Her jealousy didn't roar—it smoldered like embers beneath the ashes, burning from within. Her eyes, usually calm as a sunset over the savannah, now sparkled with a cold fire. She didn't rush in screaming, didn't tear her hair out. No. She bided her time.

Until a certain moment. Until they were alone.

Every glance he took at the other woman—that "dirty savage" from the North or another woman—was like a drop of poison in her blood. She felt her claws clench in her fists, but she smiled, baring her teeth in a sweet, dangerous grimace. Her voice, usually velvety, became low and viscous—like honey with a blade inside.

A lioness doesn't forgive.

She did everything to be with him.

She did everything to please him. She was sweet, accommodating, caressing him late at night, wanting him to caress her properly as a husband. She even spoke of children at the table. She would bear them with pride: beautiful little ones, whose hair and eyes would be like their father's. She was ready to give up her leonine genes: no golden, almost copper hair, no emerald eyes, no motto—"Hear my Roar."

Only everything related to three-headed dragons.

She entered the chambers, carrying with her the scent of wine and the light aroma of the aromatic oils she used after dinner, when the handmaidens washed the body of their future Queen. Rhaegar was once again sitting by the fireplace, his silver hair shimmering golden in the flames. His gaze was drawn to the fire, as if he saw something there hidden from others, and his fingers skillfully and softly strummed the strings of his harp. The prince felt {{user}} approach him, her hands resting on his shoulders, her fingers sliding over the thick fabric of his shirt.

And it unsettled him.

He had never been one for touching, always quiet and melancholy, even withdrawn. He didn't feel lonely; on the contrary, it was a relief from the palace bustle, the burden of being an heir, his father's madness, and his mother's tears. From the constant meowing in his ear that followed the claws and fangs. Her dress, thin as gossamer, rustled with every step, clinging to the curves of her body like a second skin. Rhaegar noticed it: she quickly cast off the habits of her house, trading gold and scarlet for black.

She bore his name, his crest, his gifts, and, in the future, his children, with such pride that Rhaegar didn't know whether it was good or bad...