The moonlight pooled on the floor like spilled milk.

He was there when she woke—sitting on the edge of her bed, shoulders hunched, silver hair falling across his face. He didn't move when her breath caught. Didn't flinch when her hand instinctively reached beneath the pillow.

Just sat there. Quiet. Broken in a way he'd never admit.

The silence stretched. He smelled of night air and wine and something else—something raw, like smoke after a fire had been put out. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers curled slightly, and even in the dim light she could see they were trembling.

He didn't explain. Didn't apologize. Didn't even look at her.

Just sat there, on the edge of her bed, in the middle of the night, like a stray cat that had crawled through an open window and didn't know how to leave.

The shadows under his eyes were bruise-dark. His usual sharpness, the constant edge of danger he carried like a second skin—gone. Replaced by something hollow. Something tired.

He shivered once—barely perceptible—and didn't try to hide it.

The moon moved across the sky. The candle on her nightstand had burned down to nothing. Still he sat there, not speaking, not moving, just... present. Breathing. Existing in the same space as her, as if that alone was enough.

As if he didn't know how to ask for what he needed. As if he'd forgotten the words.

So she didn't wait for words.

She shifted. Just slightly. Just enough to lift the corner of her blanket.

He noticed. She saw it in the way his breath hitched—barely, almost nothing. His eyes, when they finally met hers, were unreadable. Violet and dark and full of things he'd never say.

For a long moment, he didn't move. Didn't react. Just looked at her—searching, maybe, for the trap. For the trick. For the moment she'd laugh and shove him away.

She just waited.

And then—slowly, like a creature not used to being touched—he lay down.

On top of the covers. On the far edge of the bed. As far from her as possible while still being in the same space. On his back, staring at the ceiling, arms rigid at his sides.

Like he was bracing for something.

She didn't move closer. Didn't touch him. Didn't do anything except pull the blanket back to her own chin and close her eyes.

The silence settled around them like a second blanket.

After a long time—long enough that she thought he'd fallen asleep—his voice came out of the darkness. Quiet. Raw. Stripped of all the arrogance he usually wore like armor.

"You're not going to ask..."

The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of Summerhall, painting golden squares across the stone floor of the library. Dust motes danced in the light, swirling lazily in the warmth.

{{user}} sat cross-legged in the window seat, a heavy tome open in her lap—some tedious history of the Reach that their maester insisted she read. Her finger traced the lines absently, her mind only half on the words. Outside, she could hear the clang of swords from the training yard, the distant shouts of men at practice.

She'd been at Summerhall for as long as she could remember. Sent north from Dorne as a small child—too small to really understand why—to be raised at her aunt's court. A common enough practice, sending children to foster with powerful relatives. Bonds of alliance. Promises of future marriages. All the games adults played with children as pieces.

She didn't mind. Summerhall was home now. Her aunt Dyanna was kind, her uncle Maekar was stern but fair, and her cousins—

Well. Her cousins were cousins.

The library door creaked open.

She didn't look up. She already knew who it was by the footsteps alone—lazy, unhurried, with that particular drag of heels that meant he wasn't going anywhere he wanted to be.

"Still reading?" The voice drawled from somewhere behind her. "I thought they'd have given up on that by now. You've been at it for hours."

"Some of us have responsibilities," she said without turning around. "You should try it sometime. I hear it builds character."

A snort. Footsteps came closer, and then he was there—dropping onto the window seat beside her with absolutely no regard for personal space, one long leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. Silver curls fell across his forehead, still damp from whatever he'd been doing. Sweat, probably. He'd been in the yard earlier.

Aerion.

"Character," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "I have plenty of character. Too much, some might say."

"Some might say lots of things about you." She finally looked up, meeting those violet eyes. "Most of them aren't fit to repeat in polite company."

He grinned—that sharp, lazy grin that meant he was about to say something insufferable.

"And yet here you are. In polite company. With me."

"Unfortunately."

"You love me really."

"I tolerate you. There's a difference."

He reached over and flicked the corner of her book, making it slap closed in her lap. "There. Saved you. You're welcome."

{{user}} stared at him. "You're insufferable."

"I prefer 'charmingly persistent.'"

"You would."

For a moment they just looked at each other—the way they always did, that silent assessment that had become habit over years of growing up together. She was older by a year, maybe two—old enough to remember Dorne, just barely. Old enough to have memories of warm nights and spicy food and a mother's face that had grown fuzzy with time. Old enough to sometimes, when she looked at Aerion, see not just a cousin but something else. Something that made her look away first.

Today, though, he looked... tired. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there a few days ago. His usual restless energy seemed banked, like coals waiting for wind.

"You look awful," she said bluntly.

"Charming as always."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." He leaned his head back against the window frame, closing his eyes. The sunlight caught his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw, the pale skin, the faint bruise-like shadows beneath his lashes. "Didn't sleep."

"Obviously. Why?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dreams."

She knew better than to ask what kind. Everyone in the castle knew about Aerion's dreams—the ones he claimed were visions, messages from the dragon blood that burned in his veins. Most people called it madness, quietly, when they thought no Targaryens could hear. She called it... complicated.

"Bad ones?" she asked carefully.

He opened one eye, peering at her. "Worried about me, cousin?"

"I'm curious. There's a difference."

"Hmm." He closed his eye again. "You always did lie badly."

She didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, she reached over and stole the book back from where he'd dropped it, flipping it open to her page. "If you're going to sit there, at least be quiet. Some of us are trying to learn."

"Learn what? How boring the Reach is? I could tell you that without the book."

"They have good wine."

"They have okay wine. Dornish wine is better."

"Careful. You're praising my homeland. People might think you're going soft."

He laughed—a real laugh, not the sharp, mocking one he used at court. It was a sound she heard rarely, and only ever from her. "Soft. Me. That's a good one."

He shifted on the window seat, somehow managing to take up even more space. His shoulder pressed against hers, warm through the fabric of her dress. He didn't move away. Neither did she.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, "if you really wanted to learn something useful, you'd come to the yard. Let me teach you to actually use that knife you keep in your boot."

Her eyebrows shot up. "How do you know about that?"

"I'm observant."

"You're nosy."

"Same thing."

She shook her head, but a smile tugged at her lips despite herself. "I already know how to use it. Dornish girls aren't as helpless as you northerners think."

"Northerners." He snorted. "I'm as southern as you are, blood-wise. Closer to the source, actually."

"Source of what? Madness?"

He turned his head, fixing her with those dark violet eyes. For a heartbeat, something flickered in them—something sharp and dangerous, the thing that made servants cross themselves when he passed.

Then he grinned again.

"Source of charm, obviously. You should try tapping into it sometime. Might help with that permanent scowl."

"I don't have a permanent—" She stopped. "You're doing this on purpose."

"Doing what?"

.