Welcome To My Playground

daeron sees the slow smile mirrored across your faces, a teasing joke that the two of you only know and he sees gwayne take your hand, bring it to his lips with such grace, such nobility and restraint that you scrunch your nose up in delight; feeling exactly how it felt all those years ago when he first courted you. the sound of your laughter swirls like the honey in your tea, like a magnet gwayne's ears perk up and he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead. he knows daeron is behind back at the table so he doesn't do more, he knows what it is to be respectful and not, though you do a damn well job of making sure he forgets most of the time. but for the sake of his nephew, he stops. he offers you his arm that you take instantly, slotting in perfectly next to his as his steps slow to match yours, a piece of harmony.

daeron watches with a smile as gwayne reaches the table, he walks past his chair first, knowing you'll want to reach out press a featherly kiss to his hair and a warm palm to his jaw. "good morrow, my sweet," and the glint in your eyes lights his whole world bright. its motherly the way you tend to him, the way he's always ever known it to be you and gwayne. gwayne and you. ormund, when its not you and gwayne. oh how he wishes it will always be you and gwayne.

he misses the heat as soon as your hand leaves his face with a ruffle to his hair and you take your designated seat in between your husband and son, one that gwayne has already pulled out for you and tucks you in. its a marvel how he does this all one handed, one firmly tucked into yours and daeron almost giggles boyishly at how such a love, so firm and strong can exist in turbulent times as such. but this is normalcy, your purpose and when gwayne brings your sweetened tea to your lips, the ceramic a nice warm and not burn just the way you like you sigh in bliss.

"thank you, my love," you whisper tenderly and he smiles, one for himself in pride and the other to you in devotion. your attention turns to daeron as gwayne begins to tuck into his meal. its a rhythm, you talk with daeron about his valyrian lessons, how his dragon riding is coming on, his interests, his rest, all these details are important to you. daeron almost feels bad for the way he's sucking in your attention but gwayne pays this no mind. the subtle shuffle of cutlery against his plate and besides, he's too busy rearranging your plate- he wipes the jam he knows you like clean off his dish and onto yours. and without even taking your eyes off your nephew, you move the fruit he likes off yours and onto his.

gwayne murmurs a "thank you" against your skin, the breath hot and heavy with a kiss to your neck as you're still turned to your nephew.

"you're doing extremely well, daeron," you lean in and pat his hand reassuringly. and daeron's heart swells with immense pride, all he's ever wanted was to do good with the cards he's been dealt.

"very well," gwayne's head bobs from your side of view, "you make our house very proud, you make us very proud," and just like the honey in your tea, daeron melts into something dangerously softer. the love you and gwayne share has always opened its orbit in the presence of daeron, and now it sucks him in whole, a nice warm tuck to an easy rest.

"though i'm afraid you'll have to start eating soon my heart, lest your uncle devours this whole spread," you jest and as daeron's body vibrates with an entertained chuckle, your head is thrown back into a fit of giggles, muffled as your tucked into your husband's chest as he tries to pretend outrage and offense. you look up to him, secure in his hold and soften.

"good morning to you, wife," he teases and for a second, gwayne forgets all about the young one seated centimetres from you and closes your mouth over his. in all the moments daeron has been raised in your care, there's no words to describe how you and gwayne are when you are with each other. daeron's heard the stories, been trained with the noble knight and knows how fearless, how co-ordinated and lethal his uncle can be. but he also knows the whispers, the laughter, the love existing in mundane moments. gwayne doesn't need to be loud to command the room, he certainly has commanded yours and daeron's life with such ease. but never has he seen his uncle so unguarded when he is by your side, so enamoured and oh so, normal.

"yes it seems it is a good morning," you whisper in return, content in his hold and by his side for life.

You were not supposed to be the twin who lived. 

Nobody tells you that in so many words, but it is the first thing you learn all the same.

You catch your father staring at you sometimes with an empty look in his eyes, and you know he is seeing the ghost of your mother, thinking that if Baelon had been the one to survive instead of you, he might have been able to justify her death. The lords and ladies of the Red Keep constantly look upon you with polite smiles and carefully chosen words, lowering their voices whenever the topic of your birth is raised, as if you are too young to understand them, even though it was the first thing you ever understood at all. 

Such a tragedy.

The queen gave everything.

The prince…

The prince, the prince, the prince—it is always the prince.

A son who never lived is afforded every virtue. He would have been strong. He would have been the perfect heir and the perfect king. He would have united the realm, and he would have spared your father his grief. He is remembered with all the generosity reserved for the dead, and none of the criticism reserved for the living.

You grow accustomed to measuring yourself against a brother you never knew. Every accomplishment is met with the unspoken question of whether Baelon might have done it quicker or better, and every celebration carries a shadow of mourning that you will never escape. 

It is only Rhaenyra who has ever looked at you and seen nothing to mourn.

She has never spoken of Baelon as though he ought to have taken your place. She sneaks you your favorite desserts when you are sad, and she wipes your tears before anyone else can see them. When you are too scared to be alone at night, she slips into your chambers with stories of dragons raining fire from the sky and queens who crossed seas. 

Your father has always been distant, but you have never minded because Rhaenyra is enough warmth for two parents, and when the whispers of the court become loud enough to reach you, she rolls her eyes and steals you away to the dragonpit or cuts the gossipers down with words sharp enough to leave them speechless.

She is your shield whenever the court would have you bleed, and your sword when distraction alone is not enough. For a little while, that is enough.

Then Jacaerys is born. 

You are still young enough to be bundled off to lessons with Septa Elaine, feet dangling from chairs too tall for you, when Rhaenyra places him in your arms for the first time. 

You think he is beautiful.

He has a mop of dark curls and bright brown eyes that seek you out in every room. He laughs more readily than he cries, and he reaches for your finger whenever you are near, curling his tiny fist around it as though he has claimed you for himself. 

He is perfect—you know it the moment he giggles up at you the first time, but the whispers begin before the bloodied sheets are removed from your sister's bed.

Strong. Bastard. Plain.

The words are spoken with feigned innocence, as though they are not daggers pressed to both his back and your sister’s. For the first time since you were born, the court’s attention shifts to another, and you desperately wish that it hadn't.

You know what it is to have your life measured against someone who is not there, but Jacaerys is measured against people who are. 

Your half-brother, Aegon, with silver-gold hair that gleams in the sun and eyes the color of amethysts, every inch the image of Old Valyria from the moment he was pulled from your stepmother's womb. Beside him stand Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron, no less unmistakably Targaryen. Silver hair and purple eyes; four children who look exactly as the world insists dragonlords should.

By the time Jacaerys is born, the image of a Targaryen prince has already been firmly etched into the court's mind, and it is not a little boy with brown curls and warm eyes who resembles neither the princess who bore him nor the husband sworn to be his father. 

You recognize the look in their eyes intimately when they turn their gazes on him. It is the same one they once turned on you—a child who has already failed to become what the realm expected of them before they have spoken their first words. You had been the daughter who survived instead of the son who should have. Jacaerys is the son who does not look as though he should have.

Rhaenyra never allows you to bear your burden alone. Before the whispers find you, they find her first. Whenever cruel words are spoken, hers are always sharper. She stands between you and the court so often that most days you hardly realize she’s shielding you at all. 

So when the whispers begin to follow Jacaerys instead, you do the only thing you have ever been taught—sharpening words and standing between him and the world whenever you can.

If your sister has always been your sword and your shield, then you will be her son’s.

——————————

JACAERYS, 2; READER, 7; 112 AC

“He really does adore you, doesn’t he, princess?” one of your ladies in waiting, Melynda Darklyn, says with a soft laugh after Jacaerys climbs into your lap at Lucerys’s first nameday celebration. You wind your arms around the boy, relishing in the delighted noise he makes once he’s wrapped in your arms.

Your sister and her husband are sitting at the center of the table, chatting with your father and entertaining the assembled lords while musicians fill the hall with cheerful melodies and servants weave between tables bearing silver platters piled high with roasted meats and sugared fruits. Rhaenyra occasionally looks in your direction, casting a small smile your way when she sees how Jacaerys is tucked against you, fisting the embroidery of your gown tight enough that you fear he might rip some of the tiny pearls from the fabric.

“He has excellent taste,” you answer primly, with all of the seriousness a girl of seven can muster, earning a ripple of laughter from your end of the table. “It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that I let him have his sweets before supper.”

Jacaerys blinks, head lolling against your shoulder, unconcerned with being the subject of conversation. You can feel his small fingers picking at the ribbon tied around your wrist, freezing comically every time you look down at him. Each time you return your attention to the feast, his fingers creep back toward the knot with painstaking care, his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth in concentration. He glances up at you every few moments to make certain you are not watching before tugging experimentally at the ribbon once more.

You pretend not to notice, smiling lightly to yourself when you hear the triumphant little hum that escapes him as the knot finally begins to loosen. 

“His hair really is so dark,” Aegon suddenly says on your left, voice idle as he yawns. 

The conversation immediately halts. 

You wonder if Aegon knows the gravity of the words he spoke, stiffening slightly from where you’re sitting, enough that Jacaerys seems to sense the shift in your demeanor, lifting tiny hands to your face to squish your cheeks. It’s only when you smile at him that he finally lets go, and he returns to toying with your ribbon. 

You look at your younger half-brother from the corner of your eye carefully, catching the bored expression on his face as he absently pokes at his peas, still looking at Jacaerys. You do not know why your father insists on seating him near you during feasts—you desperately wish he would sit with his mother and your other half-siblings. He has spent half the evening kicking the legs of his chair and playing with his food, bothering you with inane questions about whether there is an end to the Sunset Sea and if you think there is such a thing as water dragons or ice dragons. 

You see three of your ladies-in-waiting exchange glances, Melynda stiffens slightly as she glances between the princes before her gaze meets yours, riddled with concern, and two lords further down the table quiet down immediately to listen in on whatever Aegon might say next. No one speaks openly of Jacaerys’s… coloring. Not yet, at least. The whispers have remained whispers, traded behind fans and cups of wine, because everyone is unwilling to be the first to give them voice.

So the court waits, each lord and lady wondering who will finally speak the unspeakable. 

For one fleeting moment, you can’t help but wonder if the Queen has whispered something into Aegon's ear before the feast, if she has sent him here to say what no grown lord dares so that life might be breathed into the whispers haunting Jacaerys. You would not put it past her—she has always had a certain disdain for you and your sister—but you do not think that is the case this time. Aegon is six, and he hardly has the patience for lessons in High Valyrian, much less the conspiracies of court. Every thought that enters his head escapes his mouth within moments, innocent of the havoc it might wreak. 

He is simply a little boy who has noticed that his nephew's curls are brown where everyone else's are silver. The court, however, has spent so long waiting for someone to say too much that even a child's idle observation is enough to make half the hall hold its breath.

Aegon notices the silence at last, mid-motion to tug Jacaerys’s hair. You slap his hand away before he can. His brow furrows, and he glances around the table. He looks from one lady to the next as though expecting someone to satisfy his curiosity. Instead, they busy themselves with their cups of wine and suddenly find the roasted lamb before them intensely interesting.

He frowns. “What?” 

“I suppose everyone else is too kind to say it,” you say dramatically, giving Aegon a bright smile as he tilts his head questioningly. “You should not speak on someone else’s hair when yours is so greasy, valonqar.” You reach forward to tug a long lock of silver hard, and Aegon yelps, squirming away. “It only draws more attention to it. Did you not bathe before the feast?”

Little brother.

“I did bathe! It’s not greasy!” he disagrees loudly, lifting his hands to cover his hair. “You’re a liar!” 

“Of course it is,” you insist. “Why else do you think no one dares look you in the eye? You should be grateful that you have me to tell you the truth when others would avert their gaze and pretend they do not notice. Say, thank you, mandia.”

Older sister.

“No!” 

“Do it, or I’ll pull your hair again, you little wretch.”

Aegon gapes at you and looks around the table for help—unfortunately for him, the only one who might have taken his side, scandalized by your behavior, is sitting on your father’s opposite side, watching the two of you from afar, unable to do anything about it. You give the Queen a faux-sweet smile before raising your eyebrows at Aegon and lifting your hand threateningly. 

He shrinks back. “Thank you, mandia.”

You raise your chin proudly, and the tension slips away. The tension eases from your shoulders when you realize you’ve successfully averted the crisis, but the dread you feel remains even as goblets are lifted once more, and conversations that had died on waiting breaths begin again. One lord clears his throat loudly and returns to discussing the harvest with his neighbor, and another asks after plans for hawking. 

Around the table, everyone is suddenly very eager to prove they had not been listening at all; as though moments before, they hadn’t been on the edge of their seats waiting for someone to give them a chance to speak what they’ve all been thinking.

Jacaerys gives one final victorious tug, and the ribbon slips free into his hands. He squeals with delight, waving it triumphantly in the air, utterly oblivious to what just took place. 

You pluck it gently from his fingers before he can stuff it into his mouth, and he immediately looks up at you, big brown eyes watering, lower lip quivering. He pleads in a tiny, wobbly voice, “Please.”

You raise your eyebrows at him pointedly. You say firmly, “Ivestragon ziry drējī.”

Say it correctly.

He stares up at you, brow furrowing in fierce concentration. His lips part once, then close again. He glances toward his mother for help, but she is much too far to be of any assistance, so his little nose wrinkles as he thinks harder.

“K-k…” he begins uncertainly, fingers curling tight around the sleeve of your gown. You wait patiently, toying with the ribbon. At last, he says proudly, “Kolilus!”

“Close,” you say, tapping his nose, smiling softly when he immediately scrunches it again with a giggle. “Kostilus.”

Please.

“Kostilus!” he repeats, beaming. “Kostilus! Kostilus!” 

“Sīr albie,” you praise as you tie the ribbon around his small wrist, watching as he waves his hand in the air trying to show Rhaenyra across the room. “Olvie tolī albie pār aōha qȳbor.”

So smart. Much smarter than your uncle.

Jacaerys spends the rest of the feast showing anyone who will look the ribbon tied around his wrist, never noticing the glances that follow him, and you are filled with a dread that will haunt you for years to come, because one day, someone will find the courage to finish Aegon's thought, and when that day comes, no amount of distraction or childish innocence will be enough to swallow the words back down.

——————————

JACAERYS, 3; READER, 8; 113 AC

“Sleepover!”

You wake blearily from where you’re dozing off on your couch as the door to your chambers swings open, exhausted after a day of flying. Rhaenyra finally gave you leave a few months ago to take flight with Zūgaxes, once she was certain you would not go flying off the large dragon's back the moment he took to the air, and you have spent almost every waking moment with him above King's Landing and the Blackwater. Your thighs are sore, and you barely fight a wince when you push yourself into a sitting position just as a small ball of energy slams into your abdomen, pushing you back down against the couch.

You blink once, a smile instinctively curving your lips when Jacaerys’s face pops above yours, a wide, toothy one spread across his lips as he looks down at you, excited, dressed in his nightclothes and holding his favorite blanket. 

“Mandianna,” you say fondly, lifting your shoulders enough to press your lips against his cheeks, biting down lightly to make him squeal happily. “What are you doing here?”

Nephew.

“I hope I didn’t wake you, sweet sister,” Rhaenyra murmurs as she makes her way into your room. She holds Lucerys carefully on her hip—the boy is half asleep, blinking sleepily in your direction before giving you a small smile. She nods in the direction of the couch you’re lying on and asks, “May I?”

You tilt your head curiously and nod, shifting to sit up properly. Jacaerys clambers off your lap to go play with the toys he left in your room the other day, and Rhaenyra sits next to you, smiling at you softly as she lifts a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. Your eyes are wide and adoring as you look up at her, leaning into the familiar warmth of her hand—you have been so busy flying that you've hardly seen her as of late.

"Look at you, growing up so lovely," Rhaenyra sighs lightly, running her thumb along your cheekbone as Lucerys nuzzles into the crook of her neck. "I heard father was upset with you this morning. What happened?"

You scowl immediately, crossing your arms and looking away. The reminder of the argument sets your mood afoul, throat already tightening with a something caught between irritation and hurt.

"He is always upset with me," you mutter. Rhaenyra raises her eyebrows at you, waiting for you to explain, and you push your bottom lip out into a pout. "I only mentioned that I wanted to fly to Highgarden. Ser Lowen says the flowers will be at peak bloom soon. I should like to see them."

Rhaenyra laughs lightly, and your cheeks feel hot as you keep your gaze averted even as she tilts your face toward her. She strokes your hair lightly and says, "You have only just turned eight, hāedar. You cannot expect him to allow you to fly off on your own across the kingdom."

Little sister.

Your eyes well with tears immediately, and Rhaenyra's expression shifts into one of alarm, shifting Lucerys on her lap so that she might face you fully.

"He can hardly even stand the sight of me, mandia. He could at least let me travel. I do not just want to see Highgarden—I want to see the Wall and Casterly Rock. I want to cross the Narrow Sea and travel the Free Cities, see the ruins of Old Valyria, walk the House of the Undying in Qarth. It is not fair. He cannot keep me trapped here forever when nobody even likes me."

Rhaenyra's expression softens; she tilts her head slightly to the side as she holds your face between her palms, stroking your cheeks steadily with her thumbs. You grit your teeth hard to try to stop the tears from spilling over, but you fail miserably, breath shuddering as you sniffle and choke back sobs.

"Did someone say something to you?" she asks you, lips pressed together and eyes a bit cooler. "Ali—the Queen? One of her sons?"

You shake your head, trying to pull your face away, but she does not let you. "I just—"

You just what? You're lonely? You're tired of the way everyone looks at you? It feels unfair to say that to Rhaenyra, who has always done her best to shield you from it all. It feels unfair to say it when Jacaerys and Lucerys have faced worse from the court these past three years.

It is all unfair, you think miserably. All you want to do is lounge in gardens and snack on oranges with your sister and your nephews. You want to watch as Jacaerys plays with his wooden dragons and finds pretty flowers to put in your hair, as Lucerys naps in his mother's arms, oblivious to the world around him. You want to do it all without the eyes of judgment constantly pinned on the back of your head; you want to do it without the fear that someone, one day, will speak the words that will condemn them all.

"Well, then, perhaps it is a good thing that Jacaerys asked for you, hāedar," Rhaenyra says softly. "I did not realize you were so upset. Were you really planning to spend the night alone?"

"I did not want to bother you," you reply glumly, glancing away to where Jacaerys is trying and failing to gather all of his toys up in his arms, pouting each time he drops one back to the floor.

"You are never a bother, sweet sister. You must come to me whenever you feel like this. I loathe the idea of you being alone," Rhaenyra tells you softly as she leans in to brush her lips against your forehead. "Jacaerys, come here."

The boy immediately pokes his head up from the other side of the room, putting down all of his toys except for the wooden dragon you gifted him for his first nameday. He bolts across the room, tossing himself on Rhaenyra's lap and jostling Lucerys, who immediately starts sniffling. Rhaenyra raises her eyebrows at Jacaerys, who gives her a sheepish smile before he gives Lucerys a hug.

"Sorry, Luke," he says dutifully before shifting to sit between the two of you, holding his wooden dragon in his lap. He gives his mother an expectant look.

"Didn't you want to ask your muña something?" Rhaenyra prods, raising her eyebrows. "Instead of coming in here and demanding?"

Aunt (mother's sister)

Jacaerys's face lights up as he swivels his body toward you, brown eyes bright with delight. "Can we have a sleepover, muña?"

You say, "Ivestragon ziry drējī.”

Say it correctly.

Jacaerys immediately wrinkles his nose and gives Rhaenyra a pleading look, but your sister only gives him a small smile, beckoning him to do as you asked.

"You're so mean, muña," Jacaerys whines, giving you a pitiful look, wide eyes and a pushed-out lip that he certainly learned from you whenever you're trying to convince Rhaenyra to get you extra snacks from the kitchens. Unfortunately for you, it is infinitely more effective coming from baby Jacaerys with big brown eyes and chubby cheeks. He wrinkles his nose as he thinks, a few long moments passing before he tries, "Kostan ēdrugon toliot?"

I can stay over?

You correct, "Kostagon nyke ēdrugon toliot?"

Can I stay over?

"Kostagon nyke ēdrugon toliot?" he repeats instantly, leaning forward, tiny fingers wrapping around your hand. "Kostilus, kostilus, kostilus."

Can I stay over? Please, please, please.

You lean in with a small smile and tell him softly, "Hen rhinka, kostā."

 Of course, you can.

Jacaerys lets out a squeal of glee and immediately leaps off the couch to run over to your bed, climbing on top and bouncing happily three times before flopping down and rolling around. Your lips curl up into a smile as your sister leans in to nudge her shoulder against yours.

"Are you truly going to look me in the eye and say nobody likes you when mine own son adores you so deeply?" she asks you quietly. "When I do?"

Your shoulders slump slightly, unable to meet her gaze.

"Jace would be distraught if you left," Rhaenyra continues, undeterred. "He has… been having night terrors. He struggles to sleep through the night. He has tried sleeping in bed with Laenor and I, but nothing seems to be enough to rid him of them. At first, I thought he simply preferred being fussed over, but the servants have made me aware that he does not cry out once during his naps in your chambers. When he wakes beside you, he is… lighter."

You turn to look at Jacaerys. He has managed to wrap himself in your blankets like a cocoon, your favorite stuffed dragon tucked to his chest. Every few moments, he glances over his shoulder to make certain you're still watching him before burying himself deeper beneath the covers.

You hear your sister let out a soft huff of laughter at your side at the sight of him, brushing a sleeping Lucerys's curls away from his forehead.

"I did not know," you whisper, guilty now—not just for wanting to leave and travel, but also for the number of days you've landed in the dragonpit with Zūgaxes to find Jacaerys sitting there waiting for you. For hours, Ser Steffon told you once when you'd asked how long he'd been there. "I…"

"I do not think he does either," Rhaenyra admits, smiling sadly. "Children simply know where they feel safe, and he feels safe with you."

Rhaenyra watches Jacaerys for a long moment as he buries himself beneath your blankets, only the top of his dark curls visible.

She says after a moment, "I should like it if you spent more time with him." You blink and give her a questioning look. She amends immediately, "I know you already do, but… he adores you. There is no one in the Seven Kingdoms whose presence delights him half so much as yours. Every morning, he asks whether you will break fast with us. Every afternoon, he asks whether you are flying. Every evening, he asks whether you have already gone to sleep. Laenor has begun telling him that dragons require princesses to nap as often as hatchlings simply to stop the questions."

You giggle, hand flying to your mouth as you imagine an exhausted Laenor forced to answer question after question—Jacaerys is insatiable when it comes to needing things answered. You once spent two hours trying to answer incessant whys when you told him that dragons could not fly forever without taking breaks, and you know Laenor well enough to know his patience is not endless.

"He is noticing things," Rhaenyra tells you after a moment, voice breaking. "He does not understand why some lords smile at him only when I am looking. He asked me last week why everyone stares at him, if he had done something wrong—I had to tell him that people only stare because he is a prince. That they admire him. I lied to him."

You stare at your folded hands, unable to think of anything to say that would make her feel better. You know she lied because there had been no other choice. What else could she have told a three-year-old boy? That grown men whisper about him behind closed doors? That ladies who smile at him in passing spend their evening wondering aloud whether he has any right to the Velaryon name?

Children should not know such things.

You should not have known that the court would have preferred you dead to your brother.

"He believed me," Rhaenyra says quietly, "but he will not forever, and I dread when that day comes. And it will come. One day he will hear every cruel thing that we have kept beyond his reach, but—"

"I will make them stop," you say immediately, leaning forward and grabbing her hands. Rhaenyra gives you a small, sad smile, but you insist with a nod. "I will, mandia. I will cut them down. Ser Steffon is teaching me the sword, I—"

Rhaenyra blinks. "Does father know that?"

"—I will take the head of anyone who says such things about him. I will feed them to Zuzu, and I'll burn their keeps," you declare, ignoring her question, because no, your father does not know, and you have no intention of telling him. "You do not have to worry, mandia. I will protect Jacaerys and Lucerys forever. And you."

Then, she laughs. It is quiet and watery, born through tears rather than amusement, but it is a laugh nonetheless. A success, you think.

"Oh, sweet girl."

You frown. She says it the way she always does when she does not believe you.

"I am serious," you insist.

"I know you are," she sighs, reaching up to cup your face with both hands, smiling softly. "You are a child. You should not be talking about taking heads and feeding people to dragons."

You frown again, deeper this time. "But I mean it," you tell her again. "I will take their heads, and I will feed them to Zuzu. I will burn their keeps, should I please."

"You are eight, hāedar."

"Then, I will wait until I am nine," you say firmly. "I will grow very tall. Taller than Ser Steffon. Even Ser Harrold."

"I think that unlikely."

"I shall," you say fiercely. "And I shall be stronger than Ser Erryck, and wiser than every maester."

You do not know why Rhaenyra looks as though she's going to cry again as she looks down at you, stroking your hair gently. "So, when you are the tallest, strongest, and wisest princess in the Seven Kingdoms…"

"I will protect all of you," you finish. "Anyone who is cruel to Jacaerys will regret it. And Lucerys. And you."

Rhaenyra's smile softens, and your lashes flutter as she leans in to brush her lips against your forehead.

"Well, if you are so adamant, then I suppose I must believe you." You nod at her words, pleased. "Will you promise me one more thing?" You look up expectantly. "If one day, the court makes him feel alone… find him, please."

You nod immediately. "I promise."

"And if one day the court makes you feel alone…"

You hesitate. "… He is only little."

"He will not always be," she tells you with a faint smile, and your nose wrinkles at the idea of Jacaerys growing older. You like him the way he is now—tiny and cuddly. "Promise me you will let him find you, too."

You glance over to where he's curled up in your bed, fast asleep now, ignorant of the conversation taking place between you and his mother. He is so small, you think doubtfully—you cannot imagine a day will ever come when he will be the one to seek you out.

Still, Rhaenyra has that expectant expression on her face, so you find yourself nodding.

"I promise."

—————————

JACAERYS, 4; READER, 9; 114 AC

"Jacaerys?"

You rise to your feet from where you were sitting with your half-sister, Helaena, on the edge of the gardens in Maegor's Holdfast as a small figure rushes past the two of you. Helaena blinks once, tilting her head to the side as she cradles her beetles between her palms.

"He looked sad," she says quietly. "Do you think he's okay?"

You don't respond, rushing after Jacaerys as soon as he turns the corner, ignoring the eyes of the knights and servants lingering as you push past them. You thought he was supposed to be in the training yard with Laenor today? He was excited about it last night—so excited that he kept you up for hours, asking for tips to impress his father and Ser Criston. So why—

"Jacaerys!" you call again as he turns down the hall, taking a familiar path through the holdfast. Where is he going? To his mother's chambers? To yours? "Jacaerys!"

Jacaerys skids to a stop halfway down the next hall, and you glare at a passing knight whose gaze lingers a moment too long on the sniffling boy. He hurries away, leaving you alone with Jacaerys in the long hall. He lifts his face to look at you, and alarm shoots through you when you see the dark bruise on his jaw.

"Jacaerys, what happened?" you demand, making your way over to him. He rushes toward you, throwing his arms around your waist and burying his face in your stomach. You wrap your arms around him, fingers threading through his thick hair as you hold the back of his head to your body, lowering yourself to your knees in front of him. "Jacaerys."

You pull his face back gently. His fingers clutch desperately at the back of your gown, bunching the fabric in both fists as though he fears you'll disappear if he loosens his grip. He is trembling. He is shaking so badly that he can hardly hold himself upright. Your fingers bite a bit too hard into his shoulders as your hands slide from his face down to his upper arms, forcing him to look you in the eye.

"Tell me what happened," you say furiously, rage already bubbling in your chest, vision tinted red as you squeeze his tiny biceps. "Who hurt you? Jacaerys, answer me!"

Jacaerys lifts a hand to wipe at his eyes, tears stubbornly clinging to his long lashes. The bruise on his jaw makes your stomach lurch. You force your grip to ease as you lift a hand to his cheek, cradling it gently as you brush your thumb over the mark.

His lower lip trembles violently before he whispers, "… I fell."

You stare at him blankly. "Did you?"

He gives you a tiny nod, refusing to meet your gaze. He is a terrible liar.

"I see," you say slowly, eyes narrowing slightly, "and the floor struck only your jaw?"

He sniffles and nods again.

"How curious," you say flatly.

You wonder if it was Aegon or Aemond. You thought Aegon was getting along with the boys, for the most part, but your half-brother has always been fickle and capricious, prone to changing his mind on a whim; and Aemond has taken to the sword, but he has always been careful enough with smaller children, more interested in proving himself than hurting anyone else. You struggle to picture him throwing a careless blow at a four-year-old.

"It must have been a very malicious floor," you say at last, the anger ebbing away at the sight of his mouth twitching up into a small, wobbly smile. "I shall have the castle steward informed. Dangerous stones cannot be allowed to wander the halls attacking little princes."

Jacaerys giggles, lifting his fists to wipe clumsily at his eyes.

"It wasn't the floor," he admits in a tiny voice. "I lied."

You sigh lightly as you brush the last lingering tear from beneath his lashes, leaning in to press your lips against his forehead. You say, "I suspected as much. What really happened, mandianna?"

His gaze immediately drops to the floor. "Ser Criston was teaching me how to wield a sword."

You stare at him for a moment and then ask slowly, "Ser Criston gave you this?"

"He didn't mean—" Jacaerys begins quickly, fumbling for words. "He was showing me, that's all."

"Showing you what, exactly?" you question, voice strained.

Jacaerys withdraws, shrinking a little. He says quietly, "I do not want to get in trouble."

"Iksā dōrī isse qopsa lēda nyke, mandianna," you say, softening your tone, sighing lightly as you brush your lips atop the welt forming on his jaw. Jacaerys clutches at your arms, trying to keep you close."Nyke mērī jaelagon ao naejot ivestragon nyke se drēje."

You are never in trouble with me, nephew. I only want you to tell me the truth.

"He was showing me how to block," he finally says, sniffling again as he presses his face into the crook of your neck. "I was supposed to stop it, but I didn't. He said I should have blocked it, and then went back over to Aegon and Aemond."

You do not reply immediately, rubbing between his shoulders to soothe him, one hand sliding down to his tiny wrist and tinier hands, small and uncalloused, barely able to wrap around the hilt of a sword. Ser Criston is a grown man, you think, outraged. He is years older than Rhaenyra, and he struck Jacaerys.

"How hard did he strike you?" you ask him softly.

"It hurt," Jacaerys says, voice small and muffled. Your eye twitches—a kingsguard striking a prince, Criston Cole gets away with far too much because of the Queen's favor. "He said if I cannot stop a practice sword, I will never stop a real one. I couldn't find father—he was supposed to be there—and mother has been busy all day in court, and I—I wanted you, muña. I always want you when…" His face twists as he searches for the right words. "… when things hurt."

Your expression softens into a smile as you sit back on your heels to look him in the eye. Jacaerys looks at you through wet lashes, bottom lip still wobbling, and you hold his face between your hands, squeezing his cheeks gently until he giggles and turns his face into your palm.

"Well," you say lightly after a moment, "your muña is here. How about we go down to the dragonpit and check on Vermax?"

His face lights up instantly. "Yes! Maybe they'll let me feed him. Do you think they'll let me?" he asks, excited, grabbing your hands and squeezing. Before you can respond, he presses, "Will Zuzu be there? Can we go flying?"

You lean in and lower your voice conspiratorially as you whisper, "Only if you promise not to tell your mother."

"I promise! I promise, I promise, I promise!" he cheers.

You give him a small smile, running your thumb one last time over the welt on his cheek before you rise to your feet and hold out your hand to him. He takes it quickly, entwining his fingers with yours as he takes off in the direction of the dragonpit, and you laugh as he drags you along with him.

Jacaerys forgets all about the bruise and Ser Criston Cole by the time the two of you reached the dragonpit, but you do not.

—————————

JACAERYS, 6; READER, 11; 116 AC

Jacaerys becomes your shadow over the next two years.

He rushes to your chambers before you've even woken, and will linger there long into the evening until his mother finally forces him to return to his own. Some nights, he sneaks back well after midnight because he insists that your room is safer than his, though you suspect he simply sleeps better with your dragon stuffed beneath one arm and your hand draped over his back.

He follows you everywhere.

When Ser Steffon trains you in the yard—now with your father's permission, though you had to put up quite the fight because your father was unconvinced that there was any need for a princess to learn the sword—Jacaerys perches himself on the balcony, his chin resting in both palms as he announces every successful strike as though you had just won a tourney.

"You got him!"

"It is a wooden dummy, Jacaerys."

"But he was losing!"

"The dummy?"

"Yes! He looked frightened!"

When you fly Zūgaxes, Jacaerys waits patiently in the Dragonpit with a book in his lap that never seems to advance beyond the same page. The moment your dragon's shadow crosses the courtyard, he leaps to his feet, waving both arms high above his head before racing to meet you

"How high did you go?"

"Very high."

"Higher than the towers?"

"Certainly."

"Higher than the clouds?"

"Not quite."

"Tomorrow?"

"Perhaps."

When you retreat to the gardens with a book, he appears scarcely minutes later, carrying one of his own. He cannot yet sit long enough to read more than a page or two before asking questions, but he tries valiantly, resting his head against your shoulder as he sounds out unfamiliar words. When he inevitably grows frustrated, you take the book from his hand and read aloud instead—by the third chapter, he is almost always asleep against you.

The servants quickly learn that if the young prince cannot be found, they only need ask where the princess has gone, and he is always there.

Which is why you feel so terrible about what you have to do today.

"Tell me it's not true," a shrill voice accuses from the door of your chambers as you finish packing the last of your bag. Ser Steffon gives you an apologetic look as he holds the door open for the little prince, and you grimace but signal for him to close it and step outside so that you can talk to Jacaerys. "You can't be leaving. Say that you're not leaving!"

"Mandianna," you start to sigh, turning to face him. His eyes are already welling with tears, face red and fists clenched at his sides. "I—"

"No!" he screeches. "You're a liar. You're a liar. You promised you wouldn't leave me. You promised I wouldn't be alone. You're a liar, and I hate you."

"Jacaerys," you say quietly, kneeling in front of him. He has grown over the past year, but so have you—and unfortunately for him, you have been growing faster. Where he once nearly reached your shoulder, the top of his curls now barely reaches your chest. He'll be even taller when you return, you think mournfully—how much will you miss? "Come here."

"No."

"Please."

"No!"

"I only want to talk, mandianna."

"I hate talking to you. I don't want to talk to you."

"Jacaerys…" you sigh again, a helpless feeling tugging at you because you do not want to leave while he's angry at you. You knew this would be a difficult conversation, but you'd hoped to at least leave with one last hug. "I know you are angry, but—"

"You don't!" he cries, stamping his foot so hard the floorboards rattle beneath him. "You don't know anything! Everybody hates me here. They all stare at me and think I don't notice, but I do! You promised you would stay, that I would always have you. You're a liar!"

Your breath hitches as you stare down at the tears tracking down his cheek. For a moment, you are no longer looking at Jacaerys. You are six years old again, yourself, standing in the halls of the Red Keep, wondering why everyone always stares at you, convinced that if you disappear, no one but Rhaenyra would notice.

You had spent years hoping he would never know the feeling.

"I know that they do," he insists before you can speak, as though he already knows you will try to deny it to preserve his innocence, as Rhaenyra has been doing for years. "They look at me all the time. They whisper, and then they stop when you or mother comes. They think I don't notice, but I do." He wipes furiously at his face with the heel of his sleeve. "They don't like me because—because I'm not pretty like everyone else, because I don't look like mother or father or grandsire or Aegon. But you always liked me—you said I was clever, and brave, and you said that I always would have you."

"You do, Jacaerys," you start to say. "I meant it."

"Liar!" he shouts again. "You wouldn't leave me if you meant it!"

You do not have a choice, you want to tell him.

Your father has asked you to go to Pentos to convince Daemon to return. You are not sure the Small Council knows of his request, because he has specifically asked you not to breathe a word of it to anyone, knowing too well how fiercely they opposed Daemon and how quickly they might act to convince him otherwise it if they learned where you were bound.

He thought he was doing you a favor—he remembers how badly you wanted to leave two years ago, and is giving you the opportunity now under the guise of a request from him. You did not know how to tell him that the last thing you wanted to do now was leave when Jacaerys hardly goes an hour without you.

You rise slowly from where you are kneeling, crossing the small distance between you. The moment you lift your hand toward him, he recoils.

"Don't touch me! I don't want you to touch me!"

Your fingers freeze in the air before falling back to your side. Your heart feels as though it is stuck in your throat as you stare at him, watching as he wipes hard at his face again, gnawing at his bottom lip as he fights a sob.

"Okay," you finally say, hand dropping back to your side.

"I don't want you to come back," he tells you, sniffling loudly, refusing to look at you. "I hate you."

You know he does not mean it. You do. Children have so few weapons when they are hurting, and cruel words are among the first they learn to wield. You know this better than most, and yet, somehow, his words still manage to find every wound you've ever been dealt in this keep, salt on open wounds because they are being spoken by the one voice whose opinion matters more than any vicious noble ever could.

Your throat feels swollen, and your chest aches so painfully that you fear you might die. You had imagined this moment so differently. You had imagined Jacaerys helping you fasten your cloak, asking you to bring him back gits and insisting you write him every day, faster even than the ravens can deliver. Instead, there is only a frightened little boy glaring at you through tears, insisting that he hates you and never wants to see you again.

"I'll see you soon, mandianna," you say quietly. "Avy jorrāelan. Kesan sagon arlī gō ao gīmigon ziry."

I love you. I will be back before you know it.

You wait just in case he changes his mind, but he does not answer, turning his back on you as your hand closes around the handle of the door.

It is the first time the two of you have to bid goodbye to one another.

It will not be the last.

—————————

JACAERYS, 7; READER, 12; 117 AC

It has been a year since you departed King's Landing.

Pentos had become a fortnight, then a moon, then half a year, and before anyone quite realized what had happened, an entire year had passed. Your father had sent you to talk to his brother, hoping that you might be able to convince your uncle and his wife to return home. Instead, Daemon had laughed in your face and said you were too small to be so bold, and refused every plea you had bade.

You had failed. The only consolation was that Daemon had immediately not sent you away. He had taken one look at your pinched expression and fisted hands, and he took you flying over the bay and the Velvet Hills. He taught you more about your history than any maester in King's Landing ever had, and filled your head with so many stories of Old Valyria that it had you dizzy with homesickness for a place you've never known, longing for a future you would never know.

Every morning, you would challenge him for Dark Sister, and he would pummel you into the tiled floors of the Prince of Pentos's palace, and every evening, he would make you do it again until he properly beat out the "poor teachings of Ser Steffon"—his words, not yours.

You met your cousins for the first time, too.

For years, you only ever had Rhaenyra, Laenor, Jacaerys, and Lucerys, but Baela and Rhaena quickly latched themselves to each of your arms, showing you all around Pentos, desperately trying to keep you in the Free City with them longer.

Baela had insisted on racing dragons before she'd properly introduced herself, offended when Zūgaxes won by what she declared was an unfair margin. She reminded you so much of Jace, forever at your heels, rarely letting you out of her sight for long. Rhaena spent long afternoons wandering Pentoshi markets with you and her mother, pointing out fabrics she thought would look pretty on you and teasing you relentlessly whenever Daemon tripped you and claimed he was only trying to hone your reaction time as you fell flat on your face.

For the first time in years, your world stretches beyond the walls of the Red Keep and lingering gazes, and yet not a single day has passed without you wondering whether Jacaerys still sits in the godswood, waiting for someone who is no longer there.

When your father finally sends a letter recalling you to King's Landing, tiring of your frolic with Daemon and not wanting to deal with another member of his family joining self-imposed exile, you spend the entire flight back thinking about what you would say to him, wondering what he might do when he finally sees you.

You have imagined him running at you and throwing himself into your arms, and you have imagined him turning his back to you once more. You do not know what to expect from him, so your heart is in your throat when you see him standing with the dragonkeepers as they bring out a sheep for Vermax, dark hair flopping around his face, a bright smile on his face.

In your worst fears, the smile drops when he realizes that you have returned.

You clear your throat and force a light expression on your face as you say, “He is almost big enough for you to ride now, isn’t he, mandianna?”

Jacaerys startles, smile dropping just as you feared, eyes widening as he whips around to face you. He stares at you, blinking once, head cocking to the side—for a terrible second, you wonder if he even recognizes you. It has been a year apart, you try to rationalize to mitigate the hurt. You have grown a lot; your hair is styled in the typical Pentoshi way, and you have spent the majority of the past year basking in the sun. It would not be so far-fetched if he did not recognize you right away, in fact—

"Muña?"

"Jacaerys," you greet quietly, hands behind your back to hide the way they're trembling uncertainly. Is he still angry at you? What if he doesn't— "I—"

Jacaerys is across the vast pit in an instant, a blur of black and red as he charges in your direction. The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh of relief as you dip down to catch him in your arms, lifting him off the dirt floor and swinging him through the air. A noise caught between a gasp and a broken sob escapes his lips as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapping so tight around your neck that he momentarily chokes you.

For a long while, neither of you speaks. His fingers clutch desperately at the back of your riding leathers, bunching the fabric beneath his fists, and you hold him just as tight, arms wrapped around his waist and face buried in his fluffy hair.

You have spent an entire year imagining this moment, worrying he might shrink away or turn his back on you, fearing that he might remember only your departure and not the years that had come before it. But he clings to you so tightly that your arm and neck begin to ache, and you have never been happier for the pain.

"I'm sorry," he blurts into your shoulder, words muffled against your neck. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Mandianna, you have nothing to apologize for," you murmur, pressing your lips to his temple, and letting out a wavering sigh. "I—"

"I said I hated you," he cries, voice catching over the words. "I didn't mean it. I promise."

"I know, Jacaerys," you murmur. "It's okay."

"I wanted to hug you," he sniffles, words tumbling out, desperate to be heard before the courage abandons him. "I was going to, I really was, but then you started leaving, and I got scared, and I thought maybe if I didn't hug you goodbye, you wouldn't leave, but you did leave. I wished I'd hugged you every day."

You let out a huff, unsure if it's a laugh or a sob of your own. "I'm here now, mandianna. You do not need to cry."

"I thought maybe you weren't coming back," he admits, pulling back just enough to look at you, cheeks damp and his eyes red-rimmed. You brush his unruly curls back from his forehead. He hiccups as he presses his nose into your hand. "I thought I made you mad, and you were going to stay away forever. I wanted to send a raven, but I was scared I would only make it worse."

"I could never be mad at you, silly boy," you murmur, carding your fingers through his hair absently. You give him a small smile, and he gives you a wavering one back—he's missing his front tooth. "I missed you."

"I missed you, muña," Jacaerys sniffles, pulling one hand from where he's clutching the back of your tunic to rub his face. You hum lightly, putting him back on the ground and kneeling in front of him, lifting your own hands to cradle his cheeks between them, thumbs wiping away his tears. He returns to clutching your arms, nails digging into your bicep. "I hated going to lessons with Maester Gerardys, and I hated going to feasts, and I hated training, and I hated everything. I just wanted to sit in the garden with you all day, but you weren't here."

You exhale through your nose as you hold his face gently, watching as he tries to hide it in your palm.

"I tried reading by myself," he continues in a rush, "but it wasn't the same because you weren't there to do all the voices. Mother tried, but she doesn't make the dragon sounds the way you do. It made me mad."

"I brought some books back from Pentos," you tell him with a small smile, hoping to calm him down and dry his tears. You pull him closer so that you can ghost your lips to his temple again. He immediately latches back onto you, arms wrapped tight around you. "I think you'll like them."

"What are they about?" he asks, eyes finally shining with excitement instead of sadness as he pulls back to look at you.

"Dragons, of course," you say with a mysterious smile, and Jacaerys gasps in delight. "How about tonight you help me unpack, and afterward I'll read you the first chapter?"

"With the voices?" he presses.

"Would I ever read a dragon story without the voices?" you ask, mock offended.

He smiles immediately, bright enough to chase away every trace of the tears that had been welling in his eyes. For a moment, he looks exactly as he did before you left—missing tooth, unruly curls, and eyes sparkling with excitement at the prospect of a story.

Then, the smile falters. He says quietly, "I missed you."

Your expression softens as you brush his hair back gently. "I missed you too, mandianna."

His gaze drops to the ground

"Sometimes…" he hesitates, chewing nervously on the inside of his cheek, like he isn't sure if he should tell you this next part. "Sometimes I still went to your room. I knew you weren't there! I knew that, but… it still smelled like you. I slept with stuffed Zuzu instead."

You tilt your head with an amused smile. "Surely it did not smell like me for the whole year, mandianna."

"I asked the servants not to wash your blankets," he blurts out before you can finish your sentence. You blink, brows furrowing slightly. "I thought—I didn't want them to smell different. I missed you. When they smelled like you, I could pretend you were still here."

You tilt your head slightly, letting out a puff of air as you give him a small smile. "Oh, Jacaerys."

He shrinks beneath the tenderness in your voice, cheeks red, suddenly looking embarrassed. "I know it's silly."

"It's not silly."

"I just missed you," he says again quietly, bottom lip trembling again. You reach up and cup his cheek again, your thumb brushing beneath his eye. "I missed you a lot, muña."

"You should have written to me," you tell him softly.

His eyes widen. "I wanted to," he insists again. "I really did."

"What stopped you?" you press, raising your eyebrows.

"I told you," he says with a pout, gaze averting to the side. "I didn't know what to say."

"You could have said anything, mandianna," you answer, pinching his cheek enough to watch it redden, laughing when he squeals. "I would have been happy to hear from you even if you were just complaining about Lucerys stealing your honeycakes."

"He stole them all the time!" Jacaerys says furiously. "And mother didn't do anything about it!"

"How dare she?" you gasp with mock offense.

"I was so angry!" he scowls, puffing out his little cheeks. Then he deflates and looks away. "I thought if I wrote the wrong thing, maybe you would stay away longer, so I just… I talked to your room instead."

You give him a bemused smile. "You spoke to my room?"

He nods once. "I told stuffed Zuzu what happened every day the same way I would tell you, but it wasn't the same," he says quietly. He lifts his gaze to yours, and his eyes are shiny again, but you can tell that he is trying his best not to cry from the way his throat bobs, and he chews at the inside of his cheek. His voice breaks in a way that makes you sick as he holds your hands tightly and whispers, "Please don't leave again. Please, muña."

"I won't," you promise, squeezing his hands gently. "Never again."

"You promise?" he asks skeptically, nails digging deep into your skin.

"I promise."

—————————

JACAERYS, 8; READER, 13; 118 AC

"He's so tiny," you say softly as you lounge with Rhaenyra in her chambers. Jacaerys and Lucerys are in the training yard—you were supposed to go with them, because Jacaerys never likes training with Ser Criston without you there to watch, but the birth was harder on your sister than she is willing to admit, and someone needs to look over her. "Tinier than Jacaerys and Lucerys were."

You poke at Joffrey's forehead, delighted when the boy gurgles and reaches for your finger, and Rhaenyra lets out a soft laugh, a fond expression on her face as she looks at the two of you lying in bed, resting back on the settee a few feet away. You had tried to insist that she should lie down, but she was quite adamant against it, and you are not fond of fighting with her when she struggles to keep herself upright.

"As much as I do adore the way you look after me, sweet sister, I am sure you have more important things to be doing. Were you not meant to sit with our father in the small council today?" Rhaenyra asks with a tired smile, pretending she is not in pain as she adjusts her legs.

You hate the way she winces every time she shifts.

You are certain this is Queen Alicent's fault—you had been furious when you passed Laenor and the boys on the way to her apartments, and he told you that the queen had called Rhaenyra to her chambers immediately after the birth, insisting upon seeing the babe before your sister had even been given the chance to rest. She had walked, bleeding and trembling, barely able to stand after the labor but forced to climb the winding stairs from her own apartments with a newborn in her arms, crossing the holdfast while every servant and noble stopped to stare at the blood trailing after her.

You had not been there—you had been in the sky for hours with Zūgaxes, oblivious even to the fact that Rhaenyra had entered her labors—but you found her immediately afterward. Still, she had smiled at you, even as her face had gone pale with exhaustion, and she leaned too heavily against Laenor when she thought no one was looking.

Maester Gerardys had ordered her to remain in bed for several days, but everyone was more concerned with tiny Joffrey, who was born too small for their liking, so no one noticed that your sister was already wandering around after an hour.

Except you, of course.

"All of your attendants and the maestars are focused on Joffrey," you say simply, sniffing as you raise your chin. "Somebody has to attend to you."

You do not notice the way Rhaenyra's expression changes at your words, snatching away the fluff he tries to stuff in his mouth. You stare down at the boy, a conflicted feeling tugging at your chest. You love Rhaenyra's boys—you do, but…

"Mandia," you say quietly after a moment, shoulders a bit hunched as you glance over at Rhaenyra, who tilts her head to the side curiously. You know that all women are meant to bear their husbands sons—you perhaps, more than anyone, so that the blood of Old Valyria might be passed on—but… "I do not think I should like to have children of my own."

Rhaenyra hums. "I used to think so too, did you know?" she tells you, and you look up, blinking at her in surprise. She nods with a small smile when she sees your surprise. "I was terrified when I found out I was with child the first time. I never pictured myself as a mother."

"Really?"

"Really."

You frown. "But you're…" You glance down at the little bundle wriggling happily in the bed next to you. "… You're perfect at it."

Rhaenyra laughs. "I assure you, I am not," she says with a smile. "I have made more mistakes than I can count."

You sniff. "I have never seen one."

"You had never seen a pufferfish until two weeks ago—does that mean they do not exist?" she teases, reminding you of the argument you got into with Laenor a few weeks ago because he insisted there was a type of fish covered in spikes and you refused to believe him until he dragged you out to sea to show you. Your face feels hot as you look away. "As I thought."

"Still," you say primly, crossing your arms and looking away.

"What made you think of this, sweet girl?" Rhaenyra asks, and you know she wishes to cross the room to brush your hair out of your face, but you scowl at her the moment she starts to move, and she sighs, holding her hands up in defeat as she lies back against the settee. "Did my boys horrify you so much they scared you off children altogether?"

She is teasing, but you frown anyway.

You say firmly, "No. I love your boys. In fact, I do not think I need children of my own when I already have two—three, now—little boys who insist on occupying all my time."

Rhaenyra laughs, tilting her head back. For the first time since you arrived in her chambers, she looks genuinely happy. She says, "Jacaerys would be terribly offended to hear himself counted alongside his brothers."

You scoff. "He ought not be. He is the worst offender," you tell her fiercely, smiling. "He sneaks into my apartments almost every night, steals the snacks I go through the effort of stealing from the kitchen, and has somehow convinced himself that half of my wardrobe belongs to him. I found my favorite cloak in his chambers the other day—I had been looking for it for weeks, mandia."

Rhaenyra's shoulders are shaking, though you think they ought not be because it is not funny in the slightest.

"Oh, hāedar, you misunderstand," she manages between laughs, wiping at the corner of her eye. "He would be offended because you called them your little boys as well. He gets rather cross whenever he's reminded that he must share you with his brothers."

You squint. Last week, Lucerys had fallen asleep against your shoulder while you read aloud in the gardens, and Jacaerys had spent the better part of an hour attempting to wedge himself between the two of you under increasingly flimsy pretenses until you had finally sighed and let him climb into your lap as well.

"You may be right," you concede at last, "but I digress."

"What made you think of this then, if not for my boys?" Rhaenyra asks again, determined to get to the bottom of the issue.

Your shoulders hunch slightly. You busy yourself with fixing the blanket wrapped around Joffrey as you try to figure out how to phrase what you want to say.

"The Queen said something to me this morning," you finally admit. "It is why I've spent the whole day flying."

Rhaenyra's expression shifts instantly, fondness hardening and lips pressed together. "What did she say to you?"

"She said she was glad to hear that I've flowered… I did not tell her, I assume one of the servants must have," you say quietly, playing with your own fingers, unable to lift your gaze to meet hers. "She said that she would speak to the king about—matches."

Flowering means womanhood, and womanhood means marriage, and marriage means children.

Rhaenyra exhales hard through her nose, jaw tightening, and you feel guilty instantly. Your sister has just given birth. She has just given birth and was forced to cross the Keep because Queen Alicent demanded to see the babe, and now you are throwing more issues at her as if she isn't already faced with enough.

"Mandia, I—"

"I will speak to our father, hāedar," Rhaenyra says before you can say anything else, gaze lifting to meet yours. She gives you that familiar, reassuring smile that always puts your nerves at ease. "Do not fret. Your elder sister will handle everything. I will not see you forced to do anything you displease."

You know that she means it. If Rhaenyra said she would move the heavens for you, she would spend every waking second ensuring that it happens. Even so…

"I do not wish to be a burden. I—I know it is a woman's duty to wed and bear children, but I—"

"You are not a burden, hāedar. How many times must I remind you?" Rhaenyra tells you with a soft smile. "Be at ease. I shall speak to father. I—"

The door to Rhaenyra's chambers opens with a loud bang, and both of you startle, gaze lifting just as Ser Harwin enters the room. Rhaenyra blinks once and gives the man a questioning look, and you tilt your head to the side.

"Forgive me, princesses," the man says, dark curls framing his face as he looks between the two of you. His gaze settles on you. "The dragonkeepers sent for you, princess. Zūgaxes is—agitated."

—————————

"Are you upset with me?"

You exhale as Jacaerys barges into your chambers later that night, brows furrowed indignantly, as though to mask the anxiety plain in the way he otherwise holds himself. Your gaze slips down to the way his fingers tremble at his sides and his shoulders are too stiff, and Jacaerys instantly shrinks, hiding his hands and standing straighter.

You glance away, lips pressed together, fingers thrumming against your desk.

"'I waited for you in the garden, but you didn't come," Jacaerys continues, voice pitching in accusation as he comes closer to you. "I waited in the library, but you didn't come. And then I thought you'd definitely come for supper, but you didn't. Where were you?"

"I was busy, Jacaerys," you say, clipped, and Jacaerys freezes a few feet away. You stop yourself from glancing at him over your shoulder because you know the moment you see his bottom lip wobbling, your anger will start draining away. "Perhaps you would be better suited attending etiquette lessons with Septa Elaine. You have clearly missed far too many."

Jacaerys does not answer for a long moment. He asks hesitantly, "What does that mean?"

"What that means, Jacaerys," you hiss, whipping around to look at him. He flinches backward, but you barrel on anyway. "is that I found my half-brother crying in the dragonpit after nearly being burnt alive by my dragon because you thought it would be a good idea to taunt him with a pig."

Jacaerys stares at you for a moment uncertainly, shoulders hunching inward as though to make himself small. He has been mad at you countless times before. If he feels as though you're paying more attention to Lucerys, he will give you the cold shoulder all evening, and if you dare to even hint at missing story time, he'll insist he never wants to speak to you again, then will appear in your chambers after supper, asking you to read to him with the sweetest smile.

You have never been angry at him before.

"It was just a joke," he whispers, voice small. "I didn't—"

"You didn't what?" you interrupt. "You didn't mean it? Is that it?"

Distantly, you know you should not yell at him like this.

He is only a boy—you're almost tall enough to reach your sister's shoulders now and still growing at that, but Jacaerys hardly reaches your chest, cheeks still chubby with fat, giggling at every unfunny joke that Laenor makes. Aegon is likely the one at fault for the prank, miserable wretch, but Jacaerys—

Jacaerys should know better.

Jacaerys knows, as you do, what it's like to be ostracized by the court for something out of his control. Aemond is not your favorite sibling—he is too uptight, clings to his mother so much that it makes you roll your eyes—but to mock him for not having a dragon?

You yourself did not have Zūgaxes until your fifth nameday. Your cradle egg did not hatch, and Dreamfyre, Vermithor, and Silverwing had all rejected you. Zūgaxes had been nigh wild after the years he spent terrorizing the Riverlands following Princess Daenerys's death to the Shivers in 60 AC, having hatched moments before the princess took her last breath. The newborn dragon fled in the chaos after losing the bond as soon as it had formed, and if he had not come to you by chance while you were flying with Rhaenyra, you might be in the same position as Aemond is now.

"Aegon said it would be funny," Jacaerys whispers, bottom lip wobbling. "It was a joke."

"Aegon says a lot of things," you hiss. "He is a fool. If he told you to jump from Maegor's Holdfast, would you do it?"

Jacaerys's eyes drop to the floor. He says quietly, "No."

"You know what it is like to have people laugh and whisper," you continue furiously. "You know it feels like to have people smile to your face and question whether you belong the moment you leave the room. You cry to me because they stare at your hair and your eyes, and you cry to me when people mention that you do not look like Ser Laenor. You know those are not jokes."

Jacaerys flinches. "Muña—"

"No," you snap. "Do you think your uncle feels any different when the whole keep laughs at him for not having a dragon?"

"I'm sorry—"

"Your mother will be queen one day, Jacaerys, and you will be king after her," you interrupt. "Everything you do matters. Every laugh and every foolish prank—every time someone sees you, they are deciding what sort of man you might become."

"I didn't mean it—"

"The lords do not whisper about Aegon the same way they whisper at you," you continue harshly, kneeling in front of him and grabbing his shoulders. He is crying now, fat tears rolling over his chubby cheeks, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries not to sob. "They already question you, Jacaerys, and it will not stop. Every action you take makes them wonder whether or not you deserve the throne your mother will leave you. They are waiting for you to fail, Jacaerys, they—"

You cut yourself off when Jacaerys chokes on a sob, the sound rips through your anger as though someone had plunged a knife straight into it. His little shoulders shake beneath your hands. He is trying so desperately not to cry that it hurts to watch, biting down on his lip so hard you worry he might draw blood.

What are you doing?

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, tears falling freely now. "I'm trying to be good. I am. I didn't think."

Good will not be enough, you think, but do not say, fighting a sob of your own as you pull Jacaerys forward into your arms, sitting back on the floor and letting him clamber into your lap. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, muffling his cries into your skin.

Good will never be enough. You have watched the court use every careless word he has ever spoken as proof that he is unworthy. You have watched them turn his hair, eyes, and face into evidence against him. They will not stop because he grows older—if anything, they will only become crueler and louder.

And you fear one day that words will turn to swords.

You see the glances exchanged between the Queen and her allies, how every feast ends with another whispered slight and word disguised as courtesy. One day, your father will die, and everything held together by his presence will begin to crack.

Your sister will be queen, Jacaerys will be heir, and there are already too many people who have decided they will never accept either of them.

You are scared.

Perhaps you are imagining monsters where none exist—you have spent years watching nobles smile with their mouths and sneer with their haves, and it has made you cynical. You hope one day the two of you will laugh about how frightened you had been over nothing, but until that day comes, the fear remains.

You tighten your arms around Jacaerys until he lets out a tiny squeak of protest. Then he melts into you, arms looped around your shoulders, sniffling into the wet spot at your neck.

"I do not want you to grow up," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

"Why?" Jacaerys murmurs.

Your eyes slide shut. Because the older he gets, the fewer days remain where the greatest thing you have to worry about is a prank gone too far. You smooth a hand through his curls and press another kiss against his temple.

Instead, you say, "Because I like you just as you are."

He giggles. "I still want to grow up."

"Traitor," you tease, brushing your fingers through his hair as he snuggles into you.

"I want to be brave, and I want to ride Vermax all by myself, and I want to protect mother, and Luke, and Joffrey, and—" He pulls back to look at you, big brown eyes still watery. "—and you, muña."

You smile at him, your own eyes stinging with tears. "I'm the one who protects you, silly boy."

Jacaerys shakes his head so vigorously that his curls bounce. "Not forever," he claims. "One day I'll be big and grown, and I'll have a sword, and Vermax will be bigger than Zuzu, and I'll be the one to protect you."

You exhale softly through your nose, swallowing the lump that forms in your throat. He lifts his tiny hands to your cheeks, squeezing hard the way you always do to him when he is sad, then he leans forward until your foreheads touch.

"Don't be scared, muña. I'll be a good king," he tells you simply. "I'll be kind. I won't do things anymore just because Aegon tells me to."

"I know you will, mandianna," you murmur. "I know."

He bites his lip, twisting nervously in your lap. "Are you still mad at me?" You pull back just enough to look at him properly. His eyes are swollen from crying, cheeks blotchy and damp, fingers clinging to you. He whispers, "I want you to be proud of me."

You lift your hands to cradle his cheeks and say firmly, "I'm always proud of you, Jacaerys. Always. I'm sorry if I was cruel—I was only scared."

Jacaerys wrinkles his nose.

"Then don't be scared, muña," he says firmly. "I'll make sure you never have to be."

—————————

You should have known things would never be so easy.

"Where are my trunks?" you ask as you make your way to where Rhaenyra and the boys are getting ready to leave for Dragonstone. Jacaerys's face lights up from a glum frown when he sees you, and you toss him a wink that he giggles at. You look back up at your sister and say, "I told my handmaidens to make sure they were brought down."

Rhaenyra's brows furrow. "They are coming, perhaps?" she offers, making her way toward you to ghost her lips against your cheeks in greeting. "We are not in a rush, hāedar, do not fret."

But there is a tightness in your chest that unsettles you. Something has been off the past few days—you know it. The Queen always has that small, knowing smile on her face, and your father seemed inordinately pleased with himself. You had thought, maybe, the Queen was just pettily satisfied that Ser Harwin was being sent away and your father was just happy having his third grandson, but there was something—something off-putting that could not let you rest.

"Mandia," you whisper, clutching the sleeve of her gown. Your fingers are shaking. Rhaenyra looks down at your hands, alarmed. "I don't…"

"There you are! To think it would be so difficult to find my own daughter for a conversation," you hear your father say from the top of the steps leading into Maegor's Holdfast.

King Viserys leans on his cane as he makes his way down the steps toward you—Rhaenyra blinks in confusion, lips parting but words escaping them as she moves forward to greet him.

He looks worse, you think absently. Even just walking down the stairs is an effort, his face pale with exertion, sweat beading at his temples. Heaviness weighs on your chest—grief, maybe, but what is there to grieve about a man who has spent most of your life incapable of looking you in the eye?

"Father," Rhaenyra greets with a sad smile. "You did not have to come down to bid us goodbye. You should be resting."

"Nonsense," your father dismisses, squeezing her hand. The Queen Alicent and your half-brother, Aegon, follow behind your father. She looks too pleased with herself still—your heart drops to your stomach. "But it is not the only reason I have come. My dear—" King Viserys turns to look at you, eyes upturned. You think it is the first time he has ever looked you in the eye. "—I would like for you to stay behind."

He reaches out to take your hands in his, passing his cane to a nearby attendant. They are clammy and unfamiliar; you are not sure if you are breathing.

Somewhere behind you, you hear Jacaerys inhale sharply, and to your side, Rhaenyra makes an audible noise, confused.

"Father," she starts, a bemused smile on her face, "I—"

"Alicent—she had the most wonderful idea to unite both sides of the family," King Viserys continues with a breathless smile, squeezing your hands. Behind him, Aegon, who had been bored and looked as though he wished to be anywhere else, starts to squint, realizing something might be wrong. Alarm hits him slower than it has hit you. He looks at you questioningly, but you cannot even bring yourself to meet his gaze. "It is high time we put these petty squabbles behind us, don't you think?"

You cannot feel your fingers.

Your pulse pounds so violently in your ears that you can almost not even hear your father over it. Across the city, you hear Zūgaxes let out a screech, feeling your fear as his own.

"Father," Rhaenyra starts to say, voice riddled with disbelief. "You cannot mean—"

"You and Aegon shall wed, my dear," King Viserys says, squeezing your hands as though this is news that shall delight you. "You are both of age. A marriage between the two of you shall bind the family once and for all. Alicent proposed it only a few days ago—I confess, I do not know why I had not thought of it sooner."

"What?" Aegon blurts out, eyes wide. "Me?"

"Quiet, Aegon," Queen Alicent says sharply, and Aegon silences immediately, gaze darting over to you as though you have any means of fixing this. "It is a fine match."

"A fine match?" Rhaenyra demands, arm extending outward to push you behind her, stepping between you and your father. "They are children. You cannot be serious, father."

Aegon stares at you, and you stare at him.

He is only twelve; you are only thirteen.

You can see the fear you feel reflected in his eyes.

"Alicent tells me that she has bled," Viserys dismisses. You knew it—you knew something was wrong, you knew to be scared. "She is a woman grown, Rhaenyra."

"She is thirteen," Rhaenyra hisses. "Aegon is twelve."

"The King has already made his decision, Rhaenyra," Queen Alicent says coolly. "Would you question it?"

Rhaenyra stares at her in disbelief, a scoff slipping from her lips. She asks quietly, "How could you do this?"

For a moment, something flickers across the Queen's face—her lips become pinched, her gaze flits to the side—guilt? It couldn't be—Alicent is cold and cruel, stone made flesh, she has always hated you and your sister. You must be mistaken.

"Was it not you who offered marriage between your son, Jacaerys, and my daughter, Helaena?" the Queen asks. You blink, unsure if you heard her properly. "Let us bind our families through marriage, as you once proposed yourself."

Your head snaps toward Rhaenyra, appalled. She was trying to marry Jacaerys off? Rhaenyra does not meet your gaze, so you know it is true.

"It is not the same," Rhaenyra says, shaking her head, stepping forward again. She turns to your father, expression clearing of anger and disdain as she gives him a more pleading look. "Father, please. She has only just flowered—she has hardly had a chance to understand what that means. You cannot mean to—"

"Enough, Rhaenyra," King Viserys interrupts, exhausted. He looks as though he's aged decades in a matter of minutes. Did he really expect everyone to be made happy by this news? "I have made my decision."

The pavilion goes quiet, and you cannot breathe. This cannot be happening. It is—it is not possible. You are not meant to marry Aegon, of all people. You would rather anyone else. You would rather take the vows and become a septa. Your gaze lifts to meet Rhaenyra's, but there is a terribly defeated expression on her face—one that you have never seen before. You feel nauseous, bile rising in your throat, lightness in your head.

"What does that mean?" Jacaerys finally asks, breaking the silence somewhere behind you. "What does that mean? Muña is still coming with us, isn't she?"

"Jacaerys," Rhaenyra begins quietly, voice low and unsteady, because if the king puts his foot down, there is nothing she can do. She looks at both of you desperately, because for the first time in her life, your sister does not know what to say. "I—"

"She promised," Jacaerys interrupts, voice becoming a bit shrill—understanding enough from Rhaenyra's tone to know that you will not be coming with him. That you will be breaking the promise you made to him not two years ago. He turns his gaze onto you, eyes blown wide with anxiety. "You promised, you—"

"Jacaerys," you say, barely able to keep your voice steady as you make your way over to him and kneel in front of him. His eyes well with unshed tears, and you lift one hand to his face, brushing your thumb beneath his eye to catch the tears before they fall. You lower your voice, speaking just to him as you say quietly, "Do not let them see you cry. You are a prince of the realm, your mother's heir. You must be brave, remember?"

Jacaerys's bottom lip wobbles as he nods.

"I will not be across the sea this time, mandianna—only the bay. Vermax is growing quickly. You will be able to visit as frequently as you please," you soothe, brushing his curls from his forehead, "and I will be able to come to you."

"But—"

"There are no buts, mandianna," you say softly, and Jacaerys inhales sharply, fighting a sob. "We all have our roles to play. You will be king one day, your duty is to the realm, and mine—" Your voice threatens to crack, before it can, you clear your throat and force a small smile. If you start crying, so will Jacaerys, and he needs to be strong now more than ever. "—and mine is to a husband. I must stay at his side."

"Then I will be your husband, muña," Jacaerys says desperately, fingers clinging to your sleeve. "You can come with us then. You won't have to stay here."

You exhale through your nose, pulling Jacaerys closer so that you can press your lips to his temple, rubbing easy circles against his upper back. He flings his arms around your shoulders and buries his face into your hair to hide his sniffles.

"That is not how it works, Jacaerys," you tell him quietly. His shoulders are trembling, small whimpers in the back of his throat as he tries not to cry. You hold him a bit tighter. "The king has made his decision."

"It's not fair," he sniffles. "You're my muña. Why does Aegon get to have you? He doesn't even want to marry you. I want to marry you."

You laugh despite yourself, because Jacaerys is too young to know what marriage entails, but he says it with the conviction of someone who has never been more certain of anything in his life. You press your lips to his hair before you pull back just enough to look at him. You find him glaring over your shoulder at Aegon with all the ferocity he can muster with shiny eyes and wobbly lips.

Aegon has gone pale, but you do not think it's because of Jacaerys's righteous fury.

"I don't think…" Aegon begins awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. "I mean, I never—"

"Quiet, Aegon," Alicent says again sharply, and he falls silently immediately, shoulders slumping. She lifts her gaze to Rhaenyra, giving her a curve of the lips that doesn't reach her eyes. "Well, you and yours had best get going. Safe travels, Rhaenyra."

Rhaenyra scoffs and turns on her heel, but Jacaerys's grip on you tightens at the prospect of leaving.

"He doesn't even know your favorite story," he says desperately, as though it might change something, "or that you don't like onions, or that you can only eat two honey cakes before you start feeling sick, or that you can only sleep if there's a candle going. It's not fair. He doesn't know anything. He'll never take care of you."

"Jacaerys—"

"But I can!" he insists, wiping angrily at his cheeks. "I already do. I make sure you eat when you forget, and I bring your favorite cloak when you're cold, and I tell the servants not to wake you if you've fallen asleep reading. I know how."

"Jacaerys, come here," Rhaenyra says quietly, but Jacaerys only clings more desperately, nails digging into your skin. "Jace—"

You look up at your sister. There are tears in her eyes now too, though she does not let them fall. She gives you the smallest nod, an apology, a goodbye, and a promise wrapped into one gesture. This would not be the end of this—she will get the boys settled at Dragonstone, and she will return for you.

"Mandianna," you murmur, cupping Jacaerys's damp face between your hands. "You must go with your mother." You press a kiss to his forehead, then another to each cheek. "Look after Luke and Joffrey, and mind your mother—she is terribly stubborn and will forget to rest if no one reminds her."

Jacaerys fights another sob and nods, but Rhaenyra successfully pulls him away this time. She gathers him into her arms, and he clutches at her desperately, still looking at you over her shoulder.

"I'll come back for you," he promises. "I promise, muña! I do!"

You smile because he needs you to, even as your vision blurs—luckily, he is too far to see the unshed tears.

Daemon Targaryen had not wanted another political marriage.

He had wanted freedom.

A dragon was never meant to wear chains.

Yet here he stood beneath the vaulted ceilings of Storm’s End’s sept, dressed in black and crimson, listening as a septon bound him to Lord Baratheon’s youngest daughter.

To you.

Pretty.

Soft spoken.

Far too young for the venomous court that surrounded him.

You smiled at him after your vows.

He did not smile back.

⸻

The journey to Dragonstone was quiet.

You tried.

Gods, how you tried.

You asked about Caraxes.

About flying.

About King’s Landing.

About Valyria.

Daemon answered with one word replies, if he answered at all.

Eventually…

You stopped asking.

He noticed.

He simply told himself it made the journey quieter.

⸻

Marriage was no different.

Daemon slept in his own chambers more often than not.

He attended council.

He trained.

He flew.

He disappeared for hours at a time.

Whenever servants mentioned his young wife wandering Dragonstone alone, he shrugged.

She would learn.

Everyone did.

⸻

One evening, he found you sitting alone on the beach.

The tide curled around your slippers.

Your skirts were soaked to the knee.

“You’ll catch cold.”

You startled.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“You weren’t listening.”

“No.”

Your voice was small.

“I wasn’t.”

He looked toward the sea.

“You should return inside.”

You nodded immediately.

“Of course.”

No complaint.

No argument.

Just obedience.

It reminded him uncomfortably of frightened animals.

⸻

The servants adored you.

That should have annoyed him.

Instead…

It puzzled him.

You thanked everyone by name.

Helped elderly maids carry linens.

Remembered birthdays.

Spent afternoons reading to children whose parents worked in the kitchens.

One dragonkeeper told Daemon quietly,

“Her Grace cries when she thinks no one is looking.”

Daemon frowned.

“And?”

The old man hesitated.

“I only thought… perhaps someone should know.”

⸻

The night everything changed should have been their wedding night.

Instead, it happened nearly a fortnight after the ceremony.

Daemon entered your shared chambers intending, finally, to fulfill his duties as a husband.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed still wearing your gown.

The moment you saw him, every color drained from your face.

Your hands began shaking.

Daemon stopped.

“You look as though I mean to execute you.”

Silence.

He took another step.

You flinched.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Enough for a man who had spent his life watching battlefields to recognize genuine fear.

He did not move again.

“…Has someone hurt you?”

Tears immediately filled your eyes.

“No.”

A lie.

An obvious one.

Daemon had heard better lies from drunken squires.

He lowered his voice.

“Tell me.”

You stared at the floor.

“My father lied.”

Daemon frowned.

“About what?”

Another long silence.

Then, so quietly he almost missed it,

“I am not… what he promised.”

Understanding came slowly.

Then all at once.

He remembered Lord Baratheon boasting during negotiations.

“My daughter is untouched. A proper bride for a prince.”

Daemon’s stomach twisted.

He looked at you.

Really looked.

You weren’t frightened of him.

You were frightened of disappointing him.

“My lord…”

Your fingers twisted tightly together.

“I did not know how to tell you.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks.

“My father said no man would want me if they knew.”

Daemon felt something cold settle inside him.

“Who?”

You closed your eyes.

“I cannot.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

He knelt in front of you.

Not as a prince.

Not as a dragon.

Simply so you wouldn’t have to look up at him.

“You are safe.”

The words broke you.

You covered your face as sobs escaped despite your obvious attempts to remain quiet.

Daemon waited.

He had never been particularly patient.

Tonight…

He found he could be.

Eventually, your breathing steadied.

“It was years ago.”

You whispered into your hands.

“My father blamed me.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched.

“He said speaking of it would shame our House.”

Each sentence sharpened his anger.

“My sisters laughed.”

Another blade.

“They said no prince would keep me if he knew.”

The room became terribly quiet.

Daemon stood.

Walked toward the fire.

For one terrible moment, you thought he meant to leave.

Instead, he stood with his back to you.

Trying very hard not to let his rage consume the chamber.

When he finally spoke, his voice was frighteningly calm.

“What are your sisters’ names?”

You blinked.

“…Why?”

“So I know whom never to welcome beneath my roof.”

You stared.

Daemon turned.

His violet eyes were harder than dragonstone.

“You believed I would cast you aside because someone committed violence against you?”

You lowered your gaze.

“My father said—”

“I do not care what your father said.”

His voice softened.

“You were a child.”

A tear slipped free.

“You did nothing.”

Another.

“I am sorry.”

Daemon frowned.

“What are you apologizing for?”

“For not being what you deserved.”

He crossed the room before thinking.

Slowly.

Giving you every chance to pull away.

When you didn’t, he reached up and gently brushed a tear from your cheek.

“I deserved honesty.”

His thumb rested lightly against your skin.

“And you have given me that.”

You searched his face.

“You… are not angry?”

“I am.”

Your shoulders fell.

“But not with you.”

⸻

A raven left Dragonstone before dawn.

Its destination:

Storm’s End.

Its message was painfully brief.

You will not set foot on Dragonstone without my invitation. If you attempt to reclaim or threaten my wife, I will answer as a dragon, not as a son-by-marriage.

—Prince Daemon Targaryen

⸻

When Lord Baratheon arrived anyway two weeks later, furious and demanding his daughter be returned for “correction,” Daemon met him in the courtyard.

You watched from a balcony, hidden behind stone pillars.

“My daughter belongs to House Baratheon.”

Daemon smiled.

“No.”

Lord Baratheon stiffened.

“She belongs to me.”

“No.”

Daemon took one deliberate step closer.

“She belongs to herself.”

The older lord scoffed.

“You’ve grown sentimental.”

“I’ve grown protective.”

Your father sneered.

“She’s weak.”

Daemon laughed.

“You mistake kindness for weakness.”

The prince’s smile vanished.

“I do not.”

Silence fell across the courtyard.

“If you ever raise your voice to my wife again…”

Daemon rested a hand on Dark Sister.

“…pray Caraxes kills you before I do.”

Your father’s confidence finally cracked.

⸻

Your sisters were worse.

They sent letters.

Cruel ones.

They mocked your marriage.

Claimed Daemon would tire of pretending.

Called you damaged.

Broken.

Pathetic.

Daemon found one before you did.

He read it once.

Then tossed it into the fire.

You walked in moments later.

“What was that?”

“Nothing worth reading.”

“It was from home?”

“It was from people who mistake cruelty for wit.”

You looked strangely disappointed.

“They’re still my sisters.”

Daemon walked over to you.

“They failed to be that long before I met you.”

⸻

Slowly…

Life changed.

Daemon still wasn’t particularly gentle with the world.

He still frightened courtiers.

Still argued with kings.

Still laughed during tournaments.

But never with you.

He began inviting you on dragon rides.

At first, you refused.

“I’ve never flown.”

“Then you’ll remember your first time.”

“I’m frightened.”

“So was I.”

“You?”

He smiled faintly.

“Do not tell anyone.”

The first flight changed everything.

You laughed.

Really laughed.

Wind tangled your hair.

Your hands gripped his waist.

When Caraxes landed, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

“I understand now.”

“What?”

“Why you disappear into the sky.”

Daemon looked at you for a long moment.

“So do I.”

⸻

Months passed.

One evening you found him sitting beside the fireplace reading.

“You’ll ruin your eyes.”

He looked up.

“I’ve been told dragons see well in the dark.”

You sat beside him.

A comfortable silence settled between you.

Eventually, you whispered,

“Why are you kind to me?”

Daemon closed his book.

“Because no one else was.”

You shook your head.

“You barely knew me.”

“I know enough.”

“What if I disappoint you one day?”

He looked genuinely confused.

“You are expecting our marriage to fail because you have known too many people who failed you.”

Your eyes filled.

Daemon reached for your hand.

This time, you took his without fear.

“I cannot promise I will always be easy.”

He smiled crookedly.

“I have never wanted easy.”

“I still have nightmares.”

“Wake me.”

“I cry sometimes.”

“I’ve noticed.”

You laughed softly through your tears.

“I am still learning how to feel safe.”

Daemon lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

“Then we shall learn together.”

⸻

Years later, the court would whisper that Prince Daemon Targaryen loved only dragonfire, battle, and ambition.

They were wrong.

Because every evening, before darkness settled over Dragonstone, the Rogue Prince could be found walking the cliffs with his wife.

Always with one hand resting lightly against the small of her back.

Never because he thought she belonged to him.

Only because he wanted her to know that if she ever looked over her shoulder—

She would find him there.

Not as another man demanding something from her.

But as the first one who had ever simply asked,

“Are you safe?”

And meant it.

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

It was a Valyrian steel dagger.

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

Daemon looked at the weapon, then at his daughter.

“She will grow into it.”

“She cannot even hold up her own head.”

“All the more reason to begin preparing her.”

The dagger was confiscated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She is a princess.”

“She does not need a ship.”

“She liked it.”

“She liked the carving.”

“And now she has both.”

Rhaenyra sighed.

Daemon smiled.

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

You had always been one of them.

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

You apologized when servants bumped into you.

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

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

Daemon did not understand where such sweetness had come from.

He protected it viciously.

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

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

It had never hatched.

A second was brought from Dragonstone when you were three.

It remained cold.

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

None did.

You had said nothing as the keepers led you away.

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

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

He lowered himself beside you without speaking.

For a while, you both watched the flames.

“I am sorry,” you whispered eventually.

Daemon’s expression darkened.

“For what?”

“For disappointing you.”

The words were barely audible.

They wounded him more deeply than any blade ever had.

Daemon turned toward you.

“You have never disappointed me.”

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

“You are my daughter.”

You glanced at him through tear-damp lashes.

“That should make it worse.”

“It makes it irrelevant.”

“But everyone else—”

“Everyone else is not you.”

Your lower lip trembled.

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

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

Despite yourself, you gave a watery laugh.

“They have overlooked the greatest treasure in Westeros.”

“You do not mean that.”

“I have never meant anything more.”

He rose and extended his hand.

“Come.”

“Where are we going?”

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

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

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

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

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

You stopped.

Daemon did not.

Caraxes had always known you.

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

Your first word had not been father.

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

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

Caraxes had never been yours.

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

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

You placed a trembling hand against his scales.

Caraxes released a low, crooning sound.

“He knows,” Daemon said.

“Knows what?”

“That you are upset.”

Your eyes filled again.

“I wish he had chosen me.”

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

“He did.”

You looked back at him.

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

Caraxes huffed warm air across your skirts.

Daemon’s mouth curved.

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

You laughed and obeyed.

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

“Do you wish to fly?” Daemon asked.

You hesitated.

“Now?”

“The sky does not close at night.”

You looked from him to Caraxes.

“But I am not his rider.”

“No,” Daemon agreed. “You are mine.”

He lifted you into the saddle before climbing behind you.

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

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

Then Dragonstone disappeared beneath you.

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

Caraxes climbed higher.

You laughed.

The sound carried into the night.

Daemon lowered his head beside yours.

“Still believe you have no dragon?”

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

“No.”

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

Which was often.

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

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

Caraxes always seemed to know when you were coming.

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

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

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

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

Daemon gave the dragon an entire sheep as a reward.

“You encouraged him,” Rhaenyra accused.

“I did nothing.”

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

“He showed restraint.”

“The boy wet himself.”

“I said restraint, not mercy.”

The court continued to pity the princess without a dragon.

You never understood why.

You had Caraxes.

You had your father.

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

Then came Gwayne Hightower.

The betrothal was announced during a council meeting.

Daemon nearly overturned the table.

“A Hightower?”

King Viserys closed his eyes.

“It is a politically advantageous match.”

“It is an insult.”

“It will strengthen ties between our houses.”

“It will strengthen my desire to commit murder.”

“Daemon.”

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

Across the room, Otto’s expression hardened.

“This is not about my ambitions.”

“Everything you do is about your ambitions.”

“Father,” you said softly.

Daemon turned.

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

Unlike your father, you had not reacted with anger.

You looked nervous, certainly, but not afraid.

Daemon’s face softened by a degree.

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

Viserys sighed.

“She has not even met him properly.”

“Then she is already better off.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warned.

“What?”

“You are behaving like a child.”

“I am behaving like a father.”

“A deeply irrational father.”

“My daughter deserves better than a Hightower.”

Otto lifted his chin.

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

“He wears green.”

“Green is our house color.”

“Exactly.”

You pressed your lips together.

Daemon’s gaze snapped toward you.

“Are you laughing?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

Your shoulders shook.

The sight did nothing to improve his mood.

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

Entirely on purpose.

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

Daemon continued sharpening Dark Sister.

“Has he?”

“You know he has.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Father.”

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

“Being married to me?”

“Being married beneath my supervision.”

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

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

“My princess.”

“Ser Gwayne.”

His eyes met yours.

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

Gwayne smiled.

It was not the polished smile of a courtier.

It was warm and slightly nervous.

You smiled back.

Daemon’s chair scraped sharply against the floor.

“So,” he said.

Gwayne looked at him.

“So?”

“You wish to marry my daughter.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

Gwayne glanced at you again.

Daemon noticed.

His scowl deepened.

“I have admired the princess for some time.”

“Admired what?”

“Her kindness.”

Daemon blinked.

It was not the answer he had expected.

Gwayne continued carefully.

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

You stared at him.

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

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

“No.”

“Good.”

“I believe loving her might.”

The room fell silent.

Daemon leaned back.

“You have met her twice.”

“Four times.”

“You were counting?”

“Yes.”

“That is unsettling.”

“I thought it was romantic,” you murmured.

“It was,” Rhaenyra said from the doorway.

Daemon glared at both of you.

“No one asked.”

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

Daemon tried.

He tried with admirable dedication.

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

Gwayne returned the next morning.

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

Gwayne listened patiently.

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

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

Daemon did not find it amusing.

Gwayne remembered the names of servants.

He thanked cooks.

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

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

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

When you spoke, he listened.

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

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

He learned that you preferred silver jewelry to gold.

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

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

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

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because you liked it.”

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

Gwayne’s brows rose.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

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

Rhaenyra followed his gaze.

“You like him.”

“No.”

“You do.”

“I tolerate his continued existence.”

“He reminds you of yourself.”

Daemon looked offended.

“He does not.”

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

“That proves nothing.”

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

“The lord deserved it.”

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

Daemon turned back toward you.

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

He looked perfectly content.

Daemon frowned.

“He is holding it incorrectly.”

“Of course.”

Your favorite visits were to the Dragonpit.

Gwayne was less enthusiastic.

It was not that he was a coward.

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

Daemon took great pleasure in this.

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

Gwayne stopped walking.

Daemon smiled.

“Something wrong?”

“Not at all.”

“You have gone pale.”

“It is warm.”

“It is never warm in here.”

You slipped your hand into Gwayne’s.

“He will not hurt you.”

Caraxes released a rumbling growl.

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

“That does not sound particularly reassuring.”

“He is only curious.”

“He appears hungry.”

“He has already eaten,” Daemon said.

Gwayne glanced at him.

Daemon smiled wider.

“Mostly.”

“Father,” you chided.

Caraxes lowered his head toward you.

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

The Blood Wyrm crooned.

The terrible sound softened into something almost affectionate.

Gwayne’s fear momentarily gave way to wonder.

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

Caraxes was careful with you.

Almost impossibly so.

“He loves her,” Gwayne said quietly.

Daemon’s smugness faded.

“Yes.”

“Did he ever try to bond with her?”

“No. His bond is mine.”

Gwayne nodded.

“But she is part of you.”

Daemon looked at him.

Caraxes shifted, curling his long neck around you protectively.

“So he considers her his,” Gwayne finished.

Daemon studied the knight for a moment.

“You understand dragons better than I expected.”

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

“Your sister is irritatingly correct.”

You turned.

“Gwayne, come closer.”

He hesitated.

Caraxes stared.

You held out your hand.

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

Approaching Caraxes was somehow worse.

Still, he moved toward you.

Slowly.

Caraxes growled when he came within several feet.

Gwayne stopped.

You reached back and took his hand.

“He is protective.”

“So I have gathered.”

“He needs to know I trust you.”

“And how do we convince him of that?”

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

“Try not to smell frightened,” Daemon advised.

Gwayne shot him a look.

“That is tremendously helpful.”

Your laughter seemed to settle the dragon.

Caraxes’s growl faded.

Gwayne’s palm finally touched one crimson scale.

The Blood Wyrm huffed warm air over him.

Gwayne’s cloak flew backward.

He remained standing.

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

You beamed.

“He likes you.”

“He tolerated me.”

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

Daemon crossed his arms.

“He has poor judgment.”

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

Gwayne coughed into his fist to disguise his laughter.

You did not bother disguising yours.

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

Daemon had invited him to observe.

Invite was perhaps the wrong word.

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

The implication was clear.

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

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

Daemon looked over his shoulder.

“Ready?”

“Always.”

Caraxes launched himself from the cliff.

Gwayne’s heart stopped.

The dragon dropped toward the sea before his wings opened.

Your laughter reached the cliffs.

Gwayne stood frozen, watching Caraxes climb into the sky.

You looked small against him.

Small, but not afraid.

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

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

You looked radiant.

Not like a princess who had been denied a dragon.

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

When Caraxes landed, Gwayne approached as you climbed down.

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

Your cheeks were flushed from the wind.

“Well?” you asked Gwayne.

He stared at you.

“Well what?”

“What did you think?”

“I think I understand why poets struggle.”

You blinked.

Daemon groaned.

Gwayne stepped closer.

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

Your cheeks turned warmer.

Daemon moved between you.

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

“Father.”

“What?”

“You invited him.”

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

The days passed more quickly after that.

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

It felt like walks through the gardens.

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

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

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

It felt like laughter.

It felt, increasingly, like love.

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

Caraxes and Daemon were distant shapes in the sky.

You watched them until they disappeared behind the clouds.

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

You knew immediately whom he meant.

“Caraxes?”

“Yes.”

You considered the question.

“When I was younger.”

“And now?”

You smiled.

“No.”

Gwayne leaned beside you.

“Why not?”

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

His gaze settled on your face.

You continued watching the sky.

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

“But you love him.”

“Very much.”

“And he loves you.”

“In his own terribly loud way.”

Gwayne smiled.

You turned toward him.

“Does it concern you?”

“What?”

“That I have no dragon.”

“No.”

“Your family may prefer—”

“My family is not marrying you.”

His answer came without hesitation.

Gwayne reached for your hand.

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

Your eyes stung.

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

You lowered your gaze.

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

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

He kissed your hand again.

“I would choose you if you had none.”

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

He looked up.

Saw Gwayne kissing your hand.

And shouted something in High Valyrian that made Caraxes roar.

The wedding was held on Dragonstone.

Daemon had initially insisted it take place nowhere else.

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

Otto objected.

Daemon was delighted.

The ceremony was beautiful, though not small.

Nothing involving Daemon’s daughter could ever be small.

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

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

Daemon surveyed the crowded hall.

“It is.”

“There are six hundred guests.”

“I excluded several houses.”

You wore silver silk embroidered with pearls.

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

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

A gift from your father.

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

You smiled nervously.

“Is something wrong?”

He said nothing.

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

For once, Daemon Targaryen appeared entirely without words.

“Father?”

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

Your expression softened.

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

“I can still end this.”

You laughed.

“No.”

“I could.”

“I know.”

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

“Because you will send him away?”

Daemon looked toward the window.

“Something like that.”

You took his hand.

“I love him.”

His jaw tightened.

It was not anger.

Not truly.

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

Now you had found something beyond his keeping.

A life that would carry you away from him.

“I know,” he said.

“And he loves me.”

“I know that, too.”

“You admit it?”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

You kissed his cheek.

Daemon closed his eyes.

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

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

“I know.”

“If he displeases you, come back.”

“Father.”

“If his family displeases you, come back.”

“I will.”

“If Oldtown is too cold—”

“It is warmer than Dragonstone.”

“Then if it is too warm.”

You laughed against him.

Daemon sighed.

“Visit often.”

“I promise.”

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

Daemon noticed.

“Hm.”

Rhaenyra stood nearby.

“What?”

“He looks frightened.”

“He looks in love.”

“Similar conditions.”

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

He looked at you as though the hall had emptied.

As though the music had faded.

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

Daemon placed your hand in his.

He did not release it immediately.

Gwayne waited.

Daemon tightened his grip.

“Father,” you whispered.

“I am considering my options.”

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

Finally, Daemon released your hand.

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

Gwayne nodded solemnly.

“I assumed as much.”

“If she is unhappy—”

“Father.”

“—Caraxes will find you.”

“You already said that.”

“It bears repeating.”

The vows were spoken.

The cloak was placed around your shoulders.

When Gwayne kissed you, the hall erupted in applause.

Daemon did not clap.

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

At the feast, Gwayne barely left your side.

He brought you wine, though you had not asked.

He moved your chair away from the draft.

He remembered to place candied lemons on your plate.

Daemon watched all of it.

Rhaenyra leaned toward him.

“You approve.”

“I do not.”

“You cried during the vows.”

“There was smoke from the torches.”

“You were standing outside.”

“It traveled.”

“Of course.”

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

The sea spread dark beneath them.

Caraxes rested nearby, one golden eye half-open.

Gwayne approached cautiously.

“I wanted to thank you.”

Daemon did not turn.

“For threatening you?”

“For trusting me with her.”

“I do not trust you.”

“You allowed the marriage.”

“Viserys allowed the marriage.”

“You could have stopped it.”

Daemon glanced at him.

They both knew this was true.

Gwayne looked toward the open doors of the hall.

Inside, you were laughing with your sisters.

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

“No one is.”

“I agree.”

That earned Gwayne his full attention.

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

Daemon remained silent.

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

“Home?”

“Here.”

Daemon’s expression shifted.

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

The Blood Wyrm lifted his head.

Gwayne swallowed.

Daemon stepped closer.

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

“There is nothing missing from her.”

Daemon studied his face.

“No?”

Gwayne looked through the open doors.

You had noticed them now.

Your eyes found his across the distance.

You smiled.

Gwayne smiled back.

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

Daemon followed his gaze.

His daughter.

His little girl.

Still smiling.

Still safe.

Still loved.

“Take care of her,” Daemon said.

“With my life.”

“If she misses Dragonstone—”

“I will bring her.”

“If she wishes to stay for months—”

“I will wait.”

“If she asks for a dragon—”

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

Caraxes released a low rumble.

Gwayne glanced toward him.

“Two, perhaps.”

Daemon almost smiled.

Almost.

“Welcome to the family.”

Gwayne’s expression softened.

“Thank you.”

“I was speaking to Caraxes.”

The dragon huffed.

Gwayne laughed.

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

Behind them, your voice carried across the terrace.

“Gwayne!”

He turned immediately.

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

“Come dance with me.”

Gwayne bowed to Daemon.

“Prince Daemon.”

“Hightower.”

Gwayne returned to you.

You took his hand and pulled him into the hall.

Daemon watched as Gwayne rested one hand at your waist.

You whispered something that made your husband laugh.

Caraxes lowered his head beside Daemon.

“She is happy,” Daemon murmured.

The Blood Wyrm crooned.

“Yes,” Daemon said. “I know.”

the end.

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

Bonus Scene: An Unexpected Visitor

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

It was not Oldtown—not yet.

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

He pretended the decision had been practical.

You knew better.

The estate was beautiful.

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

He had filled one room with books.

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

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

You loved your new home.

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

On those mornings, Gwayne held you a little closer.

“You miss them,” he said one evening.

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

“A little.”

“Your father or the dragon?”

“Yes.”

Gwayne laughed.

“You know we can return whenever you wish.”

“We visited last week.”

“Then we will visit again.”

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

“Your father already thinks that.”

You smiled.

Gwayne kissed the top of your head.

A deep roar shook the sky.

Every bird in the trees scattered at once.

You sat upright.

Gwayne went still.

Another roar followed.

It was long, sharp, and painfully familiar.

Your face brightened.

“No.”

Gwayne stared toward the horizon.

A red shape moved through the clouds.

“No,” he repeated.

You were already on your feet.

“Caraxes!”

The Blood Wyrm descended over the estate.

Servants screamed.

Guards scattered.

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

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

Gwayne stood frozen beside the tree.

“This cannot be happening.”

You ran toward the courtyard.

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

He lifted his head and released a triumphant cry.

You laughed.

“Caraxes!”

The dragon lowered himself the moment he saw you.

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

Caraxes crooned so loudly that the windows trembled.

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

His golden eyes drifted closed.

Gwayne approached with extreme caution.

Behind him, guards stood with weapons raised.

“Lower those,” he ordered.

One of the men stared at him.

“My lord, the dragon—”

“Belongs to my wife’s father.”

Caraxes opened one eye.

Gwayne corrected himself.

“And apparently also to my wife.”

The guards lowered their weapons.

Gwayne stopped beside you.

“Did your father send him?”

“I do not think so.”

“You think he escaped?”

Caraxes huffed.

The gust nearly knocked Gwayne backward.

You looked up at the dragon.

“Did you leave the Dragonpit without permission?”

Caraxes gave a rumbling sound.

Gwayne stared.

“Is he answering you?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did he say?”

“That he has no regrets.”

“You cannot possibly know that.”

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

Gwayne looked at the shattered marble.

“Never mind.”

A rider arrived less than an hour later.

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

“My princess!”

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

The dragon had made himself comfortable in the destroyed gardens.

The messenger stumbled toward you.

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

Gwayne looked at the enormous dragon occupying his courtyard.

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

“The prince is on his way.”

Your eyes widened.

“My father is coming here?”

The messenger nodded breathlessly.

“He said—”

The pounding of another horse interrupted him.

Daemon entered the gates at speed.

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

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

Daemon placed his hands on his hips.

“Caraxes.”

The dragon did not move.

“You disobedient beast.”

Caraxes closed his eyes.

“Do not pretend to be asleep.”

You covered your smile with your hand.

Daemon pointed toward the sky.

“Dragonstone. Now.”

Caraxes remained exactly where he was.

Gwayne looked between them.

“Does this happen often?”

“No,” Daemon snapped.

You raised a brow.

“Father.”

“Not often enough to be considered a pattern.”

“Caraxes escaped twice when I visited Driftmark.”

“An oversight.”

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

“Poorly secured chains.”

Gwayne stared at the dragon.

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

Daemon looked offended.

“Obviously.”

Caraxes opened one eye and nudged you with his snout.

You laughed, placing both hands against his face.

“I missed you, too.”

The dragon purred.

Daemon sighed.

“You have spoiled him.”

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

“They deserved it.”

Gwayne rubbed a hand over his face.

“How do we convince him to leave?”

Daemon studied Caraxes.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“For her to tell him.”

You looked at the dragon.

Caraxes looked at you.

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

Gwayne glanced at the ruined garden.

“Of course.”

“He can remain for supper.”

Gwayne stared at you.

“Your guest has destroyed our fountain.”

“He was excited.”

“He also crushed the roses.”

“They will grow back.”

Caraxes released a pleased trill.

Gwayne looked toward Daemon.

Daemon shrugged.

“She wants him to stay.”

“You are her father.”

“Yes.”

“Tell her this is unreasonable.”

Daemon’s expression became confused.

“Why would I do that?”

Gwayne closed his eyes.

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

Daemon remained for supper.

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

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

“You married my daughter.”

“I married a woman without a dragon.”

Daemon took a drink of wine.

“And yet.”

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

Gwayne watched through the window.

“I will have a platform constructed.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you.”

Gwayne’s irritation disappeared immediately.

Daemon noticed.

“Hm.”

After supper, you walked outside with Caraxes.

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

“I am happy here,” you assured him.

Caraxes rumbled.

“Gwayne takes good care of me.”

The dragon glanced toward your husband.

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

Caraxes exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

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

“I had hoped the wedding indicated his approval.”

“Caraxes is thorough.”

Daemon approached with your traveling cloak.

“Come.”

You turned.

“Where?”

“Caraxes will not leave without you.”

Gwayne’s brows rose.

Daemon draped the cloak around your shoulders.

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

Gwayne stepped forward.

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

Daemon stared at him.

Gwayne stared back.

You looked between them.

Caraxes growled softly.

“No one is fighting,” you said.

Neither man moved.

You sighed.

“Gwayne may come with us.”

His face went pale.

Daemon smiled.

“Excellent idea.”

The three of you mounted Caraxes.

You sat before Daemon.

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

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

“I am holding on.”

“To something secure.”

“I am.”

Daemon looked down at Gwayne’s grip.

“That strap is decorative.”

Gwayne immediately wrapped both arms around Daemon’s waist.

You burst into laughter.

Daemon looked deeply offended.

“Remove your hands.”

“You told me to hold something secure.”

“Not me.”

Caraxes launched into the air.

Gwayne shouted.

You laughed harder.

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

You looked back at Gwayne.

His eyes were tightly closed.

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

“Is it not beautiful?”

“I have not looked.”

Daemon turned Caraxes sharply.

Gwayne’s arms tightened around him.

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

“Fly straighter!”

“Caraxes dislikes straight lines.”

Caraxes roared in agreement.

You laughed until tears filled your eyes.

Below you, the world stretched silver beneath the moon.

Ahead, Dragonstone rose from the sea.

Your father’s arm was secure around you.

Your husband was clinging desperately behind him.

Caraxes flew happily beneath you.

Perhaps the court had been right.

You had never claimed a dragon of your own.

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

He had claimed you long ago.

There were eight cells in ESH. Eight beautiful little boxes built with reinforced doors, observation panels, pressure sensors, thermal cameras, anti-ligature fixtures, shatterproof windows, and enough cameras to make privacy feel like a fairy tale told to a child.

Dex had seen the brochure when one of the guards had left paperwork too close to his cell during intake, and Dex had read it upside down through a reflection in the polished floor.

It was made for “high-risk enhanced detainees” with “special containment protocols” and “behavioural isolation.”

Cute.

The problem was, there were no other enhanced detainees. After all, not every day did somebody with a weird little gift or near-superhuman talent get arrested in New York. Not every day did someone land in Rikers with enough justification of being locked in a concrete aquarium, and half of them were in the supermax across the country, and the other half was in The Raft.  

So it was just Dex. 

Eight cells, seven empty. A whole hallway built for monsters, and only one monster inside it.

It was isolating, sure. But it was fine. There were worse places to be in the world. Maybe. Meh.

Rikers still had a rhythm. Even the ESH had one, if you were trapped long enough to learn it. He learned that the lights dimmed but never went fully off and guards passed every twelve minutes unless the night shift was bored, then every nine. The vents clicked twice before the air shifted temperature. Camera four made the smallest electric whine when it adjusted focus. Guard Velasquez dragged his left foot when he was tired and guard Miller breathed through his mouth and smelled like cheap coffee.

Dex knew all of it, and it helped with the silence creeping in sometimes. 

The silence was the worst part, probably, not the restraints. Not even the meals so bland they felt punitive on a spiritual level. 

This type of silence made his thoughts louder and made the walls seem closer at night, when he lay on the thin mattress with his hands folded over his stomach, staring at the ceiling like the ceiling might someday blink first.

Sometimes he thought about Foggy Nelson, but not in the way people probably wanted him to. He didn’t feel guilty; he did what he thought he had to do. He thought about that chapter in his life like a splinter under skin– impossible to forget without digging too deep and making it worse.

Sometimes he thought about Fisk. Sometimes he thought about his spine. Sometimes he thought about how easy it would be, if someone made one mistake.

Just one.

If someone would just accidentally give him the wrong set of cuffs. If a new guard would just be standing too close to the bars with his badge clipped to the wrong side of his belt.

But no one had made a mistake. Yet. 

Then, in the middle of June, in the middle of the night, the hallway suddenly erupted.

The far door opened with a metallic groan, then another. Buzz. door one. Buzz. door two. Buzz. door three.

Eventually, boots flooded the corridor, and Dex counted twenty guards. Maybe more.

He could hear the metallic clangs of rifles and the plastic bounce of shields as static popping over radios. A guard whispered., “Keep moving,” like whatever they were escorting might change its mind if they hesitated.

Dex sat up.

The lights snapped brighter overhead, white and ugly, turning his cell blind at the edges.

He didn't move to the door. He stayed on the bed, head tilted slightly, listening.

There was a slightly smaller set footsteps beneath all the others.

This one must be the prisoner. It dragged, but not fighting. Perhaps this person was sedated? No. There was a little bit of struggle. Maybe they weren’t sedated enough. Whoever it was kept resisting the pace without ever fully stopping.

Metal clinked as someone cursed under their breath.

Then came a sound like fabric straining, and he could tell it was heavy fabric. Then, he heard thick restraints being adjusted. Not ordinary cuffs, and definitely not a chain.

Dex tilted his head. Interesting.

The procession stopped in front of the cell next to his.

The guards shifted around the door, blocking his view through the narrow panel in his own cell. He caught pieces of you, though nothing whole. He could see a bit of your hair, and the corner of something white and reinforced strapped across your torso. Your rikers-issued shoes were planted firmly against the floor, like you were refusing to be placed anywhere by anyone.

One of the guards knocked twice on Dex’s door with his baton. “Got a neighbor now, Poindexter.”

Dex looked at him.

The guard smiled like he’d said something funny, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. In fact, none of them looked relaxed.  

Tonight, they were not afraid of Dex. They were afraid of you.

The door to Cell Two opened and they moved you inside.

You didn't scream, threaten, or beg, even if you were half-awake.

Weird, Dex thought, people usually did one of the three when they arrived in a place like this.

You were shoved past the threshold in silence, and the guards backed out fast. The door shut with a brutal final sound, locks engaging one after another, heavy and layered and unnecessarily dramatic. A guard gave an all-clear over the radio. Another laughed once, shakily, then stopped abruptly when nobody joined in.

Dex stayed very still as the guards filed out, one by one, until the hallway swallowed their footsteps one by one.

Eight cells, two occupied.

For the first time in five months, Dex was not alone.

He waited for you to make a sound, but he couldn't hear any noise, not even crying from the next cell. You weren’t pacing, like he did on the first night, and you barely even rattled whatever restraints they put on you. Most notable, you didn’t even attempt to make contact through the wall.

Dex stared at the wall between his cell and yours: solid concrete, thick enough that he shouldn't have been able to feel anything through it.

He did, though he didn’t know how to explain it. The only measurable metric was that somehow the room had felt cooler than it had been an hour ago.

He lay back down eventually.

From the other side of the wall, you still said nothing, no sound at all except the occasional shift of fabric and once, very quietly, an exhale through your teeth.

Dex almost smiled. That’s when he saw the window.

At first, he thought the glass had caught the overhead light strangely. ESH windows were narrow, reinforced slits. You could see a suggestion of the sky if you stood at the right angle, but mostly you saw the garden roses and your own reflection staring back like a bad idea.

Tonight, the glass was… clouding.

What?

Dex sat up again.

A thin white film crept across the corner of the window, delicate and pretty. Tiny veins of frost branching outward in lacy patterns, spreading over reinforced glass that had no reason to be cold.

Why was his window frosting up in the middle of summer?

—

For the first couple of days, Dex assumed you were asleep. Or unconscious. Or dead.

It was hard to tell with the wall between you and him. Still, the guards checked on you often enough that he knew you must technically be alive, but they did it through the panel, never through the door unless there were at least six of them and one of them had the long black shock baton they liked pretending it was not a weapon.

Dex had seen criminals arrive angry. During his time in the bureau, he had seen them arrive screaming, pleading, spitting, promising lawsuits, promising revenge, promising innocence. He had seen prisoners break under silence in twelve hours and start telling the ceiling their childhood nicknames.

You did none of that. In fact, you barely moved.

That was the strangest part, not the frost, not even the straitjacket, which was still interesting in a funny way to him, because they had Dex’s hands restrained any time they opened his door like he was going to start flicking femurs through skulls, but you must be special. After all, you had arrived wrapped up like a badly behaved present.

By the second day, he started actively listening for you.

It was pathetic, maybe, but there were very few things to do in Enhanced Supervision Housing besides become intimately familiar with the sound of your own breathing and develop opinions about fluorescent lights, so a new person on the other side of the wall was not nothing.

You shifted sometimes, when he heard a small scrape of fabric against concrete. He could hear the faint clink from whatever additional restraints they had attached to the jacket. Once, your head hit the wall with a dull little thud, and Dex turned his face toward the sound before he could stop himself.

Then… nothing. Nothing but a drag of breath through your nose.

The guards did not like you either, that became obvious pretty quickly.

They liked Dex, in a way. Obviously, they didn’t like him as a person, they were not stupid. But they understood him. They had made a little mental box for him: former FBI agent turned murderer. They had rules: keep your distance, keep his hands restrained, do not let him near anything that he could throw.

You, they did not understand.

They approached your cell like prey approaching a sleeping animal in the wrong enclosure.

On the third morning, one of them brought your breakfast and stood too close to the slot.

Dex heard a soft crackle before the guard even reacted. Then the man swore and stumbled back. “What the fuck—”

“Don’t put your hand in,” another guard snapped.

“I didn’t put my hand in!”

“Then stop whining.”

“She froze my fucking fingers, man!”

Dex sat on his mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at the wall. Interesting.

Your cell stayed silent and the breakfast tray was shoved in with much less dignity after that.

Nobody asked if you were hungry. Nobody asked if you were hurt. Nobody asked if you needed the jacket loosened, even though Dex could hear the shallow and held in breath, clearly struggling for air half the time. It was as if the straps cut across your ribs and you were trying not to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing it bothered you.

By the fourth day, Dex had decided you were either extremely disciplined or extremely broken. Possibly both.

He had also decided that the silence was annoying. This was unfair, because he had hated the silence before you arrived, and now that the silence had another person inside it, he hated it more.

He tried not to care, but that only lasted until evening.

A guard walked past and muttered, “Crazy bitch still hasn’t said a word.”

Dex’s head lifted.

The guard kept walking, probably feeling very brave because there were reinforced doors and rifles between him and the consequences of being stupid.

Dex watched him go. He didn’t say anything, and neither did you.

The night after that, the frost came back, but not just on Dex’s window this time. They were crawling up the walls.

It crept from the seam where the concrete met the floor, thin and white under the dimmed lights. At first, he thought it was moisture, a product of bad ventilation and  Rikers being Rikers. Then the frost branched, crawling in little veins across the wall between your cells.

Dex got up and walked over, putting two fingers against the concrete. It was painfully cold.

On the other side of the wall, you breathed out, and frost thickened under his fingers.

Dex almost knocked. That felt ridiculous.

What was he going to do? Tap his knuckles against reinforced concrete and ask the stranger in the murder-prison next door if she was making the building colder because she was sad?

No. So he went back to bed, but did not sleep.

By day five, the guards had stopped pretending this was normal.

Maintenance came in wearing insulated gloves, and even gave Dex a thicker orange jumpsuit, even though he never minded the cold. They took temperature readings in the hallway, checked the vents, checked the windows. They argued about condensation. One of them said it was probably a system fault, and then immediately shut up when a thin line of ice crawled over his boot.

Dex enjoyed that a lot, actually. It was the first entertainment he’d had in months.

By the fifth night, Dex woke up to snow.

At first, he thought it was dust falling from the ceiling. But then a single cold snowflake landed on his cheek.

Dex blinked.

For a moment, he lay very still, staring up at the ceiling where tiny white flakes drifted down from nowhere. Another landed on his chest. Then another. Soon there were dozens, small, delicate, almost shy.

Dex sat up slowly.

The floor was beginning to powder white. His blanket had caught a fine layer of it. The air was cold enough now that his breath was visible.

He looked toward the wall, and for the first time in five days, he spoke to you. “You doing this, neighbor?”

Nothing but silence.

Dex waited.

The hallway outside was quiet, which meant either the guards had not noticed yet or they were all standing very still pretending they had not noticed yet. Dex watched snow gather on the toes of his prison-issued socks.

Then, from the other side of the wall, there was the faintest shift.

And then your voice, rough from disuse. You sounded almost… bored. “...mmhm.”

Dex’s mouth curved up.  Ah. She speaks. 

He leaned back against the wall, feeling the cold bite through the cotton of his shirt. “Should I be concerned?”

Then, barely louder than before, you said, “Probably.”

Dex laughed once under his breath.

His own sound surprised him, because it sounded wrong in the cell. Too human then he had ever been.

The snow kept drifting down. It should have made him uneasy. It should have made him think about containment failures and emergency protocols and what the guards might do if the whole unit iced over. Instead, Dex sat there with his shoulder pressed to the wall between you, watching winter collect in his lap.

“Good to know,” he said.

You didn’t answer. But a few seconds later, the snow slowed down.

—

After that, Dex learned how to read you. It was not subtle, once he understood what he was looking at.

When you were sad, you were cold so it made sense that in the first month, it snowed almost every day.

You barely spoke during those days, you barely even moved.

The guards asked questions through your door and received nothing but silence. The nurses came by with clipboards, asking if you had eaten, if you were injured, if you needed medical attention, if you understood where you were. You gave them nothing.

Sometimes, actual ice sealed your food slot shut. Snow collected in the corners of Dex’s cell.

His blanket went damp and cold and his breath fogged when he sat up. Even the guards stopped making jokes when they passed Cell Two because nobody wanted to laugh in a place that had started to feel like a morgue.

Dex sat with his back to the wall and listened. That was all there was to do: listen and wait for proof that you were still in there.

Then, eventually, the cold would begin to cease.

The frost on his window would sweat and snow would melt into silver lines down the concrete. The air would warm by a degree, then another, like your body was remembering that it was summer.

And then, and only then, you would speak. “Neighbor?”

His eyes opened in the dark. “What?”

You inhaled, as if you had been thinking about this for days. “Do you think they’d let me have a hairbrush?”

Dex stared at the ceiling. “No.”

You were quiet for the rest of the night, but the cells suddenly became as warm as a hug, as if someone had reminded you that human connections were possible.

Then, the next day, you called out again. “Poindexter, right?”

“Mm,” he replied.

You paused, as if considering whether or not the question was stupid, but said it anyway. “Do you think pigeons know they’re ugly?”

Dex blinked. “I don’t think pigeons care.”

“Good for them.”

Then, a few hours later, after hearing a prison guard during dinner time call you this, you said, “Dex.”

The name came too naturally from your mouth for someone who had never said it before.

He turned his head toward the wall. “What?”

“I have an itch.”

He waited. You said nothing else.

“Okay.” he finally said.

“I’m in a restraint jacket.”

“I figured.”

“It’s under my shoulder blade.”

“That sounds inconvenient.”

“It is,” you sounded very, very annoyed.

The room heated so fast it made the steel bars creak.

Dex smiled into the dark.

You were quiet a moment longer, then said, “They keep calling it that.”

“What?”

“A restraint jacket.”

“That’s what it is.”

“No,” you said. “It’s a straitjacket.They just call it a “fireproof restraint jacket” because that sounds nicer with the taxpayers, and straitjacket makes me sound like I’m supposed to be in a basement eating wallpaper.”

Fireproof, huh?

Dex found your comparison amusing and laughed under his breath. “You’d prefer that?”

The wall warmed. You heard him. He knew you did, because the warmth stayed.

“At least it’s not an inhibitor collar,” you muttered finally.

Dex went still. “They have those?”

“Not anymore,” you said, though Dex didn’t ask for any clarifications that day.

For a while he stared out quietly.

After a moment, you asked, “Are you in one?”

“An inhibitor collar?”

“A straitjacket, genius.”

“No.”

The temperature dropped, but only in a small enough increment. “You’re not in a straitjacket?”

“No.”

“That is so fucked up.”

Dex closed his eyes. “Is it?”

“Yes,” you scoffed, “What makes you so special?”

“I don’t know.”

“This is discrimination.”

Dex, who couldn’t miss if he wanted to, looked around to see nothing in his cell that he could throw or ricochet with. And if he was imagining you right, your hands must be the main conduit to your power. You didn’t need an object to break out if your hands were free. “I don’t think that’s what that is.”

“It is to me.”

After that, you told him your name. You said it at two in the morning, half-muffled through concrete, like it had slipped out by accident.

Dex repeated it once.

The heat that bloomed through the wall felt almost shy.

After that, Dex started sleeping with his shoulder closer to your side of the cell, though he told himself it meant nothing: The bed was narrow and the room was small, that’s all. There were only so many places to put a body inside a box. But every night, somehow, he ended up turning toward you, listening for your breathing through concrete like it was the only sound in Rikers that mattered.

And when you went quiet for a bit too long, Dex would listen in, panic blooming, and it would not calm until you shifted or sighed or muttered something ridiculous about prison oatmeal, and then he could breathe again like an idiot.

That was when he understood the other half of you.

When you were in a good enough mood, your powers weren’t icy anymore. You’d run hot.

The first time it really hit him, Dex woke up sweating with his shirt clinging to his back. The window was fogged over and the snow had vanished completely, and the whole cell felt damp and tropical, like a greenhouse in Rikers.

And you were talking. God, you were talking.

You were talking your ass off, giving him whole floods of thought, fast and impossible to hold still.

“Do you think they built this place because of you specifically,” you asked once you realised your rambles had shook him awake, voice bright through the wall, “or do you think someone made a budget request years ago and then got really excited when you gave them a reason?”

Dex looked to the wall. You didn’t wait for an answer.

“Because eight cells is very ambitious. Someone must’ve sat in a meeting going, no, trust me, we are going to have so many enhanced criminals. And then it was just you for like, half a year.”

Dex sat up, and the air was even warmer.

On the other side of the wall, you shifted in the jacket, fabric rasping hard against concrete.

“Also, do you think enhanced is offensive? I can’t decide. It feels offensive. Like I didn’t ask to be labelled like a skincare serum.”

Dex’s mouth twitched up a little. “You done?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“I also think the eggs are powdered.”

“They are.”

“I knew it.”

Then you laughed, and it was a half-controlled laugh this time, wild around the edges. The temperature in Dex’s cell jumped so fast it felt like someone had opened an oven door.

Dex now knew how your powers worked: when you were kinda sad, things frosted over. When you could barely move, it snowed.

Good mood meant warmth. Full manic meant tropical.

It was ridiculous and fascinating all the same. Sometimes, the whole unit went damp and sticky, other times the reinforced windows fogged over, the walls sweating like the building was nervous. 

Eventually, it got warmer and warmer, and you would be pacing, five steps one way, five steps back, talking out of your ass like language had become a pressure valve.

You talked about everything. The guards’ schedules, the ceiling tiles, how ugly prison socks were, whether corporations should be burned down in alphabetical order or by severity of moral failure.

Dex listened to all of it.

He learned of who you were without ever seeing your face. He knew when you were smiling because the wall warmed before your voice changed. He knew when you were pretending not to cry because the frost came fast, like you were trying to hide it and failed anyway. He knew the difference between your tired silence, your angry silence, your sad silence, your plotting silence. So he knew you.

And you knew him, too, in ways no one alive had earned before. You knew when his guards had pissed him off before he said anything. You knew when his spine hurt from the way he breathed through his teeth. Once, when he had gone too silent, you knocked your forehead lightly against the wall and said, “Dex, don’t go wherever your mind just went.” He had stared at the concrete for a long time after that, because nobody had ever come looking for him inside his own head before.

That's why, when you talked, he listened.

Some of it was nonsense. Some of it was clever. Some of it was both. You talked like someone sprinting downhill with no interest in stopping, fast and too amused by terrible things. You even told him what you did: apparently you burned down a warehouse and office of a company called Meridian Dynamics. They made suppression tech: Inhibitor collars, cuffs, injectables, sold to prisons and private security. Apparently, you planned to burn the building down during a very important board meeting, which resulted in your two counts of arson and twenty four counts of murder.

And, inevitably, you started talking about escape.

“I’m getting out,” you told Dex one night.

He was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, sweat dampening his collar. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You can’t burn through reinforced doors.”

“I could if I had my hands.”

Dex looked down at his own, free, for now. He was still dangerous. His hands had always been the part of him people watched first, the part they feared, the part they restrained before opening any door.

He understood, suddenly, the cruelty of having your body treated like a weapon even when you were just sitting there, breathing.

You shifted in the jacket, and the fabric rasped like it hurt.

“Obviously,” you said, trying for lightness and missing by inches, “I don’t have them.”

Dex stared at the wall. For once, he did not know what to say.

You laughed, but it came out thin. “I can feel them. That’s the worst part. They’re right there. I just can’t use them.”

The heat dimmed.

“That why you keep talking about chewing through your jacket?”

You shrugged, though it hurt.  “Maybe.”

“You’ll break your teeth.”

“You care about my teeth?”

“I care about not listening to you complain.”

“You care.”

He should have denied it, but he didn’t.

Dex had spent his entire life understanding attachment as a liability, something people could weaponize until he became useful or pathetic or both. But with you on the other side of the wall, this attachment didn’t feel temporary. It was clear in the way he measured his nights by whether you spoke. He had an ache of wanting to see your face and being terrified that if he did, it would only make this feeling worse.

The silence stretched, warmer than it should have been. Then you said, very quietly, “I don’t think I could actually chew through it.”

“No,” Dex said. “Probably not.”

“I still might try.”

“Don’t.”

That made you laugh for real. The wall warmed beneath his palm. For a moment, it was almost gentle.

One night, after hours of heat and pacing and a long speech about how prison architecture lacked imagination, you went suddenly quiet.

Dex waited.

The wall was warm against his shoulder. Then you whispered, “Dex?”

“What?”

“Do you think I’m going to be like this forever?”

Dex looked at the concrete between you, at the damp shine where the heat had melted old frost.

“No,” he answered. 

It was the closest thing to a promise he could make through a wall. He wanted to say more, but everything else felt too fake.

He didn’t know why, but he had the urge to tell you that you were not an object or a containment problem. He wanted to tell you that if the world had built eight cells for monsters, then fine, let the world call him one, because he had found you in the next cage over and suddenly the world didn’t feel so lonely anymore.

Instead, Dex pressed his palm flat to the wall.

A second later, warmth bloomed under his hand. Not enough to burn, but enough to meet him.

 —

Dex getting moved to general population should have made him think about the Fisks.

It should have made him think about the obvious thing first, which was that Vanessa Fisk wanted him dead. 

Being moved to genpop was not a transfer. To him, a former FBI agent in a room full of convicts who has also pissed people off by working for the Kingpin, it was a death sentence. Genpop was a fancy term for a room full of men, any one of them purchasable, any one of them stupid or desperate enough to try him with a sharpened toothbrush, a melted piece of plastic, a hand around his throat in the showers.

But when the guards dragged him out of ESH when you were asleep in your cell, that was not what Dex thought about.

He thought, with a sudden, sick clarity, that you were going to be alone.

You would be alone like he had been alone for five months, rotting in a hallway built for people the world didn’t know how to categorize. 

Alone with no one but the guards who would never understood your moods.

So he called Matt and offered him a lifeline: tell him who hired him to kill Foggy Nelson in exchange for freedom.

Of course he didn’t think Matt would forgive him. But Matt had believed in the law. And mercy too, whether he wanted it or not. Dex needed both, and hated needing both, and hated more that he was not even asking just for himself.

Need sat wrong in his head. It had always felt like weakness or an exposed artery, as if anyone could just hook a finger into and pull. Needing Matt Murdock was bad enough. Needing Matt Murdock for you was humiliating in a way that Dex didn’t have vocabulary for, because it meant there was something in the world he could not take, kill, steal, or aim to fix.

See, he wanted an appeal for you, too. He had this whole speech of how in another life, Matt would defend him. About isn’t that what good men do? Defend their worst enemies? About I’m bargaining for our life here, counsellor.

Our life. Not mine. Ours.

“Oh,” Matt said. “That’s what this is.”

Dex said nothing.

“So fell in love in prison?” Matt said sarcastically. “Sweetheart, what do you want me to do? Want me to get a couple of murderers out of prison, want me to get an appeal?”

Dex didn’t answer, because answering would have made it sound too… juvenile. 

Love was not a strong enough word for a woman he had only known through a concrete wall and had fallen for anyway. It was not right for experiencing snow in a prison cell, or feeling heat through the wall, or your voice talking nonsense at three in the morning. It was not right for the way he had started sleeping closer to your side of the room. 

Matt saw enough of it anyway, and maybe that’s why he had a glimmer of sympathy. Maybe it was disgust. Maybe he thought again of Foggy, and before he knew it, Matt was slamming his head on the metal table. 

Dex barely had time to register it before pain flared through his mouth and his head snapped hard enough against the metal that the room flashed white, blood filling his mouth.

Then, he felt something small and hard come loose against his tongue.

A tooth.

A projectile.

“Thank you, counsellor,” he smiled. 

The guards pulled Dex back, and he let them haul him away, head bowed, blood dripping down his lip, the tooth hidden carefully.

Killing the doctor and the guard was child’s play after that. Navigating the prison with the dead guard’s badge was even easier. 

He would break out and kill Fisk in his black and white ball. But for now, he had something else to do in this hell hole. 

He wouldn’t escape without you.

Dex moved through Rikers with blood still drying at the corner of his mouth. 

When he reached ESH, he killed the two stationed guards with medical tools stolen from the infirmary.

And when he got in, the hallway was frozen.

Ice crawled over the floor in white veins. Frost had swallowed the observation glass. Snow had gathered in the corners like the building had been abandoned for winter. Your food tray sat untouched outside the slot because the mechanism had sealed shut.

Dex stopped outside Cell Two and looked through the narrow panel. 

This was the first time that Dex ever really saw you. 

He had seen flashes between guards, maybe a reflection from one of the guard’s shields during training drills. 

You were curled on the floor in the fireproof straitjacket, knees drawn up as much as the restraints allowed, cheek resting against the concrete. Your hair was messy. Your lips were discolored from the cold, frost clinging to your lashes like a lifeline, delicate as glitter, cruel as evidence. 

You looked… smaller than he had imagined, but no less beautiful.

He had built you in his head as strong as weather, a voice bright enough to make lights flicker. But through the glass, you were just a girl in a white straitjacket, cold and alone and trying not to disappear.

Dex pressed his bloody hand to the door.

He looked at the jacket and the lock and and thought of every hand that had put you in there and every person who had looked at you like you were a weapon before you were a human being.

He broke the door open with the stolen keycard first. 

When the door gave out, the cold rushed out around him.

You stirred, eyes opening slowly.

For one second, you only stared at him like he couldn’t possibly be real. Like maybe the cold had finally started making things up for you.

Then the frost nearest his feet began to melt.

“Dex?”

You looked confused. As if it was a guess. 

That's when you realised… you had never really seen him, either. 

He nodded, stepping inside.

Snow fell between you, unnatural and absurd beneath the fluorescent lights. Your eyes moved over his face to the blood on his mouth and the stitches on his forehead. You knew him, finally, after months of knowing him only as a voice through concrete.

Your voice sounded broken. “Is that what you look like?”

Dex almost smiled, thrilled that you looked anything but disappointed. “Yeah.”

You blinked at him, dazed and trying very hard to make your mouth curve up like this was funny. Like you had not been left alone, and that loneliness without him had turned the building into a snowy wasteland.

He crouched in front of you.

For the first time, there was no wall between you.

Dex reached for the straps.

You flinched, but not because you were afraid of him, but because the last person who reached for the jacket had touched you like you were an object, and you had burned him by accident, and then they had hurt you for it.

Dex saw all of that cross your faces so he stopped.

His hands hovered over the buckles.

“I’m taking it off,” he said, “that’s all.”

You looked at him, considering your choices. Then, just a little, you nodded.

Dex broke the first strap, the fabric strained under his grip before giving in with a harsh snap. The sound echoed through the frozen cell. Your breath caught, and his eyes flicked back to yours immediately, checking if you were okay. 

You were.

So he broke the next one.

Then the next.

Each strap breaking felt personal, and each piece tearing loose felt like he was taking something back from everyone who had decided your hands were too dangerous to belong to yourself.

When the last strap snapped, the jacket loosened.

Then your arms slipped free. You did so slowly, like you had forgotten they were ever yours.

Your hands trembled in your lap. 

Dex looked at them.

So did you.

You had not seen them for months. 

The snow thinned at first, then eventually, it stopped, the last few flakes drifting down and melting before they touched the floor. Warmth bloomed from you in a fragile little wave.

This time, it wasn’t manic heat. Instead it was warmth, like spring breaking after a cold winter. 

You lifted one hand carefully, almost shyly, and the first thing you did was touch the scar on Dex’s face.

He went perfectly still.

You brushed the blood at the corner of his mouth with your thumb, your eyes furrowing. 

“You came back,” you whispered, which, to Dex translated to: I thought you left me forever.

Dex leaned into your touch before he could stop himself. “Yeah.”

There were alarms somewhere in the distance, but ESH was far away, out of security. It would take them a while to get here. And by the time they did, it would’ve been too late. 

Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.

Then your fingers curled lightly against his chin, and before he could think better of it, Dex bent forward and kissed you.

It was small, nothing but a brush of his mouth against yours, warm and bloody from the missing teeth. 

You froze for half a second before you kissed him back.

You were sweet and a little clumsy, because your arms were stiff and your hands were shaking and neither of you had any business being tender in a prison cell full of evidence of your sadness and isolation. 

When he pulled back, you stared at him.

The frost on the walls ran down in thin silver lines.

Then you smiled, sheepish and dazed, like you were embarrassed by your own warming heart.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” you admitted.

Dex looked at you and he had no answer.

The ruined straitjacket was still in his hands, your fingertips still against his face, and the warmth of your lips lingering on his mouth.

Outside, the prison began to panic. Inside, you smiled at him like he had brought summer with him.

And Dex, who had spent five months alone in a place built for monsters, thought there was no better reason to become one again.

—end.

Extra note: I reread this before posting and realised I may have accidentally written reader as bipolar-coded, which is very me😭😭😭 I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder around a decade ago, and it’s manageable now, but this fic ended up feeling way more personal than I expected. This is the first time I’ve ever written mood disorder x mood disorder so I hope I did alright. So please be kind with this one. She’s special to me 🫶