The skies broke open just as you passed through Dragonstone’s outer gates, the wind shifting with sudden fury. Rain fell like a curtain, heavy and relentless, blurring the carved stone pathways and soaking through your cloak within seconds. You had barely finished dismounting before it turned torrential, thunder echoing faintly across the sea beyond the cliffs.

You and Jacaerys had been returning from the harbor—a diplomatic visit to oversee the arrival of fresh provisions from Driftmark. Grain, wine, and healing herbs, all secured under his mother’s seal. He had spoken with the dockmaster in flawless High Valyrian, his posture straight-backed and commanding, and yet his hand had found yours the moment formality was behind him. Always, with him, duty first—then tenderness, in the quiet between.

Now, the carved stone courtyard glistened with rain, the once-crackling torches at the gates struggling to stay lit in the downpour. Castle guards ducked beneath overhangs. Servants hurried to bring in cloth-covered crates. You instinctively turned toward the entrance hall, the warmth of the keep calling—but you didn’t make it more than a step before Jacaerys caught your hand.

“Wait,” he said.

You turned back to him, the rain slipping from your lashes.

He looked as though he had walked out of a painting, though one undone by the storm. His cloak—deep burgundy trimmed with black leather—hung heavy on his shoulders, darkened near-black by the rain. The fine embroidery of the Targaryen sigil shimmered faintly with moisture, catching glints of torchlight like wet ink. Beneath, his tunic clung to his chest, the fabric molded to the lean lines of him—proof of both noble blood and a life of discipline. His sword was still at his hip, but it felt irrelevant now.

His hair, usually loose and wind-tousled, had flattened in thick, wet curls across his brow. A droplet trailed from the tip of his nose. His cheeks were flushed with cold and motion, the air turning his skin the softest shade of rose. And yet he smiled—not princely, not performative. Just… young. Present. A boy in love, not a ruler-in-training.

He stepped closer, his boots sloshing slightly on the wet stone. When he cupped your face in both hands, his fingers were chilled but gentle, thumbs brushing rain from your cheeks.

“You look,” he murmured, voice just loud enough to rise above the rain, “like the kind of woman they write poems about.”

He said it without hesitation, without teasing. A truth, not a compliment. The kind of thing he might carry in his heart all day and only speak aloud when the world softened enough to let it out.

His eyes searched yours, as if trying to memorize this version of you. Drenched, breathless, real.

Behind you, the waves continued to crash below the cliffs. The smell of salt and wet stone mingled with the smoke of torches. A dragon shrieked in the distance, faint but unmistakable. The rain didn’t let up. It poured, soaked, blurred everything but this.