He had known flame all his life—heat, hunger, destruction—but Driftmark spoke in waves, in whispers, in the sighs of tide and wind. The Velaryons did not raise their voices to be heard; they let silence carry meaning. It was, he supposed, a kind of power. One that unsettled him more than any blade ever had.

You were a part of that quiet power.

He’d first seen you months ago at that ill-fated wedding feast—the one that had ended in blood and whispers. You had not spoken to him then, not truly. A polite nod. A faint smirk when he’d looked too long. But your eyes had lingered. You, with the sea in your veins and salt in your voice, had seen through the performance—had seen him.

Now, the days on Driftmark bled together in mist and salt. He was not meant to stay this long. He told himself it was for the sake of diplomacy, of appearances, of securing the bond between your house and the Blacks. Yet when morning came, and he found himself walking the shoreline again, waiting for a glimpse of you, even he no longer believed his own lies.

You were often found at the cliffs, hair loose in the wind, the color of dark pearls and dawnfire. The first time he approached you there, you didn’t turn to greet him. You simply said, “You’re far from court, prince. Do you find the air too clean here?”

He had chuckled, that deep, amused sound that always seemed more threat than laughter. “I was told saltwater cures all wounds.”

“And what wounds do you have, my lord?”

He’d looked out toward the sea, jaw tight. “Too many to count.”

After that, he began to find reasons to linger. Riding Caraxes along the cliffs. Joining Corlys in training sessions he had no interest in. Attending suppers, where Rhaenys’ sharp eyes measured him like a hawk sizing up prey. And always—always—you were there. Speaking little, watching much.

He’d never known patience until Driftmark. It was not his nature. Yet something about your steadiness disarmed him. You did not fear him. You did not fawn. You met his temper with wit, his arrogance with calm. When he baited you, you smiled; when he glared, you only lifted your chin.

Once, when the storm winds howled against the keep, he found you in the great hall, tending to the fire. The storm outside mirrored the one that had been building within him for weeks.

“You’re fearless,” he said, stepping close.

“Or foolish,” you replied. “They’re cousins, are they not?”

He smirked. “Then perhaps I should make a fool of myself, too.”

You glanced at him sidelong. “I think you already have.”

Something shifted between you then—something wordless but undeniable. From that night onward, there were stolen moments. A hand brushing yours in the dark. The flicker of a smile across a hall. A meeting of eyes during a supper where everyone else was watching Rhaenyra, and neither of you cared.

Rhaenys saw it, of course. Corlys pretended not to. The Queen Who Never Was held your gaze one morning after Daemon had left the training yard, his grin lingering behind like smoke.

“Men like him,” she said quietly, “do not come to port unless the sea has claimed them first.”

You’d only answered, “Then perhaps I am the sea.”

By midwinter, the prince had all but made Driftmark his haunt. He rose with the tide, sparred with the Velaryon guards, laughed with your younger cousins, and dined beside your father as though he’d been born to salt instead of flame. The servants whispered that the dragon had gone docile—that the sea witch of Driftmark had tamed him.

But when the nights grew long and wine ran freely, you saw the truth in his eyes: he had not changed, not truly. His darkness merely slept beneath the surface, lulled by your calm.

One night, when the moon was high and the waves struck hard against the rocks, he found you again at the cliff’s edge.

“Tell me,” he said, standing beside you, “what do you see in me that makes you stay?”

You didn’t look at him. “I see a man who thinks he’s unlovable, and so he burns everything that tries.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “And yet you stand here.”