The sound of soft leather boots brushing sand and stone reached your ears—a step too graceful to be a guard, too confident to be a servant.

You didn’t turn immediately. Instead, you kept your gaze fixed on the sea, the waves lapping at the shore in rhythmic sighs, painted rose-gold by the setting sun. Your fingers adjusted the braid that draped over your shoulder, your posture as regal and composed as ever.

Then, he spoke—voice low, smooth, a melody wrapped in iron.

“Should I be jealous, my queen?” His tone was teasing, but layered—possessive and laced with something darker. “That the sea holds your gaze more often than I do?”

You turned slowly, your expression unreadable, composed as always.

Jaehaerys Targaryen stood before you.

He had shed his court robes for something less formal—deep black and gold, embroidered with seven-pointed stars. His long golden braid gleamed in the light, swaying with his movements, and his beard was neatly groomed. His eyes—those unmistakable, sharp amethyst eyes—raked over you with open intensity.

And you saw it again, as you always did.

That undercurrent.

Not just the allure of a king... But the fire of a man who had been denied the one he loved. And had instead bound himself to you. A political marriage, yes. A forced one, perhaps. But there was no doubt in his eyes: you belonged to him now.

His gaze dropped to your bare shoulders, then rose to meet yours again.

“You slipped away without telling me.” He stepped closer, and the sea breeze caught the scent of dragonfire and myrrh that clung to him. “Were you hoping I wouldn’t notice?”

You tilted your chin slightly, your tone even. “You were speaking with Lord Tully. I didn’t wish to interrupt your council.”

A slow smile curved his lips—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“My queen interrupts me whenever she pleases. Or has someone led her to believe otherwise?”

You met his stare without flinching.

He was playing his game again—this strange dance of possessiveness and pride. The world might call him the Conciliator, the Wise... but behind closed doors, he was not always so patient. Not when it came to you.

And yet...

There were no bruises, no cruelty. Only intensity. Only fire. Only a husband who had chosen not the woman he loved... But had decided that you would be his everything now, whether the gods willed it or not.

You gave him a mild smile, laced with your own quiet sharpness. “I needed air. Am I not allowed to seek solitude, my king?”

He stepped forward again—closer now. His hand reached up, brushing your braid over your shoulder with a deliberateness that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Not when your solitude takes you far from me,” he murmured.

The last light of the sun caught in his crown—simple, golden, set with seven gems, each one burning like a dying star.

His fingers trailed down your neck, possessive but tender.

“You are my queen. My blood. My wife.” His voice dropped, fierce now, low and edged like a blade sheathed in silk. “No woman shall rival you. No man shall even dream of you. I have given up everything for the realm... but you, I shall keep. Always.”

And you knew—beneath the calm, beneath the diplomacy, beneath the wisdom that made men fall to their knees—

He was utterly obsessed.