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Gone (unrequited au)

Rhaegar Targaryen x Twin reader / reader x Brandon stark

an au from my fic Gone where reader does not love him back. tw- smut, dub con, non con, Rhaegar does not know what no means, character death, kidnapping

"You're pressing the strings too hard" Rhaegar murmured, his breath warm against the back of your neck. His fingers slid over yours, adjusting their position on the Harps delicate frame. "Like this. Gentle."

You'd been trying for weeks now, but every lesson ended the same way, with his hands lingering for three seconds too long, his silver hair falling forward to brush your cheek as he leaned in to correct a note. Today you could feel the tension coiled in his shoulders like a dragon ready to spring.

Brandon's laughter echoed suddenly from the courtyard below Rhaegar's chambers, rough and bright, shattering the quiet intensity of the music room. You turned instinctively toward the sound, fingertips slipping from the strings. Rhaegar's grip tightened on your wrist before you could rise from the bench. "The lesson isn't finished" he said, voice low. His thumb traced the delicate bones of your inner wrist in a slow circle that made your stomach twist.

Outside, steel clashed against steel as Brandon sparred with a squire, his booming voice calling out jests between breaths. You could smell the crisp autumn air drifting through the open window...woodsmoke and damp leaves, so different from the heavy myrrh incense Rhaegar burned in his chambers. "I promised to meet him before supper" you said, tugging your hand away. The harp string twanged discordantly as your sleeve caught on it.

Rhaegar exhaled through his nose, his grip unyielding. His violet eyes flickered with something dark when another peel of laughter floated up from below. "He makes you forget yourself" he murmured. The pad of his thumb pressed into your pulse point now, hard enough to feel the flutter of your heartbeat. "You used to hum my compositions while braiding your hair. Now you rush through our lessons like they're some tedious duty."

Below, Brandon whooped as steel rang out, likely landing a hit. The scent of sweat and wet earth mingled with the autumn breeze. You swallowed, twisting your wrist subtly in Rhaegar's hold. "You're imagining things." you lied. The truth was, Brandon's laughter was wildfire where Rhaegar's was smoke...one burned bright, the other coiled in your lungs until you choked.

Rhaegar's fingers tightened fractionally. "Am I?" His voice was silk over steel. He plucked a single harp string with his free hand, the note resonating like a challenge. "You used to linger after lessons. Now you count the minutes." The accusation hung between you, sharp as Valyrian steel.

You sighed, turning to press a kiss against his cheek, the way you'd done since childhood whenever tension sparked between you. His skin was warm beneath your lips, smelling faintly of parchment. "I promise to stay longer during the next" you murmured against his jaw, pulling back just enough to see the way his pupils dilated. "I'm just quite busy with—"

"With him." Rhaegar finished the sentence with a voice gone rough at the edges. His free hand came up, fingers brushing the spot where your mouth had been, as if memorizing the ghost of your touch. Beneath the pads of his fingers, you felt the muscle in his jaw twitch. "Busy learning how to be a Stark" he added, so softly you almost missed it.

A gust of wind sent dried leaves skittering across the courtyard stones below. Brandon's voice rang out again. "Yield, you stubborn ass!" followed by clattering armor and more laughter. Your stomach knotted with the urge to be down there, breathing in the sharpness of autumn instead of Rhaegar's cloying incense. "It's not like that" you began, but Rhaegar's grip shifted suddenly, pulling you flush against him. The harp toppled sideways with a discordant jangle, forgotten.

His free hand cradled the back of your skull, fingers threading through your hair with terrifying gentleness. "You used to tremble when I sang" he murmured against your temple. His breath hitched...an almost imperceptible crack in his composure. "Now you barely look at me unless I force your attention." The words were barely audible, but the desperation beneath them made your pulse stutter.

You inhaled sharply, hands braced against Rhaegar's chest, the embroidered dragons on his doublet biting into your palms. "You're my brother" you whispered, the words thick with an ache you didn't understand. "My twin. Nothing changes that."

His lashes lowered, veiling the wildfire in his gaze. "Blood is no chain" he murmured, tilting his head until his lips hovered just above the shell of your ear. "I would set the world ablaze to rewrite what we are." The confession slithered between you, scalding and forbidden.

His fingers traced your cheekbone with unbearable reverence, mapping the curve as if memorizing it for some unholy liturgy. When his lips found your jaw, they were softer than snowfall, each press deliberate, lingering where your pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. "Rhaegar—" you gasped, but the protest dissolved into nervous laughter as his teeth grazed that sensitive spot beneath your ear. The sound seemed to ignite him.

You twisted, palms slick against dragonscale embroidery as you pushed halfheartedly. "I really...gods...have to go" you mumbled, but the words lacked conviction when his mouth trailed lower, nipping at the tendon of your neck. The harp lay forgotten on the floor, one broken string curled like a wounded serpent. Outside, Brandon's voice rang out again. "Seven hells, is that the supper bell?" and the reminder sent a jolt through you. You shoved harder, nails catching on Rhaegar's collar. "Stop" you breathed, but his grip only tightened, fingers splaying possessively across your ribs.

Rhaegar inhaled sharply against your throat, the sound ragged. "You don't mean that" he murmured, though his voice wavered. His hand slid from your hair to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. The wildfire in his eyes had banked to smoldering embers. "You used to—"

"You keep saying used to" you interrupted with a brittle laugh, twisting in his grip. His fingers tightened reflexively, blunt nails pressing crescent moons into your skin. The harp's last discordant note still hummed in the air between you. "We were children, Rhae. Playing at songs and secrets. Now we're—"

"—betrothed to others" Rhaegar finished for you, voice dropping to a whisper that raised gooseflesh along your arms. His thumb swept over your lower lip, smearing the stain of berries you'd eaten earlier. The gesture was oddly intimate, the pad of his thumb lingering just a heartbeat too long. "But the gods play cruel jests, don't they?" His exhale warmed your mouth, his breath tasting of sour wine and something darker desperation left to ferment too long in the cask of his ribs.

A gust of wind through the open window sent parchment fluttering from Rhaegar's desk, scattering sheets of music like fallen leaves. Below, Brandon's voice carried again "Someone fetch my betrothed before I eat all the honeyed chicken myself!" followed by raucous laughter. The sound made you flinch, your body instinctively angling toward the window before Rhaegar's fingers dug into your hips, forcing you still.

"Rhae, enough—" The protest died in your throat as his lips crashed against yours with bruising force. His tongue slid between your teeth before you could gasp, the taste of Dornish red and something metallic flooding your mouth. You shoved against his chest, fingers tangling in the elaborate embroidery of his doublet until threads snapped under your nails.

He pulled away just as abruptly, silver hair disheveled where your hands had knotted in it. "I only want to say bye" Rhaegar mumbled against your swollen lips, though the tremor in his voice betrayed the lie. His thumbs dug into the soft flesh above your hips, not quite painful, but enough to leave tomorrow's fingerprints blooming across your skin like violet ink.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, smoothing damp palms down the wrinkled silk of your skirts. "Okay, well, don't do that again" you murmured, delectably naive as you stepped back from his heat. The taste of him still lingered, bitter wine and something sweetly cloying, like overripe peaches left to rot in the summer sun. Below, Brandon's voice boomed again, calling your name with that rough Northern inflection that made your pulse skip.

Rhaegar's fingers twitched at his sides, tendons standing stark against pale skin as he watched you adjust your sleeve where the embroidery had come loose from his grip. "Of course" he lied smoothly, the words dripping like honey from a comb. Too sweet. Too deliberate. You didn't see the way his throat worked as you turned toward the door, didn't catch the storm brewing behind those violet eyes when you hesitated at the threshold.

Down in the courtyard, Brandon leaned against a weathered post, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The setting sun painted his shoulders in streaks of copper and gold, catching on the stray strands of dark hair. His smile when he spotted you was a flash of white against wind chapped lips. "There you are!" he called, pushing off the post with that easy, wolflike grace. "I was about to send out a search party." The teasing lilt in his voice sent warmth flooding through you...real, bright warmth, not the smothering heat of Rhaegar's.

You stumbled down the last few steps, still adjusting the laces Rhaegar had tugged loose. "Apologies, my lord" you said with an exaggerated curtsy that made him snort. "My harp lessons ran long." The lie tasted of ashes on your tongue, but Brandon only rolled his eyes and slung an arm around your shoulders, his gambeson still damp with sweat. You inhaled deeply, leather and steel and the crisp bite of autumn letting it cleanse the last clinging traces of myrrh from your lungs.

Your pulse stuttered. Of course you did, you'd spent hours in Rhaegar's chambers, breathing air thick with incense and parchment dust. But Brandon's thumb was pressing into the exact spot where Rhaegar's grip had lingered, his grey eyes sharp as Valyrian steel. "Well he is my twin" you laughed weakly, adjusting the collar of your gown where Rhaegar's teeth had scraped. The lie settled between your ribs like a shard of ice. "And I did just attend lessons in his chambers."

Brandon's jaw flexed. He leaned in, breath warm against your temple as he inhaled deeply, not the perfumed courtier's gesture Rhaegar would have made, but something feral and Northern. His nose brushed the hollow beneath your ear where Rhaegar's mouth had been moments ago. "Funny" he murmured, the word rough as unspun wool. "Never noticed his scent clinging to you like this before." His knuckles grazed your nape, right where Rhaegar's fingers had knotted in your hair. The touch burned.

You swallowed hard, tasting the ghost of sour wine and harp strings. Brandon straightened suddenly, grip shifting to your elbow as he steered you toward the great hall. His strides were longer than usual, forcing you to stumble to keep up. Torchlight carved shadows under his cheekbones, turning his smile sharp. "Hungry?" he asked too brightly, thumb pressing into the tender flesh of your inner arm, right over the faint crescent moons Rhaegar's nails had left.

The feast was a riot of noise and smoke, trenchers overflowing with roasted quail and honeyed figs. You picked at your food, acutely aware of Brandon's thigh pressed flush against yours on the bench. Across the hall, Rhaegar sat stiff backed between two Kingsguard, his silver hair catching the firelight like Valyrian steel. You felt his gaze like a brand between your shoulder blades each time you laughed at Brandon's jests.

"Open wide, wolf lord" you teased, holding a morsel of apple tart to Brandon's lips. His teeth grazed your fingertips as he took the bite, grey eyes crinkling at the corners when you yelped. Rickard Stark chuckled into his wine, nudging his son's ribs with an elbow. The warmth of their shared laughter settled in your chest...real and easy, nothing like the cloying visual of Rhaegar's fingers whitening around his goblet three tables away.

Aerys' High Table loomed above the hall like a dragon's perch. Rhaegar's fork scraped against silver plate in slow, deliberate circles, the sound almost lost beneath the din, but you heard it like a dagger drawn. His mother leaned close when he murmured something, her jeweled hand covering his wrist in warning. "Why must she sit with them?" His whisper carried just far enough, thin as spider's silk stretched too tight. "They are not wed yet."

Brandon's fingers tightened around your thigh beneath the table, callouses catching on silk. He'd drunk enough wine to flush his cheeks, but his gaze remained sharp as he watched Rhaegar across wastewater pools of candlelight. "Does he always stare like that?" he muttered against your temple, breath hot with Arbor Gold. His thumb traced slow circles through the fabric of your gown, right where Rhaegar's grip had bruised earlier. "Like a starving man at a banquet he can't reach?"

You laughed a little and shook your head, leaning into Brandon's warmth. "We have always been together" you murmured, watching Rhaegar's knuckles whiten around his goblet. A drop of wine escaped the rim, staining the sleeve of his doublet like old blood. "I think he fears for when I leave." The admission tasted bittersweet, like unripe persimmons plucked too soon from the branch.

Brandon's fingers stilled against your thigh. "You're not his to keep" he said, low and rough. The words weren't cruel, just certain as winter's first frost. His thumb swept over your pulse point, pressing just hard enough to feel the flutter beneath. "Not anymore."

Rhaegar endured the week's endless courting rituals like a man starved, watching from shadowed alcoves as Brandon presented you with winter roses plucked from the glass gardens, their petals blue as the veins beneath his own pale skin. He stood statue still when Brandon knelt before the court to slip the betrothal ring onto your finger...a Stark direwolf wrought in silver, its eyes twin chips of obsidian that caught the light whenever you moved your hand. The sapphire in Rhaegar's own signet ring cracked that evening, though no one saw him press it against the edge of his desk until the stone splintered.

When nightfall came, he appeared in your chambers like a specter conjured from moonbeams and madness. You squeaked as the door groaned open without warning, scrambling upright in bed with gooseflesh rising along your arms. Rhaegar stood silhouetted against the torchlit corridor, his sleeping tunic unlaced to reveal the hollow of his throat. "I wish to sleep here" he murmured, already moving toward the bed as if the decision were made. The scent of crushed mint clung to his hands...the same balm your shared nursemaid used to rub onto your temples after childhood nightmares.

You drew your knees to your chest, pulse rabbiting beneath your skin. "Rhae, we haven't done that since—" His weight already sank into the mattress beside you, the familiar dip of the bed pulling you sideways. His fingers carded through your unbound hair with practiced ease, just as he'd done when you were small enough to share a cradle. But when his thumb traced your earlobe now, the touch lingered too long, warm as a brand.

Below the tower, winter roses tapped against the window like skeletal fingers. Rhaegar exhaled through his nose, pulling you flush against him until the embroidery of his tunic imprinted dragons into your back. "You taste different" he murmured against your nape, lips brushing the sensitive skin there. His hand slid down your arm, fingers twining with yours, the Stark betrothal band biting into both your fingers.

You held your breath, acutely aware of the way his chest rose and fell against your spine, too quick, too shallow. The mint on his hands couldn't mask the sour wine lingering beneath. "Rhae—" His fingers tightened, cutting off your protest as his knee slid between yours beneath the furs. The heat of him was everywhere, his thigh pressing against your bare calf, his exhales stirring the fine hairs at your temple.

Rhaegar's lips grazed your ear as he whispered, wet and lingering. "Do you remember" he mumbled, "when we used to hide beneath Mother's cloak during storms?" His thumb traced the direwolf ring slowly, deliberately. "You'd cling to me then." The accusation trembled between you, his breath ragged, your pulse hammering where his palm cradled your wrist.

You clenched your jaw, shifting away from the heat of him pressing against your backside. The Stark betrothal band caught on a loose thread in the furs. "I remember" you frowned, squeezing your eyes shut against the way his knee slid higher between your thighs.

Rhaegar exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound he made when a harp string snapped mid performance. His fingers flexed around yours, dragging your joined hands up to rest over your pounding heart. "Liar." The accusation slithered against your nape, damp with his breath. "You remember the way my fingers felt braiding your hair before feasts. The way I'd hum our mother's lullaby when you couldn't sleep." His hips pressed forward insistently, the hard line of him burning through layers of silk and wool. "You remember that too, don't you? That summer we turned fourteen and woke up with me—"

"I remember you being my brother!" You wrenched free with a gasp, rolling off the mattress so fast the furs tangled around your ankles.

The impact with the cold stone floor knocked the breath from your lungs. Rhaegar lunged forward, silver hair spilling loose around his shoulders as he reached for you, but you scrambled backward like a startled doe, your bare feet skidding on the icy flags. His fingers grazed your wrist, catching only empty air before you hauled yourself upright using the bedpost.

"Are you okay?" The concern in his voice was raw, frayed at the edges like an overstrung harp. His chest rose and fell rapidly beneath the thin silk of his sleeping tunic, the hollow of his throat glistening with sweat despite the winter chill seeping through the tower walls.

You sniffled, fingers scrabbling against the rough stone as you stumbled upright. The hem of your nightgown tangled around your knees, still warm from where his body had pressed against you. "No!" The word cracked like split kindling. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, tasting salt and the ghost of sour wine from dinner. "If you're going to stay in here, then stop all the—" Your breath hitched as his fingers twitched toward you again, the tips stained blue from crushing mint leaves "—the touching." The last word came out shriller than intended, echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

Rhaegar's throat worked silently. Moonlight through the arrow slit painted his face in fractured silver, catching on the sweat slick hollow between his collarbones. His body moved from the bed to approach you and his knees hit the floorboards with a thud that shuddered through your bare feet. "Forgive me" he rasped, fingers curling into fists against his thighs. The knuckles blanched white, tendons standing stark as harp strings. "I forget myself when…" His gaze flickered to the rumpled furs where your bodies had lain entwined moments before, then away just as quickly.

You shuddered despite the fire roaring in the hearth, arms wrapping around yourself as if cold. The scent of crushed mint still clung to his skin, overlaying something darker, musky and desperate, like wine left to sour in an unwashed cup. Slowly, so slowly, you approached his kneeling form, frowning at the way his shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow. "Rhae..." you murmured, crouching to his level. His eyelashes fluttered when your fingertips brushed his jaw, the stubble there catching on your callouses. "You're my other half. Always." The words tasted bitter, but you meant them.

He leaned into your touch like a starving man offered crumbs, his breath shuddering out against your wrist. "Then why—" His question fractured against your palm as you pressed it to his cheek, feeling the dampness there you hadn't noticed before. Your twin. Your mirror. The boy who'd shared your cradle and your nightmares. The man now trembling beneath your fingertips with a hunger that terrified you.

You guided him back onto the mattress with hands that didn't shake...not much, anyway. The pillow you wedged between you was thick as a castle wall, embroidered with the three headed dragon of your house. Rhaegar stared at it as if it had personally offended him, his fingers twitching against the coverlet where they lay splayed like a wounded bird's wings. Moonlight carved his profile in silver, catching on the pulse hammering at his throat. "Must you—"

"Yes." The word came out sharper than intended. You adjusted the pillow with unnecessary force, fingers sinking into the down filling as if anchoring yourself. His scent still clung to the sheets, ink and parchment and something faintly metallic, like a blade left too long in its sheath. "Sleep, Rhae." You turned your back to him, curling inward until your knees nearly touched your chest. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.

His fingers twitched against the coverlet behind you, the faint rasp of skin on silk louder than it should have been. You counted his breaths, too quick at first, then slowing reluctantly into something resembling calm. The pillow between you might as well have been the Wall itself.

When his exhales finally deepened, wet and ragged as waves against Dragonstone’s cliffs, you unclenched your jaw letting the tension bleed from your shoulders. The fire had burned low, casting the chamber in shifting amber shadows that danced across the tapestries. His warmth bled through the pillow, a steady, familiar heat at your back. For the first time since childhood, you slept without dreams.

Rhaegar waited until your breaths matched the rhythm of distant surf slow, even, trusting. His fingers flexed against the mattress, the Stark betrothal ring glinting where moonlight caught the direwolf’s obsidian eyes. He sat up with the deliberate care of a man disarming a trap, silver hair slipping over one shoulder as he leaned over you. His shadow swallowed yours whole, his exhale stirring the loose strands at your temple.

You didn't stir when his thumb skimmed your lower lip, still parted slightly in sleep. The pad of his finger came away damp with your breath, and he pressed it to his own mouth, eyelids fluttering at the taste, honeyed wine from dinner, the faint metallic tang of the apple tart you'd shared with Brandon. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, committing the scent of your sleep lax form to memory… lavender soap, the faint musk of bedsheets warmed by your skin, and beneath it all, the iron rich scent that had lingered on your collarbone after Brandon's fingers had brushed there at the feast.

He peeled the furs back with the care of a man uncovering ancient Valyrian scrolls, his breath hitching when the fabric pooled at your waist. His fingers hovered over the pulse at your wrist, then curled around your hand with a gentleness that belied the tension in his shoulders. The Stark betrothal ring caught the firelight as he tilted your hand, the direwolf's obsidian eyes glinting mockingly up at him. His jaw tightened. A muscle twitched beneath his eye when the silver band caught on your knuckle, just for a heartbeat before surrendering to his pull.

The ring dangled from his fingertips like a caught fish on a line, swaying slightly as he exhaled through his nose. He studied it in the half light, turning it this way and that to watch the flames dance across the direwolf's snarling muzzle. It was smaller than he'd imagined...cheaper too, the craftsmanship crude compared to the ruby set signet he'd commissioned for Elia. His grip tightened imperceptibly, the silver biting into his palm until he imagined the direwolf's fangs drawing blood. Across the room, the fire popped, sending up a shower of sparks that reflected in his dilated pupils.

The clink of metal on stone was obscenely loud in the stillness of the chamber. The ring bounced once, rolling in a lazy circle before coming to rest against the leg of the bedside table. Rhaegar didn't watch it settle, his gaze was already dragging up the length of your sleeping form, lingering where the furs had slipped down to reveal the delicate hollow of your throat. His fingers twitched at his sides, still warm from where the ring had lain against his skin.

You sighed in your sleep, turning toward the dying fire. The movement pulled your nightgown tight across one shoulder, revealing the faint crescent marks his nails had left earlier. Rhaegar's breath hitched. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, pausing when his shadow fell across your face. The firelight painted your parted lips in shades of honey and amber, catching on the slight dampness where your tongue had touched them moments before. His own mouth went dry.

His knee pressed into the mattress between your thighs with the slow inevitability of a tide creeping up shore. The movement made no sound, yet your breathing stuttered, a quick, sharp inhale that fluttered the loose strands of hair across your cheek. Rhaegar froze, watching the pulse at your throat leap like a startled hare before settling back into steady rhythm. He exhaled through his nose, warm air mingling with yours as he leaned closer still, close enough to count every lash casting shadows on your cheeks.

The scent of you...sleep warm skin and the faint lavender from your bath filled his lungs as he braced one hand beside your head. His other hovered over your hip, trembling with the effort of restraint. The hem of your nightgown had ridden up during sleep, exposing the soft inner curve of your knee. His thumb brushed there now, barely touching, yet your skin pebbled beneath the whisper-contact. A sound escaped him, half groan, half prayer as his fingers traced higher, following the slope of your thigh beneath silk.

Your breath hitched, lips parting around an unformed word. Rhaegar watched the flutter of your eyelids, the way your lashes cast trembling shadows when dreams tugged at you. His own breathing had gone ragged, each exhale stirring the hair at your temple. When your knee shifted, a sleepy, reflexive movement...it pressed against his ribs, and the contact seared through his tunic like brandished steel. His body moved without permission, hips canting forward until the heat of you burned through layers of fabric.

Silk whispered against wool as he settled fully between your thighs, the weight of him pressing you deeper into the mattress. You sighed...a soft, sleepy sound and his stomach clenched at the way your hips tilted instinctively toward the pressure. His fingers curled into the sheets beside your head, the tendons standing stark as bowstrings. So close now that your exhales mingled, the wine on your breath sweet against his parted lips. The scent of you here, warm with lavender soap made his vision blur at the edges.

He kissed you then, swallowing your little gasp with lips that trembled. It was nothing like the practiced sweep of tongue you'd shared with Brandon, this was desperate, clumsy, a boy stealing sweets after bedtime. Your pulse fluttered wildly beneath his thumb where it pressed against your throat, and for one delirious moment, he imagined you waking like this, pupils blown wide with confusion that would melt into him—

Rhaegar tore himself away so violently the bed ropes groaned. His knees hit the floorboards with a crack that should've woken the entire tower, but you only sighed, turning your face into the pillow with a sleepy murmur. He watched, chest heaving, as your fingers curled into the furs where his hips had been moments before. The sight punched through him...you, still pliant with sleep, seeking the warmth he'd stolen.

The ring glinted accusingly from the floor. He snatched it up, the direwolf's silver fangs biting into his palm as he hesitated. Your hand lay limp against the mattress, fingers slightly parted. He slid the band back onto your finger with a scoff that tasted like bile, pressing a kiss to your knuckle so fleeting it might have been a trick of the firelight.

Rhaegar stood with the jerky movements of a drunkard, knees nearly buckling as he staggered toward the door. The cold night air slapped him when he wrenched it open, mint and wine and something darker swirling in his wake. His fingers left damp prints on the iron handle where they lingered too long, trembling against the metal as he glanced back at your sleeping form. The pillow barrier had collapsed, your cheek now pressed against the indentation his body had left in the mattress.

The ring gleamed mockingly from your finger as moonlight caught the direwolf’s silver fangs. He scoffed, a wet, ragged sound and dragged a hand down his face, smearing the dampness gathering at his lashes. Shadows swallowed him whole as he slipped into the corridor, the door clicking shut with finality that echoed through the hollow of his ribs.

Morning light sliced through the arrow slits like a blade, painting stripes across the tangled furs where you’d slept alone. Your fingers brushed the cold indentation beside you, still shaped to Rhaegar’s form, the linen pillowcase faintly damp where his cheek had pressed. The scent of crushed mint lingered, overlaying something darker, musky. You frowned at the way your nightgown had twisted around your thighs, the silk clinging uncomfortably to your damp skin.

The maids found you perched on the window seat, picking at breakfast with absent fingers. Their practiced hands stilled when they saw the state of the bed, the collapsed pillow barrier, the imprint of two bodies in the mattress. You caught their exchanged glances in the polished silver mirror as they laced you into a gown. “His Grace left before dawn” volunteered the younger maid, too eagerly. Her fingers trembled as she pinned your hair, avoiding your eyes in the reflection. “He took his harp to the godswood.”

The godswood’s mist clung to your skirts as you followed the sound of broken chords, notes fracturing mid melody, restarting with jagged intensity. Beneath the heart tree, Rhaegar’s fingers hovered over the strings, tendons standing stark against skin still flushed from wine or fury. He didn’t turn when your footsteps disturbed the frost laced grass, though the muscle in his jaw twitched violently at the rustle of silk. “Did you sleep well, sweet sister?” The endearment dripped like poison from his tongue.

Your fingers flexed around the forgotten Stark betrothal ring, cold in your palm despite the morning sun. “I did” you hummed, watching the way his knuckles whitened around the harp’s neck. “But it seems you did not.”

Rhaegar’s fingers plucked a dissonant chord...too sharp, too sudden, the sound cracking through the godswood like a whip. His exhale misted between you, curling past lips bitten raw. “Odd dreams” he murmured, eyes tracking the way dawn painted your collarbone gold through the sheer fabric of your gown. His tongue darted out, catching a drop of condensation from a nearby branch...slow, deliberate...as if imagining the salt of your skin instead.

You stepped closer, crushing winter roses underfoot. Their scent rose between you, cloying and sweet, masking the iron tang of his sleepless night. His harp’s carved dragons dug into your palm when you steadied yourself against it, the wood warm from his grip. “Dreams or memories?” you asked softly, watching his pupils dilate at your proximity.

Rhaegar’s fingers slid from the strings to your wrist, tracing the pulse there with his thumb. “Does it matter?” His breath hitched when you didn’t pull away. Dawn gilded the dark circles beneath his eyes, the sweat damp hair clinging to his temples. The evidence of his unraveling would’ve been pitiful if not for the way his other hand crept up your sleeve, possessive even in its gentleness.

You exhaled through your nose, watching his fingertips disappear beneath silk. “I suppose it does not” you mumbled with a sigh, glancing down to his fingers wandering under your sleeve. The pads were calloused from harp strings, dragging slow circles over your inner arm, higher, higher...until his nails scraped the tender crook of your elbow. A shiver skittered down your spine. His lips parted at the reaction, pupils swallowing violet irises whole.

“Do you remember” he began, voice rough as unpolished wood, “when we were children, and you’d climb into my bed after nightmares?” His thumb pressed into the softness beneath your arm, testing. “You’d tuck your cold feet against my legs and sigh like I’d hung the moon itself.” A bitter chuckle escaped him as his fingers curled, dragging you closer by the wrist. The harp’s edge dug into your hip. “Now you sigh like that for him.”

You sighed and scrunched your nose, letting your eyes flicker to him. “You seem to love bringing up our childhood these days” you murmured, watching the way dawn painted his throat in gold and shadow. His pulse jumped beneath your gaze. “As if it’s the only language left between us.”

Rhaegar’s fingers tightened around yours after pulling it out of your sleeve...too tight, too possessive, his nails biting crescents into your palm. “You do not love me anymore, sweet sister” he sighed against your cheekbone, lips lingering just long enough for his breath to warm your skin. His exhale trembled when you didn’t pull away. His free hand slid from your sleeve to clutch yours between you both, Stark betrothal ring pressed painfully into your knuckles. “You count down the days until you go North” he whispered with another kiss, this time to the corner of your mouth, feather light and lingering. His tongue darted out to taste the seam of your lips before he pulled back, pupils blown wide.

You swallowed hard, the rose petals crushed beneath your slippers releasing their final, heady perfume. His thumb stroked over your ring finger, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the grooves of the direwolf’s silver fangs. The dawn light caught the moisture on his lower lip...your breath, his saliva, the remnants of stolen wine from last night’s feast. “Rhae” you murmured, watching his lashes flutter at the nickname. His grip loosened fractionally, fingers twitching as if fighting the urge to crush yours completely.

Your palms framed his face, thumbs brushing the hollows beneath his eyes where exhaustion painted him violet. His skin was fever warm, stubble catching on your fingertips like dragon scales. “Sweet brother” you whispered, softer now, watching his pupils dilate at the endearment. “You will always be my other half.” His breath hitched...warm and wine scented against your lips. You pressed your forehead to his, feeling the tremble in his shoulders. “But that is all we are.” The words settled between you like snowfall...quiet, inevitable.

Rhaegar’s fingers twitched against your hips where they’d crept beneath your cloak. “You say that” he murmured against your mouth, close enough to taste your next lie, “as if it doesn’t gut me.” His grip tightened when you pulled back, nails biting through silk to flesh. The roses beneath your slippers released their dying perfume as you shifted, crushing them further.

The day of your wedding he drank through the ceremony, almost fell over when he seen brandon kiss and cloak you.

The cloak had been the worst, Stark grey swallowing Targaryen red in one swift motion, Brandon’s hands lingering at your throat as he fastened the direwolf clasp. Rhaegar’s wine sloshed over his fingers when he lurched upright, the goblet slipping from his grip entirely as you turned your face up for Brandon’s kiss. The sound of silver hitting stone echoed through the sept, but no one noticed...not when Brandon’s fingers were tangling in your hair, not when your sigh melted against his mouth like snow in Dornish sun.

At the feast, Rhaegar drank until the High Table blurred until your giggles became indistinguishable from the minstrel’s lute, until Brandon’s hands on your waist were just another shadow in the torchlight. He counted your words to him between gulps of wine... "Rhae, move your cup" when he blocked the salt, "don’t be sulking" as the pie was served, "you’re drunk" when he knocked over Elia’s goblet. Nine. Nine words in six hours, while Brandon earned a hundred whispered ones, each one a needle under Rhaegar’s nails.

He waited until the dancing began...until Brandon spun you into the revelry, your skirts flaring crimson as you laughed at some Northern jape. Then Rhaegar slid from the dais like a shadow, his fingers finding your wrist in the press of bodies. You didn’t hear his "come with me" over the music, but you felt his grip hot as dragonfire through your sleeve. When you shook your head, his thumb pressed into your pulse point, blunt and insistent. "Now."

The hidden stairwell swallowed your protests whole, the stone walls still warm from the day’s sun. He crowded you against the curved steps, his knee slotting between yours as the feast door above clicked shut. "You smell like him" he hissed into your hair, inhaling sharply as his hands found your waist. Even through layers of silk, his fingers mapped the new fullness there, Brandon’s doing. His thumbs dug into your hipbones hard enough to bruise.

"Rhae!" You shoved at his wrists, the movement making your wedding bracelets clink mockingly. "It is my wedding night and you’ve dragged me—" His mouth crashed over yours before you could finish, teeth catching your lower lip in a way that wasn’t quite accidental. The taste of Arbor gold and something darker flooded your senses as his tongue pushed past your gasp.

His grip slid from your hips to the small of your back, pressing you flush against the hidden stairwell’s curve. The stone bit into your shoulder blades through thin silk, but the discomfort barely registered...not when Rhaegar’s other hand was fumbling with the direwolf clasp at your throat. "Important?" he echoed against your lips, voice ragged. The cloak pooled at your feet with a whisper of wool, revealing the skin beneath where Brandon’s fingers had lingered during the ceremony. "You’re my wife in all but name."

"You are mad" you whispered, tears blurring the torchlight flickering in his dilated pupils. You shoved against his chest, your palms sliding against sweat damp velvet. "I am not your wife! I never will be." Your voice cracked on the last word, raw as the wine staining his tunic. His breath hitched when you twisted away, Stark bracelets chiming like a death knell. "I leave for Winterfell on the morrow—"

Rhaegar's hand shot out, fingers tangling in your wedding gowns trim. The fabric ripped, sending pearls skittering down the stairwell like fleeing mice. "Silly infatuation?" His laugh was a shattered thing, more air than sound. You recoiled at the way his free hand hovered near your face, not striking, but trembling as if imagining the curve of your cheekbone beneath his palm. His thumb brushed your lower lip instead, smearing the win -dark stain there. "Is it infatuation when I dream your name in my sleep?" His voice dropped to a whisper, lips grazing your earlobe. "When I wake tasting you?"

You twisted from his grip, dress flaring. The direwolf clasp hit the stones with a clang that reverberated up your spine. "Yes, Rhae! Yes!" you spat, scooping up the garment with shaking hands. His fingers skimmed your waist as you turned...not grasping, just ghosting over the silk where Brandon's hands had rested hours before. The contact burned through layers of fabric, branding you hotter than any dragonflame.

Three mornings later, the yard bustled with Stark retainers and wheelhouses laden with Northern furs. You kissed your mother's perfumed cheek, endured your father's gruff pat on the shoulder. When Rhaegar materialized from the shadow of the stables, dawn painted his cheekbones in fractured gold. He'd dressed meticulously...black doublet buttoned to the throat, hair braided tight enough to pull at his temples. You forced yourself not to recoil when he stepped into your space, the scent of him clogging your throat.

"A parting gift" he murmured, pressing something cold into your palm. The ruby burned against your skin like a drop of dragonfire, its facets cutting crescents into your fingers when you clenched them. Too late, you noticed the silver band bore twin dragons...not snarling but coiled around each other in an endless embrace. His thumb brushed your knuckle where Brandon's ring sat, lingering just long enough for his pulse to jump beneath your touch.

You sighed...not the exasperated huff from the feast, but the weary sound of someone stepping into deep water. The ring glinted between you, accusation and plea fused in precious metal. When your fingers trembled, Rhaegar cradled them in both hands, bringing them to his lips like a man drinking from a holy font. Dawn caught the wetness on his lashes, turning each tear into liquid gold.

His hands only let go of your own to cradle your face...his thumbs traced your cheekbones with the reverence of a harpist tuning strings, pressing hard enough that you'd find the imprint later in your looking glass. The boy you'd shared a womb with gazed back at you...same violet eyes that had squinted against the Red Keep's glare during your first sword lesson, same lips that had trembled when Father scolded him for sneaking lemon cakes to your chambers. You loved this version of him desperately, even as your pulse thrummed a warning against his palms.

"I don't want your fear" he whispered, though his fingers twitched against your skin as if memorizing the flinch you didn't quite suppress. The ruby ring caught sunlight between you, its crimson glow painting his throat like a fresh wound. His exhale shuddered when you didn't pull away...when your own hands rose to frame his wrists, feeling the uneven throb beneath his skin.

The courtyard sounds faded, horses stamping, Stark men laughing, wheelhouse wheels grinding over gravel until only Rhaegar's breathing remained, ragged as a torn banner in a storm. You traced the silver scars on his knuckles from harp strings snapped too hard, remembering how he'd played lullabies when winter winds kept you awake as children. That boy still lived beneath the feverish grip and darkened eyes, the one who'd shared his cloak when you shivered at tourneys, who'd wept when your first pony died.

His thumbs stilled on your cheeks when you didn't flinch. The ruby ring weighed heavy as a crown, its dragons' tails twining around your finger like a plea. You exhaled slowly, watching his pupils dilate at the warmth of your breath against his lips. "I could never hate you" you murmured, and it was true, even now, with Brandon's cloak heavy on your shoulders and Rhaegar's desperation etching lines into his face. You pressed your forehead to his, feeling the tremble in his shoulders. "But this is goodbye, Rhae."

His fingers spasmed against your jaw, nails grazing skin. The ruby's glow painted his lower lip crimson when he spoke, a single bead of sweat or blood trembling there. "You will visit." Not a question, not a request, but carved from him like a confession. His tear fell first, tracing the hollow beneath his eye before catching on your thumb. It burned hotter than the gem between you. "Yes?" The word cracked open like overripe fruit, sweet and ruined.

You caught his tear with your own lashes, salt mingling where your cheeks nearly touched. The ruby's chain slithered between your fingers like a living thing, its weight dragging your hand downward until the band kissed your wedding ring. Twin dragons nipped at the direwolf's paws...possessive even in metal. When you inhaled sharply, his breath hitched in tandem, the shared air thick with unshed words.

"If I can" you whispered, three syllables that felt like treason and watched his pupils swallow violet whole. His thumb pressed into the hollow beneath your jaw, testing the lie's shape against your pulse. The ruby's chain tightened between you, silver links biting flesh as he leaned in close enough to taste your next breath. You didn't flinch when his lips brushed the corner of your lips, chaste as childhood, bitter as betrayal. "I will visit."

Three years had passed, you giggled daily with Brandon, while Rhaegar drowned himself in duties and training. You had not yet bore him children but trying was always fun...even now as you laid in nothing but furs on your stomach, staring at Brandon like he hung the stars. He was dressing and looking over ravens that arrived, one catching his eye: the royal seal, not the many from Rhaegar, but your father. The parchment crackled as he unfolded it, his brows knitting together over words you couldn't yet see.

"Your father wishes to know if we are attending the great tourney at Harrenhal" Brandon chuckled, tossing the letter onto the bedside table where it slid against a half empty cup of spiced wine. You hummed, picking at the loose threads of the furs beneath you, the coarse wool catching under your fingernails. Winterfell's drafts had long since seeped into your bones, but Brandon's warmth lingered in the sheets beside you, musky with pine and horse leather. "Do you want to?" His shadow stretched over you as he leaned down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades, his beard scratching pleasantly against your skin.

You rolled onto your back, letting the furs pool around your waist as the morning chill nipped at exposed skin. Brandon's fingers traced idle patterns down your ribs, pausing over the scar from a childhood fall, the one Rhaegar had kissed better with a stolen honey cake clutched in his small hands. The memory soured in your throat. "A tourney means southern lords" you murmured, catching Brandon's wrist before his wandering touch could distract you further. "Southern politics." His pulse jumped beneath your fingertips, steady as a war drum.

Brandon scoffed, flipping the furs back to reveal the muscled planes of his torso, still flushed from earlier exertions. "And?" He bent to retrieve his tunic from the floor, the movement stretching the scars along his shoulders like silvered spiderwebs. When he straightened, his grin flashed wolflike in the dim light. "You think some perfumed peacock can unsettle me?" His hands found your hips, hauling you upright until your noses brushed. The scent of him, leather and frost and last night's ale warmed your cheeks. "Or you, little dragon?"

You bit back laughter, fingers tangling in his unbraided hair. "Can my Northern lord to be handle southern lords?" you giggled, letting your knees bracket his thighs. The bed creaked ominously beneath you both, its frame carved with snarling direwolves now witnessing far gentler activities. Brandon's growl vibrated against your collarbone as he nipped the skin there, his hands sliding beneath your shift to rediscover familiar territory.

Outside, a stableboy shouted at wayward horses, the sound muffled by thick stone walls, yet still loud enough to make you flinch. Brandon froze with his lips pressed to your pulse point, exhaling hotly against the mark he'd left earlier. "Damn boy" he muttered, though his fingers still curled possessively around your ribs. You arched into his touch, deliberately grinding against the hardness straining his breeches. His groan was half frustration, half surrender.

The raven's scroll lay forgotten on the table, its wax seal cracked like a wound. You knew without reading it, knew in the way winter knows spring is a temporary reprieve that Rhaegar would be waiting at Harrenhal. His last letter had arrived moons ago, the ink smudged where wine or something darker had splattered over phrases like "sweet sister" and "longed for reunion." Brandon had tossed it into the hearth without comment, watching the parchment blacken with grim satisfaction.

Now his hands slid lower, calluses catching on the delicate skin of your inner thighs. "We'll go" he murmured against your throat, voice rough with more than morning desire. His teeth grazed your pulse point—not marking, but testing, as if memorizing the rhythm of your heartbeat for later comparison. "Let them see how a Stark loves his wife." The possessive growl in his words sent heat pooling low in your belly, but something colder coiled beneath it...the unspoken truth that this tourney was no mere spectacle.

Harrenhal's scorched towers loomed against a sky bleached white by summer heat. You emerged from the wheelhouse with a gasp, the southern sun branding your cheeks after years of Winterfell's pale light. Brandon's hand settled at the small of your back, steadying you as your slippers met ground baked hard as iron. "Gods" you laughed, shaking out skirts suddenly heavy with dust, "I'd forgotten how the south cooks you alive." The words tasted like stolen childhood, like lemon ices shared with Rhaegar under this same blistering sky.

Then you saw her.

Amidst the sea of silk and steel, Queen Rhaella stood like a specter of forgotten summers, her silver gold hair plaited tightly beneath a sheer veil, shoulders draped in Targaryen red that seemed to bleed into the scorched stones of Harrenhal. She turned just as your foot caught on an uneven cobble, her violet eyes widening a fraction before recognition softened them. You ran before realizing your legs had moved, silk slippers tearing on hot stone as childhood instinct overrode years of Northern decorum.

Her arms opened with the same slight hesitation as when you'd skinned your knees racing Rhaegar through the Red Keep's gardens. You collided with the scent of lemon and myrrh, her fingers trembling against your back, thinner than you remembered, the bones pressing sharp through brocade. "Little dragon" she breathed into your hair, and suddenly you were eight again, hiding tear streaked cheeks in her skirts after Aerys' first public rage.

The crowd's murmur swelled around you both, lords shifting uncomfortably at this breach of decorum, ladies whispering behind feathered fans. You barely noticed Brandon's approach until his shadow cooled your nape, his hand settling possessively on your waist. Rhaella withdrew with queenly grace, though her fingers lingered on your cheek. "You'll sit with us" she said, not a request, though her eyes flicked to Brandon's stony face. "Just for the first tilt."

You expected Brandon's refusal, the tightening of his grip. Instead, his thumb stroked the hollow above your hipbone, a silent concession. "As Her Grace commands" he rumbled, though his other hand flexed near his sword hilt.

The royal pavilion smelled of crushed mint and dragonflame, its silken walls embroidered with scenes of Aegon's Conquest. You hesitated at the threshold, suddenly aware of how Northern wool and braids marked you as foreign here. Then Rhaella's fingers twined with yours, tugging you forward with unexpected strength. "You'll want shade for your Northern skin" she murmured, arranging you beside her on cushions that still held the shape of another body.

"I'm still a Targaryen, Mother" you giggled, squeezing her hand, palms pressing together until you could feel the old callus from her needlework. The herald's voice boomed across the lists, rattling the jeweled cups on the table. When Rhaegar's name cut through the humid air, your spine straightened of its own accord. Across the field, his helm turned fractionally toward the stark box, the black dragon crest glinting like a threat and you knew he had looked for you already slumping on his horse at not seeing you beside Brandon.

The trumpets blared. Dust rose in golden clouds as destriers charged. You leapt to your feet without thinking, silk slippers crushing mint sprigs beneath you as Rhaegar's lance struck true, the impact shuddering through your ribs as if you'd taken the blow yourself. "Go Rhae!" The cry tore from your throat before you could stop it, childhood habit overriding years of Stark restraint. Brandon's laughter carried from across the yard, rich and unbothered. You turned just in time to see him standing broad shouldered amidst his bannermen, wolf pelts swaying as he caught your eye and mock-bowed. The kiss you blew him glittered in the sunlight, fingertips brushing lips still swollen from this morning's private moments.

Rhaella's grip tightened on your wrist, too sudden, too tight. You followed her gaze to where Rhaegar now wrenched off his helm, silver hair plastered to his temples with sweat. His violet eyes burned through the distance. The victorious rose in his hand crumpled as his gauntlet clenched, thorns drawing blood that dripped onto the sand like tiny prophecies before he was handed a flower crown to name the queen of love and beauty.

Brandon's laughter faltered when Rhaegar's destrier wheeled toward the Stark box, only to halt mid stride, his thighs flexing against black armor as he scanned empty seats. You saw his throat move as he swallowed hard, the dragon crest on his chest rising and falling too fast. He spurred his mount toward the Tyrell contingent, then the Lannisters, each pass more erratic until his horse reared at the royal pavilion's steps.

That's when he saw you.

The moment Rhaegar's gaze locked onto your face, half hidden behind Rhaella's gauzy veil, his entire body went still as a frozen river. The flower crown dangled forgotten from his fingers, blue petals brushing his armored thigh. You watched his chestplate hitch with a breath that didn't quite make it to his lungs, watched his lips shape your childhood nickname without sound. The horse beneath him sidestepped nervously, hooves kicking up dust that settled on his boots like tarnished gold.

Then he moved.

Rhaegar's destrier surged forward in a spray of golden dust, its hooves striking the scorched earth like war drums. The crowd's murmur swelled into gasps as he bypassed the Tyrell girl already rising with hopeful eyes, ignored the Lannister sister to Jaime smoothing her crimson skirts. You tasted iron, had bitten your tongue without realizing. The flower crown trembled in his grip, blue petals scattering like wounded butterflies as his armored knees pressed the horse faster, faster toward the royal pavilion's shimmering veils.

Beneath your ribs, something fluttered, not fear, not joy, but the visceral pull of shared blood when he vaulted from the saddle without waiting for a squire. Mint and sweat clung to him as he shoved past gaping lords, black gauntlets leaving smears on silk partitions. You saw the exact moment recognition flared in his eyes...pupils swallowing violet whole when your scent cut through the pavilion's perfumed haze. His breath hitched audibly, armor creaking as he swayed toward your voice's remembered cadence.

The crown of winter roses trembled in his grip, blue petals bruising under armored fingers. You barely had time to recoil before his gauntlet cradled your jaw, cold steel branding skin still tender from Brandon's morning stubble. "Rhae—" The protest died when thorny stems scraped your temple, the crown settling askew over Brandon's braids. His exhale warmed your lips, uneven as a dying man's prayer. Up close, you saw what the crowds missed: the raw skin around his nails, the tremor in his sword hand when the herald bellowed your title to the realm.

Silk rustled as Rhaella stiffened beside you, her gasp lost beneath the crowd's rising murmur. Rhaegar's thumb traced the shell of your ear...a childhood gesture now weighted with desperate possession. You smelled the sour wine on his breath, saw the cracked skin of his lower lip where he'd bitten through during the joust. When his gauntlet slid to your nape, the metal caught strands of hair, pulling sharp enough to blur your vision with tears. "Look at me" he whispered, and it wasn't a request, it was the boy who'd once dragged you from nightmares, now drowning in his own.

The announcer's voice boomed across the field, syllables stretching unnaturally "Prince Rhaegar Targaryen names his beloved sister, The Princess of the realm!" The words curdled in the summer heat, twisting into something forbidden as Rhaegar leaned closer, his breastplate pressing cold against your bodice. A petal drifted from the crooked crown into your lap, its blue vivid against Targaryen red. You remembered gathering these same flowers with Brandon in Winterfell's glass gardens, his rough fingers guiding yours around the thorns. Now Rhaegar's exhale hitched at the memory haunting your face, his armored fingers flexing against your scalp.

You stumbled back instinctively, but his free hand caught your waist through layers of silk, iron grip contradicting the gentleness of his nose nuzzling your hairline. The scent of him flooded your senses: steel polish, Dornish wine, and beneath it all, the faintest trace of the lemon verbena soap you'd shared as children. His thumb swiped your cheekbone, the metal strangely warm now from his feverish skin. "You smell different" he murmured against your temple, the words vibrating through your skull. "Less like home."

The crowd's murmurs sharpened into gasps as his armored fingers traced your jaw, too intimate for siblings, too reverent for propriety. You felt his uneven breaths gusting against your earlobe, each exhale shaking his chestplate where it pressed against yours. His other hand slid lower, spanning your back beneath the pretense of steadying you. The armored ridges dug into your spine through thin fabric, a cage of his making.

Brandon's growl cut through the pavilion's tension like Valyrian steel. He shouldered past the gaping Tyrell heir, boots kicking up dust as he closed the distance in five strides. You saw his hand flex toward Ice's hilt, an instinctive motion before he forced it open to snatch your wrist instead. The direwolf ring bit into Rhaegar's gauntlet as Brandon wrenched you backward. "She's had enough of your spectacle" he snarled, your elbow popping in his grip.

Rhaegar's gauntlet remained suspended in the air, fingers twitching around the ghost of your jaw. His pupils were blown wide...black consuming violet until only a thin ring remained. The silence stretched like a bowstring until his lips peeled back from teeth in something too feral to be called a smile. "My Good Brother Stark" he breathed, the words syrup slow, "you mistake my affection."

Brandon didn't release your wrist. You felt his pulse hammering against your thumb where it pressed against his veins, wild as a trapped stag. Behind you, Rhaella's chair scraped the pavilion's marble floor, her perfume sharpening with alarm. The scent of crushed mint rose between you three as Rhaegar took a deliberate step forward, his armored boot eclipsing the fallen petals.

"He only misses his sister" Rhaella's voice cut through the tension like Valyrian steel through silk, her frail hand settling on Rhaegar's pauldron. The dragon scales bit into her palm as she physically restrained him, an absurd sight, the delicate queen anchoring her armored son. His nostrils flared at her touch, the tendons in his neck standing rigid beneath sweat damp silver hair.

You swallowed, tasting the lie as it left your lips "He hasn't seen me in years." The words curdled between your teeth, heavy with all the unsaid letters, the wine-stained parchment Brandon burned. Rhaella's gaze flickered to your throbbing wrist still captive in Brandon's grip then back to Rhaegar's twitching fingers. Her own trembled, the same way they had when she'd sewn up the gashes Aerys left on your nursemaid.

Brandon's laugh was a winter wind cutting through the pavilion's perfumed haze. He didn't glance at Rhaegar when he spoke, just tightened his grip and turned, hauling you stumbling into the sunlight. "Come, wife" he growled, fingers sliding up to lace with yours in a mockery of tenderness that made your knuckles grind together. "Your brother's spectacle bores me." His thumb dug into your pulse point, a silent command to walk faster.

The feast hall throbbed with heat from a hundred torches, their light glinting off silver goblets and the sweat slicked throats of revelers. Brandon spun you into the dance with deliberate care, your slippers skidding on wine spilled stone. When his teeth nipped your earlobe mid turn, the sting barely registered, your gaze snagged on violet eyes watching from the high table. Rhaegar's fingers curled around his untouched chalice, wine dripping between his fingers like blood from a fresh kill.

The music swelled, strings thrumming through the humid air as Brandon twirled you away from him with a final possessive squeeze of your fingers. You spun, laughing breathlessly, the world blurring into streaks of torchlight and silks until strong arms caught you mid motion, not Brandon’s familiar grip. Rhaegar’s face swam into focus above you, his lips parted around unspoken words, his arms lifting you clear off the ground as if you weighed nothing. No armor now just the thin barrier of a black velvet doublet stretched taut over his chest, his heartbeat thudding against your ribs where he crushed you to him. The heat of him seared through your gown, his fingers splaying possessively across the small of your back where Brandon’s hand had rested moments before.

You squeaked in protest, heels skidding uselessly against the flagstones as he dragged you backward into the shadowed archway. "Rhae—stop—" The plea dissolved into a gasp as his mouth found your jawline, teeth scraping the sensitive skin beneath your ear. His breath hitched wetly against your throat, fingers knotting in your skirts hard enough to tear seams. "Missed you" he slurred against your pulse, the words thickened by wine and something darker. His tongue traced the shell of your ear, too intimate, too familiar before his lips sealed over the spot Brandon had bitten that morning, sucking harshly as if to overwrite the mark.

The music crested around you in waves, masking your panicked inhale when his knee slid between your thighs. Velvet clad muscles flexed against your inner leg as he rocked forward...once, twice...the motion unmistakable even through layers of silk. His groan vibrated through your collarbones when you shoved against his chest, your wedding band catching the torchlight between you like a challenge. "You're drunk" you hissed, twisting to spot Brandon across the hall, but Rhaegar's palm caged your cheek, forcing your gaze back to his dilated pupils.

"Not drunk enough" he murmured, thumb swiping your lower lip hard enough to sting. His other hand slid from your waist to your hipbone, fingers digging in like he wanted to carve through flesh to touch the marrow. When you jerked away, his grip tightened painfully, pulling you flush against the evidence of his arousal straining against black velvet. The scent of Arbor Gold soured on his breath as he nosed along your hairline, inhaling sharply as if memorizing the traces of Winterfell's pine soap still clinging to your braids. "You reek of him."

You twisted again, nails scraping his wrist, hard enough to draw blood this time but he only laughed, low and broken, before pressing his bleeding skin to your lips. "Taste." he whispered, smearing copper across your mouth, "still the same blood, little dragon." The hall's torchlight caught the ruby chain tangled around your wedding ring, its crimson glow pulsing like a fresh wound between you. His pupils dilated further when you spit against his palm, your saliva mingling with his blood in a grotesque parody of shared childhood cuts kissed better.

Then, shockingly, he recoiled as if burned.

Rhaegar's fingers twitched away from your lips...the same fingers that had moments ago pressed his own blood into your mouth, now hovering in the air between you like a man waking from a dream. His chest rose and fell erratically beneath the velvet doublet, the fabric dark with sweat where your palms had pushed against him. "I… need time." he rasped, the words cracking down the middle like overstrained harp strings. A muscle leapt in his jaw as he took one stumbling step backward, then another, his boot heels scraping against stone. You watched, frozen, as his gaze flickered from your torn skirts to his gifted ruby ring still coiled around your wedding ring...dragons' teeth biting direwolf sigils, before he turned sharply on his heel and vanished into the torchlit hall.

You found yourself running before conscious thought caught up, silk slippers slipping on spilled wine, elbows jostling past laughing lords until you collided with Brandon's solid bulk near the mead barrels. His hands closed around your shoulders before you could speak, one calloused thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek you hadn't realized was there. "What in seven hells—" His voice dropped to a growl when he saw the reddened skin beneath your ear, the smeared blood on your mouth. His nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, wolf scenting dragon and you saw the exact moment he understood... his grip tightening painfully before he forcibly relaxed his fingers. "We're leaving" he ground out, tossing his untouched ale to a startled squire. His palm slid down to clasp your shaking hand, fingers interlacing with bruising pressure as he shouldered through the crowd.

You barely registered the walk back to your chambers, only the way Brandon kept glancing at your face, his jaw working silently, the vein in his temple pulsing with each choked-back growl. When the oak door slammed behind you, he finally released your hand to frame your face instead, thumbs tracing the paths your tears had carved. His breath smelled of wintermint and barely leashed fury. "Did he—" Brandon's voice cracked on the unspoken violation, his eyes darting to your rumpled skirts, the ruby chain still tangled around your wedding ring. You shook your head sharply, fresh tears welling when his shoulders slumped in momentary relief before tensing again.

Brandon's fingers found the ruby necklace first, the one Rhaegar had clasped around your throat years ago in the gods wood. The delicate chain snapped between his calloused fingers like spider silk, crimson gems scattering across the rush strewn floor like drops of blood. His hands shook as they moved to the dragon ring coiled around your wedding band, the metal screeching in protest as he wrenched it free and hurled it against the hearth. The sound it made striking stone was the same as Rhaegar's gauntlet hitting sand...final, hollow.

"You're trembling." Brandon's observation came out gravel rough, his palms sliding down your arms to chafe warmth back into your skin. His touch lingered where Rhaegar's had gripped hardest, fingertips pressing just shy of pain into the bruises already forming beneath silk. The scent of him...pine needles and sword oil wrapped around you like a fortress wall when he abruptly pulled you against his chest. You felt his heart hammering through layers of wool and leather, erratic as a spooked stallion's. "I should take his fucking head."

The confession hissed against your hair, jagged with the violence Brandon usually tempered around you. His fingers threaded through your braids with forced gentleness, pausing when they caught on strands yanked loose by Rhaegar's gauntlets. You inhaled sharply as he worked the tangle free, his hands knew your hair as well as his own sword hilt, every twist and pin a remembered intimacy. Now they moved with methodical precision, unraveling each silver fair plait until your hair spilled loose down your back. A claiming in reverse.

His lips brushed your temple where Rhaegar's armor had left a bruise blooming beneath the skin. Brandon exhaled against it, warm breath soothing the ache before reaching for the washbasin. The water sloshed violently as he dunked the cloth, his reflection fracturing in the ripples. When he scrubbed at your mouth, the linen scraped raw over skin still tender from Rhaegar's thumb. "Look at me" Brandon murmured, tipping your chin up. His pupils swallowed grey whole as he wiped away the last copper streaks...your brother's blood, your shared lineage, until only your own lips remained.

He peeled the torn gown from your shoulders with a hunter's patience, callouses catching on silk. The fabric sighed apart like a slain beast's pelt, pooling at your feet to reveal the constellation of fingerprints purpling your waist. Brandon's throat worked silently as he traced them with the damp cloth, each pass lighter than the last until his touch was only warmth. When his fingers skimmed the hollow of your throat, you felt his pulse leap against your skin where his wrist brushed you.

The wash water tinted pink where he rinsed the cloth, swirling with flecks of gold from Rhaegar's ruined signet ring. Brandon's jaw clenched when he found a smear of blood behind your ear, rust bright against silver hair, his thumb swiping it away with a roughness that made you gasp. "Didn't mean to" he muttered, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath smelled of the mint leaves he'd chewed raw since the feast, overlaying the iron tang of fury. You watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed whatever curses strained behind his teeth.

The nightgown slid over your head with unexpected gentleness, linen whispering against your flushed skin. Brandon's knuckles grazed your ribs as he tugged the fabric down, too carefully, like handling shattered glass. The sleeves swallowed your hands whole, embroidered direwolves frolicking along cuffs that had once brushed your wrists. You remembered sewing those stitches by Winterfell's hearth, Brandon's laughter warm on your neck as you pricked your finger for the third time. Now his fingers lingered at the laces, tying them with deliberate slowness, as if each knot anchored him to this moment.

He exhaled sharply through his nose when you swayed, your knees still liquid from shock and caught your elbow. The bed dipped beneath his weight as he guided you backward onto furs that smelled of home, his palm cradling your head like something precious. Moonlight caught the scar bisecting his eyebrow, the one he'd earned defending your honor in a melee years ago. You reached for it instinctively, your thumb brushing the raised flesh, and felt his breath hitch.

Brandon caught your wrist midair, not restraining, just holding and pressed your palm flat over his heart. The linen of your nightgown whispered between you, its fabric worn thin from countless washings at Winterfell. His pulse jackhammered against your fingers, erratic as hooves on frozen lake ice. You watched his throat work as he swallowed...once, twice...before leaning in to press his lips to your forehead. The kiss lingered, his stubble scratching your temple, his breath warm through the fabric covering your shoulder.

"I will speak to your brother tomorrow" he murmured against your skin, each word deliberate. His fingers flexed around yours, squeezing until the bones ached, not punishment, but grounding. "As men." A muscle leapt in his jaw when you whimpered. His thumb swiped under your eye, catching a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. "Gods be good, as much as I want to tear his head off, he is a prince of the realm." The admission tasted like gall on his tongue; you saw it in the way his mouth twisted. "I'll inform your father." His grip shifted, not releasing, just adjusting to trace the veins in your wrist with calloused fingertips.

You don't remember falling asleep, only the wet heat of Brandon's breath against your nape, his arm slung possessively over your waist, fingers tangled in your nightgown. Then...crashing. A scream ripped from your throat before you were fully awake, eyes struggling to focus in the pitch dark chamber. Brandon's roar of your name shattered the stillness, followed by the sickening thud of flesh meeting stone. Silver flashed in the moonlight, Rhaegar atop Brandon, his face a mask of feral desperation, the glint of steel in both their hands. "Run!" Brandon snarled, blood spraying from his split lip as he bucked upward, driving an elbow into Rhaegar's ribs. The sound of tearing fabric mingled with Rhaegar's guttural snarl as you scrambled backward, legs tangling in furs.

Your bare feet hit freezing stone as you lunged for the door only to freeze at the glint of white plate armor blocking the threshold. Ser Oswell Whent's sword barred your path, his expression unreadable beneath the helm. Behind you, Rhaegar gasped something that might have been your name, his voice ragged with pain and something darker. Brandon's answering growl was cut short by the wet crunch of impact. You whirled in time to see Rhaegar's dagger hilt deep in Brandon's thigh, his other hand pinning your husband's wrist to the floor with inhuman strength. Moonlight caught the madness in your brother's eyes, violet irises nearly swallowed by black as he wrenched the blade free and staggered upright.

"Stop!" Your voice shattered on the word, raw as the wound you watched pulse red down Brandon's leg. Rhaegar froze mid step, his blood slick fingers twitching toward you. The dagger clattered to the floor between you, its Valyrian steel edge singing against stone. In that suspended heartbeat, you saw the boy who'd wept when you scraped your knee at six before his face contorted into something unrecognizable.

Ser Oswell's gauntlet closed around your wrist like a manacle, jerking you backward into the corridor. Cold torchlight licked the tears on your face as you twisted against his grip, silk nightgown tearing at the shoulder seam. Brandon's roar of your name echoed off the vaulted ceilings, then cut off with a wet choke. You turned in time to see Rhaegar's elbow slam into his throat, your brother's usually elegant hands moving with brutal precision.

"Please—Rhae—" The plea tore from your lips as Rhaegar snatched up the fallen dagger. Moonlight ran like mercury down the Valyrian steel as he flipped the blade in one fluid motion. You screamed when it plunged downward, scrambling against Ser Oswell's iron grip, but the dagger's hilt struck Brandon's temple with a sickening crack, not its edge. Your husband's body went slack beneath Rhaegar's knees, blood blooming through silver gold hair like winter roses in snow.

Rhaegar's breath came in ragged gulps as he stared at the unconscious man beneath him, fingers flexing around the dagger hilt. A droplet of Brandon's blood slid down the blade to pool in the hollow of Rhaegar's thumb...the same thumb that had once wiped honey from your chin when you were children. His violet eyes flickered to you, dilated pupils swallowing the torchlight whole. "Had to" he panted, swiping his bleeding knuckles across his mouth. "Wouldn't… wouldn't stop—"

You lunged past Ser Oswell's armored bulk, your knees skidding across cold stone to Brandon's side. Your fingers trembled against his neck, searching for a pulse through the slick warmth. The vein did not flutter beneath your touch as you pressed your forehead to his, whispering his name like a prayer.

Behind you, Rhaegar staggered upright, his fine velvet tunic torn at the collar, revealing the obsidian pendant you'd given him for his sixteenth name day. His breath hitched when you turned to face him, your nails raking bloody furrows down his arms as you shoved him back. "You promised" you choked out, the words ragged with betrayal.

Ser Oswell's gauntlet clamped around your waist, hauling you backward as Rhaegar surged forward. His fingers tangled in your hair, not tugging, just holding as his forehead pressed to yours with bruising force. "You don't understand" he whispered, his voice cracking like ice underfoot. "He was taking you away—" His thumb traced the apple of your cheek, smearing Brandon's blood across your skin. The gesture was almost tender, if not for the wildness in his eyes.

Your fists struck his chest with dull thuds, the blows growing weaker as exhaustion set in. The scent of iron clung to his chest plate, mingling with the sour tang of wine still heavy on his breath. "Wake up" you pleaded to the still form on the floor, voice fraying at the edges. "Brandon, please—" Rhaegar flinched at the name, his fingers tightening reflexively in your hair. Moonlight caught the tear tracks cutting through the blood on his face, his lips moving soundlessly as if rehearsing some long dead lullaby.

A sudden clatter of armor outside shattered the moment, boots pounding on stone, distant shouts echoing through Harrenhal's twisted corridors. Rhaegar's head snapped up, nostrils flaring like a stag catching scent of hounds. Ser Oswell's grip on you tightened fractionally before he abruptly released you to draw his sword, the steel singing against the scabbard. "My prince" he rasped, helm turning toward the doorway where torchlight now flickered wildly.

You barely registered the scrap of silk before it filled your mouth, Rhaegar's torn sleeve, still warm from his skin and reeking of wine and iron. His fingers trembled against your cheek as he knotted it behind your head, the fabric stretching taut between your teeth. The last thing you saw before being flipped upside down was Brandon's limp hand twitching in a pool of his own blood, fingers curling as if reaching for your discarded nightgown.

Air rushed past your ears as Rhaegar threw you over his shoulder, your ribs slamming against his pauldron with each jarring step. The makeshift gag muffled your screams into wet, animal noises that burned your throat. Torchlight strobed across stone walls as Ser Oswell led them through secret passages, the knight's white cloak flaring like a surrender flag in the draft. You tasted wool and copper where the gag had rubbed your gums raw, your vision blurring with every impact against Rhaegar's armored back.

Then...cold. The shock of night air slapped your sweat slicked skin as they burst into the courtyard. You twisted against Rhaegar's grip, your bare feet kicking empty air, and saw him. Arthur Dayne stood silhouetted against a black carriage, Dawn's pale blade resting across his saddle like a fallen moonbeam. His fingers tightened on the reins when your eyes met, the horses stamping nervously as your muffled sob cut through the stillness. The Sword of the Morning didn't avert his gaze...didn't even blink, as Rhaegar dumped you into the carriage like a sack of grain. Moonlight caught the shame tightening Arthur's jaw, but his stance never wavered.

"You'll understand" Rhaegar panted, ripping the sleeve from his own tunic with a sickening tear of fabric. The silk whispered against your wrists as he bound them...too tight, then loosening slightly when you whimpered. His fingers lingered at the pulse point, thumb pressing into the vein as if counting each frantic beat. "I'm sorry" he murmured, the words slurring together with wine and something worse. His breath hitched when you flinched, the apology curdling in his throat as he moved to your ankles. The knots were precise, almost delicate, the same ones he'd used to tie your dancing slippers when you were children playing at court.

Moonlight bled through the carriage curtains, painting Rhaegar's profile in silver and shadow. His lips moved silently, rehearsing words that died unspoken as his gaze traced the tear tracks cutting through Brandon's blood on your face. You tasted iron where the gag had split your lip, the metallic tang mingling with the sour remnants of wine still clinging to your tongue. His fingers twitched toward your cheek hesitant, trembling, before jerking back as if burned.

The carriage lurched violently, tossing you against Rhaegar's chest. His armor dug into your ribs as he caught you, his exhale shuddering against your temple. "Easy" he murmured, the command aimed at the horses or himself, you couldn't tell. His palm cradled your head with absurd gentleness, fingertips skimming the bruise blooming beneath your hairline. The contradiction made your stomach heave: this careful touch from the same hands that had shattered Brandon's knee with a dagger hilt moments earlier.

Moonlight revealed the ruin of your reflection in Rhaegar's breastplate, your silver hair streaked crimson where Brandon's blood had dried in sticky ropes, your cheeks smudged with dirt and tears and fingerprints that weren't your own. The sight broke something in you. A sob tore from your throat, muffled by the silk still stuffed between your teeth. Rhaegar flinched as if struck, his gauntlets clattering to the carriage floor when he reached for the gag. "Shh" he whispered, working the knot loose with trembling fingers. The soaked fabric peeled away with a sickening tug, taking flecks of skin with it.

The carriage jolted over uneven terrain, tossing you against the bench. Rhaegar caught your shoulders, too hard at first, then gentler when you whimpered, his thumbs brushing the hollows beneath your collarbones. Moonlight caught the sweat-slick hollow of his throat as he shrugged out of his pauldrons, the straps hissing against boiled leather. Piece by piece, the dragon prince dismantled himself... gorget, vambraces, cuirass until only a sweat darkened linen tunic remained, clinging to the sharp angles of his torso. The sight was obscenely intimate, this striptease of war turning him back into the boy who'd once braided flowers into your hair.

You scrambled backward until your spine met cold wood, knees drawn tight against your chest. The space between you yawned like an open grave...too vast and too small all at once. Somewhere beyond the rattling carriage walls, Brandon's blood was cooling on Harrenhal's stones. You pressed your forehead to your knees, inhaling the fading scent of pine needles still caught in the fabric of your nightgown. The memory of his fingers working through your braids hours earlier twisted like a knife between your ribs.

Rhaegar's breath hitched when you flinched from his outstretched hand, his fingers curling into a fist midair. Moonlight carved hollows beneath his eyes, making him look feverish. "He's not dead." he rasped, though the words sounded uncertain even to his own ears. His knuckles brushed your shin...once...twice...before retreating. "Just…sleeping." The lie tasted like bile on his tongue. You stared at the blood crusted beneath his fingernails, remnants of Brandon's life flaking onto the carriage floor with every tremor of his hands.

The scream tore from your throat before you could choke it back. Your fists struck his chest with dull, meaty thuds...once, twice...before aiming higher. Your nails found purchase in the tender skin beneath his jaw, raking downward until scarlet beads welled in their wake. Rhaegar didn't block the blows, merely absorbing each impact with a pained grunt. His head snapped back when your palm connected with his cheekbone, the sharp crack echoing off the carriage walls. A drop of blood splattered onto your thigh where his split lip had reopened, warm as fresh ink on parchment.

"You stabbed him!" The accusation ripped from you raw as a fresh wound, your voice cracking mid sentence. Your fingers tangled in the laces of his tunic, twisting the fabric until his collarbones whitened beneath the strain. The memory of Brandon's skull yielding beneath Valyrian steel flashed behind your eyelids...the awful wet crunch, the way his body had gone slack like a marionette with severed strings. Rhaegar's hands hovered near your wrists, not restraining, just trembling. His breath came in ragged bursts against your forehead, each exhale sour with wine and something darker...fear, or madness, or both.

The carriage lurched violently, tossing you against his chest. His ribs felt too sharp beneath your palms, his heartbeat erratic against your knuckles. Moonlight caught the tear tracks cutting through the grime on his cheeks, making him look like some shattered statue weeping silver. "You stabbed him" you repeated, softer now, the words crumbling to ash in your mouth. Your fingers uncurled from his tunic slowly, leaving behind crescent shaped impressions in the linen. The fabric smelled of sweat and iron and the myrrh soap Rhaella used to bathe you both as children.

Rhaegar's breath hitched when your palm flattened against his sternum, not pushing away, just resting there, where his pulse rabbited beneath skin. His fingers twitched toward your wrist, then recoiled as if burned. "It is because I love you, sister." he rasped, his voice fraying at the edges like torn silk.

The words tumbled out in a rush, wine sour and desperate, as he caged you against the carriage wall with quick, jerky movements. His thigh pressed between yours with bruising familiarity, the heat of him searing through the thin nightgown. "I've waited years—" his thumb swiped across your bottom lip, smearing Brandon's blood that had dried there "—for you to realize you love me. We were made together." His other hand tangled in your hair, not pulling, just holding, his fingertips skating over the tender spot where Brandon's kiss had lingered hours earlier. "For each other."

The carriage hit a rut, bouncing you hard enough to make your teeth click together. Rhaegar caught your chin with his free hand, tilting your face up until moonlight caught the tear tracks. His pupils swallowed the violet of his irises whole, black as the space between stars. "You'll see..." he murmured, dragging his nose along your temple in a mockery of affection. The scent of him...wine and iron and that damn myrrh soap, clung to your skin like a second layer of filth. His lips brushed your earlobe, whisper soft. "When we reach the tower, you'll understand." The promise slithered down your spine, cold as a dagger's edge.

His fingers traced the arch of your collarbone, not groping, just mapping as if memorizing the topography of your terror. You jerked away, shoulder slamming into the carriage wall. Rhaegar exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand hovering midair before curling into a fist. The restraint was worse than violation... you saw the effort in the tendons of his neck, the sweat beading along his hairline. His thigh tensed beneath yours where he'd pinned you, the muscle rigid as castle forged steel. "I could..." he said very quietly, thumb stroking the pulse rabbiting in your throat. His breath hitched when you whimpered. "Gods know I could take you right here." The admission hung between you, ripe and rotten.

Moonlight caught the sweat slick hollow of his throat as he swallowed hard, his free hand fumbling with the laces of his breeches. You braced for the worst until his fingers stilled abruptly. A ragged laugh escaped him as he retied the strings with meticulous care, knuckles whitening. "No" he murmured, more to himself than you, pressing his forehead to your trembling shoulder. His lips moved against your skin, forming words too fractured to decipher. The carriage jolted over a rut, grinding his hardened length against your thigh. He groaned...half agony, half ecstasy...before wrenching himself back with a violence that left his tunic torn at the shoulder seam.

His fingertips traced the curve of your knee through the ruined nightgown, skating higher until your choked sob halted him. The sound seemed to wound him physically...he recoiled as if branded, hissing through clenched teeth. "Not here" he repeated like a prayer, his fingers flexing inches from your bare skin. You watched his self-control unravel in real time, the tremors wracking his arms, the way his hips jerked forward involuntarily when your legs shifted. A drop of sweat slid down his temple. His nostrils flared when your scent reached him...fear and pine needles and something inherently you that made his pupils swallow the last remnants of violet whole.

The carriage wheels hit mud with a sickening lurch. Rhaegar's forearm braced against the wall above your head, caging you without contact, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Moonlight carved hollows beneath his cheekbones, revealing the frantic pulse beneath his skin. His free hand hovered near your throat, not threatening, just mesmerized by the flutter beneath your jaw. "When we arrive" he whispered, thumb brushing an escaped tear, "I'll wash the blood from your hair myself." The intimacy of the promise slithered down your spine. His lips parted, whether to apologize or justify, you'd never know.

The Tower of Joy loomed against the bruised dawn sky, its pale stones stained pink with sunrise. Arthur Dayne dismounted silently, Dawn's blade catching the light as he turned toward the carriage. Rhaegar's fingers flexed near your bound wrists before withdrawing entirely. "You'll learn to love this place" he murmured, pressing his forehead to the carriage wall beside your ear. His exhale fogged the wood before he wrenched the door open. Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of lemon trees and something faintly metallic beneath.

Your legs buckled upon standing, the blood rushing from your head in a dizzying wave. Rhaegar caught you before your knees could meet the dirt, his grip tightening around your ribs when you recoiled. The movement pulled the binds taut around your wrists, the silk biting into flesh already raw from the journey. A choked noise escaped you, half sob, half laugh as you realized the irony, the same knots he'd once used to secure your nameday gifts now held you captive. Your vision swam with exhaustion and unshed tears, the world tilting dangerously as you took in the tower's imposing silhouette. The windows stared back like hollow eyes.

"I want to go home" you mumbled, the words scraping against your throat like broken glass. Three days without speaking to him had turned your voice into something unrecognizable...hoarse and brittle, a far cry from the lilting tones that used to tease him in the Red Keep's gardens. Rhaegar's breath hitched at the sound, his fingers flexing against your waist. You felt his hesitation in the way his thumbs brushed the dip of your hipbones, too gently, always too gently before remembering himself and tightening his hold. Dawn's first rays painted the tower's stones in shades of fire opal, making the blood crusted beneath your nails glow like garnets.

The scent of lemons was overwhelming here, cloying and sweet where it clung to the courtyard's flowering trees. It made your stomach turn. Back home...Brandon's home...the air smelled of pine and cold earth, of the ironwood bedframe you'd carved your initials into together. You pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth, trying to summon the memory of Winterfell's crisp air, but all you tasted was Rhaegar's myrrh soap and the metallic tang of the gag he'd stuffed between your teeth during the nights you screamed too much.

Arthur's white cloak fluttered as he approached, Dawn's pommel catching the dawn light. He wouldn't meet your eyes. "The chambers are prepared, Your Grace" he said stiffly, his voice rougher than you remembered. Rhaegar's grip on your waist tightened...possessive, triumphant, before he forced himself to loosen it. His fingers traced idle circles through the thin nightgown, the fabric long gone translucent with sweat and travel filth.

The first stair stole your breath. Your bare foot slipped on the smooth stone, still damp with morning dew. Rhaegar caught you effortlessly, his arm sliding beneath your knees as he lifted you against his chest. "Careful, sweet sister" he murmured into your hair. His lips brushed your temple...too close to Brandon's last kiss and you went rigid. The tower's spiral steps wound upward like a dragon's tail, each turn pressing your bound wrists harder between your body and Rhaegar's. You counted steps to keep from screaming. Twenty. Twenty-one. The number Brandon's age would've been come winter.

At the thirty seventh step, Rhaegar paused. Moonlight bled through an arrow slit, painting his throat in silver as he swallowed hard. You felt the bob of his Adam's apple against your forehead. His grip shifted subtly, one hand sliding higher up your thigh, fingers splaying wide over the bruise he'd left three nights prior. "Almost there" he breathed, more to himself than you. The words slithered between your ribs, venomous with promise.

"Undress, sister." Rhaegar's murmur skated along your nape as he nudged you forward. His breath hitched when your hands fisted in the ruined nightgown, knuckles whitening against wine stained silk. The fabric tore further with your tremors. "Rhaegar, please—" Your voice cracked mid plea, raw from screaming. He exhaled through his nose, gesturing to the bath with a jerk of his chin. "Undress." Not a request. No more requests.

You pressed your back to the cold stone wall, shaking your head. "I…I have no clothes here—" Rhaegar groaned, half frustration, half arousal and reached for the gown's remaining laces himself. "I've had clothes brought" he muttered, fingers catching on knots Brandon had tied just hours before the attack. The silk parted with a sigh, pooling at your feet like shed skin.

The scent of lavender and lemon oil thickened as you stepped into the tub...too hot, scalding but you welcomed the burn. Anything to scour Brandon's blood from your skin. Rose petals clung to your thighs as you sank deeper, their velvet softness mocking against the bruises Rhaegar's grip had left.

Water lapped at your chin when you finally dared to look up. Rhaegar stood frozen by the hearth, his shadow stretching grotesquely across the tower walls. Moonlight caught the sweat slick hollow of his throat as he swallowed hard, his fingers flexing at his sides. The way he stared...not at your nakedness, but at the steam rising from your shoulders made your stomach twist. His breath came in ragged bursts, fogging the silver gorget he'd refused to remove.

You sank deeper until the water blurred your vision, turning him into a smudge of black and silver. Rose petals clung to your lower lip when you exhaled, their cloying sweetness mingling with the copper tang of Brandon's blood still crusted beneath your nails. The heat should've scalded, but you felt nothing beyond the weight of Rhaegar's gaze tracing the curve of your submerged knees.

A metallic clink shattered the illusion of privacy. Your head snapped up, water sloshing over the rim as Rhaegar's gorget hit the floor with a hollow echo. Moonlight licked the exposed column of his throat where the armor had chafed raw, pink as a fresh wound. Your breath hitched when his fingers moved to the clasps of his greaves, each buckle popping open with deliberate slowness. The sound was obscenely intimate, like the rasp of a knife being drawn from its sheath.

You pressed deeper into the tub's far corner as his tunic joined the growing pile, the linen sticking to his sweat damp torso before peeling away with a wet sound. The scars you remembered, thin white lines from childhood mishaps were now interspersed with newer, angrier marks. His hands hesitated at his breeches laces, knuckles whitening before loosening the knots with a sharp tug. The fabric pooled at his ankles, revealing the hard length of him standing proud against his stomach. You looked away too late, the image seared behind your eyelids like a brand.

"I…I wish to be alone… please" you begged, voice cracking as water sloshed over the rim with your recoil. The plea tasted like ash, knowing it would change nothing. Rhaegar hummed, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he stepped into the tub's opposite end. Water displaced around his thighs in slow waves, the surface tension breaking with a sound like a sigh. "I told you I'd wash your hair" he murmured, reaching for the lavender oil with trembling fingers. The vial clinked against the copper edge before tipping its contents into his palm. The scent exploded between you, cloying where it mingled with the metallic tang of your fear.

His fingertips grazed your scalp, tentative at first, then firmer as he worked the oil through tangled strands. You shuddered when his nails scraped the nape of your neck, the sensation too close to how Brandon used to— The thought shattered as Rhaegar's grip tightened abruptly, his breath hitching against your temple. "Don't" he rasped, fingers tightening in your hair just shy of pain. The water rippled between your bodies as he shifted closer, his knees bumping yours beneath the surface. Rose petals swirled in the disturbance, clinging to his forearms where they emerged dripping from the water.

"That's enough, Rhae—" you started, only to squeal when he abandoned your hair entirely to drag you forward by the hips. The sudden motion sent water sloshing over the rim, pooling on the floor beneath the tub with a hollow splash. Your knees collided with his thighs as he pulled you flush against him, the heat of his skin searing through the rapidly cooling water. His erection pressed against your inner thigh, twitching when you instinctively tried to wrench away. "No—look at me" he demanded, fingers digging into the soft flesh above your hips hard enough to bruise. His breath came in ragged bursts, stirring the wet strands clinging to your cheek.

You flinched when his thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts, not groping, just hovering as his pupils started swallowing the last remnants of violet whole. "I don't want to—" The protest died in your throat as his grip tightened abruptly, pulling you closer still until your nipples grazed his chest. His lips parted, not to kiss, just to exhale sharply against your mouth, his breath mingling with yours. "You do." he insisted, voice cracking mid syllable as his thumbs swept upward in slow, deliberate arcs. The calluses left by years of swordplay caught on your peaked nipples, drawing a whimper you hadn't intended to give.

His groan was half frustration, half arousal when you twisted violently, knees slamming against the copper sides and water sloshed over the rim in great, glistening arcs. The sound of it hitting the floor echoed through the chamber like rainfall. "Enough." he gritted out, clamping a hand over your mouth with enough force to make your teeth ache. His other hand slid between your thighs, fingers pressing insistently against your entrance even as you bucked against him. The apology came muffled against your temple..."Didn't want to do it this fast, sweet sister" before his hips jerked forward without further warning.

The stretch burned. You screamed against his palm, the sound dampened to a pathetic whimper as he bottomed out with a shuddering exhale. Rose petals clung to his collarbones where they'd splashed upward, their crushed scent mingling with the iron tang of your bitten tongue. His grip on your jaw shifted, thumb pressing into the hinge painfully as he pulled out just enough to thrust back in with deliberate slowness. Water lapped at your ribs with each movement, sloshing in time with his ragged breaths.

"See?" Rhaegar panted against your temple, his free hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with calloused fingers. The dual stimulation wrenched a sob from your throat, half pleasure, half anguish as your traitorous hips twitched upward. His laugh was broken, triumphant, as he pressed deeper still. "You do want this." His words slithered between your ribs like a blade, twisting when your inner muscles fluttered around him involuntarily.

You screamed into his palm, words garbled but unmistakable...cursing him, the gods, your own body's betrayal. The water rocked violently as he withdrew almost completely before slamming back in, sending rose petals cascading over the tub's edge. His reply came between thrusts, whispered directly into your ear with feverish conviction: "I love you. You'll love me. Time, just give it time—" The mantra dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him again, your nails scoring bloody crescents into his forearms.

The contradiction burned worse than the stretch, your body responding even as your mind recoiled. He kissed the corner of your jaw where a tear had tracked down, his tongue darting out to catch the salt. "You taste like home" he slurred, hips stuttering when your thighs trembled against his. His hand left your mouth to cradle the back of your head, fingers tangling in wet strands as he murmured, "Don't you remember? We shared a womb. No one knows you like I do." The words slithered under your skin, poison and truth entwined.

You sobbed with a shake of your head, pushing at his chest, not to escape, just to feel something other than the slick slide of him inside you. His ribs were sharp beneath your palms, the heartbeat thundering against them erratic as a sparrow's. The push became a clawing grasp when he angled deeper, your nails catching on the scar across his ribs. He gasped...half pain, half pleasure and his hips jerked violently, sending water splashing onto the hearthstones where it hissed into steam.

Rose petals clung to your lashes when you squeezed your eyes shut, their velvet softness mocking against the heat building low in your belly despite yourself. Rhaegar's breath came in ragged bursts against your temple, his fingers tightening in your hair just shy of pain. "Look at me" he demanded, voice cracking on the last syllable. When you didn't...couldn't, he groaned and dragged your forehead against his collarbone instead, the motion sending another wave of water over the rim. The copper edge bit into your back with each thrust, the pain sharp enough to ground you for half a heartbeat before pleasure crested again.

His lips found the shell of your ear, tongue tracing the whorls as he murmured childhood memories between thrusts, stealing lemon cakes from the kitchens, braiding your hair before bed...each recollection twisting the knife deeper.

You clenched around him involuntarily when his fingers returned to your clit, this time with cruel precision. Water sloshed violently as your hips jerked, betraying you with a shuddering climax that wrenched a sob from your throat. Rhaegar's moan vibrated through your shoulder where he'd buried his face, his hips stuttering erratically.

"Please…get off now" you whispered, voice cracking as his softening length slipped free. The plea barely carried over the sound of dripping water, rose petals clinging to your thighs like leeches. Rhaegar exhaled shakily against your nape, his fingers lingering where they'd coaxed your release before ignoring your plea to lean in, his hand clasping behind your neck to pull you into a kiss.

His lips moved feverishly against yours, not demanding, but insistent with his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you bit down hard enough to taste iron. He recoiled with a wounded noise, his free hand flying to his bleeding lip. The betrayal in his eyes would've been comical if not for the way his fingers immediately tightened in your hair, forcing your head back against the tub's edge.

"You bit me" he breathed, more stunned than angry. A droplet of blood fell from his lower lip, blooming in the water between your thighs like ink in snow. His thumb swiped the cut, smearing crimson across his bottom lip before pressing it to yours. The metallic tang made your stomach twist. "Same blood" he murmured, watching the way your mouth trembled beneath his touch. "Same heart. You can't hate what's already part of you."

You jerked away, legs kicking wildly, more reflex than resistance but he caught your ankle with bruising force. His fingers dug into the delicate bones, holding you spread open even as you thrashed. Water sloshed over the rim in great arcs, soaking the hearthstones where they sizzled. "You…are not my brother." you gasped, voice fraying at the edges. "My Rhaegar—" The name cracked in your throat like a whip. You curled inward, knees pressing together defensively, heels scraping against the copper bottom. "—would never be so cruel."

Rhaegar scoffed, a wet, broken sound and wrenched your legs apart again with a single sharp tug. His hips slotted between your thighs before you could resist, the residual slickness of his spend making the movement obscenely smooth. One hand clamped around your jaw, forcing your face upward until your noses brushed. "You did this" he hissed, breath reeking of blood and lavender oil. His pupils were blown so wide the violet was nearly gone, leaving only blackness rimmed with fever-bright intensity. "Your lack of love—leaving me for that dog—" The word snarled out like a curse, his thumb pressing hard enough against your windpipe to make you gag.

You clawed at his wrist, nails drawing fresh welts over the old scars. The copper tub groaned beneath your thrashing, the sound echoing off the tower walls like a dying animal. Rhaegar didn't flinch. His free hand slid between your bodies, fingers probing where you were still swollen and oversensitive from his first violation. A whimper tore from your throat when he pressed in anyway, his touch deliberately rough. "I just need your love" he whispered, lips grazing the shell of your ear as his fingers crooked inside you. The mockery of tenderness made your stomach heave.

Candle light caught the tears tracking down your cheeks, transforming them into liquid silver as they dripped into the bathwater. Rhaegar chased one with his tongue, humming when you recoiled. His thumb rubbed slow circles over your clit, too gentle, too knowing, even as his other fingers worked deeper. The contradiction burned worse than the stretch; your body arched despite itself, betraying you with a wet gasp. Rhaegar moaned in response, his forehead dropping to yours. "There" he breathed, triumphant. His hips ground against your thigh, already half hard again. "You see? No one knows you like I do."

You sobbed when his fingers curled just so, the pleasure cresting like a wave you couldn't escape. The tub's copper edge bit into your back as you thrashed, but he pinned you effortlessly, his body a cage of scarred muscle and feverish intent. His lips found the frantic pulse at your throat, sucking dark marks over Brandon's old love bites. "Mine" he murmured against your damp skin. His fingers sped up, each movement calculated to wring another broken sound from your lips. "You'll say it eventually."

The days blurred like ink in rain. You counted them by the ache between your thighs, by the way Rhaegar's hands shook when he brought you lemon cakes, the ones you used to steal together as children. The tower's lone window became your tormentor, framing slices of sky too blue to belong to this nightmare. Sometimes you'd press your forehead to the cool stone and imagine the wind carried Brandon's voice. Mostly, you stared at the ceiling's water stains, tracing their shapes until they became wolves, trees, home.

The maid with the freckled nose was your only reprieve. She'd enter like a ghost, her footsteps muffled by the Myrish rug Rhaegar had ordered laid over the bloodstains. Today, her tray bore blackberries. You didn't move until she brushed a strand of hair from your face, her calloused fingers lingering like Brandon's used to. "It will get better, princess" she murmured, too soft for the guards outside to hear. You almost laughed. Better? When Rhaegar had taken to kneeling by the bed each dawn, whispering prophecies into your skin like prayers? When your body arched for him even as your soul recoiled?

Last night, when Rhaegar had pressed you against the cold window glass, hissing about fire and blood between thrusts, you'd bitten through your lip to keep from screaming Brandon's name. The coppery taste lingered still, mingling with the blackberry juice staining your fingers now.

"It will not get better" you whispered, crushing a berry between your thumb and forefinger. The pulp stained your skin like old blood. The maid flinched when you smeared it across the linen sheet, a child's rebellion. "I shall suffer his touches night and day…" Your voice broke on the last word, eyes darting to the Myrish rug.

"Princess—" she started, but you pushed the tray away with such force the pewter clattered against the floor. Blackberries rolled like beads of jet across the stones.

"I am ashamed…" The confession clawed its way out of your throat, raw as the marks Rhaegar left beneath your shift. You stared at the ruined fruit, their juice seeping into the rug's intricate patterns, red as the weirwood leaves of home. "That once, in another life, I did love Rhaegar… Rhae." The childhood nickname tasted like poison now.

The maid froze mid reach, her calloused fingers hovering over the overturned tray. Dawn light caught the grey streaks in her braid, proof of years spent serving Targaryen madness. "Princess" she breathed, but you were already turning away, shoulders hitting the carved bedpost hard enough to bruise.

Perhaps it was exhaustion that birthed the thought, perhaps the way Rhaegar had wept last night, his tears scalding your collarbone as he whispered childhood lullabies between thrusts. 'Perhaps I… I need to just give into him.' The treasonous idea slithered through your cracked ribs, curling around your heart like smoke. You pressed your palms against your eyelids until colors bloomed, violets and rubies, the shades of Rhaegar's madness. 'Love him as I did when we were children.' Before crowns and prophecies, when he'd sneak into your bed after nightmares, his small hands clutching yours beneath the furs.

Perhaps it would be easier. The thought slithered between your ribs like Rhaegar's tongue had between your thighs, slow, insidious. You pressed trembling fingers to your lips, still swollen from last night's bites. If you closed your eyes, you could almost rewrite the memories... Rhaegar's hands gentle as they braided your childhood hair instead of twisting it in ecstasy, his laughter bright as summer sun instead of broken by desire. The phantom scent of lemon cakes almost overpowered the musk of sweat and seed clinging to the sheets.

A rustle of silk. Rhaegar stood in the doorway holding a tray, honeyed milk with nutmeg, just as you'd loved at ten. His smile wavered when you flinched. "Sweet sister?" The childhood endearment cracked down the middle. You let him press the cup into your hands, the warmth seeping into your palms like the lie taking root in your chest. Pretend. The milk tasted of home, of before. You made yourself meet his eyes, violet gone soft with hope and forced your lips to curve. His breath hitched as if you'd struck him. When his thumb brushed your cheekbone, you didn't pull away.

He knelt beside the bed, forehead pressing against your knee through the thin shift. The tray clattered to the floor, spilling milk across the Myrish rug in a pool that reflected the window's blue. "I dreamed of this" he murmured against your thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns on your calf, circles and runes from a game you'd played as children. His touch burned through the linen. "You smiling at me again." You watched his shoulders tremble, the silver-gold hair spilling across your lap like moonlight. Rhae. The name caught in your throat, sweet and rotting.

The maid's retreating footsteps paused at the threshold. You saw her reflection warp in the spilled milk, mouth open, hands clutching her apron. She didn't understand. How could she? You barely understood yourself.

The boy who'd kissed your scraped knee after you fell from the godswood swing was here in the trembling curve of Rhaegar's spine, in the way his breath hitched when you hesitantly carded fingers through his hair. His gasp was wet, ragged, too loud in the quiet tower. You felt his tears seep through the shift, scalding against your skin.

"Rhae" you whispered, testing, tasting...and his entire body shuddered. The name tasted like stolen lemon cakes and crushed winter roses, sticky sweet and thorn sharp. His fingers dug into your calf, not with lust now but with something worse... desperate recognition. When you lifted his chin, his pupils were blown wide, not with madness, but with the same terrified hope he'd worn at six when presenting you with a clumsily woven flower crown. The memory ambushed you: his small hands tangling in yours beneath the nursery table, whispering forever like it was a spell.

You barely flinched when he climbed into bed, letting him arrange your limbs as if you were a doll, but not his plaything, not tonight. The hand you pressed to his cheek stopped his feverish murmurs mid sentence. His lips trembled beneath your palm. "Slowly" you breathed, and the word fractured between you like thin ice. His answering nod was frantic, his fingers shaking as they peeled back your shift with a reverence that made your ribs ache.

The moonlight through the tower window carved his face into something unfamiliar, sharp cheekbones softened by disbelief, lips parted around unspoken pleas. When you arched into his first tentative thrust, his moan shattered into a sob. "I love you..." he gasped against your throat, the confession wet with tears. You dug your fingers into his hair, not to pull, but to anchor as his hips stuttered. The rhythm was different tonight... less taking, more giving. His hands roamed your body as if memorizing it anew, pausing at each scar or stretch mark with whispered apologies that clung to your skin like dew.

tears dripped onto the pillow. Rhaegar didn't notice, too busy watching your face with the reverence of a man beholding dawn after a lifetime of darkness. When your legs locked around his waist, his breath hitched.

You saw the exact moment he realized, your thighs weren't trapping him but holding him. His entire body shuddered as if struck by lightning, his thrusts turning uneven. The three words slipped out between panting breaths, feather light against his sweat slicked shoulder.

"I forgive you."

His sob was ugly, broken, his forehead dropping to your collarbone with enough force to bruise. You let him weep, fingers carding through his tangled hair with the same absent tenderness you'd offered when he'd skinned his knee chasing dragonflies in the Red Keep's gardens. A tear escaped your lashes, not for him, but for the boy who'd once braided wildflowers into your hair beneath the weirwood. Rhaegar mistook it for absolution, his hands clutching at your hips with desperate gratitude.

"I love you"

you whispered against his temple and felt him go utterly still. His breath hitched, lips parting against your damp skin. You tightened your legs around his waist, feeling the frantic rabbit quick pulse of his heartbeat where your thighs pressed.

The words had not been to the man thrusting inside of you, but the boy who one laid in this same position only more innocent.

Rhaegar sneaking into your bed at nine, the fear of the storm leaving you curling into yourself until he had climbed in. Without the need for words, he had climbed on top of you and your hands and legs wrapped around him tightly with sobs as he gently whispered "Its okay, I'm here sweet sister"

You stared at the ceiling as he moved inside you, slowly, hesitantly, as if afraid you might shatter and wondered when his tears had begun dripping onto your collarbone. The moonlight caught them, turning each droplet into a fleeting star against your skin.

A particularly deep thrust knocked a gasp from your lips, and suddenly you were nine again, clinging to him beneath the nursery blankets as thunder shook the Red Keep's foundations. His small body had trembled atop yours then too, but from fear rather than pleasure, his fingers clutching your shift as he whispered nonsense rhymes against your temple. The memory ambushed you with such violence that your next moan came out half a sob. Rhaegar froze instantly, his breath hitching against your throat.

"Sweet sister?"

His whisper was the same, that same lilting cadence from childhood and before you could stop yourself, the very words you'd gasped at nine slipped from your lips

"I love you, brother… thank you."

His breath caught. Not Rhae's relieved sigh, but something sharper, a predator scenting weakness. His lips slid from your temple downward, skimming your cheekbone with the ghost of a touch that made your pulse stutter. You barely had time to brace before his mouth crushed against yours, tongue forcing past your parted lips with a groan that vibrated through your bones.

The illusion shattered like dropped porcelain. This wasn't the boy who'd kissed your scraped knee, this was the man who'd split you open in a copper tub while rose petals clung to your lashes...The man who murdered the love of your life as you watched.

Your sob caught between your joined mouths, swallowed by his desperate moan as his fingers tangled in your hair to hold you still. His hips jerked erratically, no longer the gentle rhythm of before but the frantic rutting of a starving beast.

You had loved the boy so dearly. The one you shared a womb with, the one who always took care of you.

Your Rhae

but you had hated the man. The man who ruined you... violated and murdered.

Rhaegar.

but the touch was by the same hands...a loving hold during a storm, an intimate hold during a thrust...his eyes the same violet, his "I love you" mumbled the same.

so...you could just pretend...pretend he was still the boy you loved...

and not the man you hate.

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