the stones of dragonstone were always damp, weeping with the sea salt and the weight of old secrets, but the balcony felt colder than usual tonight. {{user}} kept her gaze fixed on the churning black water of blackwater bay, her fingers tracing the rough masonry until her skin stung.

she had spent a lifetime learning how to be invisible in the presence of kings, yet here, in the shadow of the painted table, she felt as though she were glowing with a fever she couldn't break.

"the princess has retired for the night," she said, her voice small against the crashing waves below. she didn't turn. she couldn't. "i should go. the candles are low and the halls are long."

"the halls have never been long enough to keep me from finding you," rhaegar murmured.

the silver of his hair catching what little moonlight pierced the clouds, and the weight of the crown he hadn't yet inherited seemed to settle in the set of his broad, scarred shoulders. he moved with a quiet, muscular grace that defied the melancholy he carried like a shroud. when he stepped into her space, the heat radiating from his lean, powerful frame was a sudden, violent contrast to the night air.

{{user}} smoothed the fabric of her gown over her curves, a nervous habit that did nothing to settle the ache in her chest. she was a woman of substance and shadow, a confidante who knew the melody of his harp better than his own wife did, and the unfairness of the timing felt like a physical blow.

"emily," he said, and the way his voice caught on the vowels made her eyes sting. it was a prayer, a confession, and a plea all at once.

"don't," she whispered, finally turning to face him. his violet eyes were haunting, filled with a yearning that mirrored her own. "if you say it, rhaegar, if you put words to the way you look at me when the music stops, i can’t pretend. i have to be able to stand behind elia tomorrow. i have to be able to look at the dragon on your breast and not see a man who belongs to me."

he reached out, his hand hovering just inches from her face, close enough that she could feel the callouses from his sword and his harp. he didn't touch her; he didn't have to. the tension between them was a living thing, agonizing and slow, a vow written in the space they refused to close.

"then i will say nothing," he whispered, his tall frame bowing slightly as he leaned into the silence. "and we will let the quiet be the only honest thing left in this castle."