Lost Traveler

A/N: dream strikes me as such a touch-starved, praise-desperate being that im sure he turns to his feline form to experience such simple forms of affection. Just a short drabble that stemmed from this observation.

You weren’t one to collect strays. Feed them? Of course. Tell them how much you loved their tiny little faces? Absolutely. But to gather them up into your arms and delicately carry them into your home? Probably not.

But this was different, you told yourself. You had never seen such a docile cat before. You were gathering your mail when you first spotted him through the glass door. A gasp fled your lips, then a grin spread across your face as you whispered a soft “Hi!”

He stopped then, pausing to sit on his hind legs as he peered at you. His tail flicked behind him in fascination as you left your mailbox, spam and bills entirely forgotten, and pushed the glass door open to step outside cautiously.

“Hi, there!” You gasped, inching closer to avoid spooking him. To your surprise, he took an equally hesitant step towards you. Kneeling down, you placed the back of your hand before him, allowing him to study your scent and lower what limited defenses he seemed to have. When he deemed you no possible threat and lowered his nose from your hand, you placed a slow palm to his back and stroked him gently. “So soft!” You gasped, exaggeratedly. You knew he would be: he was all shining black fur, fine silky hair.

He turned then, making a tight circle to have you pet his other side. “And someone seems to love his pets,” you teased, before obliging him. You watched him as he moved, noting how docile he seemed and well-fed, you realized. “Did you run away from home?” You wondered, before moving your hand gingerly to the top of his head. Your hand came down softly, and his bright eyes closed to thin lines at the touch. “Do you live here?” You asked, with a quick glance back at your apartment building.

But he was far too preoccupied by the warm hand you had placed upon his head. Although, he most likely couldn’t have answered you, anyway. He was a cat.

So you rose then, and you knew you probably shouldn’t have, but you couldn’t seem to help it. You started with another gentle petting, slowly adding your other hand, before tensing your fingers slightly and raising him from the ground.

If he was displeased by the act, he didn’t show it.

Instead, as you cradled him in your arms, he peered up at you for only a moment before laying his head against you.

“Aw,” you sighed, as you looked down to find him with his eyes closed. “Such a sleepy baby,” you cooed, before opening the door, and bringing him inside.

You had gone to the building manager with the soft kitty in your arms, but she explained that no resident had declared a black cat or that one had gone missing. She asked if you planned to keep him, and you frowned before peering down at him once more.

He gazed back at you as if he were trying to decipher the very nature of your soul.

“I don’t know,” you answered, distantly.

The shelter was next. Plenty of orange cats had been reported missing. Two black cats, but one was a tuxedo cat and both were short-hairs.

He wasn’t chipped either, you found out after the volunteer checked him over for any sign of malnutrion or disease. He proposed leaving him at the shelter; perhaps his owner would come looking or someone would like to adopt him. But you made the mistake of glancing down at him once again and frowned.

He was closer to figuring out the exact nature of your being with this next piercing gaze.

“I don’t know,” you murmured, still transfixed by his bright, golden eyes. “Maybe I could take him home, and if his owner comes looking for him, they could contact me.”

The volunteer simply shrugged before accepting your number.

After a short stop at the pet store, you were both home.

You unlocked the door and pushed it open, but before you could gently lower to him the ground, he leapt from your arms and landed gracefully on his paws before inspecting every inch of your home.

“Eager little guy, aren’t you?” You chuckled, before setting out his food and water bowls. You emptied out the bag of toys, but when you turned, he was nowhere to be seen. Your head whipped around to the door, but thankfully, it remained closed. You moved through the apartment then, checking around for him. And of course, you found him atop your bed.

He sat directly in the middle of the bed, lying on his side as his tail flicked out over the spread.

“Well, now, where am I supposed to sleep?” You asked, in exaggerated outrage as you folded your arms.

He rose then, before shifting to the right side of the bed and resuming his previous position.

Your brows rose then in surprise at his response, and you muttered under your breath, “Wow, okay, very smart kitty.”

You stretched over the side he had deemed yours, turning on your side to lay your hand against him. You pet him gently, soothingly, curiously, as you wondered how no one could miss such a sweet, intelligent little kitty.

He seemed to respond to your languid petting and the easy smile on your face as he shifted to his paws and took some careful, but determined, steps closer to you. He settled underneath the arm you had propped your head against, laying his tiny, impossibly soft head against your bicep before gazing up at you.

He was trying to steal your soul. You were certain of it.

You let out a soft laugh, before resuming your pets and sighing softly.

“Aw, I love you, too.”

He wasn’t there when you woke. Perhaps he had gone in search of his breakfast, you realized, but he wasn’t at his food bowls, either.

Despite a thorough search of your apartment, he wasn’t anywhere to be found.

You had gone to your building manager once more, this time in your pajamas, as your haste had you running out the door before you could change. You had called her memory of the cat you came to her with last evening and asked if she had seen it again. No, she had told you, and that if you planned to keep the cat, you would paperwork to file.

You weren’t sure how he had gotten out, but you returned to entrance of your building with a can of wet food and your pockets filled with treats as you tried to entice back to you.

You made the typical kissy noises, the harsh pspsps, but to no avail. You went to call his name, but frowned as you realized you had none for him. So you resorted to the clichéd, “Here, kitty, kitty!”

You searched through the surrounding parking lot and street in your pajamas, calling out for a cat with your hands full of canned wet food like a stereotypical crazy cat lady.

But your efforts proved fruitless and you resigned your efforts with a deep sigh as you returned to your apartment.

The work day had been miserable. You couldn’t possibly continue with your work when you had lost the smartest, softest, sweetest kitty you had ever had the pleasure of holding before. But by the time it was over, and you returned to your building, a spark of hope lit within you that he may be waiting for you.

He wasn’t outside your building as he had been the evening before. You sighed in disappointment, but you continued up to your floor; perhaps he had simply found a very good hiding place in your apartment. Maybe he hadn’t left at all – he was just tucked away somewhere in your home, safe and sound.

The optimistic thought left a smile on your face as you neared your door. You looked down as you fumbled with your keys and as you straightened to place the correct one in the lock, you startled with a gasp.

Your keys fell to the floor with a resounding clink and the stranger who had been the cause of it reached down to retrieve them for you. He straightened up before holding them out for you and you stilled at the sight of his piercing blue eyes.

“Thank you,” you blinked, after a moment. Your hand hovered over his palm, your fingers grazing the soft heel of it as you closed around your keys. His fingers seemed to curl upwards then, instinctively, unthinkingly, as he ached to keep your touch. Your heart fluttered at the strange contact, but you brushed it aside with a strangled, embarrassing noise as you tried to clear your throat. “Are you moving in there?” You asked, with a delayed nod to the apartment next to yours. You had noticed your previous neighbor moving out last month, and weren’t surprised to hear that it had been filled so soon.

He turned to follow your gaze, and as soon as he put the pieces together, he found the word spilling from him before he could think.

“Yes.”

He blinked then, surprised and confused by his own actions.

You smiled politely at his succinct response. Perhaps he liked to keep to himself, you realized. You turned back to your door, inserting the key and unlocking the door before you thought of something.

“I seem to have lost a cat,” you began, meekly. “Black fur. Very friendly and very smart,” you chuckled at the thought of him shifting over on your bed. “Would you let me know if you see him?”

He peered at you for a moment and you frowned. Piercing. Bright. As if he were trying to steal your soul.

“I shall,” he responded, and between his piercing gaze and the elegant grace of his tone and posture, you couldn’t help your light breath of laughter at the sight of the familiar. “Is something the matter?”

“No, nothing,” you stifled your laugh. “You just… remind me of someone,” you explained, distantly.

You took one last parting glance at him. Assessing. Considering. Shaking your head as you thought better of your sanity.

And you frowned at the sight of him. For a moment, it almost seemed that he had smiled at some hidden joke.

Lied they were — clear to everyone that were around the prince for the past weeks. It seemed that they were clearer to those who watched him that to Aerion himself. Because the boy — your sweet, sweet Maegor was thank the gods was a calm one, barely fussing, crying only when he was in need of something. Yet in your husband's eyes that was what was so concerning about him, the prince was so sure that there had to be something wrong with the boy, that the bundle he was holding each night — with face hard as stone and eyes filled with anxiety — couldn't be simply perfect.

Going through the halls of the castle your brother’s in law words ringed in your ears like bells that rang in the King’s Landing.

You both were sitting by the table, Daeron nursing his drink after everybody left — the maids were starting to clean off the tables and you stayed out of propriety… or just to not let him drink alone and make an even bigger fool of himself in the eyes of the servants.

He lifted his head slowly — as if it was heavier than usual, with violet eyes followed the servants working before they settled on you. He was tired, you could see it clearly, perhaps not sleeping properly again, not like he should be but neither was you really, not with newborn to stress over, no matter how soft of nature he was.

You saw how his eyes flickered to Aerion’s seat and he sighed quietly, lifting the goblet to his mouth.

“I’ve heard you got a quiet one.” Daeron mumbled without looking at you but still after weeks from Maegor’s birth the rumors of his quietness had been spreading through the Summerhall.

"Yes..." you said and nodded before a gentle, small smile slipped onto your face. "very much unlike his father." you added before taking a sip of your juice from the goblet.

"Oh that's for sure." he huffed quietly and one of the corners of his lips lifted up as in an reluctant smile. "I've heard only think the boy apparently got from my brother is his looks." Daeron added before taking a swing of his drink.

"That is unmistakable." you nodded and smiled bigger at the memory of the curious lavender eyes and snow-looking hair, so soft and sweet smelling that each time you buried your nose in the white strands you couldn't help but wonder how is it possible that the boy smell as such. "His father likeness... yet still the quiet nature... if it stays throughout the years I can only wonder what Aerion will do." you added quietly and looked at your brother in law.

Daeron swallowed before his eyes flickered to the goblet, his fingers wrapping gently around it as he seemed deep in thought. "He wasn't always like this..." he mumbled and shook his head gently, making the dirty-blonde strand of his hair to fall over his face. "Not such a monster like some say... Aerion was a glad child once... long time before even meeting you." he swallowed before his eyebrows lifted in fetched nonchalance. "He liked fishing." he added.

The words — even now when you were walking calmly down the corridor to the shared chambers of yours — shook something deep inside of you.

A glad child once... long time ago.

A thought almost ridiculous. You knew your husband — you knew what a little monster he can be, you saw it in Ashford moons ago and the sight rooted itself in your mind like many different faces of your husband have. A prince that scared servants passing him in the hall, a husband with reluctance showed you affection but was unmistakably loyal even if it was a pain in his eyes, a father that made up excuses to watch over his firstborn to avoid being seen as weak or vulnerable. Yet a glad child... it was not something that pictured itself easily in your mind.

And now, there he was, the same face — a prince, a husband and a father — deep in sleep with his cheek smushed against the fluff pillowed he insisted on having. The white strands of his own hair falling gently over his skin as the blanket enveloped him snuggling, leaving only a bit of his shirtless statue visible.

And there was your boy also — safe in his father's eyes, cheeks round and rosy as he looked around curious, without making a sound. He wriggled gently in Aerion's arms and your gaze fell on the prince's face again.

It was so soft, so angelic all of the sudden as if all the fight and stubbornness melted away with his sleep, leaving only this — mushy face surrounded to sleep.

You've seen it often, very often really, every night to be exact, yet something now, seeing him holding Maegor like a dragon guarding his hatchling moved something in you as you slid under the duvet yourself.

"I took him in." Aerion mumbled without opening his violet eyes, only reacting when he felt the mattress dip under your weight. "He was breathing weirdly... unevenly, I figured it's safer if he sleeps here." he added and his eyebrows scrunched slightly.

"Tis' alright..." you whispered brushing Maegor's hair away as his eyelids fell closed. "Just don't squish him in your sleep." you added before pressing a kiss upon Aerion's brow.

The grimace softened as he nuzzled deeper into pillow and huffed quietly before stilling again — one hand placed securely over sleeping Maegor's tummy.

You placed you own head on the pillow next to his, you eyes flickered over both of them in the dim lighting as you pulled the duvet over yourself and sighed.

Perhaps both of those glad boys will go fishing together once in the future.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! It was genuinely so sweet to write and so easy too, a quite short piece but oh my it made my heart swell, these are literally my babies having a baby 🥹

taglist: @ghostlybfgf @trixxxel @userhotd @qardasngan @elisabethturner1919 @sczlxdy @itspbjellytime @morriganstark @aerangi

The Phantom Troupe had known Chrollo Lucifer for years. They had seen him as a cold, ruthless, calculating leader who could order a massacre without blinking once. They had seen him calm in the face of death, unshaken by betrayal, unmoved by the chaos that swirled around him like a second skin.

But recently, something had shifted.

It was small things at first. The way he'd pause mid-sentence, a faint smile tugging at his lips for no apparent reason. The way he'd check his phone more often than usual, his eyes softening when he read a mysterious message. The way he'd disappear for a few hours without any explanations, returning with a lightness in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

"The boss has been acting strange," Nobunaga stated one evening, leaning against the wall of their hideout. "Did anyone else notice?"

Feitan grunted, not looking up from sharpening his blade. "Not my business."

"It's always our business if it's about the boss," Phinks countered, crossing his arms. "If he's distracted, it could affect the Troupe."

"He's not distracted." Machi's voice was flat, but her eyes flickered with something like curiosity. "He's... softer. I've seen it. When he thinks no one's watching, his expression changes."

"Soft?" Nobunaga snorted. "Chrollo? Soft?"

"Don't be dense, Nobu." Shalnark's voice came from behind his laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "I've been analyzing his behavior patterns for the past three weeks. He's been spending more time away from the hideout, his communication patterns have shifted, and -” He paused, a grin spreading across his face. "—he's been buying flowers."

Silence.

"Flowers?" Shizuku repeated, her voice flat with disbelief.

"Flowers," Shalnark confirmed. "Specifically, a bouquet of white roses, every three days, from a florist in the commercial district."

"That's..." Nobunaga trailed off, trying to process the information.

"That's insane," Phinks finished for him.

-

The Troupe decided, collectively and without official vote, that they needed to investigate.

"I'll tail him," Pakunoda offered, her voice calm and measured. "I can read his memories if I touch him. But I don't think he'd appreciate that."

"He'd kill you," Feitan said flatly.

"He'd try."

"That's not a risk we should take," Machi interjected. "We just need to watch. See who he's meeting. What he's doing."

"I can monitor his phone," Shalnark said, already tapping away. "Track his movements, his messages, and -”

"Don't." Chrollo's voice came from the doorway, calm and amused. "I know about you."

The Troupe froze. Chrollo stood there, leaning against the doorframe, a soft smile on his lips. He looked... happy. Genuinely happy.

"Boss," Phinks said, recovering first. "We were just—"

"Gossiping about me?" Chrollo raised an eyebrow. "I'm flattered."

"We're not gossiping," Kortopi said quickly. "We're... concerned."

"Concerned." Chrollo's smile widened. "You think I'm compromised."

"We think you're acting different," Machi corrected. "That's all."

Chrollo was quiet for a moment. Then he pushed off the doorframe, walking into the room with an unhurried grace. His eyes swept over each of them, and for a moment, something vulnerable flickered in their depths—something they'd never seen before.

"You're not wrong," he said finally. "I have been... different. But not in a way that threatens the Troupe."

"Then what is it?" Phinks demanded.

Chrollo's smile turned secretive. "I'll tell you when I'm ready. For now—" He paused, pulling his phone from his pocket. His expression softened again, that same warmth he'd been wearing for weeks. "—I have somewhere to be."

He left without another word.

-

The moment the door closed behind him, the Troupe exploded.

"He's definitely seeing someone," Nobunaga declared, slamming his fist on the table. "I've never seen him smile like that. Never."

"Could be a trap," Feitan said, but even he sounded unconvinced.

"A trap that makes him buy flowers?" Shalnark snorted. "I don't think so. This is personal."

"Who could be with him?" Phinks wondered aloud. "I mean, the boss is... the boss. He's untouchable. Unreachable. Who could possibly—"

"Someone patient," Machi cut in. "Someone who doesn't try to manipulate him. Someone who sees him as a person, not a weapon."

"That's..." Phinks paused. "Actually, really specific."

Machi shrugged. "It's what he needs."

Pakunoda, who had been silent throughout the conversation, finally spoke. "I touched him earlier. By accident. I didn't mean to, but—" She paused, her expression unreadable. "—I saw something."

"What?" Everyone leaned in.

"He was thinking about her." Pakunoda's voice was soft. "A woman. (H/C) hair, kind eyes. She smiled at him, and he—" She stopped, shaking her head. "I've never seen him feel that way about anyone. It was... overwhelming."

The room fell silent.

"So it's real," Shalnark said quietly. "The boss has a crush."

"A crush?" Nobunaga laughed. "The boss? The cold-blooded leader of the Phantom Troupe? Has a crush?"

"Stranger things have happened," Machi said, almost smiling.

-

They found Chrollo a few days later, sitting in a quiet café with you discussing a book.

The Troupe watched from a distance—disguised, subtle, careful not to draw attention. You and Chrollo were laughing about something, your head tilted back, your face lit up with genuine joy. And Chrollo—the same Chrollo who had ordered the massacre of countless people, who had stolen and killed without hesitation—was looking at you like you were the most precious treasure in the world.

"I can't believe it," Phinks muttered. "He's actually... soft."

"She normal," Feitan observed. "Not a Nen user."

"She doesn't know what he does." Shizuku voice was flat,unbothered but there was something like concern beneath it. "Does she?"

"Probably not," Shalnark said. "And that's why he likes her. She sees him as just a man."

They watched as Chrollo reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours. You smiled, and he smiled back—a real smile, unguarded and warm.

"We should go," Pakunoda said quietly. "We've seen enough."

"But—"

"Let him have this." Her eyes were soft. "He deserved it."

-

The Troupe never confronted Chrollo about you directly.

But they made their peace with it in their own way. Nobunaga stopped joking about Chrollo's "softness." Phinks stopped questioning his absences. Machi started leaving flowers on Chrollo's desk—a quiet acknowledgment of what she'd seen.

And Chrollo, in his own way, acknowledged their understanding.

"Thank you," he said one night, when the Troupe was gathered. "For not asking."

"We didn't ask because we know you," Shalnark replied. "You'd tell us if it was important."

"It is important." Chrollo's voice was soft, almost vulnerable. "She is important. But she's also... separate. She doesn't know who I really am. And I'd like to keep it that way."

"We understand," Pakunoda said. "We'll protect her. Even if she doesn't know it."

Chrollo's smile was genuine. "Thank you."

-

The Troupe kept your secret, and Chrollo's.

They never approached you, never made their presence known. But they watched, in their own quiet way. If anyone ever posed a threat to you, they would act before Chrollo even knew there was a problem.

"She's good for him," Nobunaga said one day, watching Chrollo leave to meet you.

"She makes him human," Machi agreed.

"Let's hope she never finds out the truth," Feitan said. "Or we might have to kill her."

The others turned to stare at him.

"What?" he said, his voice flat. "You were all thinking it."

"We were not," Pakunoda said, her voice firm. "We were thinking about how to protect her. Not how to kill her."

Feitan grunted but said nothing.

"What matters," Shalnark said, "is that the boss is happy. And we've never seen him happy before. That's... new."

"It's good," Kortopi added. "He deserves it."

-

Chrollo never told you who he really was.

But sometimes, late at night, when the world was quiet and you were asleep beside him, he would look at your face and feel something he'd never felt before: a fear of losing you.

"One day," he whispered to you, his voice barely audible in the darkness, "you might find out who I am. And when you do, you might leave."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"But until then, I'll cherish every moment I have with you."

He didn't know that the Troupe had already made a pact. If you ever found out and tried to leave, they would stop you—not to hurt you, but to keep Chrollo from shattering ever again.

Because for all his power, all his ruthlessness, Chrollo Lucifer was still a man who could be broken.

King's Landing smelt like shit, and he could still remember being younger, and the annoyance he felt having to make the moon long trip South, but then his eyes found you. A dragon, the second eldest daughter of King Viserys Targaryen.

You were a Targaryen. A princess. A dragon, and Gods did you captivated from the very start. He could still recall your laugh, and the way you talked wildly with your hands. The way your lips felt when he kissed you for the first time hiding away from the feast. The smile that rested easily on your face before you were dragging him off to somewhere outside the Dragon Pitt at the hour of the wolf.

In literal aspect he had met you dragon that very night of your first shared kiss. He could still recount the dragon's silver wings and the stench that surrounded the beast. The one always lingering in your hair from the amount of time you spent with your mount.

He had even rode on Silverwing, but that was something he kept to himself for a multitude of reasons.

You were going to be his wife. It was in the talks between both the King and his Lord father. Then his father died, and his uncle seized power of Winterfell…and you were married to your brother only moons later due to Alicent Hightower’s scheming.

He still had the letters of your sorrow. The heart felt words that your heart belonged to him and not Aegon. The small dips in the parchment where your tears had fell onto it.

For a lack of better words things fell to shit, and from his reportings from down South yours still seemed to be that way. As your brother husband had usurped your elder sister's throne. You were a Queen, technically, crowned by the Septon a day ago.

But now he had heard the spotting of the dragon, heading in this very direction. Rumors spreading through the North reaching his ears before the beast themself had arrived.

The man had a feeling it was you, but why you had come was unknown. Mayhaps to try and convince him to forget his oath and swear for your husband. Had you come for…? No. That was a foolish thought. He had not seen you in years, and there was no way you still held any feelings for him.

Not in the way he did you, but that was different.

His thoughts were interrupted, "Dragon!" a loud voice, declared the fear evident. It took a whole two seconds to identify who exactly it was.

It was you.

"Stand down," he immediately ordered, ignoring the wide eyed stares of diffusible it gained. Your beautiful, silvery mount came soaring through the sky before landing with with a force that caused the entire North no doubt to shake.

Silverwing, let out a roar of warning looking at the shaking Northernmen. You slid off first, and he immediately took in your appearance. You were not dressed like a Queen he quickly realized. You looked as if you were a mere woman, that could blend into any crowd.

There sat atop your beat were two small silver haired children, that slid off together. You steadied them before rewrapping a large cloak around the pair of them. He could see the chill that ran through you even despite the distance between you.

You did not move away from your mount at first, staring at him, "I didn't know where else to go," you yelled.

Your dragon did not growl when he stepped forward,"Lykīrī." He heard you whisper the closer he got. Silverwing did not move away from you, but she also had not tried to roast him alive yet. Sometime that only eased some of the tension in his shoulders.

"He usurped her, and I—I couldn't just stay there and let it happen—"

His hand reached forward resting upon your shoulder, and he was aware that your beast followed his every movement, but still did not make any move to tell him that he should step away, but neither did you, "I didn't know where else to go…I worried about…" you looked down at the two small children, your words trailing off causing him to nod in understanding.

"You are always welcome here. All three of you," he assured you, his eyes moving down to the two small children who watched him curiously.

You looked backed to him, and he could hear the clatter of your teeth another reminder that you were not properly dress for this weather, "Let us get you all warm and fed then we can talk."

You sat in front of the fire in Cregan's personal solar. Your knees tucked into your chest, your eyes on the flames. His clothes adorning your body. It seemed out of place on you, but it would have to do until he could find you some of your own. Or more so have some made. Your children had been put to sleep moments ago in chambers near his own son, Rickon, who was around the same age as the twins.

He moved, sitting down beside you handing you a cup of tea, but he did not stare at the crackling fire, but at you. A raven had already been sent to your elder sister, hand written and signed by you.

You had told him very little. Off comments here and there careful to what you said near your children, "How did you get out?" he finally asked.

You brought the cup to your mouth taking a long sip from it, "I used the secret passages until I made it down to the dragon pit. I tried to stop him, but Otto would not allow me to talk to him until it was too late."

"You could have been Queen," he pointed out. It was not an accusation, more of an observation. You could have been Queen. You could have sat loyally next to Aegon, and played the perfect wife.

And yet you did not. You took your children and fled. To him. To the North, because you knew he would protect you even after all this time.

You finally turned toward him, and the look on your face said everything before you had even uttered a single word, "It would not have been right. He is not fit to rule nor do I want a crown that was stolen from another," you whispered.

The room went silent except for the hearth, that he would keep alive as long needed to keep you warm. The pair of you stared at the other, "You are to declare for Rhaenyra?" you asked, but you said it as if you already knew the answer.

"I have not said that," he countered, but you both knew him better than. He was a Stark. He was loyal, and he had long declared an oath to Viserys' true heir.

You shrugged, not looking away from his grey eyes, "You did not have too. You are still the same at your core, Lord Stark."

The title felt wrong coming your lips, an unease to crawl up his spine, "Please do not call me that. Cregan. I have always been Cregan to you."

You nodded, "I came here because you are Cregan. Not because you are Lord of Winterfell," you confessed, and it felt heavy. More intimate than it should have, but the words wrapped around his heart that felt as if it was about to pound of out of his chest.

Without warning tears began to fall quickly down your face. You had been fighting them since you had arrived and he could tell, "Do not send me back to him. Please," you pleaded.

The words felt like a stab to the gut. That you could even think he would possibly you send you away. If it was up to him you would not have been there in the first place, but here. By his side where you were meant to be.

His. His wife. The mother of children.

Though that was not the way things played out. Life had other plans for the both of you.But you were here now, and he was not sure he could ever bare to send you away. To part with you once more. He was unsure he could take it.

"I would never," he said instantly, his body moving before could even stop himself. His hand resting against the soft flesh of your cheek.

"I know. That is why I came to you," and that was all it to to ease him. Your face in his hands, your words that you trusted him. That he was still your first thought to come to when life had taken this turn.

"Can I stay with you tonight? I do not wish to sleep alone."

His mouth closed before he could immediately blurt out something in agreement. He stared at you still trying to remember his place. You were a princess. You were a proper lady. One with a husband. And he was the Lord of Winterfell. He was meant to be a gentleman.

But by the old Gods, he did not know if he could truly deny you what you wanted. "I—I do not wish to sully you," he tried.

"Am I not already? I fled my lord husband, the King, with his Heir," you laughed, but there was no real humor to it.

"You could never be anything less than perfection in my eyes, Princess."

You said nothing at first, "Stay with me. Just tonight. Please."

"As you wish."

In five shorts day you and your two children had seemed to settle into Winterfell as if it had been your home your entire lives. His son had gotten along well with your twins, but really pulled at the man's heart was how well he had gotten along with you.

Cregan stood, overlooking the courtyard watching the four of you. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera let out loud childish giggles running around in the snow for the first time. You kneeled next to young Rickon, nodding along to whatever he told you.

The Wolf of the North, was so engrossed with the scene in front of him he did not realize someone had come out to join him. "How long will it take before you make her your wife?" Sara Snow asked, a knowing expression on her face as she looked from you to her brother.

The softer expression on his face was gone in a flash, the cold mask he typically wore returning, "She has a husband," he argued, not turning to look at her.

"And that can be changed." Cregan finally turned looking to her, raising an eyebrow. She laughed clearly assumed that she had caught his attention.

"The rightful Queen is going to be looking toward you for support, along with her dragon I assume. In exchange for that you could propose that her marriage to the usurper is annulled," the woman explained with a shrug, "Then she would be free to wed."

He said nothing only staring at her, blinking, and she grinned at him, "Just a thought," she said with a shrug before turning back to watch you, as Rickon dragged out across the courtyard to a large pile of snow, the two silver-haired siblings following closely after you.

You turned up then as if you could sense his eyes on you. Your lips spread into a wide grin as you waved up to him and for a moment he swore he stopped breathing before you returned back to the children unaware of the affect you had on him.

Just a thought.

One that would not leave his head.

"Oh. I did not realize you were done with your council," you said, moving into the Great Hall, the doors closing behind you with a loud thud leaving the pair of you alone once more.

"I have not been done long. I heard you had awaited to eat with me," he said, watching you carefully as you swopped through the hall as if it were your own.

"Yes! I was reading to the children, and Rickon requested that he needed one more to be able to properly sleep through the night," you laughed, the grey silk of your dress whispering against the floor.

You wore his House Colors. You had made yourself at home in his home. You had treated your son with such a gentle heart it warmed him inside, "You read to Rickon?" he asked.

"Yeah. He told me today that he would rather a dragon then a wolf." Your eyes, stayed locked on the set placement on his right, missing the look of adoration in his eyes.

You took your seat next to him, and the pair of you finally began to eat together. Most night you had told him about your day, asking about his own day, but tongiht you were silent. Your eyes stayed trained on the table as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"What are you thinking of?" he finally asked.

"Jace should arrive on the morrow," you said casually, your spoon pushing around the stew.

He looked from his own, to the frown on your face, "Does that upset you?"

You did not answer immediately sitting with the question for a moment, "I do not wish to leave," you admitted. Your eyes drifted back down to the table before adding a soft, "Ever."

Sara's words from days ago echoed in his head. The Queen could annul your marriage. She would want you married to someone loyal to her. And that could be him.

You could finally be what you were suppose to be all those years ago, "What if you did not have to leave? I mean you'll probably have to leave with your dragon, but what if you could come back."

Your eyes immediately lifted meeting his, "How?"

He swallowed, pushing down the fear or rejection trying to claw out, "The Queen will not want you to remain married to the usurper, and will more than likely annul your marriage. In that case you would be free to marry."

He stopped for a moment, watching as you leaned forward in anticipation. The frown from earlier no where to be seen as the ghost of a smile passed across your lips, "You could marry me. Winterfell could be your home. It could be the twins home, and I would raise them as my own. They can grow with Rickon—"

His words were cut off by your mouth on his. Your hands were in his hair, as you invaded every single on of his senses. You were everywhere, slowly lacing yourself through him as if you were going to take root and live inside him forever.

And Gods it was addicting. You were a high he was chasing. One that he was not sure he could ever fully get enough of it. You were a hunger that would never dull.

He pulled away from you, using his arm to push the contents of the table back so that he could set you down on the edge. In a flash once you were settled against the wood his mouth moved toward the flesh of your neck.

You bunched your dress up pushing it around your waist, "This is improper," he muttered, but continued to kiss across your exposed collar bone as your hands now worked freeing his cock from his breeches.

"I am to be your wife…Take me in your hall, and prove to everyone without a shadow of doubt that I am yours." His head stayed in the crock where your neck met your shoulders, his hands still resting on your hips, "Do not make me order you, Lord Cregan."

You could feel him grin against your neck, his hands moving from your waist to trail up your thighs, "You are not wearing any small cloth," he discovered.

You hummed in agreement. "That is not proper behavior for the future Lady of the North."

"Mayhaps the Lord of the North should teach me about the proper behavior then," you mused, your lips turning up.

He lifted his head, his grey eyes meeting yours, "I plan to, but not tonight." You did not get to respond when you felt him insert a digit into you. Your hands shot out gripping the hardened plains of his back.

His thumb moved up, circling around your swollen pearl slowly, "Does that feel good, pretty girl?"

You clenched around him at the sound of his voice, that sounded deeper as lust began to take over his calm features. "Cregan," was all you could managed to get back, as he added another digit without warning.

He groaned slightly, feeling your walls adjust around him, molding to the thickness of his fingers, and it was getting harder by the second to not loose his patience and stick his cock into you.

But he was better than that. He wanted better than that for you.

He continued to work in and out of you. He paid close attention to you. Watching to see the way you responded, storing the way you would gasp when he hit a certain spot.

"You close, my princess?" he asked, and you only nodding, biting down on your lower lip trying to keep yourself from screaming out, not wanting the guards standing outside the door to walk in on you like this. "Ask nicely," he stated, continuing to circle your clit as he worked his fingers in and out of you faster hitting the spot that kept making your toes curl.

"What—oh, Cregan!"you cried, not finishing your thoughts.

"Ask nicely to cum, Princess," he said, his finger curling.

Your head titled back a loud moan slipping past your lips, "Pl—Please! Please! Please!" you begged. He grinned, in triumph. Not denying you what you so desired, especially when you sounded so pretty begging for it.

Your body convulsing as your first orgasm of the night claimed you. He did not stop, continuing to use his fingers to fuck you through it until you were squirming trying to get away from him teetering the edge toward over stimulation.

Cregan reached freeing his aching cock fully from his trousers stroking himself lazily as he pulled away to look at your face. He used his free hand to grip your chin forcing you to meet his gaze. The pupils of your eyes were blown, the black looking as if they were trying to take over your irises.

"We can stop," he assured you, his eyes scanning your face trying to get a read to see where you were at.

You immediately shook your head,"No. More," you swallowed harshly, "I want more. I want all of you," you assured him, your legs lifted. They still shook from the aftermath of your release, but you used your heels driving into his exposed ass pulling him closer.

"As you wish, my princess," he whispered. He moved closer into you, running his cock in between your folds gathering your slickness onto himself. You watched him your eyes locked onto his face as he notched himself at your drooling hole.

The pair of you held each other's gaze as he finally pushed his tip in, and he paused for a moment. He went slowly, giving you inch by inch and watching your face, trying to engrain the moment into his brain.

You made a quiet sound when he was finally full inside you, as he let out a small groan at the feeling. "You are perfect," he whispered. He brought his hips back before thrusting into you, "You were fucking made for me. For me."

He did not need to say everything on his mind, because he could tell you knew exactly what he meant. It was always suppose to be this way. You and him. And now that he had you. He was not letting anything. ANYTHING. Separate the pair of you again.

Not a King. Nor a Queen. Or even a fucking dragon, because he would rather be burned alive then have to live another day without you as his wife.

You clung to him as if you were thinking the same, and he prayed to the Gods you were. That you even felt as much as he did for you. That you were as eager to spend the rest of your days together no matter how short those were.

"Gods I fucking love you," he confessed, before he could stop himself

"I love you. I love you," you repeated back, quickly, your hands gripping him, pulling him closer as if this was not enough.

He fucked into you. Slowly. Trying not to overwhelm you, and to be gentle of you not quite sure the pace you wanted. He wanted more, but it was not about what he wanted. But he was soon to come to realize that you too wanted more. "Harder," you instructed. You wanted the version, where you weren't sure if we was more man or wolf.

He gave into your wishes without hesitation, just as he would always. He would give you whatever you wanted. If it was in his power it was yours. No matter how ridiculous it seemed to anyone else.

Any object you wanted. New silks, dresses, fancy fragrances that were over priced? Done.

You wanted a fucking Dragon Pitt built? Done.

You wanted to change the entirety of his home? Done.

Ten more children? Done. No more children? Done.

Everything he had he would give to you. His heart, his world everything in him was now yours.

He fucked into you like a madman, and no doubt the staff could hear you, but he really could not find it in himself to care. "'m close," you told him.

His hand moved snaking down circling around you clit, helping you to topple over the edge once more. You clamped down around him like a vice, and it felt so good it caused him to let out a moan of his own.

He followed two erratic thrusts later, burring himself as deep as he could. His seed filling you, to the brim and even then some as he could feel it already leaking out slowly. Your ragged breaths filled the quiet hall.

And then you let out a laugh. It was beautiful, so warmth and for of life it pulled at the strings of his heart, "Well…now I really cannot wait to be your wife."

He let out a small chuckle shaking his head before leaning down pressing his mouth gently towards yours once more, letting it lingering and hoping that you could feel everything that he could not quite put into words.

Because no words to man truly felt like they did enough justice to describe how he felt about you.

"I have thousands of graybeards who've already seen too many winters. They are well-honed," Cregan explained, turning from the view of the past the wall to Jacaerys who stood beside him.

He had half thought that you would have accompanied him, as it seemed hard to part you from the Wolf of the North, but alas you stayed behind with the children. "So they're old?" the Prince questioned.

"I can ready them to march at once," the Lord of the North continued.

"If your graybeards can fight, the queen will have them."

A grin spread across the Stark's face, "They will fight hard. Like northerners."

"And what do you want in return?"

The Stark did not answer at first, his face remaining stern, before finally speaking, "The Princess and her two children to remain here. The Queen Rhaenyra annuls her marriage to the usurper in good faith for her remaining loyal. I will then marry her and raise the children as my own."

Jacaerys' shock filled his face before he slowly pushed it down. He had been trying to figure out for days on why his aunt had come here. To the North and know it finally made sense, "I do not know that my mother will want the usurpers children—" he did not get to finish the sentence.

"No. They are her children. They will not be a threat should they remain here. She has declared for you mother. She has sworn her dragon to your cause. She is loyal. I am loyal. The children will be loyal."

The Heir let out a breath, "Alright. Those are fair terms…You may marry her once the Queen has annulled her marriage to the usurper. My aunt shall be the new Lady of Winterfell."

cregan stark taglist: @goldengirl86

house of the dragon taglist: @msmarvelknight

general taglist: @xkatherinexo @sacha1slytherin @qardasngan @bl3ssedp0etry @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @someonehereisstupid @honeybylove @zealousdazementality @shinewarrior01 @shipperqueen93 @thorins-queen-of-erebor @sw0zzle @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake

Letters exchanged between the Prince and Princess (Age 6), slipped beneath chamber doors in King’s Landing; 122AC

Jace,

I knocked on your door but you didn’t answer

Do you want to go see the dragons later? Aegon says there are new babies

I have Valyrian lessons before dinner. Put your reply under my door like I did with this one

Y/N

Y/N,

Yes, I do want to see the dragons very much. Mother says the new babies are very small though so we should be careful

Maybe one of the new dragons will be yours!

Meet me after dinner outside your room

I hope your Valyrian lesson goes well!

Jace

Letters exchanged between the Prince and Princess (age 7), slipped beneath chamber doors in King’s Landing; 123AC

JACE

You will never believe what happened- I claimed a dragon!

Father finally agreed to let me visit the unclaimed dragons in the dragonpit. Uncle Daemon came with me

She is so pretty, Jace. Her name is Silverwing- because her wings sparkle like silver! And she is huge!

Please write back as soon as you get this. Your mother said you were at training this afternoon

Y/N

Y/N

Are you serious? You actually claimed a dragon? A full grown one?

That is amazing! Vermax will be happy to have a friend to fly with once he is big enough

I knocked on your door, but the Septa said you were gone back to the dragonpit with Daemon

I'll see you at dinner. I can't wait to hear about Silverwing

Jace

An exchange of letters between the Prince and Princess (age 10) following the movement of Princess Rhaenyra’s household to Dragonstone; 126AC

Jace,

It has been a week since you and your family left for Dragonstone. The castle is quiet, and I spend a lot of time with Helaena now. We went to the Godswood earlier, and I helped her collect new bugs for her collection.

I love my sister, but I miss you. And Luke and Joffrey.

I hope Dragonstone is as beautiful as you hoped it would be, and I hope Vermax loves flying above the castle and over the cliffs.

I was very sorry to hear of the passing of your Aunt Laena. My family will be going to Driftmark soon for the funeral, and father says you will be there too.

I know it has only been a week, but I will be glad to see you. I hope the weight of your loss does not feel too heavy.

Sincerely,

Y/N

P.S: Tell Luke he left one of his wooden dragons here. It was in my chambers. I will return it to him when I see you all at Driftmark

Y/N,

I am glad you wrote. I miss you a lot, Joffrey has already asked about you many times. I had to tell him you had to stay in King’s Landing. I think he understands, but he does miss you- not as much as I do though.

Dragonstone is very beautiful. There are white sand beaches at the bottom of the cliffs, and the horizon stretches for miles. Vermax loves the freedom- im surprised you haven’t heard his happy cries from King’s Landing.

But it is still empty here. I keep waiting to hear your laugh around corners, or to see Silverwing flying over the coast with Vermax.

Aunt Laena’s death was very sad. I did not know her very well, but my mother and father are very upset. I feel sad for Baela and Rhaena- we will have to do something to cheer them up when we all arrive at Driftmark.

I will be glad to see you too. A week has already felt like too long. You make things feel easier.

Sincerely,

Jacaerys

P.S: Luke says he left it with you on purpose. Keep it.

Letters exchanged between the Prince and Princess (age 10) following the death of Ser Laenor Velaryon; 126AC

Jace,

Are you alright?

My family and I received word of Ser Laenor on our trip back to King’s Landing. I wish I had known sooner- I would have begged to stay with you at Driftmark.

I did not know your father well, but he was always kind. He would say hello to me whenever our families met, and when we were little he always called me Princess like some noble knight from fairytales.

I have prayed for you and your brothers and your mother every day since hearing the news. I prayed for your father, too- that he may find rest and peace.

I know that does not make your pain go away, but I wanted you to know.

If there is anything you need from me, say the word. I will fly Silverwing to Dragonstone myself. Father says I’m not old enough to fly her yet, but now that Aemond has stolen Vhagar I’m afraid he can’t hold that argument anymore.

Sending you love,

Y/N

Y/N

I am glad to hear from you. Even just reading your letter has made the grief feel easier.

Losing my father has been difficult, but I’ve had to stay strong- for Luke and Joffrey, and for mother. Luke is beside himself, Joff is still a little too young to understand. Mother grieves in her own way- she’s been quiet, almost distant.

She plans to remarry Daemon now. She claims it will help our family battle the rumours about my brothers and I. I told her I don’t care about the rumours, but she just wants to make things easier for us. What happened at Driftmark has weighed on us all.

Thank you for your prayers. Though I am not sure the gods will hear you, but I appreciate the effort. I too hope that my father finds rest and peace. He is with Aunt Laena now.

As for Silverwing, your father doesn’t have a leg to stand on with that argument. You’ve been ready to fly for years, but there’s no way he can stop you now the Aemond has Vhagar- it wouldn’t be fair.

I miss you, Y/N. I hope our families reunite again soon.

Love,

Jace

Letters exchanged between the Prince and Princess (age 13); 129AC

Jacaerys,

I have wonderful news! I suspect your mother may have received word already, but I wanted to share it with you myself even if you already know.

Father has agreed to let me come to Dragonstone as a ward to your mother! My mother is not happy about it, but I think my father has been attempting to restore peace between our families since that night at Driftmark all those years ago.

He mentioned to me once that Rhaenyra proposed a betrothal between you and I when we were only children, to strengthen the bond between our houses. My mother refused it, but father still thinks about it. He thinks it is a splendid idea, and I suspect it is why he betrothed Aegon to Helaena instead of me.

It would be nice, I think. If we were betrothed.

I have always been worried about being married off to some stuffy old lord in a castle somewhere, but it doesn't seem so bad when the stuffy old lord is you instead. We would be together all the time, and we could fly Vermax and Silverwing together whenever we wanted.

It sounds a bit like a dream.

Anyway, enough about betrothals and dreams. I shall be arriving at Dragonstone by the turn of the next moon. Father says I will only stay for a year, but I suspect I can convince him to let me stay longer.

I shall see you soon. I suspect you will hear Silverwing before you see us- she has been missing you and Vermax immensely, I think.

Love,

Y/N

Y/N

Mother told us about the news, but I am glad to hear it from you. We are all very happy- Luke nearly jumped from his seat, and I think Joffrey may have cried.

But none are so happy as I am. To spend a whole year with you, here on Dragonstone? That is what sounds like a dream. I can't wait to show you everything- the beaches, the cliffs, the Dragonmont.

You will love it here. I know you will. And I know we can convince my grandsire to let you stay longer.

As for betrothals, I agree. I think being betrothed to you would be very nice. My mother speaks about it often- she is quite protective over you. I think she wants to see her sister happy as much as her son, and she doesn't want to see you shipped off to some 'stuffy old lord' like Tyland Lannister.

I know a lot of people marry for alliance or power, but my mother and father still truly loved each other. They were husband and wife, but they were also friends beneath it all. Our house was always happy growing up. I think I would like to have something like that someday.

I think that's what it would feel like if we were married- a partnership rather than a duty. I think we would be very happy.

My mother talks all the time about how I will be King some day after her. The idea terrifies me- having to sit the Iron Throne, rule the Seven Kingdoms. I don't know if I will be much good at it, but as I think about it now it does not seem so daunting a task if you were by my side.

I will be the King someday. And you will be my Queen.

I cannot wait to see you at Dragonstone. Vermax and I will be waiting for you.

Love,

Jace

Letters exchanged between the Prince and Princess (age 15) following the Princess' return to King's Landing; 131AC

My dearest Jace,

It has only been a week since I returned to King's Landing, and already I miss you more than I know how to describe.

I wish my father had not had to call me home from Dragonstone, but alas I suppose we already had more time than he initially gave us.

He has not been feeling himself as of late. I pray it is nothing serious, and that it passes without issue. My mother assures me that all is well, that I have nothing to worry about.

But of course I worry. I always do.

I worry about Father. I worry about Helaena- her marriage to Aegon has been trying, to say the least. The twins, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, are lovely though- they have grown so much since I left for Dragonstone, and I have been helping take care of them since returning just to have an excuse to see them.

I worry about you too. And Luke, and Joffrey. Not for any reason in particular, I think it is just in my nature to worry about those I love.

I hope things are going well on Dragonstone. If I think hard enough, I can still feel the spray of the sea on my face, the wind in my hair at the edge of the cliffs, and your hand in mine. Your hands are always so much colder than mine.

I hope to see you again soon,

Love,

Your Y/N

My sweet Y/N,

This week without you has felt like a weight on my chest, but receiving this letter has given me some reprieve to breathe again.

I miss you like the moon misses the sun.

I am glad the twins are doing well, and I hope Helaena is too. She is a saint for putting up with Aegon the ways she must.

I am sorry to hear of the King's illness. I'm sure he will recover quickly, as he always has. But of course you will worry, it is how you are.

Empathetic. Kind. Good.

I could continue describing you, but I'm afraid this letter would be too long to send by raven by the time I was finished.

You do not have to worry about me or my brothers, I assure you, sweet girl. Things at Dragonstone are well- peaceful, though your absence is certainly felt. But we are all well, and all safe.

When I visit the cliffs, or the beach, I can still feel your presence in the air. The wind whistles in the distinct tone of your laugh, and the grass seems to bend around feet that are no longer there.

My hands feel colder without yours to warm them.

But we will see each other again soon, I assure you. And I shall be counting the days until then.

Love,

Your Jace

Letters exchanged between the Prince and Princess (age 16); Early 132AC

Jace,

Things are growing troubling in King’s Landing. I find myself fearful for the months ahead.

Father’s illness is progressing fast

There are whispers, here in the Keep. That my grandfather, father’s Hand, wishes to challenge your mother’s claim to the throne when the Stranger comes for him.

This is absurdity, as your mother’s claim has been reinstated by my father many times since Aegon’s birth.

But alas- the idea of a woman in power will always frighten a man, I suppose

I don’t speak much to anyone these days. Helaena is busy with the children, and lord knows Aegon and Aemond are horrible company. My mother spends most of her days by my father’s bedside.

I have spent much time in the Godswood lately. Did you know that many people in the North still pray to the Old Gods? It is different than our prayers to the Seven, but lately I find myself praying to any gods that will listen that peace remains, and that my father does not suffer.

I hope Dragonstone is serving you well. I would love to see you soon, but a part of me hopes I do not- because I fear the next time I see you will be father’s funeral.

These next few months will be trying, but I hold on to my strength as I know you would tell me to if you were here.

I miss you terribly, Jace. I wish you were here.

Love,

Y/N

Y/N,

It pains me to hear of your suffering in the Capitol. I hope Helaena is well- I cannot imagine having to care for children at our age (especially children of Aegon’s.)

I hate that you cannot be here at Dragonstone, with us. The air feels heavier here since you left, the halls quieter without your laugh.

The news of the King has reached us. My mother is not handling it well, and Daemon pretends to but I can tell he is upset about his brother. I am upset too. My grandsire is always kind to my brothers and I, even when others do not think to be.

Your talk of the Old Gods intrigues me. Perhaps the next time I see you, you can teach me how to pray to them. Maybe someday we can fly North, on Vermax and Silverwing, to pray in front of a real weirwood tree if we find the Old Gods kinder than our Seven.

But sometimes I think that not even the Gods can make death feel kinder.

The whispers you have been hearing about your grandsire, the Hand of the King, reek of treason. You have nothing to worry about, sweet girl- your grandsire has made questionable choices in the past, but I suspect even he is not silly enough to move against the King.

I wish I could be there, or you here, but you are also correct- I hope that our next meeting is prolonged so that you have more time with your dear father.

Losing a father is not easy, and I wish you never have to bear the sorrow, my love.

Until we see each other again,

Your Jace

A letter from the Princess to the Prince (age 16); written in haste, unanswered; 132AC

J,

The King is dead. My grandsire and mother move to instate Aegon as King. Your mother’s claim is in danger

Everything is chaos. I’m scared.

I miss my father, and I miss you.

[your initial]

Letters exchanged between the Prince and Princess (age 16) following the coronation of King Aegon II; 132AC

Y/N,

Please tell me you are alright. Your last letter frightened me. I am sorry I could not reply. Dragonstone has been thrust into chaos, and my mother temporarily stopped all communication leaving the castle, until our household had proven its loyalty.

I sent this letter to one of our trusted allies within the Keep in hopes that it will reach you well. If you are able to respond, bring your letter back to him. He will ensure it reaches me safely.

I wish I could be there with you, to hold you through the pain of losing your father. I miss him too. Everyone here does. He was good, and he would hate every second of the violence that has been raised in his passing.

I know that you are alive, because Rhaenys tells me she saw you on the dais at Aegon's coronation, when she escaped on Meleys. I hope you know I do not blame you. The schemes and deceit of your family are not yours, and I have made sure everyone knows it.

Are you safe, in the Keep? I will never ask you to spy on your family, I just need to know that you are safe there. If I have to, I will fly to King's Landing on Vermax myself to rescue you.

I fear this war will try its hardest to drive a wedge between us. I promise you I will not let it happen, my love.

Write back as soon as you can,

Jacaerys

Jacaerys,

I am so relieved to hear from you. I feared you may think me a traitor like the rest of my family. I think I could not bear it if you did.

Helaena and I are safe. I've taken to spending most of my time with her and the children. They are a welcome distraction, a beacon of peace and hope in these troubling times.

I am glad that Rhaenys made it safely to Dragonstone. I was not aware that she was being held here- I think my family distrusts me because they know of my fondness for you.

The pain of losing my father has not quite sunk in yet, I don't think. My grief has been stolen from me by this needless violence. Instead of mourning the man who raised me, I instead have to fear every day for the lives of my sisters and friends.

Please tell Rhaenyra that not everyone in the Keep is against her. My support may not mean much, but I want her to know she has it. If there is anything I can do from this side, I will.

I need no rescuing yet, but I do not doubt for a second that you would come running if I did. You always seem to know when I need you.

I pray this violence ends soon, and that the succession can be restored without further bloodshed, and that you and I can be together again.

I will try to write as often as I can, but in case I am stopped, know that I love you, Jacaerys.

Y/N

Letters exchanged between the Princess and the Prince (age 16) following the death of Prince Lucerys Velaryon (age 14); attached to a wooden dragon figurine; 132AC

Jace,

Oh Jace.

I don’t even know what to say. I’m sorry feels insignificant, but they are the only words I can muster right now.

I have spent the last few days in agony- I cannot imagine how you must be feeling. I wish I was there with you, to give you a shoulder to cry on, a safe place to land.

I attempted to flee King’s Landing on Silverwing the second I heard the news, to fly to Dragonstone to be with you, but my mother guards me night and day. She fears for my safety, but she fails to realize that I would be safer with you than anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms

This war is needless and cruel, and has gone on too long. I have begged my family to see reason- my brother, my mother, my grandsire. I beg for peace, for this ceaseless bloodshed to end before it takes any more innocent souls with it.

Because that is what Luke was- an innocent soul. He was so good. So kind. Too kind to have been touched by war and cruelty in the ways he was.

I cannot stomach to look at Aemond. I’m not sure I will ever be able to again.

Lucerys loved you so much, Jace. He looked up to you, wanted to be just like you. When we were little, he would always tell me stories about you, and he had a way of making the simplest actions of yours out to be the acts of a noble knight in shining armour.

He was the best of us. I will carry him with me in everything I do, as I know you will.

You do not have to respond to this if it feels too much. I understand. I simply wanted you to know that I am here for you, and that I share in your grief.

I will see you soon, and when I do I will hold you tight until the grief feels an ounce more bearable.

We have already lost too much in this war. I pray we do not lose anything else.

My love is with you always,

Y/N

Y/N

I’m sorry it has taken me so long to reply to your letter. The weeks since the incident have been difficult, and in truth I could not bring myself to read your words until days after the raven arrived.

And yet, in the time it took me to reply, the war has claimed its next casualty.

I have not stopped thinking about you and Helaena since the news of little Jaehaerys arrived. Mother is furious at Daemon, and beside herself that the child was murdered in the name of her cause.

This was not her order. That you have to know.

Give Helaena my love, but mostly I am worried about you. You have suffered so much loss in the small amount of time since this war began.

Losing Lucerys is a pain I don’t think I am ready to talk about yet. I’m unsure if I ever will be, but if such a day comes, I will come to you- like I always do.

I wish you could be here. I wish we could comfort each other through these days of war and bloodshed. I often think about what it would be like, to leave the war room at the end of a day of meetings and sit with you by the hearth.

The thought brings me a sliver of peace and light in these, the darkest days.

If Silverwing wishes to fly, and your mother’s guards fancy a nap, you would always be welcome here at Dragonstone.

Think about it.

In case something were to happen, now that this war has become what it is now, I need you to know that I love you too.

I love you every single day, even when we are apart, my sweet girl.

We will be together again soon.

Your Jace

A letter written from the Princess to the Prince (age 16) following the Battle of the Gullet; tear-stained parchment, unanswered; 132AC

My dearest Jacaerys,

Tell me it isn’t true.

Messengers arrived at the Red Keep saying that the Velaryon fleet battled the Triarchy at the Gullet, and that they were joined by dragonriders. The account says a bronze-scaled dragon sunk into the sea with its rider.

Tell me it isn’t true. Write to me and tell me that you are alive, that it was not Vermax these witnesses watched sink below the waves.

You stupid, stupid boy. You foolish idiot of a man.

This is not how this is supposed to go. Not how it is supposed to end. This war is supposed to end, not rage on and take you with it.

We are supposed to have our second chance. Our families finally no longer feuding, our mothers some semblance of friends again.

We would be betrothed, or we would simply force them to betroth us if they still refused. We would be wed, happy like your mother and father were, like we talked about all those years ago.

We are supposed to have time, Jacaerys. We are supposed to watch this war end, watch your mother take her throne. We are supposed to be here, again, where it all began- running through the gardens like when we were six, only now the weight of the crown weighs a little heavier on us.

You are supposed to be King someday. And I am supposed to be your Queen.

First Father. Then Luke. Now you.

Tell me it isn’t true. Please write back as soon as you can.

Love,

Y/N

A letter written from the Princess (age 16) to the Late Prince from the Red Keep; unsent; Late 132AC

My dearest Jacaerys,

I don’t know why I’m writing this.

Perhaps because I am painfully alone now, and you were the only one it felt like truly understood me.

So much has happened since you left us left me.

Everyone is gone, Jace.

Helaena is dead. Aemond. Joffrey. Daemon. Aegon. Your mother.

All of them- gone.

Silverwing is gone, too. All of the dragons are gone now. It was a horrible thing that I do not wish to relive for the rest of my days- but I miss her so deeply it aches in my bones.

I can only hope, at least, that she and Vermax have been reunited.

There are only three surviving members of House Targaryen now- Jahaera, your brother Aegon, and me.

The once mighty House of the Dragon, reduced to this.

Aegon will take the throne, though he is only a child. Jahaera will be wed to him, though she is only a child.

They wanted me to marry Aegon instead, to rule as the Queen Regent until he is old enough to sit the throne himself. I refused, so sweet Jahaera was put in my place.

Her care has been entrusted mostly to me for now, but every time I look upon her all I see is my sweet sister Helaena. I wonder if her death was painful, or if in her last moments as she fell from the window she finally felt free- free from this cage we learned to call home, from this senseless war started by fearful men who thought they knew better.

I wonder if you felt the same. I wonder, selfishly, if you thought of me in your final moments.

The Red Keep is full of ghosts now. Everywhere I turn, there is a memory of someone who no longer walks this earth.

I don’t know what will happen to me now that I have refused to marry Aegon. There are whispers that the small council wishes to marry me to Lord Cregan Stark, as an acknowledgement of his help in ending this war. I would become the Lady of Winterfell.

A part of me thinks that wouldn’t be so bad. Cregan Stark is kind. I met him after the war had ended.

My first thought was that you and him would get on well. I was both pleased and heartbroken to find out that he had gotten the chance to meet you, before everything, and that he thought you a brother.

We spoke of you at length. It felt nice, to have someone to talk to about you, who understood your goodness instead of just seeing you as the enemy’s son or bringing up the rumours that were spewed about you.

I would also have to go North if I marry him, which means I would never have to see the walls of this castle again, the ones that have haunted me so in the years since this war began. A part of me thinks maybe that is for the best.

But the other part of me wishes never to leave, because leaving may mean forgetting.

Leaving means not being able to walk through the Godswood and remember your laugh as we chased each other between the trees.

Leaving means not being able to walk past the rubble of the Dragonpit and remember two tiny figures sneaking in through the darkness, or the distant sounds of Vermax and Silverwing inside.

Leaving means not being able to see your face in every corner of this castle anymore.

But I also know that I will carry you with me in my heart for the rest of my days.

Even if I do marry Cregan Stark, my heart will always belong to the boy who snuck me lemon cakes from the kitchens when we were seven, or who slipped letters under my door just because he thought it was fun.

My heart will always belong to you, Jacaerys Velaryon. And my memories of you will never fade, no matter where in this kingdom I go.

Until we meet again,

Your Y/N

A letter written from the Princess (age 19) to the Late Prince from the halls of Winterfell; unsent; 135AC

My dearest Jacaerys,

It is the first moment of reprieve I have had in days, and of course the first thing I think to do is write to you, even though you will never read it.

I try not to think too much about that part.

So much has happened since I last wrote to you, but I fear I do not wish to talk about the crown anymore.

It has been three years since I left King’s Landing. The small council decided that the North was too valuable an ally to pass up, so the union between myself and Lord Cregan Stark was written.

I was scared, in truth, to leave King’s Landing. It was the only home I had ever known, but by the end it didn’t feel much like home anymore.

Nowhere really feels like home anymore, not without you, but Winterfell is the closest I think I will ever have now.

It is very beautiful here, in a different way than King’s Landing. The North is quiet, but never uncomfortable or eerie. I feel like I can breathe easier up here.

The snow is more beautiful than I ever imagined. It covers everything all of the time. It took a long time to get used to the cold and the fur cloaks, but I find a certain comfort in them now.

I also find a certain comfort in knowing you walked these halls once. Winterfell is not haunted with ghosts as the Red Keep was, but I can feel your presence around me if I search for it.

On my second day here, Cregan showed me the Godswood. It is almost ethereal, and the white snow and the white bark make the crimson leaves of the weirwood trees seem to glow.

I remember, long ago, you and I spoke about the Old Gods, and how we would ride North when the war was over to pray beneath a real weirwood tree.

I pray to the Old Gods much more now. Sometimes with Cregan, sometimes alone. It took me months to be able to do it without crying.

Cregan is a lovely husband. He understands me- not like you did, but in a way a friend would. In many ways, that is what he feels like- a friend. I know he feels the same.

It is nice, just like we thought it would be. To be married to someone who feels like a friend rather than a husband. He understands that a part of my heart will always belong to another, but he loves me anyway. And I understand the same about him- that a part of him will always belong to the wife he buried.

And I have grown to love him, in the ways I can- in the ways I have not been scorned by loss or war.

We have both known tragedy. It makes it easier, to accept the weight the other carries. We both understand a semblance of the grief the other bears, and we help them bear it the best we can.

I trust him, and he trusts me. We talk about everything and nothing. Sometimes I wonder if he ever runs out of things to talk about.

I wonder if you thought that about him too, when you met him. I suspect you did- you were always horrible at small talk.

Cregan and I exist most days as each other’s most trusted friend. But duty is duty, of course.

I’m writing this letter with my son cradled in my lap, sleeping against my chest. He is two years old now, and the future Lord of Winterfell.

He looks every bit a Stark, to the point where I may doubt my own involvement in his creation if I had not carried him for nine months.

But his name? Cregan and I agreed that there was only one name to call our son.

His name is Jacaerys. Jacaerys Brandon Stark.

I wish he could have been born with a dragon’s egg in his cradle, but I suspect he will not need a dragon to grow just as fierce as his ancestors.

I will tell him every day- of the strong queen Rhaenyra who never gave up fighting for what was right, of my sweet sister Helaena who kept her kindness even when the world was not kind to her. I will tell him about times when dragons ruled the skies, about how the wind felt whipping through my hair while soaring above Dragonstone with Silverwing, what the dragons sounded like when they were happy.

And I will tell him about his namesake- the bravest Prince there ever was, who would lay down his own life to protect those he loved.

I miss you every day. I don’t believe a day will come when I do not.

My daughter has started crying from her cradle, which I suppose is a sign to end this letter. She is only three days old and already causing trouble- a true Targaryen.

I wish you could know them, Jace. I hope that somewhere, maybe you’re watching, smiling down on us from somewhere better- somewhere that never felt the cold grasp of war.

I will join you there some day, on the other side. But for now, I have children to love, and many stories to tell them.

That is enough.

Forever yours,

You stand again, taking a few more steps down. Your mind drifts as you fall into a rhythm of checking these nets, pocketing pretty shells and scraps of metal. Wonder pricks at the back of your neck as you imagine the war. As the lone tenant of this pier, you had never had to consider the rites of the Targaryen rulers. Most of your neighbors had already chosen their sides, even if it did not really matter in the scheme of things—neither of those fighting for the throne cared for their subjects, especially not those at the bottom, like you.

Rulers like these bled the common man dry while claiming it to be an act of love.

You move a little rougher with the next net. Nothing but rocks and debris in this one. You imagine it will be a while until you find a worthy treat. The Gods are usually not as generous on solemn days like these. War makes monsters out of men, and the Gods scorn those who partake.

When you stand again, your eyes drift a little further down the bank. At the edge of the shore, a clump of trees catch your gaze. The water is darker there, cloaked in shadow. The shrubbery bends so far, it almost touches the water. You draw closer, eyebrows furrowed.

A dark lump sits entangled by brush, barely concealed by the cluster of foliage. You draw closer, hesitantly. As your eyes adjust, you realize it is not a lump of debris, but a body. Your breaths quicken.

If the person is alive, would it hurt you? Never trust a soldier, your father had once told you.

You bend your knee just as if you are checking a fish net. Your hands unfurl from your sides, reaching out hesitantly. You can only see his body. It is clothed in thick leather, a quality of which you’ve never seen before. Several arrows stick out of his torso. A pool of blood stains the sand maroon beneath him.

You pull back the shrubbery to see his face. You startle at the sight, falling back onto your bum.

His eyes—they were open—albeit, he did not seem to see much of anything. His skin was not grey and placid like the bodies that you had seen before. Worse, you’d heard something when you held yourself over him. A breath, shuddering through his parted lips.

“Alive,” you whisper in awe. To survive so many arrows, then the tumultuous sea… it would take more than just courage. It would take something otherworldly. You know then that your decision has been made.

A huge piece of driftwood sits beneath him in the sand. You push it aside to straddle him. Gently, you grab his arm and sling it around your neck.

The rest of your journey back to the cabin passes in a frenzied blur. You move quickly, trying to spend as little time as possible forcing the grievously hurt man onto his feet. He lets out little grumbles as you move, head lolling this way and that like a puppet cut from its strings. You make it inside and push open the door that your father used to live, laying him onto his back on the bed.

Blood immediately infiltrates the off-white of the duvet, crimson floating before your vision. He groans continuously as you break the ends off of the arrows—serving as a reminder to the heart that still valiantly pumped beneath his ribs. Once they are off, you are able to slide the armor off. 

The tunic comes easily. It seems to be made of a material that deflects water, so when you drop it onto the floor, a puddle of liquid forms in its spot. You struggle a little with his breeches—though, those too come easily with a little pull.

After he is naked, you stare at his body in silence for a moment. You have helped men with injuries before. Arrow injuries just like these, even. But you’d never helped a man with this many. 

You reach out to touch his cold cheek. He is so young—had to be your own age. Too young for the cruel, unflinching hold of war. Gently, you close his eyelids, shutting away the dark brown of his unseeing gaze. He did not need to be witness to this.

You steel your nerves and clench your fists a few times to breathe life back into your numb fingers. Reaching into the bedside table, you grab your supplies—bandages, a bottle of rum, a couple cloths, and several blunt blades.

“I’m sorry, if you are awake,” you tell him, poising the knife along the edge of one of the arrow heads. “This will hurt a lot.”

Hours pass quickly under your blade. Each of the five arrows is cut away, sewn with fishing line, disinfected with rum, and bandaged tightly. Sweat falls into your eyes as you step away triumphantly, and you lift a hand to brush it off. As they are levelled with your eyes, you realize your hands are a bloody mess. Your stomach churns and you force the appendages away.

You hover over him a moment longer. You study the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering of his eyelids. He had a strong nose and jaw, thick dark eyelashes and a head of water-matted brunet hair. By all appearances, he was quite common-looking. He had the complexion and hair of any man you’d pass on the way to town. But something about him—the quality of his armor, the blemishlessness of his skin, it screamed something ethereal.

But even Gods can be killed. 

Your mystery man is not out of the woods yet. The chances of any of those arrows not nicking anything inside him is next to none. He’s also lost a lot of blood. The sheets are covered in it, not to mention the amount he was sure to have lost at sea.

You draw the hair sea-slicked to his head away from his forehead. Your hand slides to cup his cheek. He might never wake again. Your kind hand may be the last he knows. You wonder how many people missed him—if they were sitting with baited breaths, waiting for him to write. If only you could ease their worries.

You pull away and leave the room before your eyes can fill with traitorous saltwater tears.

There are few certainties in life. Ever since you were but a child, you had recognized this. Life is tumultuous and unfair. It takes and it takes, until you can give no longer. 

The sea is a comfort. She does not take, she gives. Usually, she gives you more valuable things than a body, but you try not to question her motives.

It’s been a day since you patched him and he still has not woken. His chest continues to move despite this disconcerting sign, and that remains your only comfort. You stood near-vigil at his beside for most of the hours following. Anticipatory nerves fill your every waking second, even at night when you lay awake trying to sleep.

You recognize that the danger has not fully passed for him. He had not had water in who knows how long. Eventually, his organs would fail due to dehydration and blood loss. That is, if the internal bleeding didn’t kill him first.

You also cannot help the hope that blooms in your chest as you gaze upon his face. Perhaps it is the fact that his skin seems more alive as of late. The fact that you have seen his eyes move behind his eyelids more and more often. The fact that you were quite insufferably lonely, and therefore latched onto any individual who came your way—alive or barely, as in the case of this man in your cabin.

You want him to survive because you want to know him. It is a thought that scares you as much as it invigorates you.

By his bedside, after a long morrow of scavenging by the tide, you dump your satchel of goodies on the now-clean duvet. (Now that had been annoying to do—having to move his admittedly quite heavy body over to remove the sheets). You begin to sort through them, cataloging them.

The silence is unsettling, so you begin to speak.

“The sea has been kind this morrow,” you say softly. You pick up a smooth rainbow shell, twisting it this way and that in the light. “These will sell for a couple of silvers.”

You put the shell down and then grab your cloth, gently stroking away sand and debris.

“My father taught me to do this,” you tell the man, “he taught me everything I know.”

Satisfied with its shimmer, you trade the shell for a clam. You pop it open forcefully—apologizing profusely to the creature as you did—and stick your fingers into the dark crevice you created.

“No pearl,” you report when your fingers come up empty. You bring the clam up to your eyes, stroking its now-broken shell. “I’m sorry, friend.”

The last piece had been one you were excited for. You grab the shrapnel of metal gently in your palms, categorizing the weight and feel of it with your hands. 

“Probably off a shield,” you decide. “I’m sure a blacksmith would like this.”

You put the metal down and let out a heavy sigh. You stare at the man, worrying your lip between your teeth. Perhaps some foolish part of you had hoped he would wake up to the sound of your voice, like the stories you had read as a girl.

But life is no story, as you had to continually remind yourself. Things like that just didn’t happen.

You go through a few other bits and bobs in silence, mood dampened by reality. A couple of small shells, a nail, and a scrap of maroon fabric. You aren’t sure why you grabbed the fabric—perhaps you’d wanted to try and sew something. It is quite pretty, you decide. It had belonged to someone once.

Once you finish polishing the items, you lift your head up to look at the man. Thoughts and images flash through your mind. What was he like? You wonder. He seems strong, based on his broad shoulders and defined stomach. But he also didn’t have the worn skin of a common man. He didn’t have callouses on his hands or fading scars upon his torso. He had to be a prince, you decide. A prince of a faraway land, hoping to bargain peace between the two feuding Targaryen houses.

You nod, satisfied with that recreation of events. Yes, a prince. A just, altruistic one. Perhaps he knew of the war and wished to come and save the small-folk.

You look down at his pale hand resting lifelessly upon the duvet. You swallow thickly. 

“You must wake soon,” you whisper, “the kingdom needs you.”

He does not stir. You sigh and gather your things into your satchel. If he is still not awake by the morrow, you decide, you will return his body to the sea.

That evening, you sit at the table with a plate of roasted fish and a glass of water. The fish is one of two meals you eat regularly. The other was for special occasions, depending on if you were able to procure bread and potatoes at the markets. 

You always eat the eye of the fish first. You do not like it looking at you as you eat its flesh. It feels wrong. The eye is not very tasty, though. The odd texture always makes you vaguely nauseous–the gooey, chewy ball. Your father had always laughed at you when you ate fish. He was not of an imaginative mind. He did not see the fish as being once alive, like you did. He did not imagine it swimming beneath the tide, with all its other fishy friends–before it was snared by ruthless hands and suffocated by the open air.

You stare at the vacant chair across from you with an empty feeling in your chest. It had been so long since you had a companion at supper time. Your father had not spoken much, but his presence alone was always enough to keep you happy. He is gone now, like with the ebbing of the tide, and all that is left is the shadow of the person he used to be.

His fishing pole, next to the door. His journal, where he kept extensive notes about what he found out on the sea during the day. His bed that now had a new, warm body sleeping in it.

You wonder what your father would have done, had he found the man. You take another bite of the fish, forcing it down with a thick swallow. Would he have left him? You had never thought of him as being cruel, but you also know he loathed unwelcome responsibility. He had enough of an imagination to conjure horrible images of betrayal and hurt, and so you decide he probably wouldn’t have brought him home to you. He had too much to lose to do so. Everyone did.

And so why did you? Perhaps, you think, you have lost everything that matters most to you already.

You stare down at the limp skeleton of the fish on your plate. You had never seen a person die of dehydration. Your father had once told you a story about a man he knew that had, and it sounded awful. 

You pick up your dinner knife, a sharp, clean-edged blade, and hold it in the candlelight. The silver edge catches the light, highlighting the sharp point. Your hand trembles as you study it.

Would it be quick, painless—slitting the sleeping prince’s throat? Or would it be messy and painful? Would it draw him out of sleep and would he gaze upon you with hurting eyes as he clutched the gaping hole in his neck?

Regret gnaws at you. As time draws on, you begin to think that the mercy you had granted your prince had been nothing but a farce. That by saving him for one moment had only just prolonged his suffering.

You put the knife in your satchel and stand. It is cruel, keeping a person alive only to die in a violent manner like this–it is inhumane. 

You take quick steps to the bedroom. 

You have never killed a person before. Your father had plenty. He always said the eyes, you can hear his voice in your mind now, the eyes are always the worst part. 

You can’t eat the prince’s eyes like you can the fish’s. No matter what you did, you would have to see those eyes. And with it, the betrayal. You stand over his prone body now. 

A sliver of moonlight streams in from the open window behind you, casting cool light across the heaving chest. He remains impassive, completely unaware of what you were about to do. You do not realize you are crying until you bring the knife up to your eyes and catch a glimpse of your face in the silver.

“I…I am sorry, friend,” you repeat the same mantra you had told so many clams before as you pried your fingers in their mouths, looking for a pearl. “But this is a mercy.”

Your hands tremble like windblown seagrass as you lift the knife against his skin. A moment of hesitation prevents you from acting. And it is just enough for a pale hand to wrap around your own and for dark eyes to snap open.

“Waaa-ter.”

You let out a sharp gasp and yank your hand away. The man watches you, his visage crumpled with pain.

He repeats himself, voice quieter than the first time. “Water, please…”

You move into action. You dart out of the room, hands fumbling with the metal bucket by your door. You run across the moonlit shore to the well that sits on the edge of the woods. Quickly, you fill the bucket. You curse yourself all the while–mind racing in what-ifs and guilt-ridden condemnations. 

You heave the bucket back into the house and grab the same goblet you had used with your own water. You take a huge scoop and shuffle back into the bedroom like a child caught with their hand on the sweets plate.

The man is still awake when you re-enter, his eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed. You drop next to him on the bed and angle his head and neck up onto the pillows behind him. Finally, you fulfill his request. He drinks like a man in Essos who has wandered the Red Waste for weeks; heavy, desperate gulps of the liquid. Some fall and drip down his side, which you dab away with a nearby cloth.

When he finally drinks it all, he pulls back, his breaths labored and eyes half-lidded.

“W…Where am I?” he finally says once he has caught his breath. You notice him scanning the room as if trying to find the answer written in the stone.

You decide not to answer honestly. You fear what his reaction will be if he forces himself to recall the battle. Instead you say, “you are safe.”

He stares at you as if only just noticing you. His dark eyes are swallowed almost completely by night, exhausted and ridden with heavy bags. He lifts a hand, as if to touch you, but it falls short. His eyes flutter, and then shut.

He falls unconscious. You touch two hands to his chest to confirm his heart still beats steadily. You let out a breath you had not realized you captured when you find his pulse.

Shame hits you like a tidal wave. You were going to… you were going to kill him. You are shocked at the tears that swim in your eyes. You stand in a hurry–not without remembering to pull the duvet back up to his chest–and stumble out of the room. 

The adrenaline has all but worn away now. Tears clog your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. You allow yourself to feel the emotions–all of them. Relief, shame, exhaustion, and fear overwhelm you completely and you can do nothing but sob. On the table in front of you, the skeleton of the fish and the silver knife mock you without having to say a word.

Waking feels like drowning. Fighting against the wave ahead of you, trying to get your head above water. Then when you finally surface, you fall behind the waves again.

Jacaerys wakes to the sun in his eyes and a warmth around his waist. He thinks for a moment, perhaps, he is in a dream. Another barrier between him and wakefulness. Then, the pain hits him. No, dreams don’t feel like this.

The groan stumbles past his lips before he can stop it and his eyes shoot open. Everything is pain. It surrounds him like dragonfire and steals his breath. He trembles as he uses all his strength to cradle his side.

“Gods,” he murmurs. He feels beneath his fingers the familiar texture of a bandage. Someone helped him.

Helped him. Helped him from what? He gasps as memory rolls over him. Drowning. Arrows piercing through skin and muscle. A dragon’s roar of pain. No, not just any dragon—

“Vermax,” he cries out, tears springing to his eyes. No, no, no…

But it was true. His mind had never failed him before. His dragon. His beautiful dragon. Falling to the bottom of the ocean like a ship’s anchor. He tries to move, to jump to his feet, but he can’t. Pain ricochets up his side, and he can literally feel the side of his chest pulling taut. 

He stares at the ceiling above him with tears fogging his eyes and coating his tongue in salt. For one long moment, he despairs. Why? Why would he be punished this way? Forced to live without Vermax? The bond between rider and dragon could not—should not be severed. Not by something as futile as war. He can’t breathe, can’t think. Everything is despair.

He should have died. Living is not a gift in this condition. His knuckles go white against the duvet. Anger sweeps over him—hot, potent fury.

He curses everyone who caused this. Aemond, Alicent, Aegon, even fucking Helaena. He doesn’t care. They’ll all pay.

But not like this. He finally shuffles himself into a seated position, cringing at the pain that shoots from every direction. Every small movement feels like another arrow tearing his skin. 

His feet are unsteady as he finds his footing. For a second, he fears he might not be able to even walk. Then, he finds himself. He grabs his breeches off the table and slowly, painfully, shrugs them on. He leaves his chest bare—unable to even think about having to lift his arms over his head. He keeps one hand on the wall and the other around his waist as he stumbles across the room. 

The place he is in is frighteningly humble. There’s nothing unnecessary here. Everything has a purpose, a function. No gilded armoires, tall candlesticks, or commissioned portraits. Bare, cobblestone walls, sparse furniture (all glaringly handmade and rustic), and cobwebs hanging in every corner. 

Jacaerys moves slowly from the room he started in to the short hallway that opens into a tiny living area. A large fireplace is the only comfort to him. A pot of a molten, unappetizing glob bubbles above the waning fire. 

There are very few personal effects here. Nothing to propose any kind of hint or insight. Out the window of the front of the ramshackle building, he sees amber light flickering across a wide sea.

His breath shudders out of his lips. He doesn't recognize this place at all. He’s hurt. He has no dragon. He’s never felt worse in his entire life.

All of what energy he summoned flees him in that moment. He practically collapses into a nearby chair and it creaks pathetically under his weight. He hangs his head and a soft sob escapes his lips. 

Tears tremble down his cheeks and onto the wood table beneath his hand. His mind races, memory and pain and fury collide in a war of its very own. Vermax, his mind strays. The perfect dragon. Gone. He digs his nails into the grain of the table beneath his hands, trying to recapture something to ground him. Short, hyperventilating breaths escape his lips—his vision fogs.

Then, everything clears. His hands unclench and he leans back in the chair. He stares at the ceiling, measuring his breaths. You are still alive, he tells himself. Therefore you are still useful.

Because perhaps that was his real fear. That he would no longer be of use—that he would no longer be worth fighting for. He’d always measured his worth in terms of what he could provide to his mother. Perhaps the truth is that his worth stretches beyond that.

He hears the sound of crunching footsteps outside. He sits up in the chair, eyes flickering toward the door. Ahead of him, he notices with a jolt, a knife lay discarded on the table. He grabs it before he can think the better of it, brandishing it like he actually could fight his way out of this mess.

He ignores the pain throbbing in his side and pushes himself to stand again. He won’t die now. He can’t.

The door creaks open slowly, and he angles the knife in front of himself protectively. 

But the figure that crosses the threshold isn’t what he’d been expecting. Wide eyes and a mouth fallen open into an oval. Hands clutching a satchel of… is that a seashell? 

She drops the satchel with immediacy, hands flying into the air. Jacaerys thinks he hears something break inside.

He keeps the arm holding the knife up despite the involuntary tremble that has begun in his arm. A cool sweat travels down his temple. His vision wanes. Despite her… figure (she hadn’t brandished a weapon a day in her life, he thinks), he knows looks can be deceiving. 

“You’re up.” She does not immediately acknowledge the weapon in his hand. She’s either brave or simply ignorant. Jace is not sure what he’s more afraid of.

“Who—“ he starts to speak, but he breaks into a coughing fit. His throat feels like it is on fire. She takes a step forward, as if to help or harm him, but he freezes her in place when he turns his gaze back onto her warningly. “Who are you?”

She tells him her name. Then she quickly adds, “you washed up on the beach in front of my cabin. I found you.”

He bends over to clutch his side. He notices her eyes widen.

“Please, I’m not sure you should be up. You sustained massive injuries,” she tells him. “Your body needs rest.”

“I cannot—“ he scoffs, then coughs again. “I cannot simply rest. I must leave. I must…” 

A pang in his side makes him gasp and hunch over. The knife falls with a clatter against the floor but he can’t seem to bring himself to retrieve it. Everything feels like it is in slow motion, out of his reach and control.

She grabs him around the waist before he tips over. He stays conscious long enough for her to lead him back to bed, but he falls within the waves again the second his head hits the pillow.

Consciousness returns to him in fragments. The sound of footsteps by his head. A burning pain spreading up his chest, to which he thinks he shouts, but cannot prevent. The feeling of a wet cloth soaking his tears and sweat. 

When his eyes finally flutter open, it is dark in the room. A candle burns to a nub on the nightstand next to him, wax coating the wood. Sorrow fills his chest again so quickly it nearly steals his breath.

He sees her slip into the room like a wraith come to haunt him. It is ridiculous, he thinks, that she should be the one to stand over him. On any other day, in any other circumstance, she would not put up much of a fight. Now, he is at her mercy.

“You tore one of your stitches.” Her voice is soft, but it reverberates in his ear drums and skull like a dragon’s final roar. He clenches his jaw and turns his head toward the moon that hangs like a silver noose in the sky. “I had to sew it back while you were resting.”

Jace doesn’t reply. He isn’t sure he would know what to say. How does he encompass all his feelings—or even one of them, into a coherent thought? It isn’t possible.

She draws closer and he tenses. She notices. “Are you going to try and hurt me again?” 

He considers her for a moment, then shakes his head.

She pauses, thinking about something, then she settles upon his side of the bed. Jace notices for the first time since she’s entered the room, that she has a bowl of that wretched-looking soup in her hands.

“Here,” she says, outstretching the bowl. He leans back. She pulls away slightly. “Sorry.” She cringes like even she realizes that the soup is nothing to write home about. “It is all I have.”

Jace swallows thickly. He reaches a trembling hand out. She smiles, relieved.

He goes to take the bowl, but his arm feels weak. He pulls back. “Perhaps…” he pauses, clears his throat. “Perhaps you could…”

Asking for help has never come easy to him. Being weak is not something he is accustomed to. His other hand clenches the sheet in his fist.

She nods. He does not have to be explicit. He untenses his hand as she leans forward, a small bit of soup in the wood spoon.

The first bite makes his face twist. She laughs.

“I truly am sorry,” she says. “I know it is probably not what you are used to.”

It takes every bit of his strength to swallow the offending liquid. It is strangely salty. It tastes like the brine that filled his mouth when he— 

He cuts the thought short. No need to ruin his own mood again.

“Something happened to you out there,” she says as if she’d read his mind, and although it should be a question, it is not, “something bad.”

He swallows another gulp of the soup. He does not reply. 

She must realize he does not want to speak on that, for she does not press the matter. She lifts the spoon again and he forces down another sip.

“The soup has fish and some potatoes—oh, and they had carrots at the market today, so I put those in too. Perhaps those are the disgusting parts. I won’t purchase them again.”

Jace does not have the energy, or perhaps the heart, to tell her it is certainly not the vegetables that have made the soup taste like what sea captains scrape off the bottom of their ships.

She scoops another bit of soup and he forces it down. His mouth had begun to retain that saltiness even when he no longer had the soup in his mouth, like a stain one can’t wash away with soap and water.

She does not speak for a long pause, but Jace suddenly feels a bit antsy. It feels too intimate an act to not be speaking.

He swallows another mouthful, then clears his throat to speak. “Did you catch the fish?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“Oh, no, no,” she replies to him like it is a preposterous suggestion. Like killing fish is below her standards. “I just buy them.”

He frowns around the spoon in his mouth and hurriedly swallows the liquid. “Then why were you on the shore when you found me?”

She stirs the foul soup around for a moment, thinking hard about something, then she looks up at him. “I collect things. Shells, scrap metal, and fabrics. You would be surprised what comes with the morning tide, and even more what people would pay for them.”

An odd business, Jace can’t help but think. It seems like a hard thing to have to rely solely on the Narrow Sea for food and shelter. The Narrow Sea, he remembers with a sudden clarity. That is near where they fought.

“Are you going to tell your name?” Her head is tilted as she asks this, the soup bowl now empty and forgotten upon her folded legs.

He ponders the question for a moment. He could tell her his full name, but it might backfire, especially if she harbors a grudge against his family. He doesn’t think she has it in her to cause him harm, but he knows that many do not until they are cornered.

“Jace,” he finally tells her. “Just Jace.”

She smiles and her entire face lights up like nothing he’s ever seen before. Something twists in his stomach. “Nice to meet you, Jace.”

One, two, three, four. You count the shells noiselessly as you thread them onto the fishing line. They clink together softly as you pull the line taut around your wrist, measuring the width mentally. You remove the bracelet and add a few more of your little shells.

A few days had passed without much event. Jace drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day and slept soundlessly through the night. He did not complain, but you had seen his thinly-veiled winces and his shuddering breaths. You know that he is suffering more than he lets on. 

It is an odd thing, you think, to be harboring a man in your home that you know next to nothing about, but had inexplicably formed an attachment to. You still know nothing more about Jace than his name and even that had not been an answer easily wrought.

You slide the shells all to one side and swiftly tie a knot at the end of the line, forming a perfect circular bracelet. Putting it to the side, you cut a new piece of fishing line and begin sorting through your shells again.

Just as you go to slide the first shell on, you hear something behind you. The creaking of wood as light footfalls go across.

You turn your head, body tense.

“Jace,” you say, surprised by his appearance. You stand.

He had not been up since he’d ripped that stitch a few days ago, actually heeding your pleas to rest. But a part of you knew even then that the peace would not last long. He is a restless creature, like a bird stuck behind the bars of a cage.

“Do you need something?” You clutch your fingers together across your front, as if doing so could somehow steel your nerves.

He takes a step into the room. You notice his gait seems more steady today. He looks around every bit of the room, his eyes taking in all the pieces that make up your home. You gnaw your lip between your teeth. Did he approve of what he saw?

His voice comes suddenly, a blade cutting through the silence. “What are you doing?” 

It is not accusatory nor standoffish, instead it seems almost curious. You grab the bracelet you just finished and hold it out to him.

“A bracelet.”

Jace steps closer, tilting his head. “For what purpose?”

You let out a short laugh. “It has no purpose. It is just pretty.”

“Hm.” He stares at the offending object like he’s never thought about making something just for the sake of making something before. You smile. He averts his eyes to the other side of the room.

“You said you do not fish,” he says, “and yet you have a fishing rod.”

You follow his eyes to where the thing sits near the door. It sits, forgotten, in the corner of the room—there to haunt you and the person you’d never become, you’re sure.

“My father…” you start to say, but something gets caught in your throat. You forcefully swallow past the blockage. “My father used to fish.”

Jace’s accusatory eyes soften around the edges. He hobbles closer and takes the seat across from you at the table. Your father’s seat.

“And your father—“

“He is dead,” you answer curtly, “he has been for two summers now.”

You pick up the bracelet you had only just starteda nd slide a seashell onto the line. Hurt does not fill your chest like a cavity anymore—now all you feel is numbness as it spreads from your lungs to your heart. 

Jace turns his head to look out the window at the night sky. “My father is gone too.”

Your eyes leap toward his in a flash. He does not look at you, his hand tracing repetitive shapes on the table. The deep circles beneath his eyes have all but faded now, but the weariness to his expression remains. He possesses the gaze of someone who holds more than they can carry–a gaze your father shared.

Your throat bobs as you force yourself to swallow. You feel hollow, but a bit of warmth has reentered your chest. Two children, you think, without a parent—an awful thing, certainly, but not especially rare in Westeros.

You slide another shell onto the bracelet, fingers trembling. “He went mad.” Telling the truth, those three words, stings like betrayal. “He was a knight before I was born. He never… he never forgot what he had to do. The faces of the men he killed… they haunted him.”

Jace goes pale. His dark eyebrows furrow, the line of his mouth pulling down. “I-I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”

You nod. Put another two shells on the line. Desperately, you search for a way to change the subject. “He always wanted to teach me,” you say, gesturing to the rod, “but he never did.”

He drags a quick hand through his curly brown hair, then pauses as he gets caught in a tangle. He huffs irritably.

“Perhaps,” he says, onyx eyes catching the amber light of the candle flickering on the table, “if I could summon the strength to get dressed and brush my hair, then I could show you how.”

You swallow thickly. “You do not have to—“

“It is the least I can do,” he murmurs. “You saved my life.”

To smile feels inappropriate, so you avert your eyes and begin to tie a knot in another bracelet.

Jace stares at himself in the mirror that stands in the corner of the bedroom with solemn eyes. His eyes glaze over the bandages that wrap around his chest and lower torso, then the unfamiliar slightness to his shoulders and waist. He feels as though he looks at a person he no longer recognizes, like his mind has been transported into the body of someone much weaker than he used to be.

The old house is quiet in the morrow. Every once in a while, a soft breeze will make the house creak. One may occasionally hear a sea bird calling in the distance. Other than that, everything exists as if completely removed from reality; untouched by the war that rages just beyond the sea’s reaches.

His eyes flick back to the mirror and he sees her standing behind him with a deep green doublet wrapped in her arms. 

“It was my father’s,” she says, drawing closer. “It might be a little large on you.”

Jace nods. She hands him the doublet. The material feels like cheap linen, nothing to the quality he had worn before. He does not mind. It would be odd, he thinks, for him to expect anything better.

He lifts the top over his head and she helps guide it over. She seems to be trying not to touch his skin, like she thought he might be made of glass. He clenches his jaw when he feels the familiar tightness in one of his wounds as his arms stretch over his head.

The doublet falls over his body easily, but it does hang on him a bit like the robes a septa might wear.

He hears the sound of muffled laughter from behind him and he turns his head.

“My apologies.” She can barely get it out through her thinly-suppressed amusement. “You do look a bit funny, though.”

Jace feels his lips tug upwards in the first semblance of happiness he’d felt in days. It feels odd and out of place, and so it disappears with his next blink.

“Shall we go?” 

Jace nods. He follows her out of the bedroom and into the living area, watching as she bends to grab the fishing pole. He walks behind her as she leads the way outside, too slow to match her pace.

The brush of a briney mist against his skin feels like flying across the humid air on top of Vermax. His chest pangs and he forces the thought away. His eyes brush the swaying grasses that stand cloistered around the sea’s edge, each one caught up in a current of air drifting by. He watches the woman as she strides ahead of him.

She is quite plain. She does not have the dresses of the courts he is used to, nor the manners of a highborn lady. She moves unhindered by corsets and the plumes of expensive dresses. Her soft legs pump quickly across the sands, barefoot, like she has mapped every inch of the shore to near-perfection and knows without looking where she must go.

Seeing her slip ahead, her hair tangled in the sea’s mist, then as she turns over her shoulder with a jovial grin, it feels so different than anything he’s ever known before.

Baela is beautiful. She is poised, and gentle, but with a rough edge that assures him she could—and would—easily hurt him if pushed to it. But his stomach never flipped when she spoke. He never searched for her eyes from across the room. He never grasped her hand and wished he never had to let it go. He had known her for so long, he assumed she was all he’d ever need, that the feeling of content he felt in her presence was love. Now he isn’t so sure. 

She reaches the shore and stops when her feet hit the tide.

He meets her gaze as she turns to him. His heart pounds in his ears.

“Is it not wonderful?” She sweeps her arm in a half-arc as she speaks, eyes glimmering beneath the high morrow’s sun.

Jace draws his eyes away from her figure to the open waters. It is wonderful, he thinks. If not wrought with pain and regret.

He forces his gaze away. “Yes.”

“So,” she says, shifting on her heels, “how do we begin?”

Jace steps forward and picks up the rod. He retrieves the little scrap of maroon fabric that she had found a few days back and attaches it to the end of the hook. 

“It is always a good idea to have some kind of bait,” he explains, “fish are attracted to movement. If you can find insects or worms, those work even better. But this fabric may do. We will have to see.”

He moves close to the edge of the water and lets the rod scrape the top of the ocean. “Most fish do not swim right by the shore, so you will need to throw the line out a little ways. Make sure that you do not catch your skin with the hook.”

She nods, eyebrows drawn together in deep contemplation. Jace nearly smiles at the way she’s taking this all so seriously, before he catches himself and schools his expression.

Jace steadies his hand and propels the line out into the ocean. One of the wounds on his side complains at the movement, but he ignores it. He watches the line bob in the water with a softened expression. His memory flits between days spent under the sun at Driftmark and Dragonstone, laughing while he chases Lucerys with a wood sword; Laenor showing him how to fish among the tidepools; a fierce burn from the sun that is soothed by his mother’s affectionate hand.

“Who taught you this?” Her voice breaks through the silence that had settled between them. Her eyes keep steady on the line, lashes squinting against the harsh light.

“My father,” he replies after a moment’s hesitation. 

Another pause. 

He feels her shift to look over at the side of his face. “I’m sure he would be quite proud of the man you have become.”

Jace’s breath halts in his throat. Hands suddenly feel clammy. His heart hiccups and thuds against his skin. He had not thought of Laenor in a long time, Harwin even longer. It feels like decades had passed since he had seen either of them, a forgotten moment in his life overshadowed by tragedy after tragedy.

“Oh, look,” she says suddenly from beside him. “A conch shell.” 

She wields the massive thing toward him. Her entire face is bright with delight as she shows him the object that any normal person would completely disregard. She is anything but normal, though.

“These always sell for a few silvers at the markets,” she informs him, “the rich folk think they are good luck.”

He is not able to reply before his arm suddenly jolts and he is pulled a few inches forward. On the end of the line, something stirs in the water. 

“Come,” he orders her urgently. “Something is biting.”

She draws close, her eyes wide. The conch shell drops to the sand. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” he says, “here, you hold the rod.”

“What? I don’t know how to catch a fish!”

He thrusts the rod into her hands. “I am too weak to reel it in. You have to.” It is a lie, but she does not seem to recognize it.

Her hands slip all over the rod as she tries to fight the beast at the end of the line. Jace, pitying her struggle, slides behind her and steadies her hands by placing his on top of hers. She freezes for a moment, then begins to pull. Jace clutches her hands gently within his own and he notices that they tremble like seagrass beneath his own. 

“Hold it steady,” he says against the shell of her ear, “pull only when you feel it stop fighting. You do not want–”

Suddenly, the pressure is removed from the end of the line and they are both sent stumbling backwards onto the sand. Jace lands on his bum, but she is able to catch herself as she tumbles beside him. The line must have broken. The fish is long gone now.

“Oh Jace, are you okay?” He looks over at her as she crouches beside him. “You did not reopen your wounds, did you?”

The laugh that tumbles out of his lips makes her jolt back. Distantly, he is not sure why he is laughing. The fish got away, he landed on back on the sand, and now one of his cuts hurts. But he had just felt so alive. So unburdened by responsibility, like any man of ten and eight without the entirety of their mother’s empire resting upon their shoulders ought to feel. 

The laughter eventually abates, and all that is left is the open sky atop him and the sun beating down on his skin.

“Do you think that the fish I cooked last night was spoiled?” she asks in response to his exuberant mood. “Once, my father caught ill from bad potatoes…”

Jace feels another chuckle escape his lips. “Sorry,” he tells her. “I have… not felt that free in a long time.”

She lets out a soft ‘oh’ and moves to lay next to him in the sand. Far enough away that there is no chance that they will touch, but close enough that Jace can smell the lavender on her skin.

Jace stares at the clear sky ahead of him until he begins to feel his body ache with exhaustion. He pulls himself into a seated position, but she does not move immediately. She looks at him with soft eyes from where she lays against the sand, a small, affectionate smile upon her lips. Her chest rises and falls slowly, hand absentmindedly drawing pictures in the sand.

His stomach churns as he turns away. He stares out at the rippling current with half-lidded eyes. 

“How far is the nearest town?” His words are nearly carried away with the next tide that pulls up the shore. She hears him all the same, sliding to sit up next to him.

“Not far,” she replies, a toothy grin on her breath, “would you like to come and help me pick out a fish for dinner tomorrow?”

Jace does not reply. The hope tinged in her words makes something inside him feel rotten. Like he is corrupting the world wherein she lives. As he takes longer and longer to reply, he notices something settle upon her face. A realization that fades into melancholy.

“Oh.” She looks to the sea in an attempt to hide the dewiness in her eyes, but Jace notices all the same. “You wish to leave.”

“My mother,” he says, “she will be looking for me. She will not stop until she finds me.”

She nods.

Something compels him to continue. “I would stay. I would, truly,” he says, “but this is bigger than me. Bigger than this–”

“I understand, Jace.” But Jace is not sure she does. Her lips purse, her eyebrows drawn to form a small wrinkle between them. 

“I would at least stay a couple more days,” he tells her, “I need to make sure I do not simply hurt myself again by leaving too soon.”

She pulls her knees to her chest and rests her head upon them. “It sounds like a good plan,” she agrees quietly. “Perhaps… Perhaps I could pack you some food as well.”

“Yes,” he says this far too enthusiastically, but he notices her brighten at the joy in his voice and so he continues to smile. “That would be wonderful.”

She nods, pulling at a frayed edge of her dress. “Then it will be done.”

The two of them watch for a few more moments as the red sun burns a hole against the sky and as the water ripples with wrath.

“I will leave on the morrow”--That is what he had told you over dinner the previous evening. 

In the morrow, the sky opens and floods them with her tears. 

You stand by the window of the cabin looking out at the frightful weather. Rain falls like daggers against the darkened, tumultuous sea. Waves crash against the shore. A crack of lightning makes you flinch.

“The Gods are angry,” you say to the still air of the cabin. 

Jace sits halfway over his plate of roasted fish as you say this. Then he straightens, his eyes flickering briefly outside. The dark brown of his irises reflect the grey of the clouds swirling above. “Or they do not grant me leave.”

You force yourself to pull away from the window. Turning your head, another flash of brilliant light comes across the floor, painting everything white. You fall into a silence as you step carefully across the cabin.

You knew that from the moment you found him, that it would not be permanent. Just like the rains that fall from above now, this momentary storm in your life will too pass. You had not even wished for him to stay, initially. You recall that first night, sewing his wounds with fishing line, as your eyes stretched across his alien visage. You had told yourself that his presence would be temporary as a comfort then, now you tell it to ground yourself in reality.

Jace had become more friendly in the past few days. Conversation came easily to him and made the thought of him leaving that much harder. Now you were the one that deflated at the sound of his voice across the hall, the one that shrunk from revealing the parts of yourself that had not seen the light in years.

You are selfish. It is a quality that had always lurked behind your eyes, but had sharpened since your father’s death. It is a survival tactic. Every animal, even humans, wish to hold onto the things they hold dear. It does not matter if it is not much. Everything you have is in some way worth keeping–including Jace.

But you could not fight logic. His mother, his family–they had a higher claim to him than you did. You could not keep him like a bird with clipped wings. It is cruel to even think it. 

You scrub the dish in your hands until your hands feel raw and achy. The only light comes from behind you in the smoldering fireplace and the flash of light that illuminates the sky. You hear the clatter of the bowl from behind you as Jace finds his footing–the screech of the chair as it rubs harshly against the floor.

You feel his warmth as he comes to stand beside you. He reaches a hand into the soapy mess over the wood bucket and fetches your hand from the fray. 

“You have made yourself bleed,” he observes quietly, a finger stroking over the cuts. 

You feel your throat bob under the weight of his probing stare. You slip your hand away from his and turn your back to dip the bowl in the bucket of soapless water.

“Have I done something to upset you?” he murmurs. His words are echoed by a rumble of thunder in the distance.

You still your movements for just a second before continuing. Your cuts throb at the feeling of the cool water cleansing the blood from your hands. “No,” you reply simply.

“Then why have you been so quiet as of late?”

You drop the bowl onto the wood surface in front of you and turn, drying your hands with a near cloth. “I just haven’t had much to say, I suppose.”

Another flash of light. Rain as it beats ceaselessly against the metal roof. You face him, clenching the towel in your fist.

“Shall we remove your stitches?” It had been suggested a few days ago as the first thing he would do before departing, so he would not have to bother with finding someone to do it for him on the road. 

Jace looks like he might say something. Then he shakes his head. “On the bed?”

You nod. “That would be easiest.” 

You slip behind him as he moves toward the bedroom. On your way, you light the spill near the fireplace and bring it with you. Your eyes find his figure as it slinks through the darkness. He’s healed so much better than you had ever expected he might. He should not have survived his injuries—should not have been able to heal so quickly. You think the Gods must favor his survival much more than they favored the own laws they stipulated.

He slides off his doublet and lounges back into the bed. You let the flame on the end of the spill touch the end of the wick of the candlestick and the room is bathed in a soft glow. You suffocate the flame and put the spill onto the table next to the bed.

Jace watches you as you do this quietly. When your eyes move up to his face, you notice his eyes are lidded, the tips of his ears red. You feel a warmth catch hold of your skin at his gaze and you avert your eyes to his chest.

You begin your work in silence. You lift the knot of each stitch and easily slice through it with the sharp edge of your knife. At the end of your first removal, you are happy to see that the wound has faded to a pinkish stripe.

“Who taught you this?” 

You startle at the sound of his voice after several long minutes of silence. It is a deep baritone, rough around the edges. Its unexpected richness has you shifting in your place on the edge of the bed. A flash of white light from out the window bathes his face in color. 

“My father.” You do not elaborate further. You think it self explanatory. Your father taught you everything.

“Was he hurt often?” 

You cut another knot. “There are no maesters in the far reaches,” you tell him. A hint of bitter frustration lines your words. “I have assisted several people who have needed help in the village.”

“I did not know,” he replies softly, “that is quite kind of you.”

“We all share responsibility here, no one is without duty.” You put another piece of the fishing line to the side. “It is how things function when you do not have the entire Seven Kingdoms at your disposal.”

You notice Jace’s eyebrows furrow. His stomach tenses beneath your hand. “How did you…”

“It is obvious,” you say, “your voice, your cadence, the way you were dressed when I found you… you have no scars, no callouses. You did not offer your house’s name, so I can only assume—“

“Jacaerys Velaryon,” he says, “that is my name.”

You still. Your eyes dart to his, alarm filling your chest and stealing your breath. “Velaryon,” you echo, heart racing. “That is the name of…”

“Perhaps you know of Corlys Velaryon,” he offers, “the Sea Snake. He is my grandfather. Or Rhaenyra Targaryen, my mother—“

You stand, breathing panicked. “You must leave,” you say, “why did you stay so long? The realm… your mother… the Seven Kingdoms need you.”

Jace leans forward to grasp your arm. You allow him only because you fear you may topple over without the stability.

“I am of no use to them in this condition,” he scoffs. You notice a faraway look in his eyes. The same look he sometimes got when he stared upon the ocean or recalled stories of his father to you. “My dragon is dead, my body a wreck. There is nothing left of me for them to scavenge.”

“T-That is not true,” you stutter. “You must at least find out if they are safe. You have been healed for days… you could have left—“

“I stayed for you.” You fall silent at the sincerity in his voice. His hand drifts down the bare skin of your wrist to thread between your fingers. He cups your hand between his own.

“You cannot stay,” you tell him.

“It does not matter if I stay one more day. The realm will not fall today,” he replies, “we cannot travel in this ruinous weather, anyway.”

Your eyes drift to the window, where the wind throws its tears against the pane. You nod slowly and find your seat again.

You grasp the knife from where you sat it on the duvet. You slide the other to rest upon his warm stomach. His breaths quicken beneath your hand as you drag it up to the next wound.

“I almost killed you the day after I found you,” you whisper, “I thought it would be a mercy. The fact that you are here at all… alive, breathing. It is a gift from the Gods.”

He leans forward. “What stopped you?”

Your movements pause from where you had started to cut away another knot. “You did.”

His throat bobs. His hand moves from where it clutches the sheets to where your hand rests upon his sternum. He strokes the skin of your hand gently.

You lean forward without realizing what you are doing. He does not allow you to back away. He brings his other hand to the nape of your neck and leans forward to seal your lips with his.

The kiss is languid. His tongue probes the seal of your lips and you allow it to slip inside. You bring your hand up to cup his jaw and he drags the hand cupping your neck to your hair. You let out a soft moan against his lips and he responds to the noise by pulling you forward onto his chest.

You do not lean your weight onto him in fear of hurting him, but you feel his hands crawl to settle upon your heaving ribs. You gently settle your lower half onto his hips, settling your hand down on a part of his chest that had no injuries.

You and Jace continue to kiss for what feels like hours. It is exhilarating. It feels like flying. Your stomach feels warm and fluttery, and your lips are throbbing.

You shift your hips and Jace lets out a groan. You pull away from the kiss, concerned. His hand moves to grab the flesh of your hip, sliding you back some. There is a hardness beneath you that makes a pleasant chill slide down your spine.

“Are you alright, Jace?” 

“Unless you wish for us to have sex,” he grumbles, “you should move off my hips.”

You swallow thickly at the insinuation. Sex. A novel thing. A thing that should be saved for marriage. But marriage seems so far from your mind now, drifting away like a current.

“And what do you wish for us to do?” you murmur. You slide forward an inch and he throws his head back onto the pillows. His chest heaves.

“You know what I wish,” he groans. “Is it not obvious?”

You lean forward so that your lips barely brush his own. “Then take it.”

Sunlight streams through the window ahead of you, branding the side of your face with heat, and your eyelids flutter against the intrusion. You fist your fingers in the sheets and twist your legs close to your body. As you shift, you feel an arm pulling you backwards.

You grasp the hand splayed across your stomach between your trembling fingers.

“Stay,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. Tears bead in your eyes, but you keep them at bay.

Your thumb finds the pulse that thrums beneath his skin and you count his heart beats. The Gods are cruel, you think. They had kept Jace here long enough for you to miss him when he leaves.

You turn your body over to face him. You are not surprised to see him already staring back at you. His dark curls are a mess on the pillow beneath him. His lips pull upwards at the corners, but do not reach his eyes. He brings his hand up to stroke your cheek.

Your chin wobbles and he blinks away a frown.

“It will not be forever,” he tells you softly, reverently,

“I will return to you one day.”

You bring a hand up to wipe away the stubborn tears. “I suppose you do not know when that will be.”

He leans forward to give you a kiss and you know that is the only way he can possibly tell you no. 

Pulling away from the kiss feels like saying good-bye.

You stay in bed as he stands, sluggishly dressing himself as if he was still looking for reasons not to leave. You do not think he finds one. He turns his head to look back at you and his expression falters. 

A small smile curls at your lips as you mouth the word—go.

He heeds your instruction and leaves your cabin with a satchel of roasted fish, a map to the nearest town, and a bracelet strung with seashells.

ONE YEAR LATER…

The nets are full this morrow. The tide ebbs and flows, slinking across the silver sands. Birds let out cries of rejoice overhead for the plentiful bounty gifted by the sea. 

You bend the knee to heave the first net out of the water. You clutch your chest protectively as you search through the things with the other hand. 

“Hm,” you murmur, “a rainbow shell.” 

You bring the shell up to the light and small reflections bounce across your vision. Tucking it into your satchel, you search some more. A piece of metal, two scraps of fabric, and a clam.

You pocket the metal and one of the ratty pieces of fabric, but allow the clam to slide back under the tide. You bring your dry hand to rest upon the head of the babe swaddled against your breast.

“Shh,” you whisper to him as he begins to stir. “It is alright, my prince.”

He brings his head up slowly to peer at you. A splatter of sea foam settles on the side of his face, but he does not seem to mind. He gives you a gummy smile and you return it lovingly.

He watches with bleary eyes as you sort through the next net of things. You show him each individual item as you retrieve it. Your heart skips when you feel a familiar shape and weight in the palm of your hand.

“A conch shell,” you inform him with a giddy grin, “these sell for several silvers at the market.”

He stares at the shell with wide eyes. The pattern, a dark brown and white mottling, you think, must confuse or enrapture him by the way he looks at it.

The small of your back has begun to hurt. You straighten up and lift a supportive hand to rest underneath the baby’s bum.

“This will be enough for today,” you decide. “The sea has gifted us more than we need.”

The little boy smacks his lips as if agreeing with the statement. You nod and carry your satchel and the boy up the familiar path to the cabin.

However, your footsteps slow as you grow closer until you stop right before the door. Something is not right. You protectively cradle the back of your son’s head as you touch a hand to the door.

It pushes open with little resistance. You slide the knife you kept on you at all times to your hand in one swift movement as you step inside.

You take not but two steps beyond the threshold before you freeze. The knife clatters to the ground and a gasp shudders from your lips at the sight in front of you.

He stands across from you like he never left. He’s dressed in black gilded leathers, his body a tad leaner and steadier. His face looks older, more mature and shaped by circumstance, just as you imagine yours must too. His mop of dark hair curls around his ears, longer than when you saw him last.

His lips with awe. He stares at you and your face as if trying to map something with his mind. 

“Jace,” you say breathlessly. “How…”

“I saw you by the shore as I rode in from town,” he murmurs, taking a hesitant step forward. He lets out a soft laugh that sends your stomach aflutter. “I thought I might surprise you. I guess I am lucky to not have received a knife in my throat.”

Your throat bobs. Mistiness clouds your vision. “You came back for us.”

“For us?” Jace echoes, eyebrows furrowed. He comes so close he can reach out to you with his arm and you know that he has seen him then, by the shock that melts his features.

The boy turns his head to the best of his ability in your swaddle, his eyes searching for the unfamiliar voice. Jace’s mouth comes nearly unhinged, a trembling hand lifting as if to stroke his head, but it falls short.

He forces his eyes to look at you. “He… he’s mine?”

You bite your lip to suppress your smile as you nod. You reach around your neck with one arm while the other supports the baby’s bum. You unravel the swaddle easily, and the chubby baby flails his arms with relief. Never one to like a cage.

You outstretch him toward Jace and he takes him eagerly. He holds him with practiced ease. He supports the baby’s head and bum as he gazes down at him, tracing his forehead to the slope of his nose to the flutter of his lashes with only his eyes.

Jace finally breaks away from the baby long enough to look up at you. “And I just… I just left you. You and my son.”

Your heart skips a beat at the name. Son. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning like a fool.

“You had to,” you say, stepping forward to lay a gentle hand upon his upper arm. “Your family needed you.”

He clenches his jaw. “Nothing we did… nothing we accomplished… equals this.”

He strokes a featherlight touch against the boy’s cheek and he wrinkles his nose.

“Will you…” you pause. You try to steel yourself for the rejection that may very well follow, hands clammy by your sides. “Will you be staying long?”

Jace’s eyes rush to meet yours. He steps forward. The baby whimpers in his arms at the movement. 

“I would stay forever if you would have me.”

You feel your heart skip a beat. “What? What of the throne? Of your family?”

He shakes his head. Your stomach drops.

“My brother Aegon will be the next ruler. Wed to his cousin.”

“And you?”

His dark eyes soften as they consider this question carefully. He clutches the lost prince to his chest protectively.

“I am right where I want to be.”

You decide to lying down on your inflatable sun bed to relax,you lie down relaxing your muscles you close your eyes as you doze off to sleep.

An hour later you woke up from your nap as you yawn you look around your surroundings you realised that your in the middle of the oceans as there’s no beach and shores insight,you suddenly panicked that the ocean water is too deep for your feet to touch the salt water you will sink to deep in step on the wrong foot,You slowly submerged yourself in the water while holding the sun bed tightly as you kick your legs hoping the Sharpedo isn’t here to chase you down.

“Okay calm down {Name} everything going to be okay…don’t worry…there isn’t Sharpedo in this area…JUST CALM DOWN.” It was a lie you are not calm,your head suddenly sweat bullets from fear and anxiety as you try to kick faster,the ocean waves keeping moving around as you don’t wanna get exhausted from kicking for an hour,you are unaware something lurking in the ocean as you try climbing back up hoping Alomomola could pick you up as you felt something grabbing your ankle you screamed in panic feeling a hands dragging you but it feel like a claw as you panicked more.

“WHAT IN THE NAME OF ARCEUS GET AWAY FROM ME!”

You try kicking something away from you while trying to climb on the inflatable sun-bed,you felt a tail wrapping onto your legs you shrieked loudly the sensation of something wrapped around you feeling slippery and too smooth for a Pokemon but it felt too human to be a Pokemon when there’s literal hands gripping onto your torso,you finally wriggling free from something as you look at the oceans water you see a faint of glowing yellow and seeing a white scales shimmering in the water.

You try calming your nerves causing you to have more stress than work as you caught a sight of water Pokemon tails in the water emerging in the surface than it disappears but it was bigger... You felt terrified of the monster in the water as you grip onto your sunbed for your life as you see a hand on the edge of the inflatable sun bed you flinch in astonishment as something come onto the boat,it lift itself up as you see…an Elektross merman?!MERMAN EXISTED.

“I am Emmet,it seems I found myself a human!” You try to form a words out of your mouth but instead you screamed when the merman is a Elektross that will electrocute you,you have a bad experience with Elektross when you accidentally stepped on its tail years ago.

“Aaaaaaahhhh!!!”

“Aaaaaaaaahhhhh!!Wait why are we both screaming?are we having a screaming competition?This is verrry interesting for a human tradition!” Emmet giggled not reading the room and the situation you’re in as you heard another voice that’s loud.

“Emmet!Stay away from the human you’ll scare them if you keep acting like so reckless!I’m sorry about my brother human please forgive him about his behaviour…we don’t wanna tell you our names” There came emerge another merman who look identical to the Elektross twin,same grey hair with triangular sideburns,same grey eyes but he have a frown mouth that’s is the the opposite of his twin brother,his body part have a Basculegion tail and features.

“But come on,Ingo they don’t seem to have weapons with them!Look they seems harmless enough to drag down-”Ingo shut Emmet mouth as he sigh since merfolks are already been discovered by you.

“Alright let’s introduce ourselves again…without dragging the human down to the ocean Emmet,My name is Ingo,I’m a Basculegion Merman and this is my young brother Emmet.”

“It very nice to meet a human up close without them being scared of us!They thought we are sea monsters that the sailors made a rumours about us.” Emmet said with enthusiasm as his tail wagged in the water.

“I’m {Name}-”You glance at Emmet hands and slippery Elektross tail you realise it was Emmet who is dragging you down.

“So you’re the one who kept trying to dragged me down so you could drown me and eat me for lunch!!”You pointed accusingly at Emmet he shakes his head that it’s a misunderstanding.

“Oh I’m terribly sorry I thought you wanted to swim with us!You were all kicking with your limbs with a floating things!”

“Also yes I’m trying to drown you…”Ingo hit Emmet shoulders when he bluntly mumbles admitting that he did try to drown you.

“Emmet do not say it so casually you might scared our new human friend even more!”

“What?!I said I’m sorry already Ingo!” Emmet lay his hands on your thighs that he got distracted that’s he fascinated by your legs as Ingo is in sync with Emmet fascination as well interested into your legs.

“Verrry interesting!legs you have human how do you move on land without any water?”

“Yes how do you work your legs when you’re on land that an amazing legs you have is it great to run?” The twins poked your legs feeling their smooth wet fingers onto your soft skin.

“Yeah we get exhausted after running please stop and listen to me I’m trying to go back to the shore of the beach.” You looked at the two merman as they understood what you were doing,Ingo and Emmet are very interested in humans culture but never interacted with them because every merfolk said they should avoid humans from the surface.

“Oh!So why didn’t you say so in the beginning?We can help you swim back to shore our tails are much stronger and faster when me Me and my young brother are together!”Ingo fin ears shot up showing that he’s excited to swim with the human.

“Alright {Name} prepare to sit on your seat and hold onto real tight because we’re about to depart!”Ingo shouted behind your back can’t control his volume as he bowed his head in apologetic manner.

“Yes hold on tight {Name} we are ready to depart!”Emmet said with enthusiasm in his voice.

They both go behind your inflatable sun bed trying not to pop it with their claws as they began pushing it and move their tail to swim across the ocean together as the wind blew through your hair,you giggled feeling the breeze hitting your face as you hold onto your inflatable sun bed tightly as the water hitting your skin they began speeding up.

Your Pokemon is worried that they look everywhere for you on the beach,Alomomola and Mareanie began to swim across the ocean asking every water type Pokemon in the ocean as they shake their head that they say they couldn’t find you,Growlithe began sniffing around the beach asking every water people shrieked in surprise when Growlithe accidentally knocked over everything,Shiny Gallade checked in places as Joltik sat on his shoulder as they both looked at eachother they shake their head that they can’t find you everywhere even in buildings as well.

Your Pokemon is sad they couldn’t find you at the beach as they were about to give up finding you they head a splashing sound they turn their head quickly cheering your name in the distance you waved at them as your finally the shore,Ingo and Emmet flopped onto the shore as they sat up your Pokemon astonished and curious about the merman twins.

"This is Ingo and Emmet, they're the ones who bring me back to land!" You smiled at the twins as their tails sway in the water,you hang out with them and your Joltik play with Emmet he feels closer to the little tick Pokémon love how cute it is as Ingo swimming in the ocean with Alomomola the sun began to set after hours playing with them.

You packed up your beach set in the car boot, returning your Pokémon in the Pokéball as Ingo and Emmet look sad that you were about to leave the beach going back home.

"Wait you're leaving already {Name}? Could you please stay with us a little longer?I am Emmet I feel upset that you're leaving..."The Elektross merman still smiling but with a furrow expression showing that he's sad.

"Don't worry Emmet I will be back at the beach again when the weather is sunny enough!"You look at the mermen with a calm expression. Emmet hug onto your legs as Ingo has to pull him away from you,as you're about to leave Ingo tugged onto your hem of your shirt.

"Wait {Name} there's something I want it to give you before you leave!"Ingo shouted as he crawled onto the sand he put something on your hands as he sat on the sand waiting for you to look at the gift,he gave you a pearl that looks like a necklace and it's got a Corsola branch as a jewellery.