The Red Keep had never felt so southern to you.

Heat clung to the stone corridors, perfumed with incense and something sweet rotting beneath it all. Silk banners stirred lazily in the airless halls, dragons stitched in gold thread watching you pass like silent judges.

You did not slow.

You, the Stark girl moved with the quiet certainty of the North, spine straight, boots soundless against marble. Grey wool replaced silk, a dark cloak clasped at your shoulder with a simple pin shaped like a wolf’s head. At your side padded Nightgaze—a direwolf as dark as a moonless forest, eyes pale and sharp, every movement controlled power. The guards stiffened as the beast passed, hands twitching toward hilts.

You spared them no glance.

The throne room doors opened.

Aegon Targaryen lounged at the foot of the Iron Throne as if it were a chair in a tavern rather than a monument of blades. One leg stretched out, the other bent, silver hair loose and half-tied, a goblet dangling from careless fingers. He looked bored. Annoyed. Amused in the way a boy is when he’s already decided he won’t like what’s coming.

His eyes flicked to the wolf first.

Then to you.

A slow, sharp grin curved his mouth.

“So,” Aegon drawled, rising just enough to be insulting. “The North sends a girl and a beast. Is this meant to frighten me, or is that simply your idea of courtly manners?”

A ripple of discomfort moved through the room. Courtiers held their breath. Even the king watched carefully now.

You did not flinch.

Not when his gaze dragged over your plainly dressed form. Not when his tone sharpened, cruel and testing.

Nightgaze stopped at your side, massive head lifting, ears forward—not snarling, not growling. Watching.

You inclined your head, slow and respectful. Not submissive.

“My father sends loyalty,” You said calmly. “I bring myself. The wolf is family.”

Aegon laughed—short, sharp, humorless. “You Northerners are all mad, then. Bringing a killing beast into my father’s hall.”

Your eyes finally met his.

Grey. Steady. Unafraid.

“Only beasts who are hurt strike without reason,” You replied. “Nightgaze knows better.”

The air shifted.

Something unreadable crossed Aegon’s face—too quick to name, gone before anyone could claim it. His smirk faltered, just barely, as if you’d struck a place he kept hidden even from himself.

He stepped closer, boots echoing.

“You speak boldly for someone standing so far from home,” he said, voice lower now. Dangerous. “Do you know what happens to girls who forget their place in this city?”

Your mother’s voice echoed in your mind, old and steady: Cruelty is a language learned in pain. Listen—but do not answer in kind.

“I know exactly where I stand,” You said softly. “Beside my house. As you stand beside yours.”

Nightgaze’s tail swept once across the stone.

For the first time, Aegon did not have a ready insult.

He studied you—really studied you now—not as a prize or a problem, but as something unexpected. Something that did not bend, did not break, and did not bare its throat when challenged.

The king cleared his throat, heavy with meaning.

“This,” he announced, “is the union that will bind dragon and wolf.”

Aegon exhaled through his nose, eyes still locked on yours.

“Well,” he muttered, almost to himself, “this is going to be far more troublesome than I hoped.”

And somewhere between the Iron Throne and the quiet wolf at your side, something old and volatile stirred— not affection, not yet—

—but interest sharpened by resistance.