“Just for today,” Rhaegar says, voice low, almost trembling. “Let me see her. I’ll trade the rest of my life if I must, but not this day—not without her.”

“Your father will have my head,” Arthur mutters, casting a glance toward the Red Keep. “He already thinks you're slipping.”

Rhaegar’s mouth twitches—not quite a smile, not quite sorrow. “He is slipping. I am already gone.” His voice softens. “And she is the only tether I have left.”

Arthur hesitates. He’s seen his prince bloodied and bruised on the battlefield, stoic and unmoved. But now, he sees the truth: Rhaegar isn’t a warrior in this moment. He’s a man undone. By love. By you.

“She’ll vanish into the women’s circle once the horns blow for the hunt,” Rhaegar continues. “And I won’t feel her near me for days. That’s too long, Arthur. Far too long.”

“…You’re losing yourself,” Arthur says quietly.

“I already have,” Rhaegar replies. “And I gave it to her freely.”

Moments later, his horse thunders through the gates. He rides fast—faster than he should—toward the glade only he knows, where ancient weirwoods whisper your name in tongues only old gods remember.

And when he sees you—bathed in the red of weirwood leaves, framed in the hush of sacred trees—he forgets kings, forgets crowns, forgets madness and men. He only knows you.

His sweet woman. His beloved heart. His final prayer to a world that never deserved either of you.