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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.

Chapter Text

Dick woke with a start, heart hammering as if trying to escape his chest. The nightmare clung to him like the sweat casing his body.

Flashes of a boy he didn’t recognize, eyes wide in silent pleading, as the echo of screams still rattled in his ears, a cruel rhythm that refused to fade. 

The boy, familiar in some impossible way, was broken and blackened, his skin blistered and raw, his limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Dark, glistening blood poured from him, thick and hot, seeping into the cracked stone beneath, pooling in sticky, spreading rivulets that seemed to drink the ground itself. The smell of iron and charred flesh clung to his throat, as if he could taste it.

He could see it, the slow, dark spread pooling around the boy’s broken form, staining the earth like liquid shadow.

He sat up, every muscle tense, and rubbed at his eyes. The nightmare’s horror lingered in the pit of his stomach, a bitter residue that no amount of morning light could cleanse. 

Dick’s fingers dug into the sheets, cold sweat soaking the silks, but he did not move. The pool beneath the boy in his mind thickened, slow and glimmering, carrying the echo of screams that seemed to thrum in his chest. Outside, the city stirred faintly—the scrape of a cart, a distant shout—but the sounds could not touch him. Here, in the half-light, the boy’s blood, hot and slick, seemed as real as the silken sheets beneath his fingers.

He was trapped in the echo of a death he hadn’t witnessed, yet felt as vividly as if it had been his own. 

Dick’s hand went to his chest, where his pulse still raced. He forced himself to breathe, slow and deliberate, though the images kept returning: the boy’s broken body, the heat of the flames, and the hopelessness frozen in those eyes. It was a cruelty that made him shiver, one that whispered of the fragility of life even within the fortified walls of the Red Keep.

He lay slowly back down motionless. Letting the slow rise of morning wash over the edges of his mind like a tide. Every shadow in the room seemed alive, every flicker of light a reminder of the nightmare still burning in his chest. 

He stayed there, staring at nothing, trapped between night and day, unable to tell which carried more weight: the memory of death in his dream or the fragile, uneasy light that now began to seep into the chamber.

Morning came slowly over King’s Landing, a pale light crawling through the heavy drapes of Dick’s chamber. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and perfume, clinging to the silks and marble floors. 

Servants moved like whispers around him—silent, efficient, and forgettable. All except one. 

Ser. Wilson stood by the door, as still as a statue carved of cold iron. His presence filled the space in a way that made the air feel smaller and tighter. He was the kind of man who did not need to speak to command obedience—whose silence was more threatening than a scream. Dick could feel his eyes raking over him, even when he pretended not to notice. 

“Your father requests you break your fast in the study,” Wilson said, voice low and measured, almost polite. Almost. 

Dick forced a smile. “Of course he does.” 

Gathering himself from the bed, Dick stepped behind the carved wooden privacy screen, the faint outline of his figure softened by the morning light that filtered through it. The servants moved around him in practiced rhythm, fastening clasps, straightening collars, and smoothing folds of silk. 

The long, dark, tailored coat-dress’s heavy fabric sat uncomfortably against his skin, even as it draped elegantly to the floor. It was fitted closely through the waist, fastened with a narrow chain that accentuated his waistline.

His fingers toyed absently with the silver clasp at his throat as he dressed, the motions automatic.

From the other side of the screen, he could still feel Wilson’s presence, unmoving, patient, watching. It was as though the man’s gaze could pierce straight through the carved dragons and flames that adorned the screen itself.

He found it a tad creepy, but it’s not like he had anyone else—well, except Alfred, but he was busy.

“Tell my father I’ll be there shortly,” Dick said, his tone light, though he didn’t know who he was trying to convince—Wilson or himself. 

“Yes, Your Grace,” came the quiet reply, steady and unyielding. Dick exhaled, glancing at his reflection in the polished bronze mirror beside him. A prince stared back, composed, immaculate, and utterly exhausted.

As if his father could run this kingdom without him. 

Dick stepped out from behind the privacy screen, the long folds of his dark coat brushing softly against the marble floor. The fabric whispered with each measured step as he adjusted the clasp at his waist, straightening his shoulders the way his father preferred. 

Wilson’s gaze lingered a moment too long, assessing, unreadable, before he stepped back and opened the door. Dick passed him without looking up, though the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he did.

Beyond the chamber doors, the corridor stretched ahead, cold, dim, and lined with flickering torches that threw restless shadows along the walls. The halls of the Red Keep were hushed at this hour, lit only by the flicker of torches that cast long, shifting shadows along the crimson walls. 

Dick walked in silence, the sound of his footsteps echoing faintly off stone, each step feeling heavier as he drew closer to his father’s study—to duty, to expectation, to the weight of a crown he did not yet wear but already felt pressing against his shoulders.

He used to be close to his father, but ever since he turned sixteen, something changed.

By the time he reached the carved oak doors of the study, the morning light had fully broken through the clouds, pale and sharp as steel. Dick drew a quiet breath, steadying himself, before opening the doors with a creak and slowly stepping inside.

The morning light in the study was harsh, all sharp angles and shadows cutting across the stone floor. The air smelled faintly of parchment, wax, and steel, a cold scent, like the man seated at the head of the table carried. 

Bruce did not look up when Dick entered. 

His quill moved with measured precision over a scroll, the sound of scratching filling the silence. The only other noise was the faint crackle of the hearth and the soft shifting of Ser Wilson near the wall. 

“You’re late,” Bruce said finally, voice calm, almost disinterested. He did not need to raise it. His tone alone could silence an army. 

Dick bowed his head slightly. “I wasn’t aware we had an exact time.” 

The king’s quill stopped. Slowly, he looked up, eyes of tempered steel, cool and unyielding. “You are the heir to the Iron Throne, Daenys. You are always expected.” 

The words were not cruel, but they struck all the same.

Dick forced himself to meet his father’s gaze. “My apologies, Your Grace.”

not father, not anymore

Bruce set the quill aside and leaned back in his chair, studying him with that same assessing look that had followed Dick since childhood, the look that weighed worth and found it wanting. 

“I received word from Storm’s End this morning,” the King said. “The Baratheon boy has departed and will be here later this evening.” Bruce paused, unsure. “His father writes that he is… eager.”

Dick didn’t respond. The word "eager" caught in his throat, twisting. 

Dick learned from a very early age that everyone was ‘eager’ with him.

Bruce continued, tone clipped and practical. “You will receive him properly when he arrives. The union between our houses will secure the stability of the realm. Do you understand what that means?” 

“I understand duty,” Dick replied softly. 

“Do you?” Bruce’s gaze hardened. “Duty is not understanding, Daenys. It is a sacrifice. You don’t need to like this arrangement; you only need to obey it.” 

There it was, that sharp edge beneath his father’s voice, the steel that always seemed to cut too close. 

Dick’s lips parted, but Bruce was already looking past him, back to his papers. “That will be all.” 

Dick stood there for a heartbeat longer, something hot and bitter clawing at his throat. His hands trembled slightly at his sides. “Father,” he said finally, voice quiet and controlled. “When I marry him, will I have finally made you happy?” 

Bruce did not look up. No sound was made, just a wave of his hand and ignorance.

No answer

“Fine, but the only way I will show up to that wedding is on the back of Nightwing.”

“Daenys—” Bruce’s steel voice was cut off. 

“Either I arrive at Dragon Back or not at all.”

Dick’s​ tone left no room for disagreement. 

If he had no say in the rest of this wedding, then he would at least have his dragon. 

His grey coat flowed after him as Dick left the study with his chest hollow, heart in his throat.

Ser. Wilson’s eyes followed him like a shadow.

Outside, the sunlight was blinding, and for a moment he had to close his eyes.  

The training yard behind the Red Keep still glistened with morning dew, the stone slick under Dick's boots. The air was cool and crisp, laced with the metallic scent of steel and sweat. He’d been here since he meeting with his father,  not because he wanted to be, but because he needed to be. 

He needed to prove something.

He needed to be useful.

The clang of swords echoed across the yard. Dick spun, silver hair flashing like firelight, blade cutting a clean arc through the air. His breath came steady and deliberate, but his arms ached. 

Ser Wilson stood opposite him, unarmored, wearing only black leathers that clung to him like a shadow. His expression, as always, was unreadable and cold but always lingering. 

“Your form’s improved,” Wilson said, circling him slowly. His voice was quiet and smooth but carried that underlying tension—a coiled danger, like a bowstring drawn just shy of breaking. “But you hesitate. A prince who hesitates dies.” 

“I’m not a soldier,” Dick said, tightening his grip on the hilts of his dual blades. 

Wilson’s gaze flicked up, sharp as a blade, a smirk curling over his lips. “No, Your Grace. You’re something far rarer. You’re a target.”

Their swords met again, a flurry of movement, sparks flying where steel struck steel. Dick staggered as Wilson pressed forward, blowing fast and relentlessly. He blocked, pivoted, and ducked, faltering as his guard slipped. 

Wilson disarmed him with a twist and sent his sword spinning into the dirt. 

Dick froze as the knight’s blade came to rest just beneath his chin. The faintest nick of cold steel kissed his throat.

“Dead,” Wilson murmured. 

The word hung between them—heavy, final.

Daenys didn’t move. His heart pounded so loud he could almost hear it echo.

The look in Ser Wilson’s eyes was hungry, devouring. 

Wilson stepped closer, too close. His shadow fell over him, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

“The world won’t wait for you.”

His gaze lingered, assessing, unreadable—though something flickered there, something that made Dick’s stomach twist. Then, just as quickly, the knight stepped back. He sheathed his sword with a smooth motion and inclined his head.

“Again,” he said simply. 

Dick retrieved his blade, jaw tight, ignoring the faint tremor in his hands. He struck harder this time, too hard. Wilson blocked each blow effortlessly, but there was a spark of satisfaction in his eyes, something almost approving. 

“Better,” he said. “Anger suits you.” 

Dick didn’t know whether to take that as praise or a warning.

By the time they were done, his arms burned and his chest heaved. Wilson handed him a cloth, his fingers brushing Daenys’s as he did. 

The touch lingering a second too long. 

“Your father doesn’t need warriors,” Wilson said, his tone quiet, almost kind, but his eyes were not. “He needs survivors.” 

Dick met his gaze, breath steadying. “And you?” 

Wilson’s lips twitched—not quite a smile. “I serve the crown, Your Grace. Nothing more.”

He was the crown

But as Daenys turned away, he could still feel those eyes on his back—sharp, possessive, as though the knight wasn’t guarding him at all. As though he were marking him.

He needed to leave, escape.

Dick knew he couldn't until nighttime.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Council meetings, letters from Storm’s End, and tailors measuring his sleeves for the wedding cloak blurred together. His father said little to him during the council meeting, which was somehow worse than anger. Silence meant approval or dismissal.

Dick no longer knew which was which. 

By dusk, the castle’s torches had been lit, and the Red Keep glowed like a fire in a dragon’s belly, alive and with fire. 

Wilson shadowed him everywhere, a constant presence at his back as Dick moved quickly through the corridors, the sounds of his boots swallowed by the thick carpet and the hush of the Red Keep. 

His pulse still thrummed from the tension in his father’s study and the spar with Ser Wilson, shivering remembering his eye on him; each echo of his footsteps carried the weight of words that were left unspoken. He rounded a corner, nearly colliding with a servant, muttering a brief apology before disappearing into the shadowed hall that led to his chambers.

Leaving the knight waiting just beyond the door, his armor whispering faintly with every breath he took.

Once inside, he shut the door hard enough for the latch to rattle. The air was close, heavy with the scent of smoke and sun-warmed silk. He pressed his palms to the cool marble of the window frame, staring out at the city below. From beyond the walls came the faint sound of trumpets, the heralds of arrivals, of ceremony, of duty. He ignored them. 

He knew he’d be in trouble for not doing his duty, but he did not care. There was only one thing on his mind.

Freedom

The hours crawled. He changed out of his formal coat, the heavy fabric pooling at his feet, and sat on the edge of his bed, watching as the sun bled into the horizon. 

Each fading ray brought him closer to freedom, to the only time he could truly breathe. When night at last settled over King’s Landing, Daenys rose silently and pulled on his riding leathers and cloak. His leathers were dark and regal, a fitted ensemble of black and gold, sharp at the shoulders and split at the waist, blending the colors of the dark sky. 

The city slept, but his heart was awake, burning with the restless pull of the sky.

Dick moved a chair silently away from the wall next to his bed, glancing over his shoulder once before pressing his hand against the carved panel beside his bed. The stone gave a faint groan as it shifted beneath his touch, sliding open to reveal a narrow, dust-choked passageway beyond. Cool air spilled out, carrying the scent of earth and secrecy. 

Grabbing a torch, he slipped inside, pulling the wall closed behind him until the chamber was enclosed in darkness, the only light coming from Daney's flame.

Dick moved through the hidden corridors with the ease of someone who had done so many times before, his steps silent on the cold stone. 

These were passages not even the servants whispered of, narrow, salt-lined tunnels that wound beneath the Red Keep like veins, leading him away from watchful eyes and toward the open air. 

The tunnel opened at last into a low arch of rock, damp air rushing in to greet him.

  Dick stepped out beneath the cliffs, the sound of the waves crashing far below. The sea wind tore at his cloak, cool and sharp with salt. He paused for a moment, glancing up at the vast expanse of night above him, endless and alive. 

A faint smile touched his lips as he lifted two fingers to his mouth and whistled, a sharp, clear note that cut through the roar of the surf. For a heartbeat, nothing answered but the wind. Then the air trembled. 

From high above, a shadow crossed the face of the moon—vast wings unfurling against the silver light. Nightwing’s thrill split the night, a sound of raw, ancient power that sent a thrill through his chest. She circled once, a dark streak outlined in moonlight, before folding her wings and diving, a comet of shadow and scale.

Dick did not flinch as she landed in a storm of sand and wind, her claws carving deep into the stones on the shore. The dragon’s blue eyes fixed on him, molten and knowing. He reached out a gloveless hand, resting it against the warm curve of her snout. 

“Rytsas, Nightwing.”

Coming to rest his forehead against her snout, Daenys closed his eyes as Nightwing huffed out a plume of warm smoke, the heat curling against his skin as she leaned into his touch. For a moment, he simply stood and breathed. Savoring their shared bond, bound by something older than blood, older than fear.

Dick stepped back as the great beast shifted, lowering a massive wing to the ground with a rumble that shook the sand beneath his feet. He climbed swiftly, his hands finding their familiar holds along the ridge of her scales, the heat of her body pulsing through his gloves. Swinging himself into the saddle, he didn’t bother with the straps—he never had.

“Sōves,” he called over the rising wind, voice firm and steady. 

With a roar that split the sky, wings snapping open in a rush of thunder and flame, she leapt from the ground, rising into the night.

The sky swallowed them whole.

Nightwing surged upward in a rush of wind and muscle, her great wings unfurling wide enough to blot out the stars. The air howled around them, salt and smoke stinging Daenys’s face as he pressed himself low against her neck. Every beat of her wings rippled through his body—the deep, living rhythm of power that no man could ever match. The sea far below was a restless sheet of black glass, shattered by bursts of foam where waves crashed against the cliffs of King’s Landing.

The moon hung heavy above them, a pale coin against the darkness of the sea, casting Nightwing's silver-edged shadow across the clouds. 

Dick tilted his head back, breath catching in his throat as the world unfolded beneath him—no walls, no watchful eyes, no gilded cage. Only air, and the dragon that had always felt more like home than the castle ever did. 

The chill of the wind bit at his cheeks, but he could feel the radiant heat beneath him, the furnace of Nightwing's body thrumming through the saddle. 

It wasn’t high enough. 

“Vēzot”

They rose in a slow, graceful spiral, weaving between the clouds as if they were silk ribbons spun across the heavens. The stars blurred, a thousand candles flickering against the black, and for a heartbeat, Dick thought he could hear them singing. 

 A song of midnight blue. 

He smiled, eyes half-closed, the wind tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

Then, with a tilt of her wings, Nightwing rolled, and the world turned upside down. The sea was the sky, the sky was the sea, and Daenys laughed—a pure, unrestrained sound that echoed through the clouds.

The only thing keeping him on was the grip of his legs and hands on the saddle.

He could smell the faint metallic tang of her scales and the scorched sweetness of her breath. When she turned her head slightly, one blue eye caught his gaze, wild, knowing, and alive, and for a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe. 

With a fierce tug on the reins, he leaned forward and shouted a single command in High Valyrian, “Iōdēs.”

She dove without hesitation, a streak of moonlit shadow hurtling toward the waves, wind whistling sharp and wild in Daenys’s ears. 

A single command of “Dracarys” was carried off by the wind.

Nightwing roared, the sound of a thunderclap shook the night itself, and from her throat came fire.

 A torrent of molten gold and blue that split the darkness. The blaze spilled downward, scattering across the sea in shimmering ripples, the heat of it brushing Daenys’s face. He laughed — not the laugh of a prince, but of something freer, older, rawer. 

The world rushed up to meet them in a blur of moonlight and salt spray, the air tearing past Dick’s face, his heart hammering in time with the dragon’s descent. 

He had never felt more alive. 

The sea loomed large and dark below, an endless mirror of the sky. Nightwing unfurling her wings open at the last possible moment. The force of it wrenched the air into a scream as they leveled out, skimming so low over the waves that the tips of her talons grazed the surface. Water exploded in glittering arcs around them, starlight and seafoam swirling in their wake. 

Dick could feel the kiss of ocean mist on his face. For an instant, it felt as though they were dancing with the tide—dragon and rider, sky and sea—perfectly balanced on the edge of wonder. 

Dick laughed again, wild and breathless, the sound clear despite the roar of the wind. He could feel the sea spray on his lips, the taste of salt and freedom mingling on his tongue. 

Nightwing climbed once more, slicing through the night with impossible grace. Soaring higher, cutting through a drifting bank of clouds that glowed pale in the moonlight. The mist curled around them, soft as silk, cool against

Dick’s skin. He reached out a hand and brushed through it, watching the vapor swirl away like magic.

Above the clouds, the world was calm—silver moon above, white sea below, all of it hushed and vast. Dick closed his eyes, breathing in deep, the cold and warmth mingling in his chest until he felt weightless. 

Up there, above the storm and the smoke and the city, Dick felt infinite. The dragonfire still shimmered faintly in the clouds below—a trail of their passing, a mark of something unrestrained and defiant. For that brief, perfect moment, he was not a prince of blood or duty—he was flame and sky, storm and soul, riding the heartbeat of the world itself.

But all moments must end. 

Nightwing began her descent, wings cutting through the cool dusk air with steady, effortless grace. As they neared the rocky ledge where she had first taken flight, Dick guided her gently, his hands steady despite the lingering rush in his veins. The world below grew closer, the sharp scent of salt and earth mixing with the faintest trace of smoke still hanging in the breeze. 

With a powerful sweep of her wings, Nightwing landed, the ground trembling beneath her weight. Dust and loose stones scattered as she folded her vast wings along her sleek body. Dick slid smoothly from her back, landing lightly on the soft earth. 

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her massive snout, pressing his cheek against the warm scales. Nightwing let out a low, vibrating rumble—a deep, thrumming sound that reverberated through his chest. Her eyes, glowing faintly with molten blue light, locked onto his, full of fierce intelligence and fierce loyalty. The dragon was thrilling at him, alive with power and something almost like affection. 

Dick whispered softly, fingers tracing the intricate ridges of her neck, “Kirimvose.” Gaining a faint purr in return. 

Suddenly Nightwing let out a low growl—not anger, but a warning, sharp and resonant in the cooling air. 

Dick’s gaze sharpened; the sound wasn’t meant for him. His eyes scanned the shadows beyond the cliff’s edge. 

“No one else,” he said quietly, voice heavy with meaning. “Not tonight. Not ever.” 

No one dares to come this far.

Dick heard a shuffling of footsteps, sand shifting. Looking to the sand dunes he froze, eyes widening. 

Jaehaerys Baratheon, the boy in the dream 

A hiss built in Nightwing’s throat, low and dangerous, snapping my attention back.

“Lykirī!” the hiss cutting off immediately as Dick’s hand flew up, fingers brushing along her muzzle, calming. He traced his fingers along the ridges of Nightwing’s snout. Before fulling turning to look at the boy.

Jaehaerys Baratheon stood frozen in place, eyes wide, hands held up in a sign of surrender.

“You’ve strayed farther than most ever dream of reaching,”

Jaehaerys 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.” 

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

Jaehaerys’s lips curved. “And you think you can?” 

Dick tilted his head, curious. The moonlight caught his face, painted shadows across his cheek with that old scar weaving through skin, sharp jaw, tousled dark hair. 

“I don’t think,” I 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. Holding back a laugh from escaping his lips at Jaehaerys's now tussled hair

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

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

Letting go of Nightwing’s muzzle and stepping closer, closing the distance to study him. His face was storm and salt, real in a way polished courtiers never were. Skin like sun-warmed stone, scar that didn’t hide but instead marked survival. Sea-glass green eyes that held weight, even though he was young — fierce, guarded — and yet when he looked at me, they softened. 

Jaehaerys looked like he had been carved from stormclouds and salt. 

He wasn’t the polished, gilded kind of handsome that filled the courts of Westeros—he was something rawer, something real. His features were sharp and striking: a strong jaw dusted with the faintest shadow of baby fat, high cheekbones that caught the moonlight just right, and lips that so often curled into a smirk that seemed both challenge and invitation. 

His skin was sun-warmed, kissed by the coast and hardened by wind and battle. A long, faint scar ran across his cheekbone—old, well-healed, but impossible to miss. It didn’t mar his beauty; it added to it. Proof that he had faced storms and survived.

 Jaehaerys’s hair was thick and dark, the color of thunderheads, tousled in a way that was either perfectly careless or infuriatingly deliberate. Strands often fell into his eyes—those striking, sea-glass green eyes that held more weight than someone his age should’ve had to carry. They were expressive, fierce, and guarded… until he looked at Dick. Then, for just a heartbeat, they softened.

Everything about him seemed to hum with restrained energy. Like lightning waiting to strike. 

He was tall, broad-shouldered, built like a soldier but moved like someone who knew how to dance with blades—or words. When he stood still, the air around him didn’t. It stirred, as if responding to something in his blood. 

Storm-born, he wanted to call him. Not because he was born in a storm, but because he was one. And when he smiled at him—rare, honest, unguarded—it felt like sunlight breaking through clouds just before the rain started again.

And Dick was caught in the storm. 

He could hear the way Jaehaerys’s breath caught when their eyes met. The way silence thickened between them as if the very air bent around his presence. Dick didn’t just carry the fire of his bloodline—he moved like the wind answered him and the sky waited for his command. 

And when he smiled back at Jaehaerys it was rare and unguarded

Honest. 

“Jaehaerys,” Dick said, voice softer now. “You’re the Baratheon heir,” 

He smiled — crooked, beautiful. Not false. Not made for court. It was something stranger: welcoming, dangerous, hopeful. “And you’re the prince I’m supposed to marry.” 

“Supposed to,” Dick echoed. “As though it’s already done.”

“Isn’t it?” Jaehaerys asked. 

“Not until the vows are spoken.” 

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

This startled Dick, drawing a laugh, nightwing huffing in amusement behind them. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” 

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

“And?”

He could feel Jaehaerys’s gaze swept over him, blushing slightly. 

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

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

“Only if you’re afraid of it.” 

For the first time Dick could not tear his eyes away, the dream in the back of his mind disappearing. 

“Perhaps you are a storm after all.”

"And you," Jaehaerys's voice, quiet but certain, “are exactly what I was warned about.” 

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

“A dragon.”

For just a moment they stood like that, storm and fire. No crowns, no court, just two hearts in the hush after chaos.

“Come,” Dick said softly, his gaze lingering. “The sun will be up soon.” 

He turned before Jaehaerys could speak, walking toward the path carved through the dunes. He didn’t need to check if the other boy followed. He already knew he would. 

Jaehaerys’s voice followed a beat later. “Secret passages?” 

Dick glanced back, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You sound surprised.” 

“I shouldn’t be,” Jaehaerys said as he stepped in behind him, their steps soft against the ancient stone. “Every king needs his escape routes.” 

"Or every prisoner does," Dick quietly sighed. 

The wall behind them sealed with a quiet groan, swallowing the night.

They walked in silence through the veins of the Keep—Valyrian stone and dust, old magic humming faintly beneath their boots. The tunnels breathed around them, alive with shadows and memory. Torchlight danced against stone.

“You bring all your suitors through secret doors?” Jaehaerys teased, his tone light.

Dick’s smile was slow, wicked, eyes gleaming. “Only the ones I’m not supposed to meet.”

That earned a low, genuine laugh from the Baratheon—one that echoed softly in the corridor. The sound warmed something inside Dick he hadn’t realized was cold.

Jaehaerys’s fingers trailed the carvings along the wall. “How long have these been here?”

“Longer than any of us,” Dick answered. “My mother showed me the first one when I was a child. I think they’re older than the Keep itself. Valyrian blood carved into stone.” His voice softened on that last part, reverent. “She said they were built to keep secrets safe.”

At last, Dick stopped before a familiar wall.

He hesitated—just briefly. 

Did he think it was bold to bring Jaehaerys straight to his chamber?

Yes.

Yes, he did.

But he didn’t turn away from it.

Jaehaerys stepped through first, oblivious to the soft pink now creeping across Dick’s face. His eyes took in the familiar room: fire still smoldering low, the faint scent of salt clinging to the damp cloak draped across a chair.

“You brought me straight to my chamber,” Jaehaerys said, turning to face him. “Should I be flattered or worried?”

Dick’s eyes glimmered in the low firelight, amused. “That depends on whether you plan to keep it a secret.”

Something passed between them—not flirtation, not formality. Something quieter. Something honest.

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

“And yet you found me.”

“Nightwing did,” Dick corrected gently. “She doesn’t like strangers near the cliffs.”

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

“You were very still,” Dick replied, mouth twitching with the effort not to grin. “She thought you were part of the sand.”

That finally earned another laugh from Jaehaerys, this one softer. “Maybe I was. Until I slipped.”

Dick laughed with him—quiet, breathless. The sound echoed like wind through an open sky. And then, for a moment, something shifted in him. Something unguarded.

Longing.

He stepped closer, his robes brushing against Jaehaerys’s arm, gaze lifting. The space between them grew electric, charged with something unnamed.

“Thank you,” Jaehaerys murmured.

Dick blinked. “For what?”

“For not flying away.”

Dick blinked again, the words catching him off gaurd. “You talk like I’m the one who’s dangerous.”

“Maybe you are.”

And there it was again—that pause, the fragile breath between two people teetering on something that felt like gravity. Like fate.

Dick hesitated, then lifted his hand. Not touching. Just asking.

Jaehaerys didn’t move.

And so Dick leaned in, heartbeat louder than the sea.

A kiss—brief, soft—pressed to the other boy’s cheek. Warm, honest, trembling at the edges.

He drew back almost as quickly, face burning, already turning toward the secret door.

“Sleep well, Lord Baratheon,” he said, trying to sound composed. 

But Jaehaerys’s voice stopped him, softer now, real. “Call me Jason.” 

Dick paused. His smile was slower this time, gentler. 

“Okay, Jason,” he said. “Then call me Dick.” 

For a moment, the world felt suspended—like the breath before lightning strikes. 

Then he slipped through the hidden passage, leaving behind warmth, firelight, and the boy who had looked at him like he wasn’t a crown or a threat or a dragon.

 Just… something worth waiting for.

The tunnel walls breathed around him, stone cool against his fingertips. His footsteps were silent—barely a whisper on the ancient floors—but his thoughts were loud, echoing louder than any clanging gate or storm outside the keep.

Jason 

He said it again in his mind, like turning over a coin in his palm. 

Jason. 

It suited him more than Jaehaerys. Fewer teeth. Less title. More real. Like the boy behind the name had stepped forward for just a moment and let Dick see him.

Not the heir.

Not the storm on two legs.

Just Jason, who had laughed at his secret tunnels, who had stared at Nightwing with more awe than fear, who had smiled like Dick was the only thing worth seeing in that whole wide sea. 

Gods, what was he thinking? 

Dick let out a breath and leaned back against the stone as the last hidden panel slid open behind him. His room was quiet, fire long gone out save for embers that pulsed gently in the hearth. Outside, the city still slept. Above, stars were fading into the coming gold of dawn. Below, Jason was hopefully asleep. 

Or maybe not. 

Maybe he was lying awake too, cheek still warm from where Dick had kissed it, just like his own still was.

He brushed his fingers there, gently. As if he could smother the memory before it bloomed too large. 

But it was too late. 

He could still hear Jason’s voice. 

The slow, crooked smile. The ridiculous line—“Then maybe I’ll decide to be late.” 

Who said things like that? His lips curved, traitorous, even as he fought the blush rising again to his cheeks. 

“Stupid,” he muttered under his breath, shrugging off his riding leathers. “Absolutely stupid.”

Nightwing had felt it too. That curiosity. That shift in the air when Jay had stepped from behind the dune like a half-formed prophecy. Even she hadn’t burned him—just growled, annoyed, possessive, almost confused. As if she didn’t know what to make of him either. 

Neither did he. 

He unbuckled the last strap of his flying leathers, set it gently aside, and dragged a hand through his silver hair. The quiet in his chamber was almost suffocating now. No wind. No wingbeats. No wild laughter trailing behind him through the clouds. Just… silence. And the faint memory of a storm-colored boy standing too close.

He sat on the edge of his bed and let the quiet catch up to him. This was foolish. He knew that. Jay was a Baratheon. A political match. A name on a list. An arrangement. One that wasn’t even official. They’d never met. They weren’t supposed to—not yet. Not like that. 

Not with cheek kisses and soft smiles and hearts thudding like war drums in their chests. 

But here they were. 

Dick lay back on the bed, the sheets still faintly cool, and stared up at the ceiling. He could still feel the sea breeze in his hair. The smell of salt and smoke lingering on his skin. And behind his eyes—always, always—Jason’s smile. 

He closed his eyes, just for a moment. Just long enough to let the feeling linger. 

Storm-born, he thought again. 

Not because he was born in one. But because he was one. 

And Dick—fool that he was—had walked right into it, heart-first.

Gods, he was doomed.

Chapter Text

Morning came slowly to the Red Keep. The sun was still low enough that its light crept through the high, arched windows like liquid gold, turning the stone floors into shifting mirrors. The castle had been awake long before dawn—servants moving like murmurs through the corridors, tapestries beaten clean of dust, braziers lit, and incense coiling from silver bowls. The air smelled faintly of cedar and smoke, threaded with the metallic tang of polish on steel. 

Everywhere, people whispered.

The Baratheon heir had arrived the previous night, and this morning, he would be presented—to the King, to the court, and most importantly, to the Prince he was meant to wed. 

The Baratheon heir would be presented to the prince that morning. 

Dick heard those whispers even behind the thick doors of his chambers. They followed him like a current, a tide that threatened to pull him under. He stood before his mirror, watching how the dawn painted his reflection—pale skin caught in the soft warmth of gold, silver hair spilling down in waves over the high collar of his robe. 

Even though he had met the boy the night before. 

Alfred worked quietly behind him, fastening the last clasp. 

Dick felt it in the air before the servants even told him. That strange hum of expectation that curled through the stones, restless as dragonfire under skin. He stood by the open window of his chamber, hair still damp from the morning wash, the sea wind tugging gently at the ends. Nightwing’s distant cry rolled through the skies above the bay, a reminder of power and freedom just beyond his reach. 

He had not slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the boy from his dream—burning, dying, unrecognizable—and then Jason’s face in its place.

Awake, he saw the boy from the cliffs instead, the one who had looked at him not like a prince, but like something human.

And now he must meet him again—properly—under the weight of court eyes. 

Alfred fussed with the clasp of his outer coat. “Stand still, Your Grace,” he muttered, fingers quick and gentle. “You’d think you were preparing for battle, not a greeting.” 

Dick smiled faintly. “Perhaps they are the same thing.” 

The old man huffed softly. “Don’t say such things before breakfast.” 

Alfred sighed, stepping back once the silver clasp clicked into place. The prince’s robe was dark blue shot through with silver thread, its long sleeves edged with black—his dragon's colours muted to something softer. 

You look every bit the part,” the old man murmured. “Try not to frighten him.” 

“Do I frighten people?” Dick asked, half amused. 

“Only the ones who know you.”

Dick’s smile lingered but never reached his eyes. He looked every bit the prince the court adored—graceful, ethereal, touched by something otherworldly—but beneath the silks and silver, there was unease. The kind that coils deep, quiet, and relentless. His dreams still clung to him, heavy as smoke: the faceless boy burning, the sound of blood hissing against stone, and the cold silence after. 

He rubbed his thumb absently over the ring on his finger, a gift from his mother—one of the few things of hers he still possessed. The metal was smooth and warm from his touch, grounding him. Alfred stepped back at last, smoothing the fabric of his sleeve. 

“You look like her,” he said quietly. “Your mother. The same eyes before she flew.” 

Dick’s throat tightened. “And the same foolishness?” 

“The same fire,” Alfred corrected, his smile faint. “Now, try not to burn the poor boy before the vows, hm?” 

That earned a quiet laugh—one that felt lighter than he expected.

“No promises.”

He turned toward the balcony for a moment, breathing in the morning air. The city stretched below—its rooftops glittering faintly under the new light, its noise not yet risen.

Far beyond, he could hear Nightwing’s low, distant roar over the bay, the sound echoing in his chest like a second heartbeat. For a fleeting moment, he envied her: wild and unbound, no crown, no duty, only sky. 

A knock at the door cut through the stillness.

“Your Grace,” came a voice—Ser Wilson’s, flat and cold as ever. “The King requests your presence in the Great Hall.” 

Dick’s fingers brushed one last time over the silver clasp at his throat. “Then let us not keep His Grace waiting,” he said softly.

The Great Hall was alive long before they entered it. The air trembled with the weight of silk and whispers, the shimmer of jewels, and the scrape of boots over marble. Shafts of morning light spilled from the high windows, catching the gilded banners that hung from the rafters—Targaryen red and black beside the gold-and-black of Storm’s End. 

The Iron Throne stood at the far end of the hall, shadowed and silent, its jagged blades glinting faintly under the torches. The King sat not upon it but before it, at the foot of the dais, a deliberate gesture of control—an unspoken reminder that the throne belonged to him even when he didn’t occupy it. 

And beside him stood Daenys. 

He was a vision in blue and midnight black, the robe falling around him like poured light, the delicate beading at his collar glinting with each slow breath. His hands were clasped loosely before him, his expression serene but distant—an ocean whose depths no one could see. 

Then the great doors opened.

The sound echoed through the hall like a clap of thunder. Every head turned as the Baratheon procession entered—soldiers in black and gold, banners bearing the crowned stag, and at their center, the young Lord Jaehaerys Baratheon. 

Jason’s stride was measured, his armor polished to a dull gleam. The black of his doublet caught the light like wet stone, gold embroidery tracing the edges in the shape of curling antlers. His sword strapped to his side—the weight of a house that had raised him in storms. His gaze, sharp and sea-grey, swept the hall once before settling where it was always meant to: on Dick. 

For a heartbeat, everything was still. 

Dick’s breath caught, though his face betrayed nothing. He’d thought he remembered the boy from the cliffs—tall, proud, eyes filled with quiet defiance—but the man before him was something else entirely. 

There was strength in his bearing, yes, but also restraint, an edge of loneliness that mirrored something inside Dick he rarely let himself see.

Jason knelt at the dais. “Your Grace,” he said, voice steady, reverberating softly across the hall, bowing first to Bruce.

Bruce acknowledged him with a slight incline of his head—no more than that. 

When he rose and turned to Dick, the formalities of a prince’s greeting became intimate.

“Prince Daenys.” 

Dick extended a hand. The gesture was poised and formal, but when Jason’s fingers closed around his, the world shifted. The hall had gone utterly silent; even the candles seemed to hold their breath. 

Jason removed one glove and took Dick’s hand in both of his. The skin was warm, almost fevered. His hand was warm—calloused from sword hilts and training, not soft like the courtiers’. 

There was life there, unpolished, real. 

He bowed low and pressed his lips to the back of it. 

The hall inhaled sharply as one. 

It was not unusual for noble greetings, but the weight of it—slow, reverent, unhurried—felt too intimate for the ceremony. The touch burned, and then Jason’s lips brushed the pale skin of his knuckles. Dick’s heartbeat stuttered, and his pulse jumped beneath his ribs, sharp and sudden. He should have withdrawn, but he didn’t. His fingers curled just slightly, enough to feel the pulse beneath Jason’s thumb.

When Jason lifted his head, his eyes met the prince’s. The world shrank to that space between them.  The corner of his mouth curved—not a smirk, not arrogance, but something gentler. “It’s an honor,” he said quietly. 

Dick met his gaze, his voice even but soft. “Welcome to King’s Landing, Lord Baratheon.” 

Jason tilted his head, studying him as if seeing through the silks and courtesies. “The city is… unforgettable.” 

Dick’s lips curved faintly. “You say that as though it’s a curse.” 

“Perhaps it is,” Jason said. “Some things are too large to forget, even when you wish to.” 

From the throne, Bruce cleared his throat—a low, warning sound that carried like steel drawn from its sheath. The moment broke.

Dick’s eyes widened, remembering they were in front of the entire court. A faint blush dusted his cheeks. 

Bruce’s voice cut across the quiet like drawn steel. “You’ll dine with us this evening, Lord Jaehaerys. There will be time enough for introductions and talk of alliance.”

 Jason inclined his head. “As His Grace commands.” 

Bruce’s attention turned to his son. “Daenys, you will see that our guest is received with proper honor.” 

Dick bowed slightly. “Of course, Father.” When he straightened, his eyes met Jason’s again. “Would you walk with me, my lord? The hall is stifling.”

The king gave a curt nod, allowing it.

The two stepped down from the dais together, the hush of silk and leather filling the space between their footfalls. The air outside the hall felt cooler, freer. 

For a long moment, neither spoke. 

Then Dick said quietly, “You bowed to me differently than you did to my father.” 

Jason glanced at him. “Did I?” 

Dick’s lips twitched. “His hand you did not kiss.” 

Jason’s smile was quick and wolfish. “I kiss only what might burn me.” 

Dick looked away to hide the sudden warmth on his face. “Then you’ll have no shortage of danger here, Lord Baratheon.

They stopped beneath an open arch where sunlight poured in, illuminating dust like falling stars. From the courtyard below came the faint clang of swords. Jason’s eyes followed the sound, his body unconsciously turning toward it. 

“You fight,” Dick observed. 

“I live in a house that teaches nothing else.” 

“Then you’ll find few equals here,” Dick said, tone mild but eyes bright. “Perhaps we should test that.” 

Jason turned fully toward him, surprised. “A challenge?” 

“A conversation,” Dick corrected, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “But if it must be fought instead of spoken, I’m willing.”

Jason bowed slightly, the motion more genuine than mocking. “Then I’ll consider myself warned, Your Grace.” 

Dick’s gaze lingered on him a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed. Then he stepped back into the light, the blue of his robe flaring like flame caught in the wind. “Tomorrow,” he said. “The yard at dawn.”

Jason’s hand came to rest briefly over his heart, a soldier’s salute. “I’ll be there.” 

“Good,” Dick replied softly. “I’d hate to win by default.” 

The faintest trace of laughter followed him as he turned away, leaving Jason alone in the bright hall, every nerve awake.

The prince’s scent—salt, smoke, and something floral beneath—lingered in the air. 

Jason exhaled slowly.

So that’s the dragon, and this is how it begins.

They turned through an open arch, sunlight spilling over them. “Come,” Dick said suddenly, glancing over his shoulder. “I want to show you the gardens.”

The words were simple and unguarded, but the look that accompanied them was not. Jason hesitated only a moment before following.

They passed through the colonnade, the air shifting from the incense of the hall to the clean scent of salt and stone. The courtyard stretched ahead, the walls lined with creeping ivy and the sky blindingly bright above.

Jason had half expected the prince to stop among the terraces, but Dick did not slow. He crossed the courtyard, down a set of worn steps, through an iron gate whose hinges moaned softly as it opened. 

Beyond lay shadows.

Jason frowned. “These are strange gardens, Your Grace.” 

Dick glanced back, eyes catching the faint light. “Stranger still if you’ve never seen what they grow.” 

The passage sloped downward, carved into the bedrock itself. The air grew cooler and heavier, smelling faintly of ash and something older—like rain striking hot iron. Their footsteps echoed off the stone. Ahead, faint light flickered, wavering against the walls like fire seen through water. 

Jason’s hand brushed the hilt at his hip out of habit. “We’re beneath the Keep?” 

Dick’s voice was calm. “Beneath the hill. Keep walking.”

Jason stopped short. “Seven hells,” noticing the giant skull in the corridor.

Dick stepped forward, a glow painting his face in hues of blue and gold. “You’ve never seen one before.” 

It wasn’t a question. Jason shook his head, too slowly. “I’ve seen bones. Skulls mounted in the halls at Storm’s End. Never…” 

His words trailed as they rounded the corner, a shadow growing bigger until the shape within it resolved into form—vast wings folded close, scales black as obsidian, eyes like glacial fire in the dark. 

Nightwing stirred. A low, throaty rumble rolled from deep in her chest, vibrating through the stone floor and making the air hum.

Dick grinned, "Besides, the other night technically didn't count," nudging Jason forward.

The movement rolled through the floor like thunder, dust shivering from the stone above. Her head lowered, the ridges of her neck rising and falling in time with her breath. Smoke coiled from her nostrils in lazy spirals, scenting the air.

A deep, resonant growl rolled from her throat, followed by a hiss of smoke coiling lazily from her nostrils, scenting the air with fire and iron. Her claws scraped lightly against the stone, a subtle warning echoing through the pit.

Jason took a half step back before catching himself. 

Dick’s voice, when it came, was low. “She doesn’t like fear.” 

“I’m not afraid,” Jason said, the tension in his shoulders betraying him.

“Then prove it.”

Dick stepped closer, letting Nightwing’s breath wash over him in waves of heat and scent.

Another growl rose from her throat, deep and resonant, vibrating through his bones. Her great eye swung toward him, molten gold rimmed with flickers of blue, tracing every movement with living intensity.

The prince reached up, laying one hand gently against the scales of her muzzle. The beast huffed, smoke spilling over him like fog. 

“Come closer,” Dick said without turning. 

Jason’s throat felt tight. “She doesn’t look—” 

“She knows,” Dick interrupted softly. “What is yours? What it is not. If she meant to burn you, she already would have.” 

That did little to comfort him, but something in the prince’s voice—steady, almost tender—pulled him forward. Step by step, he crossed the pit until the air grew hot against his skin, the smell of fire and salt thick enough to taste.

Nightwing’s eye turned toward him fully. Jason froze under its gaze. 

“She’s… magnificent,” he breathed.

She’s terrifying. 

“She thinks you’re loud,” Dick said, and for a moment, the faintest smile touched his mouth. “But not entirely intolerable.”

Jason let out a shaky laugh. “High praise, I suppose.” 

Dick finally looked back at him. “It is. She’s bitten kings for less.” 

Their eyes met—two glimmers of light caught in shadow—and for a long moment, neither spoke. The dragon loomed between them like a heartbeat made of fire. 

Dick reached for Jason’s hand, fingers curling around his with gentle firmness. 

“Here,” he murmured. “Let me show you.”

Before Jason could protest, Dick guided his hand forward, bridging the space between hesitation and courage. He brought Jason’s palm against the rough warmth of Nightwing’s muzzle, steadying it as the dragon exhaled, smoke curling over their joined hands like a living curtain. His fingers were cool against Jason’s wrist, steadying him. The dragon’s scales were rough and warm as sun-baked stone beneath his palm.

Nightwing rumbled low, a vibrating, approving sound that seemed to roll through the pit itself, brushing against their bones. 

“She’s testing you,” Dick whispered, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of Jason’s hand. “Hold steady. Don’t flinch.”

 Jason’s breath caught before exhaling slowly, feeling the creature’s breath move through the air, vast and alive. 

Another soft huff from Nightwing made him start slightly, then relax as the deep rumble vibrated through his chest.

“Do you feel that?” Dick asked, voice low, guiding Jason’s fingers along the dragon’s muzzle, tracing the ridges and planes of her face. “That’s acknowledgment. She knows you now.”

Jason’s hand twitched slightly, but Dick’s steady presence grounded him. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased as Nightwing’s eye followed him, molten and alive, tail thumping once against the floor in time with the rumble that vibrated beneath their feet. Smoke spiraled up, warm and fragrant, curling around Jason’s wrist and forearm, binding him to the living presence of the dragon.

“She knows me?” Jason asked quietly.

“Enough to not kill you on sight,” Dick said, and the faint edge of humor in his voice softened into something gentler. “That’s more than most receive.” 

Nightwing rumbled again, a deep, approving vibration that rolled through their hands and arms. Her huff came gentle this time, almost like a sigh, smoke curling in lazy arcs over Jason’s palm. Jason glanced at Dick, seeing the quiet intensity in the prince’s eyes.

 Jason looked at him then—not the dragon, not the pit, but the prince who stood beside it unflinching, as though made of the same fire that breathed around them.

Jason tightened his hand slightly, following the guidance Dick offered, feeling the dragon’s power alive under his touch. The warmth, the rumbles, the smoke—all of it was electric.

“You brought me here to test me,” he said. 

Dick tilted his head, considering. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I wanted to see how you looked by the firelight.” 

Nightwing’s low rumble echoed through the pit, a sound almost like laughter. 

Jason smiled, slow and disbelieving. “You’re dangerous.” 

Dick stepped closer, close enough that the heat between them felt alive. “You only say that because it’s true.” 

The dragon huffed again, and the air shimmered with the taste of smoke. Above them, light from the narrow shafts of the ceiling fell in thin spears, gilding dust motes like stars. 

Dick finally stepped back, letting Jason’s hand slip from Nightwing’s muzzle, though the heat and tension lingered, turning toward the tunnel. 

“Come,” he said quietly. “She’s had enough of us for now.” 

Jason lingered one last moment, watching the slow rhythm of Nightwing’s breath before following. His heart was still beating too fast, his hands unsteady. When he caught up to Dick at the mouth of the tunnel, the prince looked over his shoulder, eyes soft. 

“She didn’t burn you,”

Jason smirked faintly. “Not yet.” 

“Then perhaps you’ll do,” the prince murmured. And with that, he led the way back toward the light.

Dick paused at the top of the stone steps where the light from above poured in again. He glanced back; Jason was still a shade paler than usual, though trying to hide it behind that Stormlands pride. 

“Now,” Dick said at last, a faint laugh threading through his voice, “I’ll actually show you the gardens—unless, of course, you’d rather go flying.”  

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.  

Jason blinked, color draining a little further. “Flying?”  

“Nightwing loves the sea wind this time of day,” Dick continued, as if discussing the weather. “She’s gentle enough when she wants to be.”  

Jason’s answering stare was nothing short of disbelief. “Gentle?”  

Dick tilted his head, the smile deepening. “Usually.”  

Jason opened his mouth, then shut it again, the wordless sound that escaped him somewhere between a protest and a prayer.  

The prince’s laughter was quiet and genuine. “Come then,” he said, turning toward the sunlit corridor that led upward. “You can catch your breath among the roses. For now.”  

The sunlight hit them in a rush when they stepped out from the tunnel, warm and blinding after the half-dark of the dragonpit. The salt in the air gave way to something sweeter, the sharp scent of rosemary and blooming roses. The path climbed upward through a series of terraces, each one edged by stone balustrades carved in the shape of vines and wings. 

Jason followed, still half-dazed. “You weren’t joking about the gardens,” he managed at last. 

They reached the upper level. Here the city dropped away, leaving only the sea and the wind. The garden seemed to hang between worlds: marble walkways laced with wild growth, fountains whispering over cracked stone, and dragon lilies twisting their red petals toward the light. 

The sound of wings far off—perhaps Nightwing returning to the mountain where the wild dragon lies—mingled with the hum of bees. 

Getting away from them most likely 

Dick paused beside a pool lined with white marble. Sunlight scattered across the surface, reflecting in the silver threads of his robe. “My mother planted these terraces,” he said quietly. “She said before the war the sea air made the roses stronger.” 

Jason knelt to touch one of the blooms; its color was deep crimson, almost black at the edges. 

“They look like they’re burning.” 

“She’d have liked that,” Dick said. A faint smile crossed his face, but his eyes stayed on the horizon. “She used to bring me here when I couldn’t sleep. Said the sea reminded dragons that there are things they cannot conquer.” 

Jason looked up at him. “And do you believe that?” 

Dick’s answer came after a moment. “No.” Then, softer, “But I like the lie.”

For a time they simply walked among the roses. The wind moved through the leaves with a low hiss, the same sound the waves made against the cliffs far below. 

Jason’s steps slowed until they were beside one another. The prince’s hand brushed the top of a rosebush; a petal came loose and drifted down between them. 

“You don’t bring many people here,” Jason said.

“No,” Dick admitted. “Most prefer the safety of stone. You, however, didn’t run when I brought you to a dragon.” 

Jason gave a short laugh. “I didn’t have time.” 

“You stayed anyway.” 

Their eyes met briefly, the air between them caught with salt and sunlight. For an instant Jason thought Dick might reach out, but the prince only turned away, plucking one of the dark roses from its stem. He held it out without looking. 

“Here,” Dick said. “Proof you survived.” 

Jason took it carefully. “Is this a custom of yours?”

“Only for those who pass their first test.” He looked down at the rose, its edges glinting with dew.

 “And the second?”

Dick glanced toward the distant courtyard where steel rang faintly against steel. “That comes with sunrise.”

For a heartbeat neither moved. The wind stirred the roses, brushing the scent of them between them like a secret. 

Then Jason’s expression changed. A soft grin found its way across his face as he looked the prince squarely in the eyes. “Then I’d better keep this safe,” he said. 

He reached up and, with deliberate care, tucked the dark rose behind Dick’s ear. The crimson petals stood out starkly against the pale fall of his hair. 

Dick blinked, surprise flashing across his usually calm features. 

Jason stepped back just enough to study the effect, the grin still tugging at his mouth. 

“Better,” he murmured. “Now you look less like a prince and more like the fire you’re named after.” 

For once, Dick didn’t correct him. He only smiled—small, real, and entirely his own. The wind rose again, carrying the sound of the sea up from the cliffs, and the two of them stood there a moment longer among the roses before turning back toward the keep.

“Come, let me take you back to your rooms before dinner.”

And before your father arrives. 

The walk was quiet, filled with the sound of their own footsteps against the stone floors. Jason could feel the tension in Dick’s shoulders, the way he kept a careful watch on every corner, every shadow, expecting someone to be in the shadows. It was protective, yes—but there was an edge to it too, the faint trace of something almost possessive in the way Dick guided him along. 

Finally, they reached the small door at the end of the hall—Jason’s temporary refuge. Dick gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Here we are. Try to relax. Dinner’s in a few minutes.” He lingered a moment, studying Jason with a careful intensity, before stepping back. “I’ll see you there,” he added, voice low, just enough that it felt like a promise… and a warning.

Jason closed the door behind him, the rose still tucked against his chest. Outside, the echoes of their footsteps faded into the stone halls, leaving him with the memory of Dick’s gaze—watchful, unwavering, and somehow impossible to ignore.

The dining hall was warm, candlelight flickering against the high stone walls. The long table gleamed under the polished silver and carefully arranged goblets. Jason’s eyes lingered on the dark rose tucked behind Dick’s ear as they entered, and Dick gave a small, composed nod, though the faintest crease of tension lined his brow as he sat down in the chair next to him. His father on his right.

He noticed Jason’s father was yet to arrive.

The room hummed with quiet murmurs as servants moved along the edges of the hall, filling goblets with wine and arranging platters of food. Dick’s eyes scanned the long table, noting every shadow and flicker of movement. Something—or someone—seemed out of place. A faint chill ran down his spine as he caught sight of a figure leaning against a distant pillar, arms crossed, posture casual but deliberate. 

Slade. 

He was supposed to be guarding behind his father, but instead he was across the room. His gaze sliding over Dick, sharp and calculating, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips before pushing off the wall to come stand behind them. 

He wasn’t just observing; he was claiming and marking. Every small motion Dick made—the way he shifted in his seat, the way his hand brushed against the dark rose behind his ear—was met with that same unnerving intensity. 

Dick’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a heartbeat, he considered ignoring it, letting the man’s arrogance hang in the air—but something inside him flared. He lowered his voice, quiet enough that only Slade could hear, but cutting through the ambient murmurs like steel:

“I would advise against lingering where you are not summoned.”

Slade froze mid-smirk, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. The words were soft and polite on the surface, yet there was an edge there that made the warning unmistakable. Dick’s gaze met his steady and unyielding, a silent challenge: 

I see you. Do not test me here.

The tension rippled outward, subtle but undeniable. Slade straightened, posture suddenly measured, the casual arrogance gone, replaced with the faintest trace of restraint. Dick’s jaw relaxed, his eyes returning to Jason as if nothing had happened—but the message was delivered, clean and unspoken, to the rest of the hall.

Jason, oblivious for the moment, leaned slightly closer to Dick, whispering, “You look… tense.” 

“I’m fine,” Dick replied, keeping his voice low, but his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. 

“Just… waiting.” 

Slade’s eyes flicked toward Jason, then back to Dick, lingering longer than necessary. 

“Waiting,” he repeated under his breath, almost to himself, a low, almost predatory hum in the word. 

Jason shifted in his seat, sensing the invisible line of scrutiny cutting across the space. His hand brushed against Dick’s lightly, an instinctive anchor. 

Dick’s eyes flicked briefly toward him, a subtle reassurance, though his focus never left Slade. 

The hall remained quiet, the only sounds the soft clinking of silverware and the faint murmur of the few early arrivals. Jason’s father had yet to enter, and Slade’s presence seemed to expand, filling the gaps of shadow and light, patient, lingering… and watching. 

The heavy oak doors at the end of the hall swung open, and Jason’s father finally entered, his presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. The light of the candles glinted off the golden embroidery of his robes, each step deliberate and measured. He moved with the quiet authority of a man accustomed to obedience, yet there was a warmth in his eyes that softened the stern set of his jaw. 

“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice deep and resonant, echoing slightly in the vaulted space. 

He offered a small nod toward Dick, who rose immediately, a warm smile brightening his silver eyes. 

“Lord Sionis,” he said, inclining his head in polite respect, “welcome to The Red Keep. I hope the journey was comfortable.”

Roman gave a small nod, adjusting the edge of his coat. “Quite so. The Keep is quiet… impressive,” he said, voice carefully measured, though his eyes flicked with curiosity over the vast hall.

Dick gestured toward the seats. “Please, sit where you like. I’ve asked the servants to prepare a few of your favorite dishes—I hope I’ve guessed correctly.” He chuckled softly, the tone light and friendly, genuinely hoping to ease Roman into the unfamiliar setting.

As Roman took his seat, Dick’s attention never left him, but it was easy, warm, and not intrusive. “I’ve heard you favor dark chocolate with almonds,” he said with a small smile, “but perhaps I was mistaken?”

Roman blinked, taken slightly off guard by the familiarity. “You… remembered?” he asked, almost unconsciously.

Dick’s smile widened. “Of course. It’s a small thing, but I thought it might make the journey more pleasant.” He reached for the wine, pouring lightly for Roman, his movements smooth and thoughtful. 

“And your gardens,” Dick continued conversationally, leaning slightly forward, “I’ve read that they endure storms quite well. Does that hold true for all your plants?”

The questions were gentle, curious, and kind—not challenges, not tests. Roman relaxed slightly, clearly pleased that the prince seemed genuinely interested. 

Roman relaxed slightly, pleased that the prince appeared genuinely curious. “Mostly,” he admitted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Though some of the roses have been stubborn, resisting even my attention.”

Dick laughed softly, warm and musical. “Stubborn roses often have the best stories,” he said lightly, eyes bright. “They teach patience, observation, and care. I imagine you’ve learned a few lessons yourself over the years.”

He occasionally glanced at Jason, giving him subtle encouragement, letting him know he was included and secure.

Bruce stood quietly at the side, watching with calm approval. When he spoke, it was to add context or gently clarify a detail, never overshadowing Dick’s gracious attentiveness. “A remarkable garden indeed,” Bruce said, voice smooth and even. “One can see the care and thought behind each choice.”

Dick leaned forward slightly, silver eyes curious. “And the roses—do you have a favorite? I find they often tell more stories than one expects.” His tone was soft, sweet, and kind, inviting Roman to share freely without fear of judgment.

Roman smiled, a little more openly now, clearly charmed by the prince’s attention. “I suppose I do,” he said, more at ease than when he entered. “But it changes with the seasons.”

“Seasons tell so many stories,” Dick said lightly, inclining his head. “And the right gardener knows which ones to listen to.” He chuckled softly, letting the warmth linger. The observation seemed casual, almost innocent—but it carried a quiet attentiveness that didn’t escape Roman’s perception.

The servants arranged themselves silently behind the diners, bringing forth platters of roasted meats, fragrant vegetables, and bowls of gleaming fruits. The scent of rosemary and baked bread filled the hall, mingling with the faint saltiness carried on the breeze from the cliffs below. The long table was a study in symmetry and order: polished silverware, crystal goblets catching the candlelight, and folded cloth napkins that seemed too perfect to touch. 

Jason’s father took his seat, the subtle weight of his gaze sweeping across the table, acknowledging each of them in turn. 

“I trust your journey was uneventful?” He asked, eyes resting on Jason first, then shifting back to Dick. 

“Smooth,” Jason replied, voice steady. Dick inclined his head slightly, his composure impeccable.

If Smooth was being threatened with a dragon

The hall hummed with polite murmurs as the first course settled—roasted pheasant glazed with honey, fresh herbs sprinkled over its golden skin, accompanied by bowls of root vegetables and steaming bread. 

The scent of rosemary and baked crust mingled with the faint salt of the sea air drifting in from the terrace. The hall hummed with polite murmurs as forks clinked and goblets were filled. 

Jason picked at the roasted pheasant, still aware of the rose behind Dick’s ear and the subtle tension threading the air. Dick’s eyes, however, were not on the food—they were on Roman Sionis.

Roman laughed easily, entertaining a neighboring lord, but never glanced at Jason. Dick inclined his head politely with every word, a careful mask of attention, but there was a glint in his silver eyes that suggested calculation. He was watching, learning, and probing.

Yet Dick felt a flicker of unease. Lord Sionis’ demeanor was polished, courteous, almost disarmingly so—but there was something beneath the surface that didn’t sit right. The careful way he measured each word and the faint glint in his eyes when he smiled suggested calculation, a mind always weighing, always testing. It was the same look Dick had seen on men who wore masks of civility over ambition. 

“Your rose gardens are remarkable,” Jason’s father said, his voice smooth, almost conversational. “I hear they have endured storms that would have felled weaker plants. A testament to their care… and to the care of the prince himself, no doubt.” 

Dick inclined his head politely, his fingers brushing the dark rose still tucked behind his ear. 

“They have lasted the wars,” he said evenly, “and the sea winds are not unkind when tended properly.” His gaze flicked briefly to Jason, who sat quietly beside him, attentive yet blissfully unaware of the subtle probing in his father’s tone, “Yet, they thrive when tended carefully—by those who notice the storms before they arrive.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward Roman, just long enough to see a hint of surprise and uncertainty enter his eyes. 

Roman’s gaze sharpened for the briefest moment, but he laughed lightly, masking it. “Naturally. One can’t anticipate everything, of course.”

“Some things can be anticipated,” Dick murmured, tilting his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. 

“If one knows where to look.” 

His tone carried nothing accusatory, yet the weight of implication rested squarely on Roman’s shoulders. A subtle tightening of the jaw, a quick glance, a poised hand brushing the rose—it was all a carefully measured display of control.

Roman laughed again, a little too loudly, shifting in his seat. Jason’s attention flicked nervously toward Roman, sensing the undercurrent but unsure how Dick was orchestrating it. Dick’s silver eyes met Roman’s briefly, politely, and unwaveringly, and Roman shifted ever so slightly, aware he was being measured and analyzed.

Dick let the moment linger, allowing the unease to grow without comment, before smiling and continuing the conversation, turning his tone back to light, curious, and unthreatening.

“You mentioned the journey,” Dick said as he delicately carved a piece of pheasant. “Were there any particularly memorable sights along the way?”

Roman brightened a little at the question, encouraged by the genuine interest. “A small village on the cliffs… the cliffs themselves were remarkable. One could almost see the sea change with the passing hours. I…” 

His voice faltered slightly, but Dick smiled, patient and kind, waiting for him to continue.

“I never tire of watching the weather shift over the ocean,” Roman said finally, his tone softening, a trace of wonder in his voice. “It changes everything.”

Dick nodded, warm approval in his silver eyes. “It teaches one humility,” he said softly, “to see what is greater than oneself and yet to know one can still leave a mark.” He chuckled gently. “A lesson I try to practice in small ways every day. Even with a single flower, sometimes.”

The ease of the conversation drew Roman further in. He laughed lightly at a story Dick recounted about a mischievous gardener’s apprentice at the castle, his defenses lowering, his attention fully on the prince and the warmth of the room.

Bruce observed silently, offering the occasional nod and the occasional soft comment. “Even the most seasoned gardener,” he said, voice calm, “finds value in a careful observer who notices what others might miss.”

Dick’s gaze returned to Roman, patient and soft. “And even the smallest observations,” he added, “can reveal more than one might expect.” He leaned in slightly, maintaining that delicate balance of attentiveness and ease, allowing Roman to speak freely, share freely, and feel welcome.

By the end of the first course, Roman’s composure had softened completely. The once-polished mask of caution now bore traces of genuine engagement—smiles, light laughter, and unguarded stories. Dick’s gentle curiosity had earned trust without forcing it, and the prince’s silver eyes shone with warmth as he listened to Roman describe his home gardens, his travels, and the storms he had weathered both literally and figuratively.

When Roman leaned back, speaking over Jason to a neighboring lord, Dick allowed a faint, almost imperceptible sigh. “Of course,” he said softly, as if commenting on the air itself. “One must choose what is worth noticing.” 

The words, casual as a breath, were like a scalpel in Roman’s mind—innocuous to the untrained ear, but piercing in intent.

Jason, still beside him, felt the tension radiating off Dick. The prince was weaving a subtle web, bending attention and influence without ever raising his voice. 

Each glance, each pause, each carefully placed word was a test—an invitation for Roman to act, to reveal himself.

“Tell me,” Jason’s father continued, changing the subject as the second course arrived—saffron-infused pheasant with roasted vegetables drizzled with honey—leaning slightly forward, “how fares my son in King’s Landing? I trust the dragons have not proven… inconvenient?” 

There was a casualness in the phrasing, a faint edge beneath the civility, as if testing Dick’s composure with a question that could just as easily be a challenge. 

Dick’s reply was calm and careful: “The prince adapts well. The dragons have their own minds, but he does not shy away from them.” His tone was courteous but firm, a subtle warning that he was not one to be unsettled by veiled tests. 

“However, the dragons are… selective in their attention,” he said, voice low, careful, and measured, but someone who understands them can do more than survive. He can command their respect.” 

The subtext hung in the air, a reminder that Dick saw everything, including Roman’s failures.

Roman’s smile wavered for the briefest instant before he masked it with politeness. 

Dick allowed the pause to stretch, letting the weight of the implication settle. Jason’s glance flicked toward Dick again, admiration mixing with awe.

Jason notices a faint smile on the king's face.

Dick continued the easy rhythm. 

He asked Roman about his favorite wines, encouraged anecdotes about lessons learned from failure, and admired subtle choices in Roman’s household and garden management. 

Each question was thoughtful, kind, and engaging—never a test, only a genuine invitation to share.

Even as Dick listened, he was quietly aware—he noticed Roman’s pauses, the fleeting gestures of impatience, and the tiniest hesitations. But all of it was cloaked in the comfort of the prince’s warmth. 

Bruce’s presence at the edge of the conversation reinforced calm authority, guiding the discussion without overshadowing it.

By the end of the second course, Roman was laughing more freely, gesturing naturally, and clearly charmed by the prince’s kindness. Even Jason relaxed into the rhythm of the conversation, brushing his fingers lightly against Dick’s under the table.

Dick had guided every exchange, slowly relaxing and picking apart Roman.

Dick allowed himself the faintest private smile under the table, knowing that his observations were building a subtle foundation. 

Dick allowed the ease to linger for a heartbeat longer, silver eyes glinting with the faintest flicker of awareness. Every polite smile, every nod, was now quietly paired with observation. 

The small tells—Roman’s micro-pauses, the subtle tightening of his jaw when recounting his victories in the city, the almost imperceptible flicker of impatience when someone contradicted him—were cataloged, filed, and folded into a map of influence.

Every word Dick had spoken, every pause, every tilt of the head, had been deliberate—a dance of power, subtle, invisible to all but the keenest eyes.

“You spoke earlier of your city walls,” Dick said, voice smooth and gentle, still courteous, “and the defenses you’ve put in place. I imagine you take pride in anticipating every possibility.” He tilted his head slightly, sapphire eyes bright and warm—but now the warmth carried a subtle edge. “And yet… sometimes the smallest cracks go unnoticed until they matter most.”

Roman’s lips pressed together, a flicker of irritation passing briefly before he smiled, polite but measured. “I assure you, Prince Daenys, I attend to every detail. Nothing escapes my notice.”

Dick’s smile widened just fractionally, almost imperceptibly. “Of course. And that attention… It is what keeps a city safe. But even the most careful eyes can benefit from… guidance,” he said softly, his voice lilting as if in casual conversation. “An observer who notices the currents beneath the surface, rather than the surface itself.”

Bruce’s deep, calm voice joined seamlessly from the edge of the table. “Indeed. The man who believes himself unshakable can often be guided—not through orders, but through perception. Those who see what others overlook hold far more influence than those who assert it openly.”

Roman’s hands flexed slightly around his goblet. He tried to steer the conversation back to safer territory—trade, fleets, patrols—but Dick gently redirected, still polite, still curious. 

“Trade is important, naturally,” he said softly, leaning in just enough to draw Roman’s attention without pressure. “But even the strongest fleet can falter if the ports themselves are not prepared… if someone fails to notice subtle weaknesses.”

Roman’s smile wavered. “I… see,” he said carefully, adjusting his posture.

Voice wavering with uncertainty at the shift 

“Of course,” Dick murmured, voice gentle, encouraging, and still entirely amiable. “I do not suggest failure—only that even the best can benefit from careful observation. Attention. And perhaps… counsel.” He tilted his head, letting the faintest suggestion of a smile linger. “Even those who hold the greatest authority.”

A bead of sweat formed at Roman’s temple, unnoticed by anyone but Dick and Bruce. Every subtle pause, every careful word, was a soft tug at Roman’s composure. Dick’s kindness—his warmth, attentiveness, and charm—remained, but it was now paired with precision, like a velvet glove around steel.

Bruce added quietly, voice smooth as silk but resolute, “Guidance is often far more effective than command. The captain who believes he is unshakable may yet find himself led by those who know the currents better than he does. Would you not agree, Lord Sionis?”

Roman’s jaw tightened. He forced a polite laugh and attempted to regain the upper hand in conversation, but every word Dick spoke, every tilt of his head, and every measured question subtly redirected him.

“You have remarkable foresight,” Dick said gently, leaning slightly toward him, eyes warm, silver light softening the words. “Yet even foresight cannot anticipate what is overlooked—what is hidden in plain sight. That… is where guidance matters most.”

Roman’s shoulders stiffened. He tried to laugh, attempting to mask his growing unease, but it was clear now: he was aware, fully aware, that the prince and the king had him measured, understood, and gently maneuvered.

Dick’s gaze flicked to Jason beside him, a reassuring touch of their fingers—a private anchor amid the quiet orchestration—then back to Roman, still entirely sweet, courteous, and charming. 

Every compliment, every subtle observation, every patient smile, was a deliberate tool, bending Roman without ever raising Dick’s voice or breaking the warm surface of politeness.

By the time the third course arrived—braised lamb with figs and rosemary—Roman’s composure had begun to crack more visibly. 

His hands flexed against his knife, his eyes darted to Dick’s for the smallest hints, and he laughed too sharply at a joke that wasn’t entirely funny. The polite warmth had become a gentle, invisible pressure, guiding, nudging, and revealing cracks without force.

Dick’s eyes gleaming as they flickered over to Roman’s hands.

“You seem… practiced in the ways of a court,” Dick remarked lightly, “but even the most practiced hands can tremble when the currents shift beneath them.”

 Roman’s eyes flicked to him, a thin mask of irritation forming, but he forced a polite laugh. “I assure you, Prince Daenys, I am…” He faltered slightly, struggling for the right word. “…attentive.” 

Jason caught the hesitation, and his brows lifted just enough to notice. He touched Dick’s hand under the table, a quiet anchor.

Bruce, leaning slightly forward, voice smooth and calm, added softly, “Attentiveness is commendable, but it is also wise to recognize when guidance is being offered. Even the most steadfast captain benefits from a pilot who can read the winds.”

Roman’s jaw clenched. He tried to steer the conversation back to the topic of city defenses, the fleets, and the trade routes—anything that could anchor him—but to each move Dick countered with a gentle observation, a soft comment that revealed the tiniest flaw in Roman’s plans.

Dick tilted his head slightly, silver eyes glinting in the candlelight, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Ah, the fleets,” he said softly, leaning just enough to appear genuinely curious. “I’ve always wondered how one balances vigilance with flexibility. You must make countless judgments, some in moments, some after careful thought. It must be… exhausting at times.”

Roman shifted in his seat, caught off guard by the gentleness in the question. “Well… yes, decisions are never simple,” he admitted, his voice a touch hesitant. “One must consider supply lines, morale, alliances…”

“Exactly,” Dick said, nodding, warm and encouraging. “And yet, even with the best planning, there are always the currents beneath the surface—small things, unnoticed at first, that can ripple into significant consequences.” He let the words hang in the air, a soft, almost conspiratorial murmur rather than an accusation.

Roman’s fingers drummed lightly against the table, betraying his tension. “I… I suppose so, your grace,” he muttered, glancing at Bruce as if for reassurance.

Bruce’s presence was calm and measured, like a steady wind. “One finds,” he said softly, “that the most skillful captains are those who recognize guidance without resentment. To perceive a suggestion and integrate it quietly is far more effective than to resist it outright.”

Dick’s smile deepened, entirely polite, entirely warm. “And sometimes,” he added, voice soft, “those suggestions come not as commands, but as questions. Gentle questions that illuminate what might otherwise go unnoticed.” 

Roman’s eyes flicked to him, uncertainty rippling beneath the surface. He tried to refocus on his own words, to regain composure. “And what would you suggest, Prince Daenys?” he asked, voice tight, forcing calm.

Dick leaned back just slightly, silver eyes warm and inviting. “I would suggest… paying attention to the smallest movements, the whispers beneath the waves. Sometimes, a plan appears flawless until one considers the unseen, the quiet, and the subtle. Anticipation alone does not guarantee success—it is awareness that truly does.”

Roman’s jaw tightened again, though he masked it with a polite laugh. Dick’s tone had not shifted in force, only in implication, yet the subtle pressure was unmistakable. Each word, each pause, each gentle smile guided him, nudged him, and forced introspection without confrontation.

Jason’s eyes, wide with quiet admiration, watched Dick like a master orchestrating a symphony with the softest of touches. Every word, every tilt of the head, and every glance was deliberate—a demonstration of control hidden in charm and of authority cloaked in kindness.

Dick’s silver eyes flicked once more toward Roman. “It is remarkable,” he said lightly, voice sweet and almost conspiratorial, “how often the most confident captains reveal themselves when they believe no one is truly watching.”

Roman swallowed, a faint flush coloring his cheeks, realizing—too late—that he was being guided, gently but irrevocably, in ways he had not noticed.

By the time dessert arrived—glazed figs with honey, candied nuts, and a delicate drizzle of spiced wine reduction—the air in the hall had shifted. The initial warmth and ceremony lingered, but beneath it, a quiet tension hummed, imperceptible to anyone not attuned. Roman’s composure had frayed further; his polite mask strained, though Dick’s blue eyes and gentle smile made the unraveling almost invisible to the untrained observer.

Dick leaned slightly forward, voice soft, warm, and inquisitive. “I’ve always wondered, Lord Sionis… When you first began guiding these fleets, what did you find most challenging? The logistics, the alliances… or perhaps the people themselves?”

Roman blinked, caught off guard by the kindness in the question. He hesitated, uncertain if the inquiry was a test. “Well… each has its difficulties,” he admitted carefully. “But… the people, I suppose. Maintaining morale while ensuring the city’s safety is…” His hands flexed subtly on the table, betraying his tension.

Jason, emboldened by Dick’s warmth, leaned forward, curiosity sparking in his voice. “Is it… harder to command respect or loyalty?” He looked between Dick and Roman, genuinely interested.

Dick’s silver eyes softened as he gave Jason a reassuring smile. “Both are important,” he said gently, glancing at Bruce before continuing, “but they are earned in very different ways. Respect comes from observing strength and fairness, while loyalty… that requires connection, understanding, and patience.” 

Roman’s lips pressed into a thin line, the answer seemingly innocuous but carrying the weight of subtle scrutiny. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dick leaned just slightly toward him, voice warm yet carrying an unspoken authority.

“Sometimes,” Dick said lightly, “those who believe themselves untouchable are the ones most in need of… guidance. Not force, but subtle direction. A question instead of a command, an observation instead of a criticism.”

Jason’s eyes lit up, his curiosity driving him to interject again. “So… if someone makes a mistake, it’s better to show them the path rather than scold them?”

“Exactly,” Dick said softly, turning his gaze on Roman, silver eyes gleaming with polite intent. “And often, the lesson is revealed by noticing what someone does on their own, what they fail to see, rather than what is pointed out. The smallest detail can illuminate more than a thousand commands.”

Roman’s fingers tapped nervously against his goblet. 

Each question, each pause, each tilt of his head revealed Roman’s own cracks without direct accusation.

Bruce, leaning slightly back in his seat, voice calm and measured, added softly, “It is remarkable, Lord Sionis, how much can be learned by asking the right questions, by observing without overt pressure. Strength is often found in how one responds to guidance rather than in how one asserts control.”

Dick allowed a faint, almost imperceptible nod toward Bruce, reinforcing the statement while keeping his tone warm. Then he turned back to Jason, softening entirely. 

“And what do you think, Jason? Would you rather be guided gently or pushed to act by command?”

Jason’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Guided, I think. You… you notice things I don’t. And it helps me feel like I understand more, instead of just… obeying.” He glanced at Dick, a quiet admiration in his eyes.

“Exactly,” Dick said, his voice like velvet, warm and approving. 

“Guidance is the kindest, yet most effective way to build trust. And trust… well, it’s stronger than fear, stronger than obligation. Stronger than any command.”

Roman’s forced smile faltered, his gaze flicking between Jason and Dick. He realized that in the warmth, in the sweetness of Dick’s words, he had been carefully nudged, subtly exposed. 

The prince had turned politeness into influence and charm into quiet control, all under the guise of civility and kindness.

By the time the dessert plates were cleared, Roman’s composure was frayed, his hands tight around his goblet, and his eyes betraying a newfound caution. Jason, meanwhile, sat with a quiet pride, eyes bright with admiration, having witnessed firsthand the subtle, irresistible authority of the prince.

Dick’s smile remained gentle, almost tender, as he exchanged a glance with Jason before setting his fork down gently, a polite, tired smile touching his lips. 

“I believe I must excuse myself,” he said softly, his voice warm but edged with fatigue. “It has been… a long day, and I find myself in need of rest.” 

He inclined his head gracefully toward Roman and the others, bowing just enough to convey respect without ceremony.

Jason’s eyes followed him as he rose from the table. There was a grace to the movement, a controlled strength that made him seem larger than life, even in the warm glow of the dining hall. Before stepping toward the corridor, Dick paused at Jason’s side, leaning slightly closer.

“I’m very much looking forward to our training session tomorrow,” he said, his tone both gentle and expectant. “It will be… our first time together, but I think you might surprise me.”

Jason swallowed, a mix of excitement and nerves tightening in his chest. “I’ll do my best,” he murmured. Blush covered his face as his mind went elsewhere with his words.

Dick’s eyes met him for a long heartbeat, warm yet sharp, before he inclined his head slightly. 

“Good. Rest well, Jason.” And with that, he moved away, leaving the hall and Jason in quiet shadows.

Jason sat back, the remnants of dessert forgotten, his thoughts racing. He kept returning to the dragon—Nightwing—and to Dick, who had moved beside her with the same calm dominance, the same unwavering strength. 

How easily Dick had stood there, commanding respect without ever raising his voice, as if the power within him flowed naturally and unrestrained.

He realized, with a thrill that made his chest tighten, that Dick wasn’t just like Nightwing—he was like her. 

Not in scale or wingspan, but in presence, in the quiet, controlled fire that radiated from every motion, every glance. The dragon had been fierce and imposing, yes—but Dick carried that same intensity in human form: calculated, commanding, and impossible to ignore.

Jason’s fingers brushed lightly over the table, as if touching the memory could anchor it. He thought of the soft touch of Dick’s hand at the table, the steady silver eyes, and the subtle strength that reminded him so clearly of the dragon’s huffing, smoking presence.

Tomorrow’s training suddenly felt more daunting and more thrilling. Not just because he had never trained with Dick before—but because he had a glimpse of what it meant to move beside someone like him, someone who carried fire within a human frame.

Jason leaned back, his gaze drifting to the candlelight flickering over the polished table. He was both awed and anxious, eager and intimidated, caught between admiration and anticipation. The thought of standing beside Dick in the training yard, feeling even a fraction of that dragon-like strength mirrored in flesh and blood, made his pulse quicken.

For the first time, Jason truly understood what it meant to face a dragon—and the thought both terrified and exhilarated him.

Chapter Text

The morning mist still clung to the training yard like a ghost refusing to leave. The scent of sweat, steel, and the faint tang of blood lingered in the air — the quiet aftermath of their duel.

Dick stood with his blades at his sides, chest rising and falling, strands of silver hair plastered to his brow. Across from him, Slade watched in silence, arms folded, expression carved from stone. His single eye gleamed like a shard of frost.

“You rely too much on speed,” Slade said at last, his tone neither harsh nor kind — simply factual. “You strike to dazzle, not to kill.”

Dick’s jaw tightened. “I don’t enjoy killing.”

A low hum left the older man’s throat, something between amusement and disdain. “That is why you’ll lose to someone who does.”

He stepped closer, boots whispering against the slick flagstones. “The world doesn’t honor mercy, Your Grace. It swallows it.”

Dick lifted his chin, meeting his gaze. “Then maybe the world deserves to choke.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the cry of gulls above the battlements and the faint hiss of the morning wind.

Slade’s mouth curved into the barest trace of a smile — not of warmth, but recognition. “There’s fire in you,” he murmured. “But fire without control burns its wielder first.”

He moved before Dick could reply, blade flashing up in a blur of silver. Dick barely caught it, their swords locking with a metallic shriek. The shock of the impact traveled down his arms, teeth gritting as Slade pressed forward.

“Focus!” the knight barked. “Every breath, every step, every heartbeat — make them weapons!”

Dick twisted, spinning out of the lock, blade cutting low and rising again in a clean arc. For a heartbeat, he saw it — a flicker of approval in Slade’s eye.

But then the knight’s gauntlet caught his wrist, twisting hard. The sword fell, clattering to the ground. Slade’s other hand shot up, pressing the cold edge of his blade to Dick’s throat.

“Dead,” he whispered again.

Their breath mingled in the cold air — sharp, shallow, tense.

Dick didn’t flinch this time. He met Slade’s stare evenly, eyes alight with defiance. “Then you’ll have to do better than that.”

Slade’s expression didn’t change, but the faintest glint of something unreadable crossed his face — pride, maybe, or warning. He stepped back, sheathing his sword with a deliberate, almost ceremonial motion.

“Again”

The clang of metal rang out again before the echo of Slade’s footsteps had even faded. Dick moved first this time.

No hesitation. No mercy.

He lunged low, twin blades flashing like quicksilver, his strikes rapid and exact — not wild like a soldier’s, but measured like an assassin's. 

Each motion flowed into the next, his body light and shifting as if he were dancing rather than fighting.

Slade caught the first blow easily, but Dick was already moving — sliding to his left, twisting his wrist so the flat of his short sword scraped against Slade’s gauntlet, redirecting rather than resisting the weight of the strike. His second blade darted forward, stopping just shy of Slade’s ribs.

“Good,” Slade hissed. His counter came fast — a heavy downward swing that would have split a lesser fighter’s guard.

Dick didn’t block. 

He slipped aside, letting the blade pass close enough that he could feel the air move. 

The motion was almost too quick to see, his cloak snapping behind him. He came up behind Slade and brought the back of his sword up in a clean, brutal strike — cracking the flat edge against the bridge of Slade’s nose.

The sound was sharp, wet, and final.

Slade staggered back half a step, a red line blooming beneath his mask. His single eye narrowed, cold as winter steel.

“Better,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Pain sharpens the lesson.”

Dick didn’t answer. His breathing was calm, controlled — eyes locked on his mentor’s stance, searching for any opening. 

He moved like a dragon now — fluid, unbroken, every motion a whisper of precision and intention. A feint to the right drew Slade’s blade; a half-step back baited him forward.

Then Dick spun, bringing one sword low to catch Slade’s strike and the other high, the flat of the blade kissing Slade’s cheek before turning into a short, precise cut that would have drawn blood had he not pulled the edge at the last second.

“Dead,” Dick murmured, echoing Slade’s earlier tone.

The older man froze, studying him — not with anger, but with something darker. Approval.

“You’re learning,” he said softly.

The tension hung thick between them — teacher and student, predator and heir.

Slade wiped the blood from beneath his nose with his thumb, smearing it across his glove. “Next time,” he said, voice almost growling, “you won’t hold back. Mercy is hesitation — and hesitation kills.”

Dick lifted his swords again, blades glinting with reflected dawnlight. “Then next time, you’ll be the one bleeding.”

Slade’s smile was a slow, dangerous curve of satisfaction. “Show me.”

And they clashed again — fire and shadow colliding beneath the morning sun, every strike faster, sharper, quieter. Dick’s blades whispered through the air, glancing off Slade’s armor in blurs of motion, each hit designed to bleed, not break.

The clash of steel echoed through the training yard long before Jason reached it.

He had meant only to find the prince — Dick — but the sound that met him as he turned the corner stopped him in his tracks.

Two figures moved within the ring of stone and sand — one cloaked in black, the other silver. The morning light caught on their blades, scattering it like shards of sunlight. Jason recognized the older knight instantly: Ser Slade Wilson, the King’s silent hound. The other… there was no mistaking him.

Dick.

He fought like something half-divine, half-dangerous — nothing like the kind, delicate, prince he was last night. His movements were fluid, almost weightless, every strike a ripple through the air. 

He fought with twin blades, quick and precise, darting in and out of range with the grace of a duelist, not a knight.

Slade was heavier, deliberate. His sword sang with the deep, resonant power of years of killing. Each swing threatened to crush rather than cut. But Dick did not meet strength with brute force. He let it pass — sidestepping, deflecting, countering.

Jason stood at the edge of the yard, unseen, the cold wind tugging at his cloak. He should have announced himself, but he couldn’t. He was watching something that felt almost sacred — a ritual between predator and heir.

Slade lunged; Dick twisted. 

The back of his sword cracked sharply against Slade’s nose, a strike so fast Jason almost missed it. 

Blood dripped down onto his lip.

Dick stepped back, breathing hard but composed, eyes gleaming like fire caught in water.

“Dead,” he said softly.

The word carried the kind of calm that made Jason’s pulse quicken.

Slade straightened slowly, blood on his glove as he wiped his mouth. “So you’ve learned to draw blood,” he said. “Now learn to make it mean something.”

Their blades met again — a blur of silver and black. Sparks flew. The rhythm of their movements was hypnotic: strike, pivot, parry, evade. Dick fought with elegance, precision — fire

Jason’s hand drifted unconsciously to the hilt of his own sword. He wanted to feel that rhythm.

To break it.

To test the fire himself.

When Slade drove Dick back toward the edge of the ring, Jason stepped forward, voice calm but cutting through the clash.

“Mind if I join?”

Both turned.

Dick froze mid-motion, chest rising and falling, silver hair clinging to his temples. His sea-blue eyes widened just slightly — surprise flickering, then settling into a composed calm.

Slade looked between them, unreadable. “You’re early, Lord Baratheon.”

Jason shrugged, stepping into the yard. 

He drew his sword, its steel dark as the storm. “Figured I couldn’t be late when the prince personally invites me”

The tension cracked, not with hostility, but something softer—almost playful.

Dick’s blades lowered slightly, though his smile curved sharp enough to cut. “I thought Storm’s End trained its heirs to announce themselves properly.”

Jason’s voice broke the quiet like a smile made of thunder. “You always train this early, or do you just enjoy the dramatics?”

A faint blush ghosted across Dick’s cheeks before he turned his head, hiding it beneath the fall of his silver hair.

“Depends who’s watching.” Voice low, but the hint of a laugh betrayed him.

Jason stepped fully into the yard, the fur-lined cloak sliding from his shoulders as he drew his sword — black steel that caught the light like oil on water.

Slade’s gaze flicked between them—two young lords circling not out of malice, but something perilously close to affection. “If you’re done courting,” the knight drawled, “perhaps one of you intends to actually train.”

Jason smirked. 

Dick only sighed. “He’s always like this,” he said, voice just loud enough for Slade to hear.

Slade’s single eye narrowed. “And he’s always listening, Your Grace.”

Jason stepped closer, sword balanced loosely in his grip. “Care for a round, then? 

Dick’s expression turned feline. “You’re brave for someone who’s never fought me before” he said simply, twirling one blade in a tight, glinting circle. “

“ I’ll try not to embarrass you in front of your teacher.”

“You’ll try,” he said simply “but failing’s far more likely.”

“Then go easy,” Jason replied, rolling his shoulders, “I’d hate to ruin the royal face before the wedding.”

Slade snorted faintly but stepped back, folding his arms, content to watch the storm unfold.

The first exchange was fast—too fast for a courtly duel. Jason lunged, strength behind every swing, his strikes heavy but clean, honed by real combat. 

Dick met them like water meeting stone—absorbing, redirecting, his twin blades flashing with calculated grace.

He was fluid, silent, unyielding.

Each time Jason’s sword met his, the sound was quick and musical, the dragon’s rhythm—deflect, step, cut, slip away. 

The prince’s movements were so measured it looked effortless, his feet barely whispering against the sand.

Jason laughed through the clash, half in disbelief. “You move like you’ve been waiting for me.”

“I’ve been waiting for a challenge,” Dick shot back. 

The fight resumed—faster now, a rhythm that grew almost beautiful. They laughed between strikes, teasing, testing, learning the edges of each other’s strength.

Jason moved first, his swing broad but clean — a soldier’s strike, heavy with power. Dick parried effortlessly, letting the force slide past him as he pivoted, turning the motion into a blur of silver. His movements were swift, no wasted breath, no flourish, only speed and control.

Jason grunted as his next blow met nothing but air. 

Dick had already shifted behind him, the flat of one blade cracking against Jason’s shoulder with a sharp, satisfying sound.

“Fast,” Jason said, wincing through a grin. “But not careful enough.”

He spun, faster than Dick expected, sword sweeping low to catch his ankle — Dick vaulted over it, landing light on his feet, cloak swirling behind him. They moved in tandem now — one pressing forward with strength, the other gliding backward with grace, their blades striking and parting like waves meeting shore.

Jason’s laughter broke through the rhythm, rich and alive. “You fight like you’re dancing.”

“And you fight,” Dick said, ducking under a swing, “like you’re trying to drown me.”

He twisted, stepping into Jason’s guard — their blades locking. The air between them went still, heavy. Jason’s breath brushed his cheek.

“Maybe I am,” Jason murmured.

Dick smiled — small, sharp, unbothered. “Then you’ll have to do better.”

In a single motion, he turned his wrists, disarming Jason cleanly. The Baratheon’s sword clattered against the flagstones, echoing through the empty yard. Dick caught it before it fell flat, turning it once in his hand before offering it back, hilt-first.

For a heartbeat, they froze—close enough that Dick’s breath brushed Jason’s cheek.

Then the prince smirked, lowering his voice. “Dead.”

Jason’s laugh came low and warm. “Then kill me properly next time.”

Dick tilted his head. “You say that like it’s a challenge.”

“It is.”

From the shadows, Slade’s voice cut through the charged silence. “If you two are quite finished pretending this is a courtship ritual—”

“It’s not pretending,” Jason muttered under his breath, earning a sharp cough from Slade and a flicker of colour across Dick’s face. 

The older knight exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Gods help us all if this is the realm’s future.”

Dick sheathed his swords in one smooth motion, silver catching sunlight as he turned away. Jason reclaimed his blade, wiping a bit of dust from the edge, his grin quick and wild, the kind that could summon storms.

The clash of their swords had long since faded, leaving only the echo of it in Dick’s pulse. The yard had emptied, the mist burned away by the rising sun. Jason had gone, with a parting smile and a promise to “try again tomorrow.”

Now only Slade remained — still as a statue, watching the prince clean the edge of his twin blades.

Dick worked in silence, cloth gliding across steel, breath measured. The morning air clung cool and sharp to his skin, the faint sting of sweat still lingering at his temples.

Slade broke the quiet first.
“Now,” he said, tone almost conversational, “don’t tell your father I trained you before your wedding.”

Dick paused mid-motion, glancing up. “He’d say it’s improper?”

Slade’s mouth twitched — something close to a smile, though it never reached his eye. “He’d say it’s dangerous.”

“I’m marrying a Baratheon, Ser. Danger comes with the name.”

“Perhaps,” Slade said. “But I’ve seen men lose their heads for less than what I taught you today.”

He stepped closer, the weight of his presence grounding, immense. “A prince with a sword is a symbol, Your Grace. A prince who knows how to use it…” He tilted his head slightly. “That’s a threat.”

Dick sheathed his blades, the soft click of steel into leather echoing like punctuation. 

For a long moment, Slade simply studied him — the boy he’d trained, the man he’d become. There was pride in the silence, though he’d never speak it aloud.

When Dick finally left the yard, the sun had climbed high, washing the stone in gold. Servants bowed as he passed through the corridors of the Red Keep, his footsteps softened by thick carpets and murmured whispers.

By the time he reached his chambers, the air inside was heavy with lavender oil and incense. The great windows were thrown open to the sea beyond, the sound of waves mingling with the quiet rustle of attendants preparing silks and armor for the day’s ceremony.

A mirror stood near the hearth, tall and framed in gilt. Dick caught his reflection in it — the faint cut across his collarbone, the ghost of a bruise near his jaw, the way the light turned his hair to molten silver.

He looked every inch the prince they wanted him to be — elegant, poised, untouchable.

But under the fine linen and perfumed air, his body still remembered the rhythm of the fight: the sting of impact, the rush of movement, the sound of Jason’s laughter in the rain.

Slade’s words echoed in his mind.
A prince with a sword is a symbol. A prince who knows how to use it is a threat.

He wondered which version his father preferred him to be.

The door creaked softly.

Dick turned from the mirror as a servant stepped inside, head bowed, hands folded neatly at their waist. The scent of rosewater and clean linen followed them in from the corridor.

Dick turned from the mirror as a servant stepped inside, bowing low.
“Your Grace,” they said. “We’ve been sent to prepare your bath, and to assist you in dressing for the wedding this evening — and the festival to follow.”

Dick hesitated, the words settling over him like a veil. 

Wedding. Festival. 

The very sounds of them carried weight.

He gave a small nod. “Very well.”

The servants moved quietly, efficient as shadows. Steam soon rose from behind the partition as they poured water into the bronze tub — buckets of it, carried from the fires below, each one releasing curls of vapor into the chill of the chamber.

The scent of lavender and myrrh began to fill the air, mingling with the sea breeze drifting in through the open window.

When they bowed and withdrew, leaving him alone, the silence returned — soft, golden, and heavy.

Dick stood for a moment at the edge of the tub, watching the surface ripple with faint reflections of light. His body still ached faintly from the morning’s training — a tenderness in his arms, the sting of a bruise along his ribs, the ghost of Jason’s laughter echoing in his mind.

He undid the clasps of his tunic, fingers moving slowly, deliberately. The fabric fell away piece by piece — linen, silk, leather — until the weight of his armor and finery was gone, leaving only the sound of his breath and the faint rhythm of the sea below.

The water embraced him as he stepped in — warm, fragrant, shimmering faintly with oil. For a moment he closed his eyes, letting it rise against his skin, the heat pulling the tension from his muscles.

He sank deeper, until the water brushed the hollow of his throat, and exhaled.

Outside, the city murmured — distant bells, laughter from the festival beginning early. Within, all was still.

He let his head fall back against the rim of the tub, silver hair slicked dark against his temples. The candlelight caught the sharp line of his cheekbones, the faint marks of training left visible across pale skin: a small cut near his jaw, a faint bruise on his collarbone. Proof that he’d been alive that morning — that he was something more than a prince wrapped in silk.

For a while, he simply sat there, letting the warmth soak through him. His mind drifted — to the yard, the gleam of rain on steel, the way Jason’s eyes had met his with challenge and something else, something unspoken.

He found himself smiling. Quietly. Almost to himself.

When Dick emerged from the bath, the air of the chamber shimmered with candlelight and the scent of lavender oil. The attendants moved in silence around him, their hands steady and reverent as though preparing a relic rather than a man.

They brought forth the garment laid carefully upon crimson silk — a deep wine-red robe rich as spilled garnet, its velvet surface alive with golden embroidery that caught the light like fire. Threads of gold traced curling dragon motifs across the bodice and down the sweeping sleeves, the work so fine it seemed to move when he did.

The collar dipped low, shaped in the heart of flame, where the embroidery gathered in ornate swirls of dragons and smoke. The sleeves were long and open, pooling at his sides like molten cloth, every fold whispering against the marble floor. The hem swept behind him in a subtle train, heavy with goldwork and shadow.

Around his neck, they fastened a choker wrought in silver and crimson: a circlet of rubies and pearls, delicate as frost and deadly as a blade. It gleamed against his throat, the gems arranged like drops of heart’s blood. A matching diadem was placed upon his brow — red stones set in gold, a net of fine chains falling across his temple and brow in the old Valyrian style.

“The King commanded his House be represented in your attire,” one murmured.

“Of course he did,” Dick said quietly.

When they fastened the last clasp at his shoulder, the garment seemed almost alive — regal and dangerous, like the dragon sigil itself.

“Hold still, Your Grace,” murmured one attendant, lifting a mirror of polished silver.

Dick obeyed, gaze distant as they began to arrange his hair — silver-white strands gleaming under candlelight. 

They worked slowly, fingers weaving intricate braids that wound around the crown of his head in spirals, then fell into soft, loose waves down his back. The braids formed a pattern like dragon wings, the style ancient and ceremonial — the same worn by his ancestors in portraits of old.

The attendants stepped back once they’d finished, and the room seemed to still be around him.

He looked at his reflection — the crimson, the gold, the black. Every part of him was polished to perfection, crafted into the image of a prince of dragons. 

Yet beneath the silk and embroidery, he could still feel the faint sting of bruises left by Slade’s blade, the ghost of laughter in Jason’s voice, the warmth of the bath lingering on his skin.

He did not look fragile.

He looked untouchable.

“Your Grace,” one servant whispered, voice almost reverent, “you are ready.”

Dick lifted his gaze to the mirror. His eyes — sapphire blue, sharp and calm — met his own reflection with a steadiness that did not waver.

“No,” he said softly. “Not yet.”

The gardens of the Red Keep had been transformed for the wedding — all gold and crimson, roses climbing every marble arch, silk banners fluttering from the terraces above.

Lanterns hung from the trees, their flames trembling in the soft wind that rolled off Blackwater Bay. The air was thick with incense and salt and the murmur of hundreds of voices, but none of it made Jason feel any less like a stag in a cage.

He stood before the fountain at the center, white marble carved into the shape of a rearing stag, its hooves frozen mid-strike. The water caught the light like molten glass.

Somewhere behind him, musicians tuned their harps; somewhere ahead, courtiers whispered. The King sat beneath a red canopy, every line of his body rigid with expectation. 

His own father sat beside him.

The sun was beginning to lower toward the horizon. The wedding should have begun.

But the groom was nowhere to be seen.

Jason adjusted the cuff of his doublet — black and gold, the Baratheon colors — mostly to have something to do with his hands. Sweat clung faintly beneath the leather despite the evening breeze. 

His father had warned him about Targaryens before he arrived: They love their dramatics. Don’t let them make a fool of you.

He was about to turn toward the dais to ask after the delay when the first tremor hit.

Soft at first — like the earth taking a breath — then deeper. 

The lanterns swayed. Birds exploded from the cypress trees in a blur of wings. A murmur rose through the gathered nobles, confused and uneasy.

And then the sky split.

Jason’s head snapped upward as a shadow tore across the setting sun — vast, alive, impossible. For a heartbeat he thought it was a storm rolling in from the bay, until it roared.

Not thunder. Not wind.

Dragon.

The air cracked with heat. Every instinct in him screamed to step back, to run, but he stood frozen as the creature fell through the clouds like a piece of night set ablaze.

He had a small bit of hope that Nightwing wouldn’t eat

The dragon came down in a rush of wind that ripped the petals from the rosebushes and scattered them through the air like falling embers. Its talons struck marble, cracking stone.

Her scales shimmered black-blue, the edges of its wings burning with pale fire.

Steam curled up from beneath its wings. And upon its back sat the man Jason was meant to marry.

 The garden erupted in shouts and gasps; women clutched their veils, guards drew steel, the King himself surged to his feet shouting for order.

Jason couldn’t hear him over the sound. The roar drowned everything.

The roar faded, leaving only the crackle of disturbed torches and the sound of the dragon’s slow, steady breathing. Smoke curled low across the garden floor, dragging the scent of sulfur and roses into one dizzying mix. Jason could barely hear his own heartbeat over the ringing in his ears.

Then the prince moved.

He slid down from the dragon’s back as if gravity itself bent to him. The crimson of his robe caught in the firelight, deep and rich as blood, the golden embroidery alive in motion — dragons coiling down the sleeves, smoke curling along the hem. 

The fabric didn’t just shimmer; it shifted, like heat mirage over flame.

And then Jason really saw him.

He looked carved from the same flame that birthed his dragon — cloak of deep crimson alive with gold thread, hair white as moonlight, the dying sun catching in the silver circlet at his brow. Smoke curled around him as he dismounted, the movement fluid, effortless, as though he’d done it a thousand times. The heat rolling off the dragon made the air shimmer.

No one spoke. No one dared.

At first, it was only the impression of light — silver hair loose from the wind, tan skin flushed faintly from flight, eyes like sunlight on ice. But as Dick stepped forward, the illusion sharpened, real, undeniable.

His face was beautiful in a way that didn’t make sense — too sharp for softness, too human for divine. His cheekbones caught the gold of the torches; his mouth, curved and controlled, might have been carved to hide secrets. 

The thin choker at his throat gleamed with rubies and pearls, delicate as blood drops on snow. The faintest line of a healing cut traced his jaw, and Jason’s chest tightened with the strange, treacherous thought that someone had dared to mark him.

He couldn’t look away.

He’d seen knights glittering in plate, queens draped in silks, courtiers painted to perfection — but this was something else entirely. There was life in Dick, a hum under the polished surface, as if every breath carried both danger and grace. The wind tugged at the loose ends of his hair, turning silver to quicksilver, and Jason’s pulse jumped before he could stop it.

Jason swallowed hard, heart hammering against his ribs. 

When Dick finally reached Jason, the scent of ash and lavender clung to him, subtle and strange. The dragon’s shadow still loomed behind him, its golden blue eyes burning.

Nighwing exhaled again behind him, a low, steady rumble. The smoke drifted between them like a veil, catching the glint of blue flame — and for a moment, Jason swore the fire bent toward him, toward them.

“You flew here,” Jason managed, voice low, rough.

Dick smiled — a small, knowing thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Did you expect me to ride?”

Jason let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You’ll send your father to an early grave.”

“He’s had practice surviving me.” The prince’s tone was light, but there was something dangerous in the ease of it. Then, softer: “And I wasn’t made to arrive quietly.”

Jason didn’t realize he was staring until the silence stretched between them — long enough for the petals torn loose by the dragon’s wings to settle again on the marble.

Jason forced himself to breathe. The air still shimmered with heat. He took in the rest of him — the intricate braids that crowned his head, the faint dusting of ash across his sleeve, the way the light clung to him like a lover’s hand. He looked less like a man than an omen: all red and gold and shadow, eyes bright with the kind of calm that meant he’d already accepted every cost.

He saw the faint bruise on the prince’s collarbone, the delicate choker at his throat catching the light like drops of blood, the calm stillness of his eyes — pale blue, steady, unreadable.

Jason’s lips parted before he could stop himself. “Seven hells,” he whispered. “You really are something.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Dick’s face. “So I’ve been told.”

The dragon stirred behind him, wings rustling like thunder rolling far out to sea. Blue fire glowed faintly along its wingtips, painting the prince’s shadow across the marble — long, slender, and crowned in light.

For a moment the world was only the two of them — fire and storm, standing close enough for Jason to feel the warmth of him through the air.

Then the harp struck a chord, and the court remembered to breathe.
The ceremony had begun.

The murmurs started slowly, spreading through the garden like ripples in a pond. Lords and ladies craned their necks, whispering behind jeweled fans. 

The King’s face was a mask of restrained fury, his jaw tight enough to crack stone. The dragon still lingered at the edge of the courtyard, smoke curling lazily from its nostrils, eyes like molten glass fixed on the crowd.

But none of it reached Jason.

He couldn’t look away from the man standing a few paces before him.

Prince Dick had come to his own wedding like a storm — no palanquin, no guard of honor, no meek procession through the city gates. 

He had torn through the sky instead, black wings blazing, and now stood as if he had done nothing extraordinary at all. The wind still played through his hair, carrying the faint scent of smoke and salt, and the faintest trace of dragonfire clung to his skin, sharp and electric in the air between them.

Jason felt almost foolish in comparison. His own doublet was a regal thing — black velvet, the golden stag stitched proud across his chest — but beside Dick, he might as well have been draped in sackcloth.

But somehow he did not mind

The Septon cleared his throat, the sound small, swallowed by the open air.

“My lords, my ladies—”

The words washed over him like waves breaking against rock. Jason barely heard them.

His gaze drifted again, helplessly, tracing the delicate pattern of gold that glinted at Dick’s cuffs, the veins of red thread running through the dragons embroidered on his sleeves. When Dick’s hands shifted, Jason saw the light catch on the simple golf ring already on his finger — the Targaryen crest etched deep into the band.

And when Dick finally looked at him, properly looked — eyes steady, calm, the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth — Jason felt the world tilt.

There was warmth there, behind all the ice and ceremony. Something alive and knowing.

The Septon’s voice cut through the silence. “Do you, Jason of House Baratheon, take this man—”

Jason swallowed, his voice barely finding him. “I do.”

The Septon turned to Dick.

Dick lifted his gaze to Jason, and in a voice like silk over steel, spoke in High Valyrian: “Vezof jin-azantys. Vezof jin ñuha.”

I swear to you my life. I swear to you my heart.

The words fell between them like fire on water. Jason did not understand them, but he felt the weight and intention — solemn, binding, impossible to ignore.

“I do,” Dick repeated, in the common tongue, steady and clear.

Jason’s chest tightened. The High Valyrian lingered in his ears, melodic and dangerous, a secret only he had been let into.

It was a small thing, two words he understood— but Jason felt the echo of them down his spine.

The Septon raised his hands. “Then by the grace of the Seven—”

The dragon shifted behind them, wings rustling like distant thunder, sending rose petals across the marble. Thrill piercing through the air.

The court gasped, some in awe, some in fear, but Dick did not move. His blue eyes were fixed on Jason, calm and alive with quiet power.

When Dick stepped closer, the distance between them vanished — a breath, a heartbeat, a shared heat in the cool of the evening. His fingers brushed Jason’s when he took his hand, deliberate, unhurried. His skin was warm — warmer than it should have been.Warmth and electricity shot between them. 

The choker glimmered in the last light of day.

Dick leaned closer, voice low, meant only for him: “Vezof drakarys ēdruta.”
I swear by dragonfire

Jason’s chest tightened.

“Your dragon will terrify the court,” he murmured under his breath, not sure if the words were meant to tease or to breathe.

Dick smiled faintly, eyes glinting with something that looked almost like mischief. “Perhaps.”

The Septon’s voice rose again with the final blessing, but Jason barely heard it.

All he could see was Dick — the soft curve of his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw, the fire in his eyes reflected from the dragon’s wings.

The crowd erupted in applause, the sun casting gold and red across the city. Beneath the shadow of dragon wings, Jason and Dick stood hand in hand.

And when Dick’s lips moved again, almost brushing his ear, the High Valyrian was softer, intimate, impossibly powerful: “Vezof ñuha ēdruta, ñuha zaldrīzes.”
I swear to you, my dragon, my storm.

Jason’s chest tightened. The words seared through him, claiming space in his mind and body. The rest of the ceremony — the Septon’s blessing, the murmurs of the court, the ringing bells — dissolved into a blur of color and sound.

There was only him, Dick, and the electric, impossible presence that filled the space between them.

He again could not look away.

Every line of Dick’s face, the curve of his mouth, the glint of fire in his ice-blue eyes, was etched into Jason’s mind. And in that moment, beneath the shadow of wings and flame, Jason understood — he would never see another like him, and he would never want to.

The crowd’s applause faded into a low murmur as the guests began to drift toward the banquet halls, but Jason stayed rooted, still holding Dick’s hand. 

Every step of the courtiers felt distant, unreal, as though he were watching through water.

Nightwing had folded her wings and retreated to the edge of the gardens, smoke curling like incense in the twilight, but the heat of it still clung to the air, mixing with the scent of roses and molten gold.

Dick's silver hair fell in loose waves over his shoulders, glinting with traces of flame-light. His pale skin seemed almost to glow against the crimson and gold of his robes.

The faint bruise along his collarbone, the delicate circlet, the embroidery of dragons along his sleeves — all of it combined to make him look unreal, carved from fire and shadow.

And yet, the warmth of his hand in Jason grounded him, made him feel real, human, mortal, even as he stood before someone so extraordinary.

“You’re... insane,” Jason breathed, voice low, almost a laugh, almost disbelief.

Dick tilted his head, silver hair brushing Jason’s cheek. “I heard that once before,” he murmured, voice soft, low, intimate. 

Jason swallowed, pulse hammering. 

The heat in Dick’s gaze was magnetic, unrelenting. His lips curved faintly — a smile that was more promise than humor, more threat than comfort. Every detail of him seared into Jason’s mind: the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the pale blue eyes that seemed to hold storms and stars at once.

For a moment, Jason simply stared. The world beyond the gardens didn’t exist. The King, the court, the banners, the dragon — none of it mattered. There was only Dick, and the way he made Jason feel simultaneously small, alive, and utterly consumed.

“You’re staring,” Dick said, voice teasing now, but his hand didn’t move. It rested heavy, grounding, impossible to break from.

“I’m not,” Jason lied, though his chest felt like it might split from the intensity of it.

“You are,” Dick said softly, brushing his thumb across the back of Jason’s hand.

Jason let himself relax against that, just a little, and for the first time since the dragon had landed, he allowed himself to breathe. 

He leaned closer, brushing his forehead to Dick’s shoulder, letting the heat, the scent, the impossible presence of him wash over.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he murmured.

Dick’s lips curved into that faint, sharp smile again. “I can guess.”

Jason’s laugh was breathless, quiet. The tension, the awe, the danger — all of it coiled tight inside him, and he let it spill, letting himself be both terrified and thrilled by the man before him.

The evening sun dipped lower, painting the gardens in gold and crimson. 

The petals scattered by the dragon’s landing swirled at their feet. Jason finally looked up, meeting Dick’s gaze, and knew with a certainty that had nothing to do with vows or crowns:

He was lost.

And he had no desire to be found.

The feast had begun, but Jason barely registered the clatter of plates, the chatter of nobles, the distant hum of music from the musicians’ gallery. All he could feel was Dick’s hand in his, warm and steady, grounding him against the dizzying memory of the garden, the dragon, the vows.

Then a soft melody rose from the musicians — harp and flute, delicate and lilting — and a courtier approached, bowing low. 

“Your Grace, the first dance,” they said, voice polite, formal, unaware of the storm beneath Jason’s calm.

Dick’s fingers tightened around his. “Shall we?”

Jason swallowed, heart hammering. He nodded, trying to steady his breath. “Yeah.”

They stepped onto the marble floor. 

The lights from torches and chandeliers caught the gold embroidery on Dick’s robes, making the dragons along his sleeves shimmer as if they were alive. Jason’s gaze followed every line of him — the sharp angle of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the pale blue eyes that held both fire and calculation. 

Even in the glittering hall, under the gaze of nobles and kings, he looked untouchable, and yet here, his hand in Jason’s, he was real.

Dick moved toward him, confident and controlled, guiding him into the rhythm of the music. Jason felt the strength in his arms, the ease of his posture, and the way he seemed to lead without effort, without arrogance.

“You’re watching me,” Dick said softly, just above the music. 

“I—” Jason swallowed. “I can’t help it.”

Dick’s smile was faint, teasing, almost predatory. 

They moved together across the floor. Jason tried to match Dick’s precise, fluid steps, but it felt impossible — Dick was both anchor and storm, pulling him forward, spinning him lightly in a turn that made his pulse spike.

Every brush of his hand, every tilt of his shoulder against Jason’s, sent heat curling up his spine.

Jason’s eyes traced him, memorizing every detail: the way the firelight caught the embroidery, the sweep of his hair as they spun, the subtle strength coiled in his forearms beneath the silk and velvet. Every breath, every movement, made Jason dizzy with awe.

He pressed a little closer, letting his forehead brush against Dick’s shoulder, letting the closeness, the warmth, and the intensity of him take over.

The hall faded. The court, the dragon’s shadow outside the windows, the murmur of the nobles — none of it existed. There was only Dick, guiding him, moving with him, untouchable yet terrifyingly present.

Every step, every turn, every glance held weight, unspoken promise, and the thrill of danger. Jason realized, with a clarity that made his chest ache, that this dance was theirs — a declaration as loud and powerful as any vow:

He was captivated.

And he would follow Dick anywhere.

As the music swelled, they moved together in perfect rhythm, two storms colliding in a blaze of fire and shadow, of silk and steel, of longing and control. Jason’s heart raced, caught in the heat of him, the beauty of him, the impossible, breathtaking presence of Dick.

And he never wanted it to end.

The corridors of the Red Keep had emptied, leaving only the echo of their footsteps along stone. Jason’s hand was still caught in Dick’s, warm and steady, and yet every pulse of heat from the prince radiated around them like wildfire. 

The air was heavy with the lingering scent of the dragon outside, mingled with sandalwood, lavender, and a faint tang of sweat — the smell of exertion, of life, of him. 

Jason’s throat went dry at the thought.

Dick’s chambers opened to a room bathed in amber light. Candles flickered along carved sconce-brackets, shadows pooling in the corners, gilded in the gold of flame. 

The air smelled of cedar, smoke, and the faint iron tang of the dragon’s presence. Jason noticed the way Dick’s crimson and gold robes fell from his shoulders, exposing layers of linen and silk clinging to a body that seemed sculpted from danger itself.

His hair, silver-white, caught the candlelight, strands shifting like quicksilver as they fell against pale skin. 

Jason’s gaze lingered on the faint bruise along his collarbone, the thin line of healing cut near the jaw, and the curve of his throat beneath the delicate circlet of rubies and pearls.

 Every mark, every shadow, every glint of metal or thread was a story, a warning, a promise.

Jason swallowed hard, breath catching as Dick stepped closer, his hand warm around Jason’s. He could feel the subtle play of muscle beneath silk, the faint heat radiating from him, the sharp, clean scent of him — ash, smoke, lavender, sweat, and something uniquely Dick that made Jason ache in ways he hadn’t known were possible.

“You are staring again,” Dick said, voice low and intimate, the words brushing along his skin.

“I—” Jason’s voice was ragged, chest hammering. “I can’t help it.”

“You never do,” Dick murmured, brushing a thumb along the back of Jason’s hand. 

The touch was casual but commanding, grounding and claiming at once. Jason felt the sparks of desire coil tight in his stomach. Every nerve, every pulse, every breath seemed magnified by the intensity of him.

The heat in the room pressed closer. Jason could feel the heat radiating off Dick’s skin, the warmth of muscles coiled like springs under silk, the lingering hint of dragonfire clinging to him like a second skin.

He felt drawn to it, unable to pull away, unable to resist.

Jason inhaled the scent fully: smoke, ash, lavender, sweat, and something darker, dangerous, magnetic. Every inhale was a promise. Every exhale a surrender.

Grabbing Dick’s hand Jason pulled it to his pounding chest. Dick’s fingers curled around his, warm and unyielding, the steel beneath silk pressing gently against Jason’s palm. 

Every heartbeat he felt beneath that hand was a drum of fire, echoing his own.

Jason’s chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow bursts, the press of his body against Dick’s, the scent of smoke, ash, and something untamed, searing through him.

“You do- You do this to me,” he breathed again, voice low, trembling with awe and want. “Every glance, every move… it’s—” He swallowed hard, words faltering under the weight of desire. “It’s impossible to resist.”

Dick’s thumb brushed along the back of his hand, slow, deliberate, teasing. “Impossible?” The word was silk over steel, intimate and dangerous. He leaned closer, until his forehead brushed Jason’s temple. 

Jason’s pulse hammered in his ears. The heat radiating from Dick was more than flesh and blood; it was power, danger, a quiet threat wrapped in silk and fire. 

He pressed closer, letting his hand slide along Dick’s shoulder, inhaling that intoxicating mix of ash, sweat, and lavender. He could feel the flex of muscle beneath silk, the subtle warmth of skin. Every detail made him ache — every scent, every touch, every movement. 

“Gods,” Jason whispered, lips barely brushing the prince’s neck. “You’re… extraordinary.” 

Dick’s lips curved faintly, blush painting his cheeks. 

Dick’s other hand rose, tracing the line of Jason’s jaw, slow, deliberate. Jason shivered under the touch, the gentlest pressure sending fire through him.

The room — the stone walls, the candles, the lingering trace of dragonfire — vanished. 

There was only this, only them, only the storm of warmth and desire, and Jason’s racing pulse entangled with it.

“I can’t… I can’t resist you,” he whispered, almost to himself, almost to the night, almost to the dragon waiting outside. “You’re… consuming.”

Their lips met, tentative at first, a whisper of flame. Jason leaned in, pressing closer, letting the warmth, the scent, the danger — the man — fill every sense.

Candlelight caught the sheen of Dick’s hair, silver with traces of flame, skin pale and alive beneath the embroidery. Every movement, every breath, every tilt of the shoulder was exquisite torment.

Dick’s hands traced the planes of Jason’s back, slow, deliberate, teasing, commanding. The prince’s fingers lingered on Jason’s forearms, knuckles brushing against bone, a ghost of touch that left shivers in its wake.

heir closeness was a storm contained in a single chamber, and Jason let himself be pulled into it, letting heat coil, pulse quicken, senses sharpen.

Jason’s fingers tangled in Dick’s hair, the silken strands sliding through his grasp as he pulled him closer. Their bodies pressed together, the heat between them almost unbearable. Jason could feel the rapid thrum of Dick’s heart against his chest, matching his own frantic rhythm.

Jason’s forehead rested against Dick’s shoulder. “You’re… dangerous,” he murmured, breath trembling.

Dick’s lips curved faintly, predatory and calm. “I’ve always been told that. 

Jason’s laugh was breathless, fragile, and wild all at once, letting himself sink against him, letting the fire, the danger, the storm of silk and shadow roll over him.

Jason’s breath caught in his throat as Dick’s hands moved lower, his fingers teasing the edge of Jason’s waistband. The touch was electric, sending shivers of anticipation racing down his spine. He leaned into the caress, his body arching against Dick’s, seeking more, needing more.

The room spun around them, the candlelight casting a golden glow that seemed to shimmer with the intensity of their connection. 

Jason’s mind was a whirlwind of sensation, his thoughts scattered, his body alive with a hunger he had never known.

Jason trailed his lips down Dick’s neck, savoring the taste of his skin, the slight roughness of stubble against his mouth. Each kiss was a claim, a promise, a whisper of the passion that surged between them. Dick’s pulse throbbed beneath his lips, a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of his own heart.

Jason’s hands explored the contours of Dick’s body, tracing the hard lines of his muscles, the smooth expanse of his back. Each touch was a spark, igniting a fire that burned hotter with every passing second. He could feel the heat radiating from Dick’s skin, the urgency of his need, and it fueled his own desire.

As Jason’s lips continued their journey, Dick’s breath hitched, a soft gasp that was music to his ears. He could feel the tension in Dick’s body, the restraint that was slowly unraveling, and it spurred him on. He wanted to see him lose control, to feel the full force of his passion.

Jason’s eyes fluttered closed, the world fading away until there was only sensation, only the storm of desire that raged between them. The room, the night, everything else ceased to exist. There was only Dick, only the fire that burned in his veins, only the promise of a night that would be forever etched in his memory.

Dick’s hands gripped Jason’s hips, his fingers digging into his flesh with a possessive intensity. Jason welcomed the touch, the claim, the raw need that was evident in every movement. 

Their bodies moved together in a dance as old as time, a give and take, a push and pull, a rhythm that was uniquely their own. 

Jason’s senses were on fire, his mind a whirlwind of sensation, his body alive with a hunger he had never known.

As Dick’s lips found his again, Jason surrendered to the storm, letting it sweep him away. The night stretched out before them, endless and full of promise, and Jason knew that he was forever changed, forever claimed by the passion that burned between them.

Chapter Text

It had been a year and a half since life had shifted so drastically for them. Dick was now seventeen, almost eighteen, carrying himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had spent months balancing responsibilities he never expected.  

Jason was sixteen, seventeen at most, but in that year, he had grown too—older in ways that weren’t just measured in birthdays.  

Their daughter, Maelyra, was eight months old now, a small bundle of energy who had already transformed everything between them. 

Dick had taken to calling her Mar’i instead.

Jason moved through the Dragon Pit courtyard with purposeful steps, scanning every shadow, every high ledge, every possible corner. 

He had been searching for Dick—and for Maelyra—since the morning, retracing the paths Dick sometimes liked to take when he needed to clear his head. 

The past year had been a blur of challenges and quiet victories, but moments like this—the uncertainty of not knowing where his family was—scared him more than anything.

His boots clattered against the cobblestones as he moved through the castle’s courtyards, eyes scanning every rooftop, every ledge.

“Have you seen Prince Daenys?” Jason asked a passing maid, voice sharp but not unkind. He leaned slightly, trying to catch any hint.

The maid shook her head, glancing nervously toward the higher ledges. “No, sir. Not since the morning.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “Thanks,” he muttered, already moving on, scanning the courtyard rooftops.

Then he heard it a thrill, 

Unmistakable to Jason now, his husband’s dragon.  

A high-pitched squeal of laughter carried on the wind. 

Jason froze, straining his ears. His pulse surged.

He looked up—and there they were. 

Dick, gliding effortlessly through the sky, Maelyra cradled in his arms. The baby’s tiny legs kicked, and her hands reached out, pointing at the sprawling city below. Jason’s chest tightened, relief and awe colliding all at once.

“No… no he didn’t,” Jason whispered under his breath, a mix of disbelief and awe. 

Of course he did.

Dick had taken Maelyra flying. 

Jason could see them, silhouetted against the sky: Dick soaring with effortless grace, Maelyra’s tiny arms flailing, squeals of delight echoing across the castle walls.

Jason’s pulse spiked. “God, he’s going to kill me one day,” he muttered under his breath, adrenaline surging.

Up above, Dick banked, Maelyra squealing with pure joy. Jason’s grin broke through his worry as he followed their path with wide eyes, the thrill of seeing his family together—alive, laughing, and free—flooding him with relief.

For a moment, they circled above the city, a dance of wind and joy. Dick swooped and looped, Nightwing thrilling at every turn. Jason’s eyes followed them, breath catching, trying to memorize every motion, every smile.

Then Dick steered toward the Dragon Pit, descending in a graceful arc. Jason’s pulse quickened. Without thinking, he sprinted across the courtyard, vaulting low walls, dodging stone benches, rushing toward where they would land.

“Daenys! Maelyra!” he called, voice sharp and urgent, slipping into their formal names, but relief and fear threaded through every syllable.

His legs pumped harder, fueled by worry and excitement, the sound of their laughter driving him forward. Above him, Dick and Maelyra came into view, gliding over the courtyard with effortless precision. 

Jason skidded to a stop at the edge, eyes wide, heart hammering. And then she landed.

Nightwing’s claws hit the stone with a soft thud, sending a tiny tremor through the ground. Her sleek body rippled as she shifted weight, spikes along her back quivering with each movement. Her long tail swiped lazily through the air, steady and deliberate. Jason couldn’t help but notice how much she had grown over the past year—her body longer and more stocky, her wings wider and stronger.

The last time Jason had pointed it out,” Dick had been quick to clarify. She’s carrying a clutch,” he’d said, his voice low and certain. “And I’m one hundred percent sure the father was the wild black dragon with the red head on Dragon Stone.”

Because, of course, his husband and his dragon had to have children together.

Jason watched Dick begin to unstrap himself and Maelyra from Nightwing with a practiced ease born of countless flights. The dragon’s wings shifted under Dick’s weight, each movement precise, powerful, and fluid, a creature grown majestic over the past year.

Sliding down her broad, scaled wing, Maelyra wriggled happily in Dick’s arms, tiny hands reaching out as if eager to touch everything at once. Nightwing’s tail swept lazily behind her, swishing through the air, steadying them, while the spikes along her back quivered with subtle tension, every line of her body coiled with restrained strength. A high coo sounded across the courtyard as Nightwing backed away into the dragonpit.

“Here you go,” Dick said softly, grin lingering, eyes warm. “She missed you.”

The wind tousled Dick’s hair, whipping strands across his forehead. He wore his older flying leathers, scuffed and well-worn, clearly not dressed for court. 

Jason didn’t care—he thought Dick always looked perfect, whether in polished finery or battle-worn gear, wings fresh from flight or grounded at his side. It was impossible to look away from him.

Then his eyes shifted to the small bundle in his hands. Maelyra squealed with delight, tiny arms flailing as she pressed close to her father. With his free hand, Jason reached out, fingers brushing gently over Dicks.

The last year had been nothing like either of them expected. Married life was different, of course, but Jason found it better than he had imagined. 

He didn’t have to deal with his father except on the rarest occasions, and Dick was everything to him—his anchor, his joy, his heart. 

Jason had once thought he couldn’t fall any deeper for him, but he had been proven wrong again and again.

After their return from Dragonstone—essentially a honeymoon of fire and sky—Dick had been thrown into court, practically running the kingdom for his father. The court hummed with activity, but the busiest days were softened by unexpected and welcome additions. 

There had been unexpected joys. 

Lord Drake’s son, Tim, thirteen, was bright and excitable. Part Targaryen, though with black hair instead of white, Tim had been overjoyed to have someone to fly with. 

Dick had taken to him immediately, delighted to have a companion again since Bruce’s dragon had died. Tim’s dragon was enormous, almost the size of an elephant, a red-and-black behemoth that paled in comparison to Nightwing’s sleek majesty—but it had taken a fondness for Dick anyway. 

Tim would be living in the Keep for a while, his father attending the court’s affairs, and Dick had relished having someone else to mentor in the sky.

Bruce’s son, Damian, another surprise, had also been brought into the fold. Hidden for years, now presented as a political tool, he had quickly taken to Dick after claiming a green-and-yellow dragon slightly larger than a warhorse. 

Still learning to fly, Damian relied on Dick entirely in the skies, and Dick guided him with patience, laughter, and care.

Then came Maelyra. Not unexpected, born out of duty and pressure of the court.  A lilac dragon egg from Nightwing’s clutch had nestled in her cradle, hatching days later into a tiny, perfect dragon. Jason had loved her immediately, still unsure however, but the pregnancy had been harrowing especially on Dick.

Dick fell into illness like a shadow swallowing the sun. 

Sudden and fast

Bedridden, feverish, his usual spark snuffed out, he lay pale and trembling beneath the heavy blankets. His skin burned in jagged patches, slick with sweat that stung Jason’s fingers when he tried to soothe him. 

The maester had no explanation. Nothing in the texts, nothing in the records lined up with this pregnancy. 

Every pulse checked, every temperature taken, every breath counted—Jason felt the weight of each number in his chest. He could feel the heat radiating off Dick like a furnace. Hot. 

Boiling.

Dick’s skin was searing to the touch, like molten glass pressed beneath Jason’s trembling fingers. 

Jason remembered how he felt that day, his skin was a furnace, almost unbearable to touch, radiating a fire that made Jason flinch.

The maesters had whispered disbelief, muttering that Dick should not still be alive at this temperature. The child inside him fared better, somehow shielded from the worst of it, while Dick’s body was a battleground of fever, exhaustion, and sheer force of will. 

Jason’s own pulse thudded painfully as he pressed wet cloths to Dick’s forehead, trying to cool the fever, trying to anchor him in reality, but even the cloths felt as if they might scorch. 

The smell of sweat, iron, and something faintly sweet—the tang of Nightwing’s presence nearby—filled the room. Jason’s heart lurched at each new tremor that shook Dick’s body, each gasp ripped from his lungs as though the air itself had turned to fire. 

His hands hovered, uncertain whether to soothe or simply survive watching, terrified that a single wrong move might tip the balance and undo everything.

The winter months soon became the worst. 

Night after night, the dreams came—vivid, violent, and prophetic. Dick would claw at his throat,hands curling into desperate fists, gasping as though drowning on air, tears streaking his fevered face. 

His voice, raw and trembling, muttered of a boy, of fire and ash, of futures too sharp and bright to bear. 

Sometimes he spoke of them aloud—a dragon’s dream, he called it—but soon he refused, burying the terror behind clenched teeth. 

Jason stayed close, running cool cloths over his damp hair, pressing his hands to Dick’s fevered back, whispering assurances he barely felt himself, as Dick twisted, shivered, and sobbed through the night.

Jason remembered the rare nights when Dick felt strong enough to talk, when the fever allowed lucid moments. One such night, he had spoken quietly, almost in apology, of the visions. 

“There’s a boy…you.. fire, blood, ash,” Dick had said, his voice low and cautious. He spared Jason the gruesome details, unwilling to trap him in the horror of what he had seen. Jason eyebrow raised at the mention of him, brushing it off as delirium. 

“Every dream is different,” he murmured, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. “Sometimes death is different… or it’s something else entirely. Something farther in the future.”

Jason had pressed closer then, tracing a finger along his husband’s clammy hand, trying to commit every detail to memory—the rise and fall of Dick’s chest, the tremor in his lips, the way his eyes, wide with terror and wonder, glimmered in the lantern light. He had never felt so helpless. 

Every dream left Dick reeling, disoriented, sometimes screaming in the middle of the night, sometimes silent but trembling, haunted. And Jason, powerless to stop the visions, could only hold him, whisper promises that the future might yet bend toward them, that they might survive what the dragons had shown.

The unpredictability of the dreams made every night an ordeal. One night, the boy would be spared; another, engulfed in fire. One dream would end in ash, another in blood-soaked snow. 

The future, Jason realized with a cold dread, was a knife’s edge that Dick alone could see—and each night, he watched his husband balance on it, fighting to survive both the dream and the fever that clung to him like a second skin.

Jason had tried to question Bruce, desperate for answers, for a reason why this was happening to Dick. Why him? Why is he still alive? Is this because of his Targaryen line? 

His voice had been sharp, trembling with a mix of fear and frustration.

All Bruce did was sigh, heavy and solemn, and look down at the floor.

“It’s because he’s a dreamer,” he said quietly, and left it at that.

No explanation, no comfort, just the weight of inevitability pressing down in the silence that followed.

Jason had turned then to Dick, hoping for clarity, for a glimpse of understanding. But Dick had only smiled, a soft, weary curve of lips that carried both mischief and resignation. 

“The gods really want me to see this prophecy,” he had said, voice calm but strangely reverent, almost as if the suffering and the visions were part of a plan he had already accepted.

Jason had wanted to argue, to fight, to rebel against the cruelty of it all—but he found himself silent, staring at Dick’s face, trying to read the faint shimmer of resolve beneath the exhaustion. 

There was nothing to do but watch, and wait, and hope that he could hold both Dick and the life growing within him through the storm to come.

By the time labor came, Dick was no longer feverish, though exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. His body sagged against the pillows, muscles slack but trembling from weeks of relentless strain. The contraction hit with a sharp, twisting pain that made him gasp, fingers clutching at the linen.

The first contraction had hit when Dick was trying to walk around the room then came the sound that made Jason’s blood run cold—a slow, wet dripping onto the floor. 

He had looked down, eyes widening in horror, heart hammering in his chest. Blood pooled at Dick’s feet, stark and shocking against the pale stone.

Jason’s stomach lurched.

Jason remembered it vividly 

“Dick—” he had whispered, voice trembling, but Dick only clenched his jaw, trying to steady himself against the initial shock. Another contraction had rippled through him, his back arching, muscles taut and quivering, sweat slicking his skin. 

Jason pressed a hand to his shoulder, steadying him as best he could, trying to mask his own terror, murmuring frantic reassurances he didn’t fully believe.

The smell of iron filled the room, mingling with the faint, lingering scent of Nightwing and the sterile tang of the maester’s tools. 

Jason’s hands shook as he moved to catch any falling blood with cloths, pressing them to Dick’s skin, dampening his fevered forehead, trying to keep him grounded. Each drop on the floor felt like a warning, a visceral reminder of the danger they were walking through together.

Dick’s breaths had come in shallow, ragged gasps, each exhale a tremor through the bedframe and Jason’s chest. 

“It’s… it’s fine,” Dick had murmured, voice strained but calm, eyes still sharp, trying to reassure him. 

But Jason saw hard through it—saw the tremor in his hands, the tight curl of his fingers, the sweat that clung to his brow and soaked the linens.

By the time Jason had gotten Dick to the bed his limbs trembling, muscles taut and quivering, pulse erratic, body slick with sweat. 

Blood pooled on the white sheets almost immediately, stark and shocking in the dim candlelight, clinging to skin and hair. Jason pressed wet cloths against Dick’s skin, his own hands trembling, marveling at the sheer endurance required to keep going. Nightwing roared outside, her call harmonizing with Dick’s screams, reverberating through the stone walls, adding a wild, almost apocalyptic soundtrack to the raw, brutal scene.

Hours passed as if time had fractured. Each push, each scream, each shiver left Dick gasping, trembling, yet relentless. Jason whispered prayers to gods he didn’t even believe in 

And then, at last, a small, perfect wail cut through the storm: Maelyra. Tiny, fragile, but fierce, a spark of life brighter than the fear and sweat that surrounded her.

Jason remembered shooing the servants away, taking Dick’s hands in his own, and helping him wash the blood from his skin, the red mingling with sweat and tears. In her cradle, Maelyra rested beside a lilac egg from Nightwing’s clutch, soft and pulsing with the promise of life yet to come. 

Jason remembered Dick telling him that Bruce had always said it was a gift from the gods to be able to bear children. 

Jason is not so sure.

Even then, amid the cries, the sweat, the blood, and the terror, Jason realized he had fallen further than he had thought possible—for Dick, for Maelyra, for the life they had created together. 

And yet, fear lingered, like a shadow at the edge of the room. He loved their daughter fiercely, but he was not sure he could put Dick through that ordeal again, could not face the memory of Dick’s gasping, clawing, desperate eyes, nor the sound of Nightwing’s mournful roars harmonizing with his screams.

Back to present ~

The curtains were drawn against the chill of evening, soft lamplight spilling across the carved stone walls of their chamber. Jason sat on the edge of the bed, one hand braced on his knee, the other running absently through his hair as he read the sealed letter again.  

The wax bore the king’s sigil—the three headed dragon , though the command within felt impersonal, distant, as if written by the court itself. Behind the silk partition, the sound of rustling fabric broke the quiet. 

Dick’s voice came light and teasing, though there was fatigue beneath it. 

“You’ve been sitting there brooding for ten minutes. Either you’ve received terrible news or you’re composing poetry in your head again.” 

Jason huffed a quiet laugh, though it lacked humor. 

“A summons,” he said, holding up the parchment as if Dick could see through the curtain. 

“Diplomatic mission. Some lord near the western coast wants reassurance that the crown still remembers his name.” He leaned back on his palms, scoffing under his breath. 

“Don’t know why it has to be me. Bruce has you, Tim, half the bloody council—hell, even Alfred—but sure, let’s send the prince who barely tolerates diplomacy.” 

He heard the faint jingle of jewelry before Dick answered, “Because you’re the one they trust not to start a war while you’re there.”

Jason could hear the smirk on his face. He was about to argue when the curtain shifted, and the words died on his tongue.

Dick stepped out, and for a moment, Jason forgot entirely how to breathe. The candlelight caught the sheen of red silk as it fell in soft folds around Dick’s frame, cinched loosely at the waist by a gold belt that shimmered like flame. His hair, brushed to a light shine, spilled across his shoulders, and the delicate gleam of his earrings flashed as he moved.

“Gods,” Jason muttered before he could stop himself.

Dick arched a brow, a small, knowing smile curving his lips. “You were saying something about diplomacy?”

Yes did Dick hear this a lot? Yup. Was Jason gonna stop? Nope

Jason’s only reply was a quiet exhale. He reached for him as Dick came closer, fingers brushing the fabric at his hip before Dick slid easily into his lap, one hand resting against Jason’s chest. 

The familiar weight, the scent of sandalwood and clean silk—Jason felt the tension bleed out of him at once.

“I wish I could go with you,” Dick murmured, thumb tracing idle circles against his jaw. His voice softened. “But with Maelyra, and the council… I can’t leave.”

Jason tilted his head, his hand coming up to rest against the small of Dick’s back. “It’s fine,” he said quietly, leaning in until his breath warmed Dick’s skin. “You’ve got enough keeping you here.”

He smiled faintly then, the edge of his earlier frustration melting into something gentler. “Guess we’ll just have to make up for lost time before I go.”

Dick’s laughter was soft, a breath more than a sound, a gentle exhalation that seemed to carry away the remnants of their earlier tension. It was a sound that was both comforting and inviting, a silent promise of reconciliation and intimacy. 

Just before Jason caught his mouth in a kiss—slow, claiming, the kind that burned away thought. The kiss was a deliberate and purposeful act, a reaffirmation of their connection that transcended the boundaries of mere words. 

Jason’s hand slid up the small of Dick’s back, the thin silk of his shirt shifting beneath his palm like liquid fire. The fabric, a deep shade of red, shimmered under the soft light, adding to the allure of the moment. 

The sensation was electric, a stark contrast to the cool air of the room, igniting a spark that traveled up his spine. Dick leaned closer, his breath warm against Jason’s cheek, the faintest tremor in his lips before they met again. 

The proximity was intoxicating, a dance of anticipation that built with each passing second, a silent promise of what was to come.

The kiss deepened slowly, deliberate at first, until restraint dissolved. Jason angled his head, fingers threading through Dick’s hair, drawing him nearer until their foreheads touched. 

The gesture was one of deep intimacy, a silent declaration of their bond. The taste of wine lingered faintly on Dick’s tongue; his heartbeat fluttered against Jason’s chest, fast and steady. 

The rhythm was a testament to the intensity of the moment, a heartbeat that echoed the passion and urgency that surged between them. In that moment, time seemed to stand still, and the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of them, lost in the depth of their connection.

Pulling away with a small, breathless smile, Dick rested his forehead against Jason’s, their noses brushing as the heat between them softened into something quieter. His hand found Jason’s, fingers slipping between his until they laced together tightly—an anchor in the calm that followed the storm.

Jason’s thumb traced idle circles over Dick’s knuckles, memorizing the feel of him, the delicate strength beneath his touch. The faint rise and fall of Dick’s chest pressed against his own, warm and steady. For a moment, neither of them spoke; the silence said everything words couldn’t.

Jason exhaled slowly, eyes flicking over Dick’s face—the curve of his mouth, the faint flush on his cheeks, the soft shine of candlelight caught in his lashes. He wanted to stay there forever, in that fragile stillness, where duty didn’t exist and tomorrow hadn’t come yet.

But it would. It always did.

So he smiled instead, the kind of small, crooked smile that never reached his eyes, and squeezed Dick’s hand tighter. “You’ll make me forget I’m supposed to leave,” he murmured.

Dick’s lips curved faintly, teasing. “Maybe that’s the point.”

The bed felt cold as Dick’s hand reached over to Jason’s side. It had been weeks since Jason left. The sheets were smooth now, the imprint of his body long gone, and the faint smell of leather and smoke that used to linger there had faded into nothing. The days since his departure had blurred together — meetings, courtiers, endless parchment work, the ceaseless shuffle of advisors whispering about politics, alliances, and dragons.

The castle felt emptier without him. Even the air seemed heavier somehow, as though the stones themselves mourned his absence. Without Jason’s voice echoing down the hallways or his quiet laughter at supper, the Keep had become hollow — vast and echoing, filled with duty but devoid of warmth.

His dreams had grown worse in Jason’s absence. 

Darker. 

A club connecting to ribs. The sound of cracking bone echoing throughout a throne room, the boy stumbling his body contorting in agony. 

The boy

Jason 

The vision was so vivid that he could almost feel the impact, the sickening crunch of bone and the spray of blood against marble. Laughter, a manic and haunting melody, filled the air as he struck again and again. Each blow was a brutal, unyielding force, shattering bones and tearing flesh. 

Dick could feel the agony and desperation 

A club connecting with a skull, a sickening crunch echoing through his Dick as Jason crumpled to the ground, body broken and battered.  His nose shattered, his mouth slack, his blood painting the walls and pooling beneath him like oil.

Dick could smell it 

The copper tang filled his nose, thick and suffocating.

His once vibrant eyes are now dull and lifeless.

Sometimes the dream ended there, mercifully.

Other times, it didn’t.

Sometimes Dick woke up choking, his lungs burning, his hands clawing at his throat. The taste of dirt filled his mouth, dry and bitter, as though he’d been buried alive. He’d gasp and thrash against the sheets, the echo of laughter still in his ears, the phantom ache of Jason’s pain still clinging to his bones.

Each morning, he rose trembling, drenched in sweat, heart hammering. The line between dream and reality grew thinner by the day.

And though he told himself it was only a nightmare—another cursed echo of his dragon’s blood—deep down, he feared it wasn’t.

He’d had to move Maelyra’s cradle to another chamber after she began waking in the night to his cries. The first time he’d heard her frightened sob echo through the darkness, it had broken something in him. 

Now, her nursery sat down the corridor, guarded by servants and the faint glow of candlelight that flickered under her door.

Still, he heard her sometimes — the faintest wail, soft and tremulous, slipping through the stone walls like a ghost. It reached him in those quiet hours between dream and waking, when the world was hushed and the shadows seemed to breathe. Each cry stabbed into him, sharp and merciless, a reminder that even in her sleep she could feel his unrest.

Dick knew he was too young to have a child. 

They both were. 

Too young to bear the weight of crowns and expectations, of gods and bloodlines and the endless, unspoken command to continue.

Yet he had never been given the luxury of choice.

He remembered the way the court had looked at him after the wedding — the polite smiles, the soft murmurs about heirs and legacy, the way even Bruce’s gaze had lingered just a moment too long on his stomach. 

It had been inevitable, written into his fate the moment the rings were placed on their fingers.

But now, with Jason gone and the walls closing in around him, he knew it had all been too soon. 

He loved Maelyra fiercely, with every fiber of his soul, but sometimes when her cries pierced the dark, he felt the ache of his own lost childhood echoing back to him — a boy turned prince before he ever had the chance to simply be.

Dick gaze turned to the window, the morning came gray and muted, light barely pushing its way through the clouded sky. Dick dressed in silence, the motions automatic — tunic, sash, the gold clasp at his shoulder. Every piece of metal felt heavier than it should have, dragging him down with the weight of formality.

He had just settled into his desk when the summons came. A knock at the door — sharp, measured. 

A page bowed low, voice trembling as he delivered the message.

“His Majesty requests your presence in the council chamber. At once.”

​​Bruce never summoned him this early unless it was urgent. Dick could feel the unease coil in his gut as he rose, the echo of Maelyra’s last soft cry still lingering in his ears. 

The corridors were long and cold, torches burning low, and for the first time, he realized how empty the castle had become since Jason left.

The doors to the council chamber loomed ahead — carved oak, inlaid with iron. When they opened, the air inside was thick with tension. 

Bruce sat at the head of the long table, surrounded by advisors whose faces were carved into grim masks. Papers and sealed scrolls were spread before them like weapons.

“Sit,” Bruce said, voice low but steady.

Dick obeyed, his pulse quickening.

Bruce didn’t waste time. “A letter arrived this morning,” he said. “From the northern frontier.”

There was a pause — the kind that felt like the air itself was holding its breath. Bruce’s eyes, cold and sharp beneath the weight of his crown, met Dick’s.

“Jason’s envoy was ambushed.”

The words fell like a blade dropped in silence—sharp, final, and heavy enough to still the air itself.

Dick froze where he stood. His breath caught in his throat, chest tightening until it hurt. Around the council table, the lords shifted uneasily, eyes darting between Bruce and the young prince. 

The firelight flickered over their faces, throwing long, wavering shadows across the chamber’s stone walls. The banners hung still above them, the sigils unmoving as if the very air held its breath.

He wanted to speak—to ask how, where, why—but his tongue lay heavy, useless in his mouth.

Bruce, seated at the head of the table, exhaled slowly, the sound weary and quiet. His armor creaked as he reached for a letter resting among the scattered parchments and maps. The wax seal, once crimson and proud, was cracked and dulled, the parchment itself creased and dirt-stained as though carried through chaos.

He stared at Bruce, waiting for something more, something else. But Bruce’s face remained carved from stone, eyes dark beneath the heavy lines of his brow.

He set a parchment on the table and slid it toward Dick. The wax seal was cracked and blood-red, the parchment torn and smudged with ash.

“They say he’s been captured.” Bruce’s voice lowered, heavy with restraint, yet something in his eyes betrayed him—sorrow, yes, but also fear. “Near the Stormlands border. The alliance has fractured.”

The world blurred at the edges. Dick’s hand trembled as he reached out, his fingertips brushing the parchment. The seal bore the mark of a stag—Baratheon.

And scrawled across the front, in a hurried, uneven hand, was a single name:

Jaehaerys Baratheon.

The sound of his own pulse filled his ears.

The sound of murmured voices broke out across the table. Lord Drake muttered something about hostages. Ser Wilson cursed under his breath. Bruce’s gaze snapped up, silencing them with a look.

For a heartbeat, all Dick could hear was the steady roar of the fire and the faint echo of his pulse pounding in his ears. The parchment felt too light in his hands for what it carried.

He read the opening lines.

The envoy was set upon outside Harvest Hall. Ambushed in the night, Jaehaerys Baratheon, was taken alive.

Alive.

The word burned.

He looked up sharply. “You said captured,” he rasped. “That means he’s alive.”

Bruce hesitated, the faintest crack in his composure. “For now.”

The chamber went deathly still.

Dick’s vision swam as fury and terror warred inside him. “Then we send a company—dragons, soldiers—anything. I’ll go myself. We can’t just—”

“Enough.” Bruce’s tone cut through the air, low and commanding. “We can’t risk it. The Hightowers have allies in the Vale and Dorne—if we move too soon, we risk open war.”

“I don’t care about war!” Dick’s voice cracked like glass. “He’s my husband!”

Around the table, a few of the older lords averted their eyes, but none spoke.

Bruce rose from his chair. “And as your King, I forbid it.”

Silence.

Then Dick laughed—a soft, broken sound that cut at the edges. “Forbid it?” His voice was shaking now. “He’s out there, hurt—maybe dying—and you’re going to sit here and weigh the cost of crowns and coins?”

“Enough.”

No!” Dick slammed his hands on the table, the inkpot toppling over, spreading black like spilled blood across the map. “You told me this alliance mattered—you told us—and now you won’t even lift a finger to save him?”

“Ser Wilson.”

The name fell like judgment.

The knight at the far end of the room stepped forward.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “You will remain here.”

“Father,” Dick said, voice cracking, eyes wide and pleading now. “Please. Please don’t do this.”

“You can’t—” 

Ser Wilson's hand fell to his sword, though he did not draw it. 

Dick’s voice broke, desperation spilling through his rage. “Please, Father—he’s out there—” 

Bruce’s voice came low, steady, and unyielding. “You’ll remain in your chambers until this matter is resolved. That’s an order.”

Wilson reached for him.

Dick jerked away, fury flashing in his eyes. “Don’t you touch me!”

Wilson for once hesitated—but Bruce’s gaze did not waver. “Do it.”

The knight’s hand closed around Dick’s arm.

Dick shoved back hard, his chair toppling, the sound of it scraping across the flagstones like a scream. “You can’t just lock me away!” he shouted. “You can’t—”

But the words choked in his throat as another guard moved in. He struck at them both, his blows frantic, wild—born of desperation more than strength.

Papers scattered. A goblet fell, wine spilling across the table like blood.

“Dick,” Bruce said softly, but there was no softness in his eyes. “Stop this.”

“Tell me where he is!” Dick snarled, struggling against the iron grip that pinned his wrists.

“Chain him,” Bruce ordered.

The room stilled.

“Father—”

“Chain him.”

Wilson’s jaw tightened. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Two guards stepped forward, their armor clinking like the ticking of a clock. Cold iron bit into Dick’s wrists as they forced him to his knees. The chains clattered against the stone floor, cruelly heavy for what they meant.

“Please,” Dick whispered, his voice breaking at last. “He’s alone.”

Bruce turned away.

The clinking grew louder as the guards fastened the final link.

“Take him to his chambers, and chain him to the bed” Bruce said. “Post two at the door.”

Wilson bowed his head, his face pale. “As you command.”

As they pulled Dick to his feet, he met Bruce’s eyes one last time. “If he dies,” he said hoarsely, “I will never forgive you.”

Bruce just looked at him, then, to another knight: “Have Nightwing chained in the dragon court. No one flies without my word.”

“No!” Dick’s voice cracked, sharp with panic. “You chain her and she’ll tear through your walls!”

Bruce didn’t look at him. “Then we’ll reinforce them.”

The guards dragged Dick backward as his voice rose, ragged and furious, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “You’re sentencing him! You’re killing him!” 

Bruce’s face remained unreadable, carved from stone. “I’m saving what’s left of my family,” he said quietly.

“Bruce, please!” Dick choked out, fighting the guards with everything left in him. “I saw it! I dreamed it—it will come true, you have to let me change it!” A last desperation.

That made Bruce freeze. For half a heartbeat, his eyes flicked to his son’s face—haunted, pale, desperate—but then the moment passed. He turned away, voice low and weary. “The gods send dreams, not commands, Daenys. You’ve already done enough.”

“No!” Dick screamed, the word echoing through the council chamber. “You don’t understand—he dies, I saw him die!”

Wilson’s gloved hand clamped around his arm. “My prince,” he muttered under his breath, “please—don’t make this worse.”

But Dick couldn’t stop. The guards dragged him backward, the metal of his chains scraping over the stone—each clatter a cruel reminder of how powerless he suddenly was. His breath came in ragged gasps, his voice hoarse with pleading that went unanswered.

“Bruce! Please—!”

The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind him with a hollow boom that seemed to swallow his words whole.

Silence followed.

Only the fire remained, crackling low in the hearth. On the long council table, the letter still lay open, the wax seal half-melted by the heat. The flickering firelight glinted off the dark, smeared blood on its edge and cast the inked name into stark relief.

The chamber was silent except for the slow drip of wax from the sconces and the echo of boots on stone. Dick’s heart pounded as the guards pushed him forward, the chains rattling around his wrists. He tried to struggle, every fiber of him rebelling against the restraints, but Wilson’s grip was iron, unyielding.

“Stop it!” Dick shouted, twisting his wrists as the guards tightened their hold. “I’m not—”

“Prince Daenys,” Wilson interrupted, voice steady but cold, “you must comply. Orders from King Bruce himself.”

The words burned, but Dick’s defiance remained. 

He tried to step back toward the door, toward even a sliver of freedom—but Bruce had anticipated this. Every exit, every secret passage, had been sealed or guarded. He was trapped.

The guards forced him onto the bed, metal clinking against stone and floorboards. One secured his ankles first, the cold iron biting into his skin through the layers of fine silk. 

Another looped chains over his wrists, locking them to the carved headboard. Dick thrashed, the bed groaning beneath him.

“I won’t—Jason—Please you have to let me—!” His voice broke, each word raw and desperate.

“Enough,” Ser Wislon said, pushing him down firmly. “By the king’s command, you are to remain here. Until further notice, you are confined.”

Dick’s chest heaved, his muscles taut, and every instinct screamed to fight, to flee, to somehow reach Jason—but the cold reality of the chains told him otherwise. The metal cut into his skin with each movement, a harsh reminder of his helplessness.

Outside, a low growl shook the air—Nightwing pacing, her claws scraping the stone floor. The dragon’s agitation mirrored his own, a wild, coiling energy trapped inside him. He could feel the vibration through the walls, the tension in her muscles, the restrained power that made the very stones beneath her tremble. Every snarl, every swish of her tail, sent shivers down his spine, a reminder that she, too, felt his pain.

Dick knew Nightwing could get to him but she’d destroy half the castle. Maelyra slept in a distant chamber, safe, but fragile, and he could not risk her life, not even for the chance to reach Jason.

He was trapped. 

Chains bit into his wrists and ankles, cold iron that seemed to mock his frustration, his helplessness. He pressed his forehead into the pillow, the silk beneath him damp with sweat, every breath shallow, ragged. 

The scent of the chamber—wax, stone, faint iron—felt like a cage, suffocating him as surely as the bonds themselves.

Chapter Text

The journey south was long, the kind that grinds a man down to silence. Rain followed them from the Stormlands, sweeping across the hills and drenching the black and gold banners that trailed behind his riders. 

Jason sat high in the saddle, his red cloak drawn close, the world around him reduced to a gray horizon and the steady rhythm of hooves through mud. Every gust of wind carried the taste of salt and thunder. Home still clung to him like a second skin.

They rode under a banner of peace, but Jason felt none of it. 

When the walls of Hightower came into view—white stone rising from the mists like a ghost—he felt only unease. 

Oldtown was beautiful in the way all dangerous things were: layered in history, in quiet power, in a thousand unseen ambitions that could eat a man alive if he didn’t watch where he stepped. The Hightowers met them with smiles and wine. 

Lord Hightower himself, tall and serene, greeted Jason with the kind of practiced courtesy that made Jason’s skin crawl. “To peace,” the old man said, raising a goblet. “And to the crown’s future son.” 

Jason drank because refusing would have been its own insult. The wine was sweet—too sweet—and left a strange taste on his tongue. 

The feasting that followed blurred together: music, laughter, and the low hum of politics disguised as pleasantries. 

Every word spoken carried two meanings. 

Every smile was sharpened at the edges. 

And then came the man in purple. 

He didn’t belong here. 

Jason knew it the moment he saw him—a gaunt figure lingering near the end of the hall, eyes too bright, grin too wide. He looked like a jester stripped of color, his hair dyed a sickly green, his gaze alive with something wild and unpredictable. 

“The court’s fool,” someone murmured beside Jason, though their tone was uneasy. “He calls himself the Joker.” 

The man’s laughter cut through the hall, sharp and mirthless, and Jason’s stomach turned. When their eyes met, the fool’s grin widened, stretching until it looked carved into his face.

 “You’re the storm’s son,” the Joker said, his voice soft as silk. “I do love a bit of thunder before the storm.” 

Jason didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Every instinct in him screamed danger. 

By the next morning, the alliance had been signed—words on parchment sealed in red wax. Lord Hightower’s smiles had grown thinner, his courtiers quieter. Jason could feel the tension under every polite exchange, but the deal was done. 

Peace, on paper at least. He left at dawn. 

The storm was waiting for him outside the city gates. They made camp that night off the main road, the grass still wet from rain. 

The air was heavy, the silence too deep. 

Jason tried to sleep but couldn’t. His horse shifted restlessly, ears flicking toward the dark tree line. 

Then came the sound—low and uncertain at first. 

A soft rustle. 

A whine. 

Jason’s eyes snapped open. 

His hand went to his sword before his mind caught up. He was on his feet in seconds, boots silent on wet earth. 

“Easy,” he murmured to his horse, voice steady despite the unease crawling up his spine. 

The reply came not from the trees but from the shadows behind them—a hiss of movement, then the unmistakable scrape of armor. 

Jason barely had time to draw his blade before the first knight lunged. Steel met steel with a ringing crack that split the night. 

He parried once, twice, before the weight of another body slammed into him from the side. Pain flared as a mailed fist struck his ribs. 

He twisted, driving his elbow into the attacker’s throat, but there were too many. 

Hightower banners. 

“What—” he started, breath cut short by the blow that sent him to his knees. Another sword caught his arm, pain blooming white-hot as bone gave way with a sickening crack. His scream was swallowed by the clash of blades and the dying cries of his men. 

Through the chaos, Jason saw his horse rear, only to fall as a spear found its chest. The smell of blood and wet earth filled his nose. 

“Why—” he tried again, voice hoarse.

 A knight in pale armor leaned down, helm shadowing his face. “Orders,” the man said simply, before striking him across the skull. 

The world went dark.

When Jason woke again, the world was moving.

The motion was uneven—slow and swaying. 

The first thing he noticed was the ache in his arm, a deep, throbbing pulse that radiated up into his shoulder. 

The second was the smell: damp leather, iron, and the faint copper tang of blood. 

His own. 

He tried to move, but his wrists were bound in front of him with coarse rope, the fibers biting into raw skin. His left arm was left hanging crudely against his chest. Every breath scraped fire through his ribs. Through the haze of pain, he realized he was on horseback.  Slumped forward over the saddle, tied to the pommel like a piece of luggage. 

Rain misted across his face. The landscape blurred past him, grey fields and thin forest under a low sky. Hightower knights flanked him on all sides, their armor polished and pale, reflecting no warmth from the dying light. One of them noticed he was awake. 

“He stirs,” the knight said flatly. Jason raised his head just enough to speak. 

“You—” His voice was hoarse and cracked. “You murdered my men.” 

The knight did not look at him. “Our orders came from Oldtown.” 

Jason’s jaw clenched. “You’ve declared war on the crown.” That earned him a glance, a hollow flicker of amusement behind the man’s visor. 

“You’ll find, Lord Baratheon, that wars often begin long before their first blow.” 

Yet Jason doubted they realized what the crown would do.

He wanted to lunge at the man, to tear his throat open, but the ropes and the weight of his injuries kept him pinned. 

He swallowed down bile and rage instead, tasting blood. 

They rode for hours, maybe days. He lost track of time somewhere between the pain and the exhaustion, slipping in and out of half-consciousness. When the horses finally stopped, he lifted his head again.

They had left the road behind long ago, veering into the thick press of forest where the trees grew gnarled and close together, their branches knotting overhead to block out the moon. Rain dripped from the leaves in cold rivulets. 

Ahead, the path sloped downward toward a dark opening yawning beneath a ridge of rock—an old tunnel, half-swallowed by moss and roots.  

The air around it felt wrong. 

Jason could smell the sea faintly now, but it was distant and muffled—as though the earth itself was swallowing sound. The horses balked at the entrance, snorting and pawing at the mud until the knights yanked their reins hard enough to make them obey.

They led him through.

The tunnel was low and narrow, carved from black stone slick with condensation. Water dripped from the ceiling and pooled beneath the horses’ hooves, every step echoing off the walls. The air grew colder the farther they went, the faint flicker of torches throwing shadows that seemed to twist and stretch along the curved passage.

Jason’s stomach turned as realization dawned.

This wasn’t a cave. It was a passage built by men—old and deliberate.

The walls bore faint carvings beneath the grime—spirals, runes, and the Hightower sigil half-buried in lichen. The deeper they went, the more the sea smell faded, replaced by the iron tang of rust and something older.

When they finally emerged on the other side, it was into a courtyard sunk deep beneath the earth—no sky above, only the jagged ribs of the castle foundations curving high overhead. Stone arches and stairways wound up toward distant light.

The Hightower’s hidden root.

They dragged him down from the saddle. The world tilted violently; his knees hit mud before the guards yanked him upright again. His boots sank into the muck as torchlight flickered against the damp stone. Somewhere above, Jason could hear the muffled toll of Oldtown’s bells—soft and distorted, like a heartbeat behind a wall.

The knight leading the group dismounted and approached, his armor gleaming wet in the dim light. He caught sight of the one leading them—a man in fine robes, not armor. His cloak was pale green, trimmed in gold, and his hair was silvered at the temples. 

“Lord Hightower sends his regrets,” the man said smoothly, stepping forward. “But you, my lord, are now a matter for… other interests.” 

Jason spat at his boots. “You’ll regret—” The man’s hand snapped out, striking him across the face. 

Jason’s head cracked sideways. 

“Regret?” the man echoed with a smile. “No, stormborn. Regret is for men who lose. You, however, may yet serve a purpose.” 

The guards dragged Jason inside before he could reply.

“The prisoner for the lower cells,” he ordered curtly. “By command of the High Lord.

They descended another flight of stairs, narrow and curved, until the air turned stale. A rusted door awaited at the bottom. The hinges shrieked when it opened, revealing a cell that stank of rot and rust.

The guards dragged Jason inside before he could reply. The keep swallowed them—stone corridors slick with damp, torchlight flickering against the walls. 

The sound of dripping water echoed somewhere far below. 

Chains rattled as his wrists were fastened to an iron ring on the wall. His broken arm screamed in protest; his vision went white at the edges. When the door shut, the lock clicked like a closing tomb.

When the door shut, the lock clicked like a closing tomb. Jason slumped against the cold stone, sweat and blood slicking his skin. He breathed shallowly, every part of him burning or frozen. 

Then he heard it.

A sound too quiet to mistake for rats or echoes. From the corner of the cell came a soft sound—breathing.

Slow. Measured. 

Jason froze, his head lifting toward the sound.

He wasn’t alone. From the corner of the cell came a soft sound—breathing. 

Slow. Measured. 

Jason turned his head. 

In the dim torchlight leaking through the bars, he could make out a figure sitting against the opposite wall. Thin, pale, wrapped in rags once fine enough to belong to a nobleman. When the figure lifted his head, Jason’s stomach turned. It was the fool—the Joker. 

Pale skin, greasy green-tinted hair clinging to his forehead, and a mouth carved into a grin so wide it hurt to look at.

“Ohhh, look at you,” the man crooned, his voice sing-song, hands fluttering in mock applause. “All tied up, dirty, broken arm, and that lovely Baratheon scowl. You must be miserable!”

Jason’s stomach turned. His voice came out low and raw.

“You’re—”

The Joker tilted his head, a grin spreading until it looked carved there. “Me! Oh, don’t look so disappointed, Jaehaerys. I know, I know—you were probably expecting some dull old interrogator in armor and guilt, weren’t you? But no…” He swept his arms wide. “You get me.”

Jason strained against the chains, muscles trembling with fury. “The Hightowers sent you.”

“Oh, yes,” the Joker purred, dragging a finger down the stone wall as he walked a slow circle around him. “They sent their monster, their pet. Told me, ‘Kill the Baratheon boy, quick and clean.’” He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Quick. Clean.”

He crouched in front of Jason, close enough that Jason could smell the rot of his breath and the faint tang of copper. “Do I look like someone who cleans?”

Jason’s glare was pure steel. “Then why am I still alive?”

The Joker’s grin faltered for half a heartbeat—then twisted into something darker, colder.

“No. No, no, no, not yet. That would ruin the fun.” He backed away, straightening, smoothing down his torn sleeves as if regaining control. “The Hightowers get first crack at the crown’s little heir. You’ve got answers rattling around in that pretty head of yours, and the Hightowers are dying to hear them. They’ve got questions, you see—about the court, about the royal family, about that lovely little Targaryen wife of yours.”

Jason’s heart twisted. “What?”

Ignoring Jason, the Joker continues, “But then, when they’ve had their fill, when you’re broken, bloody, and begging…” Joker’s bloody smile gleaming in the torchlight, “You’re mine.”

“Why” was all Jason could manage. 

“Oh, didn’t you know?” The Joker’s voice dropped to a whisper, almost tender. “They think you’ve been whispering sweet nothings into the heir’s ear. That the crown’s secrets slip out of your bed at night. That you—” he poked Jason’s chest, “—will spill Targaryen secrets for your life.” 

Jason’s glare hardened. 

“They’re wrong.” 

“Of course they are,” the Joker said, with mock sympathy. “But the truth doesn’t matter here. Power does. And your father—” 

Jason froze. “My father?” 

“Oh,” the Joker breathed, delighted, “you don’t know. Oh, this is delicious.” He started to laugh again, high and breathless. “Roman Baratheon, the great warlord, the righteous rebel—he’s the one who sold you.” 

Jason’s blood ran cold. “You’re lying.” 

“Am I?” The Joker’s grin snapped wider, his voice turning sharp as broken glass. “He made a deal with the Hightowers. Promised them your head for a seat beside their throne. He wants the dragons gone, and he’s using you to feed the fire. You’re the offering, Jaehaerys. Daddy’s little sacrifice.”

Jason shook his head, but the words hit like hammer blows. His chest heaved, every breath cutting like ice. “He’d never—”

No. No, his father didn’t like him—hell, he barely looked at him—but he would never—

His stomach twisted.

He knew.

“Never what?” the Joker interrupted. “Betray his son? Please. He doesn’t see you as a son. You’re just his echo. His leverage. The storm he built and forgot to leash.” 

Jason flinched as if the words themselves struck him. He tried to speak, to push back, but the air in his lungs turned thick, uncooperative.

Joker stood suddenly, the movement sharp—a knife unsheathed. He began to pace the cracked marble floor, hands buried deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched with a feral kind of energy. He muttered to himself in fragments, phrases Jason couldn’t quite catch. Every so often, his mouth twitched—not a smile, but something hungrier.

“The Hightowers get their little questions answered,” Joker sang softly, tilting his head toward the unseen night outside. “Daddy Dearest gets his shiny, glittering throne. And me?” He stopped. Slowly, deliberately, his grin widened, teeth flashing like a blade. “I get to make the biggest joke of them all.”

Jason forced sound past his throat. “What—” His voice cracked down the middle, half-rage, half-disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

“Hurting the crown”

Jason’s laugh was short and ugly. “The King doesn’t care about me. What makes you think this would hurt—”

Joker froze mid-step. The room held its breath. For a heartbeat, the manic light in his eyes flickered—revealing something darker underneath.

“You see,” Joker continued, pacing now, fingers tracing invisible constellations on the floor, “you are the hinge, darling. Not the spear. Not the blade that cuts the king’s flesh. You are the soft thing at the center of the clock. Break the hinge, and the hands go mad all on their own.”

He stopped and turned, eyes bright under the interior shadows. “Everything Bruce has built here—orders, promises, legacies—rests on the story he tells about you. The look he gives the world when he thinks of his son. The pity he refuses and the pride he performs. Take that away. Hurt the little lord until the story is ugly, until it sticks, until everyone who believes in the crown has to look at the man behind it and see something rotten—and the crown will have nothing but dust to sit on.”

Bruce—Joker let the name hang, soft and deliberate, stripped of titles. Not the king. Just Bruce.

The sound of it burned worse than any blade.

Jason’s laugh was a ragged thing that didn’t reach his eyes. “So you want me to—what? To be the joke? To be the wound?”

Joker leaned in like a conspirator revealing a delicious secret. “I want you to be more than both. I want you to be the collapse that proves the throne was never more than a house of cards wearing a crown. Not by sword or whisper—by him, through you. The King will never feel the blade. He will feel the ground shift under the feet of everyone who pledged to him. He will feel doubt, pity turned into disgust, and loyalty souring into calculation. That is how empires fall, little prince. Not with the pomp of war. With the quiet dismantling of what made people choose to follow.”

The words settled like frost. Jason felt them inside him, cold and crystalline: his usefulness made visible, his fracture made public. He imagined headlines, court whispers, lieutenants shuffling, and the careful masks of noblemen slipping. He thought of Bruce at dinner tables, the practiced stoicism, the private lean toward control—and suddenly the dream of being seen, of being wanted for anything but advantage, felt like an accusation. 

“You think I want this?” Jason’s voice went thin. “You think I want to be the thing that destroys them?” 

Joker’s smile thinned and grew clever, the expression of a man who had learned a dozen cruel lessons and hung them like trophies. “

“Want? No. Need? Maybe. But that is not your choice, is it?” He tapped Jason’s chest with a finger, not touching bone but the space where loyalties had been written and rewritten. “You’ll do more damage simply by being hurt in the way only you can be hurt. The world will watch you flinch and make a new story. They will whisper. They will choose a new leader in their heads because fear is a stronger god than gratitude.” 

Jason’s hands shook. Rage rose, hot and immediate, an animal trying to claw its way out. “You’re using me.”

“Of course I’m using you,” Joker said, flat as a blade. “I always do. But there’s poetry in it, don’t you think? He built a throne on names and favors and the illusion of a son. I’m not breaking him with sabotage or scandal. I’m showing everyone that the illusion is a man in a suit with a private life and a little lord who gets trampled for convenience. The Prince gets hurt, and the King loses the one thing he can’t bear to be questioned for: his claim.”

Jason’s body tensed like a wire stretched too tight. The way Joker said it—little lord—peeled something raw inside him. It wasn’t just mockery; it was the truth, flayed down to the bone.

“You think this will matter?” Jason rasped. His lip split when he spoke, blood warm against his tongue. “You think anyone gives a damn about me?”

Joker tilted his head, like a fox regarding a trap it had set itself. “No,” he said simply. “Not as you are. But the symbol of you? Who you're tied to. The king’s little shadow, the boy in the center of every painting, the one who’s supposed to prove the crown isn’t cold?” He leaned forward, breath ghosting Jason’s ear. “Oh, they care about that.”

They care about him.

Everything inside Jason went very still. The fight—the biting, furious instinct to claw, to spit, to get up—stalled for the briefest, most dangerous heartbeat. It wasn’t a revelation. It was a confirmation. 

Daenys

Joker saw it hit. He always saw. His grin softened into something crueler than mockery: delight. “There it is,” he murmured, his cackle turning cold.

Jason clenched his jaw hard enough to make his teeth throb. “Shut up.”

“Oh no,” Joker whispered, almost gently, “we’re just getting to the good part.”

He rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders back, the movement loose and casual. “Do you know what happens when the King’s illusion breaks? When his precious boy—his pretty symbol of humanity—gets shattered in front of everyone?” Joker leaned closer, grin splitting wider. “The whole rotten kingdom falls.”

Jason’s fists tightened against the ropes. The cords bit into his wrists, grounding him, but the heat crawling up his throat was too raw to hold back. “You don’t know him…”

Joker laughed, low and warm, like he’d just heard the punchline to a private joke. “Oh, sweetheart, I know him better than you think. Because at the end of the day, kings don’t love sons. They love symbols. And symbols? They’re easy to sacrifice.”

His hand snapped forward without warning, a backhanded strike splitting across Jason’s cheek. The crack echoed off the stone walls like a musket’s report. Jason’s head snapped to the side; his vision smeared to white and gold, pain flooding through his jaw like fire.

Joker didn’t stop. A second blow struck his ribs—precise and measured, as if the man had rehearsed this dance. Another followed to the gut, folding Jason over like parchment caught in a windstorm. He coughed wet and sharp, spattering red on the flagstones.

“Gotta make it convincing,” Joker cackled. He seized Jason by the hair, yanking his head back until their faces were a breath apart. “They need to see the little prince cracked, shaken. Not dead—dead’s too boring. No, no, no. They need him splintered, suffering.”

He straightened abruptly, spinning a lazy circle in the middle of the chamber. The long tails of his tattered doublet flared as he turned, red leather dark as dried blood. He began to hum then—a twisted court tune, the sort they’d play at coronations—but slower, jagged, and wrong. The notes wobbled like something drunk and cruel, bouncing off the cold stone walls as if the room itself were listening.

Jason struggled to draw a full breath, the ache in his ribs like iron bands tightening with every inhale. His pulse hammered behind his eyes, hot and heavy, a drumbeat of pain. Joker’s grip was unyielding, his fingers digging into Jason’s jaw with the slow patience of a man savoring the breaking of bone.

The jester’s grin cut across his face like a wound, too wide to be human, his teeth catching the candlelight like steel. His eyes gleamed the way a blade gleams right before it’s driven home.

Jason glared up at him, blood painting the corner of his mouth. His voice came out hoarse, shredded from bruised ribs and swallowed anger. “You’re mad.”

For a heartbeat, Joker stilled. His grin froze, not gone but tightening—like a snare around prey. Then the laugh came. It spilled from him, not like joy but like something clawing its way up through rot. A broken, breathless hiccup of glee that cracked into a high, knife-edged shriek.

“Mad?” he echoed, delight curling around the word like smoke. “Oh, my lord… mad isn’t very nice.”

Jason heard the crack before he felt it. White pain exploded across his face, flooding his nose and sinuses like fire. Blood poured hot down the back of his throat, and for a moment the world blurred at the edges, black creeping in like spilled ink.

Joker leaned in, voice pitched low and soft, as if sharing some delicious secret between conspirators. “Mad is when a man sees the game for what it is and laughs anyway.” He tapped Jason’s blood-smeared cheek with two fingers, leaving streaks like war paint. “Mad is when the rest of them lie and kneel and believe. But I? I don’t believe. I know what they are.”

He began to pace again, the hum picking up speed, twisting into a warped, rhythmic chant. “Kings and crowns and pretty little sons. All hollow. All for show.” His boots scuffed against the stone like a heartbeat out of time. “You think you’re a prince because they told you so. But you’re just a story, boy. A story wearing skin.”

Jason spat blood onto the floor, every breath a rasp. He tried to speak, but Joker cut him off with a sudden, jerking spin. He clapped twice, sharp as blades.

“Say it again,” Joker hissed. “Call me mad.”

Jason lifted his head, even as blood slicked his chin. “You’re mad,” he croaked. 

Joker’s grin widened, and this time there was no trace of charm in it—only something feral. “Good,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to Jason’s so their breaths tangled, hot and metallic. “Then I don’t have to pretend to be anything else.”

He drew back just enough to look at Jason fully, studying the blood on his face like an artist appraising a half-finished canvas. He tilted his head, fingers twitching, the hum swelling again—wrong, sharp, and too loud for the small room.

Footsteps echoed down the hall—sharp, even, and controlled. Joker released him, straightening his coat as the door creaked open. The heavy door swung open, its iron hinges groaning like a dying beast.

Lord Hightower strode inside first, his cloak whispering over the cold stone floor. His pale eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked on Jason—bound, bruised, but defiantly silent.

Joker blinked, then burst into a sound that was half-giggle, half-bark—a hiccupping, delighted noise that made the air feel wrong. He hopped on one foot, then the other, like a child playing hopscotch on a grave. 

“Oh! Guests!” He trilled, clapping his hands together as if someone had brought wine. 

His grin split open until it looked like a paper mask stretched over something that did not belong under it.

“Do come in! Do come see the show! We’ve got bruises! We’ve got drama! We have—” He swung his head, eyes rolling, voice pitching high then low with the speed of a broken music box. 

Two Hightower sergeants filled the doorway, precise as punctuation. Lord Hightower followed, his cloak a measured wave of green. The moment his eyes hit Jason, his face settled into the small, professional pity of a man who could calculate collateral damage in his head and still enjoy a good luncheon afterward. 

“Lord Jason,” he intoned. “You’ve been...indisposed.” 

Joker flung himself at the lord in a little, ridiculous bow, then popped back upright, fingers splayed like a magician revealing a trick. 

“Indisposed” is such a bland word, don’t you think? ‘Unwell,’ ‘bedridden,’ ‘slightly inconvenienced’—so many options. But being indisposed is boring. We prefer melodrama!” He winked. “I do the bruising. You do the paperwork. Everyone wins!” 

Lord Hightower ignored the clown’s theatrics and stepped forward with the cool economy of someone removing a splinter with tweezers. 

“We’re here on business.” 

“Lord Baratheon,” the lord intoned, voice low and measured, “the realm demands your words. Tell us what you know of the Targaryen's' plans in King’s Landing. Speak now, and your silence will not be your ruin.”

Jason’s chest heaved, blood still wet on his cracked lips. He swallowed, but no words came—only a hard, unbroken silence.

Lord Hightower’s jaw tightened. He exchanged a glance with the two men behind him. Without a word, one stepped forward.

Joker’s grin flickered, sharp and cruel. He stepped in beside Jason, voice a low, chilling whisper: “Silent, are we? Well, silence is such a bore.”

Suddenly, Joker’s hand lashed out, striking Jason’s cheek with a vicious backhand that snapped like a whip. Jason’s head jerked to the side; pain exploded behind his eyes, but he said nothing.

“Speak,” Joker snarled, stepping closer, fists clenched like coiled vipers.

Jason refused again, the fire of defiance burning brighter than the pain.

Joker’s strikes came faster—punishing, precise. A savage blow to the ribs, a hammering fist into his gut. Jason doubled over, coughs wracking his body, but still no words.

“Ah, my lord is a stubborn one,” Joker muttered, voice dripping with mock pity. “But stubbornness doesn’t keep you alive in a court, does it?”

The room was silent but for Jason’s ragged breaths and Joker’s merciless blows.

Lord Hightower watched impassively, his pale gaze never wavering. “Enough,” he said at last, his voice like winter steel. “You waste your breath—and his—if you expect answers in this silence.”

“Oh, Lord Hightower,” Joker crooned, voice sweet but threaded with poison, “always the pragmatist. Always measuring life like coins in a treasury—so neat, so cold. But you,” he leaned closer to Jason, so close that his breath carried the faint tang of something acrid, “you are… exquisite in your defiance. Such delicious silence. Music to my ears.”

He circled Jason like a cat stalking a cornered mouse, each step soft yet deliberate, boots scraping faintly against the stone floor. “I could crush you,” Joker whispered, voice curling around Jason’s ear, “but where’s the artistry in that? No, no, no. True artistry… lies in the suspense, the anticipation, and the exquisite agony of waiting to see if you break.”

Joker straightened, spinning toward Lord Hightower with a dramatic flourish of his coat.

“And you, pale little lord, with your calculations and your careful speeches—you must understand,” he said, tilting his head, “I do adore an audience. The tension! The fear! It’s intoxicating! But,” his grin sharpened, jagged and gleaming, “the soloist refuses to play. How dreadfully… disappointing.”

Then, almost gently, Joker’s gloved hand brushed Jason’s cheek—not striking, but pressing with the measured weight of a guillotine’s blade, a silent threat in every touch. “Still silent,” he murmured, tilting his head as if admiring a work of art. “I do hope this court enjoys patience, because patience, my dear Jason… is the most exquisite torment of all.”

He stepped back into the shadowy edges of the hall, the air around him still humming with danger. Jason’s chest rose and fell violently, bruises blossoming across his skin, but his glare never wavered. Lord Hightower’s pale, calculating gaze swept over him like frost, assessing, waiting, unyielding.

“And now,” Joker whispered under his breath, his voice sliding like smoke through the room, “the next act begins.”

The air in the dimly lit hall was thick with tension, a palpable force that seemed to weigh heavily on everyone present. Lord Hightower, with his pale, calculating gaze, watched the scene unfold with a mixture of curiosity and detachment. His eyes, cold and unyielding, swept over Jason like a frost, assessing every detail with a clinical precision that was almost unsettling.

"Go ahead," Lord Hightower motioned to the Joker, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Let's see how this little performance plays out."

The Joker, ever the showman, stepped forward with a sharp dagger in his hands. The blade was a cruel, gleaming thing, its edge honed to a razor's sharpness. Jason watched as the Joker approached, his heart pounding in his chest like a drumbeat of impending doom. The Joker's grin was a jagged, twisted thing, a parody of a smile that held no warmth or humor.

The blade ran deep, a brutal, precise cut that started at the top of Jason's eyebrow, missing the edge of his eye by a hair's breadth before ending where his jaw met his ear. The skin split with a sickening ease; blood began to drip down Jason's face, a warm, sticky trail that seemed to pulse with each throb of his heart. He struggled against the chains that bound him, the metal biting into his wrists and ankles, but it was no use. He was helpless, a plaything for the Joker's sadistic amusement.

The Joker smirked, his eyes gleaming with a twisted delight as he moved the knife up to the middle of the cut and dragged it toward Jason's nose. 

The pain was excruciating, a white-hot agony that seemed to consume every fiber of his being. Jason gritted his teeth, refusing to give the Joker the satisfaction of a scream, but a low, guttural groan escaped his lips despite his best efforts. 

The blade sliced through skin and cartilage with a horrifying precision, the slice of tearing flesh a sickening counterpoint to the Joker's mocking laughter.

But the Joker wasn't done yet. With a cruel, almost gentle touch, he dragged the blade under Jason's other eye, the metal gliding over skin and muscle with a sickening ease. Jason could feel the blood pooling in his eye socket, blurring his vision and sending tears streaming down his face. 

The Joker lifted the blade, tracing a line along Jason's neck with a precision that was almost artistic. The skin parted beneath the blade, a thin, crimson line that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

The dagger hovered at Jason's throat, the tip pressing lightly against his skin, a silent threat that needed no words. The Joker leaned in close, his breath hot and foul on Jason's face, his voice a low, mocking whisper.

"Still silent, my dear Jason?" He murmured, his grin never fading. "I do hope this court enjoys patience, because patience, my dear... is the most exquisite torment of all."

With that, the Joker stepped back into the shadowy edges of the hall, the air around him still humming with danger. 

Jason's chest rose and fell violently, each breath a ragged, painful gasp. Bruises blossomed across his skin, a map of the Joker's cruelty, but his glare never wavered. 

He met the Joker's gaze with a defiance that was almost foolish, given his predicament, but it was all he had left.

Blood dripping into his eyes, blurring his vision and staining his cheeks a crimson red, Jason's glare never wavered. The pain was excruciating, a relentless, pulsing agony that seemed to consume every fiber of his being, but he refused to show any sign of weakness. His breath came in ragged, labored gasps, each one a battle against the overwhelming urge to scream, to beg for mercy that would never come.

Lord Hightower watched the exchange with a detached interest, his pale, calculating gaze sweeping over Jason like frost. He assessed the scene with a cold, clinical precision, his expression giving nothing away. 

The tension in the room was palpable, a living thing that seemed to pulse with an energy all its own. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood and the underlying stench of fear and anticipation.

The Joker, ever the showman, reveled in the moment, his grin never fading. He savored the tension, the fear, and the intoxicating mix of emotions that played out before him like a twisted symphony. 

His eyes gleamed with a manic light, a reflection of the madness that dwelt within him, as he circled Jason like a predator stalking its prey.

"Such spirit," the Joker murmured, his voice a low, mocking purr. "It's almost admirable. Almost."

With a swift, brutal motion, he stabbed the blade into Jason's thigh, the metal sinking deep into the flesh with a sickening ease. 

Jason's body convulsed with the force of the impact, a raw, primal scream tearing from his throat as pain exploded in his leg. 

The blade twisted, the Joker's hand turning with a cruel precision, tearing and ripping at the muscle and tendon beneath the skin.

Blood spilled from the wound, a dark, crimson river that streamed down Jason's leg, pooling on the cold, hard floor beneath him. 

The pain was all-consuming, a white-hot agony that seemed to burn away everything else, leaving only the raw, primal need to survive. 

Jason's breath came in ragged, labored gasps, each one a battle against the overwhelming urge to black out, to give in to the darkness that threatened to claim him.

The Joker leaned in close, his breath hot and foul on Jason's face, his eyes gleaming with a twisted delight. "Still silent, my dear?" he whispered, his voice a low, mocking purr. "I do hope you can keep that up. It's so much more for me to break you this way."

With that, he stepped back, his work for now seemingly done. 

Jason's chest heaved with each ragged, painful breath, his body wracked with agony and exhaustion. 

But his gaze never wavered, never faltered. 

The hall seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the Joker's next move, for the next twist in this sickening dance of cruelty and torment. Jason braced himself, steeling his resolve against the pain and the fear that threatened to consume him. 

He would not give the Joker the satisfaction of seeing him break, not while there was still breath in his body.

The Joker's performance was far from over, and Jason knew that the true horror was yet to come. But for now, he focused on the pain, on the blood that dripped from his wounds, and on the defiant fire that burned in his eyes. He would endure this, and he would survive. 

Right? 

He had to. For himself and for his family. 

Lord Hightower, his curiosity piqued, stepped forward, his voice cold and measured. "Joker, it seems our guest is quite the stoic. Perhaps a few more... incentives are in order."

The Joker grinned, a cruel, jagged smile that promised more pain and suffering. "As you wish, my lord."

He snapped back to Jason, eyes alight with a manic gleam, the kind that made the air feel heavier. In one swift, merciless motion, the blade plunged into Jason’s side, sinking with an almost liquid ease through flesh and muscle. 

His body jerked violently, a raw, guttural scream tearing from his throat as pain flared like wildfire. 

The Joker’s hand twisted the blade with deliberate cruelty, each motion precise, each turn shredding tissue with a mechanical grace that was terrifying to behold. The sound of tearing flesh mixed with Jason’s ragged breaths, an ugly symphony of agony that filled the hall. 

Every twist, every pull, was a calculated torment, a grotesque dance of control and chaos. Jason shivered violently, trembling on the edge of consciousness, his body burning, screaming, yet somehow refusing to yield.

And still, the Joker’s grin widened, as if Jason’s endurance were a personal challenge, a game to be toyed with endlessly. 

He withdrew the blade for a heartbeat, letting it hover just inches from Jason’s wound, the cold steel catching the flickering torchlight. “

Ah… look at you,” he laughed, voice soft, almost intimate, yet dripping with menace. “So stubborn… so alive in all the wrong ways.”

Then, without warning, the blade drove in again, slower this time, savoring each moment of resistance. 

Jason’s body convulsed once more, every nerve screaming, yet still he refused to beg. 

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the ropes binding him, arms trembling violently with the effort of holding himself together. 

Pain lanced through his side, jagged and unrelenting, but in the depths of it, a spark of defiance burned brighter than ever.

The Joker circled him, boots clicking against the floor, eyes never leaving Jason’s face. “You think this will stop me? That your silence—your little act of heroism—will matter?” He leaned close, breath hot and ragged, brushing against Jason’s ear. “Silence is boring, my dear Jaehaerys. Words… screams… that’s where the music is.”

Jason swallowed hard, blood trickling into his mouth, tasting metallic and warm, but he said nothing. His mind fought against the haze of pain, clinging to the memory of his family, the life he had sworn to protect. I endure. I survive. I will survive.

I have too.

Joker’s laughter bubbled up then, a terrifying mixture of delight and madness, echoing off the stone walls. “Oh, we’re going to have so much fun,” he whispered, voice low and venomous. “So much fun… watching the storm in those eyes flicker and—”

A sharp kick to Jason’s ribs interrupted him, and his body jolted sideways, gasping violently. “—die out!” 

The Joker finished with a flourish, twirling the blade in his hand before pressing it back into Jason’s side, shallow this time, teasing, merciless. “But don’t worry, my lord,” he said with mock politeness, looking over at Hightower. “We’ll keep the main performance going until everyone is sufficiently… entertained.”

Lord Hightower remained still, impassive, pale eyes watching every movement, every twitch of Jason’s body. And Jason, bruised, bleeding, but unbroken in spirit, clenched his teeth against the fire in his side, the searing pain only sharpening the defiance in his eyes. He would not break. He could not break.

Jason’s chest heaved, each breath dragging in a sharp metallic tang. The taste of his own blood coated his tongue, bitter and clinging, flooding his mouth and throat.

 He swallowed, forcing down the panic, the nausea, and the burning, trying to turn every heartbeat into fuel for not trying to pass out from blood loss.

 His hands were slick with it, sticky and warm as he clenched the ropes that bound him, droplets smearing across his knuckles.

The Joker’s laughter rose again, echoing off the stone walls, and he leaned close, eyes glinting, watching the crimson streaks trace Jason’s torso, dripping onto the cold, uneven floor. 

“Oh, this is delicious! The trembling, the gasps, the fire that refuses to die!” His gloved hand reached out, brushing against a streak of blood, spreading it like paint, leaving Jason’s side a mottled canvas of pain. Don’t worry, my lord,” he said, spinning and twirling the blade, “we’re only in the prelude! The main act is yet to come!”

Minutes—or perhaps hours—passed in the rhythm of torment. Every strike and twist sent fresh streams of red blooming across Jason’s skin, soaking into fabric, and streaking down onto the floor in jagged, chaotic lines. 

Each pulse, each cough, left another bead of blood, rolling, dripping, slicking the stone like a dark river. The coppery scent thickened the air, mingling with sweat and the acrid tang of Joker’s chemicals, making the room feel alive with the cruel symphony of Jason’s endurance.

Lord Hightower’s pale eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. The theatrics, the endless delays, the clownish cruelty—it had tested his patience enough. He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the chaos like steel through silk. 

“Enough, Joker.” His tone was cold and precise, carrying the weight of command. “Kill him.”

The Joker’s grin widened, teeth glinting in the torchlight, a grotesque mask of glee. “Ah… finally!” he chirped, voice bubbling with unhinged excitement. He leaned close to Jason, so close the heat of his breath mixed with the metallic tang of blood. “The grand finale, my dear Jaehaerys.”

Before he could move, Lord Hightower turned on his heel, sweeping past his soldiers with the measured grace of a man entirely in control. “I tire of waiting,” he said over his shoulder, voice sharp as winter steel. “Do not fail me.”

The heavy door closed behind him, and the hall fell into an oppressive, echoing silence. Only the Joker’s laughter remained, ricocheting off stone walls, a chilling reminder of the chaos left in the wake of the lord’s departure. It swelled, wild and untethered, filling the space, wrapping around Jason like a living thing.

And somewhere, deep beneath the bruises and the fire, Jason’s resolve hardened, and for the first time, he realized his fate was sealed. 

The Joker, his eyes gleaming with a manic light, turned back to Jason, his grin a twisted parody of a smile. He crossed the room and picked up a metal club, a cruel, heavy weapon that seemed to laugh at Jason. 

He circled his prey like a predator, savoring the moment, the tension, and the fear that hung heavy in the air. 

“You know, Jaehaerys,” the Joker murmured, his voice a low, mocking purr, “I do admire your spirit. It’s almost... admirable. Almost.”

With a swift, brutal motion, he raised the club high and brought it crashing down on Jason’s arm. The bone snapped with a sickening crunch, and Jason screamed.

The Joker grinned, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure, and raised the club again. This time, it connected with Jason’s ribs, and he heard them crack and felt them splinter beneath the force of the blow.

Jason was gasping for breath, his body wracked with pain. The Joker loomed over him, his grinning face a mask of cruel amusement. He raised the club high and, with a savage laugh, brought it crashing down on Jason’s skull. Jason’s vision exploded into a burst of white-hot pain, and he collapsed to the ground, his body convulsing as life fled from him.

But the Joker wasn’t done yet.

He continued his brutal assault, each blow from the metal club sending jolts of agony through Jason’s shattered body. His bones cracked and splintered, his flesh tore and bled, and his screams echoed through the hall, a haunting symphony of pain and suffering.

Blood spattered the walls, painting them in a grotesque mural of carnage. With each strike, the club left deep, ragged wounds that oozed crimson, pooling on the floor beneath his twitching form.

As the final blow connected with his skull, Jason’s vision faded to black, and his body went limp, a broken, bloodied mess on the cold, hard floor. His head lay at an unnatural angle, the sound of his crushed skull echoing in the silence.

The Joker stepped back, his work done, and leaned down one last time, his grinning face a final mockery of the pain and suffering he had inflicted. His eyes gleamed with a mad, sadistic glee as he savored the sight of his handiwork. The dungeon fell silent, except for the distant echo of the Joker’s laughter and the faint sound of rain beginning to fall. Jason’s body lay crumpled on the ground, a testament to the brutal and senseless violence that had claimed his life. The air was thick with the coppery stench of blood and the acrid tang of fear.

His once-vibrant eyes were now dull and lifeless, staring up at a ceiling that offered no comfort or solace. The room seemed to breathe with the weight of his final, agonizing moments, a grim reminder of the Joker’s twisted, merciless cruelty.