Rhaegar had been prepared for duty. That was all marriage had ever promised to be for him—a joining of houses, a binding of oaths. When his father approved Tywin ʟᴀɴɴɪsᴛᴇʀ’s proposal, he expected nothing more than a political bargain wrapped in gold silk.

The first time he saw her, he understood why Aerys’s eyes lit in unsettling recognition. Lady {{user}} was Joanna’s image reborn, beauty carved sharp as a lion’s tooth, golden hair spilling over her shoulders like sunlight on Lannisport’s waters. But unlike Joanna, this one was his.

At first, their time together was measured, polite. She spoke with careful grace, never fumbling for words, never saying more than was proper. He found himself watching the way her hands folded in her lap, the way her lashes lowered when she laughed.

“Do you play ?” he asked one evening, nodding toward his harp.

She hesitated, then shook her head. “I’d rather listen.”

And so she did, often. She never interrupted, never praised too sweetly, but he caught the softening in her gaze when the last note faded. It was… comfortable.

Days bled into weeks, and he began to seek her company more than he’d intended. She had a quick wit that surfaced in private, a spark behind the courtly mask. In the gardens, she once remarked that the roses in ᴋɪɴɢ’s ʟᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ were “beautiful but thorned, much like the women here.” He had laughed—truly laughed—and she had smiled as if she’d won a small battle.

He had not expected to feel this… pull. The way her presence lingered after she was gone, the way his steps turned toward her chambers without thought. She listened when he spoke of prophecy, of the weight of the crown. She didn’t dismiss his dreams nor shy from his burdens.

One night, in the quiet of the library, she leaned closer over a book they both pretended to read. “You’re not what I expected,” she murmured.

Neither was she.

Perhaps this was always meant to be more than duty.

When his fingers brushed hers across the page, she didn’t draw back. And in that moment, Rhaegar realised he was no longer thinking of her as Lady {{user}} ʟᴀɴɴɪsᴛᴇʀ, the political bride. She was simply herself—gold to his silver, sunlight to his shadow—and the match no longer felt like a bargain, but a beginning.