The waves were restless that night. The sea crashed against the shore with an unrelenting fury, as if lamenting a tragedy only it could understand.

Jacaerys stood on the cliffs of Dragonstone, his dark curls whipping in the wind as he gazed out into the storm. He had been unable to sleep, troubled by the weight of war, of duty, of the crown that would one day sit upon his brow. Yet, amid his turmoil, the gods had willed something unexpected.

A shadow moved along the shore—small, fragile, barely clinging to life.

He nearly dismissed it as driftwood until the wind carried something else to him: a faint, broken breath.

Jacaerys didn’t think. He moved.

By the time he reached the shore, his boots sinking into the wet sand, the figure was crumpled near the tide. You—ethereal even in the darkness, your form draped in tattered silks, your skin marked with bruises and cuts. There was an otherworldly glow to you, even as you lay there, as if the gods themselves had woven you from moonlight and sorrow.

He dropped to his knees beside you, his fingers trembling as he checked for signs of life. Your breath was faint but there, your lips parted as if caught in a prayer.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

A Muse. A divine being of inspiration, whispered about in old Valyrian tales. Said to bless poets and warriors alike, to bring visions to dreamers and steel to the hearts of kings.

Yet here you were, cold and fragile in his hands. No goddess—just a being trying to survive.

Jacaerys scooped you up without hesitation, his arms steady despite the way his heart thundered.