#jodeswrites

When Alys reached the courtyard, she was greeted by an audience. Lord Eddard Stark stood tall and broad, as if made from the same granite as his keep. When he greeted Lord Edmyn Reed, his voice was low and quiet, quieter than what she expected from a lord.

Beside him stood his lady wife, Catelyn Stark, once a Tully from the Riverlands. She was a most beautiful woman, with hair the colour of polished copper and eyes as blue as a summers sky. She smiled and it felt warm.

The children emerged from behind the shelter of their parents' cloaks. The boy who reached Alys first was like a burst of flame in the grey yard. His hair was an unruly auburn, his face dusted with freckles, and a grin so wife it seemed to split his face in two.

"I'm Robb!" he announced cheerfully. He was all eager motion. "I can show you everything! The lichyard had stones older than Father, and the glass gardens - they have summer fruits even in the snow. And we have a new litter of pups in the kennels." His enthusiasm was a welcome, noisy thing that began to chip away at your frozen fear. Alys managed a shy, wobbly smile in return.

But movement behind Robb caught her eye. Another boy, holding back as if held by an invisible tether. Where Robb was bright energy, this boy was a still shadow. Where Robb was copper, this boy was black. And his eyes were the same storm-grey as his father, but he did not resemble his father fully.

"This my half-brother, Jon Snow," Robb said. He reached back and tugged the boy forward by his sleeve. The name hung cold in the air. 'Snow', the name for a bastard born in the North. Alys deduced quite quickly that Lady Catelyn was not his mother. It explained why he was reserved, why he stood further back than Robb and his other siblings. His own clothing was not a patch on the fine embroidered tunic Robb wore, or the dresses his sisters wore.

Jon Snow's eyes flicked over her swiftly, assessing her, then dropping his gaze to the muddy ground beneath his boots. Alys dipped her head and found her focus was no longer on the towering walls or direwolf banners... But on this boy who carried winter in his name.

The rhythm of her new life was etched in routine. Maester Luwin's chambers became a familiar haunt. Alys sat at the long oak table between Robb and Sansa, learning her histories, her sigils, her courtesies. Robb, always impatient with the quill, would nudge her foot under the table with a grin when Luwin droned about Andal migrations. He shared his honeycakes with her at breakfast, defended her teasingly when Arya declared her "squeamish," and included her in every game of knights-and-raiders in the yard. He was, in every visible way, the perfect friend and future lord. Alys was grateful for his friendship.

But her attention was pulled like a compass needle to Jon Snow.

In the practice yard, while Robb laughed and traded boastful shouts with Theon Greyjoy, their wooden sword a blur of enthusiastic motion, Jon would be a dozen paces away. He was instructed differently, albeit by the same Ser Rodrik Cassel who taught Robb and Theon. It was quieter and often of corrections, while Robb received praise in the dozens. Alys often saw the way he pushed himself longer and harder, even after Ser Rodrik had moved on, as if proving himself.

On rides beyond the walls, Robb was always at the head of the column, his auburn hair a star to follow, his voice ringing out as he challenged Theon to races. Somehow, Alys's pony would find its place beside Jon's shaggy garron. He rode in silence mostly, a quiet, watchful presence. But, without word, he was the first to point out the snowy owl perched in the distance, the spiderweb strung between two bushes like a diamond net. And one bitter afternoon, when the wind cut like a knife, it was Jon who saw her hands trembling.

"You'll get used to the cold," he said, is voice low, almost swallowed by the wind. It was the longest string of words he had ever directed solely to Alys.

She looked up, surprised he had spoken, more surprised he had noticed. Flexing her stiff, aching fingers, she asked "Will I?"

His eyes flicked to her hands and then back to the snow-dusted path ahead. "You have to," he stated, simple and absolute.

It wasn't a comfort. It wasn't the same cheerful response Robb would give. It was a stark truth, a survival tactic.

At the age of ten, the godswood became Alys's sanctuary. Robb found it unsettling, remarking that "The tree is always watching." But she was drawn to the deep quiet. The heart tree's face was always weeping, its red sap tears frozen forever, but it wasn't creepy. It was sad, and peaceful.

She found Jon there once autumn afternoon, sitting with his back against the massive white trunk, so still he seemed a part of the tree itself if he wasn't clad in black. Alys didn't announce herself. She simply sat in the carpet of rust-coloured leaves an arm's length away. The silence stretched, filled with the whisper of the leaves and the chitter of a squirrel.

"Do you pray here?" she questioned, the sound barely disturbing the air around them.

"Sometimes," he replied, his voice soft. "It's the only place that feels like mine."

A chord of understanding vibrated deep within her. A guest, a fostered girl. While she wore the fine clothes and ate at the high table, she didn't belong to anyone here. "Can it be ours?" she asked, the boldness leaping from her heart to her lips before she could cage it.

He turned his head then. His grey eyes finally met hers. He searched her face, and for the first time, she saw something real within them. A faint smile reached his mouth, something so rare. "Sure," he said, "It can be ours."

From that day, the godswood was their shared kingdom. Jon's silence unravelled into words - words of his dream to become a knight so great that men would forget his name was ever 'Snow.' Alys confessed that she often cried for home, for her mother's voice and the slow rivers of home.

At thirteen, the world tilted. The easy, genderless companionship of childhood soured and sweetened simultaneously. Alys noticed the new breadth of Jon's shoulders straining against his jerkin, the sharp line of his jaw where his boyish softness had once been. A casual brush of his hand while passing a practice sword sent a jolt up her arm that had nothing to do with the cold. She caught him looking at her, too - his eyes lingering on the curve of her cheek, the way her dark hair caught the light.

The kiss happened in the godswood. A bickering over saddles when the argument died mid-sentence. She stared at his lips while he stared at hers.

The first touch was a question. It was soft and hesitant, polite. But the kiss deepened, a slow claiming born of years of shared secrets and silent understanding. His calloused hands came up to cradle her face with a trembling gentleness that made Alys's knes buckle. When they parted, she gasped.

"I love you, Jon Snow," she whispered.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against hers. "I love you," he whispered back, his voice rough. "I shouldn't, but Gods help me, I do."

It became a secret world layered atop the real one. Stolen, breathless moments stolen behind the heart tree. Fingers brushed as they passed on the staircase, a touch that burned like fire. Whispers in the dim library of what a future could look like for them if they'd take the plunge. A child's fantasy, but Alys clung to it.

And when she was sixteen, her world crumbled.

The summons came just after breakfast, a cold knot forming in her stomach when she saw her father standing with Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. Tight smiles and pleasured expressions. Their words were spoken with formal grace of alliances and strengthened bonds. A future for Alys in the North.

To wed Robb Stark.

A tidal wave crashed over her, ice water flooding her bones, freezing the air in her lungs. Alys smiled politely, ever the dutiful daughter and ward.

"Robb is a fine young man," Lord Edmyn said, beaming. "A credit to your house, my lord. What an honour for my daughter to be the Lady of Winterfell some day!"

A sound escaped, a choked gasp that they all interpreted as overwhelmed joy. She was excused while details were agreed upon.

She found him at the top of the old broken tower, the wind whipping his dark curls like a banner. He stared north, towards the unseen Wall. "Jon," she gasped, her tears spilling. "They... they said..."

"I know." His voice was hollow. "Robb told me."

She clutched at the wool of his sleeve, "We could run away tonight. The Free Cities across the narrow sea are waiting for us."

He turned, his eyes not the warm grey but the stormy grey of a tombstone. "It was a dream," he said, his words releasing an anchor that kept her grounded in reality. "Just a dream, Alys."

"We can make it real."

"How?" The world was a crack, cruel and stark. "I have nothing to give you. Nothing to offer. I'm a bastard." Alys swallowed the hard lump in her throat as her lips parted ever so slightly, breathing in as if she could hardly get a breath. "And I can't stay and watch you, with him. So I'm taking the black."

The ground beneath Alys seemed to vanish. The Night's Watch. Eternal exile. No family, no legacy, no future. He was choosing to erase himself from the world rather than watch her play the dutiful role of Robb's wife.

"No..." she whispered.

"Robb will be a good husband to you. You know he will."

He reached out, a rough and familiar thumb ghosting over her cheek to rid the tears that fell. A farewell. He left her alone in the biting wind, a future she had envisioned for herself blowing in the wind like ashes.

For hours, Alys Reed moved through Winterfell like a ghost. The cheerful bustle of the castle preparing for a wedding was a mocking noise. She found herself in the library, a place of solace, but the words on the scroll before her blurred into meaningless black marks. She was simply existing in a state of suspended shock, the echo of Jon's final words repeating like a drum.

She didn't hear him approach. She only sensed a shift in the light as a broad figure filled the space beside her high-backed chair. Robb sat on a wooden bench a respectful distance away.

For a long time, he said nothing. The silence was different from the easy quiet they used to share. This was heavy. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, stripped of its usual confidence, and utterly earnest. "I'm glad it's you," he said.

The simplicity of it cut through Alys's numbness. She turned her head slightly, seeing his profile in the dusty light from the high window. He was staring at his own hands, clasped loosely between his knees.

"It could have been anyone. But a friend..." He let out a soft, humourless breath. "A friend is a good place to start, don't you think?"

The kindness in his words was a needle pricking at the bubble of her grief. She tried to speak, to offer some reciprocal assurance, but her throat had sealed itself shut. She could only nod, her eyes burning.

Then another silence descended. Alys could feel him gathering himself. His next words were spoken with a careful, deliberate neutrality, his gaze fixed on a tapestry of the Long Night on the far wall.

"I know," he said, the two words clear and calm as ice on a still pond, "that you've always loved Jon."

The world stopped. Her breath vanished. An icy chill raced from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. Her head snapped towards him, eyes wide with fear. "Robb, I..." she stammered.

He held up a hand, a sharp gesture but not angry. "You don't have to say anything. It's all right." He finally turned to look back at her, his Tully-blue eyes clear, understanding and pained. "I've seen the way you looked at him, the way your laughter changed when he entered a room."

The exposure was complete. Alys sat there, utterly naked in her secret.

"It will not be spoken of again," he continued. His voice was firm, the friend receding and the future Lord of Winterfell stepping forth. "We have a duty now. One that cannot be overlooked. You must be loyal to me, as I will be loyal to you. In all things."

He paused. He offered a small, crooked smile, a flicker of the boy she'd ridden beside and laughed with showing through. "Beyond that, you are my friend. I trust you, and I will always protect you."

The wave that hit Alys was a turbulent sea. A staggering, knee-weakening relief washed over her first. He did not cast her aside, or mock her, but offered a way forward. Then came the aching sadness. He asked only for loyalty and honour, a partnership that a marriage could be built upon.

"Thank you, Robb," she whispered. And she meant it with every shattered piece of her heart.

The wedding day passed over her like a strange, silent storm. Moving through the rituals, encased in a shell of numbness, Alys was removed of her Reed cloak and was placed by Robb's heavy, fur-lined cloak of winter. Its significance weighed down of her, no longer a riverlands girl but a creature of the North.

Her vows were whispers lost beneath the high stone walls. Her eyes reamined downcast, fixed on the woven pattern of the rug, afraid to see the sea of faces. But once her gaze flickered up, she was drawn to a familiar figure.

There, standing in the shadows of an archway, was Jon. He was already clad in black, the wool a stark contrast to the celebratory colours of the wedding ceremony. He stood alone, his face a mask of perfect stillness. He did not look at Alys, his eyes fixed above the septon performing the rites. The sight was final. The boy from the godswood was already gone.

Later, the raucous cheers and bawdy songs of the wedding party faded, swallowed by the thick oak door of Robb's chamber - now Alys's chamber. The heavy thud of the bolt sliding was the loudest sound in the world.

A generous fire crackled in the hearth, painting dancing shadows on the tapestries of battles and wolves. The room was warm and utterly alien. She stood in the centre of the room, her wedding gown of silver-grey and blue satin feeling much like a ridiculous costume than a beautiful dress.

She heard Robb move, simply leaning against the solid wood of the door, as if needing its support. Alys forced herself to look at him, seeing his auburn curls and his pale face beneath freckles, and his shoulder slumped. He looked young and nervous.

His voice, when it came, was soft and bare. "Tonight... We don't... Don't have to." he said, the words halting.

Alys stared at her husband. Robb was offering an escape hatch, a reprieve. It was a kindness, the one Jon had told her he had. But she remembered the lessons drilled into them by Maester Luwin. A marriage unconsummated was a contract unsigned, an alliance easily broken. Looking at him now, she saw he didn't deserve the reluctant bride he's been given. He needed his wife's commitment.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "We must."

He searched her face for a long moment, and then gave a solemn nod. He understood. When he pushed away from the door and walked towards her, he did it slowly.

His fingers were clumsy on the intricate laces of her gown, but they were gentle and patient. He worked slowly, giving Alys time to breath, to absorb her new reality, to understand what was about to take place. The layers of silk and satin pooled at her feet, leaving her in a simple white shift. He pulled at his own tunic, leaving himself bare over his torso. In the firelight, she saw the strong, lean lines of his body, the scattering of copper hair across his chest. It wasn't what she had been expecting, but she also wasn't sure what she had been expecting.

He began to touch her then. It was nothing like the stolen caresses in the godswood with Jon. His hands mapped the slopes and planes of her body, his kisses were not hungry but questioning and tender. He was learning her.

Somewhere, deep beneath the cold numbness of grief, she felt a kindled spark. His skin was warm against hers, the softness of his lips on the shell of her ear, the whisper of her name. She buckled and turned her head, meeting his lips with a fire he'd never expected. Alys had thought she could get through it by thinking of Jon, imagining that it was Jon she lay beside, but in this moment, she was watching Robb and deliberately traced her fingertips down his naval.

A sudden, sharp current of bravery surged through her. It felt less like courage and more like necessity - a final act to bridge the chasm of her own fear. Before her nerves could rebel, her fingers found the fabric of her shift and tugged. The linen whispered against her skin as it slid down her body.

He hadn't expected that. His breath caught, a soft intake of air. His gaze now travelled over her - the gentle slope of her waist, the softness of her hips, the shy curve of her breasts. He was dazed in a grateful wonder.

Within moments, they had made it over to the bed, with Robb discarding himself of his boots and breeches along the way. There was a sharp pain that made her gasp and stiffen, but he simply held her and stroked her temple with his thumb. When he began moving, he did so with a slow, careful rhythm. And the feeling... changed. The pain receded, replaced by a gathering fullness. A coil that began to tighten low in her belly. A small sound escaped her lips and her hands flew to touch his body.

Her mind no longer thought of godswoods and grey eyes. There was only Robb. The feel of his heartbeat against hers, the rhythm they found together, the sensation she had no name for that he brought out in her... How could she have overlooked him?

The coil finally snapped and Alys shook against him. A moment later, Robb's body shuddered against hers with a choked gasp.

For a long time, there was only the sound of the crackling fire and their breaths. Robb then moved, pulling the furs up over her cooled skin.

Tears welled, spilling hot and silent down her temple and into her hair. They were not bitter tears, but born of confusion, overwhelmed-ness, and of an awe of her husband. They had done their duty, but it had opened a door inside that she thought she'd closed forever when Jon broke her heart.

Alys turned her head to look at him, his blue eyes staring back at her, wholly focused on her. Her fingertips rose to graze the stubble of her chin as he placed his hand on her hip, pulling her body closer to his.

"I didn't know I could misjudge my own heart," she whispered against him.

He smiled, true and bright, and he tucked her head beneath his chin, his arms a steady shelter. She closed her eyes, feeling her husbands slow breaths and hearing the northern wind moaning outside.

Her mother's voice cut through the silence. Visenna turned. Alicent stood by the great, oak table, her hands resting on a scroll. She looked older than her years these days. "Come. We must speak."

"Is it about the petition from the Reach?" Visenna asked, crossing the room. She tried to sound engaged, every inch the dutiful princess. "Ser Tyland said their grain stores-"

"It is about your future," Alicent interrupted, her gaze unwavering. "And the future of our house."

A cold trickle, like meltwater from the Blackwater, traced Visenna's spine. "My future?"

Alicent unrolled the scroll, thought Visenna knew she did not need to read its contents. They were etched in her mind. "The war cost us everything. Your father, your grandfather, your nephew, your brother and sister..." Helaena's fate was a wound too fresh. Alicent closed her eyes, steadying herself. "The line of succession is... perilous. Aegon sits the throne, but his heir is Jaehaera."

A sweet, shattered girl who jumped at shadows and spoke to spiders. The last child surviving of a union that had brought only grief.

"The realm will not accept another queen regnant," Alicent stated, the political reality as hard as iron. "Not after Rhaenyra. Not after the blood that was spilled over that very question. The precedent is set, however foul the means. The throne must pass through a male line."

Visenna's breath began to feel tight in her chest. "Aegon could remarry."

A flicker of profound exhaustion crossed Alicent's face. "He will not even entertain the notion. Between the wine and his injuries, it is... uncertain if he even could."

The vulgar truth, laid bare.

"That leaves Aemond," Alicent said, and the name hung in the air, inevitable as a sword's fall. "Aemond is the last viable Targaryen male. He secured our victory in the God's Eye. When Aegon's time is done, the throne will pass to him. But to secure the succession, to bind our claim with unassailable strength, he must marry and his heirs must be of pure Valyrian blood."

Alicent's eyes finally softened, a tragic softness. "It must be you, Visenna."

The world tilted. The stone floor beneath her seems wobbly. "Mother... no. He is my brother."

"You are Targaryens," Alicent replied. "Your father and I, we planned for Helaena and Aegon. This is no different. It is necessity. It is duty."

But it was different. Visenna had seen how Helaena shrivelled in Aegon's presence. They were not suited.

And Aemond... Aemond was not Aegon. Aegon's attentions had been an occasional neglect. Aemond's attentions were a constant pressure. Since she had bloomed into womanhood, his single eye had followed her with a intensity that made her skin prickle. His "kindness" felt like a branding. You are mine. He never said it, but she heard it in every word, saw it in every glance. His adoration was a cage, his possessiveness a shackle. To be bound to him, for life, to share his bed, to bear his children... It terrified Visenna.

"I cannot," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please, Mother. There must be another way. A cousin from across the sea..."

"There is no other way that keeps our family on the throne!" Alicent's composure cracked, her voice rising to a desperate hiss. "Do you think I want this for you? Do you think I am blind? I see how he looks at you." Visenna stepped back. Alicent smoothed her hands down her dress. "But he will protect you when I am gone. He will secure the blood of our house and he will do it with you by his side. It is all that matters now."

The finality in her mother's eyes extinguished Visenna's hope. Alicent had made her calculation, weighing her daughter's fear against the cold arithmetic of power.

Visenna fled. She did not run to her chambers. She ran through the serpentine passages of the Keep, her slippers whispering on stone, until she found herself outside the doors to the King’s solar. The two knights of the Kingsguard stiffened at her approach. She was dishevelled, her eyes wild.

"I must see my brother," she demanded, her voice hoarse.

"His Grace is not to be disturbed, Princess," one intoned.

"He will see me." She put every ounce of royal will she possessed into the words. Perhaps it was the ghost of her father in her face or the desperation in her eyes, but after a moment’s hesitation, the knight nodded and opened the door.

The stench hit her first: sour wine, unwashed bodies and the cloying scent of medicinal ointments. The solar was shrouded in gloom, heavy drapes drawn against the afternoon sun. Aegon the Second, the Conqueror Reborn, sat slumped in a high-backed chair by a dead fireplace. A goblet dangled from his fingers. He was gaunt, the handsome youth burned away by fire and grief, leaving a craggy, pain-ridden man of three and twenty. His unkept silver-gold hair falling over eyes that were glassy and distant.

"Who dares…?" he slurred, then squinted. "Little sister? Have you come to scold me for skipping council again? Tell Mother I’m contemplating the realm’s… the realm’s…"

"I am to be married," Visenna said, the words bursting from her.

Aegon blinked slowly. "Good. Fine. You should be. Pretty thing like you. Get you out of this… this... whatever this is." He took a long drink.

"They are giving me to Aemond."

The goblet stopped halfway to his lips. For a long moment, the only sound was a drip of wine hitting the Myrish rug. Aegon’s bloodshot eyes focused, sharpening from a drunkard’s haze into something darker, more alert. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Then, deliberately, he drained the cup and reached for the flagon. "So? He’s a prince. You’re a princess. Targaryens wed. It’s what we do." He poured, his movements careful, too careful.

Visenna stepped closer, the desperation breaking like a wave inside her. "He believes I belong to him. He always has. You know this. Mother says it is for the succession, because Jaehaera is a girl and you will not remarry."

Aegon let out a bitter, wet chuckle. "Smart man, my brother. Knows what he wants." He swirled the wine, not looking at her. "It solves a problem. Let him have it. Let him have the throne and you with it. I’m tired of problems."

This was going all wrong. He was supposed to be angry, to be protective, to be… a king. He was her last hope. The truth, the dangerous, secret truth she had guarded since she first understood the flutter in her chest when he smiled, broke free.

"I have always loved you."

The words fell into the stale air, stark and undeniable.

Aegon’s head snapped up. His gaze locked onto hers, the drunkenness burned away in an instant by a shock so profound it was almost comical.

Visenna pressed on, the dam broken. "When I was a girl, it was you I followed. You I dreamed of. Not him. Never him. And I know… I know you were wed to Helaena. I know I was too young. But I am not young now." She took a final, trembling step, her voice dropping to a whisper. "If you have ever cared for me, even a little, you will not let them do this. You are the king. Stop it."

For a heartbeat, she saw it. A fire, long buried, flickered in the depths of his sunken eyes. It was jealousy, yes, raw and possessive. It was memory of a time before the war, before the scars, when he was a careless prince and she was a bright-eyed child who adored him. It was something akin to hunger. Then, as if a shutter dropped, it vanished. His face smoothed into a mask of royal indifference. He looked away, back to his wine.

"Leave me, Visenna."

The dismissal was a physical blow. She stood frozen, humiliation and despair washing over her hotter than dragonfire. She had laid her soul bare before a man who had none left to give. Without another word, she turned and fled the room, the sound of his renewed drinking following her into the hall.

Time became a blur of silent tears and cold dread. Her maids prepared her for bed, their faces pitying and wary. They knew. The whole keep would know by now. She dismissed them, wanting only the merciful silence of her chambers. She stood in her shift by the window, watching the torches flicker in the yard below, feeling like a prisoner awaiting execution.

A soft knock at the door.

"Go away," she called, her voice thick.

The door opened anyway. Aegon stood there, framed in the torchlight of the corridor. He was sober, or as close to it as he ever came. The drunken slouch was gone, replaced by a tense rigidity. He had changed his tunic, and his hair was damp, as if he had dunked his head in a basin. He stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him.

Visenna pulled a robe around herself, her heart a frantic drum. "What do you want?"

He didn’t speak at first. He paced a short track on her carpet, his boots soundless. He looked at her things - the books, the lute, the portrait of their family painted in happier times - as if he’d never seen them. "You told Mother you refused," he stated.

"She did not listen."

"You came to me."

"You did not listen either."

He stopped pacing and faced her. The mask was gone. In its place was a raw, unnerving intensity. "I listened." He took a step closer. "You said you loved me."

Visenna held her ground, lifting her chin. "A foolish girl’s confession to a king who only loves his wine."

A ghost of his old, crooked smile touched his lips. "The king is tired of wine." He ran a hand through his damp hair, the gesture agitated. "You were right. About Aemond. About the succession. About… all of it." He let out a short, hard breath. "I went to Mother. I told her to stop the wedding."

Hope, fragile and dizzying, burst in Visenna’s chest. "And?"

"She asked me how. How could it be stopped, without inviting chaos? Without insulting Aemond. I gave her reasons of state, of… of stability. She looked at me as if I were still a child hiding behind her skirts." His eye twitched. "There is only one way to stop it, Visenna. One reason Aemond could not contest. One solution that answers every question of blood and succession."

He closed the final distance between them. He smelled of soap and the faint, lingering scent of iron and smoke that never left him. His hands came up, not to grab her, but to hover at her shoulders, as if she were a dragon he feared to startle.

"Marry me."

The world stopped. The words hung in the air, not as a question, but as a stark, terrifying proposition.

"You… you refused to even consider remarrying," she breathed.

"I was considering the wrong bride." His eyes searched her face, desperately seeking something - agreement, absolution, perhaps just an echo of his own madness. "It solves everything. The realm gets a queen of pure blood. The succession is secured through me, the sitting king, not a brother. And Aemond…" His jaw tightened. "Aemond cannot have what is the king’s."

What is the king’s. The words should have chilled her. Instead, they ignited a defiant fire. It was escape. It was victory. It was the fulfillment of a forbidden dream, twisted and born of desperation, but real.

"You would do this? Defy Mother? Defy Aemond?"

"I am the king," he said, and for the first time since his coronation, it sounded like a fact, not a burden. "I let them steer me through the war. I let them pick my wife, my council, my battles. I let them have my children, my dragon…" His voice cracked. He swallowed, his gaze burning into hers. "I will not let them have you."

He was broken, cruel, unpredictable, a shell of a man clinging to a throne of swords. But in this moment, he was hers. And she had loved the man he might have been for so long, it was easy to pour that love onto the wreckage that remained.

"You said you loved me," he whispered, his voice rough. "Was it just a trick to sway me?"

She looked up at him, at the scars, the pain, the desperate need in his eyes that mirrored her own. She thought of Aemond’s cold sapphire stare, his crushing possession. She thought of a lifetime as a broodmare for a man who saw her as a prize. Then she thought of this - a shared throne, a chance to heal a broken king and save herself.

"No," she said, her voice finally steady. "It was not a trick."

Relief, profound and shocking, washed over his face. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her lips. "Then say you will be my queen."

It was madness. It would ignite a different kind of war within their own walls. Alicent would rage. Aemond… she dared not think of Aemond’s wrath. But it was her choice. Her rebellion.

"Yes," she breathed.

The word was still hanging in the air when his lips met hers.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was a seal. A claim. It tasted of wine and desperation and a bitter, bloody victory. It was the first move in a new, more intimate dance of dragons. And as Visenna kissed him back, pouring every ounce of her fear, her hope, and her long-held love into it, she knew with certainty: