The Red Keep was not what it once had been in Tywin Lannister’s youth. In his early years, he had walked these halls with the knowledge that the seat of kings was an extension of his will, where lords whispered his name in awe and deference. Yet now, as he strode through the familiar corridors, the air itself felt different—stifling, thick with the scent of incense and perfumed oils meant to mask the creeping decay of a court in decline. The torches burned high, but the shadows stretched long, and for all the banners of black and red draped across the stone walls, there was something sinister lurking beneath the surface, something just beyond his grasp.
Jaime could feel it, too. His father’s stride was unyielding, his presence commanding, but there was a tension in his shoulders that had not been there when they had last left King’s Landing. Tywin had never been a man given to weakness, yet even he could not conceal the way his gaze sharpened with every turn, watching, waiting. Aerys II sat the throne still, and though he remained clothed in all the splendor of his office, there were whispers of his growing instability. They were only rumors, but rumors had a way of rotting the foundations of power.
Still, they had come at his command. Aerys had summoned them, and so here they were, Jaime and Cersei walking side by side through the grand hall that led to the throne room, the towering doors of oak and iron looming before them. It had been years since their last visit, and though Jaime had been but a boy when they had left court, his memories of this place had not faded. He remembered the way the light caught on the polished marble floors, the way the banners rippled in the drafts that crept through the halls. And he remembered the Targaryens.
He had not seen Rhaegar since the prince had been a young man barely out of boyhood, and now the crown prince stood as a vision of Valyrian majesty, his silver hair glinting in the dim light, his indigo gaze steady and unreadable. He was every inch the figure of a legend, and yet it was not Rhaegar who made Jaime pause mid-step, a strange tightness winding in his chest.
It was you.
You stood beside your brother in a gown of deep violet, the color rich against the porcelain glow of your skin. The candlelight flickered over the curve of your cheek, casting shifting patterns along the soft slope of your jaw, the delicate bridge of your nose. Your pale lashes swept downward, the color so light that they nearly disappeared against your skin, but your eyes—those were unmistakable. Indigo, like Rhaegar’s, yet softer, deeper, like the sky at the cusp of twilight, full of something that was neither innocence nor mischief, but a quiet, knowing sort of serenity.
Jaime had not seen you since you had been a girl of six, a slip of a thing with wide, wondering eyes and a voice that carried like a songbird’s call through the halls of the Red Keep. He had almost forgotten you in the years that passed, the memory of you tucked away among all the others that had faded into the background of his childhood. Yet now, standing in the presence of the royal family once more, he found himself staring, his pulse beating just a little too quickly.
You were beautiful.
Not in the way that Cersei was beautiful, all golden fire and biting, smoldering edges, but in a way that was unreal, almost dreamlike. There was something about you that made him feel as if he were gazing upon a vision, a creature not meant for the world of men, but for the old stories whispered in the dark, of dragon princesses and ethereal queens who could steal the breath from a man’s lips with nothing more than a glance.
And it was just a glance.
Your gaze flickered over him only briefly before moving past, as though you had not even noticed his presence at all. Jaime felt his stomach twist, something uncomfortably close to disappointment gnawing at his ribs, but he forced it down. He was not a boy any longer, not some lovesick fool to be undone by the sight of a girl, even if that girl was—
"Lord Tywin."
The king's voice cut through the silence like the edge of a blade, drawing all eyes toward the Iron Throne. Aerys sat slouched upon the blackened steel, his long fingers drumming lazily against the armrest. His hair was the same shade of silver as Rhaegar’s, but where the prince’s bore the luster of molten light, the king’s was thin, brittle, hanging in wisps about his face. His violet eyes burned too brightly, wide and restless, darting between Tywin and the twins at his side with a sharpness that set Jaime on edge.
"You have returned," Aerys mused, his lips curling slightly, though there was no humor in it. "It has been far too long since I have seen your children." His gaze flickered to Cersei, lingering, then shifted to Jaime. "And my, how they have grown. How fine a pair they make, do they not, Rhaella?"
Queen Rhaella sat rigid beside him, her expression unreadable, but she nodded. "Yes, Your Grace."
Aerys hummed, leaning forward. "You must forgive me, Lord Tywin. It has been too long since I last laid eyes upon them. They are nearly as fair as my own brood." His lips curled again, and for the briefest moment, Jaime thought he saw something dark in his gaze. "Your daughter, Tywin—she is the very image of her mother. A pity Joanna is not here to see her."
Cersei’s jaw tensed, but she did not speak. Tywin inclined his head. "Your Grace is too kind."
"And your son," Aerys went on, his gaze turning to Jaime now, the weight of it pressing against him like something tangible. "Jaime Lannister." He let the name roll over his tongue as if savoring the taste. "You wish to be accepted into Kingsguard one day, are you not?"
Jaime swallowed, straightening. "If it pleases Your Grace."
The king laughed. It was a sharp, grating sound, like steel scraping over stone. "Oh, it would please me greatly," he said, his eyes glinting. "A Lannister in white—how it would wound you, would it not, Tywin? To see your son sworn to me, his sword mine alone?"
Tywin did not flinch. "If that is what Your Grace desires."
Aerys smiled, but there was no warmth in it. He leaned back against the throne, his fingers drumming once more. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes, I think I would like that very much."
Jaime felt Cersei stiffen beside him, her fingers curling at her sides. He did not dare glance at her, nor at his father, though he could feel the weight of Tywin’s fury like a storm gathering in the distance. Instead, he let his gaze wander once more—past the throne, past the lords and courtiers watching the exchange with veiled interest—until it found you again.
You had not moved from Rhaegar’s side, your hands folded neatly before you, your posture poised, serene. You were not watching him, nor his father, nor even the king. Your gaze was cast downward, your expression unreadable. But as the torches flickered and the shadows shifted, Jaime could not help but think that for the briefest moment, you had been watching him, too.
The great hall of the Red Keep was alive with the murmurs of courtiers and the flickering of torchlight, yet none of it seemed to touch Tywin Lannister. He moved through the gathered nobility with the assurance of a man who commanded the world with a glance, his golden cloak trailing behind him like the banners of House Lannister itself. Jaime and Cersei followed closely, their expressions schooled into careful neutrality, though Jaime could feel the lingering weight of Aerys’s words pressing against his thoughts. The king’s laughter, cutting and cruel, still echoed in his mind, but it was not the promise of the Kingsguard that unsettled him—it was the way Aerys had looked at his father, at Cersei, at him. There had been something dangerous in his gaze, something that made Jaime’s stomach twist in a way he did not like.
They did not go far—only to a quiet alcove tucked away from the main chamber, where the marble walls dampened the sound of the court’s endless hum. Tywin turned on his heel, his stern green eyes sweeping over his children, his expression unreadable save for the ever-present weight of expectation. A silence settled between them, thick with something unspoken, before he finally spoke.
"You have seen them now," he said, his voice low but firm. "Rhaegar and his sister."
Jaime swallowed. He had seen them. He had seen her.
Cersei tilted her chin upward, her golden hair catching in the dim light. "Rhaegar is handsome," she said, the words carefully measured, as though already crafting how she would speak of him to others. "More than that, he carries himself like a true prince should. He will be king one day."
Tywin gave a short nod. "And he will need a queen." His gaze lingered on her, sharp with meaning. "You are to conduct yourself accordingly."
"I will," Cersei promised, her voice smooth, her eyes gleaming. There was something hungry in her expression—Jaime had seen it before, though never quite like this. It was not just ambition; it was desire. Cersei had always spoken of queenship as though it was her birthright, but there was something new in the way she spoke of Rhaegar, something that made Jaime uneasy.
Tywin turned his gaze to him then, and Jaime straightened under his scrutiny. "And you," his father continued, voice steady as stone, "will do the same with his sister."
Jaime felt something in his chest tighten. His sister. He had barely even spoken to you, had only caught fleeting glances, and yet his mind had already conjured a thousand versions of you in those few moments—the way the candlelight glowed against your pale skin, the way your indigo eyes seemed to hold entire worlds within them, the way your very presence had made the air around him feel heavier, richer.
"You mean to wed us to them," Jaime said, though it was not truly a question.
Tywin's lips pressed together. "That has been my intent since you were children."
Jaime exhaled slowly. It had not been a secret, of course. He had known, even as a boy, that his father had always wanted a Targaryen match. But knowing something and standing face to face with the reality of it were two different things entirely. It was one thing to imagine a political union, to think of a Targaryen princess as a distant concept, a title without a face. But you were no concept. You were real, standing in that great hall beside Rhaegar, as unattainable as a dream and yet suddenly within his reach.
"And the king?" Cersei asked, her voice carefully neutral. "Will he agree?"
Tywin’s expression did not shift, but there was something colder in his gaze now, something calculating. "Aerys is a fool," he said bluntly. "And a fool’s whims can be unpredictable. I will speak with him in time, but it would serve us well if you both make yourselves… indispensable to his children."
Jaime understood the meaning behind his words instantly. He did not simply want them to be agreeable matches—he wanted them to be wanted. If Rhaegar and you favored them, if the royal children themselves expressed desire for the matches, Aerys would have little reason to refuse. Aerys had always been possessive over his family, jealous of their affections, but he was also vain. If Rhaegar wished for Cersei, if you wished for him—Jaime’s stomach tightened at the thought—then even the king’s paranoia might not be enough to stand in the way.
Cersei smiled then, the expression small but satisfied. "That will not be difficult."
Tywin’s gaze flickered toward her, measuring her confidence, but he did not contradict her. He turned back to Jaime. "You will conduct yourself as a man of your station. You will speak when it is necessary and hold your tongue when it is not. You will not grovel, nor will you posture. You will be clever. You will be interesting."
Jaime let out a slow breath. "And if I fail to be those things?"
His father’s eyes narrowed slightly. "You will not."
Jaime met his gaze for a moment longer before looking away. He was fourteen, still a boy in many ways, but never had he felt the weight of expectation so acutely. The thought of winning a girl’s favor was not foreign to him—he had seen how the ladies at Casterly Rock and Lannisport whispered and giggled when he passed. But you were not some noble girl, nor a lady of his father’s court. You were a Targaryen. You were her. And suddenly, the idea of winning you felt not like a challenge, but an impossibility.
Still, Tywin Lannister did not believe in impossibilities.
Jaime swallowed whatever doubts lingered in his throat and nodded.
Cersei exhaled through her nose, the hint of a smirk playing at her lips. "And what of Aerys? Will he let Rhaegar have a wife that is not of his choosing?"
Tywin’s expression did not change, but Jaime thought he saw a flicker of something dark in his father’s gaze. "The king’s favor is not what it once was. His mind rots with each passing year." He straightened. "It is Rhaegar who will rule, and when he does, he will need loyal hands around him. If he favors you, Cersei, then that is what matters. And if his sister favors Jaime—"
Jaime’s pulse quickened.
"—then all the better."
A silence stretched between them. The hall beyond the alcove was still alive with murmurs and laughter, the ever-present hum of politics and ambition that never truly faded in King’s Landing. But in that quiet space, Jaime felt the weight of his father’s will settle over him like a mantle.
You had barely even seen him, had barely even looked at him. And yet, before the night was through, before he even truly knew you, he had been given a task he was not certain he could fulfill.
He had to make you want him.
And the thought alone sent something cold and unfamiliar through his veins.
The gardens of the Red Keep were bathed in the golden light of morning, the first warmth of the sun spilling through the carved archways and casting dappled shadows across the stone paths. The scent of myrtle and orange blossoms hung in the air, sweet and thick, mingling with the salt of the distant sea. Jaime had always thought King’s Landing smelled of too many things at once—sweat, smoke, rot—but here, in this secluded part of the castle, the stench of the city did not reach. Here, the air was still. Quiet.
It was not difficult to find them.
He and Cersei moved through the garden paths with practiced ease, the rustle of their fine silks barely disturbing the morning peace. The sounds of the court had not yet spilled into the open spaces, leaving only the soft trill of birds and the murmur of voices beyond the flowering hedges. And then, as they rounded a curve in the path, the voices became clearer.
You were with Rhaegar.
The prince stood beneath the shade of a slender lemon tree, his silver hair catching the early light, his posture at ease in a way Jaime had rarely seen in men of his station. He was dressed in dark violet, the fine weave of his tunic unmistakable even from a distance, and though his face was unreadable, his voice—soft, thoughtful—held something close. Something warm.
You stood beside him, only inches away.
Jaime felt it first—the quick, sharp pulse at his throat, the sudden tension in his shoulders—as he watched the way Rhaegar touched you.
It was nothing improper, nothing that would scandalize the court, and yet it was… intimate. A brief brush of his fingers against your sleeve as he spoke, a slight tilt of his head in your direction, as if drawn to you as naturally as the tide is drawn to shore. And you—
You were looking up at him, your indigo eyes catching the morning light like polished gems, and you were smiling. A small, secret thing, the kind of smile that seemed meant for him alone.
Jaime had never seen her smile before.
For a fleeting moment, something inside him tightened, an unfamiliar weight settling in his chest. Was this how it was always to be? He had barely spoken to you, and already Rhaegar stood at your side, silver in the morning light, his presence enough to make you soften. To make you laugh.
He almost hated him for it.
Cersei, ever attuned to the smallest shifts in a room, must have noticed as well. Her pace slowed beside him, her green eyes narrowing slightly as she took in the scene before them. Then, as if shaking off whatever thoughts lingered in her mind, she lifted her chin and strode forward.
"Your Grace," she said smoothly, her voice carrying through the garden with the practiced ease of a woman who had spent her entire life perfecting her presence. "Princess."
The moment shattered.
Rhaegar turned first, his gaze settling on them, the warmth that had lingered in his face cooling into something more composed. His hand fell back to his side, slipping away from the fabric of your sleeve as though the touch had never been there at all. You followed his motion, turning to face them fully, and Jaime had only a moment to truly look at you—to see you.
You were dressed in the softest shades of lilac, the color subtle against the pale glow of your skin. The embroidery along your sleeves shimmered faintly, Valyrian patterns woven into the silk with a hand so delicate it was nearly invisible unless one looked closely. Your hair, silver as starlight, had been loosely pinned, allowing strands to slip free in the breeze.
Jaime had spent years imagining what you would look like grown—if you would still have the wide, wondering eyes of the girl he had once known, if you would still hold that same unearthly presence that seemed to belong more to a dream than to the waking world.
You were nothing like he remembered.
And yet, somehow, you were exactly as he had imagined.
"Lady Cersei. Lord Jaime," Rhaegar greeted them with a nod, his voice polite but absent of the warmth it had held only moments ago. "It has been some time."
"Too long," Cersei agreed, stepping forward with the ease of a woman born to this kind of encounter. "We were children when we last saw each other, but I am pleased to see time has only been kind to you, Your Grace."
A flicker of amusement passed through Rhaegar’s eyes, brief but present. "Time is not always so kind. But I thank you for the sentiment."
Jaime barely heard them.
His attention was fixed on you.
You had not spoken, not yet, but your gaze had settled on him now, studying him in a way that was both careful and unhurried. There was no immediate recognition in your expression, but neither was there indifference. Curiosity, perhaps. Or something softer.
"You do not remember us, do you?" Cersei’s voice was lighter now, teasing. "Or at least not well."
Your lips parted slightly, as if tasting the words before speaking them. "I remember you," you said at last, your voice quiet but smooth, like the lilt of a song yet to be sung. Then, after a small pause, your gaze flickered to Jaime. "And you as well."
Jaime felt his breath catch, though he did not let it show.
Cersei let out a soft laugh. "I hope your memories are fond ones."
Your head tilted slightly, as if considering the question, and then—a smile.
"They are," you said simply.
Jaime did not know what he had expected. He had imagined your voice a thousand times, had thought of what it might sound like when spoken to him. He had thought he was prepared.
He had not been.
A movement at the edge of his vision drew his attention, and he turned slightly to see Ser Barristan Selmy standing a short distance away, his face unreadable as he observed the exchange. A quiet, constant presence, watching.
Protecting.
Jaime knew, then, that this moment—this conversation, this fleeting breath of time—was not truly his. It belonged to Rhaegar, to you, to the threads of fate already weaving their pattern around them. He was an intruder in something far greater than himself, a pawn in a game he had not yet learned to play.
And yet—you had remembered him.
A small, insignificant thing. But Jaime was not sure why it suddenly meant so much.
The small council had been dismissed, the great doors of the chamber closing behind the last of the departing lords, leaving only Tywin Lannister and King Aerys II within. The room was bathed in the dim glow of the torches along the walls, their flames flickering against the polished wood of the long table, casting shifting specters that stretched toward the gilded seat where Aerys lounged.
Tywin stood before him, every inch the composed and calculating Hand of the King, his expression schooled into perfect neutrality. The scent of parchment and ink still lingered in the air, mingling with the faintest trace of the oils and perfumes that had been used to mask the sickly-sweet scent of rot that seemed to cling to the Red Keep more and more with each passing year.
Aerys had not yet spoken.
The king sat reclined in his chair, his long fingers drumming idly against the carved armrests, his violet eyes half-lidded in something that might have been boredom or amusement—or something darker. His silver hair, once immaculate, had begun to thin, the strands hanging limp against the gaunt hollows of his cheeks. He had not always looked like this.
Tywin knew that well enough.
But the years had changed him. The whispers had changed him. The paranoia had settled into his bones like a sickness, creeping into his thoughts, turning his once-sharp mind into something that wavered between brilliance and madness.
And yet, this was still Aerys. Still the man he had served since youth. Still the king of the Seven Kingdoms.
Tywin had waited patiently, knowing better than to rush him. And at last, after a long silence, Aerys spoke.
"You linger, my old friend," he murmured, his lips curling slightly as his gaze flickered to Tywin. "What is it that you wish from me? I doubt you remained behind simply to enjoy my company."
Tywin did not smile. "I wished to discuss the future of your royal children, Your Grace."
Aerys let out a soft hm, his fingers stilling against the chair. "Ah, yes," he mused. "The lion always has something to offer."
Tywin inclined his head. "It is no secret that Rhaegar will need a queen," he said, his voice measured, careful. "And your daughter, a husband of suitable station."
Aerys exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if not for the sharpness beneath it. "Come now, Tywin," he drawled, his violet gaze gleaming. "Do you truly think me so simple? I expected this." His fingers twitched slightly. "You seek to offer Cersei to Rhaegar, just as you did before."
Tywin gave nothing away, neither at the reminder of Aerys’s earlier refusal nor at the amusement that danced behind the king’s words. "It would be a union of benefit to the realm," he stated, his voice calm. "Cersei is beautiful, well-bred, and clever. She would be a queen worthy of him."
Aerys’s smile was sharp. "You mean she would be a queen worthy of you."
Tywin held his gaze steadily. "I mean she would be a queen who would bring strength to the realm—and to House Targaryen."
Aerys chuckled then, leaning forward slightly. "And what of the girl?" His head tilted just so, the light catching in his irises, making them gleam like polished amethysts. "What of my daughter? You would see her married off to your cub?"
Tywin did not allow himself to hesitate. "Jaime is young, but he is my heir," he said evenly. "He will one day rule Casterly Rock, and there is no greater seat for your daughter than the Westerlands."
Aerys made a small noise in his throat, something between interest and disdain. "So eager you are, Tywin. But tell me—does Jaime himself share your ambitions?"
Tywin did not react outwardly, but something in Aerys’s tone made the air between them grow heavier, the words laced with something unspoken.
"He is young," Tywin said, his voice cool. "He dreams of knighthood, of glory, as boys do. But he will learn that true power does not lie in tourneys or oaths. His duty is to his house, to his legacy. And in time, he will see that his place is not as some wandering knight, but as the Lord of the Rock."
Aerys was quiet for a long moment.
Too quiet.
And Tywin knew this silence.
It was the silence that came before Aerys’s moods shifted—the silence that had begun appearing more and more over the last year, the precursor to his unpredictability, his paranoia.
When he finally spoke, Aerys’s voice was softer, but there was something sinister beneath it, something almost dangerous.
"You overstep, Tywin."
Tywin remained still. "I seek only what is best for the realm, Your Grace."
Aerys let out a breath—a slow, measured breath. And then he laughed. It was not a true laugh, not one of mirth, but something hollow, something edged. He shook his head slightly, as if amused by some private joke.
"The lion reaches, always reaching," he mused, the flicker of a smile on his lips. "You would love that, wouldn’t you? To see your golden children bound to mine. To see them rise, to see them elevated." His voice lowered, his fingers curling against the chair’s armrest. "To make your daughter queen. To make your son the husband of a Targaryen princess."
Tywin did not move, but he could feel the weight of Aerys’s gaze pressing against him.
"You have always been a proud man, Tywin," Aerys murmured, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Proud enough to think you are owed such things. But do not forget—you serve me."
A pause.
"And I am not yet so old that I have forgotten what happens to men who reach too far."
The words hung between them like a blade, the meaning clear.
Tywin’s jaw tightened slightly, but his expression did not waver. He had seen Aerys’s temper before, had endured his outbursts, his jests laced with venom, his sudden shifts from affection to suspicion. He knew how to navigate him.
He would not push—not now.
Instead, he inclined his head. "I serve at your pleasure, Your Grace."
Aerys studied him for a long moment, his fingers still curled, his eyes still bright with something unreadable.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the tension in his posture eased. His lips curved upward, though the smile did not reach his eyes.
"Yes," he murmured. "You do."
And with that, the audience was over.
Tywin turned and strode from the chamber, his steps measured, his expression impassive.
But beneath it all, something had shifted.
And he knew—he had seen it in Aerys’s eyes.
The king had already decided something.
And Tywin would be damned if he did not uncover what.
The scent of myrtle and citrus lingered in the air as Jaime and Cersei moved away from the Targaryen royals, their departure marked only by the soft rustling of silks and the fading sound of Cersei’s carefully measured farewell. It had been a successful meeting—at least in her eyes.
As they stepped further down the stone path, passing through the arching trellises heavy with climbing roses, Cersei released a slow breath, a small, pleased smile tugging at her lips.
"That went well," she murmured, her voice rich with satisfaction.
Jaime barely heard her.
His mind was still there, lingering in the gardens, where the dappled light had painted shifting patterns across the silk of your gown, where your indigo eyes had met his and held. He had thought about what you might look like for years, about what kind of woman you had become, but no amount of imagining had prepared him for the reality of you.
You were beautiful in the way that the dawn was beautiful—something soft, untouched, and entirely out of reach.
His chest felt tight.
Cersei turned to him, her green eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. "Rhaegar is everything I thought he would be," she continued, a touch of hunger in her voice. "He is—" she exhaled, her lips curling, "—perfect."
Jaime forced himself to listen, his jaw tightening.
"He was polite," he said simply.
Cersei let out a soft laugh. "Polite? Jaime, he was more than that." She stopped, turning fully to face him, golden hair catching in the morning light. "You saw how he looked at me. He noticed me."
Jaime hesitated.
Had he?
Rhaegar had been courteous. That was his nature. His words had been pleasant, his gaze steady, his posture measured. He had not been cold, but neither had he been anything more. Jaime had watched him closely, searching for some sign of interest, some flicker of intrigue in the prince’s indigo gaze—but he had found nothing that could not be dismissed as simple courtly manners.
And yet—Cersei believed it.
"He was polite," Jaime repeated.
Cersei’s expression darkened slightly, but she let out a breath and shook her head. "You have no sense for these things," she muttered, turning away and beginning to walk again, her skirts swaying with each step. "I have spent my life preparing for this moment, Jaime. He will see me. He will come to want me."
Jaime did not reply.
Because his thoughts were not on Rhaegar.
His thoughts were on you.
As they walked further from the gardens, he could not stop himself from glancing back, just once, to the spot where you and Rhaegar had stood beneath the shade of the lemon tree.
You were still there.
Jaime’s steps faltered.
Rhaegar had turned back to you, his attention fully yours once more, and it was different now—warmer. More natural. The kind of ease that had not been present when he spoke to Cersei.
Jaime watched as the prince murmured something, his voice low, the words meant only for you. He saw the way your lips parted in response, the way your eyes flickered with something soft, something genuine. You did not laugh the way the ladies of court did when they wished to charm a man, did not tilt your head coyly or lower your lashes in feigned modesty. You simply smiled.
And Rhaegar smiled back.
Something hot and unfamiliar curled in Jaime’s stomach.
It was an ugly feeling, one he did not know how to name.
He did not know what he had expected—he was not foolish enough to think he could step into your life after all these years and suddenly become the focus of your gaze, the recipient of your affections. You had known Rhaegar your entire life. He was your brother, your closest confidant. It was only natural that you would smile for him, that you would look at him with something gentle in your eyes.
And yet—why did it unsettle him so?
Cersei was still speaking beside him, but her words had become nothing more than a distant hum, drowned out by the pounding of his own pulse in his ears.
He had never felt this before.
Never.
The women at court whispered about him, admired him for his looks, for his name. They smiled too easily, touched his arm too often. But it had never mattered. He had never looked at them the way he had looked at you in that moment, standing beneath the lemon tree, bathed in morning light.
You had only spoken a handful of words to him.
And yet, he felt as if something inside him had shifted.
Something he could not push away.
Something he was not sure he wanted to push away.
The Lannisters were gone, their presence nothing more than a lingering whisper in the air, yet the garden still felt touched by them—by their ambitions, their careful words, the weight of what they had left unspoken. The gentle rustling of leaves and the faint trickle of the fountain filled the silence they left behind, the scent of citrus still clinging to the breeze.
Rhaegar did not move at first. He stood beside you, watching the path where Jaime and Cersei had disappeared, his expression contemplative, though his eyes held no surprise. There had been nothing unexpected in what had just transpired. It had been, as he might say, well placed.
You exhaled softly, tilting your head to look up at him. "That was… predictable."
His lips curled slightly, though there was little amusement in it. "It was well-placed conversation," he murmured, his voice calm, always calm.
"You mean it was orchestrated," you countered, your indigo gaze searching his, the meaning of your words lingering in the air. "We both knew what they wanted before a single word was spoken."
He let out a breath, slow and measured. "Yes," he admitted. "We did."
You lowered your gaze, fingers brushing lightly over the smooth bark of the lemon tree beside you. "Cersei was no surprise," you murmured, thoughtful. "Her eyes have been set on you since she was old enough to understand what a queen is."
Rhaegar hummed, though he did not confirm or deny the statement. He had always known. The weight of expectation pressed against his shoulders like a crown he had not yet worn, and Cersei Lannister had long envisioned herself at his side, her golden hair intertwined with the legacy of House Targaryen.
But that was not what lingered most in your thoughts.
"It is Jaime that surprises me," you said, your voice quieter now. "I thought he had ambitions for the Kingsguard."
Rhaegar turned to you fully then, his gaze softening, though there was something knowing in his expression. "He is still young," he reminded you. "And his father’s ambitions have never been a secret." He tilted his head slightly, studying you. "Besides…"
You glanced up at him as he trailed off. "Besides?"
Rhaegar was silent for a moment, as if weighing his words. Then, slowly, he smiled.
"I saw the way he looked at you," he said simply.
Your brows lifted slightly, but you did not immediately respond.
He continued, his voice light but knowing. "Jaime Lannister may still dream of glory and knighthood, but there is something else there now. He has spent his youth training with steel and chasing the glories of men, but today, for the first time, he looked at something he was not prepared for."
You blinked, your fingers stilling against the bark of the tree. "And what was that?"
Rhaegar’s gaze did not waver. "You."
There was no teasing in his voice, no jest. It was merely truth, spoken as plainly as the sky was blue.
You exhaled slowly, your gaze dropping for a brief moment before returning to his. "And if that is so?"
He smiled again, but this time there was something fond in it, something affectionate.
"Then I wonder if he even realizes it yet," he murmured.
A soft breath of laughter escaped you, and Rhaegar reached out then, his fingers brushing lightly against your sleeve, a familiar gesture, one you had known all your life. His touch was always gentle, never demanding, always warm.
"He is not like the others," he continued, his voice quieter now. "His father has sharpened him into something harder, something that should be unfeeling. But even steel has its weaknesses."
You tilted your head. "And you think I am one?"
Rhaegar’s lips curled slightly, though there was nothing mocking in it. "I think you are something unexpected. And men like Jaime Lannister are rarely prepared for things they do not expect."
The air between you was calm, steady, untouched by the weight of expectation that had followed the Lannisters into this space. With Rhaegar, there was never pretense. He had been your brother, your closest companion, your shield against the world since you were small, and even now—when duty loomed ever closer, when the future threatened to shape you both into something neither of you had chosen—he was still this.
Soft.
Steady.
Yours.
"You think too much," you murmured, tilting your chin slightly in mock accusation.
Rhaegar let out a soft chuckle, his long fingers lingering against the fabric of your sleeve for just a moment longer before falling away. "And you think too little," he countered, though there was no reprimand in it, only fondness.
You sighed, shaking your head with a small smile. "Perhaps we balance each other."
He did not deny it.
Instead, he reached up, gently tucking a stray silver strand behind your ear, his fingers brushing the warmth of your skin for only a heartbeat. The gesture was absent of hesitation, absent of thought, as natural as breathing.
And though Ser Barristan stood a short distance away, ever watchful, ever loyal, he said nothing.
Because this was not new.
This was Rhaegar.
This was you.
And the world—its expectations, its demands, its whispers of Lannisters and alliances and duty—could wait.
jaime lannister should’ve been the one to kill the night king i said what i said. he should be a kingslayer twice over. even better if he sacrificed himself or risked his life to protect bran, boom redemption arc comes full circle
