House Of The Dragons
Before the war. Before the crown. Before the realm tore itself apart over who should sit upon the throne… There were still nights the maesters never wrote of.
The chamber was empty when she opened her eyes. She reached toward the other side of the bed. Cold. She sighed before she had even fully emerged from sleep. He was gone again.
Since their marriage, she had learned to recognize those nights when sleep refused to keep the Prince beside her. He would leave their bed without a sound and disappear somewhere within the fortress. Sometimes as far as the sea. Sometimes as far as his dragon.
The castle slept. Torchlight flickered against the black stone as she made her way barefoot through the corridors. She did not have to search for long.
He was standing on the terrace overlooking the sea. Alone. A cup in his hand. His long, pale hair hung loose, and the wind from the strait caught at his half-open shirt.
She stopped a few steps behind him.
“Do you intend to stay out here all night?”
He did not turn.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to come looking for me.”
She rolled her eyes. Always that arrogance.
“Who says I came looking for you?”
This time, he turned his head slightly. She caught the faintest trace of a smile. Barely there. But she knew him well enough to know exactly what it meant.
“You rarely cross the castle in the middle of the night simply to admire the sea.”
She moved closer.
“And you drink a great deal for a man who claims to fear nothing.”
The smile vanished. She understood immediately.
“My father?”
He said nothing. She gently took the cup from his hand and drank.
“The maester wrote this morning,” she said.
“I know.”
“He is weaker.”
“I know.”
She hated saying the words aloud. Because they both knew what would come next. When the King closed his eyes, the realm would open its own. And every gaze would turn toward her. Toward her inheritance. Toward her children. Toward the crown that had been promised to her.
“You are already thinking of war,” she murmured.
The Prince looked out over the sea.
“Someone has to.”
She felt anger rise within her at once.
“And naturally, that someone has to be you.”
He turned his eyes to her.
“Naturally.”
She set the cup sharply upon the stone.
“I am no longer the girl you once protected.”
Something changed in his gaze. Slowly, his eyes travelled over her. The gown she had thrown on in haste. Her unbound hair. Her bare feet against the cold stone. Then his gaze rose to meet hers once more.
“No,” he replied softly.
One word. And yet her body reacted before her reason did. She knew that voice.
“Then stop trying to decide for me.”
He stepped closer.
“And if I enjoy deciding for you?”
She did not retreat.
“Then you married the wrong woman.”
This time, he smiled.
“That is precisely why I married you.”
She wanted to hold on to her anger. She truly did. But he was standing before her now. Close enough for her to feel the warmth of his body despite the wind. Close enough for his scent to mingle with salt and smoke. And yet he did not touch her.
That was probably what irritated her most. The way he could remain perfectly still when he knew exactly what effect he had on her.
So she placed her own hand against his chest.
“You are insufferable.”
His eyes dropped to her fingers.
“How many years have you known that?”
“Too many.”
“And yet…”
He left the words unfinished.
She lifted her eyes to his.
“And yet what?”
He leaned closer. His lips passed near her ear.
“You came looking for me.”
A shiver ran down her spine. She hated it when he was right.
Her fingers closed around the fabric of his shirt, and she pulled him toward her. The Prince let out an almost silent laugh. Then his hand found her waist. Finally.
His fingers settled against her with an almost insolent slowness. She felt his breathing change. Hers did too.
“Still as arrogant as ever,” she murmured.
“Still as impatient as ever.”
She kissed him before he could say anything more.
There was still anger in their kiss. There almost always was. With them, even tenderness seemed to begin with a battle.
His hand slid around her back and drew her closer. Cold stone beneath her feet. The warmth of his body against hers. The wind in her hair.
For a few seconds, she forgot the King. The court. The whispers. The succession. Everything.
When she finally pulled away, their faces remained close. Her forehead rested against his. She opened her eyes. He was no longer smiling.
“I am not afraid they will come for your crown,” he murmured.
Her fingers slowly slipped behind his neck.
“Then what are you afraid of?”
Silence. She felt his hand tighten slightly around her waist.
The Prince could face an army. Defy a king. Ride a creature almost no other man would dare approach. But some words seemed to demand more courage from him than any of those things.
For a moment, he looked out toward the sea. Then his eyes returned to hers.
“What it will do to us once it rests upon your head.”
She did not answer immediately.
For the first time that night, she no longer saw the warrior. Nor the Prince. Nor the man whose name was whispered throughout the realm with equal parts fascination and fear. Only her husband.
She gently caressed the back of his neck.
“It is not on my head yet.”
His gaze remained fixed upon hers.
“No.”
She took his hand. Then slowly stepped backward toward the door. His eyes followed her.
“Come.”
“Where?”
A smile touched her lips.
“For a man who claims to know everything, you ask a great many questions.”
He smiled in return.
She gave his hand a gentle pull. This time, he followed her.
The door closed behind them. And while the torches continued to burn along the silent corridors, the realm could wait a few hours longer.
The war had not yet begun. The crown had not yet changed hands. And that night… the Prince still belonged to the Heiress.
The maesters write of wars, coronations, and deaths. But some stories never found their way into their books.
To be continued…