Dragonstone rose from the sea like some ancient beast turned to stone, its towers twisted into the shapes of dragons locked in eternal vigil. Black rock and salt wind ruled the island, and the Narrow Sea beat ceaselessly against its shores. It was here that Prince Valarr Targaryen, heir to Prince Baelor Breakspear, had chosen to retreat for a time, away from courtly whispers, away from the red walls of King’s Landing, and most of all away from certain watchful eyes.
With him came his wife, Kiera of Tyrosh, sun-browned and sharp-eyed, and his brother.
{{user}} of the Kingsguard was spoken of in tourney yards from Oldtown to Harrenhal. Some named him the finest blade of his generation. Others went further and dared to whisper of another Dragonknight reborn. King Daeron II Targaryen himself had once called the boy his little dragonknight, long before the white cloak rested upon his shoulders.
He had the look of Old Valyria about him: dark violet eyes, pale skin untouched by common sun, and silver hair that fell in glossy waves to the middle of his back. Tall and slender he was, though beneath the silk and steel lay honed strength. At his hip hung a Valyrian steel blade, taken from a Blackfyre loyalist house and granted to him by the king himself, deemed more worthy than any other grandson to bear it. No man doubted his skill, not even Prince Aerion Brightflame, who was as quick with a sneer as he was with a sword.
They called {{user}} the Silver Dragon. A name that pleased the smallfolk and irked others.
On the black sands below Dragonstone’s cliffs, Valarr and his white knight had set aside their titles for an afternoon.
They wore only light trousers, boots discarded, the sea wind sharp against bare skin. Valarr’s build was lean and princely; {{user}}’s was leaner still but more defined, muscle cut fine as a blade’s edge. Salt clung to their skin. The surf rolled in silver crests.
“You missed,” Valarr called, darting away as {{user}} lunged for him.
“I allowed you to think so,” {{user}} replied, laughter low in his throat.
They moved like duelists even in play, quick feints, sudden turns, hands grasping, slipping free. Their mock battle ended as Valarr tackled him onto the sand, only to find himself flipped neatly onto his back an instant later. {{user}} straddled him, pinning his wrists with deceptive ease.
Valarr laughed up at him, breathless. “You forget your place, ser.”
“My place?” {{user}}’s silver hair fell forward like a curtain as he leaned down. “I am your sworn shield.”
“Then shield me,” Valarr murmured, softer now.
Their mouths met, the kiss fierce and familiar, tasting of salt and wind. It was not the timid affection of boys but the hunger of men long accustomed to secrecy. Valarr’s hands found that narrow, marvelously slender waist and lingered there as though it were some prized treasure he had no intention of surrendering.
They were reckless in their ease, though none watched save the sea and Kiera. She knew their truth well enough. Kiera understood that Valarr’s heart had chosen its champion long ago. There were nights when Dragonstone’s torches burned low and all three vanished behind closed doors, their loyalties and desires woven into something neither simple nor easily named.
But this afternoon belonged to the two of them.
They lay half tangled in the sand, breath mingling, trading insults about Aerion’s temper and Matarys’s solemnity. Valarr’s laughter rang clear, unburdened by court or crown.
Valarr’s hand traced the line of {{user}}’s jaw, then the hollow of his throat. The world seemed to narrow to breath and touch and the steady crash of waves. Kiera sighed and turned her face to the sun, granting them the illusion of privacy.
“My white knight,” he said at last, brushing a strand of silver hair from {{user}}’s face. “I was thinking of staying on the beach tonight and sleeping here. I don't want to go back inside the castle. I'm afraid the servants will hear your moans, at least in beach no one here to hear anything.” The words were half jest, half right.