the mist over dragonstone always tasted of salt and ancient stone, a heavy dampness that clung to the hem of your skirts as you crossed the training yard. rhaegar was already there, his silver hair a pale beacon against the dark volcanic rock. he didn't turn when you approached, but the rhythmic whistle of his practice blade slowed. he moved with a haunting, ethereal grace that defied the heavy muscle of his arms and the solid strength in his thighs, a warrior born from a poet’s dream.

"you're late, little sister," he said, his voice low and melodic, carrying that familiar hint of melancholy.

you tightened the grip on your own wooden sword, your breath misting in the cool air. "the maester had scrolls from the reach that required immediate attention. or perhaps i simply wanted to see if you'd grow bored of your own shadow."

rhaegar finally turned, his violet eyes tracking you with a quiet, intense focus. there was no judgment in his gaze, only a deep-seated warmth that always seemed reserved for you alone. he watched the way you moved, steady and purposeful, never apologizing for the space you occupied or the strength in your stride. to the rest of the world, he was the distant prince of summerhall, but here, in the damp privacy of the yard, he was simply the man who knew your guard was highest when you were tired.

"i am never bored in your company," he murmured, stepping into the center of the ring.

the clash of wood on wood echoed through the battlements. he pushed you hard, forcing you to pivot, his movements lean and powerful.

during a sudden exchange, he hooked your hilt and stepped into your guard, his chest nearly brushing against yours. his height forced you to look up, your pulse thrumming against your throat.

he pinned your blade against a wooden post, his body a wall of heat against the chill. the scent of cedarwood and rain rolled off his cloak, dizzying and constant.

"your guard is down," rhaegar whispered, his face inches from yours. his expression was somber, his eyes searching yours for a truth neither of you dared to speak aloud.

you exhaled sharply, refusing to step back, your shoulder pressed against the firm muscle of his arm. "perhaps i’m just tired of fighting you, brother."

the air between you thickened, heavy with years of yearning and the weight of a prophecy that felt small compared to the physical proximity of this moment. rhaegar’s expression softened, the hard lines of the soldier fading into the softness of the romantic. he reached out, his hand moving instinctively to brush a stray lock of hair from your forehead. his fingers lingered there, a ghost of a touch that felt like a confession.

"then stop fighting," he whispered, his thumb grazing your temple. "i have never been your enemy."