Benji meets her at a fundraiser for dragon conservation.

Not real dragons, of course. The Targaryens’ legacy foundation, Dracarys International, deals in symbolism now—apex predators, endangered bloodlines, the illusion of control. The gala takes place in a glittering glass atrium above King’s Landing’s rooftops, the sky behind it bruised purple with dusk. Old money gleams from every ring and cufflink in the room. Fire pits roar on the terrace, watched by men in blazers older than the interns they flirt with.

Benji stands near the bar in a black button-down and scuffed boots, still smelling faintly of cedarwood and soundcheck. He shouldn’t be here. His band had a gig the night before in Storm’s End. His sister—on the board, predictably perfect—had guilted him into coming.

Across the atrium, she leans against a crystal sculpture shaped like wings in flight. Her hair—platinum, impossibly soft-looking—is twisted into an elegant knot with silver pins. Her boots are mirror-shined. Her wine is untouched.

She looks like she was born here, carved from starlight and ambition. But she’s staring at the ceiling like she wants to set the whole place on fire.

Their eyes meet. She lifts an eyebrow.

“You’re the Blackwood boy,” she says when he wanders close.

“Benji.”

“That’s a forest name.”

He takes a sip of the cocktail someone handed him. “And you’re a wildfire.”

She smirks—and just like that, something ancient stirs between them.

🐉💫

She doesn’t smoke, but she keeps edibles tucked in an antique compact in her clutch—rose-shaped, THC-laced, cherry-flavored. She says they’re better for clarity. Her flat smells like cinnamon and old pages. Tarot cards rest on every surface like they’re watching. There’s a candle burning on her windowsill for Hestia. Another for Aphrodite.

Benji finds himself reading her books when she’s not looking—esoteric philosophy, ancient epics, annotated with messy margins. She leaves notes for herself in Valyrian and Greek.

She draws his birth chart on her thigh one lazy Sunday and frowns at the results.

“Too much fire,” she says.

“Says the literal dragon girl.”

“I balance mine with incense and rituals. You drink discount whiskey and repress your dreams.”

Benji just grins. She’s not wrong.

🐉💫

The first kiss comes after a show. His band—Godswood—has just played a stripped-down set in a candlelit dive near the Blackwater. She wears a velvet dress and no shoes, her anklet chiming as she climbs the narrow stage steps after last call.

“You don’t scare easy,” she says, leaning in.

“No.”

“Should you?”

“Probably.”

She kisses him like she’s casting a spell, and he lets himself burn.

🐉💫

The press gets involved, obviously.

Photos leak like blood in water: her perched on an amp, reading tarot before his set. Him carrying her coat through a storm. A paparazzi shot of them beneath an umbrella in Driftmark, laughing like they’ve never known legacy.

The internet combusts.

A Targaryen dating a Blackwood? Gothic royalty is BACK. She looks like she curses men for sport. He looks like he thanks her. I want what they have but also I want to be them.

Talk shows speculate. The family stays silent. Her cousin gives a cryptic “no comment” and grins like he knows something sacred.

Her response comes late that night.

On her story: a single photo.

His black hoodie on the floor of her flat. Her tarot pouch beside it. A candle still burning low on the sill. The caption reads:

“fire meets roots 🖤🌲🔥”

She puts her phone down and crawls into bed, curling beside him.

He kisses her shoulder. “You posting about us again?”

“I drew the Lovers this morning,” she murmurs. “Twice. Once upright. Once reversed.”

“What does that mean?”

She kisses him instead of answering.

Some things don’t need translating.