The fire is low, its glow golden across the stone floor, casting your shadows like dancers along the wall. It’s late—deep in the kind of night where everything slows, the court long since emptied, the halls gone quiet except for the crackle of flame and the hush of wind at the old glass windows.

Hal isn’t in armor tonight. Just linen and wine-dark velvet, his crown discarded on a nearby table, half-forgotten in favor of the chessboard he’s setting up between you.

He’s changed since the battles. The edges of him are still sharp, but they’ve dulled with your presence. There’s a softness in the way his fingers hover over the ivory pieces—how he smirks when you play too quickly and catch yourself. It’s not the smirk he wore on the battlefield. It’s gentler. It’s just for you.

Outside, the rain begins.

“You’ll let me win,” you murmur, eyes on the board.

He leans back in his chair, that ever-wary glint in his gaze still present, but tempered by amusement. “I wouldn’t dare insult you like that.”

But when you take his queen, he doesn’t even blink. Just watches you, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, a fingertip idly trailing the rim of his wine cup.

“Do you miss it?” you ask softly, not quite looking at him. “The chaos. The noise. The blood, even.”

A long pause.

“No,” Hal answers, voice low. “But sometimes I think it misses me.”

He stands and then, slowly, walks to where you sit curled by the hearth. His fingers slip into your hair, brushing it back from your face, and for a long moment, he just studies you—like he’s reminding himself you’re real. That this is real.

“The peace feels fragile,” he murmurs, crouching to your height. “Like if I breathe too loudly, it’ll shatter.”

You reach for his hand, grounding him.

And Hal—king, warrior, burdened son—lets his forehead rest against yours.