#merek posting | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

madamabelladonna · 6 months ago

Text

𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Young Lady Dayne knew survival in the Red Keep required more than caution—it demanded influence. After keeping her distance from Jacaerys, she finally accepted his apology, truly forgiving him. But as he left, she realized it might be long before she saw him again. In his place, a prince in green awaited. 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Rumors, Blood, Fighting, Doubt, Childbirth, Abuse (from Alicent) 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The Red Keep had grown colder with every passing day, as though the very stone absorbed the chill in the air. Each morning, you found yourself adding another layer to your attire, cloaking yourself in wool and velvet, though it did little to chase away the creeping frost.

Soon, winter would truly set in, and you wondered if snow would come to Kingslanding. You had never seen it before. The maesters described it in books as being soft and delicate, like sand, but cold—bitingly cold.

You sat perched on the windowsill, a heavy tome balanced on your knees, its worn pages brittle beneath your fingers. Outside, the sky was a dull grey, the sea of clouds casting a pale light into your chamber. The fire crackled weakly in the hearth, its warmth failing to reach the stone walls.

Isla entered quietly, her footsteps barely a whisper on the cold floor. “I’ve informed Prince Jacaerys that you were not feeling well,” Her words stirred the stillness of the room. You hadn’t spoken to Jacaerys since his eighth name day. Not out of anger, not even resentment, though there was a heaviness to it all.

Ever since that day, you had distanced yourself from him and his family—not because of Jacaerys, nor Rhaenyra, nor the persistent whispers of a potential marriage between you and the prince. It wasn’t even the fact that he had donned House Dayne’s colors at the feast, a gesture meant to honor you, but one that felt like a chain tightening around your neck.

No, what bothered you was the feeling of being maneuvered like a piece on a cyvasse board. Rhaenyra had planted Sienna, to watch over you, to report back every detail of your life. You knew it. Everyone knew it. And that knowledge gnawed at you, made your every step feel heavy, your every action scrutinized.

You had no doubt that by the next feast, both you and Merek would be dressed in purple. You were a pawn, and the nobles were watching, eyes glinting with judgment, already speculating which side you favored—Black or Green.

But you were not here to choose sides. You were an emissary of Dorne. You were here to maintain neutrality, to ensure that Dorne did not get caught in the bloody conflict to come.

The Seven Kingdoms may burn in the fires of civil war, but Dorne would not.

Peering over the edge of the book, you gave Isla a curt nod. “Thank you.” This wasn’t done out of anger, but out of necessity. You had to remain detached.

“May I get you anything else, my lady?” Isla asked, her tone laced with quiet concern. You glanced at her, noting the pity in her eyes, a softness you had once appreciated but now found suffocating. She had been in your service since your birth, but even she could see the change in you.

The Red Keep had already begun to erode the warmth of the Lady Dayne she once knew, leaving in its place someone colder, someone more guarded. You sighed. “Yes, you can start by wiping that expression off your face.” The words slipped out sharper than you intended, a bitter edge that caught you by surprise.

You hadn’t meant to be cruel, but you could not bear the pity—not from Isla, not from anyone. Isla lowered her head quickly, bowing once again. “Of course, my lady.” She moved to stand at her usual post, silent but ready, should you change your mind.

The fire cracked again, spitting sparks, but its warmth felt distant, as did everything else in this cold, foreign place.

‘Influence: the capacity to have an effect on the character, development, or behavior of someone or something, or the effect itself.’

You stared at the word, etched in bold on the worn page of the book, fingers gripping the spine tightly as if holding on to some hidden truth. The furrow in your brow deepened, teeth gnawing at your lower gum as you tried to comprehend what you had always known deep down.

It was a simple word, but in the Red Keep, it meant everything. Influence was the key to survival here. Without it, you were nothing.

Outside, the wind howled against the thick walls, rattling the iron window frames. The cold air seeped in despite the heavy drapes, reminding you of how vulnerable you truly were in this place. You pulled the book closer to your chest as if it could shield you from the political storm swirling around you.

The Red Keep was a battlefield in its own right, but not the kind fought with swords and shields. Men may dominate the courts and council chambers for now, but you knew the winds were changing. Soon, Princess Rhaenyra would ascend the throne and challenge the patriarchal grip on power. But standing in her way was Queen Alicent Hightower and her Green faction, poised and ready to strike.

The true power in the realm rested between these two women. Rhaenyra, the heir, and Alicent, the Queen Consort, both wielding influence over the men who fancied themselves rulers.

While the lords squabbled over titles and fought bloody wars, the real battle was being waged in the subtle smiles, the whispered promises, and the veiled threats exchanged between the highborn women. The weapons here weren’t made of steel but of charm and cunning.

You were young, far younger than most in this court, but you understood one thing clearly: if you were to survive, you needed influence. You couldn’t afford to be seen as a pawn to be played by either the Greens or the Blacks. Neutrality was your goal, but neutrality without power was a dangerous stance.

And so, your mind raced. How could you, a mere emissary of Dorne, so young and inexperienced, gain what these women had in abundance? You could ally yourself with another neutral house, but the reality of the Red Keep hit hard—there were no neutral houses left. Everyone had picked a side, whether openly or in whispers, and trust was a rare currency here.

No, you needed to do something bold, something that would force the hand of those in power to notice you. You needed to carve your own path in this treacherous court, and soon enough, the opportunity would come.

It was only a few days later when fate, as if hearing your silent plea, knocked at your door.

Literally.

The sound of knuckles rapping on the wood startled you from your reverie. It had been a week since you last spoke to Jacaerys or helped Lucerys with his studies, and the silence had been blissful. In that time, you and Merek had kept mostly to yourselves, enjoying quiet moments of respite amidst the storm.

This afternoon, the two of you were seated by the fire, a tray of freshly baked sweets between you. The warm scent of pastries filled the room, mingling with the faint smell of the crackling firewood. You savored the strawberry tart, its sweetness melting on your tongue, the perfect balance to the delicate white tea you sipped slowly.

Merek sat across from you, smirking as he picked at a slice of fruit pie. “Careful, sister. Should you keep at it, you’ll lose a tooth,” he teased, his blue eyes glinting with amusement.

You shot him a pointed look, wiping your mouth with a napkin. “Not before another knight plants a facer on you,” you retorted with a sly grin, recalling the last brawl he had found himself in. Your words hung between you like a challenge, but the warmth in the room softened the edge of your banter.

Before he could reply, the knock at the door came again, louder this time, and both of you turned your heads toward the sound. Merek raised an eyebrow, a question forming on his lips, but you were already rising from your seat, curiosity pulling you forward.

The door creaked open, revealing a messenger, his breath clouding in the cold air. He bowed, not meeting your gaze, as he handed you a sealed parchment.

You glanced at Merek, a silent understanding passing between you, “What brings you here?” inquired Merek, he held a scrutinizing gaze at the messenger. The man, likely intimidated by Merek's standing tensed for a brief moment, “There is a visitor for the Lady Dayne…”

Believing it to be Jacaerys or Lucerys, “If it is either one of the princes, please do tell them that I’m feeling unwell.” you instructed, but the man shook his head. He rose up, “It is neither the princes, my lady. But rather a…” he trailed off looking back at the door.

“A woman of… peculiar standing…” he finished.

You frowned, already scrutinizing his choice of words. It couldn’t be Rhaenyra; those who might describe her as peculiar—Alicent, or perhaps Ser Criston—would have chosen sharper words, laced with venom, not this tepid uncertainty.

“Send her in,” you ordered.

Merek’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Sister, are you certain?” he asked, his voice edged with concern. He’d seen you fooled before, seen you lower your guard, and it had cost you. The scars of that lesson were as much his burden as yours.

You met his gaze with a firm nod. “I am.” Still doubtful, he hesitated, then gave a resigned sigh. Stepping aside, he gestured to the guards. The heavy door groaned on its hinges, letting in a gust of cool air—and a figure cloaked in twilight hues.

The woman entered with a deliberate stride, her auburn hair streaked with gray and her face weathered but commanding. She paused just within the threshold, brushing the dust from her travel-worn cloak and straightening her skirts. Her hands, you noticed, bore the marks of labor—calluses and scars hidden beneath jeweled rings.

Merek’s hand hovered near Dawn’s pommel, the greatsword resting against his chair. Its polished edge caught the light, a subtle warning. The woman’s sharp eyes darted toward the blade, her lips twitching in acknowledgment.

“Lady Dayne,” she greeted, her voice a curious blend of cheer and steel. She stepped forward, only for Merek to rise, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. His grip on Dawn tightened.

The woman stopped, palms raised in mock surrender. “Peace, ser. I come unarmed.” Her smile, thin, turned to you. “Lady Dayne, I thank you for this audience.”

You studied her closely. The lines of her face, the way she held herself—this was a woman shaped by survival. She had the look of someone who bartered in shadows, dealing truths and lies in equal measure.

“What brings a woman of your ilk here?” you asked, your voice cool and unyielding.

The woman’s smile deepened, her eyes gleaming with something almost playful. “Ah, straight to the heart of it. I admire that.” She clasped her hands before her, the motion practiced, almost theatrical.

“I am but a humble tailor from the Westerlands,” she began, her tone light, almost flippant. “Entrusted by the Lannisters themselves to craft their finest garments.”

At the mention of Lannisters, your jaw tightened. The West’s intrigues were an unending web, and you had no desire to tangle yourself in them.

“It was at Prince Jacaerys’ nameday,” she continued, her voice gaining momentum, “amidst the grandeur and gilded halls, that I beheld your dress. Her gaze grew fervent, her words charged with reverence.

“A work of art, my lady. The fabric, the cut, the embroidery— Inspirational!”

You said nothing, letting her reveal her true aim. “Speak plainly,” you said at last. “What is it you truly want?”

She stopped short, blinking, then nodded hastily. “Of course, my lady. Forgive my ramblings. I’ve come to offer my services.” She covered her mouth to stifle a cough, then cleared her throat. “Never have I seen such silks, and I dare say none in the Seven Kingdoms could rival them.”

Her voice grew more impassioned, her gestures sweeping. “With your beauty and my craft, we could create garments to rival the stars themselves. I have a roof of girls—nimble fingers and eager minds—ready to bring our vision to life. Dornish fabrics, embroidery fit for queens. Imagine the court, my lady, whispering your name—not for your lineage, but your radiance.”

The room fell silent, her words hanging heavy in the still air. Merek’s stance stiffened beside you, his grip firm on Dawn’s hilt. His eyes spoke the warning he didn’t voice: A trap? A scheme? The woman’s fervor could be genuine, but deception often wore the mask of sincerity.

You leaned forward slightly, “And what would you ask in return?” fingers steepling beneath your chin.

“That you become my muse!”

She declared, the words bursting from her like a caged bird set free.

Both you and Merek exchanged startled glances, caught off-guard by the audacity of her proposition. She pressed on before either of you could respond.

“All I ask is that you consider my offer, my lady,” she said, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Should you agree, my greatest works—my life’s masterpiece—shall be yours and yours alone.”

Merek’s grimace deepened, his skepticism evident. “How are we to trust the word of a seamstress who serves the Lannisters?” His tone was sharp, probing for weakness.

The woman turned to face him fully, her posture unfaltering despite the blade’s looming presence. “Because,” she said, her voice cool but edged with a peculiar fire, “for all the riches the Lannisters possess, for all their gold and splendor, their hair gleaming like the veins of their mines, they fail in one regard.”

She turned back to you, her eyes bright and unyielding, her words deliberate. “They fail to inspire the greatest of flames.”

The room seemed to darken, the shadows lengthening with the weight of her statement. Her gaze locked with yours, her meaning sharp as a dagger. The challenge she posed was clear: to light a fire so brilliant it could blind even the lions of Casterly Rock.

‘Influence: the capacity to have an effect on the character, development, or behavior of someone or something, or the effect itself.’

In Kingslanding, influence was not merely a tool; it was the lifeblood of survival, the unseen force driving every whisper, every subtle nod, and every blade thrust in the dark. To endure the unrelenting tug-of-war between Green and Black, you would need it in abundance.

As an emissary of Dorne and the daughter of Lord Julius Dayne, you could not afford to openly align yourself with either faction—at least, not yet. The sands of time had to shift before that decision could be made.

Here, neutrality was an illusion. No house stood untouched by the tides of war. Yet, who was to say that influence could only flow from the highborn?

The common folk were a vast and often overlooked reservoir of power. Their whispers could build legends or tear them apart. If you accepted this woman’s offer, you could weave a web of connections that stretched far beyond the halls of the Red Keep.

You might be eight, but even a child could recognize the value of a golden goose flying within reach. Dorne’s legacy rested on your small shoulders, and if this woman could aid you in building something greater, why not seize the opportunity?

“What name shall I call my partner?” you asked, your voice calm yet commanding. She hadn’t introduced herself, skipping straight to her breathless ramblings about that fateful night and the dress your father had sent.

The woman paused, then dipped into a bow so deep her shoulder nearly met the height of your head. “Alora,” she said, her voice soft but unwavering.

“Just Alora.”

You turned the hair comb over in your hands, its delicate craftsmanship catching the light. Alora had chosen silver inlaid with small, polished stones of varying hues—amber, onyx, and a pale blue that reminded you of the Dornish skies before a storm.

Her note accompanying it had been brief, as always, but the message was clear: For the Lady Dayne, a star that outshines the rest.

Alora had returned to the Westerlands to gather her girls and materials, promising to establish her work in King’s Landing within a moon’s turn. True to her word, she sent a stream of accessories—hairpins, necklaces, even small embroidered ribbons—to expand your already burgeoning wardrobe.

To call it growth was an understatement; your collection had transformed into a display of opulence rivaling that of the Queen herself. Each piece was another string added to the web of influence you quietly wove.

The plan was simple, if ambitious: Alora would come to the capital, her girls in tow, and set up a boutique. Yet her insistence on working within the city walls puzzled you. It wasn’t as though Kingslanding held any particular charm beyond its political gravity.

The reek of unwashed bodies, rotting refuse, and stagnant water greeted all who approached long before the city gates came into view. For a seat of power, the stench was almost a warning—a reminder of what rot often festered beneath Red Keep’s facades.

You placed the comb on the polished surface of your vanity and rose, stepping to the window. The midday sun bathed the city in a harsh, revealing light. Smoke curled lazily from countless chimneys, mingling with the haze of life below.

Somewhere out there, Alora and her caravan would arrive, bringing with them not just fabrics and needles, but the means to shift your standing in a court fraught with deadly alliances and dangerous ambitions.

You didn’t fully trust her, of course. Trust was a luxury few could afford in King’s Landing. But you didn’t need trust to see the value of what she offered. Influence was sewn into every stitch of silk she brought, every jewel she set into gold.

Perhaps one day you would come to trust her fully. Alora had already proven herself a visionary in ways few could understand. She had made her own mark, and in time, she might do the same for you.

To guide you in this, you sought counsel from Rupert, who had been your mentor since your arrival in King's Landing. Though he was far away, in Starfall, the letters exchanged between you were frequent and full of wisdom.

Every word he sent was calculated, advising patience, caution, and occasionally urging you to strike when the moment felt right. And despite the distance, he was always watching, always providing direction, a guiding hand from afar.

You had also written to your father, requesting not only his advice but his support—funds for Alora and her girls to secure a place in the capital swiftly. House Dayne may not have possessed the deep coffers of the Yronwoods, but that did not mean the coffers on your island were shallow.

The Dayne wealth, though less public, ran deep, and your father, ever proud of your initiative, had sent you more gold than you had actually requested. His reply had been quick, with a note of approval tucked between the coins.

He was pleased that his daughter had taken the initiative to reach out, considering you rarely wrote to him compared to your mother and Rupert—especially after sending you and Merek off to the capital.

And then there was Merek. His silent support had been invaluable. He had kept his watch over you, allowing Alora to come and go without interference, though he or Ser Cassian had never been far.

Merek, ever the shadow to your light, understood the ways of protection. He knew, as well as anyone, that not all shields were made of steel. If this was your way of safeguarding yourself, he would stand by it.

The thought of your brother, your father, and your own careful maneuvering brought a sharp sense of pride—and yet, a deeper understanding of the politics you were now wading through. King’s Landing was a city of wolves, and you were learning to dance among them.

You handed the bejeweled hair comb to Isla, watching as her face lit up with the sight of the intricate piece. "Could you please put this in my hair?" you requested.

She nodded, her smile soft and respectful. "Of course, my lady." She guided you to the stool before her, and you sat down, feeling the cool touch of her hands as she worked over your tresses.

Isla was gentle but skilled, each movement precise as she set the comb delicately in place, arranging your hair in a way that both highlighted the beauty of the comb and kept the look dignified.

The comb gleamed against your locks, the jewels catching the light, a reminder of the alliances you were carefully nurturing. You studied your reflection in the mirror, seeing not just the girl you were, but the woman you were becoming.

You still weren’t speaking to Jace or Luke, and their attempts to reconnect with you had dwindled to near nothing. The strain between you and them felt like an aching wound you couldn't quite heal.

You missed them, truly, but after Jacaerys’ nameday—the implied marriage—it had all become too much to bear. The casual gestures of friendship from them now seemed tainted by something darker, something that made every interaction feel suffocating.

You had noticed how both Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra regarded you, their eyes sharper when you danced with the former’s sons, the smiles forced or thin-lipped. It wasn’t subtle—the undercurrent of tension, the unspoken judgment in their glances.

You were aware of the game being played, and though you weren’t about to start a war, you certainly weren’t going to make it any easier for them. This was not your fight—not yet.

With your avoidance of Rhaenyra’s sons, your presence in the capital had become increasingly solitary. The walls of your chambers felt more like a prison than a place of rest, and it was growing more difficult to find solace in the same monotonous routine.

Days bled into nights, and the only thing that changed was the flicker of candlelight. You could no longer ignore the dull ache of confinement.

‘A visit to the royal library.’ you thought. There, you could lose yourself in texts, perhaps find a distraction—anything to escape the growing sense of stagnation. It was a place of knowledge, where words could silence the rest of the world, if only for a while.

Once Isla had finished pinning the comb into your hair—her fingers gentle and steady, the delicate ornament resting in place as though it had always belonged there—you stood, shaking off the lingering weariness that seemed to settle in your bones.

You had no time to waste on it. You needed a change of scenery, even if it meant facing the sprawling halls of the Red Keep once more.

With a nod to Isla, who followed dutifully behind you, you exited your chambers. The cool stone floors beneath your feet were familiar, but today they felt different—less confining, more like a path leading you away from the staleness of your isolation.

As you walked through the corridors, your mind continued to whirl with the thought of the royal library, an oasis of knowledge that might offer you a brief respite from the tension that had settled over the capital.

You needed a moment to breathe, to think outside the confines of your chambers and the invisible walls of the court's incessant drama. The library, you told yourself, would be the perfect escape—away from the watchful eyes and the heavy silence that clung to your every move.

But the world had other plans.

As you moved through the grand hall, something shifted in the air. The usual murmur of court chatter began to fade, and the people around you seemed to press themselves against the stone walls, creating a narrow path down the middle of the corridor. The movement was subtle, but unmistakable.

“My lady–.”

Isla’s hands were suddenly on your shoulders, pulling you back, snapping you out of your reverie. You stumbled, the interruption jarring as you looked up, confusion clouding your expression.

A trail of blood lay ahead, dark and stark against the pale stone. Your gaze followed it, heart quickening as you realized it led up the stairs.

Staggering with difficulty, Rhaenyra ascended, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Ser Laenor was at her side, his arm around her waist, helping her move with hesitant steps.

But it was the blood—rich, crimson—that stole your breath. It pooled at her feet and trickled down beneath her dress, the fabric stained, telling a story you didn’t yet understand. A story that made your stomach tighten with unease.

You took a step back, your instincts pulling you closer to Isla, your protector in this sea of uncertainty. “Isla… w-what’s happening?” Your voice barely rose above a whisper, a soft tremor betraying your youth.

Isla’s grip on your shoulders softened, her fingers beginning to rub small, soothing circles against the tense muscles there. Her eyes, filled with an empathy that was almost too deep for someone so young, met yours.

She didn’t offer answers, only understanding—a quiet acknowledgment of your confusion. “We women have our own battles to endure.” Her words were heavy, pregnant with meaning.

You didn’t fully understand them yet, but there was a knowing in her voice, a wisdom borne from experience. The bloodied trail that led to Rhaenyra spoke of something that you could not name, not yet, but something that every woman in the room recognized instinctively.

Childbirth, some say it is the greatest joy and the greatest loss. You were still too young to know the full depth of what Isla meant, but the reality of what you had just witnessed began to sink in.

A woman’s worth in the eyes of the world, of the court, was often determined by her ability to bear children. A working womb was a currency in the marriage market, and yet, it was also a battleground—one where victory could bring joy, but defeat could claim everything.

You took a shaky breath, the lingering tension from what you had just witnessed still prickling at the back of your mind.

Isla’s hands, gentle and reassuring, massaged the tightness from your shoulders, but it wasn’t enough to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “Let us make haste.” It was time to get away, to think—to regain some semblance of control.

Turning on your heel, you decided to take the longer route. Perhaps it would give you more time to collect your thoughts, to sort through the whirlwind of guilt, confusion, and fear that had crept into your chest.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

As you moved through the corridor, your heart skipped a beat. Ahead of you, walking with casual ease, were the very two princes you had been avoiding for weeks: Jacaerys and Lucerys.

They were talking animatedly, one of them holding a dragon egg in hand, its delicate shell gleaming in the light. Ser Harwin, ever the vigilant protector, accompanied them.

Lucerys, the younger of the two, reached out eagerly toward the egg. “Let me hold it, Jace!” His hands made a grabbing motion, the excitement clear on his face.

Jacaerys, ever the responsible elder brother, shook his head, clutching the egg closer to his chest. “No! You’ll drop it,” he replied with a teasing but firm tone.

He had already allowed Lucerys the honor of choosing the egg for their younger brother, but the responsibility of holding it seemed to remain with him.

Then, just as you were trying to gather your composure, Jacaerys’ gaze shifted from his younger brother and landed squarely on you. His steps faltered.

The quiet stillness between you seemed to stretch for an eternity, the air thick with unspoken words. Lucerys and Ser Harwin halted behind him, both sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

It had been weeks since Jacaerys had last seen you, and now, in the empty corridor, the world seemed to pause around the two of you. Ser Harwin stood motionless by their side, his gaze flicking between you and Jacaerys with a knowing look, though he said nothing.

Lucerys, always quick to react, followed his brother’s gaze. When his eyes landed on you, they lit up with recognition, and his face brightened with a childlike excitement.

“Wren!” he exclaimed, the name falling from his lips with such warmth that it made your chest tighten. His desire to hold the dragon egg seemed to vanish in an instant as he turned toward you, eager to close the distance.

You froze, panic surging through you. Your heart raced as you heard the unmistakable sound of Lucerys’ footsteps starting toward you.

‘No,’ you thought desperately, your mind screaming at you to escape, to turn away. ‘I can’t look at them.’

Not after what you had seen—after witnessing their mother in such a fragile state, bleeding and broken, a reminder of the pain that came with bearing children, with being a woman in a world that demanded so much of you.

You could not bear the thought of facing them now, of seeing their faces after your silence, after the distance you had placed between yourself and them.

You gulped audibly, your breath catching in your throat. It felt like you were suffocating in that moment, the weight of guilt pressing down on your chest.

The distance you had put between yourself and them—was it right?

You had been avoiding them, avoiding this connection, but for what?

For your own safety?

For your peace of mind?

Or had it been something more selfish?

Just as Lucerys was about to rush forward, his eyes wide with hope, you took a small, deliberate step back. Your heart ached as you looked at him, and then at Jacaerys, who stood frozen, staring at you with a mixture of longing and confusion in his gaze.

You felt torn in that instant—torn between the desire to turn toward them and the overwhelming urge to run, to escape the uncertainty and pain of reconnecting. But you could not allow yourself to be swept away by emotions now.

Not yet.

Without a word, you turned abruptly, forcing yourself to push forward. Your steps quickened as you distanced yourself from them, your mind spinning with guilt and frustration. You couldn’t bring yourself to face them—not like this. Not after what had happened.

And yet, in the silence that followed your hasty retreat, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside you had broken just a little more.

You turned the corner without thinking, your steps quickening into a near-run, driven by the frantic need to escape, to outrun the ghosts of what you had just left behind.

Isla’s voice called out behind you, “M-My Lady?” but you didn’t slow down. The sound of her footsteps grew fainter as you pushed forward, focusing only on putting distance between you and the princes who had been chasing you down.

But then, just as you thought you might have lost them, you heard it—the unmistakable pounding of feet from the hall behind. Jacaerys and Lucerys were running after you, their voices just audible above the noise of your pulse thundering in your ears.

They weren’t giving up. You could feel the dread crawling under your skin, making it impossible to move with any sort of calm.

What would you do if they caught up to you? What could you say? Your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to push harder.

Your thoughts became a blur, consumed by guilt, fear, and confusion, until suddenly, you collided with someone.

“Oof!”

You both stumbled, the impact shocking your body and forcing you to steady yourself. You blinked in a daze, your breath coming quick as your eyes tried to focus on the person before you. When they cleared, your gaze was met with cold violet eyes.

Prince Aemond.

Of course it had to be him.

Aemond’s posture remained stiff, his presence like a wall in the narrow corridor. His expression was unreadable, a carefully composed mask, but there was something in the way his violet eyes softened just enough to cut through the fog of your panic.

It was an odd mixture of frustration and something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

His silver hair, so much like his siblings', was neatly slicked back, his sharp features accentuated by the tension that clung to him. For a moment, his gaze held steady on you, but then it flickered briefly toward the hall from which you’d come.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he took in the sight of Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Ser Harwin still standing just behind you and your maid. The princes were closing in, and Aemond noticed it—perhaps more keenly than anyone else.

The brief silence that followed was heavy, but Aemond was the first to break it, his voice cutting through the stillness with a quiet, almost bored tone. “Off to go to the library?” his gaze shifting back to you with an odd sort of intensity.

You didn’t respond with words, only offering him a small, quick nod. It was enough. He didn’t need to hear your voice, for it was clear that you were attempting to flee the very strain that had hung in the air for too long. Your movement was telling him everything he needed to know.

Aemond seemed satisfied with the silence between you both, a subtle tension in his shoulders easing as he nodded once. "Good," his words clipped but steady. "I was just heading there as well."

It was odd to hear that, coming from him. Aemond, had been visiting the library frequently—though, in truth, it was less about books and more about finding you, about catching a glimpse of you.

Since Jacaerys' nameday, you had become something of a shadow in the halls, evading both the princes and the whispers that followed you like a second skin.

His mother had mentioned something in passing, a careless remark about Rhaenyra's actions, and how your retreat was tied to that infamous day—the one where Jacaerys had dared to wear your house colors in front of the lords and ladies of Westeros, a blatant challenge to the status quo.

Rhaenyra’s brazen display of defiance hadn’t helped matters, and perhaps it had scared you off, just as his mother had suspected.

Aemond shot a smug glance over his shoulder at his nephews, his lips twitching into a barely-there smirk as he subtly asserted his presence. He had seen his mother use this particular tactic when she wanted something—a mix of charm and cold politeness that was as smooth as it was calculated.

He extended his arm toward you with a hint of courteousness, his voice carrying an air of unexpected warmth. “Let’s go together?” he offered, a polite suggestion, his manner like a polished blade, sharp but dressed in velvet.

You hesitated only a heartbeat, then accepted his offer with a stiff nod. “Thank you, Prince Aemond,” You placed your hand on his arm. You didn’t look back, not once, at Jacaerys or Lucerys, though you could feel their gazes on your back.

Aemond glanced over his shoulder, his eyes catching Jacaerys’ fiery gaze. There was a darkness in it, a simmering intensity that made it clear this was no idle glance—it was a challenge.

The storm in Jacaerys' eyes was something raw, something dangerous, and it set Aemond's lips curling in satisfaction. Jacaerys' expression revealed everything—a storm of confusion, frustration, and hurt.

Unlike a Velaryon, unlike a Targaryen, his gaze was deep and brooding, as if his heart had been cracked open and left exposed to the world. It wasn’t the look of someone who had simply been ignored; it was the look of someone whose very soul had been put to the test, and failed.

As you walked away, Aemond’s gaze lingered on the princes for a moment longer, relishing in the silent tension that had built between you and them. He could almost hear Jacaerys’ thoughts—a cacophony of silent pleas to explain, to make sense of your sudden coldness.

The boy didn't understand, and perhaps he never would.

Jacaerys, still rooted to the spot, clenched his fists at his sides. All he wanted was to talk to you, to ask why, to beg you to tell him what had happened. He wasn’t the one who had betrayed you, wasn’t the one who had caused you to shut him out.

He couldn’t understand what had changed between the two of you, “Wren… why are you doing this?” His voice was barely a whisper, as if speaking any louder would make the entire thing too real to bear. He thought back to that night—the night of Jacaerys' nameday, when everything seemed so clear.

What had he done wrong?

Had something happened between you and Aemond when they had danced?

Was that the moment you had decided to turn away from him?

No, he told himself. This wasn't supposed to be how things ended. You two were supposed to be friends.

Lucerys, who had been watching his brother with growing concern, tugged at Jacaerys' sleeve, his small frown deepening. “Is Wren mad at us?” he asked innocently, the nickname he had given you rolling off his tongue with childlike confusion.

“No…”

Aemond sat across from you in the quiet expanse of the royal library, his long fingers wrapped around the spine of a thick tome. The silence between you was broken only by the occasional rustle of parchment as he turned a page.

His eye scanned the High Valyrian text before him with ease, a faint frown of concentration etched onto his sharp features. The brazier at the far corner of the room cast flickering shadows across the carved wooden shelves, the dim light making the spines of the books glimmer faintly.

You, on the other hand, had been painstakingly working your way through a slim Dothraki text. Your brow furrowed as you traced a finger along the lines of unfamiliar script, quietly murmuring phrases to yourself.

Though your grasp of the language was progressing, your teacher had repeatedly urged you to slow down, to let each word settle before moving on.

Aemond had dismissed Isla earlier with a curt wave, a decision that still grated on you. “She doesn’t have permission to be here,” Aemond had said, leaving no room for protest.

Isla had hesitated, glancing at you for guidance, but you could do nothing but nod, Aemond’s status dwarfed your own. Reluctantly, she had left, her concern evident in the way her steps lingered before the heavy doors closed behind her.

Now, as you adjusted your seating on the cushioned bench, you couldn’t help but glance at Aemond from time to time. He seemed entirely absorbed in his book, but you knew better.

His stillness wasn’t a sign of distraction—it was a calculated presence, deliberate and ever-watchful. His eyes often flicked to you when he thought you weren’t looking.

“Dothraki is an interesting choice,” Aemond said suddenly, breaking the silence.

He didn’t look up from his book, “A tongue of raiders and savages, some would say. What drew you to it?” his tone measured as if commenting on the weather.

You paused, setting the text aside. “It’s not just the language of savages,” meeting his gaze briefly before looking away. “The Dothraki have their own poetry, their own songs. Their way of life is different, yes, but not without meaning.”

You gestured lightly to the book in front of you. “Understanding them means understanding another part of this world.”

Aemond closed his book with a quiet thud, leaning back slightly as he studied you. “Most in Kingslanding wouldn’t bother,” he said. “They see only what they wish to see—barbarians on horseback. But you… you look beyond that.” He tilted his head, his expression inscrutable.

“Interesting.”

The compliment, if it could be called that, made you shift uncomfortably. “It’s just a language,” you muttered, returning your focus to the text.

But you couldn’t help the warmth creeping up your neck at the intensity of his regard. “Prince Aemond—”

“Aemond,” he interrupted, his eye fixed on yours.

There was no hesitation in his tone, no trace of formality. The sharpness that usually laced his words seemed softened, almost inviting.

You blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“Please,” he said, leaning slightly forward, his hand resting atop yours on the table. His grip was light, yet firm enough to keep your attention. “Just call me Aemond.”

This wasn’t the first time a prince had asked you to dispense with titles. Jacaerys had said the same, not long after your arrival at court, his boyish grin making the request seem harmless. Lucerys had followed suit shortly after.

But Aemond was different. There was no playfulness in his request, no jesting smirk. His expression was serious, almost vulnerable, as though he were pleading for you to address him just as familiarly you did with his nephews.

You hesitated, studying his face. His features were sharp, his jaw set. And yet, there was a flicker of something in his gaze—a longing, a need for connection that you hadn’t expected.

It was a look you had seen before, fleetingly. Aemond, for all his icy composure, wore that same look now.

“Aemond,” you said, testing the name.

It felt strange on your tongue, like trying on a new garment, but you saw the way his posture eased, how a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

He nodded, “Better.” satisfied.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather heavy. Aemond didn’t remove his hand from yours immediately, and you didn’t pull away. The touch, fleeting as it was, seemed to seal an unspoken understanding between you.

“You must be lonely,” you said quietly, breaking the stillness. Your words caught him off guard. His grip on your hand tensed momentarily, but he didn’t pull away.

Lonely.

Aemond had no doubt you saw right through him. He was surrounded by his family yet isolated by their indifference or outright hostility.

His older brother, Aegon, was a disgrace—lacking both the discipline and the intelligence to wield power effectively. Aegon could barely string together a full sentence in High Valyrian, let alone inspire loyalty or fear.

Helaena, his sister, was sweet but distant, lost in her own world of dreams and murmured madness. And Daeron, the youngest, had been sent to Oldtown before Aemond even had the chance to know him.

He scoffed softly. “What gave me away?”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “The way you watch,” you said. “You observe everything, but you rarely speak unless it’s necessary. People who are content don’t do that.”

Aemond allowed himself a bitter smile. “Contentment is a luxury in this castle.” His eye flicked down to where your hands still touched. “Especially for second sons.” You saw a flicker of something deeper in him then—a yearning not for power but for recognition.

If only he had been born first. He would’ve been the ideal heir, the perfect prince to carry the weight of the crown. Instead, he was overshadowed by a sister he barely knew and a father who looked past him as though he didn’t exist.

He didn’t even have a dragon.

He was intelligent, disciplined, and watchful, traits honed not through indulgence but through necessity. In the Red Keep, survival was a game of shadows, and Aemond had mastered the art of moving unseen, his every word and action carefully thought out.

Much like his mother and grandfather, Otto Hightower, Aemond’s quiet demeanor masked a sharp mind and an even sharper sense of purpose.

The Hightowers were a family who preferred subtlety to brute force, preferring whispered plans over open conflict. They understood that power was best wielded from the shadows, where it could be neither anticipated nor countered.

And if there was one truth about a quiet Hightower, it was this: silence did not mean weakness. It meant calculation. It meant patience.

And, above all, it meant danger.

When Aemond first saw you stumble into the library, he was struck by a curiosity that bordered on fascination. You moved with a grace unfamiliar to him, your presence like a whisper of desert winds in a castle of cold stone.

You were Dornish, a rarity in the Red Keep, and in every way different from the rigid courtiers who filled its halls. While most moved like stiff wooden boards, you and your brother flowed like swaying curtains in a gentle breeze—fluid, unguarded, and, to Aemond’s eyes, utterly captivating.

He had watched you from the shadows at first, observing the way you poured over ancient tomes with a furrowed brow, your lips moving silently as you traced unfamiliar words.

There was a hunger for knowledge in you, a spark of inspiration that reminded him of his own long nights spent mastering High Valyrian or deciphering the histories of old Valyria.

But there was also a warmth, an openness, that he found foreign and intriguing. Unlike the courtiers who flattered and schemed, your intentions seemed unclouded.

You sought neither his favor nor his downfall. You were simply… you. And that, Aemond realized, was a rarity in the Red Keep—a place where even a child could wield a dagger with a smile.

You leaned back in your chair, a soft hum escaping your lips as you turned the page. Your eyes lingered on the words, but your mind was elsewhere, on the figure seated across from you.

There was something about Aemond, something deeper than the silvery sheen of his hair or the sharpness in his gaze.

"I suppose I’m quite lucky then," you mused, your voice low as you continued to study your book, though your thoughts were elsewhere. "I got to notice you before you become something great."

You didn’t look up immediately, but you could feel Aemond’s gaze shift towards you. His silence was telling, he had not anticipated such a response—no one ever had.

People saw him for his lineage, his title, his lack of dragon. But you? You saw something else, something he was still trying to decipher.

The room around you felt suddenly small, as if the weight of his presence was growing, expanding in the space between you. He leaned forward slightly, the soft rustle of pages the only sound breaking the stillness.

His fingers twitched at the edge of the book he was reading, but he didn’t turn it back. Instead, he regarded you, as though searching for any trace of jest, any hint of irony in your words.

But you were not smiling, not mocking him. Your words were simple, almost tender, and it unsettled him. How could someone like you—so young, so full of life—see anything in him?

He, who had spent his years buried in the shadows of his siblings, in the quiet corners of this vast, cold castle. He, who had no true allies, only enemies veiled in silken smiles.

Aemond’s hand lingered on the edge of his book, his fingers curling ever so slightly, and for the briefest of moments, the distance between you and him seemed to shrink. He could almost hear the thrum of his heartbeat in his chest, heavy and steady like the distant sound of war drums.

His eyes flickered to yours, a sharpness behind them that seemed to pierce through the layers of the conversation. "You have a strange way of looking at people.” Aemond murmured, though his words were not unkind.

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze directly. There was something different in the way he watched you now—something more than the distant prince, something that might have resembled… curiosity?

"Perhaps," you said with a slight tilt of your head. "Or perhaps I just see what others refuse to." Your voice softened.

Aemond said nothing at first, his lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to argue, to dismiss the notion with a cold retort, but something in the air—something in the way you held his gaze—made him reconsider.

For a moment, he felt as though the very air around him had thickened, and he could not find a way to breathe through it. The words that once came easily to him now seemed distant, trapped somewhere deep in his chest.

Instead, he let out a small sigh and leaned back in his chair, looking away for the first time since your conversation began. His fingers drummed lightly against the surface of the table, as if trying to find some rhythm to settle his racing thoughts.

"You have a gift," he said after a long pause.

"To see things so clearly." He wasn’t sure what prompted the admission—whether it was the anomaly that was you or something else—but it slipped out before he could stop it.

You raised an eyebrow, "A gift? I thought that’s what you were going to say," a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "I suppose you’ll be the one to teach me how to use it, then?"

Aemond didn’t respond immediately, but the slight shift in his posture—his body relaxing, just a touch—spoke volumes. He didn’t have the answers, but there was something in you that intrigued him, something that felt both familiar and foreign, like an old riddle begging to be solved.

The silence between you two was no longer heavy, but rather companionable, as if each of you had made some unspoken agreement to just be in that moment.

No titles. No expectations. Just two children, alone in a room, sharing a space for reasons neither fully understood.

Aemond's brow arched, a flicker of curiosity crossing his sharp features. "Are you suggesting a friendship?" His voice held a hint of amusement.

You leaned back in your chair, a light giggle escaping your lips as you looked at him with something akin to fondness. “If you are seeking for a friend,” you replied, your words teasing but not without a measure of truth. "I could certainly offer you one."

“Very well then.”

You hadn’t quite understood what had compelled you to extend that offer of friendship to Aemond, but somehow, it felt right.

Aemond, the second son, sharp-eyed and distant, had a way about him that made the walls around him feel thicker, yet at the same time, he wore an almost imperceptible loneliness.

Friendship, with him? It had been an impulse—an instinct. And, perhaps, deep down, you knew he needed it.

Days passed, and what had begun as a small, uncertain conversation in the library turned into something more. You found yourself seeking the quiet comfort of the library with greater frequency, long after your lessons had ended.

Aemond was there, as he had been before, engrossed in his books, though now he was waiting for you too. In some strange way, the days seemed to slow when he was there, the two of you quietly reading or discussing matters in the peace of the rows upon rows of dusty tomes.

And, of course, there was Dothraki. Your lessons with your mentor had progressed steadily, much to your satisfaction. Conversations with your mentor now seemed like something natural, effortless even, as though you’d been speaking Dothraki for years.

Aemond had been intrigued when you first mentioned the progress you’d made. He had, without hesitation, offered his own assistance, his interest piqued by your desire to learn languages that spanned beyond the borders of Westeros.

He insisted that once you had fully mastered Dothraki, he would teach you High Valyrian. Aemond had shown you a few words already, though they were nothing too difficult—a few basic terms, such as Muña, Kepa, Hontes.

One day your lessons had ended early, leaving you with a few hours of unexpected freedom. As you gathered your things, Aemond approached you.

He didn’t waste time with pleasantries, instead simply extending an invitation. "Would you like to watch me train with Aegon and Ser Criston?" he asked, his tone casua.

You hesitated. The idea of seeing him wield a sword was new to you. Swordsmanship, after all, was a world that belonged to others—your brothers, men of honor and skill—but not you.

And not Aemond, not like this. Yet there was something about the invitation, the way he worded it, that made you pause.

"I don’t know..." You shifted on your feet, eyes flickering towards the window. "You train with Jacaerys and Lucerys, don’t you?" You were apprehensive at first, the thought of stepping into the training yard where Aemond, Jacaerys, and Lucerys practiced was daunting.

He nodded, his expression unreadable. "They do. But today, I wanted to invite you to watch. Aegon and I are sparring, and Ser Criston is overseeing."

There was an underlying tension in his words, something you didn’t quite understand. Perhaps it was a challenge—an invitation to see something personal, something only the few close to him would witness.

The clashing swords, the gruff commands of Criston Cole, and the intensity of their movements seemed worlds apart from the more tranquil, controlled environment you were accustomed to back in Starfall.

Still, Aemond had insisted, his quiet insistence leaving little room for argument. Perhaps it was his unspoken need for your company, or perhaps it was the thought of Merek that finally convinced you.

Merek would be there, sparring with Ser Cassian. He could neve go without sharpening his skill with the sword.

Back home in Starfall, you were no stranger to the sounds of the training grounds. You had grown up with the constant clink of swords, the clash of metal against metal, and the shouts of warriors practicing their craft.

But it had always been your brother, Merek, leading the charge. He was the Sword of the Morning, and you had often visited him on the training fields, watching as he sparred with his men.

You'd bring refreshments for the weary fighters, serving them cool water or wine after their training sessions. Those moments had been a quiet comfort, a reprieve from the often tense atmosphere of the castle.

When you finally arrived at the training yard, your eyes immediately scanned the area. Aemond was already there, sword in hand, his gaze focused and intense. His brother Aegon leaning against a training dummy, clearly intoxicated.

Jacaerys and Lucerys, stood a few paces away, the younger ones already sparring under the watchful eye of Ser Criston. You took a seat on one of the balconies overlooking the yard, the height offering you a perfect view of the scene below.

A small table had been set beside you, with tea and biscuits neatly arranged, though you found little interest in them now. Isla stood behind you, her watchful eyes scanning the yard with a quiet, almost maternal air.

It didn’t take long for Aemond to notice you. His gaze flicked toward the balcony, his eyes narrowing slightly as if appraising your presence.

Jacaerys, too, seemed to notice you almost immediately. He paused mid-strike, his wooden sword hanging loosely in his grip as his eyes sought yours.

For a brief moment, you saw the soft expression that had once been so familiar between you two—a connection that, in the last few weeks, had frayed at the edges.

Lucerys, followed his brother’s gaze and found you sitting on the balcony. He smiled, the warmth of his expression breaking through the intensity of the training.

"Look," Lucerys said, nudging Jacaerys with a grin. "It’s Wren."

Jacaerys blinked, and though he didn’t smile, his eyes softened. He hadn’t seen you in weeks, not since that fateful day. The distance between you was clear, yet the connection remained.

You didn’t move, your hands folded quietly in your lap. You could have waved back, smiled, or even called out to them, but something held you in place.

A part of you longed to reach out, to break through the walls that had been built between you, but you knew it was too late for that. Too much had changed since the day you were whisked away to King’s Landing, since the day your path had diverged from theirs.

And so you watched, silent and still, as the brothers continued their sparring. Aemond was focused, his every movement calculated and precise. There was an intensity in his demeanor, a stark contrast to the brashness of Aegon or younger two.

Yet, even in his calm, there was something unsettled about him—something that you had come to understand in the time you had spent together.

The training session continued, the sound of wood striking wood filling the air. You couldn’t help but notice how the focus seemed to shift. While Criston watched over Aemond and Aegon, his attention seemed to wane as it came to Jacaerys and Lucerys.

It wasn’t that their training lacked skill—it was just that it was clear they weren’t the ones being groomed for the throne. The unspoken favoritism was hard to ignore, and though you didn’t show it, it left a sour taste in your mouth.

Jacaerys, ever the eager student, practiced diligently. You could tell he was trying harder than ever to prove himself, though it was clear that the lack of attention from Criston stung.

Lucerys, more playful than his older brother, tried to match Jacaerys’s pace, but the lightheartedness in his movements belied the strain that simmered beneath.

Aemond, on the other hand, was a study in focus. His strikes were deliberate, each one calculated and sharp, and you could see in the way he moved that he was already thinking beyond the training grounds.

There was something about him, something that made it impossible to look away. You remained seated, caught in the moment, your mind drifting between the princes.

"My lady." Isla’s voice was a soft murmur, her breath barely making a sound against the backdrop of the clashing swords below.

You blinked in surprise, shifting your gaze toward her as you adjusted the lace of your sleeve. Her eyes were wide with a mix of concern and something else—perhaps an unspoken warning.

When your eyes followed the line of her gaze, you saw the servant standing a few feet away, waiting with the silent patience of someone used to being disregarded.

“The King has requested that you sit with him as you watch the princes,” Isla relayed, her tone still hushed as if speaking too loudly would disrupt the flow of events already in motion.

You hesitated, a slight fluttering in your chest, unease pulling at you like a tightening cord. Your eyes drifted across the training yard, where the princes continued their sparring, their wooden swords ringing out in sharp, staccato beats, only to fall upon the figure of King Viserys, seated at a distance with Lord Lyonel Strong by his side.

The King’s tired, weathered face was lined with years of responsibility, and the shadows of time seemed to burden him more heavily than any of his children could comprehend.

His gaze shifted toward you. A subtle acknowledgment, a soft smile that reached his eyes as he nodded in your direction. The small gesture was enough to remind you that his words were not to be denied.

You straightened, preparing yourself to comply with his request. There was little space left for refusal, and you knew that even if you wanted to, the King’s wishes were not easily ignored. "Very well," the words feeling almost foreign in your mouth.

Isla’s presence behind you was like a tether, her hands brushing over the folds of your gown in a small, comforting motion as you rose to your feet. It was as though her touch steadied you, anchoring you to this place.

You straightened the bodice of your dress and adjusted the fabric, the gown suddenly feeling more constricting than usual, as if the very fabric was aware of the expectations that came with being near royalty.

Taking one last glance over your shoulder at the princes, their blades flashing in the air as they dueled beneath the warm sunlight, you moved toward the King’s spot.

The air felt thicker here, the distance between the lively training grounds and the King’s place of observation laden with unspoken weight. The princes’ movements seemed more labored now, less like playful training and more like carefully controlled performances—no doubt part of the unspoken spectacle for the King’s eyes.

Aemond’s focus never wavered, his strikes sharp and deliberate, while Jacaerys and Lucerys tried their best to keep pace, though there was a strange energy in the air—a shifting current that set them apart, as though some silent tension had crept in.

As for Aegon… we won’t get into much detail about him.

As you neared, the unmistakable feeling of being watched clung to you. It wasn’t just the princes now, but the eyes of the entire courtyard, flicking to you and then just as quickly returning to their business.

King Viserys remained in his seat, the air around him one of reluctant authority, tinged with the exhaustion of a man who had long carried the burden of ruling and, in his heart, and his fractured family.

His frail body seemed as though it might crumble at any moment, but the strength in his eyes—sad, weary, yet still holding onto something precious—refused to bend.

Lyonel Strong stood beside him, his sharp eyes ever watchful, scanning the courtyard with the measured calm of someone who had seen far more than most could fathom. He was a man of integrity, and his presence beside the King spoke volumes.

His gaze turned to you as you neared, softening for just a moment before a nod of respectful acknowledgment followed. The briefest flicker of something—admiration or perhaps simple courtesy—passed between you, but there was a tension in the air even here, one that you couldn't shake.

As you came to stand before the King and Lord Lyonel, your gaze briefly met Viserys’s. His eyes were tired, but they searched yours with a quiet understanding, as if he could see the storm inside you.

For a brief second, the clamor of the training yard and the heavy gaze of the princes faded into the background, and it was just you and the King, the weight of years pressing down on him and a promise of something—perhaps even something close to care—hovering between the two of you.

Dipping into a low, respectful curtsy, you greeted them, "Your Grace, Lord Hand," your words polite, the formality of them hanging in the air with a softness that felt both familiar and distant.

The King’s smile faltered, the edges of his lips twitching in an almost painful motion, a sign of the effort it took for him to form any expression at all. His hands rested on the armrests, knuckles slightly pale from their grip. The shadows beneath his eyes were deeper than you had noticed before, and his breathing seemed a little more labored, though he held himself with the poise expected of a monarch.

"Lady Dayne," he said with a voice that cracked only slightly, "I thank you for humoring this old man with your presence." His gaze lingered on you for a moment, and the warmth that touched his words seemed to almost mask the weight of his sorrow.

It was as though every simple action required a great deal of fortitude on his part, and yet, here he was, attempting to ease the burden in small ways, by offering a kind smile, by speaking with you.

Lord Lyonel Strong gave a curt nod, his manner unchanged. He rarely revealed much of what passed behind his eyes, and today was no different.

His gaze remained firmly fixed on the training yard, observing the sparring princes with the practiced neutrality of a man who had long since learned the art of not letting his emotions govern his actions.

There was no favoritism in his look, no hint of preferential treatment for any of the boys. He was a Hand, first and foremost—dutiful, stoic, unshakable.

You returned the King’s gesture, sitting up a little straighter, feeling the weight of the occasion pressing down on your shoulders. "It is an honor, Your Majesty," your words are sincere but tempered by the soft melancholy that always accompanied moments like these.

Viserys’ gaze shifted to his sons and grandsons, eyes flickering between their movements, watching the way they clashed in the training yard.

His expression softened as he observed them, the line of his mouth tightening momentarily as if battling some private thought, some aching regret.

"How do you find them?" the question carried more than just curiosity. It was as if he were speaking not only to you, but perhaps to himself as well—seeking meaning, or perhaps confirmation, in the small moments, the fleeting displays of skill or rivalry that played out before him.

He spoke with the tiredness of a father who had seen too much, yet held on to whatever small hope remained.

You looked at the princes, the graceful yet brutal choreography of their movements—sword against sword, strength against strength.

Aemond’s precision was undeniable, each strike controlled, but there was a simmering anger behind it that you couldn’t ignore. Jacaerys, in contrast, was more passionate, his strikes less refined but brimming with raw energy.

As you watched, something caught your attention—a subtle bump of shoulders between Aemond and Jacaerys as they passed each other.

Your brows furrowed, uncertainty flashing across your face. ‘Had they had a fight?’

You turned to Viserys, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you. "They are skilled," but your gaze darted between the princes. You could feel the undercurrent of something deeper, something unsaid, between them. "You must be so proud, Your Majesty."

You spoke carefully, the words laced with respect, but also with the knowledge of the quiet rift that seemed to be growing between the brothers. The King’s eyes softened further as he watched them, though his expression remained carefully neutral.

It was clear he had seen more than you could know. "Very," he replied quietly, his voice holding a weight of its own. It was a simple response, but it carried the sorrow of a man who had seen his family, his legacy, fray at the edges.

"They are my legacy."

There was a pause Viserys shifted slightly in his chair, and his gaze turned distant, as though he were looking back through the years at moments he could never change.

Criston Cole, donned his gloves, he lifted his wooden sword, his stance firm as Aegon and Aemond charged at him.

Neither prince's strikes even seemed to faze him, his reactions swift, his blocks firm. He thwarted their attacks effortlessly, never once breaking a sweat, his eyes sharp and calculating.

The sons of Rhaenyra watched from the sidelines, a mixture of frustration and resentment coloring their expressions. Jacaerys and Lucerys exchanged a look, their brows furrowed in disappointment.

Another training session, another dismissal. They were benched, once again, pushed aside in favor of Aegon and Aemond, who basked in Criston’s praise.

But then, as if the very ground beneath their feet had shifted, a new presence entered the yard. The strong, imposing figure of Ser Harwin Strong, the might of House Strong, strode onto the training ground with purpose.

His broad shoulders were squared, and his every movement exuded a quiet strength. The moment he donned his gloves, the younger princes lit up like fires catching the wind.

There was hope in their eyes—hope that they might finally be taken seriously. “Weapons up, boys,” Harwin instructed with a smirk, his voice filled with a quiet command that the younger princes obeyed without hesitation.

They adjusted their stances, ready to face any challenge, especially when it came from the most respected warrior in the realm. “Give your enemies no quarter.” His words carried an intensity that made them eager to learn, to prove themselves.

Criston Cole, still watching from the sidelines, couldn’t hide the grimace that spread across his face as he saw the two boys come to life under Harwin's watchful eye.

There was a sneer on his lips, a disdain that couldn’t be concealed. With a few strides, he approached the group, his posture stiff and challenging.

His eyes flickered between Harwin and the young princes. “It seems the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention... Ser Criston,” Harwin’s voice was calm but laden with an underlying challenge.

His gaze met Criston’s. “Perhaps you could share your method of instruction with all your pupils.”

Criston’s lips twitched in amusement, “You question my method of instruction, ser?” his eyes narrowing with disdain. He had no love for Rhaenyra’s children, and certainly none for Harwin.

Harwin shook his head slowly, his expression calm but firm. “Oh, I merely suggest that method be applied to all your pupils,” he said, his words direct and resolute.

There was no mistaking his intent—he was calling Criston out for his lack of professionalism, for his bias. For ignoring the boys who, by blood and birthright, deserved the same attention as their older cousins.

There was a subtle shift in the air, a thickening of the space between them. Harwin wasn’t just standing up for the boys; he was standing up for his own, and everyone knew it.

His secret was an open one—his sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, were the product of his union with the woman who had once been his lover, and no one dared to speak ill of the Commander of the City Watch and Heir to the Throne without consequences.

Jacaerys stood a little taller, his eyes narrowing in quiet pride. He wasn’t going to let this moment pass without proving himself. He couldn’t afford to be seen as weak, not when his very future was on the line. His gaze flickered toward you, a silent exchange passing between you both.

You sat perched on the balcony, eyes focused on the sparring princes. Your expression, though calm, held a flicker of worry. Jacaerys saw it, the concern in your eyes, and it made something shift within him.

The past weeks seemed to lift, if only slightly, as he caught your gaze. You offered him a slight smile, a small gesture, but to Jacaerys, it was like a lifeline. It was the first real interaction he’d had with you in weeks, and it filled him with hope.

Aemond’s gloating about spending time with you had gnawed at his insides, but now, perhaps, he was starting to believe that you weren’t angry with him. That you might finally forgive him for what had transpired.

But before he could dwell on the thought, his attention was pulled away with a force he hadn’t anticipated. Criston Cole, with a look of impatience, seized Jacaerys by the collar, his fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic.

“Jacaerys... come here.” His voice was tight, the command heavy with authority. He dragged the young prince toward the center of the yard, where Aegon awaited.

Aegon’s grin was wide, his eyes gleaming with a mischief that matched Aemond’s. They had no love for each other, but they found great joy in tormenting their nephews, if only for the thrill of seeing their discomfort.

Aegon’s smirk grew wider, a mix of challenge and amusement on his face as he readied his wooden sword. “You’ll spar with Aegon,”

Jacaerys’ heart sank. This wasn’t the fight he had expected, not the kind that would prove his worth. But he had no choice. He couldn’t back down now, not when his pride—and his mother’s legacy—was at stake.

“Eldest son against eldest son.”

The yard fell silent for a moment as he prepared himself, hands gripping the wooden sword. This would be another test of strength, but it wasn’t just about the battle. It was about proving, once and for all, that he could hold his own among the sons of the Queen Consort.

And, perhaps, to prove something to you too.

Harwin’s grunt echoed in the yard as he watched the sparring match with a growing sense of frustration. “It’s hardly a fair match,” he muttered, his voice low but filled with clear disapproval.

He knew better than anyone the kind of fighter Aegon was, despite the prince's lack of form. Aegon fought with a savage brutality that could strip the soul of a man, and Harwin knew that kind of ferocity would not be held back.

Criston Cole, as always, had no patience for Harwin’s objections. He tilted his head with a condescending air, eyes never leaving the sparring princes.

“I know you've never seen true battle, ser,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain, “but when steel is drawn, a fair match isn’t something anyone should expect.”

His gaze remained fixed on the boys, utterly unconcerned with Harwin’s comments. It was as if the very notion of fairness in combat was beneath him. "Blades up," Criston commanded, the words clipped and firm.

The princes, fueled by their egos and the cruel teachings of their trainer, raised their wooden blades in unison. The air seemed to grow thick with the sound of their footsteps as they charged forward.

Aegon, without hesitation, launched himself at Jacaerys with all the ferocity of a wild animal, attacking with reckless abandon. There was no room for mercy in his strikes, each one a clear message: he would not allow the boy to stand in his way.

Jacaerys struggled beneath Aegon’s relentless assault. He barely managed to block each blow, his arms shaking with the strain. Aegon’s strength was overpowering, and it wasn’t long before Jacaerys was pushed to the ground, unable to defend himself.

For a moment, it seemed as if Aegon might gloat, as if he would bask in his victory. But it was in that arrogance, that moment of carelessness, that Jacaerys found his opening.

Jacaerys rose to his feet, fury and pride fueling him as he struck back. His blows were harsh and precise, a mirror of Aegon’s own savage attacks. For a moment, there was a shift—a balance, however brief, between the two.

But Aegon, never one to accept anything less than dominance, came at him again. This time, he kicked Jacaerys to the ground with an almost practiced cruelty, and Criston Cole did nothing to stop it.

He merely stood to the side, watching, his face impassive as Aegon continued his assault. Jacaerys was pinned once again, struggling beneath Aegon’s weight as the older prince swung down at him with renewed force.

“Stay on the attack!” Criston’s voice rang out, his words dripping with contempt.

You, sitting at the edge of your seat, clenched your fists tightly, the fabric of your dress now feeling like it might tear under the pressure. The helplessness in Jacaerys’ eyes made your heart ache, and you couldn’t help but feel the bile rise in your throat.

Harwin, his patience finally breaking, stormed across the yard, his massive frame cutting through the tension like a ship through a storm. He reached Aegon in an instant, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder and pushing him aside.

Aegon yelped in surprise, stumbling back, his face contorted in indignation. “You dare put hands on me?” Aegon screeched, his voice high and petulant. He was not accustomed to being treated so.

For a moment, it seemed as though his anger might reach a boiling point, but then Viserys’ voice rang out across the yard, causing everyone to pause in their tracks.

“Aegon!” The King’s voice, though weak with age, cut through the tension like a knife.

It was a command, not a suggestion, and it immediately caused Aegon to flinch. The prince fell silent, his chest heaving with the remnants of his tantrum as he glanced up at his father in surprise. The reality of his father’s presence seemed to settle in all at once, and for a brief moment, Aegon’s arrogance faltered.

Criston, ever the defender of the royal blood, stepped forward and shielded Aegon from Harwin’s wrath, his body a barrier between the two men.

“You forget yourself, Strong,” Criston sneered, his eyes narrowing. “That is the Prince.” His words were sharp, an attempt to remind everyone of the hierarchy that had been in place since birth.

Yet, the irony of his claim—coming from the same man who had allowed Aegon to pin his nephew to the ground—was not lost on anyone watching.

Harwin stood tall, his gaze unwavering as he glared at Criston. “This is what you teach, Cole?” He motioned toward the discarded wooden swords that lay forgotten in the dirt.

His voice was like ice as he spoke, filled with a quiet, simmering fury. “Cruelty to the weaker opponent?”

Criston’s eyes flicked over the fallen swords before he rolled his eyes, brushing off Harwin’s challenge as though it were nothing. “Our interest in the princeling’s training is quite unusual, Commander,” he remarked, his tone dripping with condescension.

“Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a cousin...” His words hung in the air, a challenge in themselves. “Or a brother...” he continued, the smirk never leaving his lips.

“Or a son,”

Harwin surged forward, his hand cracking across Criston’s face with a force that made the crowd flinch. Criston staggered back, the shock of the blow registering on his face for a brief second before the smirk returned, though this time, it was tinged with something darker.

The sound of the slap echoed through the training yard, silencing the movements of the others. Even Aegon, his mouth agape in disbelief, fell still. The crowd stood frozen, their eyes wide, unsure of what to do next.

The chaos in the training yard spun out of control, the brutal violence between Harwin and Criston unfolding in front of your eyes like a scene of madness.

Jacaerys had rushed to his brother's side, wrapping his arms around Lucerys to shield him from the violence. His younger brother’s face was pale, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. The sight of blood streaming from Criston’s face was enough to make your stomach twist in horror.

sla, quick on her feet, reached for you, but you were already rising from your chair. Your breath caught in your throat as the crimson stain of Criston’s blood spread across the stone beneath him.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the horrific scene, and before Isla could protest, you leaned over the stone barrier of the balcony, calling out for your brother in a panic.

“Merek!” Your voice rang out across the training yard, a mixture of panic and urgency.

Merek, who had been sparring on the other side of the yard, heard your voice break through the tension. His head snapped up, eyes searching for you before landing on your frantic gestures.

The horror in your expression was enough to make him drop Dawn, his sword, and race toward the center of the chaos.

The ground trembled under his quick steps, his focus solely on the fight. “Harwin!” Merek shouted as he reached your Harwin’s side, grabbing hold of the furious commander.

Harwin was a force of nature, the rage inside him impossible to tame, but Merek was determined. “Say it again! Say it again!” Harwin roared, throwing himself against Merek’s grip as if he could fight his own fury.

His chest heaved with the strain of his anger, blood still dripping from the bloodied fist he had landed on Criston.

Merek, his voice firm and controlled, tried his best to reason with the man. “Calm yourself, the prick is not worth it!” he said through gritted teeth, his voice barely audible over the noise of the surrounding knights.

The look in Merek’s eyes was one of cold intensity, as though he would not hesitate to take down any who dared cross him. “Step back!” Merek barked at the White Cloaks who had begun to approach.

“If you wish to suffer the same fate as Cole, I suggest you step back!” His words carried the weight of authority, of the Sword of the Morning commanding them to stand down. It was a standoff.

You stood frozen, your hands trembling as you clutched the edge of the balcony. The sight of blood, of the brawl unfolding below, made your stomach churn. You couldn’t stand to watch any longer, yet you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

“...Enough... enough!” You turned away, desperate to escape the chaos, only to find your eyes landing on the King, Viserys, sitting hunched over on the stone bench.

His breathing was erratic, his face pale and drawn, and his hands shook with visible strain. Lyonel was beside him, attempting to calm him, but it was clear that the King’s condition was deteriorating rapidly.

Viserys attempted to rise, his body trembling as he tried to stop the madness unfolding below. But he didn’t make it far. With a weak groan, he collapsed back onto the stone.

You quickly sprang into action, rushing toward him, your knees hitting the ground as you knelt beside him. “Your Grace!” you reached for his frail body, helping him sit upright as best you could.

His hand, shaking with age, gripped your wrist desperately, his eyes wide with confusion. His breath was shallow, his words disjointed and incoherent.

Lyonel, kneeling beside him, was just as alarmed. “Your Grace, are you alright?” His voice trembled, but the King did not answer. Instead, only the soft, unintelligible murmurs of his name escaped his lips.

“...Rhaenyra...” Viserys whispered, the name of his firstborn daughter slipping from his lips like a prayer, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Lord Hand, we mustn’t let the King lie down until the Maester comes,” you instructed, your words firm despite the panic flooding your chest.

You swiftly shed your coat, draping it over Viserys’ frail shoulders in an attempt to warm him. “The cold has seemed to affect him,” you added, noting how his breathing grew even more erratic.

Lyonel didn’t argue. He simply nodded and helped you keep the King upright, though he was clearly struggling with the weight of the moment.

Viserys continued to murmur incoherently, “Rhaenyra...” over and over again, the name echoing in the air like a painful reminder of everything that had been lost.

“Isla, quickly! Get the Maesters,” you ordered, your voice sharp with urgency. You turned to the guards who had been standing idly by, still watching the scene below, their expressions blank as if none of them had the courage to step forward.

“What are you all doing?!” you shouted at them. “Help your King to his chambers! Now!” Your words were a command, a fierce plea that echoed across the yard.

How you ended up at the bedside of the sickly king was beyond you.

One moment you were watching the princes sparring, the next you found yourself seated on a worn stool beside King Viserys’ bed. His labored breaths filled the dimly lit chamber, each one a reminder of how fragile his body had become.

Now, swathed in thick blankets, he slept soundly, his pale face softened in slumber. Despite his rest, his hand remained tightly clasped around your wrist.

In his delirium, he had mistaken you for Rhaenyra and refused to let you leave. You’d tried to explain, gently whispering that you were not his daughter, but the king’s fevered mind was deaf to reason.

He wouldn’t settle until your presence eased him, and so you stayed, his frail hand never faltering from his grip, even in sleep. You were only meant to remain until the true Princess arrived.

Rhaenyra, no doubt, was occupied with matters of the realm—likely filling her father’s absence in the Small Council, or so her maid had said when she brought word of the delay. You could hardly blame her; ruling even a single kingdom seemed a daunting task, let alone seven.

The room was suffused with the faint scent of medicinal herbs and the lingering warmth of the brazier by the bedside. You glanced around, noting the intricate carvings of the oak bedposts and the faded tapestries depicting scenes of conquest and unity—ironic, given the fractured state of the Targaryen family.

In the center was a miniature hand carved model, so detailed and pristine. A life’s work, one might say. Never in your wildest imaginings had you thought you’d set foot in the chambers of the king.

You’d only seen Viserys from afar in court, his crown gleaming under power and duty. He had conversed with a handful of times, often hinting at a prospect in marriage with Jacaerys.

Now, stripped of his royal regalia, he was just a man—frail, weary, and burdened by years of ruling a kingdom constantly at odds with itself.

Your gaze softened as you watched him shift in his sleep, murmuring unintelligible words that occasionally formed fragments of names. It was impossible not to feel sympathy for the man.

The Iron Throne had withered him, forcing him to bear the impossible burden of uniting a family that seemed destined to fall apart. He was a bridge between two factions, one that seemed ready to collapse under its own strain.

You exhaled softly, your free hand brushing over the linen draped over your lap. ‘What if he dies right now?’ The morbid thought seized you, and your stomach twisted.

If Viserys drew his last breath here, alone with you, the court would surely whisper of poison or treachery. They would say a Dornish snake struck in the dead of night.

The idea was absurd, truly. You were but a child, barely past your eighth nameday. Yet in Westeros, suspicion clung to the Dornish like the desert’s heat to a sunbaked stone. The highborn loved nothing more than tearing down those who stood apart.

And here you were—foreign, far from home, and unprotected by familiar faces. You swallowed hard, glancing at Viserys’ sunken face. His chest rose and fell in shallow but steady breaths, the only sign that life still clung to him.

Surely no one would think a child capable of such a crime. Surely.

And yet, the court was a den of vipers, ever eager to weave tales of betrayal. Your mind conjured the cruel sneers of Lady Redwyne, the cutting remarks of Lord Beesbury, and the veiled disdain of Alicent Hightower.

The Queen would not hesitate to seize upon such a scandal, not when her sons’ claims might be bolstered by it. You shook your head, banishing the thought. It was foolish, paranoid even.

Your mother and father would be deeply disappointed in you for entertaining such nonsense. They had raised you to hold your head high, to carry the honor of House Dayne like a blade at your side.

Still, being a foreigner in this place—a fragile bridge between two worlds—pressed heavily on your chest. Your gaze flicked back to the door, hoping to see the Princess stride in and relieve you of this strange vigil. But the corridor beyond was empty, and the only sound was the crackle of the brazier and the faint murmurs of the sleeping king.

You tightened your grip on the linen, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. You would stay until Rhaenyra came. That was your duty, no matter how uneasy you felt in the presence of the dying dragon.

His pale eyelids fluttered, and his grip on your wrist tightened, fragile but insistent. “Rhaenyra…” Viserys groaned, his voice a rasping whisper in the stillness of the chamber.

You hesitated before placing your free hand over his, a gesture meant to soothe. His skin was cold, paper-thin, the veins beneath a pale map of his frailty. “She’ll be here soon, Your Grace,” it felt as though speaking to a restless child. “Please, you must have patience.”

The old king’s head shifted slightly on the pillow, a faint wince creasing his brow. His breathing came in shallow gasps, but he clung to consciousness, as if his very being refused to surrender to the darkness creeping ever closer.

“Patience,” he murmured, the word barely audible. “A cruel virtue… in this house of strife.”

You frowned, unsure whether he spoke to you or to some phantom of memory. His body was here, but his mind seemed adrift, carried by tides of grief and regret. The Targaryen legacy was etched into his every breath, a heavy burden made heavier still by the fractures within his family.

You wondered if, in his haze, he saw the throne he’d spent a lifetime defending or the ghosts of those who had already been lost to its cruel game.

“She’ll come,” you repeated firmly, as much for yourself as for him. You shifted slightly on the stool, careful not to disturb the frail king. “She loves you, Your Grace. You know she won’t tarry.”

Viserys’ lips trembled with a faint, humorless smile. “Love…” he muttered, his voice trailing into a cough. “A word… bent and broken… under the crowns.”

You glanced nervously at the door again, wishing Rhaenyra would appear and take your place. The room felt suffocating, heavy with the unspoken truths that lingered between the lines of his delirious murmurings.

Yet, for all your unease, you couldn’t help but feel pity for the man before you—a king whose strength had faded long before his time, and a father whose love could not bridge the chasm that divided his blood.

“Rest now,” shifting your hand to smooth the linen over his chest. “Save your strength for her.” Viserys’ breathing slowed, and his grip on your wrist loosened ever so slightly. Though he did not respond, his frail frame seemed to lax, as if your presence offered him some fleeting measure of comfort.

Still, the shadow of death loomed ever near, and you could only hope that Rhaenyra would arrive before the Stranger made his decision.

The doors creaked open, the sound echoing in the quiet chamber. You turned sharply, relief flooding your features as you saw Rhaenyra stride in, her silver hair gleaming even in the dim light.

“Your Highness…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

She crossed the room in a few quick steps, her gaze sharp as it flicked from you to her father’s gaunt form on the bed. “How is he?” One hand rested lightly atop your head, smoothing back stray strands of hair, a gesture so tender it nearly undid you.

You swallowed thickly, trying to steady yourself. “The maester says his grace is stable… The cold has taken a toll on him, and—” Your voice faltered, words choked by the sudden onrush of tears. Your vision began to cloud, and you cursed yourself for their betrayal.

Why were you crying?

You shouldn’t be crying at all.

You were a terrible girl!

Making this about yourself while Jace and Luke—sweet, eager boys—were likely still shaken. You had ignored them, failed them, and yet here you were, wallowing in your own misery.

Ungrateful.

That’s what you were. After all that Rhaenyra had done for you—offering you her hospitality, treating you like family, ensuring you were safe and cared for since your arrival at King’s Landing—you had the audacity to cry?

You didn’t get to be sad.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself to stop, but the tears kept coming, hot and silent. The ache in your chest grew heavier with each passing second.

It wasn’t just because of guilt; it was the longing, the homesickness, the feeling of being unmoored in a place that wasn’t truly yours. You felt lost, a wayward star drifting far from its constellation.

But the tears refused to be stopped, spilling over and blurring your vision. You tried to blink them away, but they kept falling, a silent betrayal of your emotions.

Rhaenyra crouched to your level, her hands firm but gentle as they settled on your shoulders. “Shh…” she soothed, drawing you into a warm embrace.

“All is well, sweetling.” Her voice was soft, carrying a maternal warmth that felt foreign yet comforting. You clung to her, trembling, the weight of homesickness and fear pressing heavily on your chest.

You wanted to be back at Starfall, where the summers were endless and the stars felt close enough to touch. You wanted your family—your mother, your father, your brothers, Isla.

Rhaenyra held you tighter, as though she could shield you from your turmoil. Her thoughts, however, drifted. She had longed for a daughter, a child she could cherish in ways the world wouldn’t allow for sons.

You buried your head into the crook of her shoulder, clinging to her as though she could shield you from the fears swirling in your chest. “I don’t want his grace to die,” you murmured, your words muffled but heavy with grief.

The tears spilled freely now, soaking into her gown. For all the moments you had spent with King Viserys—the way he smiled through his weariness, how his humor laced even the gravest of conversations—you could never wish such a fate upon him.

Rhaenyra’s hand moved gently over your back, her touch steady as she drew small circles meant to soothe. “Nor do I, sweet girl,” her gaze fixed on her father’s frail form as he lay in his bed, his labored breaths filling the silence between you.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled in its hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room, the only sound to accompany the rhythmic rise and fall of Viserys’ chest.

Rhaenyra’s thoughts, were far from calm. How many times had she watched her father cling to life by the thinnest of threads? How many nights had she braced herself for the inevitable?

You clung to her more tightly, your tears dampening her gown. “He always smiled when he saw me,” you whispered between shaky breaths. “He’s kind, even when he’s in pain.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s his way,” she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your damp cheek. “He bears his burdens quietly, so others don’t have to. But it weighs on him, more than he’d ever admit.”

You sniffled, “He is so frail. It feels like he could break.” wiping at your face.

Rhaenyra sighed, her gaze flicking to the sleeping king, his labored breaths filling the chamber. “The years have not been kind to him,” she admitted, her tone heavy. “But he is stronger than he seems. He has endured more than most men could bear.”

You followed her gaze, the sight of him stirring a pang of guilt. “I shouldn’t be here,” you mumbled, looking down. “This is your place, not mine.”

Rhaenyra gently tilted your chin up, her violet eyes meeting yours. “You were here when he needed comfort, and for that, I am grateful.” She pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “You have done more than most would in your place.”

Her words offered little comfort, but you nodded, “Will he get better?” swallowing the lump in your throat.

Rhaenyra pressed her lips into a thin line. “He will fare just fine,” she replied softly, her thumb brushing against your cheek, wiping away the remnants of your tears.

You sniffled, hurriedly wiping your face. “I’m sorry, your highness. I shouldn’t have acted so crass,” lowering your gaze in shame.

Rhaenyra gently cupped your face, “You’ve done something few in this court could even comprehend,” lifting your chin so your eyes met hers. “You showed compassion. In King’s Landing, that is as rare as rain in the desert.”

Her words caught you off guard. You blinked up at her, unsure of how to respond. The court was a world of sharp smiles and veiled barbs, where vulnerability was a weapon waiting to be exploited.

Yet here she was, offering not rebuke but understanding. “The capital is full of men and women who mistake cruelty for strength,” she continued, her gaze unwavering. “They see kindness as weakness, and ignorance as virtue. But not you. Never you.”

Your lip trembled, but you bit down on it to steady yourself. “I only want to do what’s right,” you whispered.

Rhaenyra smiled, a small, almost wistful curve of her lips. “Then you’re already leagues ahead of most.” She pulled you close again, holding you in a way that reminded you of your mother’s embrace—a rare moment of warmth in a city so cold.

Long after Isla had tucked you into bed, the weight of the day’s events kept you awake, tossing and turning beneath the heavy covers. The chill of the stone beneath the bed crept into your bones, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the thoughts racing through your mind.

The events from earlier felt like a fever dream, spinning out of control, and you couldn’t shake the image of Viserys’s weak, trembling form or the cruel play between the knights.

From Merek, you had heard the news—Ser Lyonel and Ser Harwin had been dismissed from their positions as Hand of the King and Commander of the City Watch, their fates sealed with a return to Harrenhal.

The news struck you like a slap. It was too sudden, too sharp to be real. But that was the nature of this court, wasn’t it? A place where the strongest thrived and the most loyal were discarded without a second thought.

You stared up at the ceiling, the flickering light of the few candles in your room casting fleeting shadows across the stone. Despite the exhaustion, sleep evaded you. Your thoughts was too heavy, too consuming.

You thought of Jacaerys—his quiet gaze, the spark of hope in his eyes when you had caught his look across the training yard. You had wanted to give him the favor, the small token you had kept for him since the tourney.

It had been his wish, despite not being a part of the competition. But now, you were unsure. Had your coldness pushed him away? Your own actions had driven a wedge, hadn’t they? You had chosen silence over reconciliation.

Isla would no doubt scold you for this—if she knew what you planned. But the thought of facing her scolding felt like a trivial concern in comparison to the knot in your chest. With a resigned sigh, you threw off the covers and swung your legs over the side of the bed.

The cold stone beneath your bare feet sent a shiver up your spine as you slowly stood, eyes immediately drawn to the small bundle resting on the edge of your mattress.

The favor—made of purple larkspurs and ribbons, a delicate thing in the dim candlelight.

Without hesitation, you bent down and scooped it up, feeling its weight in your hand, as if it carried the weight of all your unsaid words and unmade decisions.

You slipped on your slippers and grabbed your cloak, the cool fabric swirling around your form as you made your way to the door. The halls of the Red Keep loomed dark and silent around you. The occasional flicker of candlelight from sconces mounted on the walls offered little warmth.

The castle, once familiar, now felt imposing in the quiet darkness. Every sound—every thud of through the stone your feet—seemed louder in the silence of the night. There was an unsettling quality to it all, as if the walls themselves whispered secrets and threats just beyond your reach.

Your steps echoed faintly as you moved through the corridors, careful not to wake anyone. The Red Keep felt like a labyrinth in the dark, twisting and sprawling with hallways that seemed to shift when you weren’t looking.

You passed the royal guard posted at the corners of the hall, their stony expressions unmoved by your passing. No one spoke, no one stirred. It was as if you were moving through a ghostly world of your own making.

Your destination was clear, though your heart beat faster with every step. Would he even want it now? Would he accept it? The question gnawed at you. You could turn back, you could return to your chambers and pretend this was a foolish thought you’d soon forget.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The sound of your knuckles against the heavy wood echoed in the quiet corridor, too loud for your liking. You glanced behind you again, heart pounding, the shadows of the Red Keep making the space feel smaller and more suffocating with each second that passed.

You could hear the faint shuffle of distant footsteps, and you held your breath, praying they wouldn’t come any closer. "Jace!" Your hand tightened around the fabric of your cloak, the cool night air prickling against your skin.

You needed to see him, to explain, to do something, anything to erase the cold distance that had settled between you two.

After a long moment of silence, the sound of movement came from within the room, followed by the soft creak of the door. You exhaled in relief, though your heart still raced.

As the door swung open, Jacaerys stood in the doorway, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and wariness.

“Wren?”

You swallowed hard. "I... I needed to see you," the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "I couldn’t wait until morning. I couldn’t—"

You stopped yourself, realizing that you had no clear explanation for what had driven you to come to him now, in the middle of the night.

It felt impulsive, reckless, but it was too late to turn back. Jacaerys stepped aside, the door opening wider. "Come in," he muttered, though there was still something in his tone that held him back, a wariness that made your chest tighten.

You hesitated for a heartbeat before stepping over the threshold, your slippered feet quiet on the stone floor. The room felt too large, too filled with silent tension as you moved toward the bed where Jacaerys had been resting not long ago.

He closed the door softly behind you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You stood there in the center of the room, unsure what to say or where to start.

he favor you had carried so carefully was still hidden within your cloak, clutched tightly in your hand.

Finally, Jacaerys broke the silence, his voice softer now, though his gaze remained steady. "What’s going on, really? Why are you here?" His eyes flicked down to your hand, where the favor was still clenched tightly in your grip.

You glanced down at the favor in your hands, fingers trembling slightly as you loosened your grip. The purple larkspurs and soft ribbons unraveled before his eyes, delicate in their simplicity.

It was small, fragile, but to you, it was everything—a fragile peace offering, a wordless apology. Something to span the gulf between you, a rift that had widened without either of you fully realizing it.

"I—" You stopped again, the words thick on your tongue, reluctant to leave your mouth. "I didn’t mean to shut you out," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I... I thought maybe you were using me." The confession hit you harder than you expected, a raw, bitter thing, but you couldn’t stop it now. "But I’ve been thinking, and I realized I was wrong. I was so wrong, Jace."

His gaze never wavered. Jacaerys stood unmoving, his eyes boring into you, trying to decipher the truth in your voice, in your every flinch.

Every flicker of your expression seemed to unravel something deep within him. His silence was a thing of its own, a quiet kind of understanding that stilled your breath.

Finally, Jacaerys exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly, the sharp tension easing. His gaze softened, just enough to show you a sliver of something tender beneath the veneer of caution.

"I didn’t want you to shut me out," stepping forward, his arms coming around you in a tight embrace. "I just wanted... to not feel like you were slipping away."

You closed your eyes at his words, guilt rushing over you like an unforgiving tide, cold and unrelenting. "I didn’t mean to make you feel that way," you whispered into his shoulder, the words tasting like ashes. "The court, the politics, the pressure... I’m not used to this, Jace. I’m just not."

His arms tightened around you, his warmth seeping into your skin. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, his gaze steady, unwavering. "I understand," But beneath the calm, there was something, a hint of something deeper in his voice. "But shutting me out only makes it worse."

You nodded, a sob rising in your chest, the lump there thick and suffocating. "I know. I’m sorry," you choked out, your voice breaking. The silence stretched between you, thick with all the things you hadn’t said—hadn’t had the courage to voice until now.

Finally, Jacaerys reached out, his hand brushing over yours as he took the favor from your palm, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

His touch was warm, gentle, a silent apology of his own. "It’s a beautiful thing," he murmured, his voice soft as he examined the larkspurs and ribbons. "I thought you might have forgotten about it."

"I never did," you replied, your voice barely audible, as fragile as the flowers in his hands. "I just... didn’t know how to give it to you after everything that happened."

He smiled then, a soft, fleeting thing, a smile that held so much more than it seemed—comfort, reassurance, and a kind of promise. It was the smile that soothed the ache inside you, melting the last of the tension that had gripped your heart. "You don’t have to explain everything all at once," he said quietly.

His words settled over you like a balm, soothing the rawness between you, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you allowed yourself to believe it.

You could almost feel the distance between you shrinking, no longer an insurmountable wall but a gap that could be bridged. It wasn’t gone—no, not yet—but it was smaller now, more manageable.

Jacaerys turned toward the window, his gaze drifting out toward the sea. "Let’s go to the beach," The soft, endless dark of the horizon seemed to call to him, pulling at something deep within.

You frowned, caught off guard by the suggestion. "But it’s still night," you protested, the very thought of leaving the warmth of the room for the cold, dark shore feeling absurd in the stillness of the moment.

Jacaerys’s smile widened, “The night doesn’t stop the waves, Wren," the corners of his lips tugging upward just slightly.

The castle seemed to breathe a quiet sigh as you and Jacaerys slipped through the shadows of the courtyard, the heavy wooden door closing softly behind you.

You moved swiftly, your cloaks drawn tight around you, the chill of the night still hanging in the air as you made your way down the familiar path leading toward Blackwater Bay.

The guards were oblivious, their attention elsewhere as you darted past them, feet light on the cobblestone streets. No words were exchanged between you.

The path to the beach was etched into memory—the same one you had taken when you became friends, the day that felt both like a lifetime ago and just yesterday.

The salt of the sea filled the air, the sound of distant waves crashing softly against the shore mingling with the quiet of the pre-dawn hours. The first light of morning began to creep across the sky, painting it in shades of purple and gold, the sun still just a glimmering promise on the horizon.

As you walked in step with Jacaerys, the cool sand slipping beneath your feet, the silhouettes of a few fishermen dotted the shoreline, their boats gently bobbing in the water.

They paid you no mind, as if two figures cloaked in the night were nothing unusual in these parts. The world seemed still, frozen in time, as though holding its breath in anticipation of the day to come.

"Mother has decided that we leave for Dragonstone," Jacaerys’s voice cut through the silence, soft but steady, as though he were testing the words himself.

You blinked, taken aback by his sudden revelation. The words seemed to reverberate through the quiet of the morning, “You’re leaving?” filling the empty space between you.

Jacaerys didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed ahead, watching the waves as they rolled in and out, each one steady and rhythmic, much like his own thoughts. His expression was guarded, the lines of his face set in a way you couldn’t read.

He nodded—you could feel the distance growing, stretching out like the horizon before you, just as unreachable, just as uncertain. The thought of him leaving, of the absence that would follow, hit you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you forgot the steady rhythm of your own steps, caught in the sudden shift of the world around you.

“You’ll go?” you asked again, as if the question might somehow change the answer. You hadn’t expected it—hadn't prepared for it, not like this. The words tasted bitter, as though asking them would unravel something inside you.

Jacaerys’s gaze flickered briefly toward you, his eyes a little softer now, though still heavy with something unspoken. “I must,” he replied, his voice firm but laced with something quieter, something more fragile.

"It is what is expected." The words were familiar, the weight of duty pressing down on him with each one. He said nothing more for a long while, the world around you both feeling larger and more distant with every passing second.

You nodded slowly, the thoughts swirling in your mind faster than you could grasp them. Each one tangled with the next, a knot of uncertainty and emotion that refused to unravel.

The shoreline stretched out before you, the vastness of the sea mirroring the distance that would soon lie between you. The cool sand beneath your feet felt oddly grounding, yet you couldn't shake the sense that it would soon slip away, leaving you adrift.

Then, without warning, Jacaerys’s hand brushed against yours, warm and steady, as he came to a halt. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, pulling you gently to a stop as well. You looked at him, his gaze meeting yours, serious but soft, as though trying to find some truth within the moment.

He didn’t need to say it, not aloud, but the weight of it hung in the air—the ache of a parting that neither of you had anticipated but both knew was inevitable.

“I’ll miss you,” Jacaerys’ other hand found yours, both of them cupping your palm with a warmth that spoke volumes, a warmth that felt like the last embers of a fire soon to be extinguished.

You swallowed, the lump in your throat growing, and for a fleeting moment, you couldn’t speak. The vulnerability in his eyes, the rawness of his words, left you struggling to find the right ones. “I’ll miss you too,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath, but they held everything.

Jacaerys, needing something—anything—that could tether you both to this moment. "Promise to send ravens?" The words left your lips before you could even think about it, the hope in your voice clear as you looked up at

Jacaerys’s lips curled into a small, teasing smile, and with a quick nod, he replied, “Only if you promise not to ignore them.”

Without missing a beat, you tangled your pinky with his, the simple gesture a pact between the two of you. A way of sealing what might be forgotten in the passing of time, but something you both needed now.

“Promise,”

As if the air between you could no longer contain the tension of unspoken words, you both broke into laughter. It was a sound that felt foreign and real all at once, something pure amid the complications of everything else.

But just as quickly as the laughter came, it seemed, a spark of mischief flickered in Jacaerys’s eyes. In an instant, he was pulling at the ties of your cloak, his hands quick and determined.

Before you could protest, his fingers tugged at your cloak, and with a quick yank, it was gone, leaving you only in your nightgown, the cool night air suddenly sharper against your skin.

The sound of his laughter mixed with yours as he dragged you toward the edge of the water, your feet stumbling against the uneven sand. “Jace? No!” you gasped, caught off guard, but your words were lost in the sudden burst of giggles that followed.

You tried to pull away, but his grip was steady, and in a flash, you were both closer to the sea than you ever thought you would be in the middle of the night.

The waves crashed against the shore with relentless force, their cold touch sending a sharp chill up your spine. Your nightgown, now soaked through with saltwater, clung to your skin, heavy and uncomfortable, but the laughter that bubbled between you and Jacaerys kept you light.

The sound of the waves, the crisp air, and his playful presence filled the space around you like a song. “Come on, Wren!” Jacaerys called, as he released your hand, stepping back just enough to splash you with the frothy sea water.

You squealed, shocked by the sudden coldness, but the surprise melted into laughter as you kicked your own splash back toward him. “Take this!” you shouted, your words barely audible over the crashing waves. His wet nightshirt clung to his skin, clinging to his every movement like a second layer.

Jacaerys grinned, unbothered by the soaked fabric sticking to him, but his playful demeanor faltered just slightly when you noticed something unusual—something you hadn’t seen before. As he turned his back toward you, you caught sight of a scattering of small freckles across his shoulders and down the length of his back.

“You have freckles on your back?” you asked, your voice filled with surprise and amusement, the playful tone in your words only adding to the moment’s warmth.

The small, sun-kissed dots were scattered like stardust, almost imperceptible unless you were looking for them, but they were there, peppered across his skin in a way that made him seem a little less like the prince you knew and more like someone far more familiar, far more human.

Jacaerys stiffened for a brief moment, a flush creeping up his neck before he turned to face you, a hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve had them for as long as I can remember,” he said with a teasing glint in his eyes, his voice shifting to one of playful defensiveness. “I didn’t think they were something worth mentioning.”

You grinned, suddenly filled with a new kind of warmth—one that wasn’t just from the laughter, but from the realization that there were so many things about him you still hadn’t fully seen.

Things you hadn’t noticed before, like the way the sunlight caught in his hair, or the way his freckles dotted his skin like little secrets he’d never shared.

“Well,” you teased, stepping closer, “I think they’re cute.”

Jacaerys rolled his eyes dramatically, his smile never fading. It was as if the world had shifted just slightly. As if he had learned something new about himself, something that had quietly taken root within him without him even realizing it.

No matter what the future held, no matter how far away you would be from him, his heart would always yearn for you. Because no matter how long it took for him to see you again.

He was only an island away.

Taglist: (If you want to be added, please click here)

@yohanseyebrowmole @radiantdanvers @accidentpronedork @marvel-mistress-padawan @tabathastan @deltamoon666 @hotdhoe @cosmosnkaz @dragonamongwolves @r-3dlips @ghizlana @boiolay @gardenfaeries @ilymoonie @mellylla @omgsuperstarg @idohknow @beskardroids @buckystevelove @plainxlazy @gwaynehightower @beebeechaos @milksde @saintkittykat @cornbreadwithcheese @pinkb00bsocks @agoldenwoe @moonliightbabes @day2dream @geminizmoonz @smiley-roos @xxxkat3xxx @ninihrtss

153 notes · View notes