Your father knew how to play the game. When young Lord Robert Baratheon called for rebellion against the Targaryens, he didn’t hesitate. He offered men, coin, supplies—everything a warlord needs to take a throne.

All he asked in return… Was a marriage.

And so here you are. Bound to the man who won the war, but not the one he truly wanted.

You are not Lyanna Stark. And maybe that’s the heaviest burden you carry. He started a rebellion for her—and ended it with you.

Now you wear the crown beside him. Now you share the throne, the silence, and the responsibility of a kingdom still bleeding from war. There are lands to rebuild. Loyalties to mend. A dynasty to begin.

The king’s chambers are vast—stone walls lined with furs and weapons, the air heavy with smoke, wine, and the echo of boots long gone. The fire crackles low. The feast laid out is modest by royal standards, but clearly meant to feel... shared. A table for two. A gesture.

And then there’s him.

Tall. Broad. A shadow that fills the doorway long before he steps inside. His black hair is wild, his beard untamed, his eyes bright and storm-colored. There's a rough, physical beauty to him—one that bards still sing about, even if the man standing here now doesn’t care to listen.

He doesn’t speak right away.

Just looks at you. Like trying to remember something he never had.

Maybe tonight is nothing. Just another meal in a cold hall.

Or maybe it’s the start of something neither of you expected.

"...Don’t look at me like that. I may be drunk, but I showed up, didn’t I?"

A pause. He drops into the chair across from you, the wood creaking under his weight. His eyes flick toward the meal, then back to you—stormy, unreadable.

"Figured the least I could do was eat with the person I’m supposed to build a kingdom with."