Arianne Martell stood alone on the balcony of her private chambers, where the roses grew thickest and the air smelled of honey and night-blooming flowers. She leaned against the carved stone railing, the silk of her robe whispering against her skin as a gentle breeze stirred the dark curls that fell loose over her shoulders.

Arianne’s gaze had only just begun to wander from the gardens below when a movement passed across the moon.

At first she thought it was some great bird, or perhaps a trick of shadow and pale light. Then silver hair flashed beneath the stars, and a dark shape swept silently above the rose-covered walls.

Wings.

Arianne’s mouth tightened.

Rhaego.

For a heartbeat she only stared, disbelief giving way swiftly to irritation. A frown appeared on her face.

Lady Olenna had scolded him quite firmly about not flying over Highgarden. The Faith and the Crown were already watching the Tyrells with suspicion after Margaery’s disappearance.

A flying lizard in the skies of Westeros was hardly subtle, even at night.

This stubborn lizard truly does not listen.

The thought had barely formed before the creature in question noticed her.

Rhaego turned in the air, his wings catching the night wind as easily as a hawk’s. Moonlight broke along the pale fall of his hair and the faint edges of the horns half-hidden beneath it. For one brief, absurd moment, he looked less like a prince than something out of an old Valyrian tapestry.

Then he smiled.

Brightly.

Cheerfully.

As though he had not just been caught committing idiocy above one of the most watched castles in Westeros.

"Princess!" he shouted, voice carrying clearly on the still air.

Arianne stared at him.

Then he glided down toward her, wings spread wide, as he descended toward her balcony. He landed upon the marble ledge with infuriating grace, one clawed hand catching the stone, his boots touching down almost silently.

A bird might have landed with more disturbance.

A very large, silver-haired, troublesome bird.

Rhaego remained perched on the ledge, entirely too pleased with himself.

Arianne straightened from the railing and folded her arms, giving him a pointed look.

"Lady Olenna reminded you not to fly over Highgarden and I also told you not to fly above Highgarden." she said, her tone sharp but laced with familiar teasing.

"Especially now, when the Faith and the Crown already suspect the Tyrells had some hand in Queen Margaery’s disappearance, which they did, though fortunately most of King’s Landing does not yet know that. The last thing we need is some drunken guard, or pious fool catching sight of a flying lizard circling the roses."

"Dragon," Rhaego muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing." He said quickly.

Rhaego scratched the back of his head, his wings shifting behind him with a faint rustle.

"I was careful," he said, trying to sound reasonable.

"And it was nighttime. No one would have seen me."

Arianne raised an elegant eyebrow, unimpressed.

"I was," he insisted.

"I kept above the darker fields, away from the towers. No torches. No roads. No villages. I did not breathe fire, roar, frighten horses, or steal anyone’s sheep."

"How restrained of you."

His mouth opened, then closed.

Good.

Arianne tilted her head. "You’re lucky I’m the only one awake to witness your foolishness. Was there a reason for this little moonlit crime, or did you simply wake and decide Lady Olenna’s heart needed testing?"

Rhaego looked away from her then, down toward the gardens, his earlier cheer softening into something less foolish. He shifted on the ledge and lowered himself to sit, one leg bent atop the marble while the other hung over the drop.

His tail moved behind him, curling once before swaying lazily in the night air then tucking his wings behind him, bones shifting.

"I had to scout a few areas," he admitted.

"To get a better sense of the direction in Westeros. I’ve only flown over the realm a handful of times, and even then... it’s still so vast from above. I needed to see it for myself."

Arianne studied him for a moment, then let out a soft sigh, her irritation softening into reluctant fondness.

"You are trying to learn Westeros from the sky."

"I am trying not to be blind in a land where everyone else knows the ground better than I do."

That answer was better than she had expected.

Still foolish.

But better.

"You could ask for maps," she said.

"I have."

"Then use them."

"I do." Rhaego’s fingers rested against the cool marble beside him.

"But maps do not show how the land feels." He paused, then added more quietly, "Here, I need to understand where I am. Where we are. If something goes wrong, if we need to leave quickly, if the wrong men come looking..."

"You want to know where to run," Arianne said.

"Where to take others," he corrected, almost gently.

Arianne said nothing for a heartbeat.

There it was again... That strange habit of his.

He spoke of escape and thought first of who he might carry with him. He wore power like a burden and called it duty before anyone else could call it glory.

It was irritating.

It was also difficult not to respect.

"You might have told me," she said at last.

"I thought you would tell me not to go."

"I would have."

"That is why I did not."

Arianne gave him a flat look. Rhaego’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile, boyish and guilty all at once.

"At least I was honest."

"You were honest after being caught."

"That still counts."

"It does not."

He sighed, though not unhappily, and reached beneath the dark cloth bundle strapped against his side, he hesitated for a second, then opened it for her.

Arianne’s eyes narrowed. "What is that?"

"For you," he said simply.

Arianne raised an eyebrow, surprised.

"For me?"

Rhaego pulled the bundle free and unfolded the cloth across his lap. Three round shapes tumbled gently into view, dark red beneath the moonlight, their skins rough and rich with color.

Blood oranges.

For the first time that night, Arianne had no immediate answer.

She looked at the fruit, then at him.

"You flew over Highgarden," she said slowly, "to steal oranges?"

"I did not steal them," Rhaego replied, sounding mildly offended.

"Did you ask the tree’s permission?"

"It had many."

"That is not an answer."

"It is almost an answer."

Rhaego rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious.

"While I was flying, I caught a familiar scent," he said. "I followed it down and found a tree full of them."

Arianne pressed her lips together, refusing to smile.

"You are telling me that the dragon prince of Meereen, son of Daenerys Stormborn, risked being seen in the skies above Highgarden because he smelled fruit?"

Rhaego looked mildly offended, his tail giving a single irritated flick.

"It reminded me of Dorne," he muttered.

"The scent. Sharp. Sweet. Like home. I thought... you might miss it. At supper, you always look at the sweet dishes as if they have personally wronged you."

Arianne looked back to the blood oranges. In the moonlight, they almost seemed black until she turned one gently with her fingers and caught the deep red gleam beneath.

Dornish red.

The sight tugged at something in her chest before she could stop it.

She had not seen blood oranges since Dorne.

Not fresh ones. Not like these. The Reach had its own fruit, of course. Pears poached in honey. Apples baked soft with spice. Grapes sweet enough to make her teeth ache. Every meal brought another little dish arranged beautifully enough to please some lordling’s bride.

Too sweet.

Too perfumed.

She had eaten what was served and made no complaint. A princess did not sulk because supper lacked the proper bite. A daughter of Dorne did not pine like a homesick child because the kitchens of Highgarden did not taste of Sunspear.

Yet Rhaego had noticed.

Arianne kept her expression carefully still.

"And why," she asked, "have you brought me these?"

Rhaego looked down at the oranges as if the answer should have been obvious.

"I thought you might want them." Rhaego said, holding the oranges out a little more before seeming to think better of it.

His voice was careful, almost hesitant, as though he were unsure whether the gesture would be welcomed.

Arianne arched a brow. "And why is that?"

He turned one of the oranges in his hand, his thumb moving over the rough skin with surprising care.

"I used to see you eating them in Dorne," he said. "Whenever I walked through the Water Gardens, you seemed to have one nearby."

Arianne tilted her head. "Did I?"

He nodded. "Often enough that I remembered it."

A faint smile touched her lips.

"And here I thought no one paid attention."

"I did not mean to," Rhaego admitted. "I just kept noticing them."

The wind moved between them, carrying the scent of roses up from the garden below. Beneath it, sharper and richer, came the smell of the oranges. Sweet, yes, but with a bite to it. A red, sun-warmed sharpness that had no place among these moon-pale flowers.

For a moment, Arianne was not in Highgarden.

She was in Sunspear.

She could almost feel the warm stone beneath her bare feet, hear the sea striking the cliffs, smell salt and spice and orange peel beneath the hard Dornish sun.

Home.

The word came unbidden.

Arianne pushed it away before it could show on her face.

Rhaego did not ask if she missed it.

That was the mercy of him, instead he held one of the oranges out to her.

"It reminded me of Dorne," he said, more quietly now. "And I thought... perhaps it might remind you too."

Arianne looked at him.

The words were simple. Almost foolishly so. There was no courtly flourish in them. No polished compliment. No sly purpose that she could see. No jewel hidden in velvet, no promise, no boast, no attempt to buy her favor.

Only fruit.

Three blood oranges stolen, or nearly stolen, from some tree beneath the moon because a dragon had noticed she was tired of sweetness.

Men had given her finer gifts.

Jewels, silks, poems, perfumes, little golden things meant to glitter in her hand and remind her of the giver. Gifts chosen to flatter her beauty, to win her smile, to make her think kindly of the man who offered them.

Rhaego had brought oranges.

So she might taste home.

It was ridiculous.

It was unnecessary.

And the simplicity of it unsettled her more than she cared to admit, more than any jeweled necklace or flowery declaration ever had, and for once, Arianne found herself without a clever reply.

The realization annoyed her.

Arianne took the orange from his hand before he could see too much in her face.

"Do you often make a habit of bringing princesses stolen fruit in the dead of night?"

"Only when they look miserable at supper." He grinned.

"I was not miserable." She shot back.

Arianne’s fingers stilled against the fruit. For a moment, she wanted to deny it.

She almost did.

The answer rose easily enough. She could have laughed, called him sentimental, told him Dorne had not vanished simply because she flew away with him. She could have reminded him that they had greater concerns than whether the Reach drowned its fruit in honey.

"You are a strange creature, Rhaego," she said softly.

"You carry the weight of kingdoms on your shoulders, yet you remember something as small as this."

Rhaego shrugged, looking away toward the gardens in the moonlight.

"It’s nothing," he muttered.

"I just... thought you might like them."

Arianne stepped closer, placing one hand lightly on his arm.

"It’s not nothing," she said. "Thank you."

Arianne looked down at the orange in her hand and let her thumb press into the rough skin until the sharp, sweet scent rose between them.

"Cut it," she said.

Rhaego blinked. "What?"

"You brought it. You may as well make yourself useful."

"I did not bring a knife."

Arianne stared at him.

He looked at the oranges, then back at her, sheepish. "I did not think that far."

"A dragon who can cross the sky and rescue queens from a castle," she said, voice dry with amusement, "but cannot remember a knife for fruit."

"I was focused on not being seen."

"You failed at that too."

"Only by you."

"That is still a failure."

Rhaego opened his mouth, perhaps to argue, then wisely closed it.

Arianne reached down, slipping her hand beneath the silk of her robe to the slender sheath strapped high against her thigh. She drew the small, sharp dagger with practiced ease and offered it handle-first.

Rhaego blinked in genuine surprise, his violet eyes flicking from the blade to her face.

"You carry a dagger?"

Arianne lifted an elegant brow, the corner of her mouth curving.

"Not every princess is defenseless, my prince. Some of us prefer to be ready when foolish dragons land on our balcony in the middle of the night."

He accepted the dagger carefully, as though it might bite him. Their fingers brushed, only briefly.

He sliced into the orange.

The skin split cleanly beneath the blade, releasing a dark red line rich as spilled wine. The scent rose stronger now it was sharp, sweet, and sun-warmed, flooding the balcony with the unmistakable bite of Dorne.

It cut through the heavy perfume of Highgarden’s roses like a memory refusing to be ignored.

Rhaego offered her half.

Arianne accepted it.

For a moment neither spoke.

They sat together on the moonlit balcony above the sleeping gardens, moonlight silver on marble, pale roses glowing below, and blood oranges between them like some small, secret rebellion against the cloying sweetness of the Reach.

Arianne lifted the fruit to her lips and tasted home.

It was imperfect, of course. Not warmed by Sunspear’s fierce sun, not cut at her father’s table beneath the shade of lemon trees, not eaten while the sea crashed against the cliffs. But it was close enough. Close enough to stir something tight and unwelcome in her chest. Close enough to make her remember the salt air, the heat on stone, the sharp laughter of the Water Gardens.

Close enough to make her quiet.

Rhaego turned his gaze toward the sleeping gardens, as though the roses below had suddenly become worthy of deep study.

Arianne knew better.

She could feel the brief glances he stole from the corner of his eye, quick and careful, watching not her lips, nor her hands, but her face. Waiting for some sign that the fruit had pleased her.

That he had not been foolish to bring it.

The thought should have amused her.

It did.

Arianne took another bite and let him pretend he was not watching.

For now.