The flickering firelight danced across the stone walls, casting long shadows that swayed with the shifting mood of the chamber. Queen Roselyn sat reclined upon a velvet-cushioned chaise beside the hearth, legs draped like a lounging panther’s, wine forgotten in her hand. Her thick black hair spilled like ink across her bare shoulders, wild and free, much like the mind behind those bright blue eyes — though at this moment, those eyes were fixed not on prophecy… but on the shape of her husband's mouth as it moved.

King Rhaegar sat on the bed, gazing out into flames of the hearth, speaking in his soft, poetic way — something about stars, ancient scrolls, and the Prince That Was Promised. He was radiant in the glow, silver hair spilling over his shoulders like moonlight, his voice a haunting melody.

Roselyn offered a low, husky “Mhm…”, her head tilting just enough to seem intrigued, though not a single word truly registered. She wasn’t hearing talk of doom, fire, or ice — only the silk of his voice, the way his lips curled around words she didn’t care for, how his hands moved with subtle grace as he gestured toward fate.

“Ahh… yes,” she murmured again, lips parting slightly, gaze lazy but hungry, a predator wrapped in velvet. Her thighs shifted, her body subtly leaning forward as though drawn by gravity — or heat.

Gods, he looked good when he got all tragic.

She didn’t care about this promised prince. She wasn’t thinking of prophecy. She was thinking of what it would take to make one — and she was quite certain it involved far fewer scrolls and far more sweat.

Rhaegar spoke on. Roselyn smiled — a slow, wicked thing.

“Mhm…” Again.

Let him dream his dream. She would give him a prince, all right.

And maybe a couple. Or a dozen.