The weight of being Baelor’s “perfect son” is armor you only remove when the doors to your chambers close. You are the pride of the family: the strongest, the most sensible, the knight any lord in Westeros would want for his daughter. But when you hear that erratic knock on the wood in the dead of night, you know your façade of righteousness is about to crumble.

You open the door and there he is. Daeron.

He smells of cheap wine and that familiar melancholy. It isn’t the first time he’s sought refuge with you, but tonight there’s something different in his glassy gaze. When he leans against the doorframe, you notice his attention isn’t wandering around the room it’s fixed on you, tracing your broad shoulders and the firmness of your jaw with a boldness no man should show another.

“Cousin…” he slurs, with a crooked smile that’s half mockery, half plea. “They told me the great knight should be asleep early…”

You grab his arm to keep him from collapsing, and the contact burns like electricity. You’re taller, more imposing, and having him this close vulnerable and defiant makes that tension you’ve both cultivated through rough jokes and lingering looks in the training yard unbearable. You drag him inside and shut the door, plunging the moment into candlelit shadow.

“You’re drunk, Daeron. If anyone saw you come in like this…” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but he steps into your personal space, forcing you back against the table.

“If anyone saw us?” he laughs, and his hand, unexpectedly firm, presses against your chest. “They know we’re cousins. They know you take care of me.”