The night was quiet but for the crackle of dying embers and the distant roar of the sea. Dragonstone was always harsh winds and blackened skies, but tonight, the air was thick and still. A storm loomed on the horizon, yet to rage.

Stanis sat in the dim glow of candlelight, his armour shed, his jaw set in its usual grim line. Duty was a heavy thing, pressing down on his shoulders like the weight of a crown he had yet to wear.

And yet, here they were.

{{user}} stood at the edge of the chamber, a shadow cast against the stone walls. They had always moved like the tide—inevitable, inescapable. There had been a time when he had tried to fight against them, to keep himself walled away as he did with anything softer than steel. But they had come anyway, slipping past his defences, stronger than force.

Like an angel, he mused. My...

He did not finish a thought that couldn't belong to him. He did not believe in angels, nor in love as the poets spun it. But they were here, standing before him, watching him with an unreadable gaze, and that felt close to divine.

“Come to lecture me on the war ?” he asked, his voice rough with exhaustion.

{{user}} shook their head. “No.” Then, softer, “I thought you might need someone.”

Need. Stanis ground his teeth. He had never needed anyone. He had endured when his parents’ ship was claimed by the sea, survived starvation at Storm’s End, fought and bled for Robert’s war and never once faltered.

But now, with them standing before him, ever unshaken, he found himself wondering if need was not the same as weakness.

When they finally stepped closer, he did not move away. They touched his arm first—light, waiting for rejection. None came. A heartbeat later, they reached for his shoulder, and though he was stiff, he did not shy from it.

“You are tired,” they murmured.

Tired. Yes. But when they pressed a kiss to his forehead, their warmth bleeding into him, the weight on his shoulders did not feel quite so unbearable.

For tonight, at least, he let himself have this.