Description: A young doctor, Angelie, was living a dream life in Paris—until a sudden accident tore her from it and cast her into the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. Born with extraordinary medical knowledge, will she become the thread that rewrites fate itself—or princes’s obsession will slowly destroy her?
Genre: romcom, reincarnation, slow-burn, smut, violent, angst to comfort, many love interest ( MC is a real mess )
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
(Please visit my page for updating)
i.
“We’re losing him.”
The words cut through the room, sharp as steel.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a sterile white.
You stand at the edge of the operating table, gloved hands slick with sweat beneath the latex, your pulse pounding louder than the monitors around you.
The old man’s chest rises once—shallow, uneven—then falters.
A jagged line of piercing sound screams from the heart monitor
Flatline.
“No—charge it again. Two hundred.”
Your voice doesn’t sound like your own. It’s too steady. Too distant.
The paddles are placed. A second stretches into eternity.
“Clear.”
The body jerks under your hands, a violent, desperate defiance against death itself.
Nothing.
“Again.”
You don’t allow yourself to think.
Not about the hours without sleep. Not about the way your hands have begun to tremble. Not about the quiet, creeping certainty that you are already too late.
“Clear.”
Another surge. Another futile attempt to drag a fading soul back from the edge.
The monitor answers you with silence this time—
long, flat, and final.
Someone exhales. Someone else lowers their gaze.
But you don’t move.
Because for a fleeting, impossible moment—
You swear the patient’s fingers twitch beneath your touch.
“Wait.”
Your voice cuts through the stillness.
“Hold on—again. Charge it. Three hundred.”
A pause. Hesitation flickers across the room.
Then—obedience.
The paddles are set once more, pressed firmly against the patient’s chest.
Your heart hammers against your ribs, each beat louder than the last.
“Clear.”
The shock surges through him violently
and for a single, suspended second, the world holds its breath.
Then—
A blip.
Another.
The monitor stutters back to life, erratic but undeniable.
A pulse.
“We’ve got a rhythm!”
The room erupts, not in cheers, but in motion.
Controlled chaos resumes, voices overlapping, hands moving with renewed urgency.
But it all sounds distant to you now.
As if you’re hearing it from somewhere far away.
Your shoulders sag, tension unraveling all at once.
Only then do you realize how tightly you’ve been holding your breath.
You ve just dragged something back from the abyss…
But from the quiet, bone-deep exhaustion that follows victory too close to loss.
He’s alive.
And for now—
That is enough.
ii.
“Girl, you look like hell.” Your best friend, Sarah, handed you a cold can of coffee she had just grabbed from the vending machine.
“You mean…ate as always.” You tossed your gloves into the bin before taking the drink from her with a grateful look.
Sarah leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at her lips.
“The old driver… he made it, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. He’s almost… gone. We pulled him back from the Grim Reaper. Now we just have to pray Death doesn’t take someone else in his place.”
Your friend studied you for a moment longer than necessary.
“Angelie, you’re shaking.”
You glanced down at your hands.
“I’m fine.”
“Right.”
Sarah didn’t sound convinced. She never did.
A beat passed before she pushed herself off the doorframe.
“Anyway,” her tone turning lighter, “you didn’t forget, did you?”
You frowned.
“Forget what?”
She stared at you like you had just committed a crime.
“Our movie night, sweetie?”
“Ah. I thought we had finished it?”
The new HBO series had her completely hooked for days—she had even considered dyeing her hair silver like the Targaryens, if not for the hospital’s strict rules and the ridiculously good pay keeping her grounded.
“Yeah, but we haven’t rewatched it yet. You know, to pick up details and properly discuss it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You closed your eyes briefly, dragging a hand down your face.
“Girl, I’ve already grown bored. I’ve read the whole book. I know exactly who’s going to die… my poor princes.”
“Ugh. Medicine back then was a nightmare.”
“No anesthesia, no hygiene… half the time they were just guessing and hoping the patient wouldn’t die. Those so-called maesters cut a pregnant woman open on nothing but hope that the baby might live.”
She continued, her face twisting in undisguised disgust.
“A smartass like you would’ve been called a witch and burned alive.”
“There were witches, actually,” you muttered dryly. “Though they were more likely to be skinned alive.”
You took a sip of your coffee, then shook your head.
“But anyway—don’t put me on a pedestal. I’m just a small fish in a very big ocean.”
Sarah snorted.
“The youngest military doctor at a major medical center in Paris is hardly a small fish.”
iii.
“Mom, I’m on my way home. I’ll swing by Crumbl to get your favorite cookies.”
“Are you done with your shift yet?”
Your mom’s warm voice came through.
“Yeah. I can’t wait to see you and Nanny… after so long.”
Tilting your head, you held the phone between your shoulder and ear, both hands busy carrying bags from Walmart as you stepped off the curb.
“Don’t be late this time, sweetheart.”
A faint smile touched your lips.
“I won’t.”
Suddenly
A horn blasted through the night.
Loud. Violent. Wrong.
“WATCH OUT—!”
Your head snapped up.
Headlights—too bright, too fast—tore through your vision, swallowing everything else.
For a split second, your brain refused to process it.
Your vision fractured—light, shadow, fragments of the street spinning violently out of place.
You couldn’t breathe.
Your chest, distantly, like from underwater
Something warm spread beneath you. On you.
Your hands. Your arms. Your chest.
Wet. Sticky. Bloody red.
A container truck. Out of control. The world erupted.
A crash so loud it split your skull open. Metal shrieked, glass shattered, the ground vanished beneath your feet.
“SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE—!”
“SHE’S BLEEDING BAD!”
More screams. Footsteps rushing.
A siren cut through the chaos, rising fast, sharp, familiar.
Too familiar.
You had heard that sound a thousand times.
Never like this.
Your fingers twitched weakly against the cold asphalt.
Your mind clung to something—anything—
Your mom’s voice.
The operating room.
A man’s life you had just saved.
Your vision dimmed at the edges, darkness bleeding in.
The siren grew louder—
then farther—
then…
Nothing.
The death did take someone in return
It took you instead
iv.
When you were eight, you believed in heaven.
You believed it with the kind of certainty only a child could have, that somewhere, beyond the clouds, beyond everything you could see, there was a place where the good ones went.
That was where Lovely Max went.
Your lovely Max — Your little poppy friend, passed away in your arms, buried in the sound of your sobs.
When you were eleven, you learned the truth.
Max wasn’t in heaven. He was buried beneath the cold, heavy earth in your backyard.
No angels came to take him.
No fairies watched over his soft, beautiful fur.
Your puppy… was simply gone.
When you were thirteen, you found something else to believe in.
Medicine. Healing. Science. Precision.
Perhaps… answers to all your childhood questions.
Your parents were happy—proud, even—that you had found your path so early.
Years passed in a blur of sleepless nights and relentless study. You earned your place at one of the top universities in the UK, becoming one of the youngest doctors at a leading hospital.
And somewhere along the way
You became an atheist.
You no longer believed in another life, in reincarnation after death, or in heaven—the place your beloved Max was supposed to have been.
No
You did not believe in gods.
You stopped believing a long time ago.
There was no heaven.
No one listening.
You know that.
So why—
Please.
The thought breaks through, raw and humiliating.
I’ll do anything.
Take something else.
Take everything—
Please… let me
Again
v.
Darkness fractured. Something shattering from the inside out.
Air rushed into your lungs in a sharp, ragged gasp.
You forced your heavy eyes open, and light flooded in—blinding, merciless.
Cold.
The first thing you beheld was a blade pressed against your throat.
There was no sterile white light of a hospital. No distant echoes of the halls. Only the stench of blood—and unfamiliar faces staring down at you, as one would a condemned soul.
“Filthy whore.”
You had not even the time to grasp what fate had befallen you. Yet this body knew all too well. It trembled with terror, as though it had died once before.
“Patient… ’twas months since I had last lay with a woman—and never one of such rare beauty,” the brute rasped. A crooked grin split his face as his gaze crawled over your fragile form.
“Please—”
You opened your mouth as though it had been decades since you had last spoken, and the broken voice that escaped felt foreign to your own ears.
“Now you’re begging. A moment ago, you were ready to die.”
A twisted smile curled across his lips. He seized your hips and flipped you over, his rough hands dragging your skirt up past your knees.
“I’ll take that as you begging me to be gentle.”
“No-No Bitch- Do not fucking touch me- Don’t you dare!!”
As awareness hit you, a terrified scream tore from your throat as panic flooded your veins. You thrashed beneath violently, your body surging with sudden strength
He snarled. His palm struck your face, snapping your head to the side. Your vision was blurred for a split second as the taste of iron flooded your mouth.
Your fingers clawed, your legs kicked, every muscle straining past its limits. You twisted like something cornered.
“Fucking.Ungrateful. Whore-”
The brute yanked you by the hair and slammed your head against the rock floor
Blood bloomed at the back of your head, leaving you dazed
Another crack against the stone—
Then another—
Until the world around you began to blur.
At last, the brute released you, a look of satisfaction spreading across his face.
“There you are,” he sneered. “You’ve learned to keep your mouth shut.”
His grip loosened.
His guard slipped.
For a split second—
A mistake.
Your hand shot out, snatching the dagger from his belt.
With every ounce of raw, primal strength, you stabbed into his side over and over, until his screams tore through the air—like a wild boar writhing in a pool of its own blood.
His bloated, reeking weight came crashing down on top of you, knocking the breath from your lungs.
A wave of disgust in your stomach, you clenched your teeth and forced it down.
Your arms trembled as you pushed against him, every muscle straining, shaking—until, with a desperate surge of strength, you shoved him off and rolled free.
You lay there for a second, gasping desperately.
The fear was still there. Heavy and lingering.
But somewhere underneath it—
something else began to rise.
vi.
You were still breathing
You did not remember how long you had been walking.
Time passed, step after step, breath after breath, until the sky above dimmed, slipping quietly into night.
The forest closed in around you as you went deeper, darker, thicker, branches clawing at your skin, shadows stretching long and restless between the trees.
Your mind struggled to catch up, thoughts scattered and fractured, trying insanely to make sense of what was happening… of what had happened.
You were dead.
You knew you were dead. A container truck crashed into you
But then, you were here.
Breathing. Moving. Alive after … facing the death again
God… that fucking bastard in the forest.
Part of you had wanted to murder him, wanted to watch him pay for what he did.
But another part—the part of being a Good doctor. Instinct, training, a grim sense of mercy. You pressed hard on the bleeding wound, wrapped it hastily with a strip of your frayed, worn clothing, and left him lying there, in the wood.
And yes, you hoped he’d suffer anyway.
Maybe infection would claim him.
Maybe a wild boar would find him first.
No—he was better off alive, so you could see him rot in prison permanently.
You would have to keep every shred of evidence, every mark, every word he’d said. Every bruise, every wound. And then… hire the best damn lawyer you could find in Paris to make sure he paid. Paid in full. For everything.
Your mind tried to convince you—you were insane. Delusional. Hallucinating.
Was this what they spoke of—the final five minutes before death? Some cruel echo of memory?
But no… this didn’t feel like memory. The air was too cold, biting at your skin. The ground too hard beneath your feet. The pain… it lingered in every inch of your body. Everything felt unbearably real.
Then…
Where are you?
vii.
The smell of hot soup, mingled with the sharp tang of grape wine, reached your nose.
The warm glow spilling from the little cabin in the middle of cold forest attracted you irresistibly.
Without thinking, you found yourself stepping inside the tavern
You can ask them to call police, to help you report your situation
Gradually, a creeping unease settled over you as all eyes turned to you.
Woman and man dressing in medieval garb, the kind you had only ever seen on film sets or at cosplay festivals.
Holly Shjt...You are actually high
Or is this some kind of April Fool’s joke? But that day’s long passed.
Their gazes weighed on your body, sharp and alien, like you were some kind of freak.
Whispers from the women slipped through the air, soft but pointed, brushing against your ears like a cold wind.
“Did that woman just murder someone?”
You bit your lip, holding back the unease, and stepped up to the bar.
“Excuse me, Miss… can I borrow your phone? I just ran into some… problem,”
you forced a weak smile
The older woman spun around, eyes wide with shock and her mouth parting.
“What was you-?”
“No worry, Miss. I think I was kidnapped—or maybe knocked unconscious – and brought here. I live in Paris, actually… is it far from here?”
You added, your voice trembling slightly, words stumbling as your mind raced to make sense of everything around you.
Her face twisted with horror.
“Paris?! What you are talking about? My seven gods… you look like a solider just come back from a bloody war”
The woman whispered
“Wait… you don’t know Paris?”
You gaped, anger surged through you again
“I should’ve fucking stayed there, tortured that bastard to tell me where the fucking place he took me to”
You cursed under your breath, frustration and panic coiling tight in your chest.
“This? This is Westeros.”
the old woman frowned, caution still etched across her face. Her brown eyes darting to you as if measuring whether you were insane—or dangerous.
Westeros…
The name froze you for a moment, a strange, tingling shock running through you.
Some corner of an old memory, long locked away, stirred like a door you had yet to unlock.
“Now go—if you’re not planning to order anything”
The woman snapped, her voice sharp, dragging you out of your thoughts.
You retreated, shrinking into a corner, trying to make yourself as small and invisible as possible under the weight of people’s disdain.
The scent of hot food in the tavern filled the air and hunger gnawed at you, you hadn’t eaten in nearly a day.
You glanced at the table beside you.
A drunken man sat slumped forward, head resting on the table, lost in sleep.
A loaf of untouched bread lay just within arm’s reach
“I’m sorry..”
Gritting your teeth against the shame curling in your chest, you slowly reached out and took a piece, fingers trembling as you tried not to disturb him.
Suddenly, his hand shot out and grabbed yours.
“What are you doing, little thief?”
You jerked back, pulling your hand away as your heart slammed hard.
The blond man looked at you, his weariness turned into a sudden frown, slight surprise flickering across his charming features.
You stayed silent.
The corners of your eyes stung and hot, you were on the verge of breaking down and you know that.
After all the madness, your face felt heavy, swollen from crying too much, each line and curve etched with exhaustion and sorrow.
“Next time, you have to ask first, little thief”
the blond man said quietly, sliding the plate of bread toward you.
You froze, partly from the sobs you hadn’t fully held back.
A tiny “thank you” almost swallowed by the air around you.
You stuffed the dry, hard pieces of bread into your mouth.
Never had anything tasted so dry, so coarse—but in that moment, it felt no different than a prime rack of ribs at a Michelin-starred restaurant.
Then your thoughts drifted to your mama and her steaming corn soup, the one you used to savor for Saturday night dinner after a long day drowning yourself in caffeine.
Your mom…
Her voice was still echoing in your ears
Her sweet laughter was the last thing you remembered
You had been on the last phone call with her that day.
Promising you’d be home in time for dinner, for her birthday.
You wanted to reach her. To hug her tightly. To kiss her and tell her you loved her one last time.
But you couldn’t.
Now you stuck here, totally lost, alone, and terrified, stranded in a place so far from everything you knew… so far from your mom.
Sobs wracked your small body, you collapsed under the truth.
You buried your face in your hands, shaking, crying into them, letting every ounce of grief and despair pour out.
The man beside you watched silently, concern etched across his face.
“Are you… okay?” he asked gently.
You shook your head violently, the sobs still rattling your body.
“I- I miss my mom,”
You managed to choke out, voice raw and breaking
“God! I miss her so much. I need her right now. But I can't. I will never be able again”
A subtle hint of empathy crossed the man’s face. It was as if he carried some long-buried memory, some pain he kept hidden.
But soon enough, he hid it, washing away everything with a long swallow of his drink, concealing whatever surfaced behind a usual careless mask.
The man wasn’t skilled at comfort, but he tried, forcing a clumsy joke through the tension.
“Your mom… she’d probably worried if she saw her daughter like this”
A weak attempt to lighten whatever pressing down on you.
“She would definitely scold me… she would scold me for not coming home enough. And now… now I can’t-” you cried out brokenly
The man had never seen anyone so utterly pitiful.
The ladies he met—whether high noble or mid noble—were always so restrained, so careful in the way they displayed their emotions.
But you… you shattered that decorum entirely, raw and unguarded, and it struck him with a strange, uneasy awe.
Your sobs shook your body, raw and desperate, spilling from somewhere deep inside.
“Why me? Why–? I could do it better!?”
Then the guilt gnawed at you—why hadn’t you listened to your mom? Why had you stepped into danger too soon?
And why… why had Death been so cruel, toying with your mind like this?
All across the room, pitiful eyes on you. Some filled with disdain, others with sympathy, lingering on the small, fragile girl unraveling before them, lost in her own torment.
“Daeron? Is that you, making her cry?”
The worried voice came from behind you, soft but piercing, and it made your heart tighten even more.
“You think I’m that kind of person, egg? She is… um, missing her mom.”
Wait—
Wait a fucking second—
What had they just called each other?
Daeron?
Egg? Egg?!!
The fucking Aegon the Unlikely, the king?!
You scrambled to your feet, eyes wide with pure terror, scanning the two people before you and the room.
Purple eyes.
Westero.
Targaryen...
Targaryen?!
The realization hit you like a hammer again.
“TARGARYEN!”
Daeron frowned at you again, a guarded look settling in his sharp-eyes, while the little boy beside him regarded you with the same caution, his young face etched with quiet concern.
“Keep your mouth-“
“No fucking way! That’s impossible”
You clutched your mouth tightly, gasping in sheer horror.
The way they dressed so...medieval, women moved between tables in long, heavy dresses of muted browns, grays, and dull blues while men wore simple tunics of coarse wool, belted haphazardly at the waist, the hems fraying from years of wear
The heavy furniture was straight out of a medieval tableau: rough wooden beams crisscrossed overhead, darkened with age and smoke.
Everything felt suddenly real
This is absolutely not a damn film set or a cosplay festival
Your mind was not insane.
You were not high, nor caught in some “five minutes after death” bullshit theory.
And certainly, you were no longer in Paris—nor anywhere you had ever known, nor in any world you had once lived in.
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Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targaryen Cousin!Reader (ft. Aegon)
Description: You're a Targaryen princess with a dragon, a seat on the small council, and a hole in your wall that looks directly into the Crown Prince's chambers. You should seal it. You should forget what you've seen. You should definitely stop watching your cousin fuck his way through King's Landing's noblewomen.
But you don't. And when Jacaerys starts looking at you like he knows, like he's been waiting for you to break—well. That's when things get complicated.
Genre: voyeurism, jace likes to fook, he definitely knows you're watching, fucking your cousin (it's targaryens what did you expect), why does everyone want to marry him, angst with your hand between your thighs, oblivious pining except he's not oblivious at all, im not sorry, SLOW BURN, VERY VERY SLOW, he hasnt even kissed you and its been 30k words, that type of slow, why do u want to fuck. every cousin........... porn with heavy plot
WC: 28k (100k projected) also on ao3 (where it will be updated!)
It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
You hadn't meant to discover the hole in the wall—a gap where the stone had crumbled between your chambers and his. It was small, barely the width of your index and middle fingers, hidden behind the carved wooden screen that stood in the corner of your room. You'd only found it when you'd moved the screen aside to retrieve a dropped pearl earring, and there it was, a sliver of forbidden sight directly into the heir's private quarters.
You stared at it for a moment longer, crouched onto the floor with the pearl still in your palm.
Rotted mortar, you thought. Old stone. The Red Keep is falling apart in places no one bothers to look.
The right thing would have been to call for the servants, have it sealed with fresh mortar. To forget you'd ever seen it, like a proper lady would.
That first night, however, curiosity won. Just a glance, you kept telling yourself. Just to see if it truly looked into Jacaerys's room or if your eyes had deceived you in the dim candlelight.
They hadn't, and your breath caught in your throat as soon as your eye found the gap. His bed was perfectly visible—the heavy posts of dark wood, the deep crimson coverlet embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. And there, tangled in those sheets, was your cousin.
Worst of all, he wasn't alone.
Turn away. The thought flickered through your mind even as you stayed perfectly still, silver hair spilling over your shoulder and onto the floor in waves as you leaned closer. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew what the right choice was. You simply weren't making it.
The woman beneath him was dark-haired, flushed, with her mouth open as Jacaerys pounded into her from behind, and you realized with a strange twist in your stomach that this was far from his first time. The rumors that swirled through the Red Keep were true, then. The Crown Prince, for all his duties and noble bearing in the daylight hours, was as much a creature of appetite as any Targaryen before him.
You, on the other hand, had never even been kissed. Never been touched. Good noble ladies waited for their wedding night, and common fucking was for the common whores—thank you for that wisdom, cousin Aemond.
His hand fisted in her dark hair, pulling her head back as he drove into her cunt with a rhythm that was almost borderline brutal. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the stone walls, punctuated by her breathy moans and his low groans of pleasure. You could see the sheen of sweat on his shoulders, the flex of muscle beneath his skin as he gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises.
"Fuck," he growled, and the vulgarity of it—hearing such words from the lips of the Crown Prince—sent a forbidden thrill down your spine. "You take me so well."
The woman whimpered something you couldn't quite hear, and Jacaerys laughed—dark and satisfied. He leaned forward, pressing her face into the pillows as he changed his angle, and her muffled cry of pleasure made heat pool low in your belly.
Your hand had somehow found its way to your throat, fingers pressed against your racing pulse. This was wrong, so utterly wrong. You sat here, watching your cousin rut like a beast in heat, and worse—far worse—your body was responding to it. Your thighs pressed together on their own accord, seeking friction you had no right to want.
Leave. Now.
You started to pull back from the gap, but then Jacaerys pulled out suddenly, flipping the girl onto her back with easy strength, and you caught a glimpse of him fully—his flushed cock, hard and completely shameless. He spread her thighs wide and thrusted back into her cunt in with one smooth stroke, and a gasp tore from your throat before you could stop it.
Your hand flew to your mouth, palm clamping hard over your lips. The pearl earring—forgotten, still clutched in your other hand—slipped from your fingers and hit the stone floor with a soft clink that sounded deafening in the quiet of your chamber.
You froze, heart hammering, terrified the sound had somehow carried through the wall.
But Jacaerys didn't pause, didn't look toward the gap. He was too focused on the woman beneath him, and you—gods help you—you couldn't look away.
"Look at me," he commanded, and something in his voice—the authority, the certainty, the want—made your breath catch. The woman's eyes snapped to his face. "Good girl," he murmured, and thrust deeper.
The words sent heat flooding through you, pooling low into your belly. You felt it between your thighs—a pulse, an ache, something you had no name for. Your hand was still clamped over your mouth, but you couldn't move, couldn't think, could barely breathe—
The sharp knock at your chamber door made you jerk back from the wall as though it burned you.
"My lady?" came Lysa's voice, muffled through the heavy oak. "We've come to prepare you for supper."
You stumbled back from the screen. Your hand pressed against your cheek—Seven Hells, you were boiling. "A moment," you called out, breathless, hating how your voice wavered in the otherwise silent room.
You smoothed your skirts with trembling hands and tried to compose yourself before crossing to open the door. Your three ladies-in-waiting filed in—Lysa, Maryse, and young Elaena, their arms full of silks and jewelry boxes. They were good girls, all of them. You'd chosen them yourself—daughters of minor houses who actually seemed to like you rather than seeing you as a political opportunity. The last thing you needed were the usual vultures, daughters of great lords who'd spend more time reporting back to their mothers than actually being useful.
"You look flushed, my lady," Maryse observed you with immediate concern, setting down the silks onto the dressing table. "Are you well?"
"Quite well," you lied, settling into the chair before your mirror. Your reflection was damning, your silver hair mussed, falling loose from where you'd been pressed against the wall. Your cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide and dark, emphasizing the violet haze. You looked exactly like what you were, a woman who'd been watching something she had no business seeing. "The fire was burning too hot. I've only just opened the window."
Lysa moved to begin unpinning your hair, her fingers gentle, yet ever so clever, as they worked. "I see my lady. The cook's boy told me the funniest story today," she began, and you felt yourself relax into the familiar rhythm of their chatter.
This was safe. This was normal. Unlike whatever madness had possessed you just moments ago.
Elaena brought forward the gown, it was a beautiful collection of pale red silk that caught the candlelight like dawn breaking over the Narrow Sea. The bodice was fitted, the neckline modest but elegant, with delicate embroidery along the sleeves that fell into drapes. It was a gown befitting a princess of dragon blood, though you sometimes forgot that's what you were.
As your ladies worked, Lysa plaiting your hair into an intricate crown of braids, Maryse threading deep crimson rubies on fine silver chains to weave through the silver, Elaena carefully lacing you into your gown—your mind wandered despite your best efforts.
You could still see it. The flex of Jacaerys's shoulders, the way his head had fallen back in pleasure. The sound of his voice, rough with need and desire.
Seven hells.
"Tilt your head, my lady," Lysa murmured, and you obeyed, watching in the mirror as she secured the final braid with a dragon brooch of white gold and rubies, its eyes tiny chips of garnet that seemed to glow due to the candlelight.
Your hair fell in a waterfall of silver down your back, nearly to your calves, the braids creating an ornate crown that framed your face. The rubies caught the light like drops of blood, and for a moment you understood why men wrote songs about Targaryen women. More specifically, why their chantee’s were filled with tales of you.
"Beautiful," Maryse breathed, stepping back to admire their work.
You were beautiful. You knew this, had always known it—it was simply a fact, like knowing the sky was blue or fire was hot. But beauty felt like a strange, useless disease when your mind was still full of images it shouldn't hold.
When your thoughts were consumed by your cousin, the heir to the Iron Throne, and the way he'd looked lost in pleasure with a woman who wasn't you.
The private dining hall was already warm and loud when you arrived, filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of serving plates. This was your favorite meal of the week. no courtiers to impress, no performers to sit through, no need to smile politely while some lord droned on about his son and why he’s worthy of your hand. Just family. The table could have seated fifty people easily, but tonight it was just the twelve of you, which somehow made the hall feel bigger and emptier at the same time.
Rhaenyra sat at the head in a gown of black and red, her crown set aside for the evening, silver hair braided simply. Daemon lounged beside her, looking more like a dangerous cat than a prince consort. Down the table, Alicent sat with her children scattered among Rhaenyra's, Aegon laughing at something Jace had said, Helaena showing Baela her embroidery. A year ago, they'd been on the brink of war. Now they broke bread together like it had never happened.
"There she is," Aegon called out as you entered, already half in his cups despite the early hour. "Our lovely cousin, late as always."
"I'm not late," you replied, taking your usual seat between Helaena and Baela. "You're simply too eager for the wine, Aegon."
Aegon clutched his chest in mock offense while Helaena reached for your hand beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. She said nothing—she rarely did in company—but her smile was soft and genuine. You squeezed back, wishing she'd been born your sister instead of your cousin. She understood silence, understood that sometimes you just needed to exist quietly in a world that never managed to simply shut the fuck up.
"You look beautiful tonight," Helaena murmured, so quietly only you could hear. Her green eyes—so unlike the rest of the Targaryens—studied your face with an intensity that only she had. "Red suits you. Like fire. Like blood."
Before you could respond, the servants began bringing out the first course, and your attention was pulled elsewhere. You reached for your wine, grateful for something to do with your hands, and that's when you saw Jacaerys sat across the table and down two seats, between Luke and Joffrey. He was dressed formally in a black doublet with red embroidery, his dark hair still damp as though he'd bathed recently. He looked every inch the Crown Prince—composed, attentive, laughing at something Luke said.
He looked nothing like the man you'd seen less than an hour ago, flushed and shameless, fucking a woman whose name he probably didn't know. Or didn't care to remember.
Your cheeks heated at the memory, and you quickly looked down at your plate.
Gods, were you that much of a prude?
"How was your afternoon, my dear?" Rhaenyra suddenly asked you, her voice carrying easily down the table. She'd always been kind to you, treating you more as a daughter than a niece. Your father's sister, mourning the brother she'd lost, had perhaps seen something of him in you.
"Quiet, Your Grace," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "I spent most of it reading in my chambers."
"Always with your books," Daemon observed with amusement. "You're worse than the damn Maesters."
The conversation flowed easily after that—talk of the day's small council meeting, Aegon's latest exploit (falling asleep during a petitioner's complaint), Helaena's new collection of butterflies. You participated when required, but part of your attention kept sliding back to Jacaerys despite your best efforts.
He caught you looking, which was more embarrassing than usual. His eyes narrowed, and for one horrible second you were certain he knew. Knew what you'd seen. Knew you'd watched. Your stomach dropped and you bit your lip hard enough to taste copper and looked away. When you risked another glance, he was already talking to Luke again, the moment forgotten.
It wasn't until the second course that Rhaenyra cleared her throat in that way that meant an announcement was coming. The table quieted immediately, all eyes turning to their queen.
"I've been thinking," she began, glancing at Jacaerys with obvious affection, "that our heir is now two and twenty. More than old enough to take a wife."
Across the table, Jacaerys kept his expression perfectly neutral and composed. But you saw his jaw tighten, saw the way his hand clenched briefly around his fork before he forced himself to relax.
"It's time we began seeking suitable matches," Rhaenyra continued. "I've already received inquiries from several great houses—the Arryns, the Starks, even a letter from the Triarchy expressing interest in an alliance."
"The Triarchy?" Daemon barked a laugh. "What would they offer, a wife who smells of spices, counts coins and wouldn't know what to do with a cock if you handed it to her with instructions?"
"They offered three ships of gold and exclusive trading rights," Rhaenyra replied dryly. "Which is more than most houses can promise."
"I won't marry for ships," Jacaerys said quietly, and something in his tone made you look at him once more. His expression was still composed, but there was a hardness around his eyes.
"You'll marry where it serves the realm," Rhaenyra said, though not unkindly. "As I did. As all rulers must."
"You married for love the second time," Jace pointed out.
"The second time, yes." Rhaenyra smiled at Daemon. "But first I did my duty. And you will do yours."
The tension at the table was palpable. Alicent looked uncomfortable, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Aegon was watching the exchange with barely concealed glee—always happy when someone else was being pressed into marriage talk instead of him.
"We'll host a series of feasts," Rhaenyra continued, her tone allowing no argument. "Let the eligible ladies of the realm come to court. Let Jacaerys meet them, dance with them. Surely among them there will be someone suitable."
"How many feasts?" Luke asked, grimacing. "I hate feasts."
"As many as it takes," Rhaenyra replied. "We'll begin preparations the following morrow."
Your stomach dropped. Feast after feast, watching Jacaerys dance with simpering ladies who would fall over themselves for the chance to be queen. Watching him smile that charming smile, knowing what you now knew—that he was skilled at pleasing women, that he knew exactly how to make them fall at his feet.
"How exciting," Baela said beside you, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. "More opportunities to wear uncomfortable gowns and make pleasant conversation with people who hate us."
"They don't all hate us," you murmured, though your heart wasn't in the defense.
Across the table, Jacaerys stared at his wine cup like it might provide him with answers. You almost felt bad for him. If anyone at this table had no chance of marrying for love, it was him. Not that he seemed particularly interested in finding one person to settle down with, but still, your point stood.
"Well then," Aegon raised his cup. "To Jace's upcoming nuptials. May his future wife have the patience of a saint and the deafness of a stone."
Despite the tension, several people laughed, and Rhaenyra shook her head with exasperated fondness. "Perhaps we should have music," she suggested, gesturing to the musicians who always waited in the shadows during these intimate suppers. "Clear some space. Let us remember we're still young enough to enjoy ourselves."
"An excellent idea," Daemon agreed, already rising. He offered his hand to Rhaenyra with a theatrical bow that made her laugh.
The servants quickly moved the table back, creating a space for dancing as the musicians struck up a lively tune. It was informal, nothing like the rigid court dances you'd endure at the upcoming feasts—this was just family, moving together without judgment or ceremony.
Luke grabbed Rhaena's hand first, spinning her into the space with more enthusiasm than grace. She laughed, steadying him when he nearly tripped over his own feet. Joffrey tried to convince Helaena to dance, but she demurred with a gentle shake of her head, content to watch from her seat.
"Dance with me," Baela demanded, pulling you up before you could protest. "Before one of the boys asks and proceeds to step on our feet."
You let yourself be drawn into the movement, falling into the familiar pattern. Baela was a good dancer—all the Targaryen children were taught from youth that grace in the ballroom was as important as grace on dragonback. You switched partners as the song changed, first with Aegon, who was surprisingly light on his feet despite the wine, then with Luke, who apologized three times for nearly stepping on your hem, which you found adorable.
"You're doing fine," you assured him with a smile, and he grinned back, boyish and sweet.
When that dance ended, you found yourself passed to Jacaerys.
Your breath caught as his hand found yours, the other settling at your waist. His palm was large and warm against your back, steadying you. You could smell him now, clean linen and spice. Could see his eyes up close, brown with flecks of amber in the firelight. Could see, really see, how stupidly beautiful he was.
"Having fun?" he asked as he led you through the steps, his tone pleasantly neutral and polite. The exact same way he'd speak to any cousin at a family gathering.
"Yes," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "It's nice, having everyone together like this."
"Mm," he agreed, spinning you smoothly. "Rarer than it should be. Though I suppose it'll be even rarer once I'm shackled to some lord's daughter who'll expect me to sit through needlepoint demonstrations."
He was trying to make it sound like a joke, but it came out flat. Like he'd already accepted this was happening and hated every second of it.
"Maybe you'll find someone you actually like," you offered, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue.
A laugh, short and bitter. "Maybe. Though I doubt the great houses are sending their daughters for love matches. They want a crown, not a husband."
"Then perhaps you should look for someone who wants neither," you said before you could stop yourself.
Jacaerys raised an eyebrow, something that might have been interest flickering across his face. "And where would I find such a creature? They seem to be in short supply."
Before you could respond—before you could make an even greater fool of yourself—the song ended. Jace released you with a small bow, perfectly proper, and turned to offer his hand to Rhaena for the next dance.
You stepped back, your heart still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the exertion of dancing. He'd been so normal. So completely indifferent. There was no awareness in his eyes, no sign that he saw you as anything other than his cousin, someone to dance with at family gatherings and exchange pleasantries with at supper. Which was as it should be. You should be relieved and instead, you felt something uncomfortably close to disappointment.
"You look troubled," Helaena's soft voice came from beside you. She'd moved so quietly you hadn't noticed her approach. "Like a bird that's flown into a window."
You turned to her, finding those strange green eyes studying you. "I'm fine," you said automatically.
"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured, her gaze distant in that way it sometimes got after one of her vision spells. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."
"Helaena—"
But she'd already drifted away, drawn by something only she could see, leaving you standing at the edge of the dancing with her cryptic words echoing in your mind.
The spider watches from the corner. Seven hells, your poor, dear, earnest cousin knows you’re a pervert.
You watched Jacaerys spin Rhaena through the steps, laughing at something she said. Watched him dance with Baela next, then with his mother, the perfect dutiful son. He never once looked your way again and you told yourself that was exactly what you wanted.
The dancing continued for another hour before Rhaenyra finally called an end to the evening. "Early council meeting tomorrow," she announced with apologetic warmth. "And I need at least some sleep if I'm to endure Tyland Lannister's complaints about the damned grain tariffs."
The group began to disperse—Aegon stumbling slightly as Aemond steadied him with the patience only a brother could have, Luke and Joffrey arguing about something as they headed toward their chambers. You walked back to your chambers with Helaena and Baela, their soft conversation a comfortable buffer against your own churning thoughts. When you finally reached your door, you bid them goodnight and slipped inside, leaning back against the heavy oak with a shaky exhale.
Your ladies had been by earlier, the room was tidy, the fire banked low, your nightgown laid out across the bed. Everything was peaceful and ordinary. Your gaze immediately drifted, unbidden, to the corner where the carved screen stood.
You shouldn't. You absolutely shouldn't. But your feet carried you forward anyway, your hands moving the screen aside with trembling, eager, perverted fingers.
Empty. Fuck.
His room was dark save for a single candle burning on the bedside table. The crimson coverlet was smooth and undisturbed. The heavy curtains drawn back from the windows to let in the moonlight. No Jacaerys. No woman writhing beneath him. Nothing but silence and shadows.
You sat back on your heels, a strange mix of relief and something else—something you refused to name as disappointment—settling in your chest.
Where was he?
It was late, well past the hour when most of the castle had retired. Perhaps he'd gone to the Street of Silk, unwilling to bring his entertainment into the Red Keep on a night when the family had gathered. Perhaps he was in someone else's bed entirely, some lady's maid or kitchen girl who'd caught his eye.
Perhaps he was being discreet, something he clearly hadn't bothered earlier today. The thought dissipated as quickly as it came, no, maybe he was being discreet. Thoughtful, even. Of course, he'd been perfectly discreet earlier too, it was your fault for being a creep.
You pressed your palm against the cold stone, staring at that empty bed as though it might offer answers. The image from earlier was still burned into your mind—the flex of his shoulders, the sound of his voice rough with pleasure, the casual way he'd commanded that woman's body like he owned it.
Your cousin. The heir to the Iron Throne. The boy you'd grown up with, who used to let you win at cyvasse when you were children, who'd shown you how to skip stones across the fountain and laughed when you both got yelled at for it.
When the fuck had he turned into that? When had he learned to move like that, to take someone apart with his hands like it was easy?
And why, by all the Seven, couldn't you stop fucking thinking about it?
You pushed away from the wall, suddenly furious with yourself. This was madness. Dangerous, stupid madness that could only end in humiliation or worse. You needed to forget what you'd seen. Needed to seal that hole in the wall and pretend it had never existed.
Starting tomorrow. You'd call the servants first thing in the morning and have it filled with mortar. Tonight, tonight, though, you would sleep, and you would not dream of your cousin's hands, or his voice, or the way he'd looked so beautiful while lost in pleasure.
You climbed into bed still wearing your red silk gown, too tired to call your ladies back to unlace you. The rubies in your hair pressed uncomfortably against the pillow until you pulled them free with impatient fingers, letting your silver hair spill loose around you.
Sleep was slow to come. When it finally did, you dreamed of dragons and fire, of flying on Cannibal's back while something nameless chased you through the clouds. And in the dream, when you finally turned to face it, it had Jacaerys's eyes.
You did not look through the hole the following morning.
The temptation was there—gods, it was there, a constant itch beneath your skin as your ladies dressed you. But you kept your eyes firmly away from that corner, focusing instead on the monotonous task of standing still while they laced you into your gown.
It was white today, or perhaps the palest blue, the color seemed to shift in the light like a sort of moonstone. The bodice was scaled like dragon armor, each piece of fabric layered and stitched to create the illusion of protection. Gold chains draped across your shoulders and down your bare arms, cold against your skin. More chains hung from your waist, swaying gently when you moved. The sleeves were sheer and flowing, doing little to ward off the morning chill.
"You look like a goddess," Elaena breathed as she stepped back to admire their work.
"I look like I'm about to freeze to death, thank you very much," you replied, though without any real complaint.
Your hair was left mostly loose today, falling in silver waves down your back, with only two small braids pulled back from your face and secured with a dragon clasp of white gold. It was simple and appropriate for a small council meeting where you needed to be taken seriously.
The walk to the council chamber was embedded into your brain, your slippered feet silent on the cold stone floors. Guards nodded as you passed, servants stepped aside with murmured greetings. You were known throughout the Red Keep as kind, perhaps too kind for a Targaryen. You stopped to ask the head cook about her daughter's fever, remembered the name of the stable boy's new puppy hound, listened when the washerwomen complained about the state of the linens.
Your father had been like that, or so Rhaenyra told you. Loved by the smallfolk, remembered fondly even years after his death. You hoped it was true. You hoped you carried something of him beyond just his silver hair and violet eyes.
The council chamber was already half-full when you arrived. Lord Corlys sat at Rhaenyra's right hand, his age showing more each moon but his mind still sharp as any of the younger council members. Daemon lounged in his seat with typical irreverence, picking at his nails with a dagger. Grand Maester Gerardys shuffled through papers, and several other lords whose names you'd long since memorized filled out the remaining seats.
Rhaenys was there too, your mentor in all things draconic and strategic. She caught your eye as you entered and gave you a subtle nod of approval. She'd been instrumental in convincing Rhaenyra to let you train, to let you learn the ways of war despite your aunt's maternal protests.
"Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat. "I trust you slept well?"
"Well enough, Your Grace," you replied, ignoring the knowing look Daemon shot you. He always seemed to know when someone was lying, the bastard.
You'd earned your place at this table through years of study—history, law, trade routes, military strategy. While other noble daughters learned needlework and song, you'd buried yourself in the library, devouring every tome you could find. Knowledge was power, and you'd wanted to be useful. Wanted to matter beyond being another pretty Targaryen to marry off for alliances.
And then there was Cannibal. Your sweet baby boy, Cannibal.
You'd claimed him at two and ten, a feat that had shocked the entire realm. The wild dragon, the one who'd killed and eaten other dragons, who'd never been ridden—you'd walked up to him on Dragonstone's smoking beaches and simply asked. And he'd lowered his massive black head and let you climb onto his back.
The bond between you was unlike anything the Dragonkeepers had seen. You could feel him, always, a presence at the back of your mind, dark and fierce and free. Sometimes you knew his thoughts, or at least his intentions. When he wanted to hunt. When he wanted to fly far from the castle and its confining walls. When he missed you, though he'd never admit it, that damned proud creature.
He was out there now, somewhere over the Bay of Blackwater or perhaps the Kingswood. You could feel him, distantly, content in his solitude.
Vhagar was different—ancient, massive, slow with age but no less deadly. Aemond insisted he had full control of her, but you'd seen the truth when you flew near them. Vhagar tolerated Aemond. She hadn't fully accepted him, not the way Cannibal had accepted you. It would take years, perhaps decades, before that bond truly solidified.
If Aemond lived that long. Vhagar was known for her temper.
And Cannibal—Cannibal was larger still. Nearly the size of Balerion the Black Dread himself, or so the Dragonkeepers whispered when they thought you couldn't hear. Black as a night sky with none of the stars, with eyes like green flame and teeth as long as swords. He'd never accept the Dragonpit even if he could fit, which he couldn't. He roosted where he pleased, in sea caves along the coast, in the ruins of old Valyrian outposts, anywhere that gave him space and freedom and solitude.
"Shall we begin?" Rhaenyra's voice pulled you from your thoughts. She waited until everyone had settled, then gestured for Grand Maester Gerardys to start with the day's business.
The first hour was tedious, grain shipments from the Reach, trade disputes with the Free Cities, a complaint from House Royce about border incursions from mountain clans. You paid attention, offered your thoughts when asked, but your mind kept drifting.
Don't think about it. Don't think about him.
"There is one more matter," Rhaenyra said as the meeting drew toward its close. She looked around the table, her gaze lingering on you for a moment before moving on. "I've decided that Jacaerys should begin attending these meetings regularly. Starting the following morrow, he'll be joining us."
A few eyebrows raised, but no one protested. It made sense, he was two and twenty, the acknowledged heir, soon to be married. He needed to understand the workings of the realm he would one day rule.
"Will he be given a formal position?" Lord Corlys asked, ever practical, ever scheming.
"Not immediately," Rhaenyra replied. "Let him observe first. Learn our ways, then we'll see where his talents might be best utilized."
Daemon snorted. "His talents are best utilized in the training yard and the—"
"Daemon," Rhaenyra cut him off with a warning look, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement.
You felt your cheeks heat and kept your eyes fixed firmly on the table. In a week’s time Jacaerys would be here, sitting in one of these chairs, probably directly across from you. You'd have to see him regularly, maintain professional courtesy, pretend you hadn't watched him fuck a woman senseless.
Gods have mercy.
"Any objections?" Rhaenyra asked, looking around the table.
Silence. What could anyone say? He was the heir and none of you were about to tell the Queen that her son wasn't allowed in the Small Council. That seemed like a great way to lose your head.
"Good. Then we're finished for today." She stood, and everyone else rose with her. "Same time in three days. Try not to let the realm burn down before then."
The council members began to file out, but Rhaenys caught your arm as you moved to leave.
"Walk with me," she said, and it wasn't really a request.
You followed her out into the corridor, down a side passage that led into the city and the Dragonpit. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never quite lost, even after being passed over for the throne.
"You seem distracted," she finally said.
"I'm fine."
"You're lying." She stopped, turning to face you with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "What's wrong?"
For a wild moment, you considered telling her. I accidentally discovered a hole in my wall that looks into Jacaerys's chambers, and now I can't stop thinking about what I saw, and I think I'm losing my mind.
Instead, you said, "I'm just tired. The dancing went rather late last night."
Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced, but eventually she nodded. "Very well. But if something is bothering you—truly bothering you—you know you can come to me."
"I know," you said softly. "Thank you."
She squeezed your shoulder once, then continued down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the distant sound of dragons roaring in their pit.
You stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, and wondered how in seven hells you were going to survive sitting across from Jacaerys in council meetings. Wondered if he'd look at you the same way he'd looked at you while dancing—politely indifferent, completely unaware of the effect he had.
Wondered if that was better or worse than the alternative.
You found yourself wandering toward the kitchens, drawn by the familiar sounds of clattering pots and raised voices. The rest of the castle felt too quiet after council meetings, too full of people watching their words. The kitchens were honest, they were steaming hot, loud and smelling like fresh bread and meat.
"My lady!" Jessamyn looked up from the massive hearth, her round face flushed from the heat. She'd been head cook for as long as you could remember, ruling her domain with an iron ladle and a sharp tongue. "What brings you down here? Shouldn't you be off doing princess things?"
"Princess things are dreadfully boring," you replied, stealing a piece of candied lemon from a nearby tray. "I'd much rather be here."
"Oi, those are for tonight's supper!" But Jessamyn was smiling, swatting at you halfheartedly with her wooden spoon.
The kitchen staff had long since grown accustomed to your presence. You'd been sneaking down here since you were a child, preferring the warmth and chatter to the formality of the upper floors. Here, no one cared that you were a Targaryen. Here, you were just the girl who always burned her tongue on the stew and asked too many questions about how to make proper gravy.
"How's Mara's fever?" you asked, hopping up onto a cleared section of the work table.
"Broke this morning, thank the gods." Jessamyn's expression softened. "That tea you brought from the Maester helped, I think."
"Good. I'm glad." You watched as two scullery maids argued over the proper way to pluck a chicken, their debate growing increasingly heated. "Should you be concerned about that?"
"They'll sort it out," Jessamyn said dismissively. "Or they'll stab each other with the bloody kitchen knives, and I'll have two fewer girls making my life a misery. Either way."
"You staying for midday meal?" one of the kitchen boys asked hopefully. "We're making that venison stew you like."
"Can't today. I'm going to the Dragonpit."
"Your beast finally coming back?" Jessamyn asked, pulling a tray of bread from the oven. "Haven't seen him in what, near a fortnight?"
"Twelve days," you confirmed. Cannibal preferred his freedom, and you'd never been one to cage him. He came when he wanted, and you would not have it any other way. "He's out past Blackwater Bay somewhere. I can feel him."
"Feel him," one of the maids muttered. "Still sounds like madness to me, my lady."
"It is madness," you agreed cheerfully. "But it's a very useful madness."
You stayed a while longer, listening to the kitchen gossip, who was bedding whom, which lordling had insulted which servant, the general consensus that the upcoming feasts were going to be a right fucking nightmare to prepare for. Apparently, Rhaenyra had requested swan for one of them, and Jessamyn was already composing angry speeches about the impracticality of cooking swan.
"Tough as old leather and mean as sin," she complained, gesturing violently with her ladle. "But does Her Grace care? No. She wants swan because it's elegant. I'll give her elegant—I'll serve it so tough she'll break a tooth on it."
"I'll speak to her," you offered. "Suggest something else."
"You're a good girl," Jessamyn said, patting your cheek with a flour-dusted hand. "Too good for this lot of pompous cunts, if you ask me."
Eventually, you took your leave, stealing one more piece of candied lemon on your way out just to hear Jessamyn's exasperated shout behind you.
The walk to the Dragonpit took you through the city streets, and you pulled your cloak up to hide your distinctive hair. The smallfolk knew you by sight anyway—you came this way often enough—but it was easier not to draw any attention. A few people nodded as you passed, and you nodded back, trying not to think about how different you were from most nobles who never set foot outside the Red Keep's walls without a full escort of gold cloaks.
The Dragonpit loomed ahead, ancient and crumbling in places despite the best efforts to maintain it. The Dragonkeepers bowed as you approached, their respect tinged with something like awe. They still spoke in hushed tones about the day you'd claimed Cannibal, about the wild dragon who'd finally accepted a rider.
You came here even though your dragon never would. Cannibal was too large. He'd never fit through the Dragonpit's entrance even if he wanted to, which he decidedly did not. But you came anyway, to see the other dragons, to speak with the Dragonkeepers who understood what it meant to be bonded to such creatures.
"My lady," the eldest keeper greeted you. "Still no sign of your beast?"
"He's hunting in the Kingswood," you replied, moving past them into the cavernous space.
Some of the other dragons were here, Vermax in his usual corner, Arrax further back, Syrax sunning herself near the entrance where the light streamed in. They all shifted as you entered, great scaled heads turning, sensing you the way dragons always sensed Targaryen blood.
But none of them called to you the way Cannibal did. None of them were yours.
You could feel him now, distant but present in your mind. He was flying over the Kingswood, hunting deer or perhaps wild boar. Satisfied. He sent you an impression—not words, but feeling—of wind and height and the joy of the chase.
Umbās lenton, ñuha riña, you thought at him in High Valyrian, not knowing if he could truly hear your thoughts the way you felt his intentions. Māzigon lo jorrāelagon.
Stay free, my boy. Come if needed.
You stood there in the Dragonpit for a while, watching the other dragons, feeling the heat of their breath and the weight of their ancient eyes. Vhagar wasn't here either—she was too massive, kept in the fields outside the city where she had room to spread her wings without crushing half the buildings in King's Landing. But even Vhagar was smaller than Cannibal.
"He burns green, doesn't he?" one of the younger keepers asked, approaching cautiously. "Your Cannibal. Green flame."
"Yes," you confirmed. "Like poison made fire."
The keeper shuddered slightly. "I've never seen anything like it. Most dragons burn orange or red, sometimes gold. But green and his size. Seven hells, my lady, he's near as big as Balerion was."
"Bigger, perhaps," you said softly. "He's still growing."
The thought should have terrified you. Instead, it filled you with something like pride.
Supper that evening was a grander affair than the intimate family meal from the night before. The great hall was filled with lords and ladies of the court, the high table crowded with Targaryens and their most favored bannermen. Musicians played from the gallery, servants moved between the tables with platters of roasted boar and honeyed duck, and the wine flowed freely.
You sat between Baela and one of the Velaryon cousins whose name you could never quite remember, making polite conversation and trying not to let your gaze wander too obviously across the hall.
Jacaerys, much to your surprise, wasn't there.
His seat at the high table sat empty, and when you'd asked Rhaenyra about it as casually as you could manage, she'd simply said he was indisposed. Daemon had smirked into his wine cup at that, and you'd felt your cheeks burn.
Indisposed. Right, your arse.
The meal dragged on, course after course, toast after toast, Lord Whoever droning on about trade agreements until you wanted to scream. You smiled and nodded and said the right things, all while your mind churned with thoughts you had no business thinking.
Where was he? Out in the city again, finding another willing woman to warm his bed? Or perhaps he'd brought someone here, to his chambers, and simply hadn't wanted to risk being seen at supper with the smell of sex still clinging to him.
Gods, you needed to stop. This needed to stop, permanently, and immediately.
By the time Rhaenyra finally dismissed the court for the evening, you were wound tight as a crossbow string. You said your goodnights to Baela and Helaena, declined Aegon's slurred offer to continue drinking in his chambers, and practically fled back to your own rooms.
Your ladies had already been by, the fire was lit, your sleeping shift laid out. You should call them back to help you out of your gown. Should prepare for bed like a sensible person and get some actual sleep before tomorrow's duties.
Instead, you found yourself moving toward the corner where the carved screen stood.
Don't, you told yourself firmly. Don't be a fool.
But your hands were already pushing the screen aside, your knees hitting the cold stone floor as you pressed your eye to the gap.
Empty. Again. Damn, damn, damn.
The room was dark save for moonlight streaming through the windows. The bed undisturbed, the coverlet smooth. No candles lit, no sign of life. You sat back, frustration coiling in your chest. Where in the seven hells was he?
You should go to bed. Should stop this madness before it consumed you entirely. But instead, you paced. Back and forth across your chamber like a caged animal, your silk skirts swishing against the floor. Every few minutes you'd stop, kneel down, check the hole again.
Still empty.
This was pathetic. You were pathetic. Waiting like some lovesick girl for a glimpse of a man who didn't even know you existed beyond being his cousin at family suppers.
He danced with you, a small voice whispered in your mind. He smiled at you.
He smiled at everyone. That was what princes did. And once again, you checked.
Empty.
"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, pressing your forehead against the cool stone. This was going to drive you mad. You needed to seal this hole, needed to forget you'd ever found it, needed to—
The door to his chamber opened and you froze, eye pressed to the gap, heart suddenly hammering.
Jacaerys entered first, and he wasn't alone. Your throat tightened, and for a split second, you told yourself to look away, to be decent for once. Instead, you pressed harder against the gap, like that might somehow get you closer.
The woman who followed him through the door was decidedly not a servant or a whore from the Street of Silk. Her gown was fine silk, deep green with gold embroidery at the sleeves. This was expensive, well-made, the kind only highborn ladies wore. Her dark hair was pinned up elaborately, though a few strands had come loose, and when she laughed at something Jace said, the sound was refined.
You recognized her after a moment—Lady Cassandra Baratheon, one of Lord Borros's daughters. She'd been at court for the past month, ostensibly to foster closer ties between Storm's End and the crown.
Apparently, she'd been fostering ties of a different sort.
"Wine?" Jace asked, moving to the table where a pitcher sat waiting.
"Please," Cassandra replied, and there was an ease between them that spoke of familiarity. This wasn't their first time together. Not even close.
Something hot and ugly twisted in your chest. Jealousy, perhaps, though you had no right to it.
Jace poured two cups, handed her one, and they stood there for a moment just talking. You couldn't hear the words through the stone, but you could see the way Cassandra touched his arm, fingers trailing down from shoulder to elbow with the intimacy of someone who'd done it before. The way Jace leaned in closer, his head tilted as he listened to whatever she was saying, a small smile playing at his lips.
And then he kissed her, and you inhaled sharply, pulse suddenly pounding everywhere, your throat, your wrists, between your legs.
It started slow—almost tender, really. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb stroking along the line of her jaw as their mouths moved together in a way that suggested they'd learned each other's rhythms. Cassandra made a soft sound, stepping into him, and her fingers tangled in his dark hair, tugging slightly.
Pervert, pervert, pervert.
Your eye stayed pressed to the gap in the stone. Your hand, seemingly of its own accord, had drifted to press against your stomach, just above where heat was beginning to pool low and insistent.
Jace backed her toward the bed, still kissing her, his hands starting to work at the laces of her gown. She helped him, both of them fumbling slightly in their eagerness despite clearly having done this dance before. You watched as layer after layer of silk fell away and onto the floor, first was the overdress, then the underdress, then the stays—until she stood in just her shift, the thin fabric clinging to curves that made your throat go dry.
"Gods, you're beautiful," Jace murmured and you could read the words on his lips even if you couldn't quite hear them through the stone.
Cassandra smiled, reaching for the fastenings of his doublet. "You say that to all of them, my grace."
Your jaw clenched. So you were right. There were others. Many others, probably.
"I mean it with you," Jace said, and you wanted to scream at Cassandra not to believe him, that those were just pretty words he knew how to wield.
But Cassandra seemed to believe him, or at least didn't care if it was true. She pushed his doublet off his shoulders, her hands running over his chest, fingernails scraping lightly over skin, and Jace groaned—a sound you felt echo between your own thighs. He pulled her shift over her head in one smooth motion, and then she was naked before him.
She was beautiful, that you could admit that even through the haze of jealousy burning in your chest. Full breasts, a narrow waist flaring into hips that Jace's hands immediately claimed, skin like cream in the candlelight. Dark hair spilled down her back as Jace turned her around, pressing kisses down her spine, and you watched his mouth trace the path of her vertebrae one by one.
"Jace," she breathed, arching back against him, pressing her bare arse against where you could see he was already hard beneath his breeches.
Your own breathing had gone shallow. Your hand pressed harder against your stomach, wanting to move lower but not quite daring. Not yet.
Jace took his time with her. His hands mapped every curve, every dip and swell of her body. He cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked and she gasped. Kissed the side of her neck, teeth scraping against the tendon there in a way that made her shiver. Slid one hand down her stomach, between her thighs, and even from here you could see how she bucked against his touch.
"Please," Cassandra whimpered, and the desperate edge to her voice made your breath catch.
"Patience," Jace murmured against her skin, but there was dark amusement in his tone. He was enjoying this—enjoying making her wait, making her beg.
When he finally guided her onto the bed, she went willingly, eagerly, spreading herself out on the crimson coverlet like an offering. Her thighs fell open without prompting, shameless in her want, and you could see the glistening evidence of her arousal even from your hidden vantage point.
Jace shed the rest of his clothes—unlacing his breeches with quick movements—and your mouth went dry at the sight of him. You'd seen him before, that first night, but somehow this felt different. More intimate. You could see every line of muscle in his stomach, the dark hair trailing down from his navel, the thick length of his cock jutting proudly from his hips as he climbed onto the bed.
Your hand finally, finally, slipped beneath the waistband of your smallclothes.
Jace settled between Cassandra's thighs, bracing himself above her on his forearms, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Then he pushed his cock deep inside her—slow, so agonizingly slow—and Cassandra's head fell back with a moan that you felt echo through your own body.
“Your grace—-hhhhh,” she moaned.
Your fingers found the wet heat between your legs, already slick and aching. You bit your lip hard to keep from making a sound.
"Fuck," Jace groaned, his hips rolling in a steady, measured rhythm. "You feel perfect. So tight and wet for me."
"Harder," Cassandra gasped, her nails raking down his back hard enough to leave red marks. "Please, your grace, I need—"
He gave her exactly what she wanted.
The gentleness evaporated like morning mist, replaced by something raw and almost brutal. Jace pulled nearly all the way out before slamming his cock back into her, and Cassandra cried out—pleasure and pain mixing in her voice in a way that made your fingers circle faster over your clit. His hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the long line of her throat, and his teeth found the skin there, biting down just hard enough to make her gasp.
"Is this what you wanted?" Jace growled, his voice low and dangerous in a way you'd never heard before. Not gentle, princely Jace. This was something darker. "This what you've been thinking about all through supper? Sitting there with your father, making polite conversation, while all you could think about was having my cock inside you?"
"Yes," Cassandra sobbed, her body arching to meet each brutal thrust. The obscenity of the words, the rawness of it, sent liquid heat flooding through you. "Gods, yes, don't stop—please don't stop—"
Your fingers worked faster, your other hand coming up to muffle any sounds threatening to escape your throat. You could feel your own wetness coating your fingers, could feel the tension building low in your belly as you watched Jace fuck Cassandra with single-minded intensity.
"Greedy little thing," Jace muttered, but there was dark satisfaction in his tone. His free hand moved between their bodies, and you knew exactly what he was doing when Cassandra suddenly cried out sharply, her whole body going rigid. He was circling her clit with his thumb while he pounded into her, giving her pleasure from two directions at once, and the thought of it—the thought of him doing that to you—made your legs tremble.
"Jace, I'm going to—oh gods, I'm going to come—"
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough and strained. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you, sweetling."
She shattered. Her whole body convulsed, back arching off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream before the sound finally tore from her throat—his name, over and over, like a prayer. You could see the way her cunt clenched around him, could see the exact moment the pleasure crested and broke over her.
Your own fingers moved desperately, chasing the same release, imagining it was Jace's hand between your thighs, Jace's cock filling you, Jace's voice in your ear telling you how good you felt. But Jace didn't stop. He kept fucking Cassandra through her peak, relentless, using her body to chase his own pleasure as she whimpered and clutched at the sheets beneath her. Her sensitivity must have been overwhelming, but he showed no mercy, just kept driving into her with brutalness.
He was so undeniably good at this, at fucking whores, noble ladies, at driving his cock into their cunts and making them squeal beneath him from the pleasure.
"Too much," she gasped, but her hips were still rising to meet his, her body betraying her words. "Y-your grace, it's—fuck—it's too much—"
"You can take it," he said, and there was something almost cruel in his certainty. "You always take it so well for me."
His rhythm grew erratic, desperate. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched, the muscles in his arse flexing with each thrust. He was close—so close—
Your own pleasure was building, that familiar tightening, that pressure mounting—
Jace pulled out suddenly, wrapping his hand around himself and stroking once, twice, before he came with a groan that sounded almost pained. His seed spilled across Cassandra's stomach in thick ropes, marking her, claiming her, and the sight of it—the raw, animalistic possession of it—sent you tumbling over the edge.
You bit down on your palm hard enough to taste blood, muffling the sound threatening to tear from your throat as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your fingers didn't stop, working you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive and barely able to see through the haze.
When you finally came back to yourself, gasping and trembling, Jace was cleaning Cassandra with gentle touches that seemed almost absurd after the brutality of moments before. She was boneless against the pillows, looking thoroughly debauched, her hair a tangled mess and her skin flushed pink.
"Stay," Jace said quietly, pulling her against his chest.
"I shouldn't," Cassandra murmured, but she was already nestling into him, her head tucked beneath his chin. "If someone finds out—"
"Let them find out. I don't care."
You wanted to laugh at the lie of it. Of course he cared. He just didn't care enough not to fuck her. Within minutes, Cassandra's breathing had evened out into sleep, her body going lax in his arms. Jace stared at the ceiling for a long while, his expression unreadable in the dim light. One hand stroked absently through her hair, gentle in a way that made your chest ache.
Then he turned his head slightly—and for one heart-stopping moment, his gaze seemed to land exactly where you knelt. Directly at the wall. Directly at your hiding place.
But that was impossible. He couldn't see you through solid stone. Couldn't know you were there, hand still between your thighs, lips swollen from biting back your moans, watching him like some desperate, pathetic creature.
You jerked back from the hole anyway, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. Your whole body was trembling—from the release, from the fear of discovery, from shame so acute it felt like it might choke you. You'd just brought yourself to peak while watching your cousin fuck another woman. While imagining it was you in that bed, you he was whispering filth to, you he was making come apart on his cock.
This was sick. Wrong. You were sick and wrong and yet, deep down, you knew, with terrible certainty, that you'd be back tomorrow night. And the night after that. Until this madness either consumed you or destroyed you entirely.
You barely slept that night.
Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him, his shoulders, his body, his thick cock, the way his hand had fisted in Cassandra's hair, the rough timber of his voice as he'd commanded her to come. And beneath it all, the shameful memory of your own hand between your thighs, chasing pleasure you had no right to feel.
When dawn finally broke, you were grateful for it.
Your ladies dressed you in silence, perhaps sensing your foul mood. The gown today was the palest blush pink. The bodice was fitted with embroidered silver thread in delicate patterns that caught the morning sun. The neckline dipped low, modest enough for court but still flattering, drawing the eye. Long flowing sleeves of sheer silk hung from your shoulders, gossamer-thin, moving like water with each gesture. The skirts were layers upon layers of the same pale silk, creating an almost dreamlike effect as you walked, the fabric seeming to float around you.
The walk to the council chamber felt longer than usual. You nodded to the guards, smiled at passing servants, and tried not to think about the fact that Jacaerys would be here today. His first small council meeting. Sitting across from you for hours while you pretended you hadn't watched him fuck Lady Baratheon into the mattress last night.
Gods give you strength.
The council chamber was already filling when you arrived. "Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat.
"Your Grace." You settled into your chair, arranging your skirts, trying not to look at the empty seat that would soon be occupied.
Others filtered in quick waves, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, Master of Coin; Ser Steffon Darklyn, Commander of the City Watch; a handful of other lords whose presence was required. The table filled, voices murmuring in low conversation.
Then the door opened again, and Jacaerys entered.
He looked... gods, he looked perfect. Rested and put-together in a way that seemed deeply unfair given what you knew he'd been doing until late into the night. His doublet was his usual black with red embroidery, his dark hair neatly combed, and when he smiled at his mother, it was warm and genuine and completely utterly unbothered.
"Apologies for my lateness," he said, taking the empty seat directly across from you.
Of course. Of course he'd be directly in your line of sight.
His eyes met yours for a brief moment—polite, pleasant, utterly indifferent—before moving on. No recognition. No awareness that anything was amiss. He had no idea what you'd witnessed. No idea that you'd spent the night with your hand between your thighs, imagining it was you in Cassandra Baratheon's place.
"Let us begin," Rhaenyra said once everyone had settled. She gestured to Grand Maester Gerardys. "The reports from the North, if you would."
Gerardys cleared his throat and began reading, something about increased wildling activity beyond the Wall, requests from the Night's Watch for additional men and supplies. You forced yourself to pay attention, to nod at the appropriate moments, to look anywhere except at Jacaerys.
It was going to be a very long meeting. The discussion moved from the North to the Stepstones, where Daemon's efforts to hold the islands remained precarious at best. Then to trade disputes with Pentos, grain shortages in the Reach, and a particularly tedious debate about tax collection methods that made you want to throw yourself from the nearest window.
Jacaerys contributed thoughtfully when asked, his observations intelligent and well-reasoned. He'd been well-trained for this, you realized. Rhaenyra had made sure her heir would be ready to rule, ready to navigate the complexities of statecraft. Of the Realm.
Ready to be the perfect prince while fucking half the women in King's Landing in his spare time.
"There is another matter," Rhaenys said, her voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts. She was looking at you, and there was something in her expression that made your stomach clench. "The matter of our dragons and their war-readiness."
The table went quiet.
"The realm is at peace," Lord Corlys pointed out carefully.
"For now," Rhaenys replied. "But peace is a fragile thing, as we all learned during the—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "—recent troubles. We cannot afford to be complacent."
"What are you suggesting?" Rhaenyra asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.
"That we ensure our dragons are battle-ready. That we train them for war, even if we pray that war never comes." Rhaenys turned her sharp gaze fully on you. "Cannibal, in particular, has never been tested in true combat. He's large, powerful, but wild and untested."
Your jaw tightened. "Cannibal doesn't need testing. He's—"
"A wild dragon who's only known freedom," Rhaenys interrupted, not unkindly. "I'm not questioning your bond with him, child. I'm suggesting that bond needs to be forged stronger and that will only come through discipline."
"You want me to train him for war," you said flatly.
"I want you to prepare him for the possibility of war." Rhaenys leaned forward slightly. "With drills and formation flying with the other dragons. Learning to respond to commands in the chaos of battle. These things take time and practice."
You wanted to argue. Wanted to say that Cannibal would never tolerate such constraints, that he'd sooner eat the other dragons than fly in formation with them. That forcing him into drills and formations would break something fundamental in the bond between you, the trust that came from respecting his need for freedom.
"I don't think it's a good idea," you said carefully. "Cannibal isn't like the other dragons. He's larger, older in his ways. Trying to force him into formations could be potentially dangerous."
"Dangerous for whom?" Daemon asked, sounding genuinely curious rather than mocking. "For you, or for the other dragons?"
"Both," you admitted. "Cannibal doesn't play well with others. He never has. That's why he lived alone on Dragonstone for so long, why he—" you stopped yourself before saying ate the other dragons, because that seemed impolitic in the moment. "Why he prefers solitude."
"All the more reason to socialize him now," Rhaenys countered. "Before we're in the middle of a battle and he decides another dragon looks appetizing."
A few uncomfortable chuckles around the table. It wasn't really a joke, not one you found particularly funny.
"What about Vhagar?" you asked, grasping for any argument. "She's larger, older. Is Aemond expected to fly formation drills with her?"
"Vhagar is already battle-tested," Rhaenys replied. "She fought in Aegon's Conquest, in the wars since. She knows what's expected. Cannibal has only ever known hunting sheep and being left alone."
It stung because it was true. For all his size and power, Cannibal had never been to war. Had never been asked to do anything more demanding than fly when you called and let you sit astride him while he soared through the clouds.
"What does Her Grace think?" you asked, turning to Rhaenyra. Let the Queen make this decision, let it not be your choice to potentially damage the one pure thing in your life.
Rhaenyra studied you for a long moment, her expression deep in thought. "I think Rhaenys makes valid points. But I also trust your judgment when it comes to your dragon. If you truly believe this would be harmful rather than helpful, I'll take that into consideration."
It was a careful, political answer. She was giving you an out, but also making it clear that refusing would require solid justification, not just childish objection.
"I'll think about it," you said finally. "Perhaps we could start small. Test his tolerance before committing to full formation drills."
"A reasonable compromise," Rhaenys agreed, though she didn't look entirely satisfied. "We'll begin in a week's time. Simple exercises first."
The knot in your stomach tightened, but you nodded anyway.
"What about Vermax?" Daemon asked, his gaze sliding to Jacaerys with lazy interest. "The heir's dragon should certainly be included in this training."
"Vermax and I train regularly," Jace said, and there was the slightest edge of defensiveness in his tone.
"In the training yard, yes," Rhaenys replied. "But have you ever taken him into simulated combat? Flown him through fire and smoke? Tested his response time when startled?"
Jace's jaw tightened. "No."
"Then you'll join us as well," Rhaenys said, brooking no argument. "All dragonriders of fighting age. Baela, Rhaena, Aegon if we can pry him away from his cups long enough."
"Then it's settled," Rhaenyra said, her tone making it clear the discussion was closed. "Rhaenys will oversee the training regimen. All dragonriders are expected to participate." Her eyes found yours. "Including you, niece. I know Cannibal prefers his solitude, but this is necessary."
You bit back a dozen more arguments and simply nodded. "As you command, Your Grace."
The meeting dragged on for another hour, more reports, more discussions, more decisions that needed to be made. Through it all, you were acutely aware of Jacaerys sitting across from you. The way he listened intently when others spoke. The way his fingers drummed absently against the table when he was thinking. The way he looked so effortlessly princely while you sat there trying not to remember the sound of his voice, rough with pleasure, commanding Cassandra to come for him.
Finally, finally, Rhaenyra called an end to it. "Same time in three days. Try not to let anything catch fire before then."
You stood quickly, eager to escape before—
"Walk with me?" Rhaenys said, appearing at your elbow.
Of course because the gods clearly thought you hadn't suffered enough today. You fell into step beside her, following her out of the council chamber and down a side corridor. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never lost, even after being passed over for the throne.
"You seem troubled," she finally said.
"I don't think Cannibal will take well to this training. I'm worried it will damage our bond."
Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced that was the whole truth. "He'll adjust. The bond between you is strong enough to weather some discomfort."
"It's not just discomfort. He's not like the other dragons. He's—"
"Wild. Yes, I know. But wildness can be channeled, shaped, without breaking it entirely." She squeezed your shoulder gently. "Trust me, and more importantly, trust him. Trust that your bond is stronger than a few training exercises. He did choose you, at the end of the day."
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.
"Now," Rhaenys said, her tone shifting to something lighter, "I believe Helaena was looking for you earlier. Something about her insects?"
Right. Helaena. Safe, sweet Helaena who wouldn't ask probing questions about why you looked like you hadn't slept properly in days.
"Thank you," you said quietly. "For everything, Aunt."
Rhaenys smiled, though there was something sad in it. "Go. Spend time with your cousin. The gods know there are precious few people in this world who'll love us without wanting something in return."
You found Helaena in her chambers, which were somehow both cluttered and organized in a way only she could manage. Jars and terrariums covered every surface, each containing some specimen or another, there were butterflies, beetles, spiders, things you couldn't even name. It was entirely Helaena.
"You came," Helaena said, looking up from where she was carefully transferring a large iridescent beetle from one container to another. Her silver-gold hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wore a simple gown of pale green that brought out the unusual color of her eyes. "I wasn't sure you would."
"Of course I came." You settled onto the cushioned bench beside her workspace, careful not to disturb anything. The layers of your pink gown pooled around you like flower petals. "What have you found, dear cousin?"
Helaena's face lit up in that rare, genuine smile she reserved for the things she truly loved. "A stag beetle. Look at his mandibles, aren't they magnificent?"
You looked. The beetle was indeed impressive, its horn-like mandibles nearly as long as its body, gleaming black with hints of deep purple when the light hit them right. "Beautiful," you agreed, and meant it.
For the next hour, Helaena showed you her collection, explaining in her soft, sometimes disjointed way about each specimen's habits and characteristics. You listened, grateful for the distraction, for the simplicity of her enthusiasm. Here, there were no council meetings or dragon training or inappropriate thoughts about cousins.
"Lord Cregan Stark sent me a letter," Helaena said suddenly, interrupting her own explanation about moth wing patterns.
You blinked. "Did he?"
"Yes. He's coming to court for the feasts. The ones for Jace." She was studying a moth wing with intense focus, not meeting your eyes. "He asked if he might call on me. To discuss insects."
Something in her tone made you pause. "Ah, I see, insects."
"He's interested in the wildlife of the North. The creatures that survive the cold. The ice spiders." Helaena finally looked up, and there was something almost vulnerable in her green eyes. "Do you think that's really why he wants to call on me?"
Oh. Oh.
Cregan Stark was young, newly Lord of Winterfell after his father's passing two years past. By all accounts he was honorable, strong, kind, everything a northern lord should be. And if he was expressing interest in Helaena...
"I think," you said carefully, "that Lord Cregan would be very fortunate if you agreed to speak with him. About insects or anything else, dear cousin."
Helaena's cheeks flushed pink. "He's very kind in his letters. Patient and he doesn't mind when I ramble about things most people find boring. He even sent me a preserved ice spider specimen from beyond the Wall. Said he thought I might like to study it."
Your heart softened. A man who would hunt down rare specimens for Helaena's collection was a man worth considering. "That's incredibly thoughtful, Hel."
"Mother says I should consider marriage eventually. That I can't hide in my chambers with my insects forever." Helaena's voice was quiet, tinged with something like resignation. "But most lords look at me like I'm mad. Like I'm something to be pitied or fixed."
"Then they're fools," you said firmly. "You're brilliant, Helaena. Anyone with half a brain can see that."
"Lord Cregan doesn't look at me like that. At least, not in his letters." She turned back to her moths, a small smile playing at her lips. "He asks questions. Real questions about my observations and theories. He doesn't just humor me."
"Will you see him when he arrives?"
"I... I believe I might." She looked back down at her specimens, fingers gentle as she adjusted a butterfly's position in its case. "It's strange. I never thought—I mean, I never imagined someone might actually want to court me. Not really."
"You're a princess of the blood," you pointed out. "Half the lords in Westeros would trip over themselves for the chance."
"They'd trip over themselves for the crown and the alliance," Helaena corrected softly. "Not for me. But Lord Cregan, he talks to me like I'm a person. Not a prize to be won or a madwoman to be managed."
You reached over and squeezed her hand. "Then I hope he lives up to his letters. And if he doesn't, I'll feed him to Cannibal."
Helaena laughed, a rare, bright sound that made you smile despite everything. "The wolf meets the spider in the dark. The spider weaves while the wolf watches. But which one catches which?"
Another one of her strange pronouncements. You'd long since given up trying to decipher them.
"What about you?" Helaena asked, suddenly aware of her surroundings again. "Will you dance with any lords at the feasts?"
Your stomach dropped. You'd almost managed to forget about the upcoming feasts, the parade of eligible ladies who would be throwing themselves at Jacaerys while you watched from the sidelines.
"I doubt it," you said lightly. "You know I prefer the edges of the room to the center of attention."
"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured again, and something in her tone made you look up sharply. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."
Helaena suddenly moved on, returning her attention to her beetles, humming softly to herself. Leaving you to wonder if she'd just made an innocent observation or if she somehow knew exactly what you'd been doing in the dark corners of your chambers.
You stayed with Helaena until the sun began to set, letting her soft voice and gentle presence soothe the jagged edges of your thoughts. Here, at least, things made sense. Here, you could almost forget the madness consuming you.
Almost.
When you finally took your leave, pressing a kiss to the top of her silver head, she caught your hand.
"Be careful," she said quietly. "Webs are sticky things. Hard to escape once you're caught."
You had no answer for that. The walk back to your chambers was quiet, most of the castle beginning to prepare for the evening meal. When you reached your door, you found your ladies already waiting.
"We've prepared a bath, my lady," Lysa said with a smile. "Thought you might want to wash before supper."
Gods, yes. Perhaps hot water and lavender oil could wash away the tension coiled tight in your shoulders, the restless energy that had plagued you all day.
"Thank you," you said, letting them usher you inside.
The tub had been set up near the fire, steam rising from the water in lazy curls. Your ladies helped you out of the elaborate pink gown, unlacing the bodice and lifting the layers of silk away until you stood in just your shift. Then that too was removed, and you stepped into the blessed heat of the bath with a sigh.
"We'll be just outside if you need anything, my lady," Maryse said. "Call when you're ready to dress for supper."
You nodded, already sinking deeper into the water, letting it cover you up to your shoulders. The heat seeped into your muscles, and for the first time all day, you felt some of the tension begin to ease.
You closed your eyes, breathing in the scent of lavender, trying to empty your mind of everything, council meetings, dragon training, Helaena's cryptic warnings, and most especially the memory of brown eyes and dark hair and hands that knew exactly how to make a woman fall apart.
Stop, you told yourself firmly. Just stop.
For a few blessed minutes, you succeeded. The water, the warmth, the quiet—it was almost peaceful.
Then something moved at the edge of your vision. You opened your eyes and looked toward the rim of the tub. A spider. But not just any spider, this thing was massive, easily the size of your palm, with thick hairy legs and a body that seemed to pulse as it crept along the wooden edge of the tub. Moving toward you.
The scream tore from your throat before you could stop it, pure, primal terror that echoed off the stone walls.
You shot to your feet, water sloshing over the sides of the tub, your whole body shaking as you tried to scramble away from the creature. But the tub was slippery, your feet finding no purchase, and you nearly fell before catching yourself on the edge.
"My lady!" You heard Lysa's voice, muffled through the door, and then—
The door burst open, but it wasn't your ladies who came through first.
It was Jacaerys. He must have been passing in the corridor, must have heard your scream and thought, what? That you were being murdered? Attacked? He rushed in with his hand on his sword hilt, eyes wild, clearly ready to face down whatever threat had made you scream like that.
And then he froze. Because you were standing there, in the middle of the tub, completely and utterly naked. Water streaming down your body, your silver hair plastered to your back and shoulders, every inch of you exposed in the firelight.
For one endless, horrifying moment, neither of you moved.
His eyes went wide, his mouth falling open slightly as his gaze traveled down and then snapped back up to your face. You could see the exact moment his brain caught up with what he was seeing, the way his cheeks flushed, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.
"I—" he started, his voice rough. "I heard you scream, I thought—"
"SPIDER!" you shrieked, pointing at the creature that was still making its way around the rim of the tub, seemingly unconcerned with the chaos it had caused. "There's a massive fucking spider, Jace!"
Jace's gaze followed your pointing finger, and you watched him take in the admittedly impressive specimen currently terrorizing you.
"That's, yes, that's a spider," he said, somewhat stupidly.
"I KNOW IT'S A SPIDER!" you yelled, still frozen in place, acutely aware that you were naked and he was staring and your ladies were probably right behind him in the corridor and this was literally the worst thing that had ever happened to you.
Your ladies burst in then, Lysa and Maryse and Elaena, their faces panicked, clearly thinking you were dying. They took in the scene, you, naked in the tub. Jacaerys, standing there looking like he'd been struck by lightning. The spider, innocently crawling.
"My lady!" Lysa gasped, immediately grabbing a linen cloth and rushing forward to wrap it around you.
But the damage was done. Jacaerys had seen everything. Every curve, every inch of skin, every part of you that should have remained hidden beneath layers of silk and propriety.
Damn the Gods. Damn you, this is your punishment for being a pervert.
"I'll just—" Jace stammered, backing toward the door, his face now bright red. "I'll—the spider—sorry—I thought—"
He practically fled, the door slamming shut behind him. You stood there, wrapped in the linen cloth, shaking for entirely different reasons now.
"Oh gods," you breathed. "Oh gods, he saw me. He saw—"
"It's all right, my lady," Maryse said soothingly, though she looked rather scandalized herself. "It was an accident. He heard you scream and thought you were in danger."
"I AM in danger!" you gestured wildly at the spider, which had now made it halfway around the tub. "That thing is massive!"
"It's just a spider, my lady," Elaena said gently, moving toward it with a cloth. Within moments she'd captured it and was carrying it toward the window. "See? Harmless."
Harmless. Right. Unlike the memory now burned into both your and Jacaerys's minds of you standing bare-arsed naked in a bathtub while he stared at you like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe.
"We need to get you dressed," Lysa said firmly, already moving to pull out clothes. "Supper will be starting soon."
"I can't go to supper," you said, your voice rising. "I can't face him after—after he just saw me naked."
"You have to go to supper, my lady," Maryse said, not unkindly. "If you don't, everyone will wonder why. And rumors will start."
Worse rumors than "the princess screamed bloody murder over a spider and her cousin saw her naked"? You doubted it. But she was right. You had to go. Had to face him. Had to somehow sit through an entire meal pretending that nothing had happened while knowing that Jacaerys now knew exactly what you looked like without clothes. While knowing that you'd seen the look in his eyes—surprise, yes, but also something else. Something heated that had flashed across his face before embarrassment took over.
"Fuck," you muttered under your breath.
"Language, my lady," Lysa chided gently, but she was already helping you out of the tub.
This was going to be the longest supper of your entire life.
The great hall was already filled with lords and ladies when you arrived, late enough that most people were already seated. The musicians were playing something lively from the gallery, servants moved between tables with wine and platters of food, and the general hum of conversation and laughter filled the space.
You wanted to sink through the floor and disappear.
Somehow you made it to your seat at the high table without tripping over your own feet, a minor miracle considering how unsteady you felt. You'd been dressed in a gown of deep purple silk, your ladies working quickly to make you presentable. Your hair was still slightly damp at the ends, but they'd managed to braid it back in a way that hid the worst of it.
Baela was already seated beside you, laughing at something Rhaena had said. On your other side, Helaena was staring at her plate with that distant expression she sometimes got. And across the table Jacaerys sat beside Lady Cassandra Baratheon.
He was leaning toward her, saying something that made her laugh, that refined, ladylike laugh you'd heard through the stone wall. His hand rested on the table close to hers, not quite touching but near enough to be intimate. He looked perfectly composed, perfectly at ease, like he hadn't just seen his cousin naked less than an hour ago.
You grabbed your wine cup and drank deeply.
"You have no idea," you muttered into your cup.
The meal began, course after course of roasted meats and honeyed vegetables and fresh bread. You pushed food around your plate, barely tasting anything, hyperaware of every movement Jace made across the table. The way he smiled at Cassandra. The way she touched his arm when she spoke. The easy familiarity between them that spoke of more than one night together.
"All right, what's wrong?" Baela asked finally, setting down her fork and turning to face you properly. "You've been sulking since you sat down. Did something happen at council?"
"No," you said quickly. Too quickly.
Baela's eyes narrowed. "Then what?"
You glanced around, making sure no one else was listening. Then you leaned closer and whispered, "Jace saw me naked."
For a moment, Baela just stared at you. Then she burst out laughing—loud enough that several people turned to look.
"Shut up, this is not funny!" you hissed, your face burning with shame.
"It's a little funny," Baela managed between gasps. "How in the seven hells did that happen?"
You covered your face with your hands, mortified beyond measure. "There was a spider. A huge one. He was in my bath and then I screamed and he must have been in the corridor and he came running in thinking I was being murdered or something and I was just—standing there—completely bare-arsed—hh"
Baela was practically crying with laughter now, her hand pressed to her stomach. "A spider," she wheezed. "You're telling me the mighty dragonrider who claimed Cannibal, who sits on the small council, screamed loud enough to bring the heir running because of a spider?"
"It was a very large spider," you said defensively, though your own lips were twitching despite your mortification.
“And, so, he saw everything?" Her voice went low and suggestive, bringing a finger to her mouth and biting the tip of it as her lips curved into a smirk.
"Everything," you confirmed miserably. "Full frontal view. Nothing left to imagination."
"Oh gods," Baela wiped at her eyes. "And what did he do?"
"Stood there like a fish for about three seconds, went bright red, stammered something about the spider, and then fled like the castle was on fire."
"That's amazing," Baela said, still grinning. "That's the best thing I've heard all week."
"I'm glad my humiliation amuses you," you said sourly, but you couldn't quite hold onto your irritation. It was sort of funny, in a horrifying, want-to-die sort of way.
"Look at the bright side," Baela said, taking a sip of her wine. "Now you know he's definitely seen you naked. That's more than most ladies can say about the heir before marriage."
You kicked her under the table.
"Ow! I'm just saying—"
"Well don't," you muttered, risking a glance across the table.
Jace was still deep in conversation with Cassandra, his attention completely focused on her. He hadn't looked your way once since you'd sat down. Was probably trying very hard not to look at you, considering what he'd seen.
Your stomach twisted, he'd seen you naked—completely, utterly exposed—and less than an hour later he was here, flirting with the woman he'd been fucking just the night before. Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. Which of course you didn't. You were his cousin, a political piece on the board, same as everyone else.
The fact that you'd watched him through a hole in the wall, that you'd brought yourself to come while imagining his hands on you instead of Cassandra—that was your problem. Your shame to carry, your degenerate shame.
"You're doing it again," Baela said quietly.
"Doing what?"
"Looking like you want to kill someone, dear cousin." She followed your gaze across the table. "Ah. Lady Cassandra."
"You know she's not the only one, right?"
You blinked. "What?"
"Jace." Baela kept her voice low, casual, as she cut into her meat. "He's got quite the appetite, from what I hear. Half the ladies at court have warmed his bed at some point or another."
Your stomach twisted even though you already knew this. Had seen it.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Baela shrugged, a wicked grin playing at her lips. "Just saying, if you ever wanted to... you know. Sample the goods before he's shackled to some boring highborn wife, now's your chance. He's not particularly discriminating."
You nearly choked on your wine. "Baela!"
"What? I'm just saying.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm told he's very talented, Lady Cassandra certainly seems satisfied."
"I am not having this conversation with you," you hissed, your face burning.
"Your loss." Baela sat back with a laugh. "Though honestly, I don't blame you for looking. He's annoyingly pretty for someone with such common blood. Those brown eyes, that hair, he’s very brooding hero of a song, isn't he?"
"You're drunk, Baela."
"I'm tipsy," she corrected, "and you're deflecting."
"I'm not interested in Jace," you said firmly. "Not like that anyways."
It wasn't entirely a lie. You weren't interested in romancing with Jace. You didn't want his love or his devotion or whatever pretty words he whispered to the hoards of women in his bed. You just wanted, gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. To stop thinking about him, probably, most likely. And certainly to stop seeing his fucking gorgeous face every time you closed your eyes.
"Whatever you say," Baela said breezily, clearly not believing you but willing to drop it. "I'm just saying, the man's going to be married off soon. If you wanted a taste, the window's closing."
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. "You're impossible."
The conversation moved on, Rhaena leaned over to tell you both about some drama involving a lady-in-waiting and a stableboy, and you forced yourself to laugh, despite your gaze kept drifting across the table.
You didn't look through the hole that night.
It took every ounce of willpower you possessed, but you left that carved screen exactly where it was and climbed into bed fully clothed, too exhausted to even call your ladies back to help you undress properly. Sleep came fitfully, plagued by dreams of brown eyes and smirks and the memory of standing naked in a bathtub while your cousin stared.
When you woke, sunlight was streaming through your windows and someone was pounding on your door.
"My lady!" Lysa's voice, urgent and harried. "You need to wake! The lords are arriving and you're expected in the courtyard within the hour!"
Right. The festivities. The celebration of Jacaerys coming of age, of finding him a suitable bride. A full day of feasting and tournaments and watching eligible ladies parade themselves in front of the heir to the throne. Wonderful, just wonderful. Despite yourself, you managed to drag yourself out of bed and let your ladies descend upon you like a flock of determined birds. They stripped away yesterday's rumpled gown, scrubbed you with rose-scented soap, and set about the elaborate process of making you presentable as they did every morning.
The gown they'd chosen was magnificent, it was a midnight blue silk that seemed to shimmer between black and deepest sapphire depending on how the light hit it. But you shook your head.
"No. The white one with the gold and red."
Your ladies exchanged glances but didn't argue. They brought out the dress you'd requested, white as fresh snow, with gold embroidery that traced patterns of dragons and flames across the bodice and down the flowing sleeves. Red accents caught the light like drops of blood, rubies sewn into the neckline and waist. The skirts were layers upon layers of silk and gossamer that moved like water, the train long enough to pool behind you like a bride.
It was a statement, really, like Alicent’s green gowns. A reminder of who you were, a Targaryen, a dragon rider, not someone to be overlooked even as every other woman at court tried to catch the heir's eye. Your hair was left mostly down, falling in silver waves to your calves, with elaborate braids woven through and secured with gold and ruby pins shaped like dragon claws. By the time they finished, you looked like something out of a song.
You barely heard the compliments ringing from your ladies tongues. You were already moving toward the door, trying to steel yourself for whatever fresh hell today would bring.
The courtyard was flooded when you arrived. Banners from a dozen different houses snapped in the morning breeze, there was Stark, Tully, Arryn, Lannister, more. Lords and their retinues filing in through the gates, their daughters dressed in their finest, all of them here for the same purpose.
To win the favor of the Crown Prince.
You spotted Cregan Stark immediately—he was hard to miss, tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and grey eyes that seemed to take in everything. He was a gorgeous man, and currently he was speaking with Rhaenyra, his manner respectful but not obsequious. A good sign, if Helaena was genuinely considering him. But it wasn't Cregan who made you pause. It was the way every male head in the courtyard seemed to turn as you descended the steps.
Lords, knights, visiting dignitaries, they all looked. Some with open admiration, others with more subtle interest, but they looked. You were used to attention, had grown up beautiful and aware of it, but this felt different. Or perhaps you were just more aware of it now, after everything.
"Seven hells," you heard someone mutter—one of the Tully boys, you thought. "Is that—"
You kept your chin high and your expression serene as you made your way through the crowd. Lords bowed as you passed, their sons stared, and you pretended not to notice any of it. Rhaenyra stood on the dais with Daemon beside her, already holding court. Jacaerys was there too, looking infuriatingly well-rested in black and red, his attention on whatever Lord Corlys was saying to him.
"Cousin," Aegon appeared at your elbow. "You're causing quite the stir. I think Lord Tyrell's son just walked into a pillar because he was too busy staring at you."
"Good," you said flatly.
Aegon laughed. "That's the spirit. Make them all suffer, my dear cousin. "
"Come," Aegon said, tugging at your elbow. "We're expected to stand there and look pretty while Father's old bannermen parade their daughters like prize mares. Should be entertaining enough."
You let him guide you to where the rest of the family was gathering. Rhaenyra sat in the place of honor with Daemon beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Helaena was tucked between Baela and Rhaena, already looking overwhelmed by the crowd. And Jacaerys stood at the center of it all, the sun around which this entire day revolved.
"How many do you think there are?" Aegon asked, settling in beside you with his cup. "I'm counting at least fifteen eligible ladies, and those are just the ones I can see from here."
"Shouldn't you be paying attention?" you asked. "You're supposed to be looking for a wife too."
"Gods, don't remind me." He took a long drink. "Mother's been at me for months about it. Apparently being six and twenty and unmarried is some sort of tragedy."
"Is it not?"
"It's called having standards," Aegon replied airily. "Low ones, admittedly, but standards nonetheless."
Rhaenyra stood, and the courtyard quieted. "Lords and ladies," she began, her voice carrying across the space. "We are honored by your presence here today as we celebrate my son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, and his coming of age. Many of you have traveled far to be here, and we welcome you all to King's Landing."
Polite applause. Jace smiled that princely smile, gracious and warm.
"Today marks the beginning of festivities that will last the fortnight," Rhaenyra continued. "Tournaments, feasts, and celebrations in honor of the Crown Prince. And perhaps, by the end, we will have even more to celebrate."
Meaning a betrothal.
"But first," Rhaenyra gestured to where several young ladies stood with their fathers, all of them dressed in their finest, "we have been honored by requests from several noble houses to present their daughters to the Prince. We welcome them now."
"Here we go," Aegon muttered. "The parade of the desperate."
"Aegon," you hissed.
"What? I'm not wrong."
The first girl stepped forward, a Lannister, judging by her crimson gown and golden hair. She was beautiful in that polished, perfect way. You’re certain her Father, and all the other lords of Casterly Rock told her she was destined for greatness. She curtsied deeply before Jace, her father presenting her with all the pomp and circumstance House Lannister could muster.
"Lady Cerelle Lannister," the herald announced. "Daughter of Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock."
Jace took her hand and kissed it, saying something that made her blush and smile. You watched him be charming, watched him perform the role of interested suitor with practiced ease.
"She's pretty," Aegon observed. "Bit too much like looking in a mirror for my taste, all that gold hair and self-rightesnous."
"She seems nice enough."
"Nice and boring are often companions," Aegon replied. "Trust me, I know from experience."
The next girl was from House Tyrell, tall and willowy with dark curls and a nervous smile. Then a Tully girl with auburn hair and freckles. Then another, and another. Each one more beautiful than the last, each one curtsying and smiling and trying desperately to be memorable.
"This is torture," Aegon said after the sixth introduction. "How is Jace keeping that smile on his face? I'd have run screaming by now."
"It's called duty, you idiot."
"It's called martyrdom." He drained his cup and gestured for a servant to refill it. "You know what the problem is? They're all the same. Pretty, accomplished, perfectly trained to be queens. Where's the personality? The fire?"
"You want fire, marry a dragon rider," you said absently, watching as yet another lady—this one from the Stormlands—was presented to Jace.
"Excellent idea. Marry me."
You turned to look at him, startled. "What?"
"Marry me," Aegon repeated, gesturing expansively with his cup. "You're a dragon rider, you're beautiful, you already know all my worst qualities so there'd be no nasty surprises. We could get drunk together and ignore all our duties. It'd be perfect."
"You're not serious."
"I'm never serious. But the offer stands." He took another drink. "If all else fails, if the realm goes to shit and we're all desperate—you and me. We could do much worse."
You studied him for a moment. Aegon was handsome, you could admit that. Pretty in the way Targaryens often were, with his silver hair and sharp features. The drinking was a problem, and the complete lack of ambition, but he was kind in his way. Honest, at least, which was more than most lords could claim.
"If all goes to hell," you said slowly, "and we're both desperate and alone. I suppose I could do worse than you."
"High praise," Aegon said with a grin. "I'm touched. Truly."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late. I'm already planning our wedding. We'll serve nothing but wine, scandalize the Faith, and let our dragons eat anyone who complains."
Despite everything, you laughed. It felt good, like releasing some of the pressure that had been building in your chest since yesterday. Then, another lady was presented, a Manderly girl from White Harbor, plump and pink-cheeked and clearly terrified. Jace was gentle with her, you noticed. He was patient and kind.
"He's good at this," you said quietly.
"He's had practice," Aegon replied, and there was something almost bitter in his tone. "Perfect Jace. Perfect heir. Does everything right, fucks everything that moves, and somehow still manages to look like a hero from a song."
"Jealous?"
"Absoloutely." Aegon studied his cousin across the courtyard. "I love Jace, don't get me wrong. But he's playing a game he doesn't even realize he's in. All these ladies throwing themselves at him, and he thinks it's because he's charming. Because they like him."
"That's not why?"
"They like his crown," Aegon said flatly. "They like the idea of being queen. Jace himself? He's just the pretty vessel holding the thing they actually want."
You said nothing, watching as Jace smiled at the Manderly girl, made her laugh despite her nervousness. Was Aegon right? Did all these women only want the crown? Did you? No. You wanted—gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. But it wasn't his crown. It was him. The way he moved, the way he sounded, the way he looked when he was lost in pleasure. That had nothing to do with thrones or politics.
Which somehow made it worse.
"Lady Floris Baratheon," the herald announced, and your attention snapped back to the courtyard.
Another Baratheon girl, younger than Cassandra but with the same dark hair and sharp features. She curtsied beautifully, and Jace took her hand with the same courteous attention he'd given all the others.
"How many fucking Baratheon daughters are there?" Aegon muttered. "Lord Borros must spend half his time just keeping track of them all."
"Four, I think."
"Four. And they're all here trying to land the heir. Ambitious bastard, isn't he?"
You watched Floris smile up at Jace, watched him be charming and attentive. Was Cassandra here somewhere, watching this? Did she care that the man who'd been in her bed two nights ago was now entertaining her younger sister?
Did Jace care?
"This is going to be a very long fortnight," you said.
"Agreed." Aegon raised his cup in a mock toast. "To surviving it with our dignity intact."
"I'll drink to that."
He grinned and passed you his cup. You took it and drank deeply, letting the wine burn down your throat. It was going to be a very, very long fortnight indeed.
Several torturous hours later, you and Aegon were both well into your cups and had devolved into something resembling badly behaved children.
"I'm sorry," Aegon wheezed, barely containing his laughter, "but did that last one actually curtsy to his horse first before approaching Jace?"
"She did," you confirmed, your own shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles. "She absolutely did. I saw it, cousin."
"Maybe she thought the horse was the heir. Can't blame her—Vermax has better hair than Jace does."
You snorted wine through your nose, which only made Aegon laugh harder.
"You two are being disgraceful," Baela hissed from your other side, though her lips were twitching. "Show some decorum."
"Decorum is for people who aren't dying of boredom," Aegon replied, reaching for another cup from a passing servant. "We're performing a public service, really. Someone has to make this bearable."
"By getting drunk before noon?"
"Exactly. See? She understands."
You were about to respond when movement at the courtyard entrance caught your eye. Another arrival, late enough that most of the formal presentations had concluded. But this wasn't some minor lord with a daughter to parade. This was someone who commanded attention simply by existing.
He was tall—taller even than Cregan Stark—with broad shoulders and the kind of build that came from actually using a sword rather than just wearing one for decoration. Dark hair, though not as dark as Jace's, fell to his shoulders in waves that somehow looked artfully disheveled rather than unkempt. And his face—
"Oh no," Aegon said, following your gaze. "Oh, that's not fair."
"Who is that?" you asked, unable to look away.
"Trouble," Aegon replied. "That's Lord Dalton Greyjoy. The Red Kraken himself."
The Red Kraken. You'd heard stories, of course. The young Lord of the Iron Islands, who'd claimed his seat at six and ten after his father's death and had spent the years since becoming a legend. A reaver, a warrior, and by all accounts, devastatingly effective at both. He was dressed simply compared to the other lords—dark leather and salt-stained cloth rather than silk and velvet—but he wore it like armor. Like he had nothing to prove. Salt-and-pepper scruff covered his jaw, and when he smiled at something Daemon said, you caught a glimpse of white teeth.
"He's supposed to be in the Iron Islands," Aegon muttered. "What's he doing here?"
"The same thing everyone else is doing here," Baela said dryly. "Paying homage to the Crown Prince."
But Dalton Greyjoy wasn't looking at Jacaerys.
He was looking at you. His eyes—grey-green like storm-tossed seas—found yours across the crowded courtyard, and he didn't look away. Didn't pretend he hadn't been staring. Just held your gaze with the kind of bold confidence that should have been offensive but somehow wasn't.
Then he smiled. Slow and deliberate and knowing, like you'd shared some private joke.
"Oh, dear cousin, he's definitely trouble," Aegon said. "Look at him. Looking at you like—well, like Jace looks at literally every woman who crosses his path."
"Shut up," you muttered, but you didn't look away from Dalton.
"The Red Kraken," Baela mused. "Now that's interesting. He doesn't usually come to court. Prefers his islands and his ships from what I hear."
"And his salt wives," Aegon added. "Rumor has it he's got three. Or is it four now? I lose count."
"Salt wives aren't real wives," you said absently, still holding Dalton's gaze.
"Try telling him that."
Dalton was moving through the crowd now, making his way toward the dais where Rhaenyra sat. Lords parted for him—whether out of respect or wariness, you couldn't tell. Maybe both. There was something dangerous about him, something wild that expensive clothes and courtly manners couldn't quite hide. He knelt before Rhaenyra with surprising grace for someone so large. You couldn't hear what he said, but whatever it was made Daemon laugh, actually laugh, which was rare enough to be noteworthy.
Then Dalton stood, turned, and those storm-grey eyes found yours again. And the huge bastard, well, he started walking toward you.
"Oh shit," Aegon said gleefully. "Oh this is going to be good."
"If you say one embarrassing thing—" you started.
"Would I do that?"
"Yes. Regularly, you arse."
Dalton Greyjoy stopped in front of you, and up close he was even more imposing. Taller, broader, with the kind of presence that made the air feel heavier.
"My lady," he said, and his voice was rough, like he'd spent too many years shouting orders over storm winds. "Lord Dalton Greyjoy, at your service."
He didn't kneel. Didn't bow. Just stood there looking at you like you were the only person in the entire courtyard.
"Lord Greyjoy," you managed, trying to remember how to be polite while several cups of wine deep. "Welcome to King's Landing."
"Is it?" He glanced around at the crowd, at the elaborate decorations, at the general excess of it all. "Seems like a lot of trouble for a party."
"It's a celebration, my lord," you corrected.
"Of the Crown Prince coming of age. Yes, I heard." His lips quirked. "Eight and ten years to grow up. We do it much faster in the Iron Islands."
"Everything's faster in the Iron Islands," Aegon interjected cheerfully. "Living, dying, marrying your cousin, certainly fucking your cousin."
"Aegon," you hissed.
But Dalton just laughed. "Your cousin speaks truth, if not tact. We're a practical people."
"Practical," Aegon repeated. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"Among other things." Dalton's attention returned to you, and the intensity of it made your breath catch. "I've heard stories about you, Princess. The girl who claimed Cannibal."
"They're just stories."
"Are they?" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I heard you walked up to him and asked him nicely. That he bowed his head and let you climb on his back like a trained horse."
"More or less," you admitted.
"Terrifying or impressive. I haven't decided which, my lady."
"Can't it be both?"
That smile again, sharp and interested, like a predator seeking its prey. "I suppose it can. I like that."
There was something in the way he looked at you—direct and unashamed—that felt different from the courtiers with their careful glances and veiled intentions. Dalton Greyjoy looked at you like he knew exactly what he wanted and saw no reason to pretend otherwise.
"Are you here for the tournaments, my lord?" you asked, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.
"Among other things." He straightened, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that should have looked casual but somehow seemed coiled, ready. "I'm here to see what all the fuss is about. The perfect prince, the eligible ladies, the great game of marriage and alliance." His eyes glinted. "And to see if the Dragon Princess lives up to her reputation."
"And does she?"
"I'll let you know," he said, and it sounded like a promise. "May I have the honor of your company at the feast tonight, my lady?"
Before you could answer, Aegon cut in. "She'd be delighted. Wouldn't you, cousin?"
You shot him a look that promised murder, but Dalton was already bowing, actually bowing this time, though it looked faintly mocking. "Until tonight, then."
He walked away, and you could feel his absence like a physical weight. You were certainly going to kill Aegon, kill him and feed him to Cannibal.
"Well," Aegon said into the silence. "That was something."
"I hate you."
"No you don't. I just got you a dinner companion who isn't boring. You should be thanking me."
You should probably be worried, you thought. Dalton Greyjoy had a reputation that made even Daemon look respectable by comparison. But, nonetheless, instead you felt intrigued.
Which was probably dangerous. Definitely dangerous. But after days of watching Jace parade around with other women, of feeling invisible and foolish and consumed by wanting something you couldn't have. Maybe dangerous was exactly what you needed.
The remainder of the day had been a blur of increasingly bold lords and their sons trying to catch your attention. You'd smiled politely through it all, deflected propositions both subtle and explicit, and tried not to drink so much that you'd embarrass yourself at tonight's feast.
You'd failed at that last part.
The great hall had been transformed for the evening, there were now thousands of candles which casted everything in warm golden light, musicians played from the gallery, and long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats and exotic fruits and wine from across the known world. The air smelled of smoke and spices and the musk of too many sweaty bodies pressed close together. You'd kept the white gown from earlier, the gold and red embroidery catching the candlelight as you moved. Your ladies had refreshed your hair, re-pinning the braids and adding fresh ruby clips, but otherwise you looked much the same as you had that morning.
Which apparently was more than enough, judging by the way heads turned as you entered. Dalton Greyjoy was already there, lounging at one of the lower tables with a cup in his hand and that same confidence he'd worn earlier. He saw you immediately—like he'd been watching the door—and stood.
"Princess," he said as you approached. "Come, sit. I've claimed the best seat in the hall."
"Have you?"
"Good view of the wine." He gestured to the seat beside him. "And now a better one."
You sat, aware of how he took up space without apology, all broad shoulders and long limbs sprawled in a way that suggested he'd never learned courtly posture and didn't particularly care to either. A servant poured wine, and Dalton took his cup, drinking deeply before setting it down with more force than necessary. "Seven hells, that's good. Better than the piss we brew on Pyke."
"I'm sure."
"You've never been to the Iron Islands." It wasn't a question.
"No."
"Good. It's a miserable place. Cold, wet, smells like dead fish and shit." He grinned. "But it's mine."
There was something about the way he said it, simple pride, no need to justify or explain. Just fact that sprung a buzz in your chest.
"You're far from home," you observed.
"Aye. Your aunt summoned, so I came." He reached for a piece of bread, tearing it apart with his hands. "Hadn't planned on it, but then I heard about the festivities. The Crown Prince coming of age, all the pretty ladies competing for him." His eyes slid to you as he brought the bread to his mouth, tongue darting out to catch a crumb at the corner of his lips. He raised an eyebrow. "Thought it might be entertaining."
"And is it?"
"Getting better." He popped the bread in his mouth, still watching you while he chewed. "Tell me something. That dragon of yours—Cannibal. Is it true he ate three dragons on Dragonstone before you claimed him?"
You reached for your wine. "Two that I know of for certain. Possibly three."
"Fuck me." But he sounded impressed rather than horrified. "And you just walked up to him?"
"More or less." You took a sip, watching him over the rim of your cup.
"You're either the bravest woman in the Seven Kingdoms or the maddest." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you."Probably both."
"Most people say it was foolish."
"Most people are cowards." He picked up his wine again, draining half the cup in one go. "I respect it. Taking what you want, consequences be damned. That's how you survive in this world."
The food kept coming—course after course. Servants appeared with platters of roasted duck, honeyed figs, spiced lamb. Dalton ate like a man who wasn't sure when his next meal would be, unbothered by the elaborate presentation. You picked at your own plate, more interested in the conversation than the food.
"You fight in the tournaments tomorrow?" you asked.
"Planning on it. Need to work off some of this." He gestured at the feast. "Can't spend all day drinking and eating without swinging a sword eventually. I'll go soft."
You doubted that. There was nothing soft about Dalton Greyjoy. You let your eyes drag over him, shoulders, arms, the way he took up space.
"Who do you think will win?" you asked. "The tourney, I mean."
"Not me," he said with a shrug. "I'm a better sailor than jouster. Give me a deck that's moving under my feet and I'm deadly. Put me on a horse in full plate and I'm just another idiot hoping not to fall off." He paused. "Your cousin, probably. The pretty one. Jacaerys."
Your jaw tightened slightly. "Jace is skilled."
"Aye, I've heard. Trained by the best, naturally." There was something in his tone—not quite mocking, but close. "Born with every advantage. Dragon, crown, looks that make ladies go weak. Must be nice."
"It has its challenges."
"I'm sure." He didn't sound particularly sympathetic. "Still. I'd take his challenges over mine any day."
A commotion near the high table drew your attention. Jace was standing, Lady Cassandra Baratheon beside him, her hand on his arm as they moved toward the dancing. You watched them go, watched her lean in to say something that made him smile, and your stomach dropped. Your hands curled into fists in your lap.
"There's a look I know," Dalton said quietly.
You turned back to find him studying you, those storm-grey eyes too sharp. He was leaning back in his chair now, one arm draped over the back of it, completely relaxed.
"What look?"
"The one that says you want to set something on fire but you're too well-bred to do it." He tilted his head, watching you like a hawk. "What's he done to earn that?"
"Nothing. I don't—"
"Right." He drained his cup in one swallow and stood, extending his hand across the table. "Come on then."
"Where?"
"To dance. You're sitting here stewing and it's making me uncomfortable." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.
"I'm not—"
"You are." He stepped closer, hand still out. "And if I have to watch you watch him dance with that Baratheon girl for one more second, I'm going to start breaking things." His fingers curled slightly, beckoning. "Dance with me, Princess. Give the court something else to gossip about."
You shouldn't. You really, truly shouldn't.
You took his hand.
He pulled you up—quick enough that you stumbled slightly—and steadied you with a hand at your elbow before leading you onto the floor. Other couples were already moving, swirling past in a blur of silk and jewels. His hand settled at your waist, lower than was strictly proper, fingers spread wide against your back and he pulled you into the rhythm without missing a beat.
He moved with surprising grace for someone who'd just claimed to be better on a ship than a dance floor.
"You lied," you said, looking up at him. "You're good at this."
"I said I'm better on a ship. Didn't say I was shit at dancing." He spun you, sudden enough that you stumbled into his chest. His hand tightened on your waist, steadying you. "My mother made sure all her sons could dance. Said it was the one civilized thing we'd learn."
"Was she right?"
"Aye. Rest of it's all fighting and fucking and sailing." He said it casually, leading you back into the steps. "Not much call for poetry and courtly manners on Pyke."
You shouldn't have laughed, but you did, it was sharp and genuine, the sound surprising you. Something about his bluntness cut through all the careful political bullshit you'd been drowning in for days.
"That scandalize you?" he asked, grinning down at you. His teeth were very white against his tanned skin.
"No."
"Good. I'd hate to waste time pretending to be something I'm not." His thumb pressed against your waist, and you felt it through the silk. "Life's too fucking short for that."
The music swelled around you, violins rising. He pulled you closer, definitely too close now, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through your dress, definitely crossing into improper territory. But you didn't pull away. Just let him guide you through the steps, let yourself focus on the pressure of his hand, the solid weight of his shoulder under your palm. Anything other than Jace and Cassandra somewhere else on this floor.
"Better?" Dalton asked, voice low enough that only you could hear it over the music.
"What?"
"You stopped looking like you wanted to commit murder.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I'm taking that as progress."
"I never—"
"You did." He spun you again, pulled you back in. The smile on his face had an edge to it now. "Whatever he did, whoever he is, he's not worth it, Princess."
You wanted to argue. Wanted to defend something you couldn't even name, couldn't admit to yourself. But Dalton's hand was warm and steady against your waist, his grey eyes fixed on yours like you were the only person in the room, and for just a moment, just this one dance, you let yourself pretend. That you weren't obsessed with your cousin. That you hadn't spent the last three nights watching him fuck other women through a crack in the wall. That you were just a woman dancing with a man who looked at her like she mattered.
The song ended far too soon.
Dalton stepped back, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering, his fingers flexing once against your ribs before he let go. "Thank you for the dance, Princess."
"Thank you for asking." Your skin felt cold where his hand had been.
"I'll be fighting tomorrow. In the melee, not the joust, I told you, I'm shit on horseback." That grin again, cocky and so sure of himself. "Come watch me get my ass kicked by men in fancy armor."
"I might."
"You will." He said it like it was already decided, so much so, that you almost believed him. Then he bowed, properly this time, deep and formal, and walked away, disappearing back into the crowd.
You stood there for a moment, heart still racing from the dance, or maybe from the way Dalton had looked at you, all that damned confidence and heat and completely unbothered by the surrounding propriety. Your skin still tingled where his hand had been, that deliberate pressure at your waist.
He was handsome. You could admit that, at least to yourself. Rough around the edges in a way that was completely unlike the polished princes and lords you'd grown up around. Dangerous-looking. The kind of man your mother would warn you about. The kind you apparently couldn't stop thinking about for entirely different reasons than you should.
You pressed your fingers to your waist briefly, then dropped your hand. This was stupid. You were being stupid about two different men now, which seemed like an achievement in poor judgment.
When you finally turned to head back to your seat, you found Aegon waiting, leaning against a pillar with that knowing smirk plastered across his face.
"Well," he drawled, pushing off the pillar to stand beside you. "That was something."
"It was a dance."
"That wasn't just a dance." Aegon took a long drink from his cup, eyes gleaming with amusement. "That was him fucking you with your clothes on."
Heat flooded your face. "You're drunk."
"I'm always drunk. Doesn't make me wrong." He gestured with his cup, sloshing wine dangerously close to the rim, toward where Dalton had disappeared into the crowd. "Be careful with that one. He's not like these simpering southern lords. He takes what he wants."
"I'm not."
"I know. I'm just saying." Aegon leaned in closer, lowering his voice even though no one was near enough to hear. "The Red Kraken's got a reputation, and certainly not the fun kind like mine."
You looked back toward where Jace was still dancing with Cassandra, her head thrown back laughing at something he'd said.
"Maybe I need a reputation," you muttered.
Aegon raised his cup. "Now that's the spirit."
"Come on," Aegon said, tugging at your sleeve like a child. "Let's get out of here before someone tries to make us be social again."
"Where are we going?"
"Does it matter?" He was already pulling you toward the edge of the hall.
It didn't, not really. The hall was too hot, too crowded, the air thick with wine and perfume and the cloying smell of too many bodies pressed together. Too many people pretending to be things they weren't. You let Aegon pull you through a side door, the sudden quiet of the corridor making your ears ring.
Down one hallway, then another. Your footsteps echoed off stone. Up a winding staircase, too narrow and steep, the kind that hadn't been used in years. You recognized it dimly as leading to one of the old watchtowers, the ones that overlooked the bay.
"Aegon, we're going to break our necks," you said as he stumbled on a step, catching himself against the wall.
"Good." He kept climbing. "Better than dying of boredom down there."
The tower room at the top was small and forgotten. Dust motes floated in the moonlight streaming through narrow windows. There were a few old weapons which hung on the walls, all rusted, decorative, and completely useless. The windows looked out over King's Landing, the city spread below like a carpet of flickering lights.
The sounds of the feast were distant here, muffled by layers of stone and height. You could barely hear the music anymore. Just the wind, and the sound of your own breathing still coming fast from the climb.
Aegon collapsed onto a bench beneath one of the windows, wine cup still in hand, sprawling back against the stone. You leaned against the opposite wall, pressing your shoulders into the cool stone. The breeze coming through the window felt good against your flushed skin, cutting through the wine-warm haze in your head.
"This is better," Aegon declared, gesturing broadly with his cup. "Much better. No one up here but us and the ghosts."
"Are there ghosts?"
"Probably." He took another drink, throat working. "Old tower like this? Someone definitely died here. Hopefully doing something more interesting than attending a feast."
You laughed, the sound strange and too loud in the small space, bouncing off stone. Your head was spinning pleasantly, everything soft and blurred at the edges. The wine had settled warm in your stomach, making your limbs feel loose and heavy. You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, your dress pooling around you. The stone was cold against your back even through the silk.
"You danced well with the Kraken," Aegon said after a moment. His eyes were on you now, sharper than they should be considering how much he'd drunk. "He looked like he wanted to eat you."
"He looked like he wanted to dance."
"Same thing, with that one." Aegon tilted his head, studying you. His usual smirk had faded into something more serious. Almost sober. "Do you like him?"
"I barely know him." You picked at a loose thread on your dress.
"That's not what I asked."
You considered it, head tilted back against the stone. Did you like Dalton Greyjoy? He was attractive, certainly. Bold. Honest in a way that cut through all the bullshit.
"I don't know," you said finally. "Maybe. Does it matter?"
"Suppose not." Aegon was quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in his cup, watching the liquid catch the moonlight in wave-like ripples. Then, without looking at you: "Can I kiss you?"
You blinked, certain you'd misheard. "What?"
"Can I kiss you?" He did look at you now, and there was something almost vulnerable in his expression beneath the wine-flush. "I want to kiss someone. And you're here. And you're pretty. And you won't make it mean something it doesn't."
You should say no. Should laugh it off, make a joke, change the subject. This was Aegon—your cousin, your friend, the perpetually drunk prince who took nothing seriously.
But your head was spinning and your chest still ached from watching Jace with Cassandra, and Dalton's words kept echoing in your mind—life's too fucking short.
"Fuck it," you said, the words coming out steadier than you felt.
"Is that a yes?"
"It's a fuck it." You pushed yourself up slightly, meeting his eyes.
Aegon set his cup down on the bench and stood. He wasn't quite steady on his feet, swaying slightly as he crossed the small space to where you sat against the wall.
You had to tilt your head back to look up at him as he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath, the faint scent of whatever oil he used in his hair. Up close like this, you could see everything. The wine-flush high on his cheekbones, the slightly glazed look in his purple eyes—Targaryen eyes, the same shade as your own. The way his chest rose and fell, breathing faster than the short walk across the room warranted.
He was handsome. The thought came to you clearly, like you were seeing him for the first time. When he wasn't making an ass of himself, when he wasn't performing for the court or drowning in his cups, when you actually looked at him, Aegon was undeniably, unfairly handsome.
"You're sure?" he asked, and his voice had gone quieter. Careful. Like he was giving you one last chance to back out, to laugh this off and pretend it never happened.
Your heart was pounding. "Stop asking and just—"
He dropped to his knees in front of you.
The movement brought him to your level, purple eyes locked on yours. His hand came up, hesitant at first, then surer, cupping your jaw. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, and you realized you were holding your breath.
Then he kissed you.
It was nothing like you'd imagined kissing would be. Not that you'd spent much time imagining it, or maybe you had, late at night, alone in your bed, but those fantasies had been vague and shapeless. This was real. This was Aegon's mouth on yours, warm and wine-sweet and surprisingly gentle. His other hand found your waist, steadying himself, or maybe steadying you.
For a moment, you froze. Didn't know what to do with your hands, with your mouth, with any of it. Then something in you gave way. Your hands came up to grip his shoulders, solid, real, there and you kissed him back.
Aegon kissed like he did everything else, without any restraint, without second thoughts, just pure unfiltered fucking want. His mouth was hot against yours, tasting like wine and something hungrier, and his hands cupped your face like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. He pressed closer, and you made a sound, and his tongue swept into your mouth.
Oh.
Your hands gripped shoulders because you needed something to hold onto, needed to ground yourself before you floated away entirely. He was solid under your grip, all lean muscle and warmth, so much warmer than you'd expected. When he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, to take more, something low in your belly clenched hard enough to hurt.
This was wrong. This was Aegon. Your cousin. Your friend who you'd watched get drunk at a hundred feasts, who you'd laughed with and plotted with and shared secrets with. Who you'd never, not once, not ever, thought of like this.
But his mouth was moving against yours with a desperate kind of hunger, and his hands had slid from your face down to your waist, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, pulled you against him. And your body was a traitor. Heat was pooling between your thighs, your breath coming in short gasps, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his doublet like you needed him closer, needed more.
One of his hands moved lower, gripping your hip, and you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, kissed you harder, like he wanted to crawl inside you.
When he finally pulled back, breaking the kiss to breathe, forehead pressed against yours, you were both panting. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his lips were red and swollen.
"Well," Aegon said, his voice rougher than usual. "That was—"
You blinked at him, trying to catch your breath. His breath warm against your lips. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing along your jaw in a way that made your knees weak.
"I'd like to do that again," he murmured, and there was something in his voice, something hungry and real beneath the usual bravado.
Your heart was pounding. His thumb was still moving against your skin, slow and deliberate, and you could feel the heat of him everywhere he touched. He was everywhere at once, and for the first time in your life you weren't looking at your cousin Aegon, you were staring at someone with pure, unfiltered want.
"Yes," you breathed.
He kissed you again—harder this time, more certain. His hand tightened on your waist, yanking you fully against him, and you could feel everything. The hard planes of his chest, the lean muscle of his thighs, and—gods—the unmistakable ridge of his cock pressed against your hip through layers of silk and leather.
You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding hot and slick against yours. His hips rolled forward, slow, deliberate and the pressure of him grinding against you sent heat shooting straight between your legs.
Your knees actually went weak. If he wasn't holding you up, you'd have collapsed.
Your hands found his hair—silver silk between your fingers—and you pulled. Hard. He groaned, deep and guttural, and ground against you harder in response. You could feel yourself getting wet, the slick heat gathering between your thighs, soaking through your smallclothes. The knowledge that he was hard, that you'd made him hard, made you clench around nothing.
"Fuck," Aegon panted against your mouth before his lips dragged to your jaw, your throat. His hand slid down from your waist to your ass, gripping hard, pulling you tighter against him. "Fuck, you taste so good. Smell good. Feel so fucking good."
He thrust his hips forward again, the thick length of him dragging against your belly, and you both made sounds that were almost pained.
You should stop this. Should push him away before this went too far. This was Aegon, your cousin, your friend who you'd grown up with—
His teeth scraped the sensitive spot below your ear and you whimpered. Actually whimpered like something desperate and needy, your hips rolling forward to meet his next thrust without your permission.
"That's it," he breathed against your skin, doing it again, sucking a mark into your throat that you'd have to hide tomorrow. His hand on your ass squeezed, angling you so when he ground forward again, the pressure hit directly against your aching cunt. "Gods, feel what you do to me? Feel how hard I am for you?"
"Aegon," you started, voice breaking, but you couldn't finish because he was kissing you again, deeper, filthier, his tongue fucking into your mouth while one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat and the other kept your hips pinned against his.
He found a rhythm now, rolling his hips against yours in steady, deliberate thrusts that had you panting into his mouth. Each movement dragged the hard length of his cock against you, the friction even through all the layers making you want to scream, want to hike up your skirts and feel him properly, skin to skin, want things you'd never let yourself want before.
You rolled your hips back, meeting him, matching his rhythm, and he groaned like you'd hurt him.
"Fuck, yes," he panted. "Just like that. Gods, you're so, I can feel how wet you are even through—"
He thrust harder, and you felt it, the heat of him, the thick ridge of his cock grinding directly against your clit through the soaked silk between your legs. The sensation made white spots burst behind your eyelids.
This wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet or romantic or any of the things you'd imagined in your naive fantasies. This was pure animal want, raw and desperate and hungry. Fueled by too much wine and too many things neither of you wanted to think about. His body moving against yours like he wanted to crawl inside you, like he couldn't get close enough even though you were pressed together so tightly you could barely breathe.
Your hand slid down from his hair to his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath your palm, then lower, reaching between your bodies toward the hard heat of him—
He caught your wrist. Held it. Both of you froze, breathing hard, hips still pressed flush together.
When you finally broke apart, gasping, flushed, his hair completely destroyed from your hands and your lips kiss-swollen and red, Aegon let out a shaky laugh against your neck.
"Gods," he breathed, forehead pressed to your shoulder. You could still feel him hard against your hip, could feel the answering wetness between your own legs. "We're idiots."
"Probably," you managed, your voice coming out hoarse. Wrecked.
"Definitely." But he wasn't pulling away. His hands were still on you, his body still pressed close, and you could feel him, still hard, maybe harder, against your hip. The evidence of what you'd just done. What you'd almost done. "This is a terrible idea."
"The worst."
"We should stop."
"We should." But your fingers were still twisted in his doublet.
His hand flexed on your hip, thumb pressing into the bone. "One more?"
You pulled him down by his hair and kissed him again. This time there was no hesitation. There was no pretense of this being innocent or simple. Just heat and hunger and his hands sliding down to grip your ass through your skirts, hauling you against him so hard you felt the breath leave your lungs.
You could feel the thick, insistent pressure of his cock grinding against your belly. He rolled his hips, slow and filthy, and you whimpered into his mouth. You wanted release.
"Fuck," he groaned against your lips. "You're going to kill me."
Your back hit the wall—you didn't even remember moving—and suddenly he had leverage. His thigh pushed between yours, spreading your legs, and when he ground forward this time the friction was devastating. The hard muscle of his thigh pressed directly against your cunt through the layers of silk, and you were so wet you knew he could feel it, knew the fabric had to be soaked through.
"Oh gods," you gasped, head falling back against the stone.
Aegon's mouth was on your neck immediately, sucking hard enough to mark, teeth scraping. His hands gripped your ass, pulling you down harder onto his thigh, helping you grind against him.
"That's it," he panted against your throat, moving his leg in rhythm with your desperate rolling hips. "Fuck, you're so wet. I can feel you through everything. Can feel how much you want this."
You should care about the bruises he was leaving. Should worry about questions and propriety and what this meant. You didn't care at all. You just needed more, more, and more.
"Aegon," you gasped, and his name coming out of your mouth broken and desperate seemed to undo something in him.
He kissed you again, dirty and deep and filthy, all tongue and teeth, while his hips pressed forward, grinding his cock against your hip in time with how you were riding his thigh. One hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back so he could kiss you deeper, the other still gripping your arse and guiding your movements.
"Could fuck you right here," he groaned into your mouth, hips thrusting harder. "Pull up these skirts, sink into you against this wall. You'd let me, wouldn't you? You're so fucking wet you'd take me easy."
The image, Aegon inside you, filling you, fucking you against cold, dirty stone, made you moan and grind down harder. You were drowning in sensation, the taste of wine on his tongue, the heat of his body burning through the fabric, the devastating pressure between your legs, the thick hardness of him grinding against your hip.
"Yes," you heard yourself gasp. "Yes, Seven Hells."
Reality as sudden as a wave crashing against rock, rippled back through you.
What the fuck were you two doing? What were you saying?
You must have tensed because Aegon pulled back, really pulled back this time, stepping away and putting actual space between your bodies. The loss of contact left you cold and aching. You were both wrecked. His lips were swollen and red, his hair completely destroyed, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black. There was a wet spot on his thigh from you. You could see the obvious bulge straining against his breeches.
You probably looked worse. Your lips tender and kiss-bitten, your smallclothes absolutely ruined.
"Yes. Back. To the feast." He ran both hands through his hair, dragging it back from his face, somehow making it look even more fucked. "Where we've been having perfectly appropriate cousin conversations."
"Very appropriate."
"The most appropriate." But he was looking at you like he wanted to shove you back against that wall and finish what you'd started. His eyes dragged down your body, lingering on your swollen lips, the marks on your neck, the wrinkled silk of your dress, before snapping back up. "Fuck, your hair's a complete disaster."
"So is yours."
"I'm always a mess. You're supposed to be the put-together one." He reached out, fingers trembling slightly as he tried to tuck a few loose strands back into place. The touch was gentle now, almost tender, so different from five minutes ago when he'd been fisting his hand in it and pulling. "There. Almost presentable."
You caught his wrist, held it. His pulse was still racing under your fingers. "Aegon, please."
"Don't." He pulled away, stepped back entirely, hands dropping to his sides and curling into fists like he didn't trust himself not to reach for you again. "Don't make it something. It was just—we're drunk. That's all."
"Right. Drunk."
"Very drunk." He looked around, spotted his abandoned wine cup on the bench, picked it up and stared at it like he'd forgotten what it was for. Then set it back down. "We should go. Before I do something even stupider."
"Like what?"
His eyes met yours, and they were still dark. Still wanting. His gaze dropped to your mouth. "Don't ask questions you don't want answered, cousin."
Your breath caught. Heat pooled low in your belly again, that ache between your legs flaring back to life.
He saw it on your face—saw the want there—and made a pained sound. "Gods, don't look at me like that. We need to leave. Now."
"Okay," you managed.
"Okay." But he didn't move. Just stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, hands still clenched at his sides.
Finally, with visible effort, he offered you his arm, the gesture exaggerated and courtly in a way that didn't quite hide how badly his hand was shaking. "Come on. Let's go back before someone sends a search party and finds us looking like we've been—" He stopped and swallowed hard. "Just. Let's go."
You took his arm, fingers wrapping around his forearm, and you could feel the tension in him. The muscles were tight, coiled, like he was holding himself back. Together you made your way back down the winding stairs. The descent was precarious, both of you still drunk, still unsteady, but now for different reasons. Your legs felt weak. You could feel the slickness between your thighs with every step, a constant reminder of how close you'd come to, god, fucking your cousin. The cousin that was right there, is still right there.
You stumbled on a step and Aegon caught you, arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The touch lasted a second too long. His fingers pressed into your hip, right where he'd gripped you before and you both froze.
"Careful," he said roughly, then let go like you'd burned him.
"Are we going to be weird about this?" you asked as you reached the bottom, voices from the feast growing louder.
"Are you?"
"No."
"Then neither am I." He squeezed your hand where it rested on his arm, the pressure firm and grounding. "It was just kissing. Doesn't have to mean anything."
"Doesn't have to mean anything," you repeated.
Liar, something whispered in the back of your mind. You could still feel him hard against you. Could still hear him saying he wanted to fuck you against the wall. Could still taste wine on your tongue. But when you made it back through the side door, slipping into the edges of the feast and immediately caught sight of Jace across the hall, still with Cassandra, his head bent close to hers as she whispered something in his ear, and you felt that familiar twist of want and jealousy knife through your chest.
And beneath it, something new. Something confusing.
The memory of Aegon's mouth on yours. His hands on your body, gripping and pulling and claiming. The way he'd made you forget everything else, forget Jace, forget propriety, forget your own name, for those few desperate moments.
And worse of all, the way you'd liked it.
You slipped away from Aegon as soon as you entered the hall, murmuring something about needing the privy. In truth, you needed a moment. Needed to look at yourself, assess the damage. Your chambers weren't far. You practically ran there, heart still pounding, skin still flushed.
Your ladies were waiting, they'd been dismissed earlier but Lysa had stayed, dozing in a chair by the fire. She jolted awake when you burst in.
"My lady! Are you—" Her eyes went wide, taking in your disheveled hair, your swollen lips, the very obvious marks blooming purple on your throat. "Oh."
"I need—" You gestured helplessly at your neck. "Can you please?"
"Of course." But she was grinning as she hurried to mix a paste, calling for Maryse and Elaena.
They appeared quickly, and the moment they saw you, the reaction was immediate.
"Ohhhhh," Maryse breathed, eyes sparkling with delight.
"My lady!" Elaena giggled, pressing her hands to her mouth.
"Don't," you warned, but you could feel yourself flushing deeper.
"Was he handsome?" Lysa asked, dabbing the paste carefully on your neck to lighten the marks. It wouldn't hide them completely, but it would help.
"I'm not discussing this."
"Ohhhhh, he was," Maryse decided, starting to fix your hair with deft fingers. "Look how red she is."
"Was it romantic?" Elaena asked dreamily, adjusting your dress, smoothing the wrinkles.
"It was—" You stopped. What could you even say? "It was nothing. Too much wine."
All three of them made knowing sounds, soft "mmhmms" and "of courses" that said they didn't believe you for a second.
The rest of the night blurred together in a haze of wine and music and laughter. You danced with Aemond, too stiff and proper, unlike his brother, but surprisingly skilled. He didn't speak much, just guided you through the steps like an ever-so-graceful swan, his one good eye tracking everything in the hall like he was cataloging threats.
"You're drunk," he observed.
"Very."
"Good. You're less insufferable when you're drunk.”
"You're a delight as always, cousin."
His lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile you'd ever seen from him. "Enjoy your evening, Princess."
Then Daemon cut in, stealing you mid-step with the kind of casual arrogance only he could manage.
"Having fun?" he asked, spinning you perhaps a bit too fast.
"Trying to."
"That Greyjoy boy's been watching you all night." Daemon's grin was sharp. "Wondering if he's going to do something stupid."
"Aren't we all doing something stupid tonight?"
"Fair point." He laughed, and for a moment you could see why Rhaenyra loved him despite everything. "Don't get yourself killed, niece. Your aunt would be very put out."
"I'll do my best."
Even Rhaenyra danced with you—a slower song, her hands gentle as she guided you through it.
"You look happy," she said softly. "That's good. I worry about you sometimes."
"I'm fine, Your Grace."
"Rhaenyra," she corrected. "When it's just us, I'm Rhaenyra. Your aunt who loves you."
The wine made your eyes sting. "I love you too."
She pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Go enjoy yourself. You're young. These nights don't come often enough."
So you did. You drank more wine, letting the warmth of it blur the edges of everything. Danced with lords whose names you didn't remember and didn't care to learn. Laughed at Aegon's increasingly ridiculous jokes, though you were careful not to stand too close to him, careful not to let your eyes linger.
Every time you saw him across the hall, you remembered. His mouth on yours. His hands gripping your ass. The way he'd ground against you like he couldn't help himself. The things he'd said, could fuck you right here, that still made heat pool between your legs when you thought about them.
And every time you saw Jace, still orbiting Cassandra Baratheon like she was the sun and he was caught in her gravity, you felt that sick twist of jealousy. But now it was complicated by guilt. By confusion. You'd dry-humped Aegon in a tower. You'd been ready to let him fuck you against a wall. And part of you had liked it. Had liked the way he looked at you like you were something he desperately wanted. Had liked feeling wanted, period.
But you still couldn't stop watching Jace. Couldn't stop wondering what his hands would feel like instead of Aegon's. Couldn't stop thinking about the hole in your wall and the things you'd seen through it.
You were a mess. A complete disaster of a person. So you drank more. Let yourself forget, just for a few hours, about holes in walls and wanting things you couldn't have and the fact that you'd apparently developed an extremely inconvenient attraction to not one but two of your cousins.
By the time you decided to retire, the hall was spinning pleasantly and your feet ached from dancing. You waved off your ladies, they were enjoying themselves too, giggling with guards and flirting with servants and made your way through the corridors alone.
The castle was a maze at the best of times. Drunk, it was nearly impossible.
You climbed stairs, turned down hallways, all of it familiar but also somehow wrong. Your chambers should be here? No, maybe down this corridor. Or was it the other way?
Finally, you found a door that looked right. The wood was the same, the handle in the same place. Close enough. You pushed it open, stumbled inside, and didn't bother with candles. The room was dark and quiet. Just kicked off your slippers, fumbled with the laces of your gown until they loosened enough to breathe, and collapsed onto the bed.
The sheets smelled clean. Felt soft. Maybe a bit different than usual but your wine-soaked brain didn't care enough to question it. Good enough, you didn’t give a god’s damn.
You were asleep before your head fully hit the pillow.
Jacaerys was tired, wine-warm, and ready for bed when he finally escaped the feast.
Cassandra had wanted him to stay longer, had made that very clear with the way her hand kept finding his arm, the lingering touches, the invitations in her eyes that he'd politely ignored. He'd begged off with excuses about an early morning. The tournaments started tomorrow, and he needed at least a few hours of sleep before climbing into armor and trying not to get killed in front of the entire court.
He climbed the stairs to his chambers, his thoughts already on collapsing into bed. Maybe he'd been too indulgent tonight. Too much wine, too much dancing, too much of Cassandra's cloying perfume that now clung to his clothes and made his head ache.
He pushed open his door, stepped inside, and froze.
Someone was in his bed.
His hand went to the dagger at his belt, pure instinct, trained response, his body tensing as his eyes fought to adjust to the darkness. The figure was small, curled on their side facing away from him. Too small to be a real threat. Too still.
Then he saw the hair. Silver. Spilling across his pillows, catching what little light came through the window. Long and unbound, the way he'd never seen it during the day when it was always properly pinned and braided.
His heart stopped. Started again, too fast.
It was you.
"What the—" The words died in his throat. He stood there, hand still on his dagger, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
You were in his bed. His bed. Fast asleep from the look of it, your breathing deep and even, completely unaware of his presence. Jace's eyes adjusted further, and he could make out more details now. Your slippers discarded on the floor near the foot of the bed. Your gown was unlaced and loose around your body.
Very loose. His breath caught as his gaze traced the line of your form. You'd clearly tried to unlace the gown yourself, drunk fingers fumbling with the ties, getting it open enough to breathe easier before collapsing into bed. But you'd only managed to loosen it, not remove it, and now the fabric had shifted in your sleep.
The neckline had slipped down your shoulder. Lower. Low enough that he could see—
Jace's mouth went dry. Your breast. Half of it bare, skin luminous in the moonlight, the curve of it visible where the silk had fallen away. If you shifted even slightly, if the fabric slipped just a bit more… stop, stop right fucking now.
He looked away quickly, heat flooding his face, his chest, lower. His heart was hammering now.
Don't look. Don't be that person. She's asleep. She's drunk. She doesn't even know where she is.
But his eyes were drawn back like a lodestone to true north.
Your leg had escaped the tangle of silk too. One bare leg stretched out across his sheets, the gown rucked up to mid-thigh, higher on the side where you'd rolled slightly forward in sleep. Smooth skin, the elegant line of your calf, the curve of your knee. If he looked, and gods help him, he was looking, he could see almost to your hip where the fabric had bunched.
He could see the shadow between your thighs. Jace's cock stirred in his breeches, and he felt shame burn through him immediately after.
Stop. Stop looking at her like this.
But he couldn't move. Couldn't look away. You were sprawled across his bed like some kind of vision, your lips were parted slightly, your breathing deep and peaceful. You looked nothing like the proper, put-together princess he saw every day. Nothing like his cousin who barely spoke to him, who avoided his eyes at dinner, who seemed to go out of her way not to be alone with him.
You looked undone and vulnerable. Beautiful in a way that made his chest ache and his blood run hot.
He took a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Until he was standing beside the bed, looking down at you.
This close, he could see more. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, your bare chest, your nipple was just barely hidden by a fold of silk, the fabric draped across it so precariously that each breath threatened to expose you completely.
Jace's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His breathing had gone shallow.
What was wrong with him? This was you. His cousin. A princess. A woman who clearly had no idea where she was or what she looked like right now. And he was standing here staring at you like some kind of pervert, getting hard while you slept completely unaware.
He needed to—he should—
Wake you. Get you back to your chambers. Cover you with a blanket at the very least. Do something other than stand here like an idiot with his cock half-hard and his mind conjuring images of what it would be like to slip into that bed beside you, to pull you against him, to—
No.
He forced himself to step back. To look away. To think like a rational person instead of a man who'd drunk too much wine and found a beautiful woman in his bed. You shifted in your sleep, making a small sound and rolled slightly onto your back.
The movement made everything worse. The gown slipped further. Your breast was fully exposed now, pale and perfect in the moonlight. He could see your nipple, could see the way it had hardened slightly in the cool air of the room. The silk had ridden up higher on your leg too, and now he could see the dark shadow at the apex of your thighs. Gods.
Were you even wearing anything under that gown?
Jace turned away sharply, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes like he could scrub the image from his mind. His cock was fully hard now, straining against his breeches, and he felt like the worst kind of person. You were drunk. Asleep. Completely vulnerable. And here he was getting hard looking at you, thinking thoughts he had absolutely no right to think.
He needed to cover you. That was the first thing. Before he did anything else—before he even tried to figure out what to do about this situation—he needed to make you decent.
Jace grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, hands shaking slightly, and carefully, so carefully, draped it over you. He tried not to look. Tried not to let his eyes linger on all that bare skin before the fabric covered it.
He failed. The image was burned into his mind now. Your breast. Your leg. The shadow between your thighs. The way you looked spread out in his bed like some kind of offering.
Stop it. She's your cousin. She's drunk. This is wrong.
But his body didn't care about wrong. His body only knew that you were here, barely clothed, looking like every fantasy he'd never let himself have. And you had been a fantasy. He could admit that now, alone in the dark with you unconscious and unaware. He'd noticed you. Had tried not to, had told himself it was inappropriate, but he'd noticed. The way you moved. The rare times you smiled. The intelligence in your eyes during council meetings when you thought no one was watching you listen.
He'd just never let himself think about it. About you. Not like that. Now he couldn't think about anything else.
Jace ran both hands through his hair, gripping it hard enough to hurt, trying to ground himself. Trying to think. Okay, good. You were covered now. That was good. Next step was to figure out what the fuck to do.
He should wake you. Should get you back to your own chambers before anyone found out you'd spent the night here. Before servants came in the morning and saw you in his bed. The scandal alone would destroy you. Would destroy any chance you had at a good marriage, would ruin your reputation entirely.
He couldn't let that happen. But waking you meant... what exactly? Touching you? Shaking your shoulder? Explaining that you'd drunkenly stumbled into the wrong room and passed out half-naked in your cousin's bed?
Gods, you'd be mortified.
Maybe it was better to just let you sleep. You were clearly exhausted, clearly drunk enough that you'd mistaken his chambers for yours. In the morning, when you woke, he could pretend he'd just arrived. Could act surprised to find you there. Give you a chance to slip out quietly, save you the embarrassment of a confrontation.
Yes. That was better. Kinder. It had nothing to do with wanting to keep you here a little longer. Nothing to do with the selfish, possessive part of him that liked seeing you in his bed, wrapped in his blankets, surrounded by his scent.
Liar, something whispered in the back of his mind.
Jace ignored it. He'd sleep somewhere else. The chairs by the fire, maybe. Or, there, is eyes landed on the small couch in the corner near the window. It looked deeply uncomfortable, probably meant for sitting and reading rather than sleeping, but it would have to do. He couldn't exactly climb into bed next to you. That would be, well, he didn't let himself finish that thought.
Decision made, he moved quietly toward the corner, trying not to make any noise that might wake you. He'd need to grab a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed, maybe a pillow.
Something caught his eye. A small gap in the wall near the floor in the corner. He'd never noticed it before, why would he? It was just a shadow among shadows, easy to miss. But now, looking directly at it, he could see it clearly.
A hole. Small, where the mortar had crumbled away between the stones. Jace frowned, crouching down to examine it. Old damage. The kind of thing that happened in castles this ancient, centuries of settling stone.
He should probably mention it to someone. Get it sealed up. Curious, he leaned closer, peering through the narrow gap to see where it led.
His breath caught. It was a room. Your room.
He could see the edge of a bed with a distinctive purple coverlet—the same one he'd seen when he'd accidentally walked in on you in your bath. A dressing table with jewelry scattered across its surface, glinting in the moonlight. Books stacked on a side table. A carved wooden screen positioned in the corner, partially obscuring his view but not completely.
The hole looked directly into your private chambers.
Jace sat back slowly, his heart starting to pound for entirely different reasons now.
This gap in the wall—it went straight through to your room. A perfect line of sight from his corner to yours. Which meant theoretically, someone could look through it. Could see into your private space. Watch you dress, sleep, bathe, lord knows what else.
His jaw clenched hard, a surge of protective anger rising in his chest. Had some servant discovered this? Some guard with ill intentions? The thought of someone watching you while you were vulnerable, unaware, made his blood run hot.
But then again you'd never mentioned it. Never complained about feeling watched or unsafe. Never called for anyone to repair the wall. Which meant either you didn't know about it.
Or you did know, and you'd chosen not to say anything.
Jace turned slowly to look at you, sleeping peacefully in his bed, utterly unaware of his racing thoughts.
The hole was low in his corner. Easy to miss unless you were looking for it, unless you happened to be right here in this spot. But on your side you'd have that screen. Would have moved it at some point, maybe looking for something, and found the gap.
Would have realized where it led. His heart was pounding now, thoughts spiraling.
No. That was insane. You wouldn't. You barely looked at him most days, avoided him at meals, seemed to go out of your way not to be alone with him. But you'd also been acting strange lately. He'd noticed it, couldn't help but notice. The way you flushed when he was near. How you avoided his eyes, like looking at him directly was too much.
And this morning. Gods, this morning when he'd walked in on you in your bath. You'd screamed, yes, but there had been something else in your expression. Something beyond just shock. You'd looked almost guilty, almost. At the time he'd thought he was imagining it. Had assumed you were just mortified at being seen naked. But what if it was more than that?
What if you'd been watching him through this hole, and suddenly he'd burst into your room, and you'd realized how close he was to discovering your secret?
Jace's breath came faster. He thought back over the past few days. The way you'd been flushed at dinner after he'd brought that woman back to his chambers. The way you couldn't meet his eyes the next morning. How you'd seemed distracted, distant, like your mind was somewhere else entirely.
Had you been watching him fuck her? The thought should have made him angry. Should have felt like a violation, an invasion of his privacy.
Instead, heat shot straight to his groin.
His cock, which had softened slightly while he'd been trying to figure out the logistics of where to sleep, was suddenly achingly hard again. He pressed the heel of his hand against his cock through his breeches, trying to will it down, but it was useless. The image was in his head now and wouldn't leave.
You. On the other side of that wall. Eye pressed to the gap. Watching him with some nameless woman, watching him fuck her, watching every thrust and hearing every sound.
Getting wet while you watched.
Fuck. Because you would have, wouldn't you? If you'd been watching—and gods, everything pointed to you watching—you wouldn't have kept coming back to that hole unless it was doing something for you. Unless seeing him like that, uninhibited and raw, was turning you on.
His proper, untouchable cousin. Getting yourself off while spying on him through a crack in the wall. Jace's hand tightened involuntarily on his cock and he had to bite back a groan.
He looked at you again, sleeping peacefully in his bed, completely unaware that he'd figured it out. That he knew. How many times? How many times had you watched him?
That first woman, the dark-haired serving girl. Had you seen that? Seen him bend her over the bed, seen the way he'd made her moan? And the one after. The minor lady whose name he'd already forgotten. Had you watched him spread her legs and bury his face between her thighs?
Gods, had you touched yourself while you watched? Slipped your hand beneath your nightgown, fingers finding your clit while you watched him make other women come? His cock throbbed and he had to close his eyes, had to breathe through the wave of lust that crashed over him.
This was wrong. He shouldn't be thinking about you like this. Shouldn't be getting hard imagining you watching him, wanting him, touching yourself to the sight of him with other women.
But he couldn't stop. Because if you had been watching—and everything in him said you had been—what did that mean?
It meant you wanted him. Maybe didn't want to want him, maybe fought against it, but you did. Why else would you keep going back to that hole? Why else would you watch him fuck other women if not because you wished it was you?
The thought made him harder, made pre-cum leak from the tip of his cock, dampening his smallclothes. He tried to remember the past few nights, tried to think through the wine-haze of who he'd brought back and when.
He'd also been with Cassandra. Right here in this room, in this bed where you were sleeping now.
Had you watched that? His breath came out shaky. He'd been showing off tonight, he could admit that now. Cassandra had been impressed by his title, his dragon, the crown he'd someday wear. She'd made that clear. And maybe he'd wanted to impress her in other ways too. Had made it last longer than usual, had made sure she came twice before he'd let himself finish.
Had you been on the other side of that wall, watching him with her? Watching him kiss her, touch her, spread her legs in this very bed? Watching while your heart twisted with jealousy?
The idea shouldn't thrill him as much as it did.
Jace pressed his palm hard against his cock, trying to calm down, trying to think past the lust fogging his brain. His hand came away damp, he was leaking badly now, his cock throbbing with need.
Stop. Get yourself under control.
He forced himself to breathe. Slow, deep breaths. Forced himself to look away from you sleeping in his bed, tangled in his sheets, still half-exposed despite the blanket he'd draped over you.
This was insane. He was standing here hard as iron, thinking about his cousin watching him fuck other women, getting off on the idea of you wanting him. He needed to calm down. Needed to think rationally about what this meant and what, if anything, he was going to do about it.
Jace forced himself to turn away from you entirely. Grabbed the blanket he'd originally intended to use and moved to the couch in the corner, as far from the bed as he could get in the confines of his own chambers. He stretched out on the too-small surface, the blanket pulled up to his chin, and willed his body to calm down. Willed his cock to soften. Tried to think about anything other than you watching him through that hole.
It didn't work.
Every time he closed his eyes, his mind conjured images. You with your eye pressed to the gap. Your hand sliding beneath your nightgown. Your lips parting as you watched him fuck someone else, wishing it was you. His cock throbbed, still achingly hard, and he shifted uncomfortably on the couch.
This was impossible. He couldn't sleep like this. Couldn't lie here all night with his cock straining against his breeches and you barely ten feet away, half-naked in his bed. He sat up, running both hands through his hair in frustration.
He needed to leave. Needed to get out of this room before he did something monumentally stupid. Like climb into that bed with you. Like wake you up and ask if you'd been watching. Like find out what sounds you'd make if he gave you something real to watch.
Fuck.
Jace stood, moving as quietly as possible, and grabbed his cloak from where it hung by the door. The Street of Silk would still be busy at this hour. He could find someone, anyone, to take the edge off. To fuck this desperate need out of his system so he could think clearly.
He paused at the door, looking back at you one more time. You'd shifted again in your sleep, the blanket slipping down to your waist. Your silver hair spilled across his pillows like you belonged there.
Tomorrow. He'd deal with all of this tomorrow. Would help you back to your chambers, act like the perfect gentleman. Would decide what, if anything, to do about that hole in the wall.
But tonight, he needed to leave before he lost what little control he had left. Jace slipped out into the corridor, closing the door softly behind him, and headed for the castle gates.
To read the remainder of part one (I ran out of space on here), please go to AO3 end of this part is Chapter 5: Consequences. Thank you for reading!
Yet now you were one of the most hated people on Dragonstone.
Fell so deeply into it.
Your mother's death is what led you to Dragonstone; she was a worker in a brothel and died from complications from going into labour early, leaving you completely alone in the world. She had beautiful dark eyes and a head of full, thick red hair. Before passing away, your mother never named your father, but your pale complexion, silvery hair, and lilac eyes led most people to believe he was a Targaryen.
When news spread that Queen Rhaenyra was looking for Targaryen bastards to become dragon riders, you decided it was a cause worth risking your life for; either die by dragon fire or succumb to illness or starvation living on the streets of King's Landing.
The gods spared you that day, and you successfully claimed a dragon, as did two older men, Ulf and Hugh, and a younger man called Addam.
As soon as the bond between you and the golden-scaled dragon was made, your life changed forever; it was intense. War had already begun, and unlike Hugh and Ulf, you were keen to learn everything you could about House Targaryen and all its history. You sought to understand both the good and the bad.
It was all so innocent.
You were still a bastard, and although being a dragon rider gave you a great sense of pride and you formed a bond with a magnificent creature, it would never change the way most people viewed you.
A lowborn.
A nobody.
But the queen's eldest son, Prince Jacaerys, was one of the few who never looked down on you; he was kinder than most and would help you absorb the vast amount of information he had spent his life learning. The prince would join you in the library when possible and would escort you to the dragon mount so that Vermax and your dragon could fly together.
He had a way of always making you feel heard and important.
There were times when he confided in you.
“From the day I was born, Alicent has been telling anyone who would listen that I am a bastard.”
You roll your eyes at him, something the prince wasn’t accustomed to. “There is a difference, my prince; you are the son of the queen, the heir to the throne, our future king. It is treasonous and punishable by death to call you a bastard, whereas a dragonseed is open to any label. Bastard, bitch, whore.”
Jacaerys frowns. “Well, the next man or woman who says such a thing to you will face the wrath of Vermax.”
Now I'm a homewrecker, I'm a slut.
The first time you went dragon riding alone was a terrifying experience. You had travelled too far from Dragonstone and almost came face to face with Prince Aemond on Vhagar. He pursued you from the waters of Blackwater Bay to Dragonstone; however, your dragon was significantly younger and quicker than the war-hardened she-dragon.
Aemond only withdraws when he spots Rhaenyra standing with five dragons behind her. Syrax, Vermithor, Silverwing, Vermax, and Moondancer.
Upon your return to the castle walls, you receive instructions to attend a meeting with the queen's council. Aemond was brazen enough to fly to Dragonstone, yet the fault was yours. Most of the lords in the room, none of whom have ever ridden a dragon themselves, believe that you are to blame for this situation.
The meeting turned into an overwhelming interrogation, and the moment you could leave, you returned to your bedchamber.
As the day drew into night, you sat on the bed cuddling a pillow close to your chest when there was a knock at the door. You leap to your feet to look more appropriate, but Prince Jacaerys enters before you can.
Your hair was wild and unbraided, your cheeks flushed red, and your eyes swollen from crying. Fortunately, the nightgown you were wearing was sufficiently modest to prevent you from revealing an excessive amount of skin.
“My Prince, I apologise for being dressed inappropriately, but I wasn’t aware you were coming.”
The door closes, leaving the two of you alone in the room. You feel a tightness in your throat waiting for him to speak, but Jacaerys pulls you into his embrace and holds onto you tightly, even when you begin to sob on his shoulder.
All because I liked—
The battle of the gullet was the most harrowing day of your life, second only to your mother's death. So many dead on both sides; however, it remained a win for Queen Rhaenyra, but it almost came at too high a cost.
While attempting to save his youngest siblings, Jacaerys was fired upon by crossbows, and Vermax was struck twice in the one wing and fell into the water. With both dragon and rider vulnerable and struggling to get away, Addam burns the closest ships while you unstrap the harness and leap into the water, freeing Jacaerys, who had been struck twice, and keep him afloat until the men on Lord Corlys's ship were able to pull him aboard.
Queen Rhaenyra was so grateful that she legitimised Addam of Hull, making him Addam Velaryon, and she made you a Targaryen. But before it was made official, you were taken aback when Rhaenyra wanted to know why you did what you did.
“Why did you risk your life to save my son’s?”
“I would have done it for any one of the dragon riders, your grace.”
She raises her brows questionably; she wasn’t satisfied with that answer.
“Prince Jacaerys is kind, and I believe he will be known as one of the realm’s greatest kings one day.”
Rhaenyra draws her lips together in a small smile, seemingly lost in thought for a brief moment before she speaks again. “My son is quite taken with you, as is his betrothed, Princess Baela.”
—
As the weeks progressed, you found yourself spending more time by the prince's side, maintaining your routine similar to what it was before the Battle of the Gullet. However, when Daemon and Rhaenyra finally reclaimed King's Landing, you hardly saw the prince, not that you expected to see him often, as he spent his days attending to various duties as the heir.
With a few of Aegon’s loyalists still remaining a threat, the dragon riders would take turns patrolling the city, keeping an eye out for any possible attacks. When you return one morning to swap over with Addam, there are two members of the queen's guard waiting for you.
Your mouth had gone completely dry by the time you reached the throne room. The room is empty aside from the queen and her guards.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve summoned you here?”
“In truth I am unsure, your grace.” Your voice shakes with nerves as you ask, “Have I done something wrong?”
“Prince Jacaerys will be returning to Dragonstone on the morrow and intends to be married by the end of the month…" She gives you a knowing look and waits to gauge your reaction. “The betrothal between Prince Jacaerys and Princess Baela has been dissolved by request of the prince.”
You fiddle with the only ring you own, one that belonged to your mother. You weren’t sure why the queen was telling you this in private, but you felt compelled to say something. “I’m sorry to hear that, your grace; they would have made a fine match.”
“They would have, but…” A small smile pulls on her lips. “My son wishes to follow his heart.”
All because I liked a boy.
Standing on the balcony overlooking the path leading up to the castle grounds, Jacaerys approaches you and wraps his arm around your waist.
“Does your unhappiness have anything to do with those sitting on my council?” he sighs.
Following your marriage to Jacaerys in a small ceremony at the Red Keep, you departed for Dragonstone on Dragonback. Jacaerys makes you happy, and you weren’t a fool; a Targaryen prince choosing to be with a former dragonseed over a princess was scandalous, but no matter how many ladies you smiled at or how much small talk you made, you still received nasty looks and poorly hidden whispers behind your back, mainly ones implying that you lost your maidenhead to the prince out of wedlock.
“I’m not unhappy per se… It’s just that we never even kissed until our wedding, and I feel as if I’m failing you because of the rumours.
“And if I ever find out who started them—”
Before he can finish the sentence, you cut him off with a gentle kiss. “You’ll feed them to Vermax for disrespecting my honour, I know, my prince. Even now, I continue to worry that we insulted the princess by acting so quickly—”
Jacaerys returns the favour and cuts you off with a kiss, only pulling away when he feels you are smiling. “Baela and I share a sibling bond, which is why she gave us her blessing. My mother, the queen, also gave us her blessing.”
“I feel guilt for caring so deeply for you when you were promised to another.”
“Our hearts never belonged to one another; she wishes to be with another as much as I wanted to be with you.”
You fall easily into his embrace, relishing the comforting warmth coming from his body. Fingers locked together, you give him a small smile, “I love you, Jace.”
“I love you, and I promise to spend every day from now on making sure you’re happy enough that no rumour will make you sad again.”
Description: A young doctor, Angelie, was living a dream life in Paris—until a sudden accident tore her from it and cast her into the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. Born with extraordinary medical knowledge, will she become the thread that rewrites fate itself—or princes’s obsession will slowly destroy her?
Genre: romcom, reincarnation, slow-burn, smut, violent, angst to comfort, many love interest ( MC is a real mess )
Chapter 1:
Chapter 2:
Chapter 3:
Chapter 4:
Chapter 5:
(Please visit my page for updating)
“Push! Keep pushing!!.” the old midwife urged, beads of sweat dotting her lined and weathered face.
The laboring woman cried out, her damp hair clinging to her forehead. The lower half of her dress was darkened, soaked through with amniotic fluid. She clutched the hand of the girl beside her, her sharp nails digging into flesh as she struggled to contain the overwhelming pain.
“Please! Get it out—”
“Don’t stop!” the midwife snapped, though a flicker of fear betrayed her steady demeanor. “Push!! Harder!”
“I can’t–! Get it out of me–”
Another desperate scream tore from her. Her head fell back, breaths coming in frantic, uneven bursts, as the walls seemed to warp and bend beneath the force of it.
Between her legs, the old midwife frowned, her trembling hands hovering anxiously. “The babe’s head is there, but the shoulder can not come through.”
A strangled sob tore from the woman in labor. Another contraction hit before anyone could answer. Her body arched, a raw scream ripping free as she bore down with everything she had. Around her, the terrified women huddled together helplessly.
“She’s stuck”
The midwife’s hands froze in the air before she suddenly drew back, whipping around toward the others in the chamber. “Send for her!” she said, her breath grew uneven now.
When the room remained unmoving, she erupted, her voice snapping through the mounting chaos. “Send for her! Now!!”
Only a few moments later, you hurried into the room, your gown hastily thrown on and your loosened hair falling wildly around your shoulders. The urgent summons had torn you from sleep, sending you rushing from your chambers while the other woman hurried after you in alarm. Pushing past the frightened crowd gathered inside the tent, your slight frame quickly reached the laboring woman’s side.
“How long?!”
“Too long” the midwife answered immediately, her voice tight with strain. “She’s been pushing–Gods. The head came out, but…” her breath hitched, “the shoulders won’t pass.”
A shattered cry escaped the woman upon the bed, her body shaking uncontrollably from the agony. “Please—please, I can’t do this—get it out—!” she gasped desperately. Her hands twisted into the sheets as another brutal spasm crashed through her, breaking her words into helpless sobs.
Without hesitation, you couldn’t hesitate.
“Wate. Bring me hot water.” you ordered, slipping your hands beneath the woman’s shoulders. ““Lift her. Not flat. Bring her up.”
The midwife caught on quickly, helping you haul the woman into a more upright position. The change drew a strangled scream from her, her head falling back as her breath came in ragged bursts.
“Look at me,” you spoke, gripping her face just enough to force her focus. “You are not done yet. When I tell you, push again!.”
She shook her head violently, tears streaking down her temples. “I can’t—”
“You have to” The water came, sloshing in a wooden basin, steam curling into the thick, stifling air. You soaked your hands, then pressed the warmth low against her body, steady, grounding, coaxing muscle to yield where it had locked.
Another contraction built…visible, inevitable.
“Push.” A ragged scream tore from her throat as she strained with all her strength. Your hands moved swiftly, carefully guiding and shifting the child—only just enough.
“Almost there! Don’t stop—!”
For one terrible second, nothing moved. Then, the resistance gave.
The shoulder slipped free. And with it, the rest of the child followed in a sudden, slick rush into your waiting hands.
A sharp cry pierced the air. The woman collapsed back, sobbing, her body finally going slack with exhaustion as the room seemed to exhale all at once.
You didn’t stop moving. “Cloth,” you called, already clearing the child’s airway, your voice steady despite the violent pounding in your chest. “Keep her warm.”
Behind you, the midwife released a shaking breath, something between a laugh and a sob as relief finally overtook the fear.
A faint wisp of smoke slipped from your lips, carrying the bittersweet scent of herbs that slowly eased your mind. Inside the small tent behind you, a child’s cries mingled with the soft lullaby of the young mother.
Midwifery had never once crossed your path throughout your short career… until today. Faced with the harrowing screams of a woman teetering on the edge between life and death, you found yourself far more shaken—far more terrified—than you had ever imagined.
In that moment, you could not stop praying to the gods, your heart still racing long after the bloody chaos had passed.
The memory of that first tourney came flooding quietly back into the depths of your mind. After saving that wounded knight, for the briefest instant…so small you might have believed it imagined, you had felt yourself trapped between two worlds. You had heard your beloved mother’s voice as though you were once more safe within her warm embrace, yet all your eyes could see were the wavering torchlight, thundering horses, shattered lances, the chaos of the joust, and the frantic crowds of Ashford. The sensation had been strange, haunting, almost unreal.
But it had not happened this time. Not when you saved the woman. And that realization unsettled you more than anything else. Was there something moving unseen behind all of this? Some hidden law… some cruel design woven into the workings of this world?
And if you were able to uncover it, would you have a chance to return home, your true home?
Pleasure women clad in lavish, revealing gowns beckoned to the young men at your side. It didn’t take long before a handsome stranger led a red-haired girl into a tent, the fabric falling shut behind them.
If only something like OnlyFans existed in this age, they might have been spared the effort of plying their trade in the dead of night. You thought silently
A drunken man staggered toward you, the stench of cheap wine hitting you hard enough to make your nose wrinkle.
“What’s your price for a night ?”
You took a drag, exhaling slowly, and shook your head in quiet irritation. Too dull to take the hint…or arrogant enough to treat it as a challenge, he fumbled into his pocket and tossed a small pouch of coins at your feet, its weight striking the ground with a sharp clink.
“She is no prostitute, ser. Matilda can tend to you tonight, the girl is well practiced.”
Beatrice, the aging madam who owned the brothel, curled her finger, summoning Matilda. The young beautiful girl named Matilda smoothly guided the man inside. Liquor had long since clouded his judgment; he stumbled after her, led more by rising lust than reason.
“Not leaving yet? Or do you mean to stay the night here?”
The madam looked down at you, a hint of curiosity in her round eyes as she glanced at what you held.
“I’m waiting for the newborn to fall asleep. She’s a difficult child—and the mother is still terribly weak. I leave once my patients (or customers)… are truly fine, or at least as close as they can be.” You stifled a long yawn and took another drag, the smoke keeping you awake a little longer. “And if you were going to ask, it’s just herbal smoke. Think of it like caffeine.”
You wondered, briefly, whether they knew what caffeine was, but you were far too tired to dwell on it. “It keeps you awake,” you explained shortly. “Helps with headaches—but don’t overuse it. Though I’m hardly one to lecture anyone about that…”
Beatrice hummed quietly, the night’s cold prickling her skin as she drew her cloak closer.
“She’s only thirteen.” Your jaw tightened as you spoke, the herbal smoke suddenly turning bitter on your tongue. “Did you force her into this until she became pregnant… or was she brought here by slave traders?”
You didn’t mean for your words to come out so straight and bitter.
The woman narrowed her eyes in disdain as she lowered herself onto the empty bench beside you.
“Does it matter? She needs this work to keep her sick father alive… What other way is there to earn coin than selling herself? And men will always need someone to sate their desires.”
“There are other ways…” you pushed back.
“Are there?” Beatrice lifted a brow, a challenge sharpening her tone. In her eyes, you were already nothing more than a sheltered child.
“She could learn a skill, aim for knowledge—”
A dry laugh slipped from Beatrice’s lips. “Learn? Most common folk like us can’t even read. A rare few might recognize letters if their parents served a lord. The men get most of the work. Young, innocent girls like her…” She trailed off, pausing for a moment
“If they’re lucky, they’re wed a good man. If not…” her voice cooled, “they’re ruined. And after that, who would take them as wives?”
The realization struck you like a heavy blow, your throat burning as the cruel truth of this world settled over you. There were no protections, no laws to shield women—only a world where they were treated as tools. If not for bearing children, then for satisfying men’s baser desires.
A cold horror rose within you at the thought of children born in brothels, of girls too young to even understand their own bodies being taught to please man. A sickening chill twisted through you, nausea tightening in your stomach. You lowered your head, helplessness creeping in like a slow poison.
“Do you think the father’s baby know… about her existence?”
“They’re bastards—and bastards are stains on their names…” Beatrice said, her voice so calm you almost mistook it for indifference, or for someone who had simply grown too accustomed to the cruelty of reality.
A young woman’s life destroyed, a child’s future stolen… all because men could not keep it in their pants. Yes.. men, fucking men.
“What happened to your neck?” Beatrice inquired first, a smirk tugging at her lips. “That layer of paint might fool a simpleton, but not me.”
Her gaze flicked lazily over the faint marks scattered along your throat, poorly concealed beneath a careless dusting of powder.
“Men” Your curt reply was enough to make Beatrice laugh “Ohh”, though there was no real amusement or mirth in it.
A settled silence stretched between the two women, the sound of a baby’s crying and soft singing inside had long since faded. Small fireflies drifted through the forest like tiny floating lights, the scene quietly reminding you of the passage of time.
“She has named the babe after you.”
This time, it was you who was caught off guard—your gaze lifting to meet hers, eyes widening in utter surprise. A soft warmth, like a gentle embrace, wrapped itself around your heart. “Really?”
“Aye. Angelia. ’Tis a name that carries light, mayhap it shall grant the child an easier path in the future.”
“I would like to forge the finest, brightest, fairest suit of armor! Not the second-best, but the very first—”
Your voice was all but swallowed by the ringing clash of hammer upon steel. “Forgive me,do you hear my words—?”
Only the roar of the forge answered, the hiss of molten metal and the relentless pounding of hammer on steel rising over one another. You tapped your foot impatiently, growing restless.
“Ser—”
“Go away. I don’t make armor for women,” the blacksmith grunted, shoving you aside as he reached for a sack of sword hilts behind you.
“It’s not for me,” you added evenly. “It’s for the future champion of the tourney.”
“Hmm… what kind of champion knight still hasn’t got himself a proper suit of armor, eh?”
“That’s precisely why I came here,” you said through clenched teeth, holding back the urge to argue further. “Aren’t you the finest weaponsmith in Ashford?”
It seemed your sincerity failed to sway him. You set a heavy pouch of silver onto the table.
“Three hundred silvers. Take your time counting.”
The man’s eyes lit up, only to narrow again as he pulled it closer, loosening the drawstring to inspect the coins, he bit one between his teeth to test its worth.
“Out with it. What do you want then? Measurements, steel, purpose?”
You fairly lit with fervor, drawing forth a design from your satchel and laying it before the man “I’ve a design in mind, this will look fierce as sin. The helm shall be wrought to resemble a rhino–”
The smith looked up at your eager face, then back down at the design, his hoarse voice twisting with irritation and a hint of mockery. “Are you fuckin kidding me, woman? This scrap looks like it were stolen from my child’s first scribbles. And what the fuck’s a ‘rhino’?”
“What d’you mean by that? I spent a whole week drawing it—” Your fragile ego had shattered into a hundred pieces.
“Ah, your grace! ’Tis an honor!” the smith cut in, suddenly all cheer as he pulled on a bright, ingratiating mask. He shoved past you, hurrying toward the door to greet the newcomer, leaving you stumbling back onto the ground.
The smith clasped hands warmly with the new arrival, a tall figure wrapped in a black hooded cloak. From where you stood, you could not see their face, only the shadow of his hair beneath the fabric.
Beyond him, just outside the tent, stood a knight in white armor—another Kingsguard? An uneasy feeling gnawed at you. You shrank back into the corner, trying to make yourself smaller, concealing your presence as best you could.
“Come this way, your grace. Let me show you your new shield. I’ve made improvements. Kept your house sigil intact, but reinforced the plating for better durability.” The armoursmith spoke with undisguised pride, guiding the stranger toward the rack of finished works, you were left alone behind, perhaps, a forgotten rat in the dark corner.
A long sigh slipped from your lips as you sank down onto a nearby crate. From your satchel, you drew out a quill and unfolded your paper. You studied it over and over, yet could not tell where it had gone wrong. You bent back to your work, making careful adjustments in silence.
“Here are the newest pieces from my collection, Your Grace. Might anything catch your interest? These daggers are light in the hand, but their points are wickedly sharp, most formidable indeed.” The sound of his sales pitch rang in your ears, grating and persistent.
You bit down on the end of your quill in helpless confusion, sketching over old lines again and again until the thin parchment looked pitifully worn.
“You’re going to need a new parchment.”
The voice made you lift your head. There was a beat before your eyes widened in shock, and the quill slipped from your fingers, clattering onto the floor. “Valarr Targaryen”
His lips curved faintly as he looked down at your small frame. His round mismatched eyes, one the hue of a clear summer sky, the other deep as rich earth, fixed on you with quiet attention. They were striking, almost jewel-like, and for a moment your heart forgot how to beat.
“It is rare to hear my full name spoken so straightforwardly upon first meeting.”
“I don’t mean it, my prince.”
You shot up so quickly that the satchel on your lap slipped and spilled its contents across the floor. You muttered a curse under your breath, then bent down to gather everything. To your surprise, the young prince also crouched, calmly helping you pick up the scattered vials and handling them with care.
“Thank you, Your Grace”
A darling prince… You supposed with a quiet note of admiration, a far cry from that bloodsucking devil you had just dealt with few days ago.
“May I see it?” Valarr asked, taking the design into his hands and only after you nodded did he gently unfold it to take a closer look.
A moment passed, and the prince said nothing. He studied the design in earnest, as though it were some ancient document in need of deciphering, his attention wholly absorbed by the sketch before him. And you found yourself holding your breath, waiting for his judgment
“My father always said never let a woman have anything to do with steel, my Prince…” This misogynistic, insufferable smith laughed coarsely behind the Prince.
The prince ignored the clumsy insult, smiling so sweetly it was almost approving “I think I understand your design. It only needs a few refinements to make it more practical.”
A spark of relief warmed your chest at the Prince’s kind words. You stepped closer without thinking, rising slightly onto your toes to study the sketch in his hand “How should I fix it?”
He bent down a little, so you wouldn’t have to stand on tiptoe anymore. “I think this might take us a bit of time,” he murmured softly
“I’m in!” You happily dropped down onto the wooden crate from earlier, quickly patting the empty space beside you, asking for him to join you.
The blacksmith cleared his throat, clearly a little flustered by the presence of royalty lingering in his shop for so long. “You don’t have to do that, Your Highness. I shall help the girl later.”
“You always pick on my work!!” you shot back immediately
“That’s because of you, not me,” the blacksmith grumbled
Prince Valarr, always a peaceful mediator, raised a hand to gently calm the man, silently signaling that it was fine. Then Valarr lowered himself and sat down beside you… even sitting hunched on a crate in the corner like this was hardly princely.
His eyes scanning the sketch with silent focus rather than his usual composed air. The playful warmth in his expression softened into something more attentive.
“Here,” he pointed at a junction of the design. “If you reinforce this section and redistribute the weight here, it won’t strain the frame as much. You’re trying to balance beauty with function, right?”
He tilted his head, as if already running calculations in his mind. “And this part… it’s elegant, but structurally inefficient. If we adjust the angle just a little, you won’t lose the aesthetic, just the unnecessary stress.”
You blinked, clearly stunned by how naturally the prince spoke. This was not mere theory, but something he had already seen, and worked with before. You read in the books that Valarr was more of a scholar than a warrior. Seeing it firsthand made it clear just how much of a “nerd” he was.
Valarr noticed your silence and gave a small, almost sheepish smile “I said I understood you, didn’t I?”
You pressed your lips together, then nodded firmly, picking up the quill and adjusting the design as he instructed. The process took a considerable amount of time, and you had to let go of some decorative details you were personally fond of.
“But I like the helmet better when it juts forward like that, it looks cooler”
“If you leave it like that, the knight’s going to fall off a horse or get seriously hurt in a collision,”
You sighed in defeat and reluctantly removed another feature you had been sure would look striking on Dunk once the armor was finished.
“May I ask who you’re making this for?”
“My best friend,” you replied cheerfully. “He’s a giant, really. I’m pretty sure his size is at least three times that of an average man.”
“That’s impressive!”
“There was this one time he fell asleep so deeply that he rolled over and almost crushed Egg—eggs. Luckily, I was there to shake him awake.” You swallowed nervously, silently hoping the young prince hadn’t noticed.
From the corner of your eye, you felt his gaze fixed upon your face…too long for it to be considered normal. You turned your head slightly, asking with quiet concern “Is something wrong, my prince?”
The young prince did not answer immediately. His lashes fluttered slightly as he let out a soft breath, each subtle movement sending your heart into an unsteady rhythm. Gods, he was so beautiful.
“I would like to offer my apologies for what Ser Donnel said to you the other day. He is a good knight, loyal and capable…but at times, his manner can be a bit excessive.”
“It’s fine, my prince. You don’t have to apologize for him, the whole thing’s already over.”
You gave a small shrug, completely unbothered. “Actually, I was a little rude. I don’t regret it though. That idiot deserved another slap to knock some manners into him.”
The prince let out a genuine laugh at that “Oh, I believe you would do it”
Outside the tent, the sky had already faded into the soft pink hues of dusk, a quiet reminder of how much time had slipped away unnoticed. The revised sketch had been completed with such painstaking precision that even the experienced blacksmith offered a silent approval.
And just like that, the drawing tutor had finished his role, slipping back into the dutiful prince. Valarr rose to his feet, the soft fabric of his cloak brushing lightly against your hand as he moved away. The warmth beside you vanished, leaving behind a strange little emptiness you had not expected to feel.
“I had a good time, more than I expected.” The prince grinned warmly at your stunned expression.
“Thank you so much, my prince. I owe you this one!”
“I’ll try to finish it as quickly as I can for the girl, my Prince” the smith exclaimed. You shot him a suspicious glance, wondering what he might be up to.
Valarr nodded to the blacksmith, then let his gaze drift back to you once more. You sat prettily on the crate, beaming as you held the finished drawing in your hands.
He gently extended his hand toward you, assuming it was a farewell handshake. You took it firmly, your other hand giving his shoulder a light pat.
“Thank you again, my prince.”
The strange gesture made his striking eyes widen in clear surprise. You scratched the back of your head, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Is something wrong?”
This was the second time you had asked that question.
Prince Valarr laughed, lighter this time, bright with amusement. “No. Not at all. I hope we will meet again, Angelie.”
Hearing your name spoken by Prince Valarr felt oddly unfamiliar…
‘ Gelie ‘ Prince Egg sometimes jested, and it made your heart flutter. Prince Aerion called you ‘whore’, ‘smart whore’, ‘filthy whore’ (while he was the only whore here). And Prince Daeron…
You paused at that thought. Daeron used to call you something different too—something more personal, something you now found yourself almost missing without meaning to. You wondered how he had been doing… probably drowning himself in wine or lost somewhere in a brothel.
The market rang with the lively calls of merchants hawking their goods, while the scent of burnt sugar (perhaps caramel) drifted through the air, making your mouth water. Duncan had wandered off somewhere, leaving you and Egg to stroll along the market stalls.
You tugged on Egg’s hand, pulling him away from his dazed staring at the dull knights’ training and toward a stall selling sugar apples. The little boy grumbled, then hurried after you like a small tail.
The pretty merchant girl, with adorable bunny teeth, took your coins and handed you and Egg the apples with a bright grin.
“Two, please,” you said
The sugar glaze cracked slightly as you bit in, melting instantly on your tongue—sweet, crisp, and refreshing, the cool bite of fresh apple wrapped in caramel.
Memory flickered back to the days you had tried making tanghulu at home, burning more than one pot black and ending up with results.
“It tastes just like perfect tanghulu!”
“Tanghulu?” Egg repeated, looking up at you. “Is that a dessert from Paeris?”
“No, not my hometown. It’s like candied fruit, usually strawberries and grapes, sometimes oranges too.”
Egg took a big bite, getting sugar stuck on the tip of his nose. You giggled and wiped it away with your sleeve. It was a small, easy thing between you two, the shared sweet tooth, the matching tastes, the comfort of it.
“Strawberries and grapes can only be found in castle kitchens,” Egg said excitedly. “Can you make some for me next time?”
“Then you’ll have to figure out how to sneak me past the castle guards first”
You burst into laughter at Egg’s horrified face. The thought of returning to the Red Keep clearly did little to hide his discomfort. Your gaze drifted past him toward a group of drunken men across the square, a rowdy cluster of ruffians gathered together, their vulgar laughter and filthy words drawing the attention of the surrounding crowd. Your eyes narrowed immediately, your chest tightening at the sight of a familiar face.
The half-eaten apple slipped from your hand and hit the ground with a dull thud before you suddenly bolted toward them, your heart beating so violently as it stole the breath from your lungs.
“Where are you—”
“Stay here, Egg.”
As if struck by instinct, the man suddenly turned his head. The moment his eyes met yours, he looked utterly terrified, as though he had just seen a demon coming. He stumbled back in panic and bolted, the wine bottle slipping from his grasp and shattering loudly against the ground.
“Stop right there!”
You sprinted after him, weaving through the crowded market as your shoulder clipped past baskets of vegetables and fruit, sending several tumbling onto the ground, the furious vendor shouted behind your back. You vaulted over a pile of hay blocking the narrow path, nearly losing your footing as you landed.
Gods, that bastard was fast.
His figure gradually disappeared into the distance until he turned into a narrow alleyway. Your steps slowed. You glanced around cautiously before following him inside. Carefully, you moved past heaps of foul-smelling rubbish and piles of broken bricks, searching every shadow. Nothing. Only a few rats skittering through the filth, making your skin crawl.
Then something heavy suddenly slammed into the back of your neck. Pain shot through you with a sharp hiss as you spun around, only to realize the man had somehow gotten behind you. He shoved you violently onto the rough stone ground, the sharp rocks biting painfully into your skin.
“You fucking crazy bitch, why won’t you just leave me the fuck alone?”
“Damn it! I just want to talk!” you hissed back at the butcher.
He grabbed you by the collar and slammed you against the wall, forcing himself close. “What the fuck do you want from me, huh? That day I nearly got eaten alive by a boar…if I hadn’t woken up in time—”
You wished he had never woken up. You wished you had stabbed him a few more times for daring to put his hands on you that night.
Your jaw clenched tightly as you struggled to stay calm, your head still ringing painfully from the blow.
“Let go of me,” you spat. “I just want answers. How did you find me in the woods that day?”
“An ugly little dwarf handed you over to me. Bastard said I could do whatever I wanted with you. If I’d known you were nothing but some rabid mutt off its leash, I would’ve slit that little freak’s throat the first chance I got,” the old man spat bitterly.
A what?
A dwarf?
A fucking dwarf? What kind of fairytale bullshit is this? You nearly bit your tongue
He raised a filthy hand and tangled it deep in your hair, wrenching your head back hard enough to sting. A vile grin spread across his lecherous face as his eyes crawled slowly over your body, lingering in ways that made your stomach turn.
“Now then,” he drawled hoarsely, “how about we finish what we started that day?”
“Don’t you fucking dare–”
A glass bottle smashed against the side of the man’s head, and he cried out in pain, clutching at the blood now pouring down his forehead. The moment his grip loosened, you stumbled free and collapsed onto the ground in shock.
A head of bright, tousled golden hair appeared in front of you. His broad figure stood between you and the man, shielding you from the harsh glare of the sun as his shadow fell over your trembling form.
“Whoreson—!” The thug snatched up a jagged shard of broken glass and lunged forward, but the golden-haired man drove his fist straight into the bastard’s bloody face before he could get close.
He grabbed the man by the hair and struck him again and again, each punch harder than the last. Coughing violently and stumbling backward in panic, the thug finally begged for mercy and fled down the alley “You better remember my face!” he shouted before disappearing.
The man’s tense shoulders slowly relaxed as he dropped to his knees beside you. His hands trembled slightly as he lifted them to cup your face, checking for injuries. Your body was still shaking, overwhelmed by how quickly everything had unfolded before your eyes.
“You fool… why do you always find yourself tangled up in violence?”
“Daeron— Gods, Daeron!”
You snapped out of your daze at last, emotion crashing over you all at once as you threw your arms around his neck and dragged him down a tight
“I missed you.”
The man’s body tensed for the briefest moment before he gently wrapped an arm around your waist, burying his face into your shoulder.
“I missed you too, trouble” The slightest brush of contact made you flinch sharply. Daeron pulled away immediately, his hand rising carefully to touch the back of your neck. “Does it hurt badly? Seven Gods, it’s already bruised purple.”
The dawn light spilled across the green grass where the two of you sat, casting everything in a warm, golden haze. In the distance, the cheerful songs and laughter of the smallfolk carried through the air.
“Ouch…my neck is not necking,” you groaned in pain, lowering your head so Daeron could gently rub the sore spot for you. Daeron gently swept your tangled hair forward, exposing the bruise more clearly as his fingers worked gently at your skin.
“You and your strange way of speaking,” he murmured.
“You know what’s even stranger? I couldn’t smell wine on you today.”
You noticed it earlier. The Prince didn’t even carry a trace of that bitter, heavy scent that was so typical of Daeron, the kind you could recognize from a mile away. And yet his hollow eyes seemed even deeper, as if he hadn’t slept in days.
“I stopped drinking for a while,” Daeron replied slowly, his hands still gently massaging your neck. You relaxed under his touch, the scene oddly both amusing and pitiful.
“Since when?” Your eyes widened.
“Since you…” the blonde Prince paused, then cut himself off immediately. “Never mind. Forget it… Why did you and Egg leave without me?”
Here we go.
You had been waiting for that question, even in your dreams. Leaving him drunk in that lonely, desolate field was a little cruel, sure, but what was there to worry about? A main character like him wasn’t going to die that easily.
“I left a note for you. Did you read it…?”
“Ah, you mean that tiny little note by the bedside that got buried under a pillow?” Daeron brushed the loose, curly strands of golden hair from his weary face and gave you a humorless smile. “ I tore the entire place apart looking for you two? And then the tavern keeper casually told me you left with some horse-trader selling feed for mounts?”
You pouted and exhaled softly, already knowing he would react like this. It wasn’t really about your safety but Little Egg, Prince Aegon, was still just a child, a royal child… and if anything had happened to him, you could’ve been charged with treason. At that point, not even Daeron would be able to save you.
“What have you and Egg been living on these past few days?” he inquired
You hesitated for a moment, then answered cheerfully, “We’ve been doing well. We’ve been eating smoked meat, fried eggs, and sleeping under a tree, stargazing—kind of like camping outdoors.”
Daeron raised a brow, totally puzzled. “Just the two of you? What if something dangerous—?”
“There was one more friend with us. He’s a knight, a good man. He can fight” you cut in.
It seemed the mention of a man’s name only left Daeron more irritated; he avoided your gaze, burying his face in his hands in weary frustration. He knew he would never be able to keep you…a free-spirited soul far too untamed to be close to someone as…miserable as he was.
Sorry for delaying guyss !! I'm actually locked in writing another fanfiction!! My lovely pookies!! I am thinking that do you guys like smut scene for "Lady of Paeris" =))
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note : reader has valyrian features but maybe on my next fic ill use the "strong" genes lol. I left the ending open in case anyone wants a part 2!
not proof read because im lazy
summary: aegon gets taken on a "adventure" into the woods where you have hidden moments together.
Aegon had not known many true joys in his life.
The pleasures of wine and the company of brothel girls he'd indulged in both with the hunger of a man trying to fill a void that could never be sated. But even at his drunkest, even at his most desperate, he knew none of those fleeting distractions came close to what he felt now. Not when he looked upon you. His niece. Rhaenyra’s daughter.
Born of the sister he could hardly abide—Rhaenyra, who always stood taller in their father’s eyes. Who carried herself like a queen before Viserys had ever named her heir. Who had everything he thought should have been his. He used to curse her name. Despised her. Envied her. But you … you had been an unwitting gift. A vision of silver and violet, with hair that shimmered like starlight and eyes that mirrored his own. She was not like the Strong boys, not like Jace and Luke, with their brown curls and blunt features. No, she was pure. Valyrian through and through, at least to his eyes. He told himself that, clung to it. Maybe it was a lie. Maybe it wasn’t. It didn’t matter anymore.
When he had begged his mother, Alicent, to speak with Rhaenyra. "just ask", he pleaded, to let him marry you when you would came of age. Alicent had looked at him as if he were mad. Revulsion, horror, and something close to pity had crossed her face.
And so she gave him Helaena instead. Sweet, soft-spoken Helaena, with her cryptic mutterings and far-off gaze. Aegon had wed her and bedded her and fathered children, but his heart… his heart had wandered elsewhere.
To stolen moments.
Secret glances.
To his niece.
They would meet in shadowed corridors and hidden gardens, and sometimes in his own chambers when the moon was high and the castle asleep. Nothing improper, not yet. Not fully. But enough to leave him aching when she left.
Today, you had tugged his sleeve and begged him to follow her beyond the walls, away from the Red Keep and the weight of their bloodlines. An adventure, you called it, with the laughter of someone who had not yet been poisoned by court and crown. you were younger than him, but not a child anymore. Almost a woman. Almost.
He’d followed like a fool, smiling despite himself as you danced ahead of him through the fields, your laughter bright as bells. The tall grass swallowed your slight form easily, your silver hair flashing in and out of sight like a fish beneath the water.
He lost you somewhere in the rustle of green.
The sun hung high and golden above, but Aegon’s smile faded as he stopped, chest heaving lightly. “Where did you go, sweet girl?” he called out, turning slowly in place.
No answer.
“Sweetling?” His voice cracked slightly.
Nothing.
Aegon moved through the grass, the blades brushing against his arms, taller than he remembered. Unease began to stir in his gut. He turned again, sharper this time, scanning for any flicker of silver. The wind hissed through the field, whispering secrets. “Stop playing games,” he muttered. “Come out.”
Still nothing.
He walked faster, then ran, heart pounding now—not with fear, not yet, but something close. What if she’d wandered too far? What if someone had seen them leave? What if—
A giggle.
Soft. Familiar. Like the chime of bells caught in the breeze. It wrapped around him and tugged at his heart, soothing his panic for a fleeting second.
“Where are you?” he called, louder now, eyes scanning desperately. “This isn’t funny." He hated how it sounded. Like a father scolding a child. But you weren’t a child anymore. Not to him. Not in the way you looked at him when no one else could see. Not in the way your hand lingered on his sleeve just a moment too long. Not in the dreams that visited him when sleep finally took him, shame and longing tangled like thorns in his chest.
His heart thudded against his ribs now, harder, faster. Not fear. Not quite. Something else. A desperation, an ache blooming in his bones. Because he needed to see you. Needed to see that you were safe. That you hadn’t vanished like all good things seemed to do in his cursed life.
And then, suddenly
There you were.
Kneeling in the grass a dozen paces ahead, your back to him, silver hair glowing in the sunlight. Aegon’s breath hitched in his throat, all tension melting away in an instant.
“Gods, girl,” he whispered, moving forward quickly. “Don’t do that to me. You had me thinking—”
You turned.
The smile on your lips was soft. Gentle. But your eyes… they were unreadable. Distant in a way he couldn’t name. You stood slowly, brushing grass from your skirts, and reached for his hand without speaking.
He took it.
Of course he did.
“I wanted to show you something,” you said finally, voice quiet as the breeze. “You always look so sad in the castle.”
He swallowed thickly. “Do I?”
You nodded. “You smile for me. But it never reaches your eyes.” He chuckled dryly, eyes flicking toward you. “Maybe you're just the only joy I’ve ever had.”
You didn’t say anything in response to his confession, not at first. Just led him by the hand, your fingers cool and sure in his, as if you already knew the way. The grass parted before you as you moved, the breeze whispering at your heels. And then, the world opened again into a sun-warmed field. A gentle, quiet place nestled between trees, where wildflowers stretched in lazy color across the earth. You had come here only with her sworn protector in tow seeing as you could never wander far alone. It was quiet, except for the rustling of petals and the distant hum of bees. It smelled of earth and sky and something sweeter. Something like peace.
“I come here when the court gets too loud,” you said, releasing his hand. You knelt in the grass again, and he followed without question. “When they start talking about duty. About names. About who I must become.” He sat beside you, watching your fingers move with practiced care as you began to pluck flowers—lavender, daisies, and the pale pink ones he couldn’t name. You wove them together with a kind of calm concentration, humming softly under your breath.
“What are you doing?” he asked, brow furrowing.
You glanced at him with a playful smile. “Making something for you, silly.”
After a while he had seen what exactly your hands were crafting He huffed a laugh, bemused. “I’m not a maiden at a harvest fair.”
“No,” you said, carefully settling a crown of braided flowers atop his silver hair, “you’re sadder than one. That’s why you need this more.”
His mouth opened in protest, but then he saw the joy dancing in your eyes. Something bloomed in his chest—embarrassment, maybe, but softer. Gentler.
You were already working on a second crown for yourself.
“You used to wear flowers in your hair when you were younger,” he murmured.
“I still do,” you said with a small smile. “Only when no one can see.”
You pressed your own crown into your hair and then held up your fingers. “Give me your hand.”
He obeyed.
From a small cluster of wild blossoms and twisted green stems, you crafted a crude little ring .. loose, imperfect. You slipped it onto his finger, careful not to prick him.
“There,” you said, satisfied. “Now you’re mine.”
Aegon stared at the little thing. Ridiculous. Childish. Beautiful.
Wordlessly, he mirrored you, clumsily fashioning a ring of wild violets and clover. He took your hand in his and slid it onto your finger. His voice was rough when he spoke.
“And you are mine.”
You looked up at him, the faintest flush rising in your cheeks, and for a moment the entire world seemed to tilt. Time bent around the space between your bodies, shrinking the distance. You didn’t look like Rhaenyra now. You didn’t look like her child. You looked like something he wanted to keep in this field forever.
That was the end of restraint. The breaking point he had long danced around and denied himself for years. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers weaving through your soft hair, drawing you gently toward him. Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull away.
Your lips met his. Soft. Hesitant. Barely more than a brush.
Then, again—deeper, this time. Slower. Like discovery. Like prayer.
Aegon forgot how to breathe. Forgot where he was. Forgot what you were to him, what he was supposed to be. All he knew was the taste of sunlight on your mouth and the wildflowers crushed between your knees. You smelled like grass and sweet earth and something softer. Something uniquely you. Your lips trembled against his, just a little, but you kissed him back.
It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. Gods, it was real.
When he finally pulled back, barely, just enough to see you, he was met with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. Your mouth was parted slightly, as if you, too, had forgotten how to breathe. The flower crown sat crooked on your head now, half-crushed where his fingers had moved through your hair.
Aegon touched your face again, knuckles brushing your jaw with aching care.
This time, he didn’t hesitate.
He leaned in slowly, his hand still cradling your jaw, and kissed you again .. deeper, fuller, with a tenderness that surprised even him. There was no urgency in it, no hunger, only a quiet reverence. A promise he didn’t dare speak aloud. You leaned into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve, grounding yourself, grounding him. A gentle push to your shoulder pulled you from your haze, heavy breaths leaving your lips as he helped you lay flat in the grass. The flower crown in his hair tilting slightly as yours was crushed in certain places upon laying down.
His eyes lingered a gentle touch moving across your cheek before his lips were back on yours, hungry and desperate as he pressed himself between your legs using a hand to move under your knee and pulled it up and around his waist.
Heavy breaths left his lips when he pulled back to allow you to breath. Your breaths were labored and face flushed not even having time to calm yourself before he was tilting your head to place his kisses over your cheek and down to your neck, his hips instinctively moving to press into yours.
He was lost. The feeling of your skin overwhelming him and when he heard the first whimper he had let out a groan himself, wrapping his hand adorned with the little flower ring with your own. His fingers brushed your own makeshift ring attempting to not accidentally break it with tugging. Aegon pulled back the sight of your flushed face having an effect on him as he used his free hand to cradle your cheek, a smile coming to his lips as you instinctively moved into the touch.
His thumb was moving over the smooth skin before the light caught his wedding ring making him wince a second and stop the movement as his eyes moved to his other hand still holding your hand. The flower rings not glittering in the light but worth more than any other jewelry he wore.
"What's wrong?" your soft mumble pulled him out of his thoughts as he watched your labored breathing.
"Nothing.." His thumb started back up again before pulling his hands back from you. You wanted to protest attempting to sit up but stopping when you seen him sigh shakily and remove his wedding ring setting it beside her head in the grass, out of reach but somewhere he would be able to find.
He watched the ring in the grass like it might speak to him, offer an answer he hadn’t found in years. But it just sat there, silent and dull in the dying light, no judgment, no relief.
Your fingers twitched in the space his had just left, and when he pulled back entirely, you frowned—not from hurt exactly, but confusion.
“Uncle?…” your voice was softer now, unsure, like you weren’t sure you were allowed to call his name in that way anymore.
He didn’t answer immediately. His hands were on his knees, jaw tight, eyes distant. You saw the moment hit him .. whatever guilt, whatever longing was curled in his chest unfurled all at once across his face. Vulnerable. A little bit ashamed.
“I wasn’t supposed to let it get this far,” he said finally, the words tasting bitter as they left his mouth.
…but they were true. Every one of them.
You sat up despite the ache in your limbs, the grass cool and soft under your fingers as you leaned toward him. The silence between you stretched long, delicate and strained like the stem of one of your makeshift rings. Breakable.
“It didn’t get anywhere I didn’t want to go,” you said softly. Not a defense. A truth.
Aegon let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years. “It’s not about what you want. Or what I want.”
His eyes dropped to the discarded ring in the grass—the real one, the gold one, heavy with duty and a name that wasn’t yours.
Your eyes had flickered to the ring before sitting up and wiping at the skin he had just been kissing before picking up the gold ring looking to it before grabbing his hand and placing it onto the finger next to her own ring she made him. You did not expect this was how your first kiss would go, your dress slightly pushed up lips swollen and now Aegon suddenly pulling away but you had enjoyed it nonetheless because of who it was with.
Aegon let you take his hand as he always did, seeing the gold pushed back onto his finger he couldn't help but laugh bitterly.
You flinched at the sound, though you tried to hide it, hand still curled around his fingers. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because it’s a farce,” he said, voice sharp and low, as though he feared the trees might whisper his confession to the Red Keep. “This ring. That marriage. Me.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, and dropped his face into his hands. “The gods have a cruel sense of humor, don’t they? I begged for you. You. And they gave me everything else.” You watched him for a long moment, unsure if he was angry or hurting or both. The lines on his face were drawn deep in the golden light, tired, worn—far older than his years.
You reached for his hand again, the one with both rings now—yours, a fading little crown of a flower, and Helaena’s, polished gold heavy with expectation. They sat side by side on his finger like a cruel joke. One light, one heavy. One real, one honest.
You stood first, brushing the grass from your skirts and adjusting your flower crown even though it was bent and ruined. You still wore it like it mattered. Maybe it did.
Aegon stayed seated, staring at the little field you’d led him to. At the broken crown on your head. At the makeshift ring on your finger.
You moved over crouching down once more to fix his own flower crown. "Come uncle.. i know of a lake just down here!" you called with a small giggle as you started to wander once more, dress now in place and the smile back on your lips.
Slowly, he rose, brushing off the grass from his tunic, the weight of the golden ring on his finger suddenly less oppressive in the open air. He straightened the crooked crown on his head and followed you, the tall grass parting like a sea of green.
The path you led him down was faint, almost secret, winding gently between ancient oaks whose leaves whispered soft lullabies in the afternoon sun. Birds flitted overhead, and somewhere nearby, a brook babbled — a lullaby of its own.
You stopped suddenly, hands clutching the skirt of your dress as your gaze fixed on something ahead. A shimmering blue shimmer danced through the trees, the lake you promised.
A cheer had left your lips as you pointed to the water and aegon only watched as you started to remove the necklace around your neck, the flower crown and flower ring.
"What are you doing?" he had mumbled moving over to grab at your hand before helping to remove the necklace and putting it into your palm.
A smile from you was the only thing to answer him before your shoes were slipped off and leaves crunched under your feet, and before he knew it you had stepped into the water the flimsy ends of your white dress wet and already sticking to your legs before you went deeper.
"Wait.. do you even know how to swim?" he had called stepping closer to the water as a frown came to his lips. "The hour is getting late we should head-"
His voice stopped as he seen your head go under water the sight of silver barely seen and your giggles stopped. He panicked and was already taking his own shoes off setting the flower crown and ring you had made down with them in a rush, still fully clothed as he dived in after you. He had moved to where you were lifting you out the water a frown coming to his lips and dropping you once more when you only giggled upon coming back to surface.
"You are not funny at all.." he mumbled bitterly and let his hand push his now wet hair back.
For a moment, the only sounds were the rippling water and the distant hum of wind through the trees. You floated back a little, arms out, eyes lifted to the sun as it dipped lower behind the treeline. Your silhouette shimmered gold and silver in the light. A ghost. A dream. A reminder.
The path back was different.
Not in route.. the same winding way through the tall grass, the same trees whispering above, but in feel. The laughter was gone now, tucked behind parted lips and held in like a secret. Neither of you spoke. There was no need. Words, you both knew, could only ruin what the lake had offered: a moment out of time. A pocket of peace, now already fading as the towers of the Red Keep reared their heads on the horizon.
You walked side by side, soaked to the bone, your dress clinging to you and his boots squelching in the mud. The flower crowns was gone, left at the lake, and the delicate rings now rested between your fingers, cradled like something fragile you weren’t ready to let go of.
Aegon was the first to speak as the gates came into view. The guards stood watch, but they hadn’t noticed yet, hadn’t seen the disheveled prince and the princess beside him who still wore innocence on her lips and water in her hair. “I shall see you later sweetling..” he had mumbled and placed a kiss to your forehead.
Your hand slipped from his own and then you were gone, moving toward the secret entrance where your sworn protector waited, arms crossed and jaw clenched in silent disapproval. He didn’t speak, but you could feel the reprimand simmering behind his eyes at being left behind with no word of your disappearance. "Your mother has been looking for you princess.." his words came out more annoyed than intended and she frowned silently nodding and trying to stop her dress from clinging to her skin. "I'll inform a maid you need a bath."
Aegon stood there for a moment longer. Watching you disappear into the shadowed halls. Watching the last light slip away with you.
When he finally entered through the main gate, wet and worn and without explanation, the guards stiffened.
“Your Grace?”
Aegon didn’t answer them. He just walked past, leaving muddy footprints across polished stone. The weight of the golden ring on his finger settled in again, but the flower ring in his palm remained. Pressed close. Hidden.
That night, Helaena did not ask where he had been. She never did. She only sat by the fire with the twins, her soft voice murmuring riddles no one understood, her pale eyes flickering to his face and away again as if she knew everything and chose to forgive it anyway.
Description: The rebirth of Elia Martell, the forgotten princess, will awaken a storm of vengeance. Will Elia break free from the wheel of fate the gods have woven for her?
Genre: reincarnation, angst, revenge, dark fantasy, violence, minors do not interact...
Pairing: Elia Martell & ?
Warning: I fucking hate Rhaegar, I dont like Lyanna Stark, sorry not sorry. But I'll never try to twist their personality. They shine, they are good, they are what books depict them. That's it!! Only my beloved Elia will change
“Please!!”
“Let her go! She is my daughter! My firstborn child!”
Each word came out raw and hoarse, her voice fraying with every desperate plea. She lay broken on the cold stone as the brutish man wrenched her child from beneath the bed, the little girl’s ragged screams filling the room, tearing through the mother’s heart.
“My lord!! I beg you”
She crawled forward, fingers scraping against the floor, her mangled body reached the feet of the towering man.
“My lord–”
Cold blood splattered across her pale face.
The world stopped. Her eyes flew wide in horror and her breath catching in sharp, uneven gasps. Everything fell into a deafening silence.
Before her lay the severed head of her little girl.
“RHAENYS!”
A scream tore from her throat, shattering the stillness. She fell onto the cold ground, clutching the lifeless weight to her chest. Her whole world crumbled as the body of her little child grew cold in her arms.
“NO-NOO–MY DAUGHTER!!”
Suddenly, a rough hand seized her hair from behind, yanking her back with cruel force. The child’s body slipped from her grasp, her nails scraping helplessly against blood-slick skin as her body was dragged away. The man struck her face brutally, the metallic taste of blood flooding her mouth. Her desperate cries cut sharply through the air when the man ripped apart the silk garments on her body.
“Where’s your beloved husband, huh?”
Then the mace came down, a merciless blow crashed into the back of her head.
“Probably off protecting his mistress.”
The mace came again
And again.
Each strike to her skull fell heavier than the last, until the strength drained from her limbs and her body gave way, lying unconscious against the cold stone. Her vision blurred at the edges. In a haze of horror, she felt the vile part of him inside her body.
“Ohh! I forgot this whore’s son is already dead. Have you heard of it, princess? You are his dear wife, aren’t you?”
“Stupid man should have known better than to steal that Baratheon bastard’s betrothed.”
His rough hands ran over her body without care, pressing into the parts where her flesh had been savagely crushed. The sight of red blood only deepened his twisted desire.
“They tore each other apart over a Stark woman. And you—look at you—a princess – spread beneath me, taking my seed like a filthy whore, while your child’s head lies beside you, watching you.”
Elia’s vision darkened. She could no longer feel the pain; blood seeped slowly beneath her shift, the fabric growing cold as it soaked into the floor. Her remaining strength faded in slow waves, each breath growing thinner and thinner. The cold stone beneath her seemed to swallow what little warmth in her body.
The world around her narrowed into fragments of light and shadow. Sounds grew distant and muffled, as though they had been severed from reality itself.
Inhale
Exhale
Inhale
Exhale–
Elia’s breath stilled completely. Her hands, once clenched tightly in her dress, slowly loosened and fell limp at her sides.
But her eyes never closed, never moved.
She died with her eyes open.
They remained fixed on her little girl, her little daughter
A dark moth drifted toward her cold body, its wings brushing lightly against the dried tear on her bruised cheek, the death itself had finally come to her
283 AC
Princess Elia Martell was a Dornish princess and the wife of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the first son of King Aerys II Targaryen - the Mad King. She bore him two children, Rhaenys and Aegon. After Rhaegar was killed at the Battle of the Trident, she was left a widow. During the Sack of King’s Landing, the city was overrun by forces under Tywin Lannister. The Mountain burst into the royal chambers and before Elia's eyes, bashed her infant son's head against a wall, killing him instantly. Rhaenys, her daughter was killed after she was found hiding under Rhaegar's bed. Covered in the blood and gore of her children, the Mountain proceeded to brutally rape Elia, finally killing her by crushing her head.
“My daughter, My poor daughter....”
The soft voice came as a distant murmur, heavy with a grief that did not belong to the present.
Then–
it sharpened.
It grew nearer.
Too near
“Elia”
A blinding light burst through, searing everything into white.
.
.
.
.
Her eyes snapped open.
Air rushed into her lungs in a sharp, uneven breath, as though she had been dragged from the depths of drowning. Her body jerked upright, fingers clutching at the sheets beneath her.
“Quickly—send for the Maester. Princess has awakened.”
For a moment, she could see nothing; only shadows, only the lingering echoes of fire still burning behind her eyes.
“Elia, my daughter, I was so worried about you.”
“You’ve been unconscious for three days.”
The blurred vision before her slowly became clear. Hot tears spill down Elia’s cheeks, her lips parted slightly.
“M-Mother..”
Her mother’s hands gently lifted to brush the tears from Elia’s cheeks, her eyes brimming with endearing love and quiet worry.
“How are you feeling, love?”
Elia could not open her mouth; the words caught in her throat. The vision before her felt too real, too cruel to be anything but truth.
“The servants found you...almost drowned in the lake”
The Princess of Dorne, Diana Martell, her beloved mother, long since gone, gently took hold of her trembling hand—
“M-Mother— I–I couldn’t protect them”
The words broke apart on Elia’s lips as her body crumpled, She broke down in tears like a child, folding helplessly into her mother’s embrace.
“My daughter–My son-”
“They killed the-”
Diana gathered her into a tight embrace as Elia sobbed uncontrollably, her small hands clutching at her mother’s gown, wrinkling the fabric in her desperate grip
“Hush..my dear one… it was only a dreadful nightmare.”
“You are here with me now..”
Please..
Please, God
If all of this was just a dream
then never let her wake up
The gentle summer sunlight filtered through the lush green canopy of the Sun Garden, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the ground. The whispers of the wind carried a sense of blessing as they drifted through the vibrant rose bushes. Princess Elia Martell stood silently beneath the soft light, dappled rays of gold falling across her long hair.
“The apricot harvest is coming. I will have the kitchen prepare your favorite tarts.”
A voice came from behind her. Her brother, Oberyn Martell, stepped to her side.
His gaze lowered to her delicate hand, where a small insect rested upon her palm, its red-and-black shell glinting faintly.
“Since when did you take an interest in creatures like these?”
The quiet lingered, long enough for Oberyn to wonder if his words had slipped past her unheard.
“Such a beautiful creature… it will not hurt anyone, will it?” Elia slowly turned to her brother, her voice low, like an echo rising from the depths of the sea.
Something had changed. Oberyn knew it
Since the day Elia woke from that deathlike sleep, she had grown distant and quiet… a far cry from the warm, radiant girl who did carry the sun of Dorne within her.
Her emerald eyes, once like mirrors of Dorne’s hidden forests, now seemed impossibly far away.
The servants whispered of finding her sitting by the window for hours, still as stone, as though listening to something no one else could hear.
Oberyn watched. He waited.
He told himself it would pass. That she would laugh again, that the sun would return to the lovely daughter of Martell House.
But some nights, when Elia turned those eyes on him and did not seem to see him,
He felt it, sharp and deep in his chest.
In that moment, he realized. The dearest sister, The Dorne’s sun was never coming back…
“Elia… Let me escort you inside. Mother would have you pray with her.”
Princess of Dorne, Diana Martell, was a woman of faith. She was not one for fervent devotion or tales of miracles wrought by the Seven, yet her belief endured, a quiet flame that never went out.
The air inside the sept was warm, heavy with the scent of melted wax and the faint trace of incense long since burned away.
Diana knelt before the altar.
The candles burned low around her, their golden light gathering in the folds of her gown.
Elia knelt beside her.
Close enough that their sleeves brushed but there was a distance there no hand could cross.
Diana’s lips moved in prayer, each word shaped with care, as though she were laying them gently at the feet of the gods.
Elia did not pray.
Her hands were folded as they should be, her head bowed as she had been taught but no words came.
The Seven watched from their alcoves. Carved from pale stone, their faces had been worn smooth by time. The Father sat in judgment, The Mother’s arms were open, The Warrior stood tall, sword in his hand; The Maiden’s beauty was unchanging, The Smith’s hammer rested mid-fall, The Crone held her lantern high, whatever wisdom she offered lay buried in shadow.
And the Stranger
Set apart from the others, half-swallowed by darkness, their face was a thing unfinished. They said the Stranger came in the end, to take the lives of their loved ones from this world.
Yet no one could truly hate them. For the Stranger did not choose. They only came when they must. The hand of Fate, something far more merciless than cruelty
“My sweet love, would you like to join me for afternoon tea?”
The rose tea carried a faint herbal bitterness, its sweetness lingering soft upon the tongue. Diana turned the delicate teacup lightly in her hand, watching the thin curl of steam fade into the air.
Across from Princess’s side, her daughter sat in silence. Her gaze drifted somewhere far beyond the wall. The teacup before her remained untouched as its surface grew cold.
“Has that nightmare still been in your mind these past few days?”
Diana watched her for a moment. Then a moment longer before her daughter finally met her eyes.
“I think… I have lived another life. A life I was never given a choice in.”
“It seems like quite a strange experience for a dream” Diana said gently, pouring hot tea into her daughter’s cooling cup.
“But still… it was only a dream. Remember, you always have a choice, my dear. The blood of Martell runs strong and restless in your veins.”
Her hands firmly took her daughter’s, squeezing until her knuckles turned white. Beneath the beauty of a rose, there are always thorns that guard its bloom.
“Yes.. mother.”
The corners of Elia’s lips lifted into a faint smile. Perhaps it was the first time since that day Diana had seen anything like relief in her daughter.
Like a fragile flame, it flickered briefly, before being extinguished at the mere mention of a name—House Targaryen.
“The Queen has has summoned you to come to King’s Landing. This is the third letter this moon. Elia…your father and I cannot keep putting it off forever.”
Diana could feel the sudden shift in her daughter’s expression; the trembling of her lips, the tension that seized her body, as though she had just heard her own death sentence.
This was not the first time they had spoken of it. Nor was it the first time Elia had reacted so violently.
“No—please… Mother! I died there”
“In the room with the three dragon heads carved on the walls, and on that stone slab—”
“Elia, my love–”
“No–I was there. I saw it clearly–My children–”
“ELIA!! Look at me! It’s just a dream! Nothing but a twisted dream!”
Diana’s voice cut through sharply, but it trembled just enough to betray her fear—the fear that her poor daughter had suffered a trauma from some impact, that she was mad and unable to distinguish reality from the illusions of her dreams.
“But if it was just a dream…Why does it still feel like pain?”
Silence settled between them.
Diana pulled her closer, pressing her forehead gently against Elia’s. Only the wind brushing against the window remained, and her daughter’s breathing slowly beginning to calm.
“Because dreams can leave echoes, my little dove…But echoes are not reality.”
Elia closed her eyes. tears gathered at the corners her green eyes, spilling over despite her effort to hold them back. Diana gently stroked her daughter’s hair, the heart of a mother tightening painfully at the sight of the girl she loved more than anything.
It was just a dream
The sun was only just beginning to rise behind the western mountains of Sunspear, its pale light bleeding slowly into the lingering morning mist. In that quiet hour, where the world still felt half-asleep and cold, the Martell household’s retinue and guards stood ready. The carriages were prepared, supplies secured, and horses restless in their traces. Everything set for the journey ahead.
“Take care.. my daughter. The journey will take you several weeks.”
“I have already sent letters to the lords along your route, they will receive you warmly and offer you rest in their castles when you arrive.”
The Prince of Dorne, a man of stern and dignified bearing, paused briefly, his gaze softening for a fleeting moment as he looked at her daughter.
“The next time we see each other will be at your wedding celebration…”
Elia tried to swallow her tears, forcing them back down as best as she could. She didn’t want the last image her parents carried of her to be this broken. Her sorrowful eyes drifted past her parents, toward the farewell gathering behind them, searching for a small silhouette and that familiar tousled hair.
“Your brother..He cried all night, begging your father to go with you but the responsibilities of the heir to Sunspear cannot simply be set aside.”
Diana smiled gently, she had already read the thoughts behind her daughter’s searching gaze.
Elia’s heart sank. Oberyn did not want to see her one last time. She cast a lingering glance at her family, her mind was trying to etch them into memory.
“Please, take care of yourselves, Mother… Father..”
Princess Martell leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her father’s cheek, and then to her mother’s, bidding them a final farewell.
With every hoofbeat, the carriage drew farther from the SunSpear; her mind itself was being left behind with it.
Outside the window stretched a bright, endless sky. A sudden thought flickered through her mind; perhaps this would be the last time she would ever see the open skies of Dorne, feel them cradling her beneath their vast blue expanse.
A dark moth drifted in, settling softly on the carriage curtain before slowly making its way toward Elia’s hand when she was lost in thought.
It was just a dream…
She told herself again, trying to force herself to believe it.
A dream, with only echoes left behind. But it hurt, it hurt so badly. Half of her soul had remained trapped within that dream; the other half still lingered here, in her beautiful homeland.
Elia fixed her gaze on the dark moth, studying the strange patterns on its wings as though they held a meaning only she could sense.
"You want to leave with me, little thing?" Just as quietly as it had come, the moth lifted into the air and flew away.
“WAIT!”
Startled, she leaned out of the window, trying to see.
“SISTER!! STOP”
The sound of hoofbeats grew closer until, at last, a familiar young man came into view, drawing his horse to a halt before her carriage. She stepped down from it.
“Oberyn—”
The name barely left her throat before the boy reached up and pulled her into a tight embrace.
Elia froze in her place, breath caught somewhere between surprise and relief. Then she felt the muffled sound against her shoulder.
“P–Please. Take care of yourself. If anyone dares to hurt you, just tell me—I’ll protect you, even if it means standing against princes and even the king”
And that was it
The fragile defenses she had carefully built over the past few days to reassure her mother collapsed. She let out a broken sob, clutching her younger brother tightly as her whole body struggled to stand itself
“I-I don’t want to go anywhere, Oberyn. Never want to leave our homeland, leave our family .”
“I-I don’t want to marry with any prince”
Oberyn held her exhausted body closely, as if she were nothing more than a wisp of smoke that might dissolve into the air at any moment.
“Then don’t… don’t marry that Targaryen man! Don’t leave us…”
His voice came raw as he sniffled.
“Please, Elia. I’ll try to talk to Father again, no matter how long it takes… just hold on, sister. Please, wait for me”
“Mother, today the septa taught me how to play the harp. She said that if I keep practicing, one day I’ll be able to play the sacred hymns of our House”
Her small daughter leaned into her lap while her tiny fingers toying with the harp strings in quiet fascination.
“Very well, sweet love. A worthy effort will be rewarded,”
You gently pressed a kiss to the crown of her silver hair. The soft, platinum strands shimmered faintly in the light, resting against your own dark hair in a striking, almost poetic contrast.
“Mother…”
“Yes.. my dear” You said softly, your hands busy embroidering roses beside a dragon and curling tongues of flame. You found yourself wondering how the beauty of a rose could blend so seamlessly with the bloodstained, fierce nature of such a beast.
“When will Father come to see us? Would he be impressed if I could play the song he composed–”
Your needle paused abruptly.
It did pierce your fingertip, a sharp sting breaking your focus. A bead of red bloomed from the wound and seeped into the fabric, spreading where the rose was stitched.
You simply stared. The crimson spread through the threads, seeping into the embroidery until the delicate petals seemed charred by a deep, bloody red, their fragile beauty twisting into something wild and ruinous.
“Mother! You are bleeding!”
Elia pulled her daughter closer, wrapping her small body in a tight hug. Elia leaned in, her voice soft as a breath against her daughter’s ear.
“It’s alright, my love… Father will come to visit us soon, I promise. And I’m certain he’ll want to hear his beloved daughter play any song from the Seven Kingdoms.”
The older woman gently rubbed her aching back, the long journey having worn her frail body down over the past month; for the gods’ sake, it was nearing its end.
She turned to the young handmaiden beside her, the girl with chestnut hair.
“Go and wake the Princess,” she said. “We will need at least two hours to prepare before she is presented to the Queen."
The young girl hesitated, eyes dropping to her intertwined fingers.
“Can I not go?” she murmured. “Last time, the princess threw a metal cup at me, just because I wore a yellow hairpin–”
“It wasn’t the color. It was the sigil. You were wearing your betrothed’s house.”
“Gwen! What difference does it make?” she snapped back. “Ever since she woke up, the princess has been different. Perhaps rumours were right, she has lost her mind—”
“Mind your tongue,” Gwen cut in sharply, her tone like steel wrapped in silk. “Unless you want that cup aimed at your face instead of the wall. The princess showed restraint, those ridiculous lion sigils are far more irritating than you realize.”
Gwen rose to her feet, a mocking smile curling on her lips as she looked down at the other servant “I’ll go wake the princess. Have her dress prepared.”
The handmaiden named Gwen was tall and slender—tall enough that the unkind whispered she stood above any man in Dorne. She never spared them a thought, anyway.
Unlike the other ladies-in-waiting, who came minor noble houses with long pedigrees and carefully guarded pride, Gwen was a farmer’s daughter. When her father fell ill, the stewards of House Martell had lent her family coin and in return, she had given herself into their service to repay the debt.
Gwen began in the castle’s kitchens, scrubbing pots and peeling roots, but her quick hands and sharper eyes had not gone unnoticed. A Martell lady took an interest in her diligence, and soon she was reassigned to serve as a lady-in-waiting to Princess Elia Martell.
“Princess. Have you woken yet? May I enter?”
A knock echoed against the carriage door.
Silence.
Then another.
“Princess! I beg your permission to come in!”
Gwen stepped inside, and the sight before her stole the breath from her lungs.
Princess Elia lay crumpled on the floor, her body wracked with violent tremors, sweat soaking through her clothes. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and in her hand she gripped a bracelet so tightly that its sharp setting had bitten into her skin, blood slicked her palm and trailed down her wrist.
“Princess! Princess Elia! Please! Wake up!!”
Gwen panicked, lifting the princess into a leather seat and shaking her urgently. Gwen’s fingers moved quickly to pry the bracelet loose from the Elia’s grasp, struggling to unhook it from her bloodied hand.
The princess’s tense body gradually relaxed, her closed eyelids fluttered faintly.
“W-What happened?”
“You had a nightmare, my Princess. I’ll help you bandage this,” Gwen explained softly, showing the bracelet still stained with blood.
Elia stared at it in stunned silence.
It is just a dream
She told herself again and again
“Do not tell anyone…”
The servant nodded quietly “Yes, Princess.”
King’s Landing rose before them like a dream forged in stone and smoke. Golden roofs caught the sunlight and hurled it back in blinding shards, as though the city itself had been crowned in false gold.
Yet beneath that brilliance lay something heavier; crowded streets twisting like veins, chimneys exhaling endless grey breath, and the mingling scent of salt, sweat, and fire drifting up from Blackwater Bay.
Even from afar, it felt alive in a way that was almost unsettling, too many voices, too many secrets pressed together behind thick walls and taller ambitions.
And above it all, the Red Keep stood watch.
Red stone against a pale sky, ancient and unyielding, as if it remembered every oath ever broken within its walls.
Elia felt it; a feeling she despised, one she wished she could reject, deny, erase completely.
Familiarity.
A disgusting sense of familiarity that twisted deep in her stomach, making her feel sick.
It’s just a dream…
It’s merely a dream
The last time she had been here was fourteen years ago, on King Aerys II’s fifty-fifth name day.
She reassured herself once more, taking each heavy step as though weights had been bound to her ankles, dragging her forward across the threshold of the Red Keep.
“Princess Elia Martell of House Martell, Princess of Dorne.”
The great doors of the Red Keep groaned open. The herald’s steady voice rang out as the Queen, a Targaryen woman bearing the distinct beauty of her house, stood before them in resplendent ceremonial attire, a retinue gathered behind her.
They had all come to welcome the new princess from Dorne with eager anticipation; save for the two most powerful men in the castle: the King and the Prince; her future father-in-law and her soon-to-be husband.
Princess Elia Martell stood out beneath the sunlight of the Red Keep, her long black hair cascading like a dark river over her shoulders. Her beauty seemed like a single bright pearl set against a field of stones, an otherworldly presence amid the ordinary. But what truly set her apart, the detail that made the servants whisper and the squires unable to look away was her eyes, a striking blend of sky blue and deep green like distant fields at dawn, they are enchanting but… cold, almost haunting in their perfection.
“My dear…”
The Queen greeted her with a warm embrace, her gentle gaze lingering a moment longer on Elia. “You are flawless.”
Elia lowered her eyes as she bowed her head slightly “You are too kind, Your Grace.”
“Forgive me—my eldest son was not present to greet you. He… prefers to keep himself occupied among the smallfolk. But I will make sure he escorts you to dinner tonight.”
Rhaella let out a gentle smile, though traces of old sorrow lingered in her finely carved violet eyes.
Elia Martell had heard the rumors, everyone had. The whispers of what the King had done to his sister-wife spread through the court like a poison that would not fade, spoken in hushed tones, never quite daring to be named outright.
The Mad King, they called him.
The horrible, depraved things the King had done only served as proof that madness ran in Targaryen blood; a curse placed upon them by the gods.
A dream—nothing more than a twisted nightmare, as her mother had said.
She had told herself this a thousand times over, walking through the corridors without a trace of hesitation, as though the endless halls of the maze were nothing more than an old, familiar map she had studied and traced time and again.
Perhaps the memories from fourteen years past were still etched too deeply within her… so deeply that Elia could recall even the precise corners where the dragon banners would be hung, and the exact order in which each torch was to be lit—
It was only a dream
Only only a dream
She repeated it to herself, until it became like a prayer offered up to the gods, whispered over and over in the hollow places of her mind.
The evening feast held in her honor was already being prepared.
In her chambers, Elia stood still while her ladies-in-waiting moved around her in quiet, practiced grace. One smoothed the golden fabric over her shoulders, another tightened the laces with careful hands, while the rest adjusted the folds so they fell perfectly.
The gown was the colour of sunlit sand, rich and warm, embroidered with the proud sun sigil of House Martell. It caught the candlelight with every subtle shift, as though it had been woven to hold light itself.
Unbowed, Unbent and Unbroken
“You look… beautiful, my Princess”
When they stepped back, there was a brief silence. Elia stood adorned in gold and sun, beautiful in a way that felt both distant and inevitable, like a story already written.
Princess Martell moved gracefully along the corridor that led to the feast hall, each step carrying the quiet precision of someone born into ceremony. The golden folds of her gown followed in soft, fluid motion, trailing like sunlit water across stone.
Some young lords gathered along the passage could scarcely look away. Some lowered their gazes too late, others forgot entirely to pretend indifference.
And all those poems that once praised her as the most ethereal woman in the Seven Kingdoms, the maiden of Sun—once dismissed as courtly exaggeration—suddenly felt less like flattery, and more like truth spoken too softly to be believed.
Across the hall of the feast, Queen Rhaella Targaryen maintained a composed stillness, her poise unbroken beneath the weight of courtly ceremony. She had never truly favoured such gatherings; they were too loud, too bright, too full of smiling masks.
And always, she knew what would follow. when the music faded and the courtiers withdrew, the King - her husband would drift away into his private revelries, followed by whatever new mistress had caught his restless eye that night.
But what unsettled her more than the feast itself tonight was her eldest son, Rhaegar Targaryen, perhaps wandering somewhere in the narrow alleys below Flea Bottom. He had never been a man driven by such base desires as to seek comfort in brothels, and yet neither had he fully embraced the weight of duty that rested upon the shoulders of an heir.
In a little while, the beautiful maiden of House Martell, soon to be his wife, would sit alone at the great table beneath the watchful eyes of the court. And the man who would soon be her husband was nowhere to be found.
The herald’s voice rang out across the hall. She prayed it would be her son, but instead it was a lord of House Frey—Ulric Frey, a short, heavyset man with a large belly. People said his belly was so big because it held all the coins he had embezzled.
Not Rhaegar.
The voice called out again, this time a lesser lord of House Tully.
She wondered, not for the first time, how these minor lords always seemed to find the time to attend every royal feast, from the smallest gathering to the grandest courtly affair.
Of course, invitations were sent across the realm; she knew that well enough. Rhaella herself was not unkind to guests. And yet she could not help but wonder whether all this time spent binding themselves to the royal court was ever truly worth it.
Once again, not Rhaegar.
She sighed deeply as each lord came forward to pay their respects before returning to their seats around the great hall.
As the worst vision the Queen had ever allowed herself to imagine, the Princess of House Martell sat alone through the night; her posture was flawless, her movements measured with quiet elegance.
The Queen’s dearest son was not at her side to share the silence, nor to soften the scrutiny. Only quiet absence where presence was expected.
Elia received every greeting, every compliment, every assessing glance; a lady truly had been raised for these courtly gatherings. The Queen saw no flicker of discomfort, no trace of fatigue upon the princess’s face. Not even when a lord dared to inquire after her betrothed's strange absence.
“Ser Alan of the Kingsguard will escort you to your chambers. You should rest, my dear.” The Queen spoke dearly
Princess Martell dipped into a graceful curtsey “Your Grace,” she murmured, then turned and departed at a composed pace, the whisper of silk trailing behind her as the white cloak of the Kingsguard followed close.
The Queen was silently impressed by the young woman of House Martell. A bright sun, taken from Dorne, now set against the grey of King’s Landing.
“She would make a fine queen one day.”
“My dearest child… I knew I would find you here. Your septa said you were absent from your lessons today.”
The woman stepped quietly into the chamber, a small candle flickering in her hand. The room lay in hushed stillness; the three-headed dragon on the ceiling had dulled with dust despite the servants’ careful tending. It had been so long since this once-cozy room had grown desolate, emptied of the human presence that once gave it life.
A small bundle beneath the covers stirred softly, curling further into the shadows of the room. Elia let out a quiet sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed beside the little form, her hand resting gently over her swollen belly.
“Sweet love, come back to your chambers with me—”
“Father will never come to visit us again..”
The child’s soft sobs filled the air, each trembling breath clenching the mother’s heart. It was not the first time Rhaenys had slipped away into her father’s chambers.
Her body curled into the old covers, clutching them close as if they might still hold her Father. The faint scent left behind had long begun to fade; she buried her face deeper into the fabric, pretending it was his warmth, his arms, still there to hug her.
“Oh, my little one. Your father is... busy with his duties. He will return to us soon.”
“You always say that–”
Elia gently stroked her daughter’s back, offering what comfort she could. Her heart ached as she watched her daughter cling to the fading remnants of her father’s presence. The life within her womb shifted, a faint kick making her flinch slightly in discomfort. Elia might give birth within days. She only hoped Rhaegar would return in time… at least, she did not wish to face the threshold of death alone.
“How about.. we shall sleep here, tonight and tomorrow we will write a letter to your father?
“But you must promise me, you are not to miss another lesson with the septa, little love”
She lay down beside her little daughter, drawing the girl close into her arms. The child buried her face against her chest, sniffling softly.
Elia knew what her husband had been doing, how the whispers had already reached even the Red Keep. But she loved him too deeply, clinging too tightly to the prince of her dreams, the father of her children, the man she had spent her entire life admiring and believing in.
“It will be alright…” she murmured, as much to her daughter as to herself.
.
.
.
.
.
Rhaenys.
Rhaenys…
My daughter…..
The entire body of Elia was drawn forward through the empty corridors, beyond her own control, as if guided by unseen whispers. She was led down the winding staircases, past the ancient library where dust-laden tomes slept in silence, through shadowed hallways lined with faded tapestries, and beneath stone arches that opened into the cold inner gardens of the castle.
Elia’s body locked rigid before the great chamber door, a vast set of carved wood and iron bands rising before her like an unyielding wall. There were no guards stationed outside; only silence, heavy and suffocating, pressing against her skin. The torches along the corridor flickered weakly, casting long, trembling shadows across the stone floor that seemed to stretch toward her like grasping hands.
Her heart pounded, each beat tearing against her ribs.
Just one more time…
Please…
Let it be nothing more than a dream.
The door creaked open. Her world tilted. Long-buried memories, thought to have been sealed away behind that old door, came rushing back like a violent tide, each one striking her mind like a blade reopening forgotten wounds.
Mama! I’m scared
Where is Father?
“Rhaenys!!”
No. No. No. Don’t hide under the bed—
Her frail body lurched forward, her bare feet striking the cold stone floor. Her hands shook as she tore the covers back. She dropped to her knees, desperately searching for the small figure beneath the bed.
Nothing…
Nothing–
There was nothing there.
Only darkness remained, swallowing everything whole.
“Rhaenys..”
A hollow cold spread through her chest, tightening around her heart in a silent vice. She could not scream. Could not weep. She sat there, her soul had been torn apart and left behind in that void.
“Princess? What are you doing in my chambers at this hour?”
In the moment she turned back
when that familiar silhouette came into view
Her world shifted once more. Not into despair, not into confusion, but into fear. A cold, suffocating fear of realization: that she was living it again, forced to relive once more the same horrifying life she thought she had escaped.
It was not a just a dream
It was never a nightmare
That was her life
That was what she had been through in... past live?
Once again, she would have to witness the deaths of her children, once again endure all that unbearable pain, unbearable shame…
“They tore each other apart over a Stark woman. And you—look at you—a princess – spread beneath me, taking my seed like a filthy whore, while your child’s head lies beside you, watching you.”
This piece of writing took me a whole month just to come up with idea and write it down.
It’s supposed to have five super long chapters like this <33 . Timeline in the original story will be changed due to my own storyline but in general, every characters and important events stay the same.
Thinking about Elia having to endure all of it, I can’t even sleep well. Yeah… a different ending, a revenge for our little Elia. Please support me <333
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Description: A young doctor, Angelie, was living a dream life in Paris—until a sudden accident tore her from it and cast her into the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. Born with extraordinary medical knowledge, will she become the thread that rewrites fate itself—or princes’s obsession will slowly destroy her?
Genre: romcom, reincarnation, slow-burn, smut, violent, angst to comfort, many love interest ( MC is a real mess )
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
i.
“♬ Grass is green in summer, green grass I adore. ♪ But grass is red all over when you kill a rebel ♫”
Egg sat swaying on a tree branch, softly humming The Hammer and the Anvil song. He ran his knife along a whetstone. Beneath the tree, Angelie leaned against its trunk in silence, staring out at the distant meadow.
“Those sheep would make good grilled meat”
“Mhm..”
Egg peered down, following your gaze “Ever tried honey-roasted lamb, Angelie? Best thing you’ll find in the Vale, or so they say.”
You didn’t answer
“Angelie?”
“No… I-I haven’t,” you mumbled. His voice pulled you from your thoughts.
Far off, plump sheep grazed quietly, the scene peaceful in a way that felt almost unreal, so at odds with the storm churning inside you.
“You seem lost in your thoughts..”
“It’s nothing…”
Egg climbed down from the tree and sat beside you. You reached out and rubbed his shaved, smooth scalp; the feeling still strange; only a week ago, it had been soft with pale, silvery hair.
“Is it because of what happened at the joust the other day? I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you… Dunk told me. I think you were really brave, standing up to voice your mind”
“It’s alright…I know you’re trying to avoid your family.”
You giggled as you couldn’t resist pinching his chubby cheek. Egg frowned, though he didn’t pull away from your touch.
“And yes… I’ve had a lot on my mind lately…about how fragile my life truly is.”
You hesitated. “One day… out of the blue, out of nowhere, I could just…die.”
The silence lingered, long enough for you to rise, intending to gather more wood for the fire. It would grow cold once the dew fell at night.
“I promise I’ll be your protector, Angelie,”
His sudden words drew a faint, amused smile to your lips. “I’ll be waiting then”
“And I’ll ask for your hand when I’m grown. You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”
“Ohh, that’s cutee… but I’m ten years older than you, you know.”
“I don’t jest, Angelie! Stop”
Now you couldn’t help but laugh out of breath
ii.
The white horse, Sweetfoot, had been sold to a merchant. Dunk said he needed coins to buy proper armor.
It left him quiet and downcast the whole evening, for the beast had once been ridden by Ser Arlan of Pennytree, the hedge knight Dunk had served.
“I miss him...”
Dunk told you and Egg not to fret, promising that he would win and take the Sweetfoot back.
The night sky was strewn with stars, and the constellations burned bright above. Though Ashford was dusty and loud enough by day to make your head ache, by night it grew so quiet that only the soft rustling of leaves and the faint sounds of insects could be heard.
You lay awake, a blanket beneath you to keep the worst of the cold from the hard ground. You knew that Dunk had given you the thickest one, and Egg a cloth sack to rest his head upon, keeping for himself only a thin covering beneath his great, hulking frame.
You counted the stars in your head, their faint light flickering in your eyes. A short distance away from you, he shifted restlessly in the dark. Egg had long since drifted into sleep, worn out from exhaustion while Dunk had not yet fallen asleep.
“Why would you wish to be a knight ?”
A moment passed before he answered.
“I’ve always wondered that myself, too.”
He paused
“I keep thinking on what might come after this tourney. whether some lord will take me into his service, or if I’ll just go on as a hedge knight. Probably I am searching for myself, for my...place in this world.”
You both stared up at the star-strewn night sky as another moment of silence passed.
“Every soul comes to this world and holds a place…I believe”
Angelie asked “You think so?”
“I believe it”
Dunk said firmly, his voice earnest
“Ser Arlan rode in nearly six hundred tourneys and never won one. He drank wine, lay with women from many lands, and to some, he was an odd sort—some even called him a wretched man.”
His voice carried through the quiet night, heavy with longing for the past memories and an endless sense of gratitude for the dead man.
“But to me, Ser Arlan was a true knight, he saved my life more than once”
“He is a true knight! I wish I could meet him, Dunk. Sounds like a free-spirited man with a wild soul.”
A vision forming in your mind, a man astride a white horse, roaming the endless plains, a flask of wine in one hand and a steel in the other.
“What a life he must have lived.”
Though you didn’t turn, you knew Dunk was stealing glances at you.
“You and him are alike in some ways… both of you are rebellious.”
“So are you, ser. We are all misfits in a world that is already chaotic.” You giggled “Hmm, I should come up with a name for the three of us—Ser Duncan the Tall, Angelie the Witch, and Egg… the Egg.”
Your sweet laughter made the big man’s heart skip a beat. He would strive for victory in every joust, that Angelie might never see him defeated.
iii.
“He’s been burning with fever for two days… Last night it got worse again. I wiped him down with warm water, just as you instructed.”
The red-haired woman’s face lined and marked with age spots. She could not hide her exhaustion as her baby boy was sleeping in her arms.
“Can I hold him?”
The woman gently passed the child to you. You took him into your lap, softly pressing your cheek to his forehead, feeling the heat of his fever.
“Hey...baby Henry. Is your head in pain now?” The boy named Henry gave you a faint nod. His eyes half-lidded with weariness
“Prepare a draught of water with sugar and a pinch of salt. Let him take it in small sips, little by little. And remember to boil the water before you use it.”
“We mostly draw water from the well… we only boil it when we cook.”
“Water from the well may seem clear but it may carry unseen sickness. It could worsen his fever, set his belly to aching. Boil it, and the harm will be driven out.”
Then you turned to little Henry “And you, brave hero! Listen to your mom, eat well, and get a little fresh air out of your bed. When you feel better, I’ll give you some honey sweets.”
After the first night of the tourney, word spread, and from time-to-time people began to seek you out for healing.
The first was a man with a leg gone badly to infection. You worked on him at once, cleaning the wound and cutting it open to release the pus. It took you nearly half a day. The poor farmer tried to press a few coins into your hand, though you gave them back immediately.
From that day on, people came more often. They were all common folks, worn by hardship, struggling simply to survive.
“We don’t have any so-called masters here…”
“There are a few who call themselves healers, but most of them are frauds.”
“The ones who are truly skilled, they go off to serve lords and nobles, leaving the smallfolk like us to fend for ourselves.”
Perhaps, in this new world, you were finally beginning to find your place.
iv.
Nearly half an hour had passed, the Rat Catcher who’d written you a letter, had still not shown up.
The alley was swallowed in darkness, thin shafts of weak sunlight barely reaching the ground. Today was gray and dim, with a storm brewing over your head.
“Goddd! I’m charging extra for the wait-” you turned back in annoyance.
From the gloom, a lone figure stepped forth. Black and crimson blended upon their cloak, a three-headed dragon emblazoned across it, the sight bearing down on you with a suffocating weight.
Your eyes flew wide, as though the very ground beneath you threatened to collapse. In that moment, you actually wished it would open and swallow you whole.
“Prince Aerion—”
“So you’re the one this whore’s son spoke of,”
A flicker of distaste crossed his face.
He flexed his knuckles, as though only moments ago they had been pressed against the man’s bruised flesh
“Took a few blows to his ribs before this bastard decided to talk about your little meeting here.”
Your heart hammered in your chest.
Of all cursed luck, of all the people you could run into… it had to be the vilest, most twisted monster in the entire story…and here, in a place so desolate and cut off that even if you screamed the throat raw, the only thing anyone would hear would be the distant clang of hammer on iron; even if you died, your body would putrefy long before anyone came looking.
“The Rat Catcher —You killed him!!"
A soft, humorless sound escaped him
“Death would be far too merciful. I merely crippled one of his legs and sent him back to his whore wife” His gaze flicked aside “He was once a man of some service.”
A chill ran down the spine. You stomach turned and roiled with dread
You didn’t react.
At least, not outwardly.
Inside, something twisted tight in your chest, but your face remained still, your gaze steady as you met his.
“What did he do to be condemned as a traitor?” you asked, teeth clenched as your eyes flicking around for any sign of escape.
He stood before the alley’s only exit, his presence imposing, blocking your way, trapping you like prey in a hunter’s sights.
“That man deceived us, deceived a prince. He fed poison to those pitiful soldiers. Weak, sniveling bastards who wouldn’t have live through the war anyway.”
“They did survive a war—”
The words died in your throat when the Targaryen prince suddenly slammed you against the wall, his hand closing tight around your throat.
A distorted smile crept across his face
“Tell me! I’ve already crippled that man. And you, the smart whore behind it all. what’s a fitting end for you?”
Your throat was choked in his grip, forcing broken, fragmented words out of you.
“Please—Prince Aerion!! I’m just a common healer— he said he’d pay me—The Rat Catcher!! The soldiers needed calming after Blackfyre’s war—”
“Mind your whorish tongue! Speak. what is your purpose behind poisoning my soldiers?"
His hand tightened brutally as his nails bit into your skin, drawing blood. Your eyes burned with stinging tears.
So this was how it ended… your second life?
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fucking No Way!!
“Because… I admire Dragon— I admire Targaryens. People...they say you are a dragon in human form…”
Your fingers weakly brushed against his hand around your throat. You could feel the tension in your neck easing, the grip had loosened slightly for a fleeting moment.
Then
A slap snapped your head to the side, sharp and disorienting. Pain bloomed across your face, and the vision blurred with tears.
“Another lie. Another attempt at flattery. I know you common cunts never had any liking for me.”
His gaze hardened "Speak again. What did you and the Rat Catcher scheme together?”
A metallic taste filled your mouth.
You pressed your lips together tightly, making a insane decision.
This was going to be a life-or-death gamble.
“I made an arrangement with the Rat Catcher“
You spoke carefully
“He said that if I worked with him, he would find a way to make me become a lady-in-waiting for you. My prince, I have admired you for a very long time…”
Perhaps empty, rehearsed words like these would not loosen the guard of a narcissist like him.
Slowly, you took his other hand, the one still cold in yours, and gently pressed your lips to his wrist in a yearning, deliberate kiss.
Aerion stopped
You could clearly see dark, unnamed shadows drift across his purple eyes
A quiet laugh left him.
“Another way of saying I’m a whore with a mind? How amusing”
The hand that had been gripping your throat slowly slid down, caressing the fabric of your chest
“Kneel”
A deathly silence fell. You looked up at him, your dove eyes stretched wide with sheer terror.
“Show me just how a whore like you thinks she can seduce a dragon prince”
You gasped, then immediately froze as Aerion drew a blade from his belt and pressed it against the hollow between your breasts.
He forced the blade downward. Your knees gave way, lowering you until they touched the hard stone ground.
“Please me. I might consider sparing your filthy tongue”
Under his cold, piercing gaze, your trembling hands moved toward his belt buckle—
“What do you think you’re doing?”
At the entrance of the alley, an older man stepped in, his black cloak bearing the regal and imposing three-headed dragon sigil of House Targaryen.
Another Targaryen man...
But there was something sharper in his voice, more severe that made Aerion’s brow tighten.
You could feel his body go rigid.
“Father…”
“You tortured a loyal soldier of our house who has served for twenty years. And now you’re doing something this depraved out in the open?”
“He’s a traitor, and this whore—”
“Enough.” The older man cut off sharply. “How far do you intend to disgrace our house? Go back to the castle. We will speak to you there.”
“We?”
“Baelor has already heard about your foolish actions.”
In a brief second, you almost thought your eyes had deceived you. Aerion had definitely flinched; subtle but unmistakably there.
Perhaps mentioning that name had struck something in him.
Aerion turned away and walked off, not once looking back at you. His figure disappeared beyond the wall’s edge, until even his shadow was gone.
You were dragged up from the depths of hell, your strength left you all at once, and you slumped down to the dirty ground.
“Thank you, prince Maekar”
The prince glanced at you, and for a heartbeat, you caught a glimpse of what Aerion might look like in old age. They truly bore the finest, most refined features of Valyrian and Targaryen blood.
Through his brief look of surprise and the way it turned to a frown, you could tell he still remembered you. Just a few days ago, you had fought like a mad man with a maester in front of the entire royal family during the tourney, all to save a knight from Dorne
“You are a clever woman. Stay away from him”
Why not tell your son to keep his distance from everyone?—The words almost cut through your restraint, but you held them in, forcing a silent nod instead.
tags: friends to lovers; love confessions; repressed feelings; requited unrequited love; established friendship;
[[[[[Valarr and you are childhood friends. Only friends, you thought for such a long time that it became part of your narrative. Oh, you know him so well because you’re his friend. He looks at you from across the crowded ballroom because you are his oldest friend. There could never be anything else… could it?]]]]]
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
You pretend to be happy.
And it works, for the most part.
It’s not hard to reacquaint yourself with all the cold, solid facts in the harsh light of day. When you see Valarr at court, the next morning, red-eyed and hair askew, the distance between your bodies is an ocean. It is just as it is. He looks at you from across the room, his eyes awkward and full of that nameless longing, and time suppresses for a terrible few moments before you have the good sense to avert your eyes.
You try to be glad.
You remind yourself that there is no reason to be otherwise. That the flame you felt, for one night, burning and engulfing you whole, was not real. You cannot even name it. Could not be meant for forever in any sense. A reasonable person could see that a love so haunting could ruin you even if you got a hold of it. And you are, or at least trying to be, a reasonable person.
For the most part.
You stop attending court hearings, you stop attending the feasts and the balls. You try to blend yourself into the life that will soon be yours. You mend broken buttons of shirts, you relearn to stitch like a lady, you forgo passion for beetles and spiders and you try to dream of the air over at Casterly Rock. That stone hill menace facing the Sunset Sea. You always liked the open sea. When you were both young, you and Valarr fantasied about living on a distant island together—a patch of land unmarked by any other man.
You try to rid your head of baseless thoughts.
Tywald Lannister is not a romantic. But he has a good heart and a good mind and is gentleman enough to give you space while you compose yourself to the kind of life he proposes. You can tell he is cautious, at your morning walks through the paved pathways of King’s Landing, at the bone-stiff courtesies when you meet in the afternoon. He knows that your heart and your head are not aligned, and his passive knowledge makes it all more hideous to you. Your own longing, stretched across. invisible places, touching a man who is scores away while making insidious plans of living the rest of your life with another. What a wicked woman you are. What a senseless, pathetic creature.
So after a while you double down on your attempts. You smile more at Ser Lannister. You let him hold your hand. Your mouth curves into a smile when he presses a much-too-fleeting kiss to the back of your hand at the stable. You agree to accompany him to the blessing ceremony of the Prince and his betrothed because you find no clever excuse to refuse.
_______
The procession is a tedious affair.
It’s a long march with the entirety of the Red Keep walking alongside the royal family, from the castle to the Great Sept, to watch the royal blessing of their future king and queen. The betrothed pair is walking side by side at the front, their parents and the King are following just behind. Beyond them the lords and lesser lords and all the other unimportant individuals are walking, in the same rhythm, to the Sept. The kingsguard are the only people on their horses, their silver cloaks are billowing in the wind. It is a fresh, bright morning and everything is a dream. Everything about the procession is splendid. The bold colours, the excitement, the laughter ringing off the streets in a heavy octave. The smallfolk have arranged themselves on the sides of the road to catch only a glimpse of the Prince and his bride.
You are there somewhere in the back, cladded in your powder blue gown, along with the other unimportant lords and ladies, one hand threaded with Ser Lannister. You are a fleck of dust, a nonentity among the masses who will wait outside as Prince Valarr and Kiera of Tyrosh stand in front of the High Septon. You will hear their hushed sighs like a block in your heart. The septon will bless their union ahead of their wedding. It will be the final mark of acceptance before they are joined forever.
You feel sick.
Your chest presses against the unsteady beat of your heart. You shake your head, convincing yourself that there is no reason whatsoever to act so foolishly. You have felt Valarr’s eyes on you this morning, once, just before the march started. His eyes caught yours for a fraction of a second, at the large, iron gate of the castle. It was only a second, then he looked away and held the hand of Kiera of Tyrosh, starting the first day of their shared future.
It’s an intolerable heat with the morning sun glaring overhead. The air around you is stifled with people’s smells, all clogging your senses. You already feel lightheaded, even without the burning thoughts inside your head. As you pass the street in the measly rhythm, you hear the smallfolk gushing over his bride.
“She is a beauty.”
“They shall make a fine match.”
“By the gods, does he not look so happy?”
Your eyes burn. You are so far from Valarr that you cannot see him properly anymore. And you see him now not through your eyes, but the eyes of these strangers raving about his happiness, his good luck, his good life.
And it hits you now, the gravity of your decision. What you truly comported to, agreed to, resorted to. You will never see him smile again, at least not so closely. You will not see the little crinkle between his eyes, or count the freckles in his cheeks—or stare at them as they get darker when he is blushing. You will never discern the exact shades of his mismatched eyes, or run your fingers through that silver streak in his hair. You will never dare to make him laugh, just one more time, just to feel his breath on your hair, as you stay out past your bedtime. You will not see him lose his composure and stare longingly at your lips for a beat too long after you’ve drunk a whole bottle of stolen Arbour wine. From this moment on you will pass up the opportunity to ever see a spider together again, to wonder what colours it was seeing.
Your eyes blur as senseless tears pool around their rims. There is a shortage of air in the world. There is a shortage of colours, suddenly. And soon, you feel, there will be none of it. Your head feels heavy and you suddenly take another step too fast.
And you fall, quite unceremoniously, to the ground. You let out a helpless cry at the sudden, blinding pain at your feet.
“My lady!” Ser Lannister kneels down beside you, holding your shoulders. “Are you not feeling well?”
“I am—fine,” you grit out the words. He helps you back up and you cannot help the tears falling from your eyes. “I really am, we should—should—” Your ears are ringing. You shake your head and try to take a step forward but your feet burn at even the attempt.
“We should go back.”
“No, no.” You cannot be this foolish. You cry out in utter humiliation of the fact that the person holding you knows everything there is to know about you. And he is kind. “I have—”
You stop talking as you hear a collective gasp. You whip your head away from the surprised face of your companion and look onto the street. At first you only see a blur of black and red. And suddenly there is a person kneeling in front of you. You feel Ser Lannister’s hand grip your elbow go tighter, your chest heave in a mangled breath before you ever see him.
His dark red clock. The dark boots. The silver streak visible and damning as he kneels in front of you.
Valarr.
He is kneeling in front of you with eyes of the entire King’s Landing on him. The entire city is on the street yet there is no sound, not at this moment. It’s a studding silence around you and Valarr. You can feel their eyes as great as the eyes of the gods above. No one breathes a word. No one even breathes.
His hands are on your injured feet. And you gasp in pain as his fingers touch the spot of the broken skin. You see the skin blue and purple, already swelling into an ugly bruise. His fingers hover above the site of injury. Just there. As you need it to be.
“You should’ve been more careful,” he is saying. There is a chip in his voice.
“Your Grace…”
“You are bleeding.”
“I am—” You gasp as he lifts his hand and tears out a patch from his dress shirt. He does not look up at you as he puts the cloth around your injured skin and binds against the bleed carefully. He is not looking at you, his hands are trembling, yet they have a strange devotion, as if he is already inside a sept.
This might have taken a moment, all things considered. But you fear you might never move, time is stilted. Unable to move as the people around you are unable to stir from their stupor.
After he finishes, and the world still feels stopped at its axis, he leans down, and presses his lips against your feet in a trembling, devoted kiss.
There is a gasp—another collective gasp—that bears on you like the sigh of god. The people have moved, they have started to whisper.
You feel as if you might faint. Everything is tilted. Everything unreal. As if you are the only two real things in a sea of nothingness. Valarr stands up then, looks at you with his heavy, red-rimmed, lovely eyes. He shakes off the arm of Ser Lannister from your shoulder as if it’s nothing. His eyes are only for you.
“You need to see a maester,” he says. “Can you walk?”
“Valarr—”
He scoffs, doesn’t even wait for you to finish. He puts his arms around your waist and picks you up in one swift motion, like a man picking up his bride. Like he has a right to. You find yourself letting him, dizzy beyond measure, your head as useless as bread-pudding. You let him take your entire weight as you stay very, very still against him. You feel his heart beat on your skin, you can smell him as clear as day.
Valarr looks over his shoulder and, for the first time, acknowledges the staring, intrusive, real world.
“I am taking her to her bedchambers,” he says only to his parents.
You stare at Princess Jena and Prince Baelor. Both of them stunned into statues. Yet, as Valarr walks off with you, you think you see a slight smile at Prince Baelor’s lips. A haughty, misbegotten smirk. He almost looks proud.
You are silent for the entire walk back to the castle. You are silent when people around you gasp. They scatter aside when Valarr enters through the gates with you in his arms. They squeal and they wheeze and someone even shouts, though you do not know what. You do not know anything.
Tentatively, all your sensations come back in, one by one, in that long and winding walk. You finally find in it yourself to yell at him when he enters your bendchambers, and locks the door cautiously, maneuvering his partially free hand.
“Are you insane?” you yell. “What have you done?”
Valarr does not answer. He walks over calmly and lays you down on your bed.
“We need a maester,” he says determinedly. He walks a few steps away, to the door, presumably, but stops when you call out his name.
“Valarr.”
He turns back, comes closer once again. And now you see him. Your Val. Trembling and arduous and anxious. He is so anxious. You are almost vexed at yourself by how much you want to calm him right now.
“You are still bleeding,” he says finally. “And there’s a bend in your ankle. Might be a sprain.”
“What have you done?” you whisper.
He tilts his head defiantly. “What I should have done a long time ago.”
“Now everyone knows…”
He scoffs, it ends in a laugh. “Everyone already knows. They have always known. One look at us, one sparing glance at us for a moment in the last ten years and anyone would know.”
“You have ruined me forever.”
This stirs something inside him. He kneels beside your bed, eyes deep and heavy. “There is no ruin. Marry me.”
Something painful snaps inside you. You press your lips to stop from saying something insidious. He does not goad you, does not touch you, does not do anything but look at you in great wonder. The sunlight on his frame is insidious, ominous, extraordinarily lovely.
You take a short breath. “Kiera… the Tyroshi—”
“They’ll survive. I shall kneel and ask their forgiveness and they will forget this day in a few months. I, however, will be ruined if I lose you. I know I can never recover. Can you?”
“This is insane.”
“What if you fell and cracked your ankle at Casterly Rock?” he rambles desperately, his voice cracking at the end of it. “I would not even know of it. What if I have a bout of the Spring Sickness. You might never know of it before I perish. Do you not find that insane? That you can love someone so much yet still be so far away from them?”
“Your father—”
“He loves you, my entire cursed family loves you. For you. They just have to start loving you as my wife, their princess. I shall talk to your mother and father. They will not doubt my sincerity.”
You stare at him. At his crazed eyes, the intensity. Could this be true?
“Marry me, darling. Be my princess, my queen, my life. Make me the happiest man in the world.”
You feel a tear at your cheek, and he wipes it away just as quick. Just as soft, he speaks his next words.
“We have not considered all the possibilities, my darling. We get married, we have a corner of our bedchamber dedicated to our beetle collection. On summer nights we watch the heavens together, trace the constellations, make… make love under the stars. We have our honeymoon in Essos, drink Pentoshi wine, walk on the Red Desert and watch the red, blinding sun set against the horizon. You chastise me whenever I make a questionable political decision. My Lords snicker at me behind my back because they know I do not take any decision without consulting you first, but secretly they are glad about it—because you know people better than anyone else, you see things differently than others. And our daughter looks like me; our son takes after you. They are the most beautiful things we’ll ever behold. At night we’ll watch over them like two crazy people, unable to believe their good fortune. And we live happily ever after.”
You have long stopped breathing. You have long stopped remembering that you have an arduous, working heart. An incredible thing, it is, halting and starting its tireless beating every few moments.
“Say something.” The boy you loved for ten long years has his eyes set on you. “If only my name. Say it.”
“Valarr.” You sniff, you head heavy, heedy, dizzy. “Are you certain?”
He nods. A short, sharp tilt of his head.
“I love you,” you say, even if to just taste them again on your tongue. To check the truth of it, like lemon cakes, like wine. Like fresh, clean water. “I love you terribly.”
“I know.” He puts his hand against your cheek, and leans up to press a desperate kiss on your lips. “I love you incessantly. It’s a lonely life, I have, and the thought of passing it without you is what makes it most unbearable.”
You close your eyes. Feel his lips utter those words against yours. And you nod.
You feel his smile.
You taste its sweetness, mixed with his tears as you kiss him.
Outside, the world is turning its wheel. If you listen, if you even attempt to listen, you could hear its creaks. Outside there are people who would never see colours like you and Valarr do. And it should scare you. It should. But you move your hand to his hair instead, like it belongs there. And you kiss him back as hard as he does you. That long-overdue, feverish love has finally come at home to you, breathing in your air, smelling like you. Valarr whispers against your skin, makes promises, calls you sweet names, and you are home. It’s been long, so long, and you both have walked so far to come to the same place you fell in love the first time. And you promise to yourself that you will not back away anymore.
THE END
The real one :) there's a man who would kiss the ground his beloved walks on.
I never actually thought so many people would follow this story, so thank you for the love!! I MIGHT write off a oneshot of their wedding at some later time. But that’s for later.
Description: A young doctor, Angelie, was living a dream life in Paris—until a sudden accident tore her from it and cast her into the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. Born with extraordinary medical knowledge, will she become the thread that rewrites fate itself—or princes’s obsession will slowly destroy her?
Genre: romcom, reincarnation, slow-burn, smut, violent, angst to comfort, many love interest ( MC is a real mess )
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
i.
“Dunk? Where’ve you been? I thought I was lost!”
“Sorry, Angelie. I went to see—ah, never mind. They’re letting me ride in the tourney.”
Dunk could not hide his excitement.
“That’s sick.”
“Oh… I’m not sick, Angelie.”
“I mean—it’s impressive. Sick in a good way.”
You patted Dunk’s shoulder.
“Now you’ll need proper armor. Not that farmer’s strap you call a sword-belt.”
At that, his mood visibly dimmed. You didn’t need to ask to know it was a matter of coin.
A wild idea struck you, and you turned to Dunk with a bright smile.
“Don’t worry, Dunk. I’ll make sure you have the finest armor in all of Ashford.”
“Huh? You don’t have to do that—”
Before the young giant could finish, you were already darting off into the woods, calling back over your shoulder—
“I’ll be back late tonight!”
ii.
“Heave! Heave!”
Cheers erupted around them as Dunk, the towering man, used his immense strength to drag the opposing team across the line.
Egg was even hanging off the rope, his whole body lifted off the ground.
“He could’ve been a professional rugby player in another life,” you remarked, taking a bite of a sweet apple.
The green apple boy hadn’t been exaggerating; the apples really were that fresh and delicious.
“We won! We won, Angelie!!”
Egg threw his arms around Dunk in celebration, then yanked you into a tight group hug, making both you and the big man slightly flushed.
iii.
You drifted through the merchants’ jewelry stalls, where necklaces were crafted with exquisite detail from gemstone and gold, shimmered beneath the sunlight.
“Red one will look good on you. It suits your eyes color”
The young girl hesitated between the rows of earrings on display. She turned to you in suprise
“You think so? My father would have me in blue, it looks more proper, more fitting for a lady.”
“My dad always wanted me to keep my hair long—said it looked better for the family image. I just cut it short like a boy anyway.”
You let out a small chuckle. “Apologizing after is always easier than asking for permission first.”
The girl seemed rather taken with your words. She reached for one of the earrings and smiled brightly
“ I’ll buy the blue one.”
An armored man stepped up behind the two of you, lowering his head as he addressed the little girl in a quiet voice.
“My lady, it is time you returned.”
The young girl hesitated, her eyes lingering on you with quiet reluctance, before she finally nodded to the guard. “I hope we’ll meet again. I truly enjoyed talking to you“
“Certainly! Angelie, nice to meet you”
“My name is Gwin. You’ve probably heard of me.”
How could you not?
The whole tourney has been in honor of her nameday. People in Tiktok even joked that you were the one who set off the chain of tragedies in the story—just in jest, of course. You think she is more pitiful.
iv.
A lone figure figure made his way through the foul-smelling streets of Ashford, wrinkling his nose as he pulled his cloak up to shield himself from the prying eyes of lurking rats.
He stopped in a narrow alley.
“Next time you’re late, I’ll be charging you for the wait.”
“Where is this?”
“100 coins. Don’t try to bargain… I already turned away two guys before you.”
“Clever little mouse, aren’t you. “The man clicked his tongue in impatience and shoved a heavy pouch of coins into your hand.
“Don’t use too much, or they won’t last long enough to matter. One vial per person—give it time between doses” You reminded him, handing over a tray packed with small, gleaming vials.
“The soldiers need it to forget wars that should’ve been buried. Funny thing—they call it ‘peaceful sleep.’ First one they’ve had in a long while”
You exhaled softly. How deeply those blood-soaked wars had haunted even the toughest men.
“If the drug causes problems, bring them to me. Same place.”
The man gave a short nod and disappeared down the street. You stayed in the alley for a moment longer…
You’d noticed that the forests around here were crawling with wild henbane — heavy with scopolamine, a sedative strong enough to dull the mind and blur the edges of reality. In small doses, it wasn’t enough to addict.
Your smartass couldn’t let such an easy chance to make money slip away
You are selling drug
Yeah you are selling the fucking drug
This kind of work that would get you jailed immediately—your name erased from every hospital record overnight. Still… in a free world like this, who’s there to stop you from becoming a young millionaire?
v.
The joust took place late at night, with crowds gathering so densely that the venue was completely packed. Everyone wanted to witness the young princes and knights from across the Seven Kingdoms fighting in the lists.
The air felt heavy, as the crowd held its breath in uneasy silence, all eyes fixed ahead, waiting for the horn.
“Lord Ashford fucked a sheep”
A brave man shouted, breaking the silence and drawing loud laughter from the common while Lord Ashford sit awkwardly among the gathered nobility.
You and Egg managed to wriggle toward the railing to get a better view, while Dunk struggled behind you as his large frame squeeze through the crowded space.
FWOOOSH!!!
The horn finally sounded. All the knights spurred their horses forward, lances leveled as they charged straight at their opponents.
The crowd went wild when the first riders fell from their horse. The roar of excitement sweeping through the stands like a wave.
“Get up,man!!”
“End it!!”
You could feel your heart pounding as fast as the hooves of warhorses thundering across the field.
You had never been fond of violence
Egg was so excited he even climbed up onto the railing, while Dunk was amazed in his place.
“Squire! Lance”
The squires quickly replaced the knights’ broken lances, and they wheeled around for a second pass of the joust.
At the fourth round, only the strongest knights remained, while the defeated lay sprawled across the ground, their bodies battered and broken.
The crowd showed no sign of cooling; they roared on, demanding more bloodshed
You were growing sleepy, so you tugged at Dunk’s sleeve, seeking his attention.
“I’m tired. Can we go back?”
“Of course, come-“
“Ser Osmond has stopped breathing! Get a Maester—quick!”
The guard’s shout cut through the roar of the arena, drawing the crowd’s attention.
Ser Osmond, an older knight, lay motionless on the cold stone floor. His armor had been removed, revealing a deep stabbing wound between his ribs. The squire rushed to his side in panic, so overwhelmed he was in tears.
“Please! Save him”
You observed silently. The fatal wound to the side may have penetrated deeply, damaging the lung and causing a pneumothorax or hemothorax within the chest cavity.
Blood could be accumulating inside the body more than it is spilling out, making his condition increasingly critical with each passing minute.
The Maester came to check Ser Osmond’s breathing carefully, his gaze falling on the gaping, torn wound, then he slowly shook his head.
“He won’t survive.”
A surge of panic swept through the crowd, the earlier excitement dissolving into grieving as people leaned forward, straining to see the unfortunate knight.
The maester ‘s aged hands gripping tightly around the shaft of the lance, ready to pull it out himself
No-No-No!!
Fuck! He’s gonna die immediately
“Don’t!!”
You shouted
“Do not pull it out!! It is the only thing keeping him alive”
You forced your way through the railing and ran toward the injured man.
In this close distance, Ser Osmond looked even worse. He had fallen from his horse and landed face-down, and now his face was turning a dark shade of purple as his chest rose and fell weakly
“Turn him over!” you reached out to the man. “Help me get him face-up. He needs to breathe.”
The old Maester grabbed your arm, his face twisted in frustration.
“What do you think you’re doing, woman? Ser Osmond’s life is not something to be toyed with.”
“No life here is to be toyed with!” you shot back. “Ser Osmond is dying. If you pull the lance out and not clamp the artery properly, he’ll bleed out in seconds, and he won’t last a minute”
His brows creased deeply, his voice sharp with exasperation. It was almost as if the knight’s life mattered less to him than his own pride, wounded by a common girl.
“Stop talking nonsense! I’m pulling it out myself!”
“YOU-“
“Please! She’s a healer!”
Dunk called out urgently, having followed behind you as you charged toward the knight like a mad man
“A common healer holds no place here,”
“And your intent is to murder him” you shoved the Maester aside in anger.
“You little—”
"Silence!"
The commanding voice of Prince Baelor Targaryen hushed the entire crowd at one. He remained above, observing all that had transpired.
Dunk looked up at him with steady resolve, and perhaps it was that unwavering conviction in the kind-hearted man’s eyes that made the Hand of the King make his own decision.
“Let’s the girl do it.”
“Baelor, She’s just a mere common-” Maekar muttered quietly
“If Ser Osmond dies, she will be charged with treason.”
Baelor’s declaration sent a surge of apprehension through the smallfolk.
Dunk froze, slowly turning to look at you.
“Angelie-“
“I agree! A life for a life”
You received a slight nod from Baelor. No longer hesitation, you rolled the knight onto his back with the help of Dunk.
You opened the Maester’s leather satchel, ignoring his protests.
Inside was chaos disguised as order—linen bandages stiff with dried wine, iron forceps darkened with age, a curved blade wrapped in cloth, and small vials of crushed herbs that clinked faintly as you moved them aside. The scent of alcohol and bitter plants rose sharply into the air.
“Dunk—hold his shoulders. Don’t let him move.”
Dunk hesitated for only a heartbeat before obeying, planting his large hands firmly to keep Ser Osmond’s body from shifting.
The knight was face-up now, his skin ashen, lips faintly tinged with blue.
“Breathing is failing,” you muttered. “We don’t have time.”
Your eyes locked onto the lance.
It jutted from his chest at an ugly angle
Suddenly, everything around you felt distant. The joust. The knights with their horses. The shouting. Even Dunk’s presence faded into background noise.
Only the patient remained.
You pressed a folded linen cloth hard around the entry wound, sealing what you could.
“Keep pressure here,” you ordered Dunk.
Then you looked up.
“We pull it wrong, he dies instantly”
“On my mark.”
Dunk tightened his grip.
The Maester opened his mouth again, but Baelor’s voice cut through the tension behind you.
“Save your life, little woman.”
Silence snapped into place.
You placed both hands around the shaft of the lance. Cold iron and blood-slick wood.
You exhaled once.
“Now.”
You pulled as the lance came free in a single brutal motion.
For a fraction of a second, nothing happened. Then blood surged fast and uncontrolledly
Red splattered across your pale face and the dress you were wearing, staining the fabric in violent streaks. The lance itself was still slick, clinging with torn flesh and the remnants of destroyed organs.
The sight was horrific enough to make most women turn away. Even the hardiest of men grimaced, a wave of nausea twisting in their stomachs,
“Pressure!” you shouted.
Dunk slammed both hands down, compressing the wound with all his strength. Linen soaked instantly, turning heavy and warm.
“Wine,” you snapped at the Maester
The Maester froze for half a heartbeat, then thrust a vial forward. You poured it directly onto the wound, the sharp scent cutting through the air.
Ser Osmond’s chest stuttered.
A weak gasp.
Then another.
“Still breathing”
“Not enough”
You said, already wrapping fresh linen around his torso, binding tightly, forcing the chest to hold what life remained inside.
“Hold him down,” you ordered. “He’s slipping.”
Dunk leaned in, voice low and steady now. “Stay with us, Ser.”
The knight’s breath came again, slowly ragged and broken
Behind you, the crowd was completely silent.
“He survived”
The knight’s young squire broke down at the sight, his composure shattering completely—and with him, the crowd erupted into chaos.
"How could.. the woman do that?"
"He was nearly dead"
Everything inside your mind felt eerily quiet. You looked down at your blood-covered hands, then at your hair stuck with blood, and your white clothes soaked through in red.
Wake up, sweetheart…
The familiar sound pierced through your mind.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, so fast it hurt to breathe. You opened your mouth, dragging in air in shallow.
Then, it all came rushing back.
The previous life’s accident. The impact. The sickening moment your body met force it was never meant to endure. Pain exploded through your memory as if it were happening again, your vision collapsing into fragments of light and darkness.
A sharp, electric jolt seized your chest. Your heart stuttered as though it had been struck all over again.
“Mom...” You called out desperately
Please, come back to mama
For a terrifying moment, you were trapped between two worlds.
Your soul felt as though it was being torn in two—one half lying on a cold hospital bed, the other standing amidst Ashford’s smoke-choked haze.
You weren’t sure which one you were living in
“Looks like the little witch did use her magic”
You were dragged back as if from drowning, pulled up from beneath cold water and into air that hurt your lungs. Your eyes snapped open wide.
“You are good, Angelie?”
Dunk touched your back slightly, he was worried for you
And then you saw them standing in front of you
Ser Donnel of Duskendale and his companions. They wore the same bright white armor that marked them as Kingsguards.
There is another man, A prince with mismatched eyes colors, Valarr Targaryen
People you once might have found madly charming—now only twisted your stomach with a burning sense of unnamed feelings.
Are they even real?
Am I even real now?
You couldn’t answer. Or rather—you couldn’t bear to stay in this moment any longer.
Angelie turned to leave. But the path was blocked.
“Tell me, witch—or shall I call you Angelie? How did you drag a man from the brink of death? Was it poison you laid upon him, masked as a miracle?”
The crude joke earned him a round of laughter from the knights standing beside him.
“Got your tongue tied, Angelie—?”
You grabbed Ser Donnel by the collar, dragged him down violently
“Suck.my.dick.Bitch! You are pathetically boring”
The air fell silent, deadly silent
You could not give more shit as you turned away and walked off. You stopped, raised your eyes briefly, meeting the young prince’s gaze.
Prince Valarr looked down at you, his eyes narrowing faintly with a keen curiosity, studying you as if trying to understand something freaky. Then, realizing he was blocking your path, he stepped aside with a quiet “My apologies.”
vi.
“This monstrous wretch!”
“You can have her tongue for that, ser.”
“Ser? Ser Donnel—”
Knight of Duskendale remained frozen, still struck dumb by your insult. “That’s —”
“Mind your tongue when you speak of Angelie, ser.”
Dunk rose to his full height, broad as a wall; his shadow swallowing the space between them.
The Kingsguard exchanged irritated glances before drifting away.
Author: Guys, I intend to write a reincarnation fic for Elia Martell. God, I need them to pay for what they did to our little girl. Probably, it will come up the next days. Follow me and leave some comments to be in taglist, sweetheart!!
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Description: A young doctor, Angelie, was living a dream life in Paris—until a sudden accident tore her from it and cast her into the world of A Song of Ice and Fire. Born with extraordinary medical knowledge, will she become the thread that rewrites fate itself—or princes’s obsession will slowly destroy her
Genre: romcom, reincarnation, slow-burn, smut, violent, angst to comfort, many love interest ( MC is a real mess )
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
i.
“Easter, please! Come back, I don’t think it’s a good idea”
You grabbed the little boy’s arm as he scowled. You had been following him for quite a stretch already.
“I’m tired of moving from tavern to tavern. Daeron is always drunk and doesn’t care at all about me, about becoming a knight”
“You can’t just abandon your brother… not like this,” you said gently, kneeling on one knee to meet the boy’s violet eyes, trying to offer comfort and understanding
“I’ve never wanted to abandon him… I just want to become a squire, a proper squire for a true knight” He kicked hard at the tree trunk beside him.
“I know, little easter” You cradled his chubby cheeks “I know you’re so so smart and capable to be a squire, even, a great squire. One day, the true person will appear.”
Please, ser Duncan come to save this little boy’s hope - You wished silently
You took his small hand in yours, and he flushed at the sincere praise.
“Now, come with me. We need to keep an eye on your brother, remember? Let’s hope he doesn’t wander into some commoner’s house again.”
ii.
“Ohhh Daeron! You have to throw it all up first, then drink the herbs”
You struggled to support his massive frame as he swayed dangerously, about to collapse.
Just a few hours ago, you had warned him about the risk of alcohol poisoning, that drinking so much on an empty stomach in the morning was reckless.
And now, here he was, vomiting like a storm unleashed, every heave wracking his body while you fought to keep him upright.
“Last night was a bit rougher than usual” he jested lightly, but you didn’t hear any real humor in his words.
Perhaps it was because you knew. You knew the terrible visions that haunted him every night, the nightmares he had shared with no one, because he knew, deep down, nothing could change.
The curse of Targaryen madness, running thick in his blood, shaping every restless night, every shadowed thought.
The Targaryen Dreamer
“I’ve prepared some ginger tea for you. Drink it, then go to sleep. I hope I won’t see you touching wine again until the next morning. Promise me, Daeron.”
“Angelie–”
“Your grace?”
“Oh, come on! You know how much I hate hearing that,”
Daeron said dryly, rolling his eyes.
“I’ll try”
A soft laugh escaped your throat as turned back to your work, gathering herbs.
In this world, where medical supplies were scarce, nearly every remedy came straight from nature, and every leaf and root might hold the difference between life and death.
iii.
Life passed in quiet rhythm, days blending into one another.
An elder prince perpetually drunk, stumbling through the tavern and village streets. A younger prince perpetually sulking, restless and sharp-eyed, always on edge.
Then one day, Egg finally met the knight of his destiny—tall, strong, and seemingly untouchable in his presence.
Egg couldn’t help but wonder how a body so powerful could hold a soul so gentle and pure. He felt an unfamiliar stirring of admiration—and something more delicate—bloom within him.
“I do not need a squire, certainly, not a child”
Egg certainly didn’t let that blunt refusal reach his ears.
That very night, he made a daring, reckless decision.
He paid a hay seller to take him to Ashford, where a tournament was underway, a tournament he was certain this knight would attend.
Then his thoughts turned to you and Daeron. His older brother would surely remain drunk and oblivious for several more days.
But you, Angelie, the kind and caring girl who had took great care of him for an entire moon.
How could he just leave you there with drunken Daeron?
Egg didn’t even need second thoughts.
He knocked on your door, but you were likely already asleep.
The little boy muttered a silent apology to God for his improper action, then slipped quietly into your room through the unlocked window.
“Wake up, Angelie.”
He whispered, gently shaking you.
You mumbled in your sleep, half-dreaming “Mom… ‘m sorry… I’m pregnant… it’s not Jamie’s…”
Egg confused, “You are pregnant?”
To his surprise, that made you shoot upright instantly, hands running through your tangled hair in a flustered panic.
“Egg?! What are you doing here so late?”
“Wait—are you actually preg—”
Egg shook his head, cutting himself off.
“Ugh, never mind. I have something important to tell you, and you need to make the decision right now.”
Your sleepy eyes blinked up at him, and you yawned.
“You’re about to turn into an egg, huh? And only a true love’s kiss can turn you back into a person?”
“What—stop it!”
Egg held up his hands in confusion, but he immediately regained his serious expression.
“I’m leaving for Ashford. And if you’re about to ask whether I’m taking Daeron with me—no. This time, I’m going alone, and nothing can stop me.”
A fierce flame of determination blazed in his small eyes, defying his slight frame.
So this is the moment everything began
“Good luck with your trip, little easter”
You wished him luck with a tired smile, then burrowed back into the blankets, the warmth you’d missed for so long finally embracing you again.
“Wait—you’re not stopping me…”
“You just said nothing could stop you ? Besides, I think it’s a good trip. You’ll learn a lot, enjoy yourself.”
You murmured, still half-asleep.
“Now, excuse you—I need to get back to my date with Finn Bennett. You woke me right in the middle of the French kiss”
“I’m not done yet! Get up— do not give a damn about your Finn!”
Egg shook you roughly awake, and you could only stare helplessly at the boy, your back pressed against the wall as you tried to gather your wits.
“I want us to go together?”
“With me?”
“I know you’ve never seen the world beyond the small villages in the east”
Egg took your hand.
“You told me once you got lost from Paeris to here, right? Who’s to say this journey won’t help you find your way home? All the finest knights of the Seven Kingdoms gather in Ashford...maybe someone from your own hometown.”
Ohh Egg, your lovely, sweet boy.
He didn’t know that Paris—or Paeris was nowhere to be found on any map, and that you were just a humble NPC, never meant to step into the story’s main thread.
He continued speaking, his eyes sparkling with sincerity.
“I don’t want you trapped with Daeron. You’re clever, and your healing skills… it’s honestly remarkable. You shouldn’t stay in this little world forever.”
He had no idea how vast your world had once been…
But he was right.
Now your world is small—so terribly small—and you have been born again…
Should this be the way you live once more?
These thoughts linger, haunting you every night, the dreadful weight of knowing far too much while pretending ignorance. A cruel masquerade you cannot name it.
“All right… I’ll come with you. But we should leave a note for Daeron,”
iv.
Three days had passed since you and Egg had climbed onto the wagon piled high with hay for the horses.
The long, uneven road, riddled with stones, sent sharp aches shooting through your back.
Egg was just as exhausted, yet his determination to see the knight kept him alert, his little eyes stayed bright despite the fatigue.
Tom, the wagon driver, was a gruff, cantankerous old man, hobbling along on his crippled leg.
He kept cursing and complaining about how much he hated wealthy nobles with their fancy outfits, their ridiculously lofty names for horses, and their insistence on only the finest hay.
“Especially those Targaryens. Dragons have been extinct for ages, they’re nothing but cowards hiding behind the thick walls of their castles”
You cast a quick glance at Egg. His face didn’t have its usual frown; instead, he just looked tired.
Perhaps he had grown accustomed to his family’s unpopularity among the common folk—if not outright disdain, then many quietly wished that his house would fall into ruin.
v.
Ashford was choked with life and filth.
Banners of every great and lesser house of the Seven Kingdoms snapped above the crowds—bright colors dulled by dust and smoke, layered like a forest of silk and cloth.
Beneath them, tents pressed tightly together, horses stomped endlessly, and men jostled through narrow paths carved in mud and waste.
God! You hated it—the unbearable smell of rotting meat tangled with green grass, damp wood, and wildflowers, all mashed together into something sickening.
“I want to buy two apples.”
“6 coins”
“That’s expensive!”
“Then don’t buy”
And why were all people here always so rude?
“These sweet apples from Cider Hall are renowned across the kingdoms, especially in wine apple pies, so they’re a bit pricey,”
The man standing beside you explained. He was short and stocky, with a square face and short curly hair; a heavy iron shield rested on his shoulder.
You gaped, not at the interesting facts about the apples, but at the man before you, one of the knights who had fought alongside Dunk in the “Trial of Seven.”
“You are…”
“Oh, forgive me, my Lady. I am Raymond Fossoway of New Barrel,”
the young man noticed your surprise and quickly introduced himself.
“Ah, I see… “
“But don’t call me ‘lady.’ I’m just a common girl” you replied.
“All fair women are ‘Lady’ “
He teased, his tone playful, you tried your best to ignore him.
“I’m Angelie…”
“Very well. Lady Angelie, where are you from?”
“I’m..- from Paris.”
“Ah, a quiet unique name and a strange place of which I have never heard”
His eyes alight with curiosity. “Surely it must be a wondrous land where lovely girls bloom.”
You gave a soft, almost shy cough.
“Pack a full bag of apples for this fair lady, old man”
Raymond ordered the merchant
Then he turned to you, smiling widely and took your hand, pressing a light kiss to your knuckles
“This is my greeting, for the fair lady of Paeris”
vi.
“All great knights require a squire. I would serve you faithfully, and I eat very little.”
Egg pleaded earnestly, holding your hand tightly as he was being so nervous
“And Angelie is a most capable healer. She has assisted in the birthing of cows and tended to the sick of the village.”
Ser Duncan the Tall—a towering, powerful man whose very presence took your breath away.
Truly Big Guy
A Damm Giant
Just imagine riding that broad, rough body—
What are you even thinking of?
You let out an awkward cough, tugging your cloak higher to hide the flush spreading across your face.
As the books described, though he appeared a giant of ancient Troy, his aura was gentle, and he even bore a hint of shyness.
Dunk sighed
“My wandering life is not suited for a young lady—and certainly, not for a child”
“I’m not a child. My humble stature often leads people to mistake me”
“And I’m no noble lady either. I work my ass off every day”
“It does not change anything”
Dunk replied softly, the big knight running a hand through his tousled hair in concern
“Your horse—the black one. These past few days, he has refused his feed, and even vomited, hasn’t he?” you suddenly asked.
“Thunder? How could you know?”
“I noticed long sores on his skin earlier, likely a sign of equine dermatitis” you explained.
“Equine dermatitis? I thought those were just ordinary cuts”
“Not at all, my lord. Horses are so good at hiding their ailments. At the riding center in Paris—my hometown, thousands of white royal horses fell ill in such a manner,”
“Is there any way to cure him?” He anxiously brushed Thunder’s coat
“Of course,” you replied happily
“I brought some chamomile from my village. Brew it like tea and wash the sores every day. Patience is key and keep an eye on the two foals as well; they may have already been exposed.
The meaning of your words was too clear. Egg, standing nearby, beamed with admiration for your cunning mind, while Dunk fell silent, a thoughtful frown crossing his face as he considered you and Egg carefully.
“Very well... “ Dunk admitted honestly “The boy shall serve as a squire, and you will tend to the horses for me. But I warn you—we shall sleep beneath the trees and eat nothing but dry grain bread”
“Even so” he added with a small, reassuring smile, “I shall do my utmost that we never go hungry.”
Egg and you could not hide your smile. The boy leapt into the air, exclaiming “At your command, my lord!”
“Ser… not ‘my lord,’” Dunk corrected gently, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I am merely a hedge knight.”
vii.
“Good boy, Thunder!”
You soothed the horse, dipping a cloth soaked in chamomile-infused water over the sores that marred his black coat.
The delicate herbal scent mingled with the earthy aroma of the forest, calming both you and the anxious animal.
“Thunder seems to like you. He’s usually quite arrogant with strangers” Dunk remarked gently
“Oh? Really, little pony!” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the horse’s mane. The colt lowered his head, leaning into your warmth.
The sun filtered through the leaves above, casting dappled light over you and the ailing horses. For a moment, the worries of the road and the world beyond faded.
Yeah just for a moment
MOVE!
Kingsgaurd surged forward, the thunder of hooves announcing their approach. Behind them trailed a long line of steeds and gilded royal litters, the red-and-black banners of Dragon flapping violently, casting their colors over every corner of Ashford
The townsfolk muttered in discontent, shifting uneasily, yet none dared voice their complaints aloud. They knew well that it would bring only trouble, so they pressed themselves into the shadows along the streets.
You and Egg exchanged a quick glance. The boy’s eyes lit with nervousness as he turned to Ser Dunk.
“Allow me to return to the camp, Ser. Watch for any lurking thieves.”
“You’d better be here when I comeback, boy”
Dunk handed the reins to his new squire, then hurriedly pushed his way into the crowd.
“Go hide, easter” You pulled the cloak up over the boy’s head “I’ll come with ser Duncan”
viii.
“Lord Ashford graciously welcomes the great and honourable Baelor Targaryen, first born son of King Daeron The Good, prince of DragonStone, Hand of the King and Heir of the Iron Throne”
“And his brother, Maekar”
You stared at them intensely, holding your breath. The Targaryens exuded an overwhelming aura majesty and command. They were almost godlike in their beauty
The Targaryen with black hair, Baelor Targaryen - who would be dead in Ashford, became the event that set everything into horrible motion
His name alone enough to drag the realm toward collapse. What soon unraveled into war, each event toppling into the next, like a perfect domino effect-
Poor prince… he was one of your favorite characters, there was no doubt he would have made a good King.
Could you save him without intervening in the storyline? That Egg would still be a King and Ser Dunk would be Lord of Commander
If his death is canon and required for the storyline, then you’re basically dealing with a fixed “canon event.” In that case, you can’t truly save him without breaking the story’s structure.
Dammit-
“Mind your gaze, woman. You would not wish to be seized on suspicion of plotting an assassination.”
The man behind you spoke.
“How could a mere girl possibly assassinate a man guarded by a hundred soliders?”
“Who’s to say she wouldn’t resort to poison, or some dark enchantment against the princes?”
“Excuse me, Who are you? A devotee of black magic, or some book-fed witch?”
Irritation flared within you as you turned back. Shining white armor… a knight of the Kingsguard, perhaps?
“Ser Donnel of Duskendale. I certainly have no interest whatsoever in women a hundred years old using magic to conceal their withered skin.”
“How surprising, Ser Donnel. I also have no interest in men polishing their armor more than they wield a blade”
To your expectations, the man did not seem angered. Instead, he raised a brow, as if amused.
“What’s your name, woman?”
You refused to answer, rolled your eyes and turned to leave, unwilling to endure this tedious conversation any longer
Valarr and you are childhood friends. Only friends, you thought for such a long time that it became part of your narrative. Oh, you know him so well because you’re his friend. He looks at you from across the crowded ballroom because you are his oldest friend. There could never be anything else… could it?
tags: friends to lovers; repressed feelings; requited unrequited love; established friendship;
words: 5k
You were twelve when you first saw Prince Valarr.
He was thirteen, and seven inches taller. Leaning against one of the pillars in the patio of the royal garden, he was as still as a statue. One of those intricate, lifelike marbles you saw on your way around the Red Keep. It was a summer morning, and the sun had been shining brilliantly in the open garden, spilling its light on the symmetrical rows of sunflowers and pansies. Yet, he was standing in the shadows, hunched at the ground. Slowly, you walked to him—you were playing hide and seek, you see—wondering if he were someone you should be looking for.
He stirred when you reached him, straightening his spine. It was then that you saw the single white streak in his dark hair. And then he turned. As his eyes fell on you—one ocean blue and the other deep onyx—you almost gasped. You had never seen someone so beautiful before.
“Who are you?” he asked softly.
Before you could answer, something moved out of the corner of your eyes. You stared at the ground to find a spider—quite large, foreboding and colourful—skittering on the edge of a small rose bush. You crouched down to see it more clearly, the scatter of colours on its back, the way it clicked its pinchers.
“Beautiful, is it not?” he said. He had a soft, heavy voice. Poised, slow, as if he tasted each word before he spoke.
“Yes,” you agreed.
“I saw it circling the flowers for some time. I heard that spiders see colours differently than humans. I guess I wanted to see what it saw.”
“That must be lonely,” you said softly, eyes locked into the small creature. When you realised that his eyes were still on you, you straightened up quickly, adding, “I meant the spider, Your Grace. Not… not you.”
He smiles, and his face illuminates into something angelic. “But I must be then, to find solace in such a solitary creature.”
You blinked, unsure of what he was saying, unsure of yourself, suddenly. You hadn’t meant to come to the garden; you hadn’t meant to wander out of the Red Keep. And yet, you stared at the soft, strange boy and felt that perhaps you were where you were meant to be anyway.
—--
You were there for the enjoyment of the little princesses. Princess Daella and Rhae were temperamental little girls who scared off any Septas who’d be unlucky enough to cross their paths. After their fifth Septa escaped, your mother, one of the ladies-in-waiting to the queen, suggested that you might be a helpful alternative. No one had any reason to object. You had been at the court for a few weeks and everyone liked you. You weren’t particularly the prettiest, or the brightest, or the most joyful, but there was something about you, your mother said, that made people like you. You could reel people in, make them see themselves more favourably.
Heavens know what she meant, because you never did.
Beautiful and beguiling, the little princesses looked like little dolls to you. You liked them enough at first, liked the sound of their laughter—dainty, like birds, liked how they mimicked each other like shadows, liked the sight of them running in the Red Keep, two flutters of silver-white in the sunlight. They loved when you told them stories of old Valyria, of the doom and the tragedy, of dragons. Sometimes their brother Aegon and cousin Matarys joined in, and requested something particular. Mayhaps the story of the Dance of the Dragons? Egg loved to embellish his stories, he was a natural.
Liar, his brother Aerion snickered.
Storyteller, you assured him.
Needless to say you loved all of them. In their restlessness and their raucousness. Their awful temper and their sweet vexations. Their loneliness and the pointless defiance of their fate. You see, each of them knew what they were meant to be. Daeron meant to be half-asleep throughout his entire life, stirring forever awake from some distant dream, Aerion was meant to be mad, always—afraid that someone had taken a slight to him at every corner of life. Aemon was to be sent away somewhere far, where he would not tarnish the name of his house with his quiet and feeble mind. Daella and Rhae were supposed to be married off and forgotten, fading into some obscure and distant life. Aegon was forever the odd one out, a lonely child. They all ran around the castle, unaware of the invisible dark string that bound them together.
Prince Valarr was the quietest. He used to come fetch his brother Matarys, his steps always low and even. He was always even—balanced. The heir to the heir was beautiful, respectful and poised. The perfect prince. He was the unsung conqueror of all the tortured fantasies of the girls at court. He always smiled, looked and acted older than he was—a splitting image of his father, Prince Baelor—and he was perfect, as they all said. Yet you wondered, when you saw him, if it all was true. Because he didn’t seem like a perfect prince when he hovered around the periphery of your vision. No, he was a quiet, contemplative boy, who glowered at Aerion when he was cruel to Egg or Aemon; he played hide and seek with Matarys. He was a terrible dancer and an excellent fencer. He liked to watch insects. He got flustered whenever he found you staring at him from across the dim lit rooms. It was ten long weeks before he came to you after you let the children play monsters-and-maidens.
“Would you like to…” he hesitated, and you had a sinking suspicion that he had practiced the question well before he came into the nursery.
“Yes?”
“See to that spider again?”
A small smile creeped up to your face in spite of you. “The lonely one?”
“That one exactly.”
You stared up at him. The nursery was a large room full of wide corners, it stretched as far as the children could run. The entire room was open, the wide balcony on the side of them overlooked the royal garden. In the mornings, as the wind blew through the unruly bushes of flowers and ferns, the sweet smell imbibed the room in a breathtaking haze. By all of your logic you knew that you should refuse. It was not a tactile knowledge, but a soft, slithering understanding. You should say no.
Well, you should have.
—--
It was easy, being his friend.
Too easy. It was as if there was no other way, no other path that did not bring you face to face. In the morning he trained with the kingsguards, and you walked Egg to the maesters at the schoolroom. At noon they all ate together and you couldn’t help but be at close proximity as Matarys showed everyone what he learned at the yard. When the Great Hall would be opened to the smallfolk for an audience, you were there with your father. Sometimes your eyes met with his unmatched pair, across the room, across the hoards of unsuspecting people. He would smile or roll his eyes, just a little, almost imperceptible, when some lord made a tiresome jest, or Aerion made himself a fool. At night when you’d return from the princesses chambers he’d find you along the long and winding pathway, and would offer to accompany you back to your chambers safe and sound. More often than not you would lose your way to the garden, or the astronomy tower, to look at the heavens above. He knew all the constellations, and you liked to trace them with him.
Sometimes it felt as though you were writing a story, retaining a piece of you and Valarr that did not exist—not entirely, at least—in reality. You talked of stars and desserts and rivers—water wading through paths forged by natural erosion and calamities for hundreds of years. Of poetry and politics and how it might feel living past one’s myth.
It’s all natural, all innocent. Until one afternoon…
You are fifteen, and he has just gotten back from a royal tour of the Riverlands. You heard from the other ladies that it was supposed to be a muddy, tiresome journey back. And so you brushed and cleared and re-organised his beetle collection by hand, knowing that these would be Valarr’s solace when he came back.
“Oh, princess, no one knows me as you do,” he mutters to himself as he stares down at the glass box. Then he turns, suddenly solemn, and asks, “Do you think we’ll ever be apart?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think it’ll always be like this? Us? The shared breakfast, the beetle collection, the stars?”
You know better than to lie. “I don’t think so. Not when we get older. I will probably… get married off and live somewhere else.”
Something unfamiliar passes by his face. In the fading light of the day, the silver streak in his head catches a stray band of rays. The silver shines. Valarr purses his lips, the expression gone as soon as it comes, replaced by his familiar solemnity.
“Then I shall hope we never get older.”
—---
“Does he call you princess?” your mother asks suddenly. “Some of the servants heard it, but I cannot be sure…”
“It is nothing,” you say, flushed, looking down at the hem of your blue gown.
“Nothing?”
“Just a… pet name. Something he calls me by.”
Your mother stares at you. It is a sharp, smoldering gaze and it makes the heat in your throat rise up to your cheeks. You are walking by the large corridor leading to the Great Hall. Your mother insists that a woman should not only know household chores but also learn how the realm works. It is early in the morning, and the sleep hasn’t completely left you. Her sudden question comes at you like a splintered arrow.
“Something he calls you by,” she repeats, and you wonder if that’s how juvenile your words sounded.
To be honest, you do not remember when he started calling you that. And you know that it would not do well to dwell on it, or to explain that to your mother. Your mother is made of custom and propriety. And you are—
“You are not a princess,” she is saying. “And calling you one is improper. But I guess…” She sighs. “I guess we have to find a middle ground somewhere. He favours you, and that is good. Proximity to a royal can grant you great advantages in life.”
A flock of court ladies pass you and your mother, and she smiles at them sweetly. Their feet make delicate sounds on the marble floor. “It is not fair, but it is life. Some people are born with significance, and some must gather it from others. But you must never confuse the source with the receiver. Do you understand?”
You had stopped walking, coming just at the mouth of the Great Hall. You can hear the sounds of footsteps and men, women talking over one another. On the other side, there are people, important people crowding to get an audience with the king. Some of them come to see The Young Prince, too. You know this because you have heard his praises on the streets. How the Prince is kind and gentle and dutiful. A young dragon, they call him sometimes. His presence brings about a fire that the smallfolk have not seen since Aegon the Dragon.
You purse your lips, nodding silently. Your mother worries needlessly. You know you’d never confuse his friendship with anything else. How could you?
—---
“What’s wrong?” Valarr asks suddenly.
You blink, surprised that he noticed. You thought you were faring rather well, considering the seed of disquiet your mother planted in your head. Everywhere you looked, you now saw people staring at you with scandalous eyes. Your corset felt tighter whenever you and Valarr crossed any group of women.
You stare at the feather-pen in your hand. You both have been at the library since the early hours of the morning. Valarr takes it upon himself to teach you whatever his maesters have taught him. Today, it is the history of the North. Winterfell, the First Men, all that frigid snow.
Your voice is small as you admit, “It seems that being around you is something of an achievement in itself. My mother is proud of me because I made myself your friend.”
“Made yourself?” He scoffs. “You have not made yourself my friend. You just are.”
“Right. But as it is, your presence is a currency of some sorts. I make myself valuable by being around you.”
He narrows his eyes. The space between them crinkles the way it does when he is distressed. “You know that isn’t true.”
“Yes, yes.” You nod, unfocused. “But it sort of is, Val. You are a prince and you are—”
“What?”
You sigh, unable to come to a better conclusion.
He does not press you. He stares down at your collection of scrolls and parchments, and traces his index over the words you wrote in cursive—he likes your penmanship better, he has told you scores of times.
“Mayhaps it can be that I am two people,” he says heavily. “Val and Prince Valarr. My father says a prince belongs to the realm before it belongs to anyone else. He must be strong and silent and just and brave. Therefore the prince must be a thing, more than a person.”
“But you are a person,” you say softly. “You are my favourite person.”
He smiles. “And I am contemplative and brooding and overtly concerned with mine inadequacy. I am doubtful and…”
“You are clever and full of heart,” you interrupt him forcefully. “You are kind.”
He leans in as if he is telling you a secret, and you are terrified of how good it makes you feel. “Therefore, to you I am Val. Always.”
—------
Things change when you have your first blood, of course.
You wake up at night terrified that something unthinkable has happened. You look down at your legs to find a striking, alarming red moisture on the sheet. You knew about it, of course. The Septas and your mother had warned you about it beforehand. But still, the sight of the blood—your blood—fills you with an unknown dread. You are a woman now. Your mother had said that things will change once you are a woman. That your world will get wider, more people will be invited to come into it, that you will become something more than what you are now. You immediately dread the moment you’ll have to tell your mother.
You gather the soiled sheets with your trembling hands and clean yourself as best as you can. The water is cold and harsh as you wipe away the blood from your skin. The endeavour takes too long and the sky is lighter when you finally get to bed again.
Lying on your cold sheets, looking at the patch of the dawn sky through your window, you try to think of anything else to numb this peculiar pain in your lower abdomen.
Strangely, you think of Valarr. It shouldn’t be new, you always think of Valarr when you are in distress. But today the thoughts are alien and new and intoxicating. Would he realise something is different about you now? You remember that he’s gone hunting with his father. That he might be under the open sky right now, staring up at the brightening sky and trying to remember all the names of the distant stars. He likes that, you know. You know him so well.
Ever since you knew about that thing that makes a woman, you wondered about what makes a man? You are almost certain that whatever changes that were to happen had happened to Valarr. That there was a silence in him, a sticky reminiscence in the way he looked at you for the last few months.
Your hands brush over your breasts and you shiver. The thought of it makes you flush despite yourself.
—------
“There’s something different,” he comments in the morning. Fresh off the royal carriage, he is still in his hunting doublet. He takes off his hat and shakes his head, making droplets of sweat fall from his wet hair. As he leans to her, a smirk pulling at his lips, the green of his doublet reflects on his lighter eye.
A strange heat rises to your cheeks.
“There is,” he says. You are alone at the garden, all the other people have gone to inspect the enormous boar the hunting party have captured. So you allow this small moment to yourself, do not budge when he sits beside you and nudges your shoulder.
“Mayhaps,” you reply evenly.
His stare is so sharp it makes you shiver. You do not acknowledge it, or elaborate your answer, letting the silence stretch into a tense, charged. It becomes thick, heavy with intent.
“Keeping secrets from me, are you?” he says finally, his voice low and syrupy.
“What if I am?” you ask. It sounds more desperate than you intended, makes it sound more a plea than a challenge. “Do you not have secrets?”
He doesn’t answer. And you do not know if it is better or worse. That this feeling, this numbing, blinding intensity has always existed—whenever he was too near, wherever you could trace the light flutter of stubbles on his jaw, the specks of light dust his eyes. That you forget your reason when he stares at you sometimes. It wasn’t the blood from the night before, not some sudden, drastic change in your body, it was Valarr. You realise that he has inhabited your mind for quite some time now.
“I have brought something for you,” he says, reaching inside the back pocket of his doublet and taking out a breathtakingly blue rose, stem and all. The sight of it makes your heart flutter.
“You remembered,” you say softly.
“Of course. You wanted it.”
You take the flower and your hands brush. Staring down at the beauty, the half-hearted promise that you made him buzz in your head. It had been innocent enough when you said it, but now it feels more intent, like admitting to a light felony.
“A kiss for your promise,” you mumble.
“Oh,” he fidgets, “oh, you don’t have to…”
“I want to,” you whisper, tilting your head up to catch his eyes. His lips part, and there is that—there is that—flush of colour in his face. Ruby red, deliciously real, covering his cheeks as he goes astonishingly still when you reach out and touch his hand. The pupils in his eyes are blown out—covering almost the entire colours. It is a fascinating sight, and you try to commit it all into your precious memory.
—--
At night, you lie awake and think about it in great detail. The sharp intake of his breath when your lips met his cheek. That smallest moment when your nose brushed against his skin and you could smell him if you dared inhale. But you did not. How could you? Your hand clasped his, sweats mixing on your palm, you weren’t quite sure if he’d stopped breathing or was it just you? Did the entire world stop? Would it ever move again?
You clutch your pillow and mesh your face into the soft cover.
You could spend hours studying him. His face, alone, is a wonder. How his eyes look different in different times of day. The light blue is crystal clear in the sunlight, the onyx is an abyss in the night. The slight ripple in his muscles when he clenches his jaws, that tight bound of skin over it. Those stubbles, dark and sparring, littered over his cheeks in no cohesive pattern—you touched it, felt the graze on your lips as you kissed his cheek. But, oh, you want to take your sweet time, build patterns on that stretch of skin. You want to dip your thumb into the crate on his cheeks when he smiles. You want to touch his throat as he laughs, feel the vibration there, feel his life in your palm. You want to run your fingers through the infamous white streak at the back of his head. You wonder if he is sensitive there. One afternoon, as you were drinking stolen Arbour wine, you brushed his hair to chase off a bug that perched on his head. He shuddered at the contact. You haven’t forgotten the feel of it since.
It scares you, you think, how much your hands want to do. How they feel both useless and menacing. If they should ever evade your restless restraint, if they should ever let go of that senseless control, where would it lead you? There’s a budding glow of warmth between your thighs that you ignore. It is ominous, ominous, unthinkable. He is Val, your Val. A friend you saw vomit by the bushes when he drank too much Myrish wine, you saw him go pale at the first beheading you both watched, you saw him cry out in anger at Aerion when his cousin got the best of him, you saw him steal lemon cakes from the kitchen and smirk when he evaded the watchful eyes of the head cook. You grew up, together together. And you are friends, he sees you as his friend—which you know is the most you can have. Most you can dream of.
The rose on your bedside table is emanating a beautiful smell. Soft and hazy—like melancholy. It imbibes your air and lulls you to a fretful sleep.
—----
“The boar was delicious,” your mother comments a few days later.
You look up from your needlework. “What?”
“The boar that Prince Baelor returned with from their hunting,” she says. “The one they served at the feast the same night?”
Her voice is nonchalant enough. But you can see that she is watching you out of the corner of her eyes. In the closed air of your mother’s chambers, you suddenly feel like a rare insect, propped up for inspection.
“Yes. Yes, it was nice.”
“Did you think so?” She smiles sweetly. “I am surprised. I thought I saw you leave before the main course.”
You swallow your treacherous breath down. “No, mama, I—”
“Just after The Young Prince left too, actually. I noticed he wasn’t present when the royal coaches arrived in the morning, as well. The ladies were all wondering where he went.”
You look down at your needlework again. Lying will not get you anywhere, you know this much. But what of the truth? You hadn’t meant to follow him out into the garden during the feast. You had specifically forbade it. But he had that smile on him, the charming, pleading smile, and that soft voice—Oh, come on, I snatched the good stuff. The Arbor wine, the wine your mother loathes. Humor me, Princess—and you knew you were doomed, so why not chase it?
Yet the charm of the night has faded, leaving you here, in front of your mother, with some unpalatable reality. You followed the prince out of the great feast in front of the cold, sore sight of everyone, foolishly thinking you would not get noticed.
“Where did he go, my love?” Your mother asks. “Where did you go?”
“I wouldn’t tell you,” your voice is small. So small that it makes you mad. “But you know already.”
“I was hoping that you’d disappoint me not.”
“I did not do anything to disappoint...”
“Did you lose your virtue?”
“No! We just drank some wine and talked. Jested. We did not… mother, we are friends.”
“Friends,” your mother scoffs. And it is the first time that you have heard such venom from her. You grip the silk in your hand, fingers spasming. “I do not know what that word means. Friends.”
“We are—”
“You are a daughter of a middling nobleman, and he is a prince of the realm. He is the heir. When you were young I let you live in the delusion that you could be permitted to be in the same room as him. But you are not a child anymore. You cannot be this foolish anymore.”
You shudder at how callous it all sounds, but you cannot back down, cannot lower your gaze from your mother’s now. You have always known this to be true, but somehow listening to it all makes you nauseous. Makes you smaller. “But that does not matter. He sees me as his friend. There is nothing more.”
“Daughter, I only say this to spare you pain.”
You nod, head heavy. “I know.”
“The king will throw a feast in the coming week, after his seventeenth nameday. His mother thinks…” Your mother sighs, and for a second you think you feel sympathy from her. “Princess Jena thinks that it is time he found a wife.”
Something heavy drops in your chest. It cannot be your heart, for you cannot feel it beat at all.
“Lords from all the great houses will attend with their eligible daughters. They will all be vying for Prince Valarr’s attention. Beautiful, wealthy noblewomen. And when they come you would not get the privilege of anonymity. They shall want to know who this girl is that the Prince flees from parties and drinks wine with. I have raised you to be an honourable young woman. I will not have you malign your name for a boy who will choose another.”
Tears pool at your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You realise that in her own, cruel way, your mother is protecting you. You brush your trembling palm over the half-done handkerchief you were making for Val. The stitch is still uneven, you have never quite mastered the fine arts. But the spider is still perceptible. You wonder if your mother knows the significance of it. You dare not ask.
—------
“I need your help,” Valarr says as soon as he sees you.
That is, as he corners you in the Sept. You have been consciously avoiding him for the better part of last week. You have been clever enough, you think. Deliberately learning his routine steps and tracing backwards. You’d leave any room ten minutes prior to when he’d barge in. You avoided the gardens, the library, and the training yards religiously. You retracted from feasts. Yet somehow the hiding, the persistent fleeing, has made his presence all the more stark in your mind. You enter a room and smell him, almost, as if he were here. You see the dent in a chair where he set, the dust his boots had brought, a half empty glass of water he sipped not a minute ago. All more alive than they were before.
You started frequenting the Sept since you know this might be your only respite from his prying eyes. The seven gods have not been thus helpful, but they have been silent. At the very least.
Yet five days into your hiding, Valarr has found you. You are kneeling in front of one of the colossal idol of The Crone, hands clasped together to concentrate. Around you a hundred candles flicker in the darkness, sending their scented steam rising up onto the roof of the Sept. The air is warm and thick, sandalwood and sage. And in the unfettered silence his sudden presence is like a burst of sunlight. You determinedly keep your eyes closed.
“I am serious,” he whispers. “Help.”
“For what?” you whisper back.
“Well, father is arranging a feast for my seventeenth. It is going to be massive, large and boisterous, and… everything. You see, my mother… mother is—Will you please look at me?”
You blink, surprised by the unusual timbre in his voice. You tilt your head to look at him. And the sight—Oh, you should have prepared yourself—of him up close and personal, is enough to make you shiver. His mismatched eyes have changed colours in the candlelight. The ocean-blue is almost sparkling, spilling out flickers of light. And the other one, the deep, dark of onyx is darker still, pulling you in some great and terrible longing.
“What?” You pray he doesn’t hear the break in your voice.
“I want to stall it.”
“Why?”
“They want to find a suitable match for me. They will invite all the great lords to bring their… daughters.”
Your throat burns at the thought, but you smile. “That is good news.”
“What?”
“You are—” You gulp down the stone lodged in your throat. “You are eligible. And it is time you… marry.”
“But I don’t want to—”
“As your friend, I think it is just the right time.”
Something soft flickers in his eyes. His mouth twitches. It almost looks painful. “As my friend?” he says softly.
“Yes, of course.” Your hands grip the stone in front of you. “What else?”
He stares down, as if embarrassed. “Yes. I see, yes.”
You close your eyes again, willing yourself to concentrate on your half-hearted prayers. You can feel him still, kneeling beside you—you almost wonder if he is wishing the same thing as you. To be someone else, someplace else, to get rid of the persistent ache in your heart. To not know him at all. Or perhaps he is only praying for what he always does—the Crone to guide him wisdom, to do what is best for his family and his name. You wonder, which would be worse? Around you the hum of the walls intensifies.
Neither of you move for a long, long time.
..............
PART TWO
In the next part we’re going to get more of Valarr.
