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Hark, ye who seek the tale of Bloody Mary, known far beyond mere whispers in darkened halls. She, Mary I, daughter of Henry, the king of fickle heart, and Catherine, a queen most devout, was once cast aside, stripped of her royal grace. Yet from shadows deep she rose, and upon her brow the crown did rest. Her path was wrought in blood and steel, as she bested her foes and drew the lords to her cause, forging a reign that would change the course of England's faithful souls.

Her heart, steadfast in Catholic creed, bade her scourge the heretic’s tongue, for her realm would kneel to Rome once more. Yet, in her zealous flame, a darker name did cling to her fate. For 'tis not as queen alone she is known, but as Bloody Mary, stained by the lives she claimed.

Among the damned was Katherine Grace, a maid condemned by falsehood and fear, for she would not turn from her pagan craft. She faced the pyre, with child untimely born. The babe’s hair as white as snow, eyes cursed with hue of yellowed flame, was torn from death’s embrace. But lo, the queen, in her dread, bade the child be cast again into the fire, lest he grow to be a warlock.

Yet when the embers cooled, a cry echoed from the ashes, the child unscathed. It was whispered that such as he, beings of fire and life, long thought vanished, walked once more in the land. They, the keepers of ancient flame, feared and called demons, had returned.

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"Hail to the realm of men, milord," spake one with a serpent’s tongue, his words a veil, though mockery burned clear beneath. "Thou art stricken with a fever of thoughts, young fool." They stood in the square, heart of London, under watchful gaze.

"Were it a true plague," the youth retorted, "thine own skull might bear more than dust, but naught resides therein, of that I’m certain."

The crowd, thronged and restless, hungered for the fray’s outcome. Some yearned for blood spilled on the cobblestones, others for an unlikely bond to arise from the quarrel. Yet neither man would retreat from this spectacle, their pride as steadfast as iron.

"Thou must fashion better barbs," quoth the first, now shifting with impatience, for he feared the greater man before him. His words had stirred the wrath of a lion, and his bones would soon pay the price unless the crowd or fortune intervened.

Unbeknownst to both, eyes more keen than theirs did Myles the scene. A figure approached, cloaked in fine leathers, girded with a mail coat hidden beneath his robes, a relic of war, though needless now. On his shoulders, a bearskin rested, a token of his beloved, never to be cast aside despite his loathing for such cruelty. His garb set him apart from the throng of ragged men. The murmurs of the crowd fell silent as his approach was Mylesed. His presence commanded reverence, for not only did his royal vestments speak his station, but his locks—whiter than winter's breath—betrayed his bloodline.

The sea of commoners parted, bending knee and bowing heads as the man neared the quarreling servants. His steps, measured and deliberate, called an end to their folly before his lips moved, for even the very air seemed to hold its breath in his wake.

The brawlers, blind to all but each other, circled like hounds poised for blood. The first blow fell from the larger man, and with it, chaos reigned. Though a spell could have stilled the fray, the noble figure chose restraint, savoring the quiet authority of his presence. Yet, the two brutes continued their brutish dance, fists flying, insults spat like venom, as they tumbled into the crowd, spreading their disorder like wildfire.

Where once the air was sweet with the scent of roses, gracing the beauty of the Renaissance square, now it reeked of blood and sweat. The splendid lord watched in disdain as his serene haven turned foul. One of the fighters, clumsy in his fury, misstepped and fell, stumbling at the feet of the regal figure.

Looking up, fear seized him as he muttered, "My lord..." Frozen in place, he dared not rise until the King’s gaze fell upon him. The man stood then, trembling beneath the weight of his shame. "Lord Targaryen," he stammered, eyes low, "I beg pardon for this chaos. We meant no disgrace to the realm, only—"

But a mere gesture from the lord silenced him and the crowd alike. "It is not the first time I’ve witnessed such folly in my streets," Lord Targaryen’s voice cut through the air, measured and cold. He strode through the circle of onlookers, his gaze calm, yet piercing. "A spectacle, no doubt—entertainment for some. Yet what Marks it breed but violence? And what manner of king would I be if I allowed such savagery to fester?"

A murmur of fear swept through the gathered throng, for they feared execution for this rebellion of fists. The lord’s words held their fates in sway. "Thus, for the sake of peace, and for the safety of my children, who deserve to walk these streets untroubled, I shall decree this: henceforth, any who disturb the peace shall face the penalty of death.”

No sooner had the decree been spoken than the crowd scattered like leaves before a storm. The king cast a final, triumphant glance upon the two hapless servants, his lips curving in quiet satisfaction. With measured grace, he turned and strode away, his faithful squire trailing in his wake—a boy he had found lost upon a desolate battlefield. Orphaned in the cruelties of war, the lad had come under the king’s protection, and though much remained for him to learn, he was near ready to don the mantle of knighthood. His eyes, a shade of blue that mirrored the heavens, stirred memories of the king’s beloved, Oberyn, who had first glimpsed young Dragomir cowering in the shadows of a ruined alley, seeking refuge from the devastation that had claimed his home.

As they made their way back to the castle, the serene beauty of the land unfolded before them. The paths, lined with trees of ancient grace, brought peace to their steps. The king, unlike the rulers before him, found joy in the simplicity of his kingdom—pausing often to admire the verdant boughs that stretched toward the sky, or to watch the innocent laughter of children at play, untroubled by the burdens of the world. It was this peace he cherished most, a testament to the golden age he had fostered.

More than once, the king knelt to speak with the younglings of his domain. One such child was Ezio, a sprightly lad who roamed the castle gardens with a heart full of wonder. The boy, oft found scaling the well-kept cherry and apple trees, would appear with a handful of blossoms, his face glowing with mischief and joy. Though he seldom mingled with the royal children, Ezio held a special place under the watchful eye of Dragomir, who saw it as his duty to protect the innocents, as he himself had once been guarded by the king’s teachings.

The castle walls loomed ahead, their grey stone towering above the emerald forest that surrounded them. These sturdy walls encased the vivid splendor of House Targaryen, where every hue seemed crafted to draw the eye. The wind played with the king’s silver curls, a signature of his lineage, as he approached the grand keep. Dragomir followed closely, his loyalty unwavering, until they crossed the threshold of the resplendent halls. Within, the turquoise glow of the castle welcomed them, its walls adorned with the masterpieces of renowned artists, Da Vinci among them. The throne room doors remained ever open to scholars and learned men, a reflection of Lord Targaryen’s wisdom, ensuring that knowledge flourished and the strength of his reign endured.

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As he climbed the stairways of the grand keep, the king bid farewell to his squire, the young one still tasked with hours of training under the relentless watch of the day’s sun. The king’s footsteps echoed along the stone halls as he made his way to his chambers, when a familiar figure appeared in the distance—his eldest son, Mark Tremonti, approaching with measured grace. Near equal in height to his parents, as was his brother, Myles Kennedy Targaryen, Mark carried the clear eyes of his other progenitor. Clad in garments that clung to his form with precise tailoring, he walked with a confidence that bespoke his noble bearing, though the shirt pressed tight against his chest revealed his newly acquired strength—a result of heeding his father’s counsel at last.

Much of his time was now spent in the study of governance, learning the weight of rule, as befit the firstborn heir to the Iron Throne. Yet, despite his sturdy appearance, to his parents' eyes, he was still but a lad.

“Father,” Mark exclaimed, rushing into the warmth of his father’s embrace. “We thought you would tarry longer on your stroll.”

“I would never keep my sons waiting,” replied the king, holding him close, the scent of jasmine upon the boy’s skin filling his senses. “I see you’ve bathed already. Any special occasion that prompted such without my usual pleading?”

“I spent the day with Troy,” Mark answered, referring to the captain of the royal guard, known across the castle as both protector and tutor to the princes. “We trained in the woodlands, and... well, the snows have been relentless of late.”

“I can still see the remnants of winter upon your cloak,” the king noted, brushing off the flecks of snow that clung to his son’s garments, smiling with paternal pride.

“And on yours too, father,” Mark retorted, his gaze catching the scattered flakes that adorned the king’s cloak, glittering in the light like stars against the dark fabric. As if the king needed such to draw attention.

“You may be right, my boy,” the king chuckled. “You’ve grown much, in body and spirit.”

“Though Troy still says I lose my footing too easily,” Mark mused, leaning into the familiar warmth of his father’s arm. “Yet I always manage to best him in the end.”

“Your other father was much the same—two left feet on the battlefield,” the king teased, his voice rich with fondness.

“Impossible!” Mark laughed, their steps in unison as they passed through the long corridors, their joy filling the spaces between the quiet rooms. Soon they reached the balcony of the highest tower, where the city lay sprawling beneath them, bathed in a golden twilight, a scene as breathtaking as any artist’s masterpiece.

As they continued their light-hearted jests, the father and son, their voices weaving together like the harmonious laughter of long-time comrades, were abruptly halted by the solemn tolling of the church bells. These sonorous peals heralded the approach of their rightful king, Daemon, though whispers of doubt lingered among the populace. For all the weight of his crown and the dominion he wielded over the realm, Daemon found himself not wholly embraced by the hearts of all. Was it the spectral whiteness of his hair, a vestige of ancient bloodlines? Or perchance the immense power that coursed through his veins? Or might it be the open and unashamed love he bore for another man that stirred unease within some?

Oberyn, accompanied by his eldest son Mark and his steadfast squire, moved with steady grace toward the chapel. There, the folk of the kingdom awaited to receive their king, who had returned triumphant from yet another hard-fought battle. They ascended the grand, broad steps of the chapel, and there their gaze fell upon Daemon’s noble steed, Aegon, striding majestically down the snow-dusted path. The steed's snow-white coat blended almost seamlessly with the soft flurries that cascaded from the heavens. Upon Aegon sat Daemon, draped in his long, dark war-cloak, the sigil of their house proudly emblazoned upon his shoulder, as he approached with regal poise.

Daemon's white hair, kissed by the falling snow, framed his chiseled visage. His beard, thickened during the months of conflict, was also dusted with frost. The crowd erupted in cheers, flinging roses in his path as Aegon carried him toward the cathedral. The hooves of the noble steed crunched upon the cobblestones, whilst Daemon kept his gaze steadfast, his regal bearing undiminished by the biting wind. At that very moment, Oberyn’s youngest son rushed to join them, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air as he skidded to a halt beside his kin.

"’Tis not befitting a prince to come in such haste," Oberyn murmured softly, inclining slightly toward the lad.

"But I made it, father," the young prince retorted, his tone defiant yet softened by affection.

"Mind thy comportment, dear one," Oberyn gently admonished, though his lips curved into a smile.

The boy bestowed upon his father a mischievous grin ere he turned his attention to the approaching king. Daemon dismounted Aegon with the fluid grace of a seasoned warrior, his strides long and deliberate as he moved toward his family. His arms opened wide, and he embraced his loved ones, holding them tightly after the long months of strife that had kept him from their side. At length, he stepped back, his sharp gaze lingering on each beloved face before him.

“Oberyn, my beloved,” Daemon whispered, his hand rising to caress the rugged countenance of his husband, tracing the rough edge of Oberyn’s newly grown beard. “This beard… it doth thee no justice, I fear.”

“For such a slight,” Oberyn replied with mock gravity, “I ought to have thee thrown into the dungeons.” The beard had been grown at Daemon’s behest, a nod to his husband’s known fondness for such adornments. They shared a long, fervent kiss, their passions igniting in full view of the assembled crowd. Though some among the onlookers may have felt unease, none would dare challenge the affections of two kings.

“And my sons…” Daemon’s gaze softened as he turned to his eldest. “Mark, thou hast grown even taller.” His hand brushed through Mark’s silvery locks, the young man smiling beneath his father’s approving gaze. “Soon, thou shalt stand taller than I, and stronger too.”

“Father!” Mark grinned, launching himself into Daemon’s embrace with the exuberance of youth, their laughter ringing through the chill air. The scent of crushed roses, cast by the crowd, clung to their garments as Daemon held him close. He then turned his attention to his youngest, the one who bore his likeness most keenly.

“Myles Kennedy…” Daemon extended his hand, which the young prince eagerly grasped before being drawn into a tight embrace. “Thou art as radiant as the day I departed. Yet what is this?” His fingers gently traced a bruise upon his son’s neck. “I see thou hast been busy with more than thine studies.”

Myles blushed deeply, hiding his face against Daemon’s shoulder as his father chuckled, a knowing glance passing between him and Oberyn.

“Apologies, father…” quoth the prince, shame washing over him as he sensed his sire’s keen observation and surely imagined the source of that mark upon his neck.

The youngest, too, received warm embraces and tender kisses, following in the footsteps of his elder brother. They made their way back to the castle, the throngs parting to grant them passage, their joyous songs rising in celebration of their king’s triumphant return. Within the castle’s corridors, any casual observer might suspect they were naught but a façade of a family, for the four did not dwell together in harmony for all twenty-four hours. Indeed, they bore little resemblance to the conventional family who sought the limelight, feigning concern for one another’s well-being.

Myles Kennedy and Mark oft spent their afternoons and the early eves in the inner garden, a sanctuary adorned with blossoms that symbolized peace, sharing tales of the younger’s adventures and exploits. The secrecy of their meetings was assured by Bill Kelliher, the proprietor of the local brothel, who harbored a deep admiration for the prince and thus offered them a haven from prying eyes.

Meanwhile, their parents retreated to the royal chamber, shedding their cloaks and coats, surrendering themselves to each other’s presence. The warmth radiating from their bodies enveloped them as they exchanged passionate caresses, the fire of their desire igniting their souls and guiding them toward the bed. With fierce intensity, they surrendered to one another, never relinquishing the profound love that bound their hearts.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

As the hour of supper drew nigh, all were gathered 'round the great table, seated in conviviality. Yet a particular matter weighed heavy upon the king's heart, for his sons approached the age of betrothal and yet had no suitors to their names. This state of affairs must needs change forthwith.

“I would make an announcement ere supper be served,” Daemon proclaimed, gesturing for the servants to depart, leaving the family in solitude. “It is clear that you…” The king cast a discerning gaze upon his progeny. “You are growing. Indeed, you are upon the cusp of marriage.”

A look of surprise crossed the countenances of both brothers for a fleeting moment, but Daemon hastened to assuage their fears. “Rest assured, we shall not bestow you upon just any stranger. We merely wish for you to meet some young men of worth.”

“Father, I am but fifteen summers,” spoke Myles Kennedy, fidgeting with the silverware upon the table.

“Aye, yet thou art of an age to venture to brothels,” Daemon quipped, a knowing smile playing upon his lips.

“I am but practicing for the day I shall wed, father,” Myles replied, a hint of mischief in his tone.

“What I seek to convey is…” Oberyn interjected with a low chuckle, fully aware of his youngest son’s escapades, yet resolved to return to the matter at hand. “I trust you remember the king of France?”

Both lads exchanged glances, well acquainted with the man in question. “Eddard Stark,” they replied in unison. “He hath reached the age of forty-eight, and his lady wife perished in the birth of their two children…”

“In the birth of his youngest son, Mark,” Myles interjected, glancing toward his parents. “Both are nearly ten years my senior.”

“Age brings with it respect, as thou shalt see,” Daemon countered, his tone firm yet encouraging. “In any case, the matter stands resolved. They shall arrive by weekend’s end, and thou art to engage with them. At the very least, you shall have the opportunity to make their acquaintance, for they shall dwell here for several months. Then, you shall determine with whom you wish to forge a union.”

And thus it was decreed. The decision was sealed, and the topic would not be revisited until the arrival of the French nobles. Myles Kennedy and Mark, having set aside their initial hesitance, recognized that as princes, their opportunities for friendship were scarce. Their only companions lay among their peers in the art of sorcery, a mandatory pursuit, given the potent blood that coursed through their veins.

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Behold, torches did shimmer, casting their wild flames upon the towering spires of the palace, where the coming of the French was awaited with bated breath. In the square before the great cathedral, standing to the north, only a few lanterns did flicker, their pale light barely breaching the deepening shadows. Yet, even as the city slipped into the embrace of slumber, as it was wont for most folk at nightfall, there lingered some, sailors and dockworkers, who toiled still in the murk of dusk.

The mariners, their hands calloused by ropes and sea-salt, did hasten about their vessels, wrapping tight the cords and securing the decks in the darkness that now clung to them. The dockworkers, in their steady labor, hauled crates and bundles, drawing them to the safety of the warehouses that stood watch over the wharves. Each night, their work became the same as the night before, their eyes keen upon the goods arriving, ever mindful of the judgment of their lords.

For the kings, in their wisdom, sought to bring peace to the land, ending wars so the wealth of the kingdom might be rightly spent, feeding the mouths of the people. Men of might they were, yet striving toward kindness, wielding the magic coursing through Oberyn’s blood for only the most righteous of causes. Yet shadows of doubt clung to their reign, whispered by zealots who feared that such power, though noble, drew from the darkest of places.

In their hearts, the kings held firm—such baseless suspicion must not sway their heirs. Thus, they had decreed that new schools be built, places of learning where the children of the realm might be shielded from the follies of their forebears. Their intent was to nurture obedience, not to the old ways, but to a system that promised much yet offered less than deserved. It was as though a mark of rot spread through the hearts of the kingdom, a flaw from within. Yet, these burdens belonged to the past regime. The Targaryens knew the ways to make a realm prosper, just as the Starks did in the cold North, in the distant lands of France.

Lo, upon the waves did glide the ship, its hull shadowed by smaller craft, arranged in formation—one to four, and four again—lit by the bright blaze of torches, revealing the banner that rippled in the night wind: a fearsome wolf, sigil of their house. As the ship docked, its hull scraping against the stone pier, the sons of the king ceased their banter about the looks of the foreign princes, for their eyes now fell upon those very men who disembarked alongside their lord and father.

The king, though shorter than anticipated, did command respect with naught but the weight of his gaze. His sons, though taller and mightier in appearance, could not match the quiet authority that clung to him. No furs draped upon his shoulders, no beast’s hide to mark his rank, but rather the glint of rings upon his fingers did proclaim his wealth—a wealth that came not from mere gold but from the metals of power, skulls and diamonds gleaming as if the heavens themselves had shaped them. His royal robes, of burnished orange, did shimmer in the torchlight, reflecting the very colors of his house banner. Hair, short and graying, lay as neat as the furrows of tilled land, and his eyes, though blue, held a depth dark enough to unsettle those who met his stare too long beneath the shadows of night.

The princes that strode beside him bore little likeness to their father, save for the blood that ran through their veins. Tall, with striking countenances and raven-black hair that did glisten like the night itself, their steps echoed through the stones of King’s Landing. Garbed in dark robes, embroidered with golden roses, they were the living symbols of their lineage’s wealth. Though their eyes did not possess the piercing depth of Eddard Stark’s, their gaze nonetheless held a certain weight, a silent confidence born of their standing. As they approached the Targaryen kings, they did so not with the humility of mere subjects but with the air of equals, princes who knew their worth.

Eddard himself, standing at the forefront, did break the silence first, a slight bow of his head in recognition of his hosts. His dark eyes met theirs, drawing the Targaryen kings’ gaze down to match his, before he turned his glance toward the princes, his sons by his side. His voice, deep and measured, carried easily through the still air.

"Your Highness," said he, a smile curling upon his lips, mirrored by the young men at his side. “No doubt you know of us, and I believe there is no need for excessive formalities."

“Indeed, Your Highness,” Daemon did step forward then, his own bow given in graceful return. “These are our sons, Myles Kennedy and Mark.” With a hand extended, he did gesture toward the two young men, who nodded in respectful acknowledgment.

“I do remember them from their younger days,” Eddard replied, a warm smile breaking the stillness of his face as he gestured to his own. “These are mine—Joseph and Mario.” The two dark-haired boys inclined their heads in the manner of their father, their movements measured and dignified.

“Doubtless, you are weary from the long voyage,” Oberyn interjected then, his voice carrying a subtle warmth beneath its rich tone. “Permit us to offer you rest and refreshment in our halls.”

Thus was the exchange, each word spoken with precision, each gesture carrying the weight of kingdoms. But beneath the surface, much remained unspoken, a dance of intent and veiled ambition lingering in the air as the gathering proceeded into the warmth of the great hall.

The walk to the towering keep, though brief in steps, stretched long in the weight of unspoken thoughts. The foreign kings, having disembarked but moments before, now did stride through the cobbled streets toward the heart of the fortress, their retinues following close behind. Though the night was thick with the cloak of stars, their path was well-lit by the torches that flickered and swayed, casting shadows that danced with the winds. Words of statecraft passed between them, each weighing the wisdom of peace over war, for in their kingdoms, blood had long ceased to stain the soil, save for noble causes. It was a matter of pride for both rulers, whose banners had known peace for many a year, and whose people, far from the reach of needless conflict, prospered.

King Eddard, his voice steady as the winds of the North, spake first as they approached the keep. “It is not by the strength of swords alone that a kingdom doth stand,” quoth he, “but by the temperance of its rulers, who must know when to raise the shield and when to set it down.” His gaze, though cast forward, seemed to pierce the very air between them.

Daemon, walking alongside, nodded in agreement, his voice lower, as though he spake not only to his companion but to the night itself. “Aye, war is a scourge that burns far beyond the battlefield. We, too, have sought to leave such flames behind, for what greater victory than to raise sons who know the value of unity?” His words, laden with purpose, hung heavy in the air between them.

Their steps slowed, for the castle gates loomed ahead, and within lay the heart of their discussion. Though much had been spoken of peace, of the fruits of diplomacy, it was now that the true matter at hand surfaced like a beast long slumbering beneath still waters. Joseph, Eddard’s eldest, and Mark, son of Daemon, were oft the center of these whispered talks, for a union betwixt their houses could bring forth a bond stronger than any treaty signed by quill.

“It is agreed, then?” Eddard's question, though framed as query, carried the weight of decision. “A bond of blood would do more than any alliance forged by words alone.”

Daemon’s brow furrowed, yet there was a glint in his eyes, a knowing gleam. “If such a union is to be, it must be more than a binding of names. Mark shall choose as much as Joseph. Therein lies the strength of it, not in our will, but in theirs.”

Thus the matter was spoken, though neither king could yet know the hearts of their sons, who even now awaited their fate. The keep rose before them, a monument of stone and time, and with it, the uncertainty of what would come once its doors closed behind them.

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Their sons strode in silence, side by side, the weight of unspoken thoughts between them. Mark, less boisterous than his brother Myles, kept his gaze forward, though Myles had already fastened his sharp eyes upon the two foreign guests from France. The young men exchanged fleeting glances during the long passage, yet not a word passed their lips, for the burden of expectation pressed upon them like the stone walls looming in the distance. Along the path, lit by candles borne by the kingdom’s servants, loose stones made the road treacherous. At times, they veered from their course, avoiding the scattered remains of disoriented horses left behind by their careless masters.
As they neared the castle, its high towers looming above like ancient sentinels, they turned toward the grand throne hall, where conversation still lingered in the air like the embers of a dying fire. Westeros, though cold in its stone and somber in its air, was unlike anything King Stark had known in the lands of his beloved France. Even in the dark of night, beneath the shadow of stone and star, they could hear the distant revelry from the people of King’s Landing. The freedom of the populace, to celebrate as they pleased, was a gift from their kings, who had long since decreed the liberty of faith and festivity. Yet such freedom was not without its enemies—priests and keepers of holy places looked upon it with disdain.
The kings, Oberyn and Daemon, found a kind of joy in the quiet defiance they stirred among their subjects. It was not the rebellion of steel and blood, but one of spirit, a yearning for freedom that mirrored the vast sky under which they walked. As they ascended the highest towers, the two monarchs led their guests to their appointed chambers. Though the hour was late, the night demanded rest before the matters of state could be addressed. Courteously, they parted ways, each making for their own quarters, the weight of tomorrow's negotiations heavy upon their minds.
Within the castle, every chamber bore the marks of meticulous care, the architecture an enviable marvel to any foreign eye. The hallways bloomed with life, plants and flowers of every hue adorning the stairways, and among them, herbs—sacred to King Targaryen, who used them in both his offerings to the gods and in healing the sick. The tapestries hung heavy upon the walls, but the true warmth came from the furs that draped the beds, though such use of animal hides was oft a point of contention between Daemon and his consort. Oberyn, for all his princely pride, could never bring himself to challenge his husband, even though the practice pained him. His deepest desire was for Daemon and their sons to know happiness, though it came at the cost of his own peace.

The night, though long and cold, eventually surrendered to dawn, and with it came the first meal of the day. The king’s cooks, who had heard with keen ears the detailed preferences of the Stark princes, had no need of a royal menu. Their knowledge had been gathered through whispers and talk, delivered from the lips of a frequent patron of the local brothels—an old friend of Prince Targaryen. As the great-grandson of Rhaenyra and Daemon I, it was no secret that a certain libertine inclination ran through his blood, a flame unquenched by time or propriety.

Thus the morning came, but the air still bore the weight of what was to come, the binding of houses, the promises unspoken, and the futures of kings and princes intertwined.
Each day the prince, with solemn hands, would light the candles in tribute to his forebears, calling upon their ancient spirits to shield the bloodline unbroken. Long had three hundred and fifty years passed since the Targaryens claimed the Iron Throne, yet again had the silver-haired dragonlords reclaimed the seat where their kind had once ruled. Myles Kennedy, the younger, roamed the castle's vast halls more oft than his brother Mark, his steps knowing well the cold stone paths and tapestries that whispered of battles and betrayals. His heart, though versed in royal duty, harbored a yearning for the untamed—dragons of fire and secrets of old—wrought deeper by the knowledge inherited from ages past.

But it was not only the past that he sought. Myles, who in secret sojourned to the city’s bordellos, followed the ancient habits of his forefathers, seeking pleasures that his station forbade but his lineage could not deny. Through the narrow streets of King’s Landing he would tread in disguise, and from the shadows, he heard the songs of fire and ice that filled the taverns, songs that mocked his house with wit sharp as steel. The common folk played at jests of royalty upon their stages, and though many would find offense, Myles was not stirred by such trifles. What he longed for was beyond mockery, for he believed the Northmen—the Starks—would bring him that which he sought most: adventure, and perchance, something more.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

Yet Mark, eldest of his kin, did not wander as his brother did. Where Myles found his pleasures among the city’s streets, Mark remained within the keep’s stone walls, his mind tethered to the duties that burdened him as heir to the throne. The castle, great in its towering majesty, had become his world, and he knew its secret halls and shadowed alcoves better than any. Mark had devoted his years to the learning of lore, the understanding of architecture and law, memorizing all that shaped the realm over which he was to rule.

And yet, this knowledge brought him little peace. A king in waiting, he was, yet he bore none of the freedom his younger brother claimed. While Myles embarked with the youngest Stark on a hunt through distant woods, Mark remained, bound by the crown’s weight even before it touched his brow. In silence, he wrestled with the teachings of their realm, for though the land allowed the practice of many faiths, Mark’s heart was strangely drawn to hate the way his brother behaved.

He could not be blamed, for he was the younger scion, the jovial figure of the house, raised in the lap of luxury, unshackled by the weight of rule. His fitness for governance was oft doubted, for never could he master the intricate laws and customs of the realm as his elder brother Mark had. Yet, at his [Mark’s] side, there lingered a dragon, fierce and swift—the youngest and most agile of all. His companion, the great wyrm Hyris, a beast of golden wings and a body black as night, was unmatched, save when the demon Ashtaroth, whose wings were as sharp as a legion of blades, drew near.

The scarlet dragon of Myles rose high in its majesty, peerless in battle, even as Myles himself was a master of war’s arts, swift and deadly in every contest. Yet for all the strength of body and steel, it was Mark, the rightful heir of their bloodline, who grappled with the weight of the crown to come. Too young, he thought, for the throne’s heavy burden, and still less prepared for the marriage alliance that loomed before him. In a rare moment of honesty, he had confessed such misgivings to the eldest of the Stark house, as they strolled through the royal gardens, where long shadows danced between the trees. The air thickened with the shared words of noble bloodlines, their voices weaving a tale of fathers long past—the Targaryens who once ruled King’s Landing and all of Westeros, and the Starks, those cold rulers of the North, who reigned over Winterfell and its boundless expanse.

“Is it not the duty of kings, then,” Mark began, his voice tempered by the doubt that gnawed at his heart, “to wield power over their people as a sword, and yet shield them as a father would his children?”

Eddard Stark’s reply was slow, his words as measured as a hammer striking an anvil, forging truth in the fire of reflection. “Aye, it is the task of kings to carry that weight. But it is also the burden of their sons to learn the meaning of such rule before they don the crown.”

Mark’s gaze fell to the earth beneath his feet, his brow furrowing in thought. “Then it is not enough to inherit a kingdom. One must earn it?”

The elder Stark smiled faintly, his eyes casting a knowing glance toward the distant towers. “Indeed. And to earn it, one must first understand the people who call it their home.”

They walked on in silence for a time, their words hanging like mist between them, before Myles Kennedy, who had trailed behind, finally spoke, his tone lighter, though not without weight.

“Or perhaps,” Myles mused, his gaze shifting toward the heavens where dragons flew, “it is not kingship we should seek at all, but freedom from its grasp.”

Mark turned to him, eyebrows raised, but said nothing. He knew well his brother's distaste for the throne’s heavy mantle, and though he could not say he shared it, there was a certain wisdom in Myles’s words that unsettled him.

As they neared the edge of the gardens, where the path broke toward the castle’s towering walls, Mark slowed his pace, letting his brothers walk ahead. The air was thick with the scent of the sea, and in the distance, the city still hummed with life, even as night fell. Yet within him, a storm brewed—one not born of battle or bloodshed, but of duty, and the weight of choices yet to be made.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn had scarce kissed the high towers of King’s Landing when the Starks had arrived, their banners flapping like crows' wings in the salt-laden wind. Their days within the dragon-lords’ keep were strange, for the city beneath, vast and restless, bore not the cold dignity of Winterfell. Eddard Stark and his sons were guests of the Targaryens, and as the sun waxed and waned, Mark and Myles roamed the sprawling city, their boots stirring dust upon cobbled streets where once dragon fire had scorched the stones.

By day, Mark was ever the solemn heir, his eyes tracing the high spires of the Red Keep, ever watchful for the murmurs of power and wisdom in the Targaryen court. But Myles—ah, he of restless spirit—walked another path. Night fell oft with the younger Stark slipping from the castle walls, drawn to the shadows where the scent of wine and flesh mingled in the air like a siren's call. Mark knew little of his brother's nocturnal wanderings, yet the streets knew Myles well, for he sought the pleasures the crown and the throne did not offer.

But on this night, as moonlight trickled through the narrow alleyways, Myles found himself followed.

In the stinking alleys of Flea Bottom, where the streets grew narrow and the taverns bawled out songs of lust and gold, Myles was a fleeting shadow among men who dared not lift their heads to notice. Cloaked in darkness, he sought the brothel, a house of pleasure known to him by name alone. But as he neared, a footfall echoed his own, and a voice, low and rough as the growl of a hound, broke the silence.

“Does the dragon stalk alone tonight?”

Myles turned, his heart quickening in his chest, his eyes narrowing in the half-light. Out of the shadows stepped Joseph Stark, a man taller than most, his frame lean and dangerous, like a wolf in its prime. There was something predatory in his gaze, though his lips curved in a smile that hinted at darker desires.

“And if he does?” Myles replied, his tone bolder than he felt, for there was a heat in Joe’s eyes that unsettled him in ways he could not name. “It is not the place of a wolf to follow.”

Joe stepped closer, his boots echoing upon the cobbles, his presence wrapping around Myles like a shadow made flesh. His hand came to rest against the cold wall beside Myles' head, trapping him there, though the younger Targaryen made no move to flee.

“A dragon is prey,” Joe whispered, his voice a rasp of hunger, “even in the city of kings.”

Myles should have been frightened, should have felt the weight of the words, but instead, he felt the pull of something far more dangerous. He tilted his chin up, defiant, though his body betrayed him, leaning into the heat radiating from Joe.

“And what does the wolf want?” Myles’ voice was a low whisper, his breath hitching as Joe's eyes darkened, his lips parting as if to taste the very air between them.

Joe did not answer, but his hand slid down, grazing the curve of Myles’ jaw before gripping the back of his neck. The touch was firm, possessive, sending a thrill of heat straight to Myles' core. He was no stranger to the pleasures of flesh, but this—this was something different. There was no softness in Joe’s touch, only raw hunger.

Before Myles could think to protest—or welcome it—Joe’s lips crushed against his own, fierce and demanding. The kiss was a storm, wild and consuming, and Myles found himself lost in it, his body pressing against Joe’s with a need he hadn’t known before. His hands fisted in Joe’s cloak, pulling him closer, until there was nothing between them but the thrum of their hearts and the heat of their shared breath.

Joe’s hands were everywhere—sliding down Myles’ back, gripping his waist, pulling him flush against his body until Myles could feel every hard line of muscle beneath the man’s clothes. And then, Joe’s hand slid lower, over the curve of Myles' backside, squeezing hard, possessive, as if to claim him there in the shadows.

Myles gasped into the kiss, arching against Joe, his hands trembling as they clutched at the man’s shoulders. His thoughts were a blur, his body a flame, and though he knew this was madness, he could not bring himself to stop.

“You want this,” Joe murmured against his lips, his voice rough with desire, his hands still exploring, gripping, teasing. “I can feel it. You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

Myles groaned, his body betraying him, pressing harder against Joe, fitting himself to the man’s body as if he belonged there. His words were lost, swallowed by the fierce kiss, but his hands spoke for him, pulling Joe closer still, needing more.

“Say it,” Joe demanded, his breath hot against Myles’ ear as he pulled away just enough to look into the younger man’s eyes. “Say you want this.”

Myles' breath was ragged, his heart pounding in his chest, but he could not bring himself to speak the words, though his body answered for him, arching into Joe’s touch, his lips parting in a silent plea for more.

Joe’s grin was wicked as he leaned in again, his hands sliding over Myles' ass, squeezing, kneading, pulling him tighter still. “You’re mine tonight, Targaryen.”

Myles moaned, his body trembling with need, and before he could think, he was kissing Joe again, harder, fiercer, as if the world beyond them did not exist. The alley was their kingdom, and in that moment, Myles would have let Joe conquer him completely.

Forth from the feasting hall they crept, under the cloak of night’s black mantle, where the flicker of torches cast but feeble light. In secret paths and hidden lanes, where no man’s gaze did linger, Joe, son of Stark, and Myles, the youngest of the Targaryen brood, made their way. The air thickened with unsaid want, breath stolen by the heat of each furtive glance, the hunger shared betwixt their eyes.

Hand in hand, they walked, their fingers intertwined like threads of fate’s own weave. Shadows danced upon their faces as they paused in narrow alleys, their bodies pressing into one another, hearts pounding like the drums of war. Joe’s broad hand came to rest on Myles' waist, pulling him close until no breath could pass betwixt their chests.

In whispers low, sweet words of flame were exchanged, but it was their lips that did speak more true than words ever could. They met in secret passion, fierce and wild, as though each kiss might be their last. Myles yielded to the kiss, his back pressed firm against the cold stone of the alley wall, yet he did not submit entirely; his hands, deft and eager, traced the sharp angles of Joe’s jaw, pulling him deeper into the storm of their desire.

“Aye,” Joe murmured, his breath a heated rasp against Myles’ ear, “wouldst thou tempt me so, Targaryen? In shadows where no eye sees, dost thou seek to kindle the fire betwixt us?”

Myles, his voice like silk yet laden with dark need, answered not with words but with a kiss—deep, bruising, as though he sought to claim every part of Joe’s being. And Joe, fierce as the Northern wind, returned it, his hands tangling in Myles' hair, his body pressed firm against the prince's slender form.

Between each breath, they found the guards—silent shadows in the distance—yet the lovers' steps were too light, their kisses too swift to be marked by such watchful eyes. Along the winding paths they went, hands ever seeking, lips ever tasting, until at last they reached the towering Red Keep, its spires piercing the sky like the spears of giants.

At last, within the castle's halls, they found the chamber that awaited them—Myles' own sanctum, bedecked in the finery of kings long past. As the door closed behind them, the weight of their secrecy fell, leaving them alone, save for the fire in their veins.

But Joseph Stark, eldest son of Eddard Stark, did halt. His breath was heavy with want, yet his gaze was filled with mischief, a spark of the wild wolf within. “Nay,” said he, with a voice as deep as winter’s night, “I shall not lie with thee this eve, prince. Not yet, though thy fire burns so hot.”

Myles’ eyes, alight with both challenge and desire, narrowed as a wicked smile curled upon his lips. He stepped forward, his hands bold as they rested upon Joe’s chest, his voice but a whisper—soft as silk, sharp as a blade. “Then what dost thou intend, Stark, to leave me wanting? Or is it that thou fearest to touch the fire?”

Joe chuckled, low and rough, his hands sliding to Myles' hips, pulling the prince closer still, though his words belied restraint. “’Tis not fear, my princeling, but control,” said he, his voice edged with wickedness. “Dost thou crave me so much that thou wouldst beg for what thou shalt not have this night?”

Myles growled low in his throat, his lips brushing against Joe’s as he whispered, “Thou art cruel, Stark. To speak so and deny what is plain upon thy face. I see thy want; I feel it. Thou canst not hide it.”

“Cruel, perhaps,” Joe whispered against Myles’ lips, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down the Targaryen’s spine. “But I know thy hunger. Thou wouldst have me now, without thought. But nay, I shall make thee wait until thou can bear it no longer.”

With that, their lips crashed together once more, fiercer than before, their hands roaming with an urgency that threatened to unravel their resolve. Myles gasped as Joe’s hand, bold and unyielding, gripped his ass, pulling him flush against him, their bodies fitting together as though forged by the same flame.

“Stark,” Myles breathed, his voice trembling as Joe's kisses trailed down his neck, each touch sending sparks of heat through him. “I would have thee now. Why dost thou taunt me?”

Joe smirked against his skin, biting lightly at the tender flesh of his throat, causing Myles to moan softly, his hands fisting in the fabric of Joe’s tunic. “Because, Myles,” Joe murmured, “’tis the waiting that shall make the taking all the sweeter.”

But even as he spoke, his body betrayed him—his grip tightened, his lips returned to Myles’ own, fierce and unrelenting. Their kiss deepened, wild and consuming, as though the very air between them had turned to fire, and for a moment, all restraint was forgotten.

Yet still, as their breath mingled, their bodies pressed together in the darkness of the chamber, Joe did not yield entirely. His touch remained teasing, his words sharp and daring, as if to prolong the torment of their desire.