The moon hung low on the horizon, casting a silver warmth across the gardens of the Red Keep. Rodrik sat quietly on a stone bench, eyes closed, allowing the moonlight to wash over his face. It was his last night in King's Landing, and though the air was calm, his mind churned with unease. He had always been able to dissect his thoughts with logic, but now there was something more elusive gnawing at him.
Footsteps echoed softly on the gravel path behind him, delicate but deliberate. He didn't need to turn to know who it was.
Rhaenyra stood behind him in silence. The seconds stretched, neither of them speaking, caught in the quiet weight of unspoken words. The wind stirred her silver-gold hair as she finally spoke, her voice soft.
"I heard you're leaving tomorrow."
Rodrik nodded without turning. "Yes. The Vale needs me."
The answer, as expected as it was, settled heavily between them. Rhaenyra didn't respond immediately. She stood still, watching the moonlight trace shadows across his shoulders.
She wanted to ask him to stay. She opened her mouth once, then closed it again. The words refused to form.
Rodrik, sensing the moment teetering, rose to his feet, keeping his eyes forward. "If you'll excuse me, Princess," he said gently, attempting to leave the moment behind.
But Rhaenyra, caught between pride and disappointment, let out a quiet, biting comment. "Perhaps it's for the best. King's Landing doesn't suit you."
Rodrik stopped in his tracks. Her words, not venomous but heavy with frustration, echoed louder than she intended.
His mind stilled.
He had been trying to avoid her. Not because of disinterest, but because of fear. Guilt. Not for his actions, but for what his heart threatened to betray.
And that guilt, he knew, came from the Vale—the people he had sworn to uplift, the dream he had promised to realize.
But in this moment, logic receded. For the first time in moons, he let himself ask a selfish question.
He turned around, his expression unreadable, his voice quiet but firm. "Would you leave the crown?"
Rhaenyra blinked.
"Would you give it up, knowing your children may never ride dragons, may never be sung in songs as Targaryens are? Would you concede to all that... for a life away from here?"
She didn't speak. The silence between them shifted, no longer gentle.
Rodrik took a step forward, his eyes burning with something not quite desperation, but the edge of defiance. "If you would," he continued, "then I swear to you—I'll give you every joy this world holds. I will love you in a way no crown or throne ever could. And no one—no one—will ever be able to harm you or cause you sadness."
The words, especially the last ones, landed with terrifying resolve.
She looked at him, lips parted but without reply. Her eyes shimmered with a thousand questions, a hundred longings—but no answer.
Rodrik waited. A heartbeat. Two.
Then, slowly, he turned and walked away.
Behind him, the garden held its breath, and the princess said nothing.