ser aren baratheon is bone-tired when he finally swings down from his horse at dun fort well past sundown. days of hard riding through foul weather have left him battered - dark shadows bruise the skin beneath his eyes, his black curls whipped wild by wind and rain. he barely feels the ground beneath his boots before the reins are taken from his hand and he is ushered through dark, quiet corridors, boots echoing softly, until a door opens and he is led inside. cyrenna stands before him. his stomach twists painfully at the sight of her. the raw panic that seized him when news of the fire first reached his ears had burned itself into grim determination on the road, a foolish, desperate belief that if he rode hard enough, arrived quickly enough, his presence alone might shield his siblings and their children from further harm. but now? now he sees her clearly. not a queen, not a symbol, but a young woman hollowed by loss. a widow, a mother clinging to a crown forged far too soon. aren crosses the room without thinking and pulls her into a crushing embrace, holding her as though sheer force might keep the rest of the world from breaking in and beating her further; as though he could anchor her to something solid and familiar. “renna,” he murmurs at last, drawing back just enough to look at her, his voice rough with exhaustion and grief. “i’m so sorry.” @qelitsun