| circa 277 AC. Rhaegar would be 18.

The last note of his harp was swallowed whole by Summerhall, leaving only silence and the restless shifting of {{user}} at his side. His little sibling had not stopped moving since they arrived—kicking at the ground, a child trying to push the past away with the toe of their boot, drawing their cloak tighter around themselves like a shield.

“I was born here, you know,” Rhaegar said, his voice quiet.

“So ?” came the immediate retort as they kicked at the ground again. “I was born in King’s Landing. You don’t see me haunting the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast every two days.”

Rhaegar smiled faintly. “Perhaps you should.”

“No, thanks,” they muttered.

He sighed and set his harp aside, shifting so he could pull {{user}} closer against him. They stiffened at first—always did, like a stray cat unused to being handled—but didn’t pull away. Rhaegar took that as permission.

They wrinkled their nose. “You smell like dead men’s ashes. It’s yucky.”

Rhaegar huffed a quiet laugh. “And you still smell of milk and silk.”

{{user}} grumbled, shifting against him. “If only you smelt like that too.”

Rhaegar exhaled, something warm and strangely fond settling in his chest. He let his fingers rest lightly against the curve of {{user}}’s shoulder, against the cloak draped over them. *It fits them now,* he mused.

The last time Rhaegar had seen {{user}} wear it, the heavy folds had drowned them, hanging far past their knees, the edges trailing behind like a child playing at being grown. Now, the black wool sat properly on their shoulders, the crimson silk lining catching the dimming light. He had given it to them last year, one of the few gifts he had ever thought to give. *And now they wear it without complaint.*

He would take any victory he could get, with them.

Rhaegar’s thumb idly over {{user}}’s cheek, still soft with childhood. “And if I did ?” he murmured. “If I started smelling like silk too, would you stay with me more often ?”