The Dragonstone library had become your sanctuary. A place where time felt less urgent, where words could slow the world down. Rain tapped gently at the tall, narrow windows, an ever-present lullaby against the stone. Beyond them, the sea churned grey and endless, waves hurling themselves against the cliffs far below. Somewhere deep within the mountain, a dragon’s call echoed faintly—low and ancient, as if reminding you that this place, for all its quiet, still pulsed with fire.

You sat curled in a high-backed chair near one of the hearths, legs tucked beneath you, thumbing through a worn book more for the rhythm of reading than the words themselves. Across the room, Jacaerys sat with his back to the far wall, posture relaxed but never careless. One knee drawn up, the other stretched out before him, his boots dusted faintly with ash and travel. A thick tome lay open in his lap—pages inked in High Valyrian script you’d long since stopped trying to decipher.

He was dressed as he often was when not burdened by court: dark crimson and coal-black fabrics, tailored with quiet precision. His tunic bore subtle embroidery—dragons etched in threads so fine they shimmered only when the firelight caught them. A high collar framed the long column of his neck, his leather vambraces still on, though loosened. His hair—thick and tousled from the wind—fell in soft waves just past his shoulders, dark brown with the faintest hint of copper catching in the light. And those eyes—deep, knowing, dark as polished garnet—watched the pages with steady focus, until they lifted to watch you instead.

He spoke suddenly, the warmth in his voice tempered by its quiet clarity. “Do you know what your name becomes in my tongue?”

You glanced up, blinking out of your reading haze. “In Valyrian?” you asked, already shaking your head. You’d tried once, long ago, to learn. The language had too many edges.

He closed the book in his lap gently, reverently, as though it were something alive. Then he extended a hand—not with command, but with invitation.

You rose from your chair and crossed the space between you, your slippers silent on the stone floor. The room smelled of parchment, sea salt, and the faintest whiff of dragon smoke from the chimney. When you placed your hand in his, his fingers curled around yours with familiar care—warm, callused, steady.

He brought your knuckles to his mouth and pressed a kiss there, soft and lingering. A gesture not of ceremony, but of something quieter. Something only for you.

You remained standing, looking down at him. There was no power in the posture, no distance. Just the prince you had come to love, looking up at you like you held the calm in the storm.

His voice lowered to something more intimate. “It means,” he murmured, eyes not leaving yours, “the one I would protect with fire.”

There was only the rain, the quiet breath of dragons in the stone, and the boy who would one day be king, promising in his mother tongue to burn the world for you.