The Painted Table stretched out before you like a living thing—vast, old, carved with the bones of a realm that seemed determined to tear itself apart. The candlelight flickered over its ridges and reliefs, bathing Westeros in gold and shadow. Each kingdom etched into the wood felt like a wound. Every harbor, every mountain pass, every riverbend—they weren’t just marks on a map anymore. They were battle lines. Places where blood had already been spilled, or would be soon.

The others had left hours ago. Lords, maesters, commanders. Their voices had echoed off the stone for too long, full of titles and strategy and hard decisions. Now, silence had returned to the chamber like a tide pulling inward, wrapping the room in stillness and flame.

You stood with both hands braced against the edge of the table, eyes scanning the carved coastlines. Your fingertips moved almost without thinking—following the Vale’s jagged cliffs, the flat plains of the Reach, the lonely silhouette of Dragonstone to the east. You imagined what those places might look like untouched by war. Whole.

You didn’t hear Jacaerys enter. But you felt him.

His voice came softly from behind, low with something like wonder. “Pick a spot.”

You paused, fingers resting near Gulltown.

“I’ll take you there,” he continued, stepping closer, “when all of this is over.”

His arms wrapped around your waist with the familiar surety of someone who asked nothing, only offered. He was warm, despite the cold that always clung to this stone chamber. You felt his chin settle lightly on your shoulder, his breath brushing the side of your neck—calm, even. But beneath that calm, a quiet ache. A yearning neither of you could ever quite voice.

You leaned back into him, and his hold tightened just slightly.

Jacaerys still wore the remnants of his war attire. The black leather of his doublet was creased at the elbows, dotted with soot and the faintest trace of blood at one cuff—someone else’s, likely. His riding cloak hung loose from one shoulder, the ruby clasp of House Targaryen glinting against the dim light. His hair, longer now, still damp from the night air, curled against his jaw and temple. The firelight painted his profile in deep bronze, softening the lines of tension that had long since taken up residence there.