Rhaegar paced restlessly across his chamber, the tension in the room growing thicker with every step he took. The conflict with Robert had ignited a firestorm, and now the flames of rebellion threatened everything Rhaegar had known. His very blood seemed to condemn him, as though his destiny was written in the stars, and yet, standing here now, he felt as if he were shackled by the weight of it.

You stood by the window, your arms crossed, watching the rain lash against the stone. The storm outside mirrored the turmoil in Rhaegar’s heart, and for all the years you had known him, you could sense the change in him now. He had always been distant at times, but this was different. He had withdrawn into himself, haunted by the prophecy, burdened by the inevitability of the rebellion. And yet, even with all of that, he still found solace in you—his sister, his confidant, the one person who knew him better than anyone else.

“You know our blood is stronger than theirs,” Rhaegar said suddenly, his voice low, thick with the weight of the words. He stopped pacing and turned to face you. His eyes, usually so full of intensity, now carried an edge of frustration and fear. “We were born for this.”

You looked at him, your heart aching. You had always known that the 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 bloodline ran deep—powerful and destructive. But did that make it right? Did it justify the bloodshed and the suffering of those around them? You stepped forward, feeling the air between you thicken as your eyes locked.

“It doesn’t make it right,” you whispered, your voice soft but firm, as you took a step closer to him.

His gaze softened briefly, then hardened with duty. Stepping toward you, he pulled you closer by the waist, his other hand gently brushing your cheek, his thumb tenderly tracing your skin.

“Does it need to be?” Rhaegar murmured, his voice barely a whisper as his forehead rested gently against yours. The proximity felt electric, the tension between you both palpable. “Do we do what’s right, or what’s necessary?”