Rhaegar Targaryen stood alone beneath the ash tree, where pale petals clung to the spring air like snowflakes refusing to fall. His silver hair caught the moonlight, and the harp in his hands gleamed like a weapon forged of sorrow. The court had long since gone to feast, but Rhaegar never found comfort in roasted boar or jesters’ laughter. No, his solace had become something else entirely.

It had become her.

{{user}}.

He saw you first in the Great Sept of Baelor, head bowed as the septons chanted their endless hymns. You wore grief like a veil that day—quiet, soft-spoken, unreachable. {{user}} did not look at him once. It had ruined him.

He had sung to no one else since.

“You’ve taken my songs, you know,” he said now, though {{user}} wasn’t supposed to be here. But somehow {{user}} always came when he most needed you. Maybe it was fate. Or maybe, as some whispered in fear, the blood of the dragon could summon what it desired.

{{user}} stepped into the moonlight, eyes steady, voice unafraid. “And what song is left for a man who’s already lost himself?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, he strummed his harp—low and haunting, a single string vibrating like the pulse in his throat. “You say I am lost. But it was in losing all else that I found… you.”

{{user}} hesitated, but the silence between you wasn’t cold. It was intimate, like a secret being undressed.

“You’re married, Rhaegar,” she said.

“I was born into a cage,” he replied, eyes burning like amethysts in the half-light. “Is it still treason if I dream of breaking free?”

Her breath caught. She’d heard tales of him—how he read prophecies like other men read war manuals, how his fingers knew both harp strings and sword hilts. But no tale warned {{user}} of his intensity when he looked at you. As though you were not just loved—but foretold.

He stepped closer. The space between you vanished like a breath in winter.

“If I am doomed,” he said softly, “then let my doom wear your name.”