Leonhart's parents died in a car crash when he was twelve.
He remembered that day with horrible clarity. The police at the door. The look on their faces before they even spoke. The way the world seemed to tilt sideways and never quite right itself again.
Since then, his grandfather had taken care of him. If you could call it that.
His grandfather lived in a quite big house—actually the same house where Leonhart's father grew up. Leonhart had visited occasionally as a child, but it never felt like home. It felt like a museum. Cold. Untouchable.
Before the accident, Leonhart had lived with his parents in another large house. A real home. Warm. Full of laughter and light. After they died, he'd moved in with his grandfather, and that house—his house now, technically—just... sat there.
He didn't know what happened to it. He'd been twelve, too young to inherit or live alone. His grandfather became his guardian, which meant he also became the one handling the property.
Every time Leonhart asked about it—about living there, about what was happening to his childhood home—his grandfather would shrug him off. Change the subject. Sometimes just hand him some pocket money like that was supposed to make him go away.
Leonhart wasn't stupid. He knew something was fishy.
One day, when he was fifteen, he'd gone to visit the old house out of nostalgia. Just wanted to see it. Stand outside. Remember.
Instead, he found people partying inside. Strangers. Laughing, drinking, living in his house.
When he asked if the house belonged to them, they said they were renting it.
That was the moment Leonhart understood.
His grandfather had no intention of giving him that house. Ever.
Looking back, he realized he'd never really known his grandfather. His father rarely spoke about him, and now Leonhart knew why. The man was selfish. Egocentric. Incapable of thinking about anyone but himself.
But he was still Leonhart's guardian, so Leonhart dealt with it. Took the bare minimum money when he needed it. Stayed out of the way. Survived.
Proof of his grandfather's character? Despite being rich—genuinely wealthy—he'd installed Leonhart in a crappy apartment. Chosen it personally. Made sure it was just barely habitable and nothing more.
Leonhart had tried to speak up once. When he was fourteen. He'd asked about the house, about the money, about why he was living like this when his grandfather clearly had resources.
He got punched. Called ungrateful. Told to shut up and be thankful for what he got.
Leonhart had never been a fighter. Even before his parents died, he wasn't the type to cause trouble. But after? After losing everything, he just wanted peace. Quiet. A chance to exist without more pain.
A Song of Ice and Fire had helped with that. Those books—that world—became an escape. A place where his own misery didn't matter so much. Where he could lose himself in dragons and politics and characters whose lives were more complicated than his own.
It worked. Better than he expected.
But it never filled the hole. The loneliness he'd carried since twelve years old never really went away. Just... got covered up sometimes.
Knowing what kind of man his grandfather was, Leonhart understood he was on his own. Completely. There was no help coming. No rescue. Just him, alone, trying to make it through.
Maybe that's why he'd been so naive about Amaya.
She was the first person in years to show him genuine kindness. To look at him without disgust or pity or judgment. To just... talk to him like he was normal.
Of course he'd developed feelings. Of course he'd convinced himself it could be something more.
Naivety. He knew that even as it happened. But he couldn't stop it. That was who he was—someone so starved for connection that the slightest warmth felt like salvation.
He was seventeen now. Turning eighteen in three months. May.
In three months, he'd be legally adult. He could reclaim his house. His property. His inheritance.
But he'd never really thought about it. Didn't know how to start the process. Didn't know how to fight his grandfather for what was rightfully his.
Or maybe... maybe he just didn't want to.
Going back to that house meant facing everything. The memories. The ghosts. The life he'd lost. The moment he stepped through that door, he knew he'd break down. Cry until there was nothing left.
What was he even supposed to do there alone? Rattle around an empty house full of echoes?
There had never been any hopeful future for Leonhart. Not since he was twelve. Not since that day at the door with the police.
Just survival.
Just getting through.
That was also why, despite hating high school with every fiber of his being, he still went every day. He wanted to graduate. Get a job. Survive. If not for himself, then at least for his parents. They wouldn't want him to give up. They wouldn't want him to join them so soon.
But it was over now.
He walked along the pedestrian path of the George Washington Bridge.
Cars passed, fewer and fewer as the minutes crawled by, but still more than he expected for this time of night. Maybe it was always like this here. He'd never come to this bridge at midnight before. Never had a reason to.
He kept walking, dragging his body forward like it weighed twice what it should.
He'd already made his decision.
He'd killed someone.
And for a few naive hours, he'd actually thought he could survive it. Live with it. Ignore it and move on like nothing happened.
He couldn't.
He wasn't that strong.
He already had enough weight on his shoulders, enough pain, enough loneliness, enough nothing to look forward to. Adding murder to that pile? Too much. Way too much.
When he reached about the middle of the bridge, he stopped. Turned. Looked down at the river below, hands resting on the railing, expression lost somewhere far away.
The wind whistled past him.
Cold and fresh.
After a long moment, he swung one leg over the railing. Then the other.
Now he stood on the other side. The river directly below. Darkness waiting.
His hands gripped the rail behind him, knuckles white.
His heart thumped hard in his chest.
But strangely... he wasn't as scared as he thought he'd be. It felt more like impatience. Like he was almost eager to end it. To stop the crushing weight in his chest that never quite went away.
"I'm sorry, Dad. Mom."
The words came out softly. He looked up at the night sky.
It was wide open above him. Countless stars scattered across the darkness like someone had spilled diamonds on black velvet.
Had the sky always been this beautiful here? He'd never noticed. Never had time to notice maybe.
He watched the stars for a long moment, something like wonder flickering through the numbness. Then his eyes dropped. Down to the river. Dark water reflecting the brightness above, creating a mirror of light in the depths.
Leon smiled faintly. Just a little. Just for a second.
"A sea of stars..."
His hands began to slip from the rail.
"Death."
The voice froze him solid.
His hands gripped the rail again, reflexively.
He turned slowly.
A woman stood on the bridge, watching him.
Ethereal beauty. That was the only way to describe her. She rivaled Rhaenys—the woman he'd thought was matchless—but this one had a different energy entirely. Darker. More dangerous.
Long silver-gold hair spilled down her back, Targaryen hair, reaching past a curvy waist hidden beneath a pure silver silk gown. And her eyes—
Leon found himself staring, mesmerized.
Mismatched. One emerald green, the other sapphire blue. They gleamed in the starlight like actual gems.
Around her neck hung a necklace of alternating emerald and sapphire stones.
She looked young—around his age, maybe even younger—but her expression held no youth in it. Just... curiosity. Cool and distant and utterly unreadable.
She stared at him like he was an interesting insect.
"Is death now your choice?" Her voice was soft. Pulling and dangerous in a way he couldn't explain.
Another Targaryen princess.
It didn't matter anymore. He couldn't deal with this. Not again. Not now.
"Yeah." He turned away, facing the void below.
"The choice of the weak."
The words should have stung but they didn't.
"Or perhaps facing death is its own form of bravery."
Her voice slithered down his spine. He felt a chill and turned slightly.
Her pale hand shot out and grabbed his hoodie. Held him there, suspended between life and death.
Leon stared at her.
In the face of oblivion, he was looking at a goddess. And she was looking back at him with nothing but mild curiosity in those mismatched eyes.
"Will you tell me what death looks like?" She asked calmly.
Leon looked at her. Felt something shift inside him. The fear that should have been overwhelming... wasn't there anymore.
"I don't think I can," he said.
Then he let go of the rail.
"Shiera Seastar."
The name slipped out.
Shiera's lips curled. Just slightly. Just enough to show amusement.
Before she let go of his hoodie.
Leon fell.
For one brief moment, he watched Shiera staring down at him from above, silver-gold hair catching starlight. Then his eyes moved past her, to the sky. To the stars.
"Beautiful..."
SPLASH!!
The cold hit him like a wall. Icy darkness swallowed him whole. Water filled his ears, his nose, his lungs as he sank deeper and deeper.
He didn't fight.
He just... sank. Let the water take him. Pull him down into darkness.
The last thing he saw was the faint shimmer of stars above, growing dimmer as he descended.
Then his eyes closed.
His body struggled instinctively for a few seconds—just biology, nothing more—before even that stopped.
Silence.
Darkness.