you away in a dungeon made the Crown look fearful and weak."

Melara felt a strange, cold prickle at the back of her neck. "So he argued to bring me along?"

"He argued for the appearance of strength, my lady," Talla corrected gently, reminding Melara of the boundary between them. "Whether he did it out of fairness to you, or simply to prove Daemon wrong... I cannot say. But he carries a great deal of authority on this road, and he does not like his decisions being questioned."

Melara stared at the dark wood of the carriage door, processing the revelation. Jacaerys hadn't just been dragged onto this tour; he had fought for it. He had stood up to Daemon Targaryen—a man feared across the known world—just to drag her out into the realm and put her on display for his own political maneuvering.

Outside, the first makeshift camp before the Vale was a flurry of activity. Men-at-arms called out orders over the misty drizzle, horses stamped nervously in the slush, and the heavy canvas of supply tents was dragged through the mud.

Melara stepped down from the wheelhouse, pulling her dark velvet cloak tightly around her shoulders against the biting mountain chill. Talla followed close behind, carrying a small wooden chest containing Melara’s evening silver and toiletries.

Melara’s eyes swept the busy camp, looking for the prince. He was nowhere near the main command tent, nor was he issuing orders to the guards.

She looked up toward the high, jagged ridge looming above the encampment. There, silhouetted against the dark, stormy purple of the twilight sky, was the massive form of Vermax. The dragon’s bronze-and-green scales caught the faint dying light of the sunset, his long, armored tail sweeping slowly over the wet crags of rock as he rested.

And standing a few paces away from the beast, perched on the absolute edge of the cliff overlook, was Jacaerys.

He was far enough away that his features were blurred by the fog and dusk, but his posture was unmistakable. He stood tall, his cloak whipping fiercely in the high mountain wind, completely isolated from the rest of the world. He wasn't looking down at the camp, nor was he tending to his dragon. He was simply standing there, staring east toward the dark, endless expanse of the road leading to the Vale.

For a long moment, Melara stood by the muddy wheel of the carriage, unable to take her eyes off him.

Down here, surrounded by the noise of men, horses, and rain, she felt trapped in her own cage. But up there, standing alone on the cold rock beside a creature of terror, Jacaerys looked just as isolated, carrying the weight of a kingdom on shoulders that were still so young.

As if sensing the weight of her gaze, the figure on the cliff turned slightly. Across the damp, fog-shrouded distance of the camp, Melara felt the undeniable heat of his eyes locking onto hers.

She didn't look away, nor did she pull her cloak tight and scowl as she usually would. She simply stood her ground in the mud, meeting his distant gaze for three long, suspended heartbeats, before turning on her heel to enter her tent.

The wind sweeping off the jagged mountain crags tasted of wet slate and raw ozone, biting violently through the thick leather of Jacaerys’ riding coat. Yet high above the clouds, mounted on Vermax’s emerald-and-bronze back, the young prince felt no cold. The fire in his blood burned too hot, a frantic, roiling heat that no mountain gale could ever hope to cool.

He pushed the dragon hard—harder than he should have—urging the beast through dense, icy clouds until the world below vanished into a gray, featureless void. He wanted the thunderous roar of the wind to shatter his thoughts. He wanted the sheer, intoxicating danger of speed to consume him.

Instead, every beat of Vermax’s massive wings seemed to rhythmically pound the same suffocating frustrations back into his head.

He was furious. Furious at his mother for the hollow, tragic silence that had settled over her since Lucerys was torn from the sky. Furious at Daemon for the lethal, serpent-like games he played in every hallway of Dragonstone. But above all, Jacaerys was furiously, agonizingly preoccupied with Melara.

She had left him in the dark.

In the freezing depths of the archives, they had cut their palms over the same unholy violet flame. He had surrendered his blood to her magic, exposing the raw, fragile terror he hid from the rest of the realm. He had let her touch him—felt the unnatural, terrifying warmth of her fingers as she mended his flesh without leaving so much as a seam. He had believed, with a foolish, desperate hope, that a real pact had been struck between them.

And how had she repaid him? She had panicked. She had fled the room like a struck deer, leaving him standing alone in the dark surrounded by unanswered questions and the blood-soaked horror of a vision she refused to speak aloud.

Now, she was trapped in a velvet-lined wheelhouse on the muddy road below, traveling in his retinue, and he could barely bring himself to breathe the same air.

Involuntarily, Jacaerys’ left hand twitched against the rain-slicked leather of the reins. His thumb drifted to his right palm, tracing the smooth, unmarked skin where her blade had sliced him open only nights ago. There was no scar. The skin was unnaturally unblemished, yet every time he touched it, he felt the ghost of her heat lingering beneath his flesh. It was a compulsion he couldn't control—his thumb endlessly caressing the spot she had touched, an unceasing physical reminder of a secret that felt less like an alliance and more like a gilded leash.

Below, through a fracture in the low-hanging fog, the flickers of their first camp came into view at the base of the crags.

Jacaerys leaned forward, bringing Vermax down in a steep, circling descent. The dragon landed on the high, rocky overlook above the encampment with a heavy, bone-rattling thud, its talons scraping against the wet mountain stone.

He dismounted, his boots sinking into the slush. Without waiting for his escort, he strode down the steep incline into the bustling camp, instantly donning the heavy, impenetrable mask of the Prince of Dragonstone. His spine straightened; his jaw set like iron. He greeted the advance Vale captains with a smooth, practiced authority, accepting their bows and answering their sharp questions about the war with the precise, icy composure his mother had drilled into him.

When the heavy wheelhouse finally rolled into camp and Melara stepped down onto the muddy ground, Jacaerys felt the sudden, electric weight of her gaze hit him like a physical blow.

Every instinct in his body screamed at him to look at her. He wanted to march across the muddy yard, grab her by her velvet sleeves, and demand to know what she had seen in the fire—why she looked at him as if he were a ghost waiting to die.

Instead, he turned his back.

He forced his eyes to stay glued to leather map scrolls and wooden trenchers. He drowned himself in dry, formal discussions with stern-faced knights, ignoring her presence so completely that the effort made his teeth ache. Let her brood in the cold. Let her sit at the lower end of the board and feel the bitter, agonizing weight of being kept at a distance.

He knew it angered her. Not keeping up with the pretending and keeping her at arms length from himself and the court. But if she wasn’t going to stick to her promise, then he wasn’t going to play the part.

As the feast dwindled into the late hours and the rain settled into a misty, suffocating drizzle, Jacaerys finally retreated from the main pavilion. Ser Lorent Marbrand, his mother’s sworn Kingsguard, fell into step beside him as they walked through the damp, quiet rows of tents.

"The Vale captains are uneasy, My Prince," Ser Lorent said softly, his heavy armor clanking with every step through the slush. "They will grant us passage to the Eyrie, but they whisper among themselves. They fear the Queen's council is fragile... that we lack the strength to hold the realm if the Greens strike in full force."

Jacaerys slowed his pace, pausing near the edge of the camp shadows. Once again, his thumb drifted helplessly to his right palm, pressing hard into the smooth skin.

A suffocating, dark guilt coiled tight in his gut as fragments of his final, bitter confrontation with Daemon echoed violently in his mind.

Daemon hadn't wanted her on this tour at all. He had fought bitterly to keep Melara locked away in Dragonstone’s deepest cell—or sent back across the Narrow Sea entirely. "She is a wild card, boy," Daemon had spat in the courtyard, his violet eyes burning with ruthless paranoia. "A shadow-weaver with no birthright and no leash. You do not parade a creature like that before lords whose loyalty is already fragile."

But Jacaerys had stood his ground. He had fought his step-father in front of the entire Queen's council, fiercely insisting that bringing Melara out into the realm—showing her off as a unified part of their court—was the only way to make their forced truce look real to the realm.

Realizing he couldn't win the argument against the Prince of Dragonstone, Daemon had yielded with a cold, mocking smirk. But before Jacaerys had mounted Vermax, Daemon had pulled him aside, leaning in close with the scent of smoke and old steel clinging to his armor.

"If you insist on taking the shadowbinder, nephew, then do not waste her," Daemon had purred, his voice a low, venomous hiss. "Lords lie with pretty speeches. They swear oaths with their lips while their eyes look for a better bargain. Use her. Make her reach into their thoughts with that dark magic of hers. Let her test their faith. If she sees their devotion is true, good. But if she catches them wavering... if she sees betrayal in their hearts... then you drop the courtly act. You turn her into your weapon. You remind them what happens to traitors who defy the Dragon, and you pawn her power off as the price for their compliance."

"She is not a war weapon to be brandished, Daemon," Jacaerys had snapped, his jaw clenching. "She is part of the Queen's council."

“That was an order.” Daemon instructs, his tone cutting and final “Not a request, Prince.”

The recollection made Jacaerys’ throat feel tight, like he was swallowing broken glass. He hesitated, his chest heaving as he stared down at his boots in the mud.

"My Prince?" Ser Lorent asked, noticing his hesitation. "How do you intend to handle Lady Arryn and her vassals if their words prove hollow?"

Jacaerys swallowed hard, his voice dropping into a quiet, reluctant rasp. "We will not rely on their hollow words, Ser Lorent. When we reach the Eyrie... Melara will test them."

Ser Lorent’s eyebrows knit together under his helm. "The shadowbinder? You mean to let her use her magic on highborn lords?"

"She will look past their speeches," Jacaerys said, the words heavy and bitter on his tongue. He paused, his jaw clenching as his internal conflict tore at him. He hated the idea of using her like this—hated turning her into a political weapon after fighting so hard to bring her along. "She will see if their faith in my mother is real. If it is... if their loyalty is unwavering... then her presence remains a secret shield for our cause."

He stopped, taking a slow, painful breath before continuing, the hesitation bleeding through every syllable. His finger deeps deeper at the skin of his palm.

"But if she uncovers treason..." Jacaerys whispered, his thumb digging ruthlessly into his unscarred palm. "If she sees their faith is wavering... then I will have no choice. I will use her as a bargaining chip. I will leverage what she can do to force their compliance, or remind them of what dark powers stand behind the Crown."

"And the Lady Melara?" the Kingsguard asked quietly, gauging the young prince's troubled expression. "Does she know you mean to put her magic on display? Does she know she is to be your bargaining tool?"

Jacaerys looked across the dark camp toward her tent, where a faint, golden amber light glowed softly through the thick canvas.

"She knows nothing," Jacaerys said flatly, his chest heaving, and swallowing hard, he finally breaks flesh. Blood beads from his hand, reopening the wound that once was. “And I trust you to know it remains that way.”

The lies were piling up like mountain snow. He had fought Daemon to bring her on this road, telling himself he was protecting her, giving her a place by his side. But now, he was preparing to throw her into the fire—using her dark gifts to sniff out traitors, and turning her into a fear-mongering pawn the moment a lord stepped out of line.

He told himself he was ignoring her to maintain his authority, to protect his heart from the dark, unholy magic that hummed beneath her skin.

But as his thumb stroked the unscarred flesh of his palm once more, Jacaerys admitted the bitter, pathetic truth to himself:

He couldn't look Melara in the eye and tell her because he was terrified of the moment she finally realized he was no better than Daemon—and that he was preparing to trade her freedom to win a war.

The heavy leather flap of the tent fell shut behind them, abruptly cutting off the biting mountain wind and the dull, endless roar of the drizzle outside.

Inside, the tent was surprisingly cozy. A large iron brazier packed with glowing embers sat near the center, radiating a dry, steady heat that slowly seeped into Melara’s frozen limbs. Soft, thick wool rugs covered the damp earth, and the warm scent of pine oil and sweet cedar lingered in the enclosed space.

Melara let out a long, weary sigh, unclasping her heavy velvet cloak. Talla stepped forward smoothly, taking the damp cloak and draping it neatly over a wooden rack near the entrance before moving toward a small travel trunk in the corner.

"Sit by the fire, my lady," Talla murmured softly, her tone carrying a quiet, comforting warmth. "You look as though the mountain cold has settled into your very bones."

Melara didn't argue. She sank onto the low wooden stool beside the brazier, stretching her long, pale fingers toward the glowing coals. The heat prickled against her skin, but inside her chest, the cold knot of tension remained tight and unyielding.

"I brought something for you," Talla said quietly, breaking the silence as she turned around. She held a small, tightly folded piece of parchment, sealed with dark red wax. "It arrived with the morning ravens from Dragonstone, just before we crossed the border. Lady Baela gave strict instructions that it was to reach your hands only when you were well away from the keep."

Melara’s eyes flicked up, taking the letter as her fingers brushed Talla’s. She broke the red wax bearing Baela's crisp seal and unrolled the parchment:

Melara,

If you are reading this, you are on the road, and my cousin is undoubtedly brooding like a storm over the mountains. Do not let his silence fool you into thinking he has closed his heart against you.

Jacaerys is angry, yes, but not because he despises you. He is angry because he feels entirely in the dark. He gave you his blood in those archives, Melara. He laid his vulnerabilities bare, and in return, you fled and left him standing in the shadows with unanswered questions. Jace is a boy who survives by knowing every piece on the board. When you keep the board hidden from him, he feels blind, helpless, and afraid.

If you want to break his armor, stop treating him like an enemy who is hunting you, and start treating him like a prince who is terrified of failing his people. Show him something real. Let him in, even if it is only a crack.

Hold your ground, shadow-weaver. You are not alone in this, remember that.

B.

Melara stared at the ink, her thumb tracing the crisp edge of the parchment.

He feels in the dark.

The words left a bitter, metallic taste in her mouth. Frustration prickled sharply under her skin, hot and heavy. What right did Jacaerys have to feel betrayed or left in the dark? They had made a pact. In the cold, suffocating silence of the archives, they had bled over the same flame. He had let her cut his palm; she had healed his skin without him realising, yes. A truce had been struck in blood and fire. Yet the moment they set foot on this endless, muddy road to the Vale, he had retreated behind an infuriating, iron-clad wall of regal indifference.

He hadn't spoken a single genuine word to her all day. He had flown high above on Vermax, leaving her caged in a wheelhouse, and when they finally stopped, he treated her like a passing ghost—or worse, an unpleasant piece of court baggage he was forced to carry that sat at the end of tables.

It drove her mad. It wasn't that she cared about his company—she vehemently told herself she didn't. She didn't need the grand Prince of Dragonstone to hold her hand or offer her sweet courtly platitudes. She was a shadowbinder from Asshai; she was accustomed to isolation. She was entirely, fiercely indifferent to his silence. And yet, the sheer hypocrisy of it chafed at her like coarse wool. Why sign a pact in blood if he was simply going to retreat into sullen, arrogant scowls the second they left Dragonstone? Why offer his hand only to slam the door in her face?

"I will leave you to rest, my lady," Talla said softly, noticing the dark, stormy weight settling across Melara’s features. She bowed her head respectfully. "Call if you need anything more."

"Thank you, Talla," Melara murmured, her voice tight. "That will be all."

Once the leather flap fell shut and Talla's quiet steps faded into the damp night, the silence in the tent felt suffocating.

Melara stood up abruptly, walking over to the small wooden vanity table. She was itching to strip away the suffocating trappings of this royal court. Reaching up to her head, she felt for the heavy, ornate net-lace—the gilded, structured piece that Queen Rhaenyra’s handmaidens had forced onto her head before they left to hide the blonde in her hair.

With a sharp, impatient tug, Melara unpinned the frame and pulled the gilded net free, tossing the heavy piece of metal and lace onto the table with a dull clack.

Her dark hair tumbled down over her shoulders in a heavy wave—and Melara froze.

Her breath caught violently in her throat. She stepped closer to the polished bronze mirror, lifting the iron oil lamp so its golden light bathed her face.

The single, narrow streak of silver-white at her left temple was gone—swallowed completely. A thick, brilliant band of pure, spun silver now webbed heavily through her dark hair, sweeping from her hairline all the way down past her ear, gleaming like stark moonlight against ink.

The blood ritual in the archives. The terrifying vision. Her dark dreams. The magic had drained far more of her vitality than she had realized, marking her permanently while hidden away beneath the noblewoman's hairnet.

Melara stared at her reflection, her fingers trembling as she touched the silk-smooth silver strands. A wave of exhaustion and cold fury washed over her. The magic was devouring her piece by piece, marking her as a monster, while the prince who had stood beside her during that ritual was sitting outside in the rain, ignoring her existence entirely.

She was tired of being a helpless vessel for uninvited horrors, tired of letting the flames strike her blind while she cowered behind her own walls. Baela’s letter echoed in her mind: Jace is a boy who survives by knowing every piece on the board. If she was ever going to break through the prince's bitter armor, she needed to know if she was truly traveling beside a cold, calculating dragonlord plotting her undoing, or simply a terrified, grieving boy trying not to break under the weight of his crown. Too proud and too guarded to walk up to his mountain cliff and demand the truth from his lips, Melara decided to seek it in the only language she truly mastered.

If he wouldn't speak to her in the waking world, she would pull the truth straight from his mind while he slept. Dreams usually reveal a lot about a person.

Moving with a sudden, dangerous purpose, Melara turned to her heavy iron traveling chest. She dug to the bottom and retrieved a small, flat brass bowl—an ancient, dark-rimmed vessel brought all the way from the shadow-markets of Asshai.

She placed the bowl upon the rug directly in front of the glowing brazier and knelt before it. From her belt pouch, she drew a tiny vial of dried leviathan-bark and crushed nightshade, sprinkling a pinch into the brass dish. Taking a small silver needle, she pricked the pad of her left index finger without a second thought, letting a single, dark droplet of blood fall into the powder.

Melara placed her palms flat against the cold metal rim of the bowl, lowered her head, and closed her eyes, plunging her consciousness down into the cold, dark well of magic beneath her ribs.

"Kezos syha..." she whispered into the quiet tent, her voice taking on that strange, hollow, double-layered resonance of the Shadow Lands. "Drajees. Shadow, slip through the veil. Show me his sleep."

The effect was instantaneous and severe.

The embers in the brazier dimmed into pale, dying coals. The air in the tent turned violently cold, freezing the ambient moisture until Melara’s breath plumed in thick, pale clouds. In the brass bowl, the mixture of blood and dried herbs dissolved into a swirling, pitch-black pool of liquid obsidian.

Melara opened her eyes. Her pupils had dilated until her irises disappeared completely into absolute blackness.

She stared into the liquid mirror. The surface rippled, cleared, and then dissolved into the murky, unstable terrain of a scried dreamscape.

At first, Melara observed his mind from a safe, spectral distance, floating on the edge of his subconscious like a shadow on the wall. She expected to see the cold, sharp strategy of a dragon prince—military maps, calculating plans, or Melara lay on a bed of knives. Instead, the dreamscape was chaotic and drenched in grief. She saw stormy skies choked with thick black smoke, churning seas violently swallowing a broken dragon saddle, and felt the raw, unhealed agony of his brother Lucerys's death pounding like a open wound in his chest.

Then, the terrain shifted.

The dark waters faded, replaced by the damp stone walls of the Dragonstone archives. Melara felt her breath hitch as she watched Jacaerys' sleeping mind construct a memory. But it wasn't cold, nor was he angry. To her utter shock, there was a profound, aching tenderness in the way his mind recalled her.

In the dream, she was standing over the violet flames, her fingers pressed against his cut palm, healing him. Melara watched as the dream-version of Jacaerys reached out, taking her wrist with a sudden, intense warmth.

The sheer force of his sleeping thoughts was so strong that it pulled Melara straight out of her spectator's stance. The spell snapped her consciousness directly into her dream-self.

Suddenly, she wasn't just watching—she was there.

Melara gasped as she felt the physical reality of his dream pour over her senses. She felt the humid heat of the archives, the phantom sting of blood on her own hand, and the heavy, intoxicating tension vibrating between them. Jacaerys didn't push her away. He stepped closer, closing the distance until his chest nearly brushed hers, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that sent a violent spike of heat straight down her spine.

His hand slid slowly up from her wrist, his warm fingers tracing the side of her neck, tangling lightly into the silver hair at her temple. His thumb brushed over her jaw line, tilting her face up.

"You run every time I get close," dream-Jace murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that reverberated through her core. His gaze locked onto her lips before rising back to meet her wide, dark eyes, a dangerous, intoxicating smirk touching his mouth. "Let me inside that pretty head, shadow-weaver. Stop hiding from me."

The sheer intimacy of his touch, combined with the raw, simmering heat radiating off him, sent a shockwave through Melara's entire being. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs, the line between his dream and her reality blurring so completely that she felt his breath hot against her skin.

Panicked by the sudden loss of control, Melara gasps, her hand shaking in the liquid until the dream distorts and then fades away.

The spell shattered violently. The black liquid in the brass bowl dried into dark ash in an instant, the freezing chill vanished from the tent, and the glowing coals in the brazier flared back to life with a loud, sudden pop.

Melara collapsed back onto her heels, her chest heaving as if she had just surfaced from deep water. She was trembling violently, her skin flushed hot despite the lingering drafts in the tent.

She reached up with shaking fingers to touch her lips, half-expecting to feel the warmth of his breath still lingering there. Her hand swept upward, catching in her dark hair—noticing that yet another fine, delicate strand of silver had crept through her locks from the strain of the spell.

A single, hot tear escaped her eye, tracking silently down her flushed cheek.

Melara wiped it away aggressively with the back of her hand, scowling at the ash-filled brass bowl on the floor as if it had betrayed her. Her heart was still thrashing against her ribs, her mind reeling from the feeling of his hands on her skin, but she violently shoved the sensation down, wrapping her pride back around herself like armor.

"It was just a dream," she whispered aloud into the quiet tent, her voice shaky, defiant, and laced with absolute denial. "It means nothing. He's just a foolish boy, and it means nothing.”

She stood up slowly, her knees trembling, but as she looked toward the entrance of the tent—knowing he was sleeping out there in the dark—the quiet, fierce resolve in her chest refused to die. 

She paced the narrow confines of the tent, her hands fisting in the heavy velvet of her skirts as the hot flush of lingering heat curdled into a bitter, defensive venom. 

Dismissing her sudden hot flush, she thinks, “Of course he dreamed of me like that. It wasn't tender; it was ruthless. It was the insatiable arrogance of a dragon prince who couldn't stomach the thought of anyone possessing a power he couldn't conquer. Beneath all his stoic posturing and regal scowls, Jacaerys is quietly terrified—and deeply envious—of my magic. My shadows are real, born of ancient blood and sacrifice, while his own legitimacy was a fragile glass castle built on whispered rumors, questioned birthrights, and stolen crowns. He looked at my magic and saw something undeniable, something that gave me an authority no grand title or royal lineage could ever grant him. That dream wasn't a longing for me—it was a desperate power play. He wanted to pry open my mind, unravel my secrets, and master the very thing that made me superior, reducing me to nothing more than an obedient weapon to validate his own shaky standing. “