Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter I – Daenys

King’s landing stank 

Of smoke and sea, of sweat and horses, of piss-soaked alleys and perfume-laced courtyards. It reeked power, ambition, and blood beneath the cobblestones. 

Oh don’t get me wrong he loved his heritage but why Kings Landing when dragonstone is right there?

From the heights of Aegon’s Hill, the Red keep watched over it all, the crimson fortress of towers and battlements, veiled with the black stone and shadow. Its walls held tails that had whispered down through the decades, but betrayal and secrets ran deep, through the Kings and queens, its halls had tasted more blood than any battlefield ever could. 

Technically Bruce is not married so.. King?

The city itself was a maze of contradictions. Bronze domes rose over brothels; marble columns flanked taverns that stank of ale and spilled secrets. Gold cloaks patrolled the cobblestones with that peculiar brand of bored menace—lazy until provoked, cruel when roused.

Deanys Targaryen could watch it all. The sun was setting over the city, bathing the city in golden light, rooftops shimmering under the dying light. Its shadows stretch long and thin, turning the Red Keep’s spired into figured clawing at the sky. 

It was more imposing like this

The wind off Blackwater Bay carried it up to him, cutting through the smoke and stench. The torches burning along the battlements added the faint tang of fire and wax, adding a smokey mix 

Daenys, rather more preferred his nickname Dick, but only to those he trusted in unofficial settings. He stood at the edge of the balcony in the tower overlooking the city. Back bent, elbows resting on the ledges, not at all the formal composure of a Prince. His silver-white hair caught in the light forming a halo of molten moonfire. 

At seventeen, he was already the image of ancient Valyrian beauty: slim built but muscular, handsome leaning more to pretty, with the eyes the colour of a pool of sea, stillness that drew you in that could be mistaken for serenity. At first glance they seemed calm, like the smooth surface of the sea under the sun, bright, clear, inviting. The blue was striking with a hue so vivid it seemed to burn with an inner fire. However the longer you looked at the father you were sucked into the depth. His beauty was more than physical, it was a presence that commanded attention without him needing to ask, a kindness that people could not help but gravitate toward. 

Magnetic 

Even the calm feel of wind brushing on his skin, cool and alive, couldn’t calm the uneasy churn in his chest. Making his dragon - Nightwing, restless within the shared connection between him and his she-dragon. 

Deanys apologized softly through the bond.

It had been days since they last flew. The Keep was too busy preparing for a wedding, his duties keeping him bound to the ground.

Oh right, his wedding.

The day before, the small council decided to inform him of his to Jaehaerys Baratheon, the Stormlander heir. The words, spoken in the dry monotone of his father’s advisors, had lingered in his mind, and now they would not rid his mind. The meeting had been particularly unpleasant due to his Father not being able to look at him at all. 

Bruce could have at least warned me. 

He had barely heard the rest of the meeting after that, which is out of character for him, but not one person commented on it, too busy with their other plans. They didn’t care that they had forgotten to mention they had been planning this for months.

And now he’s told?!

The wedding was in a week.

A week.

Finding out the wedding was in a week has been quite a shock, the suddenness had left him unsettled, as though the ground beneath his feet had shifted without warning. 

Why the rush? Betrothals were supposed to take years.

Jaehaerys Baratheon. 

A boy, one year younger, a boy he has never met,though his name had been passed between the courtiers for months, whispering like a gentle click of a coin, just to draw attention but never enough to make a sound. Though Dick has noticed they went particularly quiet around him when he walked in on their whispering. 

Guess that's why they always stopped their gossip. 

He was to be Dick’s future husband. The heir of Storm’s End.  A union of storm and fire., a bond meant to unite two powerful houses. A marriage of necessity, they said. The end of a decades-long feud.

Dick couldn’t recall the cause of.

Dick wasn’t angry - anger was too hot, too fast, No, this was something tamer more frustration than anything. He was supposed to share a bond with a boy he had never seen, never spoken to. 

His mother would have hated it.

The marriage was a political necessity. Dick knew that. His mother came from another ancient Valyrian line, proud and free. Her death when Daenys was nine had left a void no one could fill, shattering the crown. He remembered flying with her—the wind, the fire, the sound of their laughter carried through the clouds.

Now all that was left was expectation.

Two old bloodlines flowed in his veins. He was valuable. The crown’s greatest prize.

The top prize 

He had been raised for this moment. Raised to rule, to lead, to marry with intention. But to marry a stranger? Someone so far removed from his life, from his world, it was not something he had prepared for. Dick’s mother had raised him in the ways of old Valyria, two souls meant to be, uniting. It was supposed to be someone Dick knew. 

Dick’s thoughts were soon interrupted by the faint sound behind him, the faint sound of footsteps on stone.  

Alfred, no doubt, Alfred had never been a servant to him, more so a grandfather.

Coming to fetch him for the evening feast. He turned, his movements languid but purposeful, blue robes swishing behind him. 

One thing about being a Prince was having great clothes. His dress or outer robe was regal and elegant, the deep midnight blue fabric gives it a cool, rich tone, reminiscent of the depths of the ocean, the same underscales of his dragon as well as his mother’s house colour. His father’s colours had always been black but Dick preferred blue.

Less depressing

The fabric being adorned in faint but intricate floral patterns, subtly etched into the material. The high collar, beaded with pearl embellishments around the, dripping onto his chest. They caught the light with a delicate, almost ethereal gleam. The beading and the pearls are designed in a fluid but symmetrical pattern representing the sky above. The long, flowing sleeves are dramatically wide as the wrists, tapering in at the upper arm, enhances his sense of grandeur and movement as he walks. The almost silk-like quality flowed behind him. The bodice was slightly structured but soft design, with subtle paneling around the bust and waist, providing shape as the dress opened at the front with a thin, vertical chain of pearls and beaded details. 

Alfred stood in the door, gaze flickering to Dick’s, “Prince Daenys, His Majesty the King requests your presence in the hall."

With a small smile at Alfred, he nodded, thoughts swirling inside his head, making an incoherent mess, a storm.

“Thank you,” his voice smooth as silk, steady, revealing nothing of the weariness inside.

He followed Alfred down the circular staircase, torches lighting their way, passing through hallways lined with tapestries of old Targaryen victories and depictions of dragons in flight. Shoes clicking on the cobblestone, every footstep echoed like a heartbeat, settling heavy in his chest. The weight of his father’s approval pressing down on his shoulders.

More like an expectation of him

He was the Heir to the Iron Throne, he rode a fierce firebreathing dragon for gods sake, he shouldn’t be this scared. The Red Keep hummed in his ears around him. From the smallfolk in the streets below to the servants scurrying around the palace to the great lords and ladies vying for favor.

More like embarrassing themselves in front of the King, who had only favored him.

The air seemed thick, everything seemed wrapped in a tension, the calm before the storm. It was the ever-present possibility of change. A change you could smell in the air, a whisper of heat before dragon-fire. A change Dick did not know if he could adjust too. He had only ever lived in King's landing or Dragonstone; he had no idea what Baratheon life was like.

Apparently nothing good according to whispers. 

When he entered the great hall, he could see Bruce seated at the high table, flanked by his advisors and other nobles of the realm.

No queen at his side. There never had been, not since her.

Though Dick knew Bruce had plenty of lovers 

The seat next to the King had saved, empty, waiting, just for him. Daenys repeated his father’s earlier behavior and did not look at them for long, his mind still on the idea of this boy, this heir, this Jaehaerys Baratheon, his future. 

Dick, no Daenys now, took his seat beside his father, he scraped wood on stone muffled in the humming hall. The hall was a strom of sound, silver platters clattering, goblets ringing, courtiers laughing obnoxiously loud, desperate to be heard above the din. 

All celebrating him and his engagement

Yet all of it felt distance, muffled in his ears, as if wind were rushing past his ears. 

Bruce had not said a word to him. Hadn’t even looked at him 

His face was unreadable, carved from the same black stone as the keep itself, unyielding, severe, disciplined. The faint firelight of the torches caught on his crown, throwing shadows across the hard planes of his jaw. Bruce was a decent king, just not much of a people person. Once, Daenys had adored him, idolized him, and wanted to be him. 

Don’t get him wrong, he still deeply loved him. 

Not now. 

Now, all he saw was a man who couldn’t meet his own son's eyes.

He had once believed every legend told of the Dragon order who ruled with strength and mercy alike, but strength as he was learning could hide fear, weakness. 

The wine in his cup trembled faintly as someone behind him filled it. He lifted it to his lips, his hands were steady, his heart not. 

One wrong move and Dick was going to drop the cup

A voice cut through the hum of the feast, knocking Dick from his thoughts, “To House Targaryen and To Daenys Targaryen the jewel of the realm.’

Ah, it was lord Lannister, looks like it's the annoying one too. What was his name? Well I should probably refresh my memory before the wedding.  

The Lannister’s words dripped with the ease of someone born into too much gold, too little restraint, and too spoiled. “And to the blessed union soon to come!”

The cheer that echoed throughout the hall was hollow in Daeny’s ears. The air itself seeming too thick and heavy to breathe. 

Breathe

Bruce lifted his goblet, gold decorating in red rubies, his face still expressionless, “To Storms End,” his voice steady and calm, a little too steady, “To the future of our realm.”

Dick raised his cup out of pure reflex. The wine was sweet, but it burned like fire down his throat. The lords and ladies resumed their laughter, their yelling, the music rising again, and the courtiers spun back into their dance of flattery and deceit. 

He wondered what Jaehaerys Baratheon was doing now. Did he know his name had been chained to a Targaryen’s in the name of peace. If he dreaded it as much as Daenys did—or if he welcomed it, the way storm meets flame, violently, beautifully, inevitably.  

The thought unsettled Dick but also gave him a sense of desire, a pull to see his flame in the storm. 

He pushed food around his plate, every once in a while taking a bite, before pushing his plate away. The noise that had blurred around him, became replaced by a quiet pull of another presence, a thrum deep within his chest, providing warmth. 

Nightwing, his dragon. 

Her presence promised a whispered thought  of soon, through the blond. Her presence was calm and filled with smoke, soon. 

He longed to leave this banquet, the stone surrounding him, the politics, the endless eyes watching him. He longed to fly - to feel how the world fell away from him until the city was only a blur beneath him. 

Freedom

But he was the crown itself, there was no escape, no way to leave, faking his death wasn’t an option either. If he left Bruce was sure to chase him. So he stayed seated. The heir apparent. The dutiful son. 

As the feast dwindled, he pushed back his chair and stood, excusing himself with a practiced smile. Bruce didn’t stop him, didn’t even look up. 

The outside air of the corridors hit him like a cold caress. The city stretched below the Keep, a sea of torches and secrets. Above, the moon hung pale over the dark wings circling the red keep. 

“Tomorrow,” Daenys murmured to himself. “If they won’t let me fly by day, I’ll fly by night.” 

The bond flooded with the purr of approval. 

He turned from the courtyard, his robes whispering, swishing, against the stone. The faint smile tugged at his lips, the secret flicker of freedom when flying. 

For now let the council plot their wedding, their alliances, their careful game. For tonight, Dick could see a storm gathering in the distance, lighting reflecting in his eyes, a promise of fire that had not yet spoken. 

Chapter Text

A sword cut through the fog of the dawn. 

Each swing split the air with a hiss, mist curling in its wake. The training yard was slick with dew, the flagstones dark beneath his boots. Beyond the walls of Storm’s End, the sea roared, low and endless, its rhythm matching his own breath. 

Jaehaerys Baratheon’s movements were precise and deliberate, every motion honed by repetition. Strike. Pivot. Block. Parry. Again. The clang of steel against the wooden pell echoed off the fortress walls, mingling with the gulls’ cries and the steady thrum of waves battering the cliffs below. 

His muscles burned; the ache kept his mind from wandering too far. 

Rain clung to his hair, darkening it to ink. He was taller than most boys of sixteen, shoulders broadening into the promise of a man. The training sword fit his hand like an extension of his will. But there was always something in his stance, something too rigid, too controlled, that betrayed the storm simmering beneath the surface. He did not train to impress. He trained to forget. 

He was training to live.  

The keep was quiet at this hour. Only the sentries on the battlements and the sea knew he was awake. 

The courtyard smelled of salt and cold iron, a scent he’d known since he could walk. Storm’s End was his mother’s blood and his father’s shadow—stone and thunder, always on the verge of breaking. 

 When the sound of footsteps echoed behind him, he did not stop.  

“Your Grace,” said Ser Florent, his master-at-arms, voice low but urgent. “A raven’s come. From King’s Landing.”  

The next blow landed harder than intended, splintering the practice post. The sword rebounded in his grip, jarring his wrist. He turned, breath steadying, sweat beading down his temple.  

“From the King?” Jason asked, though he already knew. The seal of the Targaryens was unmistakable: a three-headed dragon, pressed into red wax, glinting like blood in the gray light.  

Ser Florent nodded. “Marked urgent. Your lord father thought it best you open it yourself, then come to see him.” 

Jason reached for the scroll, the paper damp from travel. His fingers gently brushed the wax. The dragon seemed to bore into him, promising him something. He scratched at the wax, opening the seal.

By command of His Grace, King Bruce Targaryen… 

The words that followed were clean and efficient, stripped of poetry, because of course power needed none.

 His Majesty is pleased to announce the betrothal of Prince Daenys Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne, to Jaehaerys Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and Heir of House Baratheon. The wedding shall take place in King’s Landing within the fortnight. 

He read it twice, then folded the parchment with deliberate care. His heartbeat didn’t quicken; his face betrayed nothing. Only the faint tightening of his jaw showed the weight of it. 

“So,” he said finally, voice smooth and detached. “They’ve decided peace is cheaper than pride.” 

Ser Mychal hesitated, unsure if a reply was safe. “It is… an honor, my lord.” 

“Is it?” Jason rolled the scroll back into his hand. “Strange sort of honor, being bartered for it.” 

The knight bowed and withdrew.

 Left alone, Jason leaned against the stone wall, the cool surface grounding him. He let out a slow breath, watching his sword gleam faintly in the half-light. 

Daenys Targaryen. 

He remembered the boy faintly, though he doubted Daenys remembered him; he only saw him from afar. Silver hair, eyes like the sea after a storm, standing beside his dragon at a royal tourney years ago. 

A really large, terrifying dragon 

Even then, there had been something untouchable about him. Not arrogance, not exactly, but a distance as if the world below him was something he observed rather than lived in. And now he was to marry that distance. 

He could almost hear his father’s voice: You are not marrying a boy. You are marrying the crown. 

 That was the truth of it. Fire and storm joined for the realm’s sake, for peace between their houses. But Jason knew better than to believe in peace. Peace was a word men used before they drew new lines for war.

  Still, a flicker of curiosity burned beneath the bitterness. What kind of man had Daenys become? He knew he had grown to be divinely beautiful, but everyone knew that. Did he still have that calm, that quiet fire, or was it loud, fierce, and roaring?

Would he even want this union any more than Jason did? 

He sheathed his blade, the motion smooth and decisive. Looking onto the horizon, a storm gathered over the sea, dark clouds curling over the horizon. The gods of the Stormlands stirred. 

Smiling faintly. “Seems fitting.” 

With a turn, Jason started his walk back from the training grounds to the castle. His breath fogged in the morning chill, the mist rising off the cliffs curling around the towers like pale smoke as he made his way up the stone trail. 

The path to his father’s study wound through the keep of Durran's Defiance, Storm's End's castle, a fortress of stone older than his father’s memory, every wall slick with salt and the history of violence between these walls. 

The storm never truly left this place, living in the bones of the castle, humming through stone as though the sea itself whispered their wrongdoings beneath the floors.  

 “You could have told me,” Jason said, closing the heavy door behind him. His voice was calm, a cold calm, the kind of calm that hides the shake in one’s hands. “Before the raven did.”  

Roman Baratheon didn’t answer right away, simply studying the boy in front of him, the faintest line of a cruel smirk ghosting his lips. 

“And spoil the surprise.”

His words were smooth but barbed, each word tearing into his skin, each one deliberate. He crossed the room and poured himself a cup of wine, never breaking eye contact with his lord father.​​ The liquid caught the light of the torch, reflecting a deep red, a blood red.

“You call this a surprise?” Jason asked, jaw tightening. “You sold me off without a word.”

His father swirled his cup in his hand, watching the wine spin. “Don’t be dramatic, Jaehaerys. I secured you the best possible match in the Seven Kingdoms, a match that will bind us to the Iron Throne itself. You should be grateful you got picked.” 

Lord Baratheon took a long sip of his wine, his tongue licking his lips, and he moved the cup away from his now reddened lips. 

“Besides, boy, this is what heirs are for, to strengthen our house, not indulge this childish pride of yours.”

“Childish?” The word came out colder than Jason meant. “I’m to marry a man I’ve never spoken to. One I've only seen years ago. That isn’t strength, Father; this is desperation dressed as diplomacy. Your greed, reaching too far.” 

Roman’s gaze sharpened; the faint curl of disdain deepened. 

Heat flared across Jason’s face, sharp and sudden. Roman’s hand lingered in the air, the sound of the slap still echoing between them. 

“Mind your tone.” 

Hand coming up to clutch his reddened cheek, “I’m your son, not your pawn.” 

“You’re both,” Roman said flatly. Placing the goblet down with a soft click that sounded more like a hammer striking on metal when it touched the table. 

“And don’t flatter yourself thinking you’re above the game, boy. Every lord, every heir, every king is someone’s pawn before they learn to make pawns of others.”

Jason felt something twist in his chest, tight and hot—anger, shame, and the need to scream, all at once. He wanted to break something, throw his father's stupid goblet across the room. 

But instead he stood perfectly still. 

“You could have asked me,” he said, quietly this time.

Roman’s brows lifted, almost amused, with a cruel chuckle. 

“Asked you?” He stepped closer, his shadow long against the firelight. “Do you think kings ask? Do you think your grandfather asked when he sent me to wed your mother? Do you think I wanted her? I did my duty, and so will you.” 

There was no warmth in his tone. Only iron.

“And if I refuse?” Jason asked. 

“You can’t.” Roman’s mouth curved, humorless. “I’ll remind you of your place if I have to, or maybe just for fun.”  

Silence settled thick as the sea fog. The only sound was the faint crackle of fire and the steady beat of the storm starting outside. 

Jason forced himself to breathe. “Daenys Targaryen,” he said finally. “You think this marriage will make us equal to the crown? It won’t. You’re chaining me to a dragon, a beast I cannot claim. They’ll never see me as anything but storm-born stock, only good for a sword arm and a child.” 

Roman tilted his head slightly, considering him like a man might a stubborn horse, eyes still sharp. 

“Then prove them wrong,” he said. “Win them. Command them. Or burn with them. Either way, you’ll make your name matter.” 

He turned back to the window, dismissing his son with a motion of his hand. “You’ll leave within the week. Storm’s End will send its strength with you. And Jaehaerys…”

Jason froze at the door. 

“Don’t you dare embarrass me,” Roman threatened, “If you do, I’ll kill you.”

 Jason knew he would; he did the same with his mother.

Jason stood there for a long moment, his hand on the cold brass handle. 

He wanted to say a hundred things, to shout, to curse, to tell his father that storms don’t bend, they break, but he didn’t. 

Instead, he kept silent, nodded once, turned, and left.

The corridor outside felt colder than before. The air smelled of rain, with the sea pressing close against the cliffs below. Each step he took away from that study loosened the knot in his chest, but not the ache. 

He was to be wed to a dragon prince, one he didn’t know. Bound to a future forged by a man who never once asked what he wanted. And yet… beneath the anger, beneath the resentment, there was something else—a flicker of curiosity. 

Who was Daenys Targaryen? The realm called him beautiful, kind, and the jewel of the Seven Kingdoms. But jewels were fragile things.

Jason smiled to himself—a small, dangerous smile. 

“Let’s see,” he muttered. “What happens when the storm meets fire?”

Curiosity turned into need in his chest. The desire to see the fire in the cracks of a beautiful gem. 

In a week's time.

 By noon, servants were already preparing his travel gear. The castle was abuzz, armor polished, horses saddled, and trunks packed with Baratheon colors of gold and black. 

His maester droned on about alliances, dowries, and the honor of being chosen by the crown.

 Jason said little. 

He let them dress him in storm-colored velvet, his antler brooch gleaming in the firelight. The fabric felt heavy, as if the duty itself had been sewn into it. When he stood before the gates of Storm’s End that evening, the wind lashed his cloak out behind him. Lightning cracked across the sky, white fire reflected in his eyes. 

A tad gaudy if you ask me

He looked back once—at the fortress that had shaped him, at the waves hammering the cliffs. Then forward, off to the capital that would consume him. He mounted his horse, rain already drumming against his shoulders. 

“To King’s Landing, then,” he murmured. 

Hopefully his new husband’s dragon won’t eat him. 

Chapter Text

The gates of King’s Landing loomed higher than he expected. Even through the mist, Jason could see how the city stretched on endlessly, a tangle of rooftops, chimneys, and distant towers clawing toward the sky. 

The smell hit him first: smoke, salt, and sweat, a mixture so thick it clung to his throat. Storm’s End had smelled of sea and stone—clean, honest things. This city stank of people. Too many of them.

Holy fuck.

Storm’s End had been wild but honest with the fury of the sea and the purity of the wind. King’s Landing was different. It stank of ambition. 

The gold cloaks moved aside as the heavy gates opened with a hollow groan. Rain still clung to the cobbles, reflecting the dull red glow of the torches. His escort rode ahead, clearing a path through the teeming streets, but Jason barely heard the mumbled greeting. 

He was watching the city.

Everywhere he looked, there was motion: merchants shouting under dripping awnings, beggars huddled in doorways, soldiers leaning on spears with bored menace, and prostitutes from brothels yelling out to people on the street.

 Somewhere far off, he could hear the bells of the Sept of Baelor tolling.

The heart of the realm, his father had called it. 

To Jason, it looked like a heart that had been cut open and left to rot.

As they rode through the streets, gold cloaks parted the crowds with hollow formality. People stared at him, craning for a glimpse of the Baratheon heir. 

The son of a monster 

The boy promised to a dragon.

By the time the Baratheon party reached the Red Keep, the sun was a dull smear behind the clouds, throwing long, blood-colored shadows across the courtyard and onto him.

Well, that's an ominous sign.

The Keep’s crimson walls gleamed wet from earlier rain, with lightning cracking somewhere far off, faint enough to make him wish there had actually been a storm. 

To prolong his arrival, maybe past the wedding date

King’s Landing sprawled before them, vast and restless, its streets coiling like veins toward the Red Keep, perched above the bay. 

And everyone else. 

Trumpets sounded sad and half-hearted as the royal guard, Ser Wilson, received them. Courtiers whispered his name, the stormlord’s son, the Baratheon heir—is he as cruel as his father? 

He could feel their eyes on him, raking over him like a piece of meat, weighing him, measuring his worth against rumor and bloodline. 

Jason could almost laugh; just wait till his father arrives.

Stepping down from his horse, boots splashing into puddles, Jason felt the difference immediately. The air here was heavy, perfumed with incense and oil, a contrast from the blood and salt he usually smelled. Servants buzzed around them, bowing low, offering wine, and helping his part. 

His leathers, still damp from the road, clung uncomfortably to his skin. His escort peeled away, leaving him standing before the great doors. 

And there, waiting, was a man.

Ser. Slade Wilson

Tall. Armored in black steel that gleamed under the torches. The sigil of the Kingsguard, a three-headed dragon, glinted on his chest. He was the only knight of the Kingsgaurd to wear black armor. His face was pale underneath his helm, and the hair and beard showing under were white. He was sharp-boned and unreadable. His eyes, well, his one eye, were pale and cold, almost lifeless, but showed violence. His other eye had been covered in an eye patch. 

“Lord Jaehaerys Baratheon,” the man said. His voice was smooth but groveled, like a used blade cutting steel. “Welcome to the Red Keep.”  

Jason inclined his head slightly, nodding a greeting. “Ser Wilson,” he replied,

Ser Wilson looked down at him through the helm, sizing him up, before bowing with the stiffness of habit rather than respect. “His majesty sent me to receive you.” 

Jason said nothing at first. There was something about that man, besides the fact he unnerved Jason. He stood too still and spoke in a monotone for a knight of war. The air around him screamed of violence, the kind that didn’t need to raise a voice or draw a sword; it was cold and brutal. 

“His majesty is not present?” Jason asked. 

Because of course he isn’t.

“He is at council,” Wilson replied. “You’ll be presented tomorrow. Tonight, you rest.”

He knew that was a lie, but he also knew Ser Wilson did not care if he noticed. 

Jason’s gaze flicked to the other guards at the gate. None of them met his eyes. 

Wilson gestured for him to follow and turned without another word. 

As they walked through the fortress, Jason felt it, the faint hum of power that lived in the stones. 

The one that spoke of fire and blood. 

The corridors wound upward, lined with torches that threw their shadows long and thin. The smell of wax and incense replaced the sea air, but it did nothing to warm the chill crawling up his spine. 

Wilson moved like a shadow himself, silent, efficient, deadly, and unnervingly graceful for a man wearing a full plate of armor.  

Jason found his voice again after a moment. “You’ve served the crown long?” 

Wilson’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Long enough to forget what serving anything else feels like.” 

Jason frowned. “You speak as if it’s a burden.” 

The man’s pale eyes turned toward him. “Everything worth keeping is.

A glint in his eyes that seemed wrong, so, so, wrong.

He said nothing more after that. The silence between them thickened until even their footsteps felt muffled. When they finally reached the guest chambers, Wilson stopped by the door and bowed slightly. 

“Your belongings will be brought up shortly. The prince will meet you tomorrow, after the morning feast.” Jason nodded, uneasy but unwilling to show it. 

“You’ve been… thorough, Ser Wilson.” Wilson tilted his head, studying him the way a hawk studies a smaller bird. “Storm’s End breeds strong men,” he said quietly. “Let us hope the storms they raise do not turn against their kings or their jewels.” 

Before Jason could answer, Wilson turned and walked back down the hall, his cloak whispering against the stone. The air felt colder in his absence. Inside, the chamber was already lit, with a warm fire, velvet drapes, and a bed large enough to drown in. Servants were already waiting. 

Jason never had so many servants waiting on him. 

It felt excessive. 

He dismissed them with a curt nod. 

The room was vast, far too large for one man. 

And this was a guest room.

Gold-threaded curtains and a bed draped in silks. The Targaryen crest was carved into the mantle. Candles burned low, their light trembling against the marble.

Jason unfastened his cloak and moved to the window. The city stretched far below, glowing faintly beneath the haze of smoke and rain. Beyond the Keep’s walls, he could just make out the faint shimmer of the bay, ships bobbing like toys on dark water. He wondered which direction led back to Storm’s End. 

He stayed there for a long time, the memory of Wilson’s gaze still clinging to him. It had not been the stare of a guard or even a servant. It had been the quiet, the look on the man, jealousy, a man who was planning to get rid of him.  

Shivering before turning and walking back to sit on the bed, he stripped off his travel leathers, each buckle and clasp feeling more difficult than it should.  The velvet tunic laid out for him on the chair was a deep red, Targaryen red. 

Picking up the tunic and running his fingers over it, it felt soft and at the same time wrong. It felt foreign against his calloused hands. Sure, he had worn nice clothing, but this was something expensive. 

Maybe if his father wasn’t running through so much money, he would have these too.

His reflection in the mirror looked more like a lordling than the boy who sparred and practiced every dawn in the courtyard back home.

They said he would meet the prince tomorrow. Prince Daenys Targaryen. Silver hair, sea-blue eyes, and a beauty that made courtiers weep. 

Jason almost laughed at the thought, but it had been years since he last saw him. 

They call him Moonfire, he’d heard one of the servants whisper. Gentle as silk and twice as costly. 

Apparently Prince Daenys was a favorite topic among gossip.  

Jason wondered what kind of man lay beneath that legend. 

Was he cruel like Jason’s father or stoic like the King? Was he actually as gentle and kind as they say?

Candles burned as night took hold, casting him in the dark. 

Sleep would not come.

The air felt too still, the sheets too fine, the bed was too soft, and the silence too loud. 

In Storm’s End, the sea had always roared at him in sleep, wind howling through stone, thunder rumbling like an old god’s breath. The occasional scream of his father’s misdoings. 

Here, the air was suffocating, heavy with perfume and heat. Even the silence felt watchful.

Jason sat up, dragging a hand through his damn hair. Candlelight trembled against the chamber’s stone walls. He had been tossing and turning for hours, thoughts circling in his head, all zoning in to the same points: the wedding, Prince Daenys, and his father’s voice echoing like a curse. 

Do not embarrass us, boy, or I’ll make sure you regret it.

He exhaled loudly through his nose, rising to his feet. Pulling a dark black cloak and slipping on his boots, he stepped quietly into the corridor. 

Not without grabbing a dagger first.

The guards at the end of the hall didn’t move; they didn’t even look up. No one dared question a Baratheon, or maybe they just did not care.

His boots whispered against the stone as he walked, the Red Keep sprawling around him like a labyrinth. He wasn’t sure where he was going, only that he needed air. 

And who the hell designed this place?  

He could hear the halls echoing softly with distant footsteps and the rustle of servants finishing their work as the torches burned low. He found his way down through the lower passages, cold, narrow, and smelling faintly of salt. 

This must lead to the bay.
When he finally reached the courtyard doors, the night wind greeted him with a sharp breath of sea air—cold and alive.

He followed it, leading to a narrow path that twisted behind the walls leading toward. The sea. It curved along the cliff, past the outer walls, until he stood before the shore. 

The cliffs fell away into black water. The moon hung pale and sharp above the bay, scattering silver over the surface.

The sea here was different. It murmured rather than roared. The waves brushed the rocks instead of breaking them, tame and listless. He crouched by the edge, running a hand through the wet sand.

Above him, the Red Keep glowed faintly against the night, a dragon’s den outlined in firelight. 

Yet, Jason still had not seen one dragon. 

He thought of his father’s words, cold and clipped as always. You’ll make yourself useful at last, boy. Don’t shame us, or me, in front of the crown. 

Jason’s jaw tightened. The sting on his cheek from that last slap had faded, but not the humiliation. 

He looked back toward the glowing fortress on the hill, where the prince he was meant to marry likely slept on a bed of silk. A spoiled prince, Jason bet his dragon was not some fierce beast either. 

“Let him dream,” Jason muttered, the wind catching his words.

A distant roll of thunder answered, faint but enough to make him smile. For the first time in a long time, he felt something calm. Not peace, not ever peace, but a clarity that came before a storm broke.

Jason walked until the city’s noise faded behind him, until all he could hear was the tide licking at the rocks below. He stopped at the edge of the shore, breathing deep, filling his lungs with salt and sky.

And then, a sound?

Low at first, like a rumble beneath the earth.

Jason froze mid-step, boots sinking into the damp sand. The night had been still, with the tide lapping quietly and the wind soft against his cloak. Now, something had shifted. A vibration threaded through the air, faint yet unmistakable.

He straightened, senses becoming sharper as he scanned the horizon. The sound grew, not thunder, not wind, but something deeper, heavier. The air itself seemed to tremble. 

Was that the sound of something flying?

Was that… Wings?

He took another step toward the shore, the salt stinging his nose. The sea reflected faint flashes of light, gold and crimson rippling across its dark surface. His pulse quickening

He heard the hiss of fire before he saw it.

Jason’s first instinct was to duck as he flattened himself to the ground. Sand covering his clothes, before peaking, his head snapping upward, looking toward the clouds. At first he had hoped it was a trick of lightning.

No, the light was moving. 

A blazing shape tore through the clouds, a comet given flesh, descending with a roar that shook the stones beneath his feet.

A dragon emerged from the blue fire, a huge, terrifying but beautiful beast. Scales like liquid midnight shimmered with the glint of fire. Its wings dipped in blue unfurled wider than any sail he had seen, each beat cracking against the air. The scent of smoke rolled over the shore, mingling with the sea and salt.

Jason’s breath hitched. He had heard stories, of course. Everyone had. But stories could never prepare a man for the sight of a dragon in flight, a real dragon. With all of its raw, godlike power. 

And on its back, a rider. 

The figure leaned forward with the ease of someone born to the sky, silver hair streaming behind him like a trail of light. For a moment, Jason couldn’t move; he could only stare. Enamored. The blue tint of fire caught the rider’s face, sharp lines softened by youth, eyes bright even from afar, a kind of beauty that seemed carved of something ancient and dangerous. 

His chest tightened.

Daenys Targaryen. 

Jason did not need to be told. He knew.

The dragon came closer. 

Jason scrambled to his feet

Holy fuck, I’m going to die.

Before it banked sharply over the sea, dipping low enough that the spray whipped around its tail, before rising again in a rush of wind and heat. Jason raised an arm to shield his face as the air burned past him, his cloak whipping violently. As the dragon soared into the night. The rider’s laughter, faint and distant, carried on the wind.

It wasn’t the cruel, hollow sound he expected from a prince born to fire and crowns. It was lighter. Free. Almost joyful. 

But it held pain; Jason could recognize it.

He couldn’t look away. 

For the first time since leaving Storm’s End, the unease in his chest eased. Replaced by something else. Aw, maybe. Or fascination. Or something far more obsessive. 

The dragon circled once more, wings beating slow and deliberate, before turning back toward land, disappearing behind a crowned hill from afar. The light faded with them, leaving only darkness and the echo of fire. 

Jason stood there long after they were gone. The hiss of the waves swallowed the silence she’d left behind. He realized then that his hands were shaking. His heart was still racing, but he did not know if it was fear, or awe, or something dangerously close to longing. 

And the dragon’s rider, the dragon prince he was meant to marry, had looked like the sky itself had chosen him.

“So that’s the dragon,” he murmured to himself, voice barely a whisper. “And that’s who I’m to marry.” 

He almost laughed—not mockery, not disbelief, but wonder. 

The storm in his blood had met its match.

He could not help but follow, his feet moving before his mind could catch up, drawn by the echo of fire and wings still hanging in the air.

Jason followed, boots sinking into the damp sand with each step, every sense alert. The night had been still, the tide whispering against the shore, and the wind teasing his cloak. But now, the air thrummed with something else, something alive. Curiosity pushed him forward, over caution. 

He had to see; he had to know he wasn't dreaming.

Finally arriving at a sand dune, Jason ducked behind it. 

Ahead, a shadow shifted among a sand dune. A figure crouched low, nearly hidden by the folds of the dune and the darkness. Jason slowed, scanning carefully. The dragon beneath him, Nightwing, had landed, massive and coiled, its wings folding like dark sails. 

Its rider is standing on the tips of his toes and cradling its massive head between his arms.

Beautiful 

Sand beneath him shifting. 

The blue and black dragon noticed him immediately. 

The growl was not loud; it was deeper than sound, a vibration that moved through the air and the sand and into Jason’s bones. It was the kind of sound the world itself seemed to make when something ancient stirred awake. 

Shit—

He froze. Every instinct screamed to move, to draw his dagger, to run, to bow, to do anything, but his body refused to obey. 

The dragon’s eyes, twin abysses of molten blue, fixed on him. A hiss building in the air, promising fire, death. He felt as though he were standing on the edge of a storm about to break. 

“Lykirī!” called a voice through the darkness, the hiss of the dragon cutting off. 

The word was soft and melodic, but it held power. The rider’s hand lifted, palm out, fingers traced with light as the dragon stilled. The great beast’s growl quieted into a low hum, the air thrumming with restrained heat. 

Jason’s breath came back in a rush; he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it.

The figure turned toward him fully, the moon catching on silver hair and pale skin, on eyes the color of seawater in sunlight.

For a moment, Jason forgot how to think.

Daenys Targaryen looked nothing like the image Jason had imagined—he looked more. There was something otherworldly about him, like the gods had carved him from moonlight and fire just to see if mortals would dare look too long.

Jason swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. 

“You’ve strayed farther than most ever dream of reaching,” Daenys said, though there was no true anger in it. His voice carried easily over the crash of waves, low and smooth, wrapping around Jason like smoke. 

Jason straightened, his hand still resting near the hilt of his dagger. “Then I suppose I should apologize to the prince,” he said, forcing a half-smile. “Though I didn’t realize the sea belonged to the crown as well.” 

That earned him the faintest lift of a silver brow. 

“It belongs to whoever can command it,” Daenys said.

Jason’s lips curved, daring. “And you think you can?” 

Daenys tilted his head, the moonlight catching on his hair, on the edge of a smile that wasn’t quite kind, more teasing. “I don’t think,” he murmured. “I know.” 

Behind him, Nightwing let out a low hiss that sent a gust of hot wind whipping Jason’s cloak around him. Sand stung his skin.

“You’re brave,” Daenys said softly, “or foolish.”

“Depends on who’s telling the story,” Jason replied, meeting his gaze squarely. 

The prince stepped closer, letting go of the dragon, his boots whispering through the sand. The dragon’s head followed the motion, massive and watchful, smoke curling from its nostrils. Daenys stopped only a few paces away, close enough that Jason could see the fine lines of his face—the sharpness of his jaw, the faint flush of exertion high on his cheeks. Their difference in height is quite noticeable now.

Close enough to see that the dragonfire’s reflection danced in his eyes. 

Jason had never seen someone so beautiful. A temptation he shouldn’t be allowed to see. 

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The world shrank to the sound of the tide, the steady rhythm of their breathing, and the quiet, electric tension that hummed between them. 

“You’re the Baratheon heir,” Daenys said at last, though it sounded less like a question and more like a realization spoken aloud. Jason inclined his head. 

“And you’re the prince I’m supposed to marry.”

Daenys’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes—a mix of defiance and resignation. “Supposed to,” he echoed. “As though it’s already done.” 

“Isn’t it?” Jason asked. 

“Not until the vows are spoken.” 

Jason smiled, slow and crooked. “Then maybe I’ll decide to be late.” 

That made Daenys laugh, a soft, startled sound that melted into the night. It wasn’t the delicate laugh of a court prince; it was something freer, brighter, the sound of a flame catching. 

The dragon huffed behind the prince, as if approving.

Daenys stepped forward, closing the last distance between them. The scent of fire and salt clung to him. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said again, but this time his voice lacked conviction.

 Jason’s voice dropped low and steady. “Maybe I needed to see if the stories were true.” 

“And?” Daenys asked, curious despite himself. 

Jason’s gaze swept over him, the silver hair, the glint of armor beneath soft silks, and the quiet power that hung around him like mist. 

“They weren’t,” he said finally. “They didn’t do you justice.” 

Daenys blinked, caught between disbelief and amusement. “You have a dangerous tongue, Lord Baratheon.”

“Only if you’re afraid of it.” 

For the first time, Daenys didn’t look away. The air between them seemed to pulse, the space taut with something unnamed and unspoken. 

Nightwing’s eyes glowed faintly, the reflection of two small figures standing too close, too intrigued, too fated. 

Daenys tilted his head slightly, a smile ghosting across his lips. “Perhaps you are a storm after all.”

And you,” Jason said, voice quiet but certain, “are exactly what I was warned about.” 

The prince’s smile deepened, slow and dangerous. “And what’s that”

“A dragon.”

The dragon shifted, folding its wings with a sound like thunder muffled by distance. Above them, the clouds began to break, revealing the first edge of dawn—the sky blushing pale gold, the sea catching it like a mirror. 

For a long moment, they stood there—storm and fire—caught in that fragile, shimmering space where the world seemed to hold its breath. 

Where the sky touched the sea.

The sea was still murmuring behind them when Daenys finally spoke again, her voice barely more than the hush of the wind.

“Come, the sun will soon show us.”

He turned before Jason could answer, pale hair catching the last threads of dawnlight. The dragon’s great head dipped low, exhaling a gust that sent sand and salt curling through the air, before slumping to the ground, blue eyes looking at Jason before closing. 

 Jason hesitated, glancing up at the dragon’s molten eyes one last time, then followed the prince up the winding path carved into the cliffs. 

The climb was steep and silent. Only the crash of waves and the echo of their boots filled the air. The closer they drew to the Red Keep, the stronger the scent of smoke and iron became. 

Jason expected Daenys to lead him to the great gates or one of the main courtyards, but instead, the prince stopped beside a half-crumbling wall veiled by ivy and moonlight. His hand brushed across the stone, pressing lightly at a faint carving—a sigil hidden by time. 

With a low groan, the stone shifted inward. 

A narrow passage opened, dark and cold, smelling faintly of dust and the sea.

"Secret passages?"

Daenys glanced back over his shoulder, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “You sound surprised.” 

“I shouldn’t be,” Jason said, stepping in after him. “Every king needs his escape routes.” 

“Or every prisoner does.” Daenys’s reply was quiet—too quiet—and before Jason could answer, the wall slid shut behind them, swallowing the night.

Trying to lighten the mood, Jason raised a brow. “You bring all your suitors through secret doors?” 

Daenys glanced back, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “Only the ones I’m not supposed to meet at all.”

Jason huffed a quiet laugh, ducking to follow him inside. The tunnels breathed around them: narrow veins of stone, alive with the distant hum of the castle above. Torchlight flickered, shadows pooling and spilling as they walked. The space felt unreal, somewhere between earth and air, between secrecy and confession.

Daenys moved ahead with practiced ease, like he had walked these corridors a thousand times—his cloak brushing the walls, his hand trailing along the carvings as if reading an old, familiar language. Jason followed close enough to see the glint of light catching in his silver hair, the elegant lines of his neck, and the faint rhythm of his breath.

Jason’s fingers trailed lightly over the wall as they walked. “How long have these been here?”

“Longer than any of us,” Daenys murmured. “My mother showed me the first one when I was a child. They’re older than the Keep itself, I think—old Valyrian stone beneath all the rest.”

His voice softened on that last line, filled with the kind of reverence one reserves for memory.

The tunnel turned sharply, climbing upward, as they reached a spiral stair that climbed upward, stone slick with the chill of the deep keep. 

“Does your father know about these?” Jason asked, voice low.

“He knows,” Daenys said. “He pretends not to.”

As they ascended, Jason caught glimpses through narrow slits of the world outside—the sea below, restless and pale in the dawn, and the city beyond, still sleeping under smoke.

At last, Daenys stopped before another wall. He pressed his hand to a section of polished marble; it shuddered, then slid soundlessly aside.

Warm light poured in.

Jason stepped through first, blinking as his own chamber unfolded before him—the fire he’d left half-burned still crackling, his damp cloak draped over a chair. It felt strange, suddenly smaller, as though he had stepped back into someone else’s life.

Daenys followed, but only just. He stood in the doorway, framed by the glow, the flicker of firelight gilding his face. His eyes, impossibly bright, caught the amber reflection of the flames and turned them to molten gold.

Jason turned, his expression unreadable. “You brought me straight to my chamber. Should I be flattered or worried?”

Daenys’s eyes glimmered in the candlelight, catching on the edges of amusement. “That depends on whether you plan to keep it a secret.”

Their gazes held, something unspoken passing between them, something soft and warm beneath the quiet formality. The distance that had hung between them on the beach seemed to melt away, replaced by the slow, deliberate rhythm of shared breath.

“You shouldn’t wander alone here,” Daenys said softly. “The Red Keep remembers more than it forgets.”

Jason smiled faintly. “And yet you found me.”

“Nightwing did,” Daenys corrected, but his tone had gentled. “She doesn’t like strangers near the cliffs.”

“Then I’m lucky she didn’t burn me where I stood.”

Daenys’s lips curved. “You were very still. She thought you were part of the sand.”

That earned a quiet laugh from Jason. “Maybe I was, until I slipped.”

A quiet laugh left the Prince’s lips before something flickered in Daenys’s expression—something fragile, almost shy. He stepped closer, his robes brushing lightly against Jason’s arm as he lifted his gaze. The air between them seemed to hum, soft and bright.

“Thank you,” Jason murmured.

“For what?”

“For not flying away.”

Daenys blinked, surprised into a smile that reached his eyes this time. “You talk like I’m the one who’s dangerous.”

“Maybe you are.”

For a heartbeat, they just looked at each other—the sea murmuring faintly through the walls, the fire painting them in shifting gold. Then Daenys stepped closer, his hand lifted slightly, hesitant in the air between them, then settled gently against Jason’s arm, a brief touch, as if testing whether the storm would pull back or stay.

Jason didn’t move.

He didn’t want to

For the first time since he’d arrived, Daenys smiled although soft, it was without restraint. His eyes were bright, their blue deepening to something tender and alive. 

He leaned forward, slow and uncertain, the scent of smoke and salt clinging to him.

He pressed a kiss to Jason’s cheek.

It was soft—fleeting, light as ash falling—gone almost before Jason could breathe. But when Daenys stepped back, his expression betrayed him—cheeks flushed with sudden warmth, lips parted in a small, startled smile, his eyes glimmering like reflected dawnlight.

He turned toward the secret door again, voice barely above a whisper. “Sleep well, Lord Baratheon.”

Jason’s words caught him at the threshold. “Call me Jay.”

Daenys paused, the corner of his mouth curving upward. “Ok, Jay,” he said softly, eyes gleaming. “Then call me Dick.”

For a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath.

Then Daenys was gone, the door closing behind him with a whisper of silk, leaving Jason standing alone in the golden quiet—cheek still warm where the prince’s lips had touched him, the echo of a name lingering like a promise.