#hotd angst

.✦ ݁˖ one evening though, gods gifted Gwayne the chance to spend time with you alone. You were hidden away in the tower’s library, book about beetles in your hands, too focused to even notice the presence looking at you. Gwayne was admiring how calm and comfortable you looked, and how beautiful. All the others times he had seen you, you were looking anywhere but into someone’s eyes, you were keeping to yourself, soft frown settled on your face. Not now though, now you looked so comfortable. And so Gwayne scoffed to announce his presence

“What’s that you’re reading my lady?” The knight in front of you inquires as you look up from your book. You debate on being quiet, hoping your silence will make him leave, but something in him makes you feel comfortable enough to answer. So you do, telling him that the book in your hands is about beetles, some of your favourite bugs. Gwayne listened intently to you talk, asking questions after a question, showing genuine interest. “You seem to hold lot of knowledge, it’s admirable”

.✦ ݁˖ After that Gwayne knew for sure he wished to marry you. That he’ll do anything to prove you that he’s a good man and lives up to the stories told about him, and that he would make a great husband

.✦ ݁˖ Gwayne takes it upon him to read one or two books about bugs as well, to be able to bond over something with you. He’ll share new little fact he learned while offering to walk you to your chambers one evening

.✦ ݁˖ Gwayne respects it when you draw away from physical touch and he won’t force it upon but he will always offer it. When walking around the palace garden he’ll offer you his arm, if you refuse he’ll smile and put down his arm while just strolling beside you. If you do take upon his offer, his smile will be extra wide

.✦ ݁˖ When it comes to kissing the top of your hand, like the gentleman he is, instead of giving a quick peck as he does to all the other women, he leaves a long lingering kiss

.✦ ݁˖ Gwayne never made you feel weird, out of place, or that you should change yourself. No, he liked you for the way you were, he admired each and every little thing about you. It was safe to say the knight was smitten with you, wherever you were there you could find him as well. He’d bring you small little gifts simply because he wanted to. He would do whatever you wished to do, you wish to stroll around the garden and look for little creatures? He’ll be by your side and listening you to explain to him about the creature without single complaint.

.✦ ݁˖ Whenever he hears an ill minded whisper of you, he uses everything in him to not lash out on the person to tell them how wrong they are. He will always defend your honour, but the honourable man that he’s, he’ll do it politely

.✦ ݁˖ One night royal ball has taken over the palace, and the whole night Gwayne spends beside you, admiring how beautiful you look in your gown. As well as blissfully dancing with you, admiring how carefree you look. In the same evening he asks you if you were to be his wife and if he has your permission to ask your hand for marriage from your father. You agree

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Harrenhal was thick with tragedy. A graveyard of ambition, its walls had seen the rise and fall of men old and great. Daemon had not ventured this far from King’s Landing in years, yet here he was, in a place that reeked of loss and decay. The black castle felt lifeless, a hollowed-out ruin with its pride long since crumbled. If there had been anyone left to challenge him, Daemon thought, he would have it quickly. 

A shrill cry shattered the silence. The storm raged on, rain pouring down in relentless torrents as if the Gods themselves sought to drown out whatever history remained here. Caraxes announced his arrival with a deep, guttural growl, his claws scraping against the remnants of the once-mighty fortress. 

His rider pressed on, weaving through the cold, empty corridors, each step echoing in the vast emptiness. Water pooled beneath his boots. The scent of damp dirt was thick in the air.

Daemon paused before a pair of heavy doors, where muffled voices stirred behind them.

This was the moment the Rogue Prince knew well, the stillness before the storm, the breath held before a strike. Once, he had fought for Viserys. Now, he fought for Rhaenyra. The cause had changed, but war was all the same. 

With one swift motion, he kicked the doors. The hinges groaned under the force, the sound swallowed by the storm outside. He stepped forward, Valyrian steel raised, ready to carve through whatever poor souls dared to stand in his way.

The room was smaller than he expected, with its occupants unimpressive. A handful of men sat around a table, their faces weathered but indifferent. At the head sat an old, plump man, completely unaffected by Daemon’s presence. 

“I’m claiming Harrenhal,” Daemon announced, the words left flat, devoid of triumph.

No one moved. Men stared with unreadable expressions. Even as Dark Sister remained poised, sharp, and waiting, none of them seemed to have a shred of fear. Finally, the old man, presumably Lord of Harrenhal, studied him, calm and composed. Lord Simon Strong. Harwin’s great-uncle. Loyal to Rhaenyra, oddly compliant, and utterly unafraid.

“So it appears,” Lord Strong murmured, devoid of the fear Daemon hoped for. 

“Caraxes have been growing quickly.” Your teasing is effortless, yet carries weight that lingers in the warm air. Daemon lets it settle deep in his chest, a warmth both familiar and unspoken, as he continues to scratch beneath his dragon's scaled neck. His fingers move with practiced ease, but his gaze, as always, drifts to you. 

There is no fear in your expression, the wary caution he’s come to expect from others. The lack of hesitation and trembling hands. Instead, he sees quiet admiration, your touch lingering on the beast's hide as if Caraxes were nothing more than a hound at your feet. 

The sight of it, the contrast of delicate fingers against hardened scales, stirs something deep inside Daemon, something possessive, something inexplicably tender. You move closer, the tips of your fingers grazing his own. It’s fleeting, barely there, yet enough to pull a knowing grin to his lips. 

“He’s almost large enough to saddle two,” he muses, edged with amusement, but the meaning behind his words is unmistakable. The invitation has always been there, spoken and unspoken alike – a promise that passes like the wind that flutters quickly between your hair and the fire that stirs in the hearth after a long night. 

Still, the warnings echo in his mind. The dragon keepers' stern words, his grandfather’s displeased sighs, and his brother’s inevitable outrage. 

Viserys’ voice is almost tangible now. You would do no such thing! Daemon can practically see the arched frown of his brother, the exasperation in his features. The very thought makes him laugh, a silent, mindless chuckle under his breath. 

Yet you, as always, are persistent. 

You tilt your head, studying him. It takes everything in him not to reach out and trace the loose hairs that frame your face. There’s something in your gaze, something deep, something knowing that makes him feel as though you see straight through him.

It’s unnerving. 

It’s intoxicating.

It’s you. 

The summer heat clings to both of you like wet skin. The lingering scent of pine and damp Earth settles into your lungs like a fresh, made bath. The Riverlands are fertile in their crops, land, and people. Their beauty lies deep in their nature; however, no flower or gemstone could ever compare to the way you stand amidst them, unbothered by the weight of your House or the expectations it carries. 

“Are you asking, My Prince?” There’s a lilt in your voice, teasing and testing. 

The young prince meets your gaze without hesitation. “No,” he corrects, stepping closer, letting the space between you dwindle into nothingness. His breath is warm against your skin, his presence all-consuming. “It is a command.”

You stifle a laugh, barely. “A command?”

His lips curl, devilishly. “Yes.” His voice drops lower, softer, as a whisper meant only for you. “You wouldn’t disobey an order from your Prince, would you?”

You should falter, but you never do. That is your curse, and that is his. 

You shake your head, falsely demure. “No, I would never.” A pause. “Though… what the prince speaks is against the King's commands, is it not?” You’re leading him into a trap, and he knows it, and still, he cannot resist following you in.

He exhales sharply, vexed and utterly enamored by your banter. “He doesn’t have to know,” he grumbled, as though his grandfather’s words had never truly held weight against his desires. 

Daemon lowers his head, resting it against your shoulder, as though conceding a silent defeat. Between you and Caraxes, he finds himself surrounded, trapped in a cage of his own making – one of fire and steel, of warmth and long.

“One word to the King, and I’ll have you killed for that,” he mutters against your skin, devoid of any true threat. 

You inhale, letting his presence wrap around you, the scent of smoke and sun-warmed leather settling into your senses. “You forget yourself, my Prince.” Your fingers thread through his silver hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he shudders, barely perceptible. “You couldn’t kill me if you tried.”

His head snaps up, sharp and sudden, his keen eyes piercing into yours. “You don’t know that.”

A lie. A weak one. One you both know. 

Daemon’s heartbeat is erratic, his hands uncertain as they hover just above yours. You don’t need magic to see the anticipation in his gaze, the unspoken ache that lingers between. He always waits for you to close the gap, always lingers on the edge of restraint, as if savoring the moment before the inevitable falls.

And yet, you turn away. Instead, your attention drifts to the intricacies of his dragon armor, fingers grazing over its fine details as though each piece tells a story only you can read. 

“I am your betrothed,” you remind him, voice softer now, wistful. “What other reason had King Jaehaerys declared this marriage for?” Your hands lift, resting gently against Caraxes’ long, curved neck. The dragon chirps, an oddly affectionate sound, his head tilting toward you like a beast tamed by gentle hands.

Daemon watches, fascinated and helpless.

A huff of laughter escapes you, fond and resigned. Your eyes are gleaming with something unreliable. 

Gods, he was lucky.

Daemon did not anticipate meeting Lord Tully. His decaying health interrupts his plans for the additional Southern troops to fight in the war. For days, the Rogue Prince paced through the ruined grounds of Harrenhal, watching the fortress slowly crumble around him, just as his patience was beginning to fray.

He had expected this rendezvous to take a few days, just long enough to gain an answer and drive the Riverlords to the fighting cause. But with no word from Riverrun and his impatience gnawing at him, Daemon decides to take matters into his own hands.

He would not wait any longer.

By the morning, it was confirmed: Lord Grover Tully would not come. Instead, his grandson, Oscar Tully,  the heir to Riverrun, would make the journey in his stead. 

The Prince Consort, already frustrated, ran his fingers through his platinum hair. His body stiffened from the restless nights spent in Harrenhal, constantly stirring, unable to rest without the creeping, vivid hallucinations that plagued him. The silver-haired prince’s irritation only deepened. He could feel the weight of his impatience bearing down on him, as though time itself were slipping from his grasp.

With a sharp exhale, Daemon strode to the grand hall, his boots bouncing off the cold stone floor. His presence was as commanding as ever – every eye in the room turned toward him as he entered. His expression was grim, his scowl a mark of pure annoyance, and the room seemed to tighten with the weight of his temper.

“My- My Prince!” A young voice came about as a boy scrambled to catch him. Behind him, Lord Strong, as meek as ever, stood awkwardly, unsure how to soothe the nervous young lord.

“My- My Grace— Your Grace,” the boy corrected, his gaze flickering nervously between Daemon and Lord Strong. The Prince could smell the wretched scent of anxiety from him. 

Daemon barely acknowledged the trembling lord. Instead, his eyes slid toward Lord Strong, whose anxious disposition did little to calm his fraying nerves. “Lord Grover is looking better and healthier than I expected.” His words were sharp, testing the waters of this meeting. 

Lord Strong cleared his throat, his hands folded in front of him. “Ah, this is Oscar Tully, grandson of Grover Tully. He is heir to Riverrun and future Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.” He gestured toward Daemon hesitantly. “His Grace, the King… Consort, Daemon Targaryen.”

“It is an honor, Your Grace.” Oscar Tully said, bowing with respect. His eyes, however, were cautious as they met the Prince.

“Indeed,” Daemon replied, loosening his belt and placing his sword on the nearby table. He gestured for Oscar to take a seat. The boy hesitated, feeling the tension in the room thicken.

As Oscar sat down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this meeting wasn’t just about formalities. There was something far more unsettling in Daemon’s gaze.

“How fair is your grandsire?” Daemon asked, his voice laced with disinterest.

Oscar lets out a sympathetic sigh. “Sadly, he remains incapacitated. He lies in a kind of waking sleep, unable to do much more than take mead to drink. This is barely enough to sustain him.” 

“So he’s alive.” Daemon‘s words were blunt and dismissive, though his eyes glinted with calculating edge. His fingers drummed patiently on the arm of his chair. 

“Yes,” Oscar replied, the weight of the situation evident in his voice. He struggled to keep his composure, aware of the tension mounting between them. There was something in Daemon’s demeanor that unsettled him, something that gnawed at his sense of duty. 

The Rogue Prince’s gaze narrowed, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features as he stood. He turned toward Lord Strong, as if forgetting the man still stood there.

“Unfortunate,” he muttered, though the words were more for himself than anyone else. He faced a few steps, his voice growing colder. “But perhaps. It presents an opportunity, doesn’t it?”

His stare fixed on Oscar now, the dangerous gleam in his lilac eyes unmistakable.

“A weakened lord, ripe for the taking. I had planned to rally Riverlords, bring them under my banner. But now, with your grandsire in such a state, I wonder how you’ll handle it.” The suggestion lingered like a sharp knife poised to strike. 

The young boy’s back straightened, his glare hardening. His voice, though steady, carried the weight of his house’s honor. “The Riverlands are not yours to conquer.” His words were firm and harsh.

Instead, Daemon’s lips twisted into a slight smile, though it was anything but kind. “Bold words.” He tilted his head slightly, intrigued by the young lord’s resistance. “But what of the old man?” 

His voice dropped lower, colder. “Perhaps… There's something we can do to hasten his departure. It would make things so much simpler, wouldn’t it?” His stare remained locked on Oscar’s, studying him closely. 

The Tully boy’s breath caught in his throat, the suggestion weighing heavily on him. His mind raced, trying to process what Daemon had just implied. His expression faltered for only a moment before he found his voice again. “Are you suggesting…?” 

The silver-haired prince chuckled darkly, leaning back in his chair. If you ever change your mind…” He allowed the silence to hang in the air like a poisoned blade. “The Riverlands are rich with opportunity. Too rich for someone as… restrained as you.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened, and his hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his sword. His anger flared, but he did not allow himself to act on it just yet. Instead, he turned toward the door, his steps deliberate as he moved to leave.

“I’ll be taking my leave, my Prince.” His voice was low, cold with barely contained fury. “Don’t ever speak of my grandsire in such a way again.” 

With a final, seething glance, Oscar made his way out of the hall, his footsteps echoing in the silence that remained behind. The tension in the room seemed to follow him, like a shadow he could not escape. 

Daemon remained seated, his smile fading into something darker as he reflected on the encounter. He had gone too far, but the young Tully’s defiance sparked something in him. There was something in the boy’s fierce loyalty, his strength in the face of Daemon’s threats, that reminded him of someone. 

Someone like you.

Daemon’s thoughts flickered to his old life, to you, your own House, and the fire that burned you with it. How similar Oscar Tully was to the very person who had shaped Daemon’s destiny. And yet, Daemon knew the boy’s restraint would be his undoing, a weakness that could be exploited. 

His eyes darkened as he stood up abruptly, a sense of urgency seizing him. The Riverlands could wait. His mind turned toward other matters – more important matters. There was a war to be fought, and Daemon Targaryen would not be the one to stand aside. 

With a swift motion, Daemon snatched Dark Sister from the table and made his way to the Godswood. There, in the shadow of the great weirwood, he would meet his dragon, and the path to the throne would grow clearer. The Riverlands, the Riverlords, and Lord Grover Tully would all be pieces on his chessboard.

Viserys had been a fool to let that alliance go. Daemon would show him how it was done. 

You were his first love – there was no simpler way to put it. Daemon rarely spoke of you. Never to Rhaenyra, seldom to Viserys. Your name was a whisper locked away in his mind, a forbidden utterance. It felt almost sacrilegious to speak aloud.

And yet, when he saw glimpses of you, a flicker of movement in the empty halls of Harrenhal, he ran. 

For the first time in years, the Rogue Prince felt uncertainty. Real, unshakable hesitancy. Not of battle or death, but of yearning – of desperation. He wanted to reach out to you, to take hold of your body, and convince himself this wasn’t madness. 

The fleeting impression of your hair – the color, the silky sheen of it – haunted him like a memory half-thought, slipping through his fingers like mist. It danced at the edge of his mind, leading him deeper into the castle’s darkened corridors. The deeper he wandered, the further you drifted, swallowed by the shadows. 

His grip on Dark Sister remained firm. “Don’t run,” he murmured, but the words sounded wrong, as though he were the hunter and you the prey. 

He had accepted this visage of you too easily. He had seen his lost wife, Laena, and Rhaenyra in his dreams before, and they had shaken him, but this broke him. The mere trace of your scent, that familiar blend of oak and wildflowers, was enough to bring him to his knees.

Yet unlike them, you never appeared fully before him. The ghosts of this wretched place knew what you meant to him. They taunted him with pieces, never the whole.

“You can’t hide forever!” the silver-haired warrior called into the dark, his voice raw with frustration. The rain began to fall harder now, cold droplets striking his skin. His sword gleamed beneath the dim light, as sharp and unyielding as the grief buried deep in his chest.

And still, you lingered in his thoughts, needling at him like an ache that never healed. 

Daemon was used to keeping himself occupied – rallying men, strategizing, tending to the mundane affairs of war – but it was in the quiet moments that you returned. When he was left alone with his thoughts, you came back to him like a ghost who refused to sleep. 

Thunder cracked as he turned a corner. A soft, golden glow seeped through the cracks of a heavy wooden door at the corridor’s end. The scent that met him was unmistakable: fresh grass, pine, rain-soaked Earth. A memory, so vivid and cruel, flourished before him. He pushed the door open, stepping into another world.

The lake stretched beyond the rolling hills, its surface smooth and undisturbed. A great tree stood rooted in the Earth, its branches swaying in the wind. The scene was so painfully familiar that it nearly drove him to his knees. It was a cruel trick of the mind, but gods, it felt real.

And then, your voice cut through the stillness. 

“I never took you for a coward, my Prince.”

His grip on Dark Sister slackened. You stood before him, whole and untouched by time. 

You looked older, refined in a way that only deepened the beauty he had once adored. The sky-blue gown draped over your form was something he could swear he had seen before, something he had once mentioned in passing. Your hair, unchanged from his memories, caught the light just right, and for the first time in years, he was afraid to blink.

If he did, he might lose you all over again. 

When you turned to face him, smiling in that way only you could, he exhaled sharply. 

“Surprised?” you teased, your voice laced with something knowing, something bittersweet. 

Daemon laughed, low and breathless. He sheathed his sword, surrendering to this cruel dream. “I half expected you again sooner or later.”

Your gaze softened. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“You know I never could be.”

You stepped closer, unhurried, as though you had all the time in the world. The distance between you felt insubstantial, easily crossed with just one step – but he held back, drinking in every detail of you as if committing you to memory all over again. 

“You were everything I ever wanted.”

The confession came easily, too easily, slipping from his lips before he could stop himself. And the way you reacted – averting your gaze, biting back a smile – reminded him too much of what once was. How you had always flustered under his words, how you had always been so unguarded with him. Daemon reached for you then, his fingers ghosting over your cheek, his touch hesitant, reverent. The surface of your skin was a torment in itself. 

And then, softly, you asked, “Would you say the same for your wife?”

It should have been a simple question. But your voice, the way you said it – distant, laced with something fragile – it carved through him.

Daemon inhaled sharply. “You know.” It wasn’t a question. Of course, you knew. 

Your lips pressed together in a small, knowing smile. “Your wedding must have been beautiful,” you mused, tilting your head. “Old Valyrian custom. Just as you promised me.” 

A knife twisted deep in his chest. 

You had been the one. 

He had known it then, and he knew it now. But fate had not been kind. Death had stolen you away before he could be the man you deserved. And now, here you were – a dream, a memory, a cruel illusion. His hand began to slip away from you, but you caught it, pressing his palm to your cheek. You held it there, grounding him. Your eyes, deep and dark, shimmered with unspoken words.

“I’m sorry, my–”

His voice broke. The words felt foreign in his mouth. Daemon Targaryen never apologized. But for you, he would. For you, he would have done anything. 

But you, ever resilient, only smiled – a quiet and bitter thing. “I don’t need your apology, Daemon.” Your fingers tightened around his hand, as though neither of you could bear to let go. “It was right of you to move on.” 

“If you had still been alive,” he mumbled, forehead resting against yours, “I would have wed you all the same.” You exhaled, shuddering at the admission. Daemon pressed soft, lingering kisses to your knuckles, the way he once had. “You know I would.”

“I know,” you whispered, the ghost of a smile on your lips. “And I would have accepted.” But then, the inevitable question. The one you had every right to ask. “Do you love her?”

His silence was answer enough. You looked away. Daemon felt it – the shift, the unspoken acceptance of something neither of you could change.

“I should hate you,” you murmured. 

And yet, you didn’t. 

Daemon knew this truth as well as you did: He loved Rhaenyra. She was the mother of his children, the flame that could not be extinguished. But you – gods, you – were the reminder of a life he had lost before he ever had the chance to truly claim it. And when you disappeared, as he knew you would, he was left standing alone in the hollow halls of Harrenhal. 

Dripping in rain. Haunted.

And still, you did not leave him. You never had. 

Perhaps you never would. 

Ever since then, Daemon’s mind has been occupied. He could not shake the thought of you away. Because every time he turned the corner or heard distant shouts far away, you were always expected to be there. You’ve been reappearing every so often, whenever Daemon would at least not want you to be. He would become distracted, occupied with one topic and then another. Very few men dismissed this as the way of his attempt to reconcile with the other allies back on Dragonstone.

He hasn’t sent word to Rhaenyra. It should have angered him – this hesitation, this silence, especially now, at the most critical moment of war. She deserved more than distance; she deserved a moment with him.

Yet Daemon continues to avoid it, pushing it aside in favor of more pressing concerns. There was Lord Strong, ever watchful and composed, his nerves barely concealed beneath the line of patience. Then there was Alys Rivers, the strange, peculiar witch who came to him in the dead of night, spinning tales laced with riddles. None of them would allow him a moment of silence. 

The urgency of the war was closing in on Daemon. With each passing day, more lords from the South arrived at Harrenhal, and his patience, once formidable, grew thin; his judgment clouded. 

In those moments, when the silver-haired prince least expected it, he saw you. In the shadows, behind passing figures, always there when you sought a moment of calm. 

At some point, he had gotten used to your presence. He could even predict when you’d appear like a shadow tied to his thoughts. Whether it was the growing sentiment he harbored for you or something twisted in the bones of Harrenhal, he wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, he didn’t mind.

“You should be kinder to him, Daemon.” You urged, keeping pace just behind him. 

The Targaryen Prince strode past the blacksmiths, where molten metal hissed and sparked. At last, the Riverland army was starting to prepare with steel forged, strategic planning, and boots ready to march. Everything was falling into place. And yet, doubt lingered, fed by none other than you. 

“He is my nephew,” you muttered, softer as if your blood would convince him to reconsider. 

“That Tully trout,” Daemon snapped, jaws tightening. “He challenges me at every turn, questions orders like he’s already won his damn banners.”

You stayed silent for a moment, letting his anger breathe. 

“He looks at me like I’m some relic,” Daemon continued, voice low but sharp. “Like I’ve outlived my worth. The boy’s barely grown into his armor, and yet he dares to speak to me as though I’m the one who should yield.”

You tilted your head. “Perhaps he only wants to be heard. As you once did.”

Daemon stopped in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder. “And look where that got me.” 

You met his gaze evenly, unshaken. “It made you feared. It made others follow you.” 

“It made me hate,” he countered, softer now, the fire in his voice dimming. “By my brother. By the realm. Maybe even Rhaenyra.”

You stepped closer, your voice only a whisper now. “But never forgotten. And certainly never ignored.”

For a moment, something passed between you – recognition. Not of affection, but a shared weight. You had become a voice he could not silence, a mirror he could not ask to look away from. Whether you were a spirit or a shadow, you were part of him now, part of his reasoning. 

“He is my nephew,” you said again. And so Daemon tried, with a clenched jaw and cold civility, to treat Oscar, not as bait, but with understanding. “Compromise with him.”

In the cool air, the Rogue Prince waits by the Godswood, the chill of the South clinging to his chest like mist. The haunting presence of Harrenhal beside him was none other than a mutual reminder, but never an annoyance anymore. No, he’s grown quite used to their non-sequential riddles and whispers. Close by, boots and horses marched, and voices echoed, in preparation for war in the following days. But in his small corner of waiting, there was only silence. 

And you. 

You stood in an open space that replicated a window. Half shadowed in the pale sunlight, watching as he dwelt on, reminiscent of your previous memories. 

“Do you remember Riverrun?” you asked quietly, as if it were the question you had been waiting all day to ask. Today, you adorned a pale pink gown, draped in satin that elevated your figure elegantly. It softened your features, your gaze looking longingly at a distant memory. 

Daemon glanced up, brow furrowed not in confusion but remembrance. 

“I remember thinking I was being punished,” Daemon muttered dryly, lips curling at the corner. “Another full formality. Another highborn girl bred to smile and say little.”

You laughed, and the sound warmed the cold air between you. “You looked like you’d rather be thrown into a pit of vipers than be introduced to me.”

“Because I thought I was walking into a cage,” he said, voice low now, tinged with the memory. As if it's fresh in his mind, Daemon hums softly. “Polite words, sweet wine, and a girl too scared to meet my eyes.” 

Your gaze met him without hesitation, just as it had been back then. 

“But instead,” he went on, “you looked me over like you were the one judging me. No curtsy. No trembling hands. You told me my reputation was exaggerated and then asked if I’d ever done anything truly interesting.”

“And you said, ‘Not yet.’” A small smile played on your lips. 

Daemon’s smirk softened into something fleeting. “You surprised me. I wasn’t used to that.”

You took a step closer. “You still aren’t.” 

For a beat, neither of you spoke. There was something just beneath the surface, an ache too stubborn to name. In war, there was no time for softness, but in this moment, before duty pulled him away, Daemon would allow it. For a moment, he would allow himself to indulge in this fantasy. With you, everything around him disappeared and welcomed the cool breeze and warm skies. With you, he was able to understand the love his mother and father had, why it was worth settling down with the one you loved. 

His hand brushed against yours – just barely, a passing moment of contact, but it was deliberate. You did not pull away. 

Then, a knock. 

Oscar Tully waits. And Daemon Targaryen, Prince of War, straightened himself with you still lingering at the edge of your thoughts. You never leave his peripherals, peering at the closed doors of Oscar Tully’s arrival. 

Daemon takes this as your way of reminding him of his promise. Compromise with him. He has to, for the sake of the army and the numbers it may offer; it would be big enough to rival Landing. He would be able to leave Harrenhal once and for good. The chamber door creaks open. Oscar Tully entered with the poise of a young man who was far too young to be leading an army. His red cloak trails behind him, confidently making a banner. He bowed, not too deeply. 

“My Prince,” he said, curtly. 

“Lord Tully,” Daemon replied, already grown annoyed at his presence. However, he hides it under his bravado. 

They stood alone now, in front of the Weirwood tree. With red tears trailing down its face, it is the only witness to their conversation. Save from you, of course, whose ever so close and unseen by all but Daemon. He didn’t look your way, but he felt where you stood. 

Oscar waits for no time. “We must address Willem Blackwood.” 

The Rogue Prince raised an eyebrow. “What of him?” 

“He butchered half the Brackens without trial. You gave the order, did you not?” Oscar’s jaw clenched. “But he went and burned their harvests, drowned their kin in the river, and even cut down the old weirdwood at Stonebrook. This cannot go unanswered.” 

Daemon scoffed. “They were traitors. The Brackens chose the green banners over ours. They knew the cost.” 

“There are costs, yes,” Oscar agreed. “But there are also laws. Traditions. We follow the Old Gods. If you wish to keep their swords on your side, Blackwood must be punished, seen to be punished.”

“Seen?” Daemon echoed darkly. 

The young boy straightens his posture. “A gesture of good faith. Announce his execution publicly so that it does not trample the Gods and the old ways.” 

For a short time, silence fell. 

Then Daemon’s voice, quiet but sharp. “You would use my own knight as an offering. To show them I can be swayed like some… puppet prince.”

“It shows you rule with justice, not vengeance.”

The prince took a step forward, and Oscar confidently held his ground, with no hesitation. “Blackwood did what needed to be done. He was loyal to me.”

“Loyalty cannot excuse sacrilege.”

Daemon’s fury glared behind his eyes, his mouth twitching, growing into a sneer. He turned, pacing like a dragon restrained by a frail chain. And that’s when your voice came – not aloud but from the quiet place he’d kept for you. 

“Justice is not weakness, Daemon. It is a rule. Without it, you would have no army, no order.”

You stood behind him, a silent mirror of the man he might become. He despised it. He needed it. At last, he stopped pacing himself. He did not want to look at Oscar, and instead glanced at the narrow window beyond the horizon of Harrenhal. 

“Very well,” Daemon said coldly. “You may announce it. Blackwood will die.”

The young lord exhaled, relieved as if the heaviest burden had been lifted. But without turning, Daemon added.

“You’re just like her.”

Oscar blinked, uncertain. “My Prince?”

Daemon does not answer. He’s simply looking at you, sitting in the same spot.

Lord Tully chooses not to press further and leaves without a sound, closing the door behind him. 

Yet you were still there, right behind him. 

The courtyard of Harrenhal was clouded in cold mist, the sky above gray and ever watchful. Lords from the South gathered silently, and their banners stood still in the air. Their eyes were fixated on the center of attention.

Willem Blackwood lay on the peak of a stone perch, lifeless and bloodied. His face bore hesitation and worry, who moments ago did not anticipate his execution. He was betrayed and swore loyalty to the man who carried the sentence. Daemon stood above coldly, gripping Dark Sister, as he stared down at the lifeless body. 

He said nothing. However, a wave of murmurs went through the crowd. Nods of approval and absolution, while others exchanged glances with each other. 

You stood behind him as always. As it was, your favorite spot to stand. Like the mist, your presence felt the breath behind his neck. He did not look at you, but heard you all the same. 

“It had to be done.”

As blood ran down the stone that held up Blackwood’s body, Daemon glanced at his sword. Silence clung to his chest as dusk settled with a newfound agreement between the Southern lords.

“What is it about me that disgusts you so?”.

That question had haunted your mind for months, rattling in your brain until you felt insanity clawing at you constantly. You always kept it inside, refusing to let it out, in fear of offending him. He never gave you any reason to fear him in the way normal wives feared their husbands. You knew he would never raise a hand to you, and for awhile, you tried to be happy with this. “At least he doesn’t beat me”. What a sad and pathetic life that was.

All you wanted was for him to see you. To attempt to make some sort of connection with you. That always seemed to be the least of his concerns. You craved some sort of proof that your new life did not have to be such a miserable shame.

“What is it about me that disgusts you so?”.

That question always stayed in your mind, but not tonight. It slipped from your tongue, your back against his in your shared bed.

You wondered for a moment if he heard you, until he finally spoke with a simple “what?”.

You had two choices - say nevermind and go to sleep or confront him. Saying nevermind would make things less tense. You could always say you were speaking in your sleep if he questioned you the next day. But then you thought back to that intense feeling of isolation you had felt ever since you arrived in Winterfell.

“I said” you took a deep breath, “what is it about me that disgusts you so?”. You forced yourself to sit up, “it must be something. Do I disgust you because I am not from Winterfell? Would you have preferred a Northern bride? Or maybe I have done something to offend you”. Had you? Surely not. If Cregan Stark wanted a bride from his homeland, he could have just picked one. You did not ask to marry him! All of this was done without your consent!

Targaryens were said to have otherworldly beauty, but you would argue Cregan Stark was just as beautiful. His dark hair was lazily tied back in a low bun. His eyes, usually hard, appeared in a tired haze. You could see peeks of his collarbone underneath his loose black sleepwear. No white hair, no purple eyes, no dragons. Just pure northern beauty.

“There is nothing wrong with you”. His voice was always so monotone. You hated it. There was no emotion. No love. He never spoke softly to you at all. You felt like another one of his guards rather than his wife. “Go back to bed”.

“I will not!” You exclaimed defiantly as you got to your feet. He would not push you away like he always did. “If there is nothing wrong with me, then why do you treat me as if I am just some commoner instead of your wife? You spend more time on an ice wall, staring out at supposed ghouls and goblins, than with me. These fake-“.

“What’s beyond the wall is real”.

You scoffed, feeling your blood grow hot despite the freezing weather. “Go marry one of them then. At least they will have your attention”.

Cregan sighed. He probably thought he was too good for this conversation! How dare you, his outsider wife, question him? If you weren’t so angry, you would’ve saw the confliction in his eyes. The way he let his hair down before tying it again, would’ve been seen as a way for him to steady himself, instead of being mistakenly seen as him being bored of you.

“I have duties and responsibilities. I cannot be here at all times. I have to worry about my people. I am sworn to them”.

The words hardly left his mouth when you screamed, “no, you are sworn to me!”. You turned to face the table, taking in the view of papers and books littered across the dark wood. “The history of the North…” you thought aloud. You read each book cover to cover several times. You even asked the maesters to tell you stories about their home. History, myths, stories used to scare children, signs of good and bad luck, you learned every little bit of this place in an attempt to connect with him. It all meant nothing. You let out a bitter laugh. “Do you truly think I have ever cared for Northern history before I came here?". You shook your head in shame, looking down at the notes you took down. "I do not care about The King Who Knelt, or the Lords before you, or the trees, or the damn ice spiders or anything else in these stupid pages".

You ripped the notes in a fury, a thing you'd likely come to regret later. "Hours spent putting ink to paper and it has meant nothing". It did nothing to make you closer. How could you have a conversation with someone who shut you down so easily? You forced yourself to face him, "I care for you. I have tried so hard to become closer to you by learning about your home because I know how important Winterfell is to you, and you dismiss me at every turn! Tell me, what do you know of my home?".

If you weren't so full of a rage built by months of loneliness, you would've saw the hurt in his face. He extended his hand, "come to me". But you did not hear the desperation in his voice. All you felt was pain.

"I am alone here. My people, my culture, my family, foods I like, activities I like to do, my friends... they are all gone. It is freezing cold here and I know no one and I feel the stares from people and you, my husband, the one who is supposed to offer me a bit of comfort, flee from me like I am a disease. You have everything and everyone you need here. I have nothing. Why- gods". You wiped at your eyes like some pathetic sniffling child. That must've been how he saw you. "Why do you not let me connect with you?".

Your gaze went down to the floor. You couldn't bare to look at him anymore. His face was too lifeless, like pretending to care about you would kill him. "My Lady, there is nothing wrong with you. If I could be near you more, I would-".

"More excuses" you whispered, defeated. This was foolish. You accomplished nothing here. Your isolation would burn more, knowing you expressed yourself but there would be no change. "I will sleep in my own bedchamber tonight and we can forget this conversation ever happened".

If you had looked at him before storming away, you would see him fumble for words to make you stay.

If you could see inside his head, you would see that Cregan did indeed want to connect with you, but wasn't sure how. He didn't want to force himself in your life. To become your unwanted shadow. So he tended to his duties like he would before you got married.

And if you were Cregan, you would know he prayed to his gods for you safety and happiness daily. You would know he always made sure the cooks made you sweet treats after meals since a member of your family told him you liked sweets after eating. You would know he scolded anyone speaking terribly about his outsider wife. You would know he kissed your forehead when he arrived home and you were already sleeping. You would know that on your wedding night, he was as gentle as humanly possible, in hopes of making your first time not so terrible. You would know that tonight, Cregan got himself dressed so he could pray to the old gods and ask for guidance.

But you were not him, and he was not you.

And when there is a lack of communication, things are doomed to fail.

Ormund's hand caressed your hair as you slept soundly, entirely unaware that he had entered your chambers. It had become a routine for him. To visit you as you slept, so soundly, so unaware. He would caress your cheek and hair, watching the rise and fall of your chest as you slept, leaving you with a kiss to your cheek, lingering slightly to watch as you let out a small sound at the action before leaving. But tonight he had lingered longer than he usually did, had crept in just before dawn and stayed to watch as you stirred away, your eyes swollen from sleep meeting his as you woke, gasping in surprise, your hands moving to pull your duvet to your chin, as if Ormund hadn't pulled the sheets from your body nights before, watching as your shift rode up, revealing your thighs. His hands hovered over your body, itching to touch you and caress you. But he never did; no, he would never do so when you were pure, an angel in his eyes, so perfect. 

“My lord?” your soft voice spoke, and Ormund could swear he groaned every time you spoke, your voice melodic in his ears. “What are you doing here?”

“My lady,” he smiled, his hand going back to your head, his hand stroking your hair behind your ears, his hands moving to caress your cheeks as he breathed you in. “My sweet lady,” he mumbled, watching you flush from his words, “I wished to start my day by gazing at you; is it so wrong?”

You shook your head, crawling further back into the bed, the sheet still pulled impossibly high. “If it is what my lord wishes, then I suppose not,” you swallowed, your voice as soft as ever. 

He smiled,” good,” he caressed your cheeks once more before standing up. “'Tis always a pleasure, Lady Cuy. I do hope you will join me to break our fasts?” You nodded, so shy and nervous; he loved that about you. He hummed in approval, reaching across to place a kiss on your forehead, bidding you goodbye.

You let out a heavy sigh as the door closed behind him, your hand coming to wipe his kiss from your forehead as you forced your breathing to calm. It shouldn't have surprised you so, seeing him watching you as you slept, his hands caressing you as if he were admiring a trinket. It wasn’t the first time he had done so, and certainly not the first time you had caught him. And yet it did. He always surprised you. How he treated you, how he acted around you, how it differed so greatly from how he acted and treated everyone else. 

When your father had brought you with him to Oldtown, under the guise of meetings and audiences with Lord Ormund, he had made you accompany him to each and every meeting, relishing in the obsessive gazes Ormund gave you, the way he always made you linger behind, and invited you to dine next to him at every meal. 

He had brought you to Oldtown with the goal to win favour, to entice Ormund and seduce him. A notion you did not understand. You were a girl who had grown up devout, soft-spoken, never once the type to use your beauty to seduce a man, nor had the thought ever crossed your mind. And yet your father had insisted you were perfect, that your sweet eyes and voice made you a perfect woman to seduce Ormund and win your house favour. And in truth he had been correct. You merely needed to hover in his presence, and the man's eyes never left yours. A week of this and he had demanded you stay in Oldtown, to join his court. And your father, ever the social climber, agreed.

That was the first time he surprised you. 

Surprised you with his interest in you, sweet you who he called sweetling, whose hands always reached for yours whenever he was near. He surprised you each day by his need for your touch. Never improper, no, he knew you were devout, and that is what lured him in, sweet adorable you, as he would say. Sweet you, the perfect lady of the seven, so beautiful, demure and pure. All words he would whisper in your every night as he caressed your cheek, thinking you asleep. The words he would mutter as he buried his nose in your hair, smelling you, groaning at your sweet scent.

Sweet you who he broke his fast with, lunched with and dined with, sweet you who after today would surprise you further by announcing your marriage, thinking your gasps were one of joy, not shock and damnation. 

“My lady,” he greeted, his eye trailing your gown, a pleased smile on his lips as he noted the green dress, embroidered with the seven-pointed star. “Come sit by me, sweetling,” he demanded, forcing Daeron to move away from him, with what you swore was a small sigh of relief. “You look beautiful,” he smiled, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips, kissing it in greeting. You smiled, a nervous blush on your cheeks, as you darted your eyes away and met Gwayne's kind gaze as he sat across from you. 

“Now that we are all here,” Ormund began, dropping your hand and slamming the table to capture everyone’s attention, “it is time for an announcement.”

“Announcement?” Daeron asked, his eyes turning to you, no doubt expecting you to know whatever it was his cousin rambled on about. 

“I am to be married,” he clapped, ignoring Daeron, and you felt a weight lift off your shoulders as if the attention Ormund was insistent on giving you would go to whoever he was marrying. A weight that settled back down and ten times heavier when your eyes met his. “To Lady Cuy,” he declared, a grin on his lips, “ We marry by the spring end,” he said, his hand reaching to grab yours and pulling you to rise.

“What?” You asked in shock, though Ormund seemed to take it as a surprise and pleasure as he pulled you towards him, kissing your cheek.

“Your father has agreed, and my council sees no reason to object, not when you are a clear and devout lady, an angelic one might even say.”

You flushed, searching the room as if it might offer you some escape, but even Gwayne's kind and pitying gaze could do nothing to stop the will of his Lord.

As time went by, you realised that Ormund's affections were both a blessing and a curse. 

Lucky were you to have a husband so obsessed with you that he would rage the moment you were gone too long. A husband whose happiness relied on you pleasing him. But cursed were you to have that husband be Ormund. A man so prone to rages and tantrums you never knew where you truly stood. 

You had feared the man since the day you had met him, and though your kind and soft temperament eased him during your courtship, once married you quickly realised the best way too with him was with your body.         

Your fear for the man grew each day, his temper causing little rest for your mind or body. And though some days he was completely calm, you knew that anything from the slightest whiff of something unpleasant to a meeting where everything didn’t go exactly his way. It would ruin his mood entirely, and cause hell for everyone around him. You had been good, so good at tempering his mood, but as of late rage seemed to be the only emotion he truly knew. 

Stuck in Tumbletown, with dragons at your door and a war that simply wasn’t going his way. 

“Useless craven coward! Cunt!” Ormund screamed, his sword against the table. Your back pressed against the wall, Daeron's hand in yours as you held him back from Ormund's tantrum. “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!” he screamed, knocking everything off the table before him.

“My love,” you called out, your hand reaching for him as he sheathed his sword and sighed.

“ Your Uncle Gwayne has sent word. It seems your brother Aemond will not be joining us after all,” he sighed, moving to sit back down and pull you to his lap. Daeron stepped forward, clearing his throat. 

“Is… Gwayne coming to Tumbleton?”

Gwayne nuzzled into you, smelling the soft scent of your skin, the same scent he kept in his vile, “We must alter our scheme.” was all he said, before dismissing the rest of his men and moving his hands to your waist, “my sweet wife,” he mumbles into you, relishing in the kisses you give to his jaw as you attempt to sooth him. You were grateful he never noticed the practised movements, the stiffness of your back, the way your hands always went over his as he caressed your thighs, almost to stop him, but today, as you did most days, your hands urged him to lift the skirts of your dress, as your mouth pressed hot kisses to his jaw and neck.

“My sweet wife,” he groaned, as your hands went to the laces of his breeches, freeing his hard cock, “always there to ease my worries,” he hummed, his hands moving from your skirts to your face pulling your lips down to his “so perfect,” he spoke, pulling your face down to him, pulling you into a heated kiss as you worked his cock between your legs, lowering yourself onto his cock slowly. 

Ormund groaned into your mouth as you rode his cock, his hands moving to your waist, holding you tightly as he helped you ride him,

“Fuck, sweetling,” he groaned, smilling his seed into you, as you collapsed against him, “you have made my day.” he pressed a soft kiss to your lips, before urging you up and dismissing you for the afternoon. 

You heard Daeron call your name as you walked the halls of Tumbletown, his hand reaching for your shoulder to stop your steps as you headed to the gardens, desperate for fresh air and a break from the scents Ormund had forced upon the keep. 

“Daeron,” you greeted softly, happy to see the prince, though your smile soon wavered at his words.

“I need your help with Ormund.”

“Oh, Daeron, I-” you said, not wishing to insert

“Please, you are the only one he doesn't lash out at,” he pleaded, using the eyes that always had you folding whenever he asked for a favour. 

“Fine, what is it?” you hummed, reaching to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. You hadn't known Daeron for more than a year, but you cared for him like he was your baby brother, a brother you wished to protect in the small ways you could. 

Daeron gave you a relieved smile. “Thank you,” he sighed, “he’s barring me from seeing Tessarion.”

“Oh darling,” you shook your head. Ormund hated the dragon, and hated Daeron's love for her more. “I will do what I can, but I cannot promise you anything,” you smiled, pressing a kiss to Daeron's forehead before switching directions and heading for Ormund's solar. 

“My love,” you greeted, watching Ormund as he sniffed at the vile, full of your scent; his demeanour seemed calm, watching letters and reports before him, seemingly leaving him in a good mood.

“Sweetling,” he greeted, smiling at the sight of you, “I was just thinking about you.” 

You gave him a nervous smile, walking around to stand before him. “I must ask something of you.”

He hummed, turning in his chair and pulling you to stand between his legs. “What can I help you with?”

“Well, it's about Daeron,” you began, your face flushing with nerves.

Ormund scoffed, rolling his eyes, his good mood quickly fading. “Gods, what has he bid you do, the coward?”

Your hand flew to his cheek, trying to soothe his good mood back. “Please, my love, he only asked because he knew the love you bore for me could sway you,” you teased, hoping he would see it as a jest and not an insult. You never truly knew with him. 

Ormund scoffed, “Fine, plead his case.”

Tension left you at his words; at least this wasn't starting with him in a bad mood. At least this way he may hear what you have to say. “He loves Tessarion,” you began, “and a dragon needs to be looked after, or else they lash out and deny her the chance to see Daeron will inevitably cause that, and the last thing we need is a rogue dragon.” You spoke nervously, rushing to get everything out before Ormund's patience stopped.

He looked at you, contemplating your words. He kissed his teeth. “Fine, the boy may see the beast twice a week.” You let out a relieved smile, reaching to kiss Ormund's cheek.

“Thank you, husband!” You kissed his cheek. “I must go tell him.” You smiled, turning to leave, only to feel Ormund's hands fly to your waist, stopping you from leaving.

“Not so fast, my sweet,” he hummed, turning you back to face him,  “I am not done with you yet” 

You felt your heart beating in your chest as you looked at your husband and his darkened lust filled eyes. “I believe I deserve some compensation for my cooperation,” he hummed, smiling as he watched you nod your head, waiting for his command. “Kneel”, he commanded, letting go of your hips as his finger motioned to the floor. Watching you drop to your knees, knowing exactly what he wanted. His hands reached to untie his breeches, pulling out his hardened cock. His hand moved to grip your chin, his finger swiping across the seam of your lips, bidding you to open your mouth. He hummed a pleased sound as you opened your mouth to him, ready to suck on his finger, only for him to pull it away, his hands reaching for your hair and pulling you down to his cock.

His hand stayed on your hair, pulling it as he thrusted in and out of your mouth. Groaning at the feel of your mouth around him as he fucked your mouth. 

Your hand reached for his length, stroking the part that you could never quite fit, your other hand reaching for his balls, squeezing them. He groaned at your actions, the movement vibrating through his body and to your mouth, causing you to gag on his cock as he kept fucking your mouth. “That's it, take it,” he groaned, “fuck, so good.” his hand tightened on your hair, thrusting into your mouth one last time before filling your mouth with his seed. “Swallow,” he commanded as he held your hair, keeping you on his cock. “Good girl,” he praised, releasing you from his cock, feeling you swallow his seed. 

He pulled you to his lap as you stood, his nose nuzzling your hair and breathing in your scent. “You are lucky to be my wife, sweetling; if anyone else had requested such…beasts be treated with,” he titled his head, flinching as he spoke, “respect.  I  would have them flung from the window,” he laughed, not noticing how you stiffened and swallowed roughly, hoping his obsession over you never faded. 

The men sat around the fire, eating their horribly disgusting rations, exchanging tall tales. Cole had taken over the light-hearted nature, and forced it to become a slanderous and honestly obsessive speech about the princesses. He’d moved on from Rhaenyra, now focusing on you. Sweet, beautiful, and kind you. 

“She was always a rough one.” His lip quirked, like he was trying to hint at something unbecoming of a true honorable knight. Of course, Gwayne reminded himself, Cole was not a true knight. A true knight knew when to hold his tongue. “Harsh, like that of a terrible storm. She tore through the Red Keep, leaving chaos in her wake.” 

No one dared to correct him. Many that sat around the fire had visited court, had seen the notoriously kind and gentle princess move with the poise of a true noblewoman. Some had even grown up with the Princess. They all knew that she was not at all like the Dornishman said, and yet, none of them stood to defend her. 

Cowards, the lot of them. 

Gwayne’s jaw twitched as he waited for the man to redeem himself. He’d snapped at the Hand only a fortnight ago, and thought it would perhaps be wise to choose patience over impulse. 

“Women like that are rare, truly.” Cole, unfortunately, continued. “She was, in no uncertain terms, a cun-” 

In an instance, Gwayne rose to his feet, drew his sword, and held it at the Hand’s neck. “Watch your tongue, Sir Criston.” 

The air stilled, the once jovial men tense with uncertainty. “It would be wise to lower your sword, my lord.” 

“The mere concept of wisdom is something completely foreign to you.” 

“It seems-” Criston swallowed. “That your allegiance has shifted.” 

“How dare you.” Gwayne hissed. “My allegiance is not to be questioned.” 

“It is-” Criston dared to speak again. “When you threaten me after my comment about the princess.” 

“I am a man of honor.” Gwayne stepped back, allowing his sword to fall from the man’s neck. “And as a man of honor, I cannot stand idly by as you insult a lady. If you dare speak another ill word of her, I will strike you where you sit, the Gods as my witness.” 

Criston smirked. “I shall not speak of the Realm’s Horror any longer then.” That comment earns laughs from the men. 

Gwayne fought the urge to slash his throat in one swell blow. Instead, he turned on his heel, stalking towards his tent. He flung his sword on the floor beside his cot before flinging himself onto the cushion in a most undignified manner.

As he fell asleep, his mind drifted to memories of you. Well, to only one. His fondest. 

Some Years Ago…

He hadn't seen you in ages, the longing in his heart nearly ready to burst. He knew that Rhaenyra and Alicent had gone off to the library thanks to his spies within the household, and he knew that that meant you were left to your own devices.  

And so there he waited, watching as you walked through the castle garden, soaked to the bone thanks to the aggressive downpour. You'd abandoned your cloak some time ago, realizing there was no stopping your gown from becoming a wet rag. 

His hand, gentle yet firm, had gripped your wrist, pulling you into the groundskeeper's shed. You knew who it was instantly; his touch was as familiar to you as Rhaenyra's whines (mostly regarding her father's wishes for her to marry). Still, a gasp left your lips. 

Gwayne's terribly charming grin looked down at you, his face illuminated thanks to the adjacent window. “Gwayne Hightower, you cannot pull a lady-” 

“I have missed you.” His head hung low, lips closer than they should be. “You have been busy.”

“Such is the life of the heir of the realm’s lady in waiting.” You reached up, brushing a stray hair behind his ear. “I have missed you as well.”

“Your gown-” He looked down, shaking his head in faux disappointment. “It is ruined.” 

“Is it now?” You frowned. “What a shame.” 

“A shame?” He lowered his lips to the crook of your neck, trailing kisses across your chest. Chills ran down your spine, biting your lips to suppress the urge to moan. “My darling girl, you have never looked as stunning as you have this very moment.” You glared, shoving his shoulder playfully. 

“Do not tease, Gwayne.”

“I never tease-” He stopped, correcting his statement before he became a liar. “I only tease when I mean to immediately remedy the situation.”

“Ah.” Your arms found their way around his neck, fingers delicately playing with his hair. “Might I ask how you will be remedying this situation?”

“Of course, my lady.” He'd been slowly backing you toward the wall, finding satisfaction in your flustered appearance when your back collided against the partition. “I plan to ravish you-”

“Ravish?” You gawked, jaw slack. “Gwayne, what if my uncle- the guard-” 

“If you do not wish for me to continue…” He whispered, hands squeezing your hips. “I will obey your commands.”

“No.” You shook your head, nudging your nose against his. “I never said I did not want to.” 

“Ah.” His hands pulled at the fabric of your skirt, your stomach twisting at the action and what it alluded to. What it implied was something you’d been wanting for quite some time. 

“You know-” You tried your best to seem entirely unbothered. “You have not kissed me yet.” “Haven’t I?” His eyes fluttered to your chest, your heart skipping at his actions. “I believe-”

“I would like a proper kiss.” You grumbled. “I am not a piece of meat, my lord, so you may stop eyeing me like one.”

“I do not eye.” He sounded highly offended. “I am simply taking in the vision that is before me. You are a goddess, the Realm’s Beauty indeed.” 

“Gwayne-” You tugged on his doublet. “Please.” 

“As you wish, my lady.” He leaned closer, his left hand left your hip to cup your cheek. 

You nodded quickly. “It is.” He then pressed you further into the wall, if that was even possible. His lips never left your skin once, worshipping you like a man possessed. Your eyes closed, head tilting up toward the sky. “Gwayne-” 

“I could hear my name leave your lips for a lifetime.” 

“A lifetime?” Your breath caught at the implication. “What do you-” 

“You know.” He murmured against your skin, causing chills to run down your spine. “You must know.” 

“This-” You sounded utterly wrecked. “This is not a joking matter, Gwayne.” 

“I am not joking.” He pulled your skirts up, tugging at your stockings. “You think me an unserious rake, I am convinced.” 

“You must forgive me.” You gasped as his hand pawed at your upper thigh, thoughts failing to form coherently. “But your current actions are proving my point.” 

“Are they?” His hand then slid up further, toying with the base of your chemise. “Would you like me to stop?” 

“No!” You slapped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide with fear. “No.” 

“My lovely girl-” He pulled your hand away, kissing the back gently. The act was so chivalrous that it almost made you forget he was actively taking part in the social ruin of a young noble lady. “I am asking for your hand this afternoon.” 

“You are only saying that.” 

“I am not. I have had this planned since a fortnight ago.” 

Your legs tightened around his waist. “Have you really?” 

He leaned forward, his nose nudging yours. “I love you, Your Highness. Most ardently, and if you will have me, I will make you the happiest woman in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I-” You dove down, kissing him soundly. “I will marry you. I will be your wife.” 

Of course, because the gods were cruel, his fondest memory was followed by his worst. He’d left you to go meet with the King and his father, to ask for your hand, hopeful, happy even.

He’d walked in calm, held his head high, but humble. 

He’d even sworn that Viserys was on the verge of saying yes when his own father cut in, destroying his future in one fell swoop. “My King, I apologize. My son, he has insulted you gravely.” 

“Otto-” 

“Your niece is of a higher rank. He is only a second son.” Otto glared at his child. “Leave us.” 

“Father-” Gwayne puffed his chest, trying his hardest not to look utterly crushed. “I love her, truly and honestly. I would- I would provide her a loving marriage, one of happiness and peace.” 

“But not one that she deserves. Not one fitting of a Princess, am I right?” Otto raised a brow. Gwayne was speechless.

“Leave us. I won’t repeat myself.” 

Gwayne hadn’t seen you after that day. His father had forbidden it, going so far as to post guards at his door and at the base of the Princess’s balcony. He’d sent him back to Oldtown, and sent you into a depressive state. 

A mere fortnight later, Gwayne had been walking through the streets of his home when a villager whispered about the Targaryen princess who flung herself off the tallest point of the castle. 

And two days later, his own father’s raven had confirmed it. You had died from heartbreak, all thanks to Otto Hightower and his scheming. 

Gwayne knew that you were gone, and yet, when he saw your dragon, he let himself believe that you were still alive. He dared to have hope. And hope would kill him, just as it did his spirit all those years ago. 

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You knew she would be furious. You could almost hear her sharp voice scolding you for neglecting tradition, for turning away from the sept-bound ritual she so cherished. But here, in the garden, your lungs filled with air that wasn’t thick with judgment. Here, you were not merely a daughter-in-law—you were yourself.

Then, without warning, a strong hand seized your wrist. You gasped, the sound caught halfway between alarm and surprise, and in the next heartbeat you were pulled flush against a broad chest.

“Seven hells,” you whispered, your voice caught with a startled laugh—only for it to die into a kiss, hot and certain.

Aegon.

He smiled into your lips as if he’d been waiting all morning for this moment. Behind you, your ladies-in-waiting covered their giggles with their hands, exchanging glances before bowing and slipping away, leaving you in the grasp of your husband.

He didn’t let go. Instead, his arms circled your waist, pulling you tighter, his nose brushing yours, his breath tasting faintly of wine though it was still early.

“Radiant,” he murmured, voice low, almost disbelieving. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to unearth some secret you kept hidden even from him. “You’ve been glowing these past days. Tell me, little wife… why is that?”

You giggled softly, placing a palm against his cheek, feeling the scratch of stubble beneath your fingers. “Perhaps it is the air. The garden is kinder to me than your mother’s chambers.”

Aegon chuckled, a rough, warm sound that vibrated through your bones. “Ah, so that is the trick. Sunlight, blossoms… and freedom from my mother sharp tongue.” He leaned close again, lips grazing yours as he spoke. “I should’ve guessed.”

You pressed your forehead against his, heart beating faster under the cage of his arms. “And what of you? You follow me like a shadow, husband. Is the garden so enchanting, or is it me you seek?”

His grip tightened, just slightly—possessive, protective. His smirk faded into something rawer, more vulnerable. “I sought you the moment I woke. I always do.”

The words hit you with a weight he rarely let slip, the honesty trembling behind them. This was not the Aegon the realm knew—the drunken prince, the cruel son, the man of silk streets and whispered sins. This was the man who had changed since the day your betrothal was announced. Who had clawed his way out of the mire to be something better, for you.

Three years of marriage, and still he looked at you as though you were the first light he had ever seen.

“I remember,” you whispered, voice trembling with affection. “When they told me I was to wed you, I feared it was a punishment. A fate worse than death.” You brushed your thumb across his lips, watching them curl into a half-smile. “But you… you are not that man anymore.”

His breath hitched, chest rising against yours. “No. I’m not. For you, I’d burn the world. For you, I’ll never be that man again.”

The intensity in his eyes sent warmth pooling low in your belly. His lips crashed against yours once more, desperate and deep, and you melted into him. His kiss was hungry, a claiming, yet tender in the way his fingers tangled in your hair, careful not to hurt.

The world narrowed to the taste of him, the press of his body, the way he held you like he could never bear to let go.

When finally he broke the kiss, both of you breathless, he whispered against your lips, voice hoarse: “You’re mine. Always mine. I will not let anyone take you from me.”

And though you laughed lightly at his words, brushing them off with a smile, a part of you shivered—not in fear, but in recognition of the truth.

The late afternoon sun painted the gardens in warm gold, catching in the vines that crawled along the stone walls. The air was heavy with lilac, and laughter spilled from your lips as you darted between the hedges. Your skirts caught at your ankles, slowing you only slightly, while behind you came the sound of your husband’s pursuit—his uneven footfalls, his half-drunken but determined shouts.

“Run faster, little wife,” Aegon called, breathless, laughter rough in his throat. “Do not think you can escape me!”

Your giggles echoed like bells through the trees. For a moment, there was no crown, no council, no shadow of war—just the two of you, foolish in your love.

But then, the world shifted.

A sharp pounding bloomed in your skull, so sudden it nearly stole your breath. Your vision blurred, the laughter dying on your tongue as your legs faltered. The ground tilted, rushing up to meet you—

And then strong arms caught you.

“—hey, no, no, I’ve got you.” Aegon’s voice was no longer playful, but urgent, frayed with panic. He lowered you carefully to a stone bench, cupping your face in trembling hands. His eyes, wide and wild, searched yours as though he could will the pain away.

“Tell me you’re all right,” he demanded, almost pleaded. “Tell me now.”

You forced a nod, even as the dull throb still pulsed behind your temples. “I’m fine,” you whispered, steadying your breath. “It was only for a moment.”

His jaw clenched. “Did you eat this morning?”

You nodded again. “Yes. Before I came to the garden.”

Aegon exhaled sharply, brushing his thumb across your cheek as if grounding himself. “I’ll call the maester. Later..” His voice broke on the last word, softened with something that made your chest ache. “I’ll not take chances with you.”

You leaned into his touch, lips curving in a small smile meant to soothe him, but before either of you could speak again—

“So you've been here all this time.”

The voice sliced through the garden, sharp as a blade.

You both turned.

Near the arch of an old elm stood Alicent Hightower, her green silk glinting in the sunlight. She was motionless, her gaze fixed not on Aegon, but on you. Your throat went dry. You swallowed.

“Mother,” Aegon said flatly, but she did not answer him.

Her eyes lingered on you with disapproval sharp enough to strip bark from a tree. “Tell me, daughter,” she began slowly, each word deliberate, “why do you refuse me? A month of mornings I have called for you, and a month of mornings you have chosen to absent yourself from my chambers.”

Heat crawled up your neck. You smoothed your skirts beneath her gaze, gathering your courage. “I wished for a routine of my own,” you said carefully, voice steady despite the knot in your chest. “The garden… it gives me peace.”

Alicent’s lips tightened. She shook her head once, sharply, and her eyes darkened. “Gods you're just like your mother.”

The words landed like a curse.

For a moment, silence pressed heavy between the three of you. Aegon’s hand slid from your cheek to your waist, fingers tightening protectively as though he could shield you from his mother’s tongue.

Then, with a weary sigh, he spoke. “Mother, you must understand—she needs her own space. You cannot hover over her at every turn.”

Alicent’s eyes snapped to him, disbelief flaring. “Space?” she repeated, her voice cold. “You speak of space as though I were suffocating her. You insult me, Aegon.”

He did not flinch, though you felt the tension rolling off him. “Then be insulted,” he muttered.

For a heartbeat, Alicent simply stared—at her son, at his defiance, at you standing tucked beneath his arm. Then, with a bitter shake of her head, she turned, green skirts sweeping as she walked away, her figure swallowed by the shadows of the arch.

The silence she left behind was deafening.

You turned to Aegon, who still held you close, though his gaze was distant, troubled. He looked down at you finally, regret etched deep into his face. “I should not have let her speak to you so. I should not have spoken to her so.” His hand brushed your hair back from your temple, as though he could smooth away both your pain and the sting of her words. “I am sorry, love. For all of it.”

You placed your hand over his, pressing it tighter to your cheek. “You defended me,” you whispered. “There is no need for apology.”

He searched your eyes, his own raw with something almost desperate. “But you are her daughter now, too. And she—” His voice cracked, and he exhaled. “She will never see you as she should. She will never see me as I wish she would. And the hatred that runs between our mothers…” His fingers curled around your jaw, thumb brushing against your lower lip. “It will bleed into us if we let it.”

You caught his hand, kissing his palm softly, lingering. “Then we will not let it.”

The King’s Solar glowed warm with candlelight, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine lingering in the air. You sat nestled at Aegon’s side, the fabric of his sleeve brushing yours each time he reached for his goblet. Across the table, Helaena smiled dreamily, her voice lilting as she spoke to you.

“The twins walked this morning,” she whispered, as if confessing a secret. Her pale eyes lit up, soft with wonder. “Both of them, one after the other. I thought my heart would burst.”

You smiled, the warmth of her joy seeping into your chest. “That is wonderful, Helaena. They grow so fast.”

Her face blossomed into a shy grin, and she began describing their wobbling steps in vivid detail. The sound of Aegon and Aemond’s murmured conversation carried from the other end of the table—low, even, for once without argument. For a brief, delicate moment, the room felt at peace.

But peace is a fragile thing.

“Tell me, child,” Alicent’s voice cut sharply across the table, shattering the soft laughter.

You froze, your words dying on your tongue as you turned toward her slowly. Her gaze was steady, unwavering, as her fingers tapped once against her cup.

“Are you with child yet?”

The air left your lungs in a rush.

“I…” Your voice faltered. You glanced toward Aegon, then down to your lap where your hands knotted into the fabric of your skirts.

Alicent tilted her head, lips pressing thin. “Helaena conceived within a month of her wedding. Twins, no less. And yet you and my son—after years of marriage—” Her pause was calculated, heavy. “Nothing.”

The weight of her words pressed down on you, suffocating. Your throat burned, but you said nothing. The silence spoke for you.

At your side, Aegon stilled. The faint smile he had carried through dinner was gone, replaced by a dark glare fixed on his mother.

“A childless marriage,” Alicent continued, as if your silence proved her point. Her voice was silk over steel. “One begins to wonder. Perhaps you are barren.”

Your breath caught. The word echoed like a curse in your ears. Barren.

Your eyes widened, vision blurring as the blood rushed to your face. Shame, anger, hurt—all tangled in your chest until you could hardly breathe.

“That is enough.” Aegon’s voice cracked through the chamber like thunder. Every head at the table turned.

Alicent arched a brow, unflinching. “I only speak what others whisper.”

“No,” Aegon spat, pushing back his chair so abruptly it scraped against the stone floor. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the table. “You corner her at every chance, you tear at her as though she were prey. I will not sit idle while you sink your claws into her.”

Alicent’s eyes narrowed, her mouth tightening. “She is my daughter now, Aegon. If she cannot bear children—”

“Then it is my failing,” Aegon cut her off, his voice breaking raw with emotion. He pressed a shaking hand against his chest, eyes flickering toward you before returning to his mother. “Perhaps the gods punish me for my sins, for the years I squandered. Perhaps they will never bless us with a child. If that is so, it is my burden to bear—not hers.”

The chamber fell silent. Even Aemond’s steady gaze flicked downward, Helaena’s hands wringing nervously in her lap.

Aegon’s voice lowered, but it trembled with something fierce. “I begging you, Mother—stop. Stop cutting her open every time you see her. I cannot endure it.”

For a heartbeat, Alicent only stared. Her expression betrayed nothing, though her fingers clenched around the stem of her cup. Then, without a word, she looked away, her silence as sharp as any blade.

Aegon exhaled hard, as though the air had turned to ash in his lungs. He turned to you, his eyes softening even as his jaw remained tight.

“Come,” he said, voice hoarse.

Before you could respond, his hand found your wrist—firm, steady, desperate. He pulled you gently but unrelentingly from your chair, ignoring the stares that followed you both. The scrape of your chair’s legs against stone was the only sound in the heavy silence as he led you from the solar, his grip never faltering.

The doors shut behind you with a dull thud, leaving the hushed tension of the chamber behind. The hallway outside was dim, lit only by flickering torches. Aegon turned to you then, his eyes wide, shining with an anguish you had rarely seen from him.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist where his hand still held you. “I am so gods-damned sorry. You should never hear those words. Not from her. Not from anyone.”

Your lips parted, but your voice broke before the words could form. Instead, you stepped into him, pressing your forehead to his chest, clutching at his tunic as if to anchor yourself. His arms came around you instantly, crushing you to him.

The chambers were quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. The scent of lavender oil clung to the air, meant to soothe, but the weight of Alicent’s words pressed too heavily on your chest for comfort.

You sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting the hem of your nightgown, your thoughts circling endlessly. Across the room, Aegon bent over the washbasin, splashing cool water across his face. Droplets glistened in his hair, running down his neck as he reached for the towel.

He glanced at you, and in that brief flicker of his gaze, you knew he could sense the storm still raging inside you. He had tried to soothe you on the walk here, his words gentle, his grip firm, but the poison had already sunk its claws deep.

Your voice cracked the silence before you could stop yourself.

“Perhaps she is right.”

Aegon’s head snapped toward you sharply, the towel forgotten in his hand. His eyes narrowed, not in anger but in startled disbelief.

“Perhaps I am barren,” you continued, the words tumbling out before your courage fled. Your throat tightened as tears pricked your eyes. “Perhaps I cannot give you what you want most. A child. An heir. A family.”

“Don’t—” he began, but you pressed on, your voice breaking with every word.

“You want children, Aegon. You want them badly, I know it. You have told me as much when you look at Jaehaera and Jaehaerys, when you speak of our blood carrying on. If I cannot…” You swallowed hard, tears blurring your vision. “Then perhaps you should take a second wife. Or annul this marriage entirely. You deserve better than a barren wife.”

The towel slipped from his fingers, landing silently on the floor. In three strides he was before you, crouching so that his face was level with yours. His hands rose, cupping your cheeks with a gentleness that made your heart ache all the more.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice rough, commanding yet desperate. “Look at me.”

Your eyes lifted, shimmering with tears. His gaze locked on yours, fierce and unyielding.

“I don’t care,” he said, each word breaking as if torn from the marrow of his bones. “Do you hear me? I don’t care about children. I don’t care about heirs or gods. I care about you. Only you. You are my world. My salvation. My curse. My wife.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and his thumb brushed it away before it could fall further. His jaw trembled, his chest heaving as though the weight of your pain was crushing him too.

“Do not,” he begged, his voice a rasp, “do not ever speak to me again of annulment. Or of me take a second wife. I could not endure it. I would sooner cut out my heart.”

You closed your eyes, overwhelmed, your tears spilling freely now. Aegon let out a broken sigh, and then his arms wrapped around you, pulling you against him with a ferocity that bordered on desperation. You collapsed into him, your sobs muffled against his chest.

His hand stroked your hair, trembling as he pressed kiss after kiss to your crown. “Shhh… my love, my sweet love. Let them think what they will. Let them whisper. I do not want their blessings, their gods. I want you.”

Your fists clutched at his tunic, wrinkling the fabric as your voice cracked against him. “But I want it, Aegon. I want a child. I grew up in a house full of brothers, of noise, of family. The thought of being empty—of failing—” You broke off with a sob. “The pressure is crushing me.”

His grip tightened. He buried his face in your hair, his breath hot and ragged against your scalp. “Then we will try. And try again. Not because of them. Not for the realm, not for duty. But because you desire it. And if the gods never grant it, then damn the gods. Damn them all. You are enough. More than enough.”

You wept harder, his words both soothing and breaking you at once.

For long moments, there was only the sound of your sobs and his whispered pleas, his kisses against your hairline, his heart beating wildly beneath your ear. And in that fragile silence, you realized—whatever your womb held, whatever the gods decreed—Aegon’s love was a fire that would not falter.

You were his.

And he, broken and whole all at once, was entirely yours.

©2025 Cherrubie. This tale is a blessed creation under celestial guardianship. No part may be copied, stored, transmitted, or shared beyond this realm without divine permission.

The night didn't get better when it came time to share a bed. If it had been up to Jacaerys, it would never have touched you, but Corlys Velaryon knew him well, so part of the council was present to witness the marriage being consummated. It did not matter that Jacaerys protected your body with his and the sheets or how much he tried to make it easy and pleasurable for you. It was humiliating and it was horrible, as soon as the council left the chambers Jacaerys joined in your silent crying.

When Jacaerys thought his guilt couldn’t get any worse, you got pregnant. The entire council was happy because the king would finally have an heir, but he felt sick seeing how miserable you looked. At least, before you would leave your chambers and occasionally he could see you smile—never at him, of course, always at Jaehaera—now you spent all your time in bed as if you had no energy for anything else. Sometimes Jacaerys would come to feed you and read you some book he remembered you liked in your youth. Your ladies took care of cleaning you and feeding you, on the days the king couldn’t come to eat with you because he had a meeting or was busy.

Jaehaera's cries got worse because you weren't comforting her anymore, you weren't talking to her anymore. And more than once Jacaerys thought about ending it all, giving you the moon tea himself so that your body would rid itself of the creature that caused so much misery. He preferred things to be the way they were before even though you barely tolerated it.

But the kingdom and the throne were more important, he needed an heir. If Aegon's prophecy was true then from his blood would come the prince that was promised.

Jacaerys prayed that you would have a child so he would never have to touch you again and make you suffer again. If the council asked for a replacement he would say it would be Aegon, his brother. He couldn't bear to see you pregnant again, he didn't want to see you so isolated from the world ever again, he didn't want the only thing you did was cry, that the only thing you seemed to feel was pain and sadness. He hoped that once you gave birth and were free of the creature, things would get better.

But he had to have been more specific in his prayers, he had to have asked the gods that the child would look like him because when he held his son in his arms for the first time all he saw was Jaehaerys.

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Ahead of you, not far away, Vermax moved with restless energy. He dug into the sand with his forepaws, sending up small golden clouds that the wind quickly scattered, then lowered his snout as if following an invisible trail before suddenly darting forward in a graceful leap. Every now and then, he let out a low, almost satisfied sound, his wings spreading slightly to keep his balance as he ran. The sunset set his green scales ablaze with copper reflections, turning him, for a moment, into a creature of emerald and fire. He was still young, but his body grew stronger every day, more powerful, and watching him it was impossible not to think that soon he too would know the skies of war. For a moment, seeing him play like an unaware hatchling, everything felt incredibly normal. You almost managed to convince yourself that tomorrow did not exist, that there were no armies ready to clash, no dragons destined to burn, no loved ones fated to leave.

You pressed yourself a little closer to Jacaerys, seeking the warmth of his body, the solidity of his presence. You searched for him as you always had, without ever stopping, chasing him with the same stubbornness with which the sea chased the shore. You searched for him in his glances, his silences, his hands, in the rare caresses he allowed himself when no one could see. You chased him like a starving creature chasing its only chance of survival, running until you were breathless, until you had no strength left. And yet, no matter how much you pursued him, you constantly felt as though you never truly reached him. There was always something just beyond your grasp. Even sitting beside you, even with his shoulder pressed against yours, Jacaerys felt more distant than ever.

He did not pull away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly until it brushed yours, letting the weight of his temple rest lightly against you, as though that simple contact was enough to remind him where he wanted to be. His scent enveloped you immediately. He smelled of sea, of worn leather, of wind, and that faint hint of honey that seemed uniquely his. It was a scent you had come to associate with safety, with home, with everything beautiful you had found in him. You inhaled slowly, trying to fill your lungs with it, as if you could hold onto it long enough to never forget. But the knot tightening in your stomach remained, stubborn, hard as stone, unwilling to loosen.

"You're trembling." he murmured after a long silence. His voice was low, soft, infinitely gentler than the one he showed to others. It was a voice that belonged only to you, hidden beneath the princely confidence he wore every day. His fingers finally sought yours and, without hesitation, intertwined with them. The warmth of his skin spread instantly through your hand, traveling slowly up your arm to your chest, where your heart seemed to miss a beat before racing even faster.

"I'm not cold." you replied, but the moment you spoke those three words, your voice faltered slightly. It was almost imperceptible, but he caught it immediately. You weren't cold, and that was true. Your body still held the warmth of the sun and his closeness. It was something else freezing you from within, something that made it hard to breathe without feeling your chest tighten. It was fear, the kind that had been creeping into every thought for days, following you even into your dreams and waking you in the middle of the night with a hollow ache in your chest.

Silence settled between you again. It was heavy, filled with words trapped behind lips, with confessions too large to be spoken and too painful to ignore. You kept staring at the sea without truly seeing it, while inside you, every thought collided with the next, tangling into an impossible knot. You wanted to tell him everything, shout it at him, even. How terrified you were, how much you already hated the war before it had even begun, how much you wanted to drag him away from it all. But every sentence felt inadequate, too small to hold the weight pressing against your chest.

Vermax, as if sensing that invisible tension, suddenly stopped playing. He lifted his head toward you and remained still for a moment, his narrow pupils watching you curiously. He let out a low, questioning sound, then slowly folded his legs and settled onto the still-warm sand. His wings remained slightly open, shifting with the evening breeze, while his long tail absentmindedly traced uneven lines along the shore.

You let yourself fall against Jacaerys with a soft sigh, resting your head on his shoulder. The rough fabric of his tunic brushed gently against your cheek, and beneath it you could feel the living warmth of his body, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart. You wished you could stay like that forever, trapping that moment before time could take it away from you. Yes, giving him silence felt better than offering useless words he wouldn't listen to anyway.

He shifted slightly to hold you more comfortably against him. You felt his breath brush your temple, the subtle rise and fall of his chest against yours. "You don't have to say it if you don't want to." he said softly. He tried to give you space to choose, but you knew it was only an illusion. Jacaerys knew you too well by now. He had learned to read you in your silences, in your averted glances, in the way you clenched your hands when you were unsettled. You could remain silent all you wanted, but he would still see every fear reflected in your eyes.

You closed your eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply in an attempt to sort through your thoughts. There were too many things you wanted to say, so many that you couldn't decide where to begin. Every sentence seemed to break apart before it could even form. In the end, only one came out, simple and painfully honest. "I'm afraid." you admitted, and saying it aloud made everything more real, more impossible to ignore. "I... I've been thinking a lot these past days. The war is coming, and you... you will fight, and I... I don't..." Your voice broke before you could finish. I don't want to lose you. Those words remained trapped inside you, too painful to release. Your hand tightened around his desperately, as if that alone could keep him from leaving, could hold him there beside you, far from any battlefield.

Jacaerys remained silent. You felt his chest rise beneath your cheek in a deeper breath than the others, while his fingers tightened slightly around yours. He, too, was fighting a war, hidden behind the impassive expression he wore every day. Something was slowly devouring him from within, consuming his heart piece by piece, and you could feel it even without him saying a word. He hated seeing you like this. He hated hearing your voice tremble, seeing fear take the place of the smile he always tried to protect. For a moment, he lowered his gaze to your intertwined hands, as if searching there for the strength to lie to you, or to tell you the truth.

"You won't lose me." he said, with a certainty that almost hurt. He spoke it like a promise, with that unshakable conviction he always carried when trying to protect you.

You wanted to believe him. You wanted it with all of yourself, with that part of your heart that stubbornly kept hoping even when reason screamed at it to stop. You longed to cling to his words like a castaway clings to the last piece of driftwood, letting that promise become strong enough to suffocate every fear. But war knew nothing of promises. War was unpredictable, cruel, indifferent to the wishes of those left behind to wait. It only took a moment, a single arrow, a blade, a breath of fire, for everything to change forever. He could die at any instant, and you knew that far too well. The uncertainty was the most painful part. It wasn't knowing he would leave, it was not knowing if he would ever return. It was living in anticipation of news that could destroy you, continuing to breathe while your heart felt suspended between hope and terror. You tried desperately to convince yourself that Jacaerys was different, that the gods would show him mercy, but deep down a voice kept whispering that the gods had never shown mercy to anyone.

"Hey, look at me. I'll come back to you. Always." His voice gently broke the thread of your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. He lifted his free hand slowly, as if afraid of breaking something invisible between you. His fingertips brushed your cheek with infinite tenderness, grazing skin still warm from the sun and the evening wind. The touch was light, yet it made you catch your breath. His fingers lingered on your face for a moment, as though trying to memorize every detail, every line, every imperfection he had yet to learn.

His fingers paused beneath your chin, lifting it slightly until you were forced to look at him. Forced to raise your gaze until it met his. His eyes were fixed on yours, deep, dark like the sea when the sun disappears beyond the horizon, and yet still incredibly alive. There was so much in that gaze that for a moment you forgot how to breathe. Everything else faded away, leaving only the rapid beat of your heart.

"I promise you." he added in a whisper, lowering his tone as if those words belonged only to the two of you. It was a vow carried by the wind, fragile and precious at the same time, spoken with a conviction only Jacaerys seemed to possess. He truly believed it. You could see it in the way he looked at you, in the firmness of his expression, in the certainty with which he had spoken. He wasn't trying to comfort you with a lie. He was convinced he would return to you. Convinced that nothing could ever separate you.

You wanted to answer him. You wanted to tell him that promises meant nothing against fate, that no oath could stop dragonfire or deflect the flight of an arrow. You wanted to beg him not to make promises he couldn't keep. But the words died in your throat before they could even form. They remained trapped behind the knot tightening in your chest, unable to turn into sound. In that moment, you didn't want to be rational. You only wanted to believe him. You wanted to cling desperately to that certainty, to have something to soothe your pain. You wanted to believe that he would come back to you, no matter what.

"What if..." you began softly, already feeling tears pressing behind your eyes. But he didn't let you finish.

He shook his head slightly, a faint smile touching his lips. "No 'ifs'." he said, with a firmness that allowed no argument. "Not tonight. Not tomorrow." For one night, he wanted to let you forget what awaited you. For a few hours, he wanted the war to remain far away, confined beyond the horizon along with the sun that had already disappeared.

His fingers left your chin and slid slowly through your hair. He gently moved a strand the wind had blown across your eyes, tucking it behind your ear before resting his hand at the back of your neck. You felt the warmth of his touch spread through your skin as he slowly drew you closer. There was a faint hesitation in his movements, almost imperceptible, as if he too understood that this would not be just a kiss. It was a way of telling you everything he couldn't put into words, a desperate attempt to carve that moment into memory before time could steal it away. When his lips met yours, the world seemed to shrink until it held only the two of you.

It was warm, so warm, and deep, yet at the same time incredibly gentle. There was no rush, no urgency, only the desire to imprint that moment into your memory, to make it eternal even though you both knew it wouldn't be. That it was only a fleeting instant in the pages of your life, something no one would ever remember but the two of you. His fingers tightened slightly at the back of your neck, while your hand found its place against his chest. Through the fabric of his tunic, you felt his heart beating strongly. It was such a reassuring sensation that you wished it would never end.

For a moment, you forgot everything. You forgot the fear, the war, your uncertain future. There was only him, the warmth of his lips against yours, the way he held you close, and his fragile promise carried by the wind.

When he pulled away, he did so slowly, as if reluctant to break the contact. His lips brushed yours once more before fully parting, his forehead resting against yours. Your breaths still mingled in the small space between you, and neither of you seemed able to gather the courage to widen that distance. He closed his eyes briefly, inhaled deeply, and when he opened them again, something had changed in his gaze.

"I love you. So much."  he whispered, so softly you almost thought you had imagined it. He said it as if it hurt him, as if it were the last time.

You didn't want to hear a declaration of love spoken with such sadness, such pain. It wasn't what he had promised. It wasn't what you had dreamed of.

Tears stung your eyes again, but you still managed a faint smile. "I love you too." you replied in the same fragile tone, letting those words finally find their way to him.

You remained like that for a moment, suspended between what is and what will be, until you let yourself fall against him again, resting your head on his shoulder. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer, as if he wanted to protect you from everything to come. In front of you, Vermax let out a low sound, almost like a quiet call. He lifted his head toward the now dark sky, while the evening wind made his wings tremble slightly. The first stars began to appear above you, cold and distant, shining in their eternal indifference to human pain.

"Would you stay here forever, if you could?" you asked, without lifting your gaze, afraid of what you might find in his.

Jacaerys remained silent for a moment, and you already knew the answer before it left his lips. "Yes." he admitted honestly. "I would stay here with you, I would marry you, and I would make you the happiest girl in Westeros. But I can't." His tone turned bitter.

You nodded slightly against him. You knew. You had always both known. And yet, for that evening, for those few moments stolen from the gods, you chose to pretend it was enough. That the sound of the waves, the warmth of your bodies, your fleeting glances, and the silent presence of a young dragon were all that existed in the world. And as you stayed there, pressed against him, your head on his shoulder and your fingers entwined with his, you chose to believe his words. To believe that he would come back to you.

But that would never happen. Jacaerys would never return to you, you would never marry, and he would never make you the happiest girl in Westeros. Not in that moment, not the next day, not ever. His empty promises sank with his body in the Gullet, in the instant those arrows struck him, while he died with your name on his lips and your face behind his eyelids.