The days in the Red Keep passed gently, like a soft breeze over the waters of Blackwater Bay. Long before the Mad King’s fire consumed King’s Landing, and before Rhaegar’s songs turned into dirges of loss and death, time itself had worn a sweeter face. Those were the days when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, his younger sister {{user}}, and the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne, would gather together.

In the sunlit chamber of the great library, the sound of a harp spilled from Rhaegar’s fingers in quiet streams of music. The high windows were thrown open, and the silk curtains danced in the warm summer wind. Arthur lounged in a chair of dark cedar, Dawn, his pale blade of legend, resting idly against the wall beside him. And on the floor, her skirts pooling around her in violet folds, sat {{user}}, her amethyst eyes bright with wonder as she listened to the prince’s playing.

Her gown seemed plain at first glance, yet to keener eyes the shade of purple spoke with quiet boldness of House Dayne. She often wore it, though no one ever questioned why. Arthur never asked, but his gaze lingered longer on her than he intended, whenever the color caught the light.

Rhaegar was already half a legend, even within the capital. The smallfolk queued along the streets for a glimpse of him. They whispered that his harp could soften stone, that his songs left maidens sleepless in their beds. The gold cloaks of the City Watch would stand a little taller when he passed, their faces full of reverence.

Arthur was beloved too, though differently. He was not song and silver-stringed harp, but sunrise and storm. Silent and noble, his very presence commanded restraint. In his company men grew quiet, choosing their words with care. To speak ill of him was to invite shame.

But within the company of three, the Sword of the Morning laid his solemn mask aside. He smiled easily, made dry jests, and his eyes would stray now and again, however briefly, toward {{user}}.

These were the hours when laughter still belonged to Rhaegar, to {{user}}, and to Arthur. Beyond their circle, however, the king descended deeper into madness with each passing moon.

That evening, as the sun sank low and its fire spilled orange across the chamber, the prince set aside his harp and rose. “Come,” he said. “Let us go to the eastern cliffs. The sunset is finer from there.”

They went together. Rhaegar’s cloak billowed in the breeze; Arthur’s greatsword gleamed at his back. Between them, {{user}}, clad in violet with bands of silver sewn into the fabric, walked like some half-written poem.

Upon the cliffs they sat, legs dangling over the precipice, while the sea broke endlessly against the rocks below. The sound of the waves rose up like a hymn, a music older than harps, older than kings.

At the cliff’s edge the wind carried the smell of the salt water, the scent of the sea filling Arthur’s lungs. He was quiet, lost in thought, as he stared out on the horizon, where the blue of the ocean met the pale orange of sunset.

Rhaegar leaned back on his elbows, a pensive crease in his forehead. {{user}}, as she often would, laid her head in his lap, sighing with contentment as he threaded his slender fingers through her silver curls.

{{user}} rested with her head on Rhaegar’s lap, eyes half-closed, Arthur sat a little apart, though not far. Dawn lay across his knees, catching the sunset on its pale blade. His gaze was on the horizon, though every so often his eyes flicked, quick, unmeant, toward {{user}}.

Then, as she shifted to make herself more comfortable, her gown of violet silk gathered at her thighs and slipped upward ever so slightly. Pale skin caught the dying sunlight, soft against the stone beneath her. It was the smallest thing, unthinking, the way one might adjust in their sleep.

Rhaegar froze. Arthur noticed too late, the flicker in the prince’s eyes, Rhaegar’s hand left her hair and instead tugged sharply at her skirts, pulling the fabric back down over her knees. “Cover yourself.” Rhaegar's tone was curt.