Chapter Text
It was a rare summer day in the North: no snow in sight, only a hard blue sky and the thin warmth of daylight. The air stayed cool enough to bite the skin, but the sun took some edge from it. Black‑and‑red banners snapped in the wind above a long line of horses and carriages beating the road. The dragons had come to Winterfell.
You stood near the edge of the Stark line, hands clasped before you. Your temples pulsed with tension. Royal heroes of the realm stood before you, in dazzling scales but with faces worn by battle. All that occupied your mind was the biting quiet of the last two years—not one utterance regarding his health. The king was speaking, greeting the heads of the Stark family and exchanging pleasantries. You kept your gaze forward, head inclined slightly in the king’s direction, aware of Maekar at the far end of the Targaryen line only as a shape — broad‑shouldered, still. The impulse to peek was eating at you.
He moved.
Your head turned before you decided it would. Maekar was already looking at you. Eyes bright with the colour of your favourite flowers — irises. It was the first time you had seen him after the rebellion. His face appeared older. Perhaps it was the beard — unusual for him, but it suited him. He seemed like a fearsome Targaryen force, not the gloomy young prince who had spent his youth chasing recognition. The weight settled into his face as something permanent, as if it had always existed there. This was not the Maekar you remembered and it unsettled you. You saw a man changed by war.
His stare was direct and unmoving, as though he had been waiting for exactly this. His face gave nothing — no smile, no acknowledgement — but his gaze did not release you. Cold spread down the back of your neck and into your shoulders, fingertips tingling, throat tight. You took half a step back, hiding your face behind your brother’s shoulder to catch your breath. Maekar did not avert his eyes. He stood as though the space between you belonged to him.
The after‑wedding feast rang with celebration: loud toasts, clanking goblets, dancing. Everyone honoured the union of your older brother and his bride from another northern house. The dragons sat at the centre of the high table. You sat on the far right, beside your sisters, opposite Maekar on the diagonal. He had a clear view of your entire family. You glanced at him now and then, playing a game of hide and seek. The royals were content — something that brought you relief. Your family had done well.
You wore your favourite gown: grey velvet, fitted at the waist, with long sleeves and a high corset. A dire wolf was embroidered over your chest in silver thread, beads and bugles catching the candlelight. Your neck was bare to the collarbones, soft fur resting on your shoulders. It was Maekar’s favourite gown as well.
You sat with your back straight, as a lady should, not present in the conversations around you. Night’s end was your desire, ears grew sharp to the clink of cutlery against plates. Your mind raced with images of the past and present, rehearsing something you couldn’t quite name. You had a sense of being observed. Not by the crowd of guests, but by a patient predator. You knew he was there and tried your best not to seek him out.
“It is a shame the Starks are never betrothed to the royal family. I would have loved to be a Targaryen princess,” your younger sister sighed, all wistful complaint.
“Wolves do not belong in the Red Keep. We belong in the North, like our ancestors, close to our family. Not in a dragon’s den, hidden away like forgotten treasure,” you said.
“Life in the North smells of wet dog‑fur and iron. And the dragon’s den smells of lemon cakes and Dornish perfumes,” the little one said dreamily, a wide smile on her face.
You scoffed softly at her fantasies, wondering if lemon cakes were truly worth leaving home for.
Then you added, “It also smells of blood and spiked flesh rotting in the sun, my dear sister.”
Your eyes wandered the room; stomach tightened in fleeting bursts anticipation. The urge to look burned through your resolve until you snapped. You let your gaze travel along the row of dragons from the centre of the high table outward, hoping to pull away in time. Your eyes betrayed you and lingered on Maekar, brooding in deep thought. He leaned on one elbow, a goblet of wine in hand, slowly circling it while he stared at the boards. He lowered his head, hiding half his face behind the cup. A fleeting memory surfaced — the two of you secretly meeting in the royal gardens. You did not realise how fixedly you were looking until it was too late.
His eyes rose and met yours — hot iron on cold skin.
Something jolted within you, sending shivers down your spine and into your legs. It seemed he sensed your intrusion, aware of each covert gaze. War had hollowed him; his expression held a deep craving beyond mere sustenance.
The chase started.
Maekar held you with that bewitching glare: not the tender iris you remembered, but the prickly thistle reaching its needles toward you. Heat crawled up your bare neck and pooled at your collarbones. You became acutely aware of every inch of velvet against your skin, of the fur sitting loose at your shoulders, of the precise distance between his eyes and your throat. You knew, with a certainty that shamed you, exactly where his thoughts had gone. The room began to suffocate you; the corset felt too tight even though you had barely eaten. You excused yourself quietly and slipped away from the feast hall. But the memories outran you.
You stepped into a side corridor, and the cold met you like a wall. The clatter and laughter of the hall dulled to a muffled roar behind you. You approached a narrow window and stared out at the moonlit stones of Winterfell. You shut your eyes, bracing yourself. Firm footsteps echoed behind you. You did not rush to turn.
“I did not expect to find a Stark hiding from her own family’s feast,” the man said in a low, slightly rough voice, slyness disguised as stern formality.
Maekar.
You waited a fraction of a heartbeat before turning. “My prince,” you said, dipping your head. “I simply seek some air. With so many dragons in one place, the room can feel small.”
You kept your eyes lowered, fixed on the red embroidery of his chest. He took one step toward you.
“You look well,” Maekar said, almost a whisper. He studied you slowly, carefully, a glint in his eyes. His gaze traced the familiar lines of your figure where the velvet clung, and something like envy moved through his expression. His face revealed nothing — a trait of his that consistently irked you. “You wore the same gown at court. I remember.”
“It was poor judgement to irritate nobility with Stark colors, my prince. King’s Landing has no use for grey wolves,” you deflected. A small shiver ran through your shoulders; whether it was the draft, your nerves, or both, he could not tell.
“History has shown, Lady Stark, that there are times when grey wolves choose the colours that fly from royal walls. That is something no other noble house can claim,” he said, disregarding your attempts to push him away.
“The North comes when the realm needs us most, my prince. Nonetheless, our place is here. We must carry out our duties and ward the warmth‑loving realm from cold demise.”
Maekar’s silence put you under pressure.
“The rebellion treated you better than most,” you continued, eyes still fixed on his surcoat. “You came back in one piece. Not every man did.”
“Pieces mend,” he said. “Some do.” His voice stayed low, as though he did not want anyone to overhear, and you followed the pattern without thinking. “Others remain where they were left.”
You swallowed; your tongue felt dry. It was no shock you spent two years anxious to the point of illness — two years not knowing which pieces of him endured, his quiet leaving you sleepless in ways you never confessed, even to yourself.
“You are to wed your betrothed, my prince,” you said at last. “Your pieces belong in the south.”
His jaw twitched once. He drew a slow breath through his nose, then closed the last of the distance, steps quiet on the stone.
“Does the North not break, Lady Stark?” he asked, only just above a whisper. “Do wolves not bleed like the rest of us?”
Now only a forearm’s length separated you, his wide frame towering over you. A thin thread of warmth reached your nose — his intimate scent, something like wood smoke and worn leather — and you had to resist drawing it in.
He could hear your breathing, see the small pearls of sweat gathering above your lip. His eyes stayed fixed on yours, waiting for you to crack and look up. You almost smiled at his question, almost raised your gaze, but you held yourself still. As the eldest daughter, you had been trained to keep your composure in the face of anything.
“We mend ourselves,” you breathed. “We always have.” Maekar tilted his head. The ghost of a smile touched his mouth.
“See me,” he whispered.
You ceased all movement.
A draft whistled along the corridor, catching a loose strand of your hair. One braid slipped forward over your shoulder. His hand lifted of its own accord. He reached without thinking and smoothed the braid back behind your neck — fingertips grazing the skin there. A quiet gasp escaped you before you could stop it. His touch, though fleeting, registered as warm against your chilled skin and caused your knees to weaken. You let yourself sink into it for a moment, and your eyes began to lift, cheeks flushed. Just as you were about to speak, Maekar took three swift steps back, as if nothing at all had passed between you.
You stood before him, aware of your disheveled appearance. He absorbed it all, head tilted. Not in amusement, but with longing. You gazed at him finally, truly looked — into the moonlit eyes you strove to avoid. He did not seem cruel. A flicker of melancholy struck you instead. He seemed like a famished dragon, bound and reaching for something unattainable.
You drew a slow breath. “You should return, my prince. The absence of the realm’s hero will be noticed.”
You did not wait for his answer and walked past him toward the light of the hall. Behind you, Maekar stood in the cold dark of the corridor, observing your departure as he did so many times previously — your rear diminishing, grey velvet catching the distant candlelight — the sight he had learned too well. His shoulders dropped. He tipped the back of his head against the stone in a soft thud.
“Seven fucking hells,” he muttered.
He turned and walked into the light, hands clasped behind him, his face held high. He recognised at that instant that your bond was unforgettable.