a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytaleābut gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
genre/warnings:
arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, fluff and lots of kissing afterwards, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! takes place in season 1 of house of the dragon
notes:
gif by @/bladeofdreadfort. wc. 4.5k ! hotd s3 is finally here and so does my man gwayne <3 i really loved writing this so i hope youāll enjoy it!
For the longest time, Gwayne had known that the matter of his marriage were not his to ponder. As the son of the Hand of the King, his future was a tapestry woven by him in a series of cunning, calculated moves.
Yet, he had never truly expected to be betrothed to youāa princess of the realm.
The young princess for the queenās brother. By every measure, it was a masterful stroke of politics and his father had once again outdone himself. After binding his sister to the king, it was now his turn to seek the heart of the realmās most coveted maiden after the Princess Rhaenyra.
However, to Gwayne, you were more than just a political alliance. You were a paragon of beauty, the girl haunting his dreams, the princess who has stolen his heartā
But seven hells, were you also one hard lady to entice.
Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didnāt swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.
Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.
Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squireās shieldābecause he knew you were watching.
He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impressādetermined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.
With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor ladās legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.
Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boyās chest in a classic pose of victory.
āYou are just dead,ā he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.
You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.
And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayneās smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.
Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.
āPrincess,ā he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.
āAn impressive display, Ser Gwayne,ā you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, whenā
āI must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.ā
Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.
āA knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,ā he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.
He hoped that you would recognize itāthat you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.
However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.
āIs that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.ā
One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadnāt asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?
And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadnāt looked at him as you do now.
āWe are to be married in no less than a moon,ā he reminded you, still with a smile. āTell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?ā
You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.
āCompliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?ā
Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. āI shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.ā
You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.
What a fool he was.
He didnāt give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayneās language of affection.
He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.
Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.
āYou do not like it,ā he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.
āIt is exquisite. Truly,ā you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. āBut... you must not expect me to wear it often.ā
āIs it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, orāā
āI assure you, I know your intentions are kind,ā you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. āIt is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.ā
The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayneās smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.
He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.
āI just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,ā he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. āWhenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.ā
You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. āYour kind thoughts are much appreciated.ā
So he had failed, again. Sigh.
What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the Kingās nameday tourney?
Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.
Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.
With Criston Cole.
The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.
It could have been anyone but Cristonāthe Dornishman!āCole. Why him?!
A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.
āGood day, Ser Criston,ā Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didnāt quite reach his eyes.
Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. āMy betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldnāt have to sully yourself with the dirt.ā
āI was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.ā As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. āThe competition looks fierce today.ā
What about him? You hadnāt thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?
āFierce for some, mayhaps,ā Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Coleās line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.
āBut I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.ā
He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.
But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.
āYour romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.ā You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, ābut victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.ā
The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.
āIt is said even a scrap of favor from oneās bride can turn the tide of many battles,ā Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. āUnless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?ā
His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:
āMay the best knight win, ser.ā
Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.
āNo, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.ā
Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldnāt help but fall for it each and every time.
You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.
Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?
āFrom today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.ā
That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.
He didnāt possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.
You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should beā genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.
Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.
But he is still Ottoās son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your beingāthe manās thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your fatherās bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.
However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadnāt asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.
Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.
Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his fatherās sins?
Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.
Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.
The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They chargedā one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.
And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.
With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Coleās lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Coleās lance hadnāt just brokenā it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.
Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.
Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arenaādesperate to reach him.
The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.
āWill he be alright?ā your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. āTell me he will be alright.ā
āThe steel hasnāt pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,ā one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.
But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayneās gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand awayā
āDo not touch me,ā he rasped.
The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.
. . .
Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.
It wasnāt just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.
He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realmāand worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldnāt bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldnāt bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.
āIāmā fine,ā he choked out then. āSo... go back to the Keep.ā
It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heirās Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.
He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.
The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.
But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truthā you despised him.
So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.
You are in love with him.
You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightowerās son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicentās son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you allā
But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.
āMrawgh...ā
āIām not lonely,ā you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghostās silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.
To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass fasterā he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.
Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.
Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.
A sharp, ragged gasp left your saviorās lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chestāpressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.
āSteady there,ā the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he wasā
āGwayne!ā you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. āWhy are youāyour wound! I didnāt mean toāā
āI am fine, truly,ā he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. āIt is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.ā
Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale stillā
From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.
āYou are supposed to be resting!ā Your voice rose despite yourself. āWhy are you here?!ā
This wasnāt what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldnāt bear the thought of losing himā
His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.
āIf I wasnāt here, then you would take a fall.ā His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. āI canāt very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?ā
This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.
Gwayneās thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.
āTell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Deathās door, for you to look at me like this?ā
Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.
Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?
āEven if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...ā he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, ā...my heart might just run out, one of these days.ā
He gave you one last, kind smileāa look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.
When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:
Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?
As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.
You didnāt want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.
He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.
āSer Gwayne!ā
Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinchingā
But then he heard you sob.
āPrincess...?ā he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.
Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayneās breath hitched in his throat.
He didnāt think. He didnāt let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.
āShh, please do not weep,ā he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. āDarling... please.ā
Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.
As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:
Has she... returned my feelings?
When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.
He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimplesā still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.
Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didnāt wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collarā
āand pressed your lips to his.
Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.
He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.
āYou really areāā he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, āmy utter undoing, Princess.ā
Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.
Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gaspsā
His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mindās eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.
In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.
Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.
āSer Gwayneāā your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.
He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.
āWell, you did kiss me first, Princess,ā Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. āIf I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.ā
āPlease donāt,ā you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.
āAh, but think of the romanceā a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his brideās arms.ā
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.
Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.
Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.
āYou might not know it,ā he whispered, ābut I have been in love with you for a very long time.ā
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.
āSo let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.ā
In that moment, you couldnāt have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldnāt have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.
None of that matters right now. All you wanted was to lose yourself in his embrace and savor the fragile perfection of your wedding to the man of your dreams... for as long as it would last.
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Synopsis: The third arrow strikes, sealing the fate of Jacaerys Velaryon⦠except he wakes up in a world without dragons, convinced it was only a dream. Or was it? Because there is one promise his soul never forgot, and somehow⦠yours remembers it too.
Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!Reader
Genre: reincarnation au, modern!jacaerys, established relationship
Warning: None tbh its just fluff (coping mechanismš„¹), there is no specific description of reader so enjoy, no aegon or viserys, Rhaenyra is married to Laenor but its platonic, inaccurate description of battle of the gullet? (I tried-).
A/N: I recently got into HOTD and then I lost my favourite character aka Jace. I made this blog so I can be delulu about him š. Also half of this is me word vomitingš„“.
Word Count: 10.1k
- English is not my first language so / apologise in advance for any mistakes or typos!
The sea did not merely roll that day, it burned.
Fire danced with a horrific, erratic grace across the blackened waters of the Gullet, transforming the vital shipping lane into a sprawling, floating graveyard. Flames leapt from ship to ship in hungry arcs, feeding on timber and pitch and the desperate prayers of drowning men. Beneath the merciless onslaught of Team Blackās dragons, mighty Triarchy war-galleys splintered like kindling, their hulls cracking open to swallow their crews whole. Great masts toppled into the waves with the slow, theatrical finality of falling monuments. And yet, this was no easy victory. No clean triumph etched into the history books with golden ink. Below, Lord Corlys Velaryonās fleet fought with everything it had, attempting to trap the armada in the narrow, choking passage, buying time in blood and smoke and screaming iron.
The atmosphere was a living thing, a suffocating shroud woven from the sharp salt tang of brine, the acrid bite of billowing smoke, the unmistakable iron-sweetness of fresh blood, and the sickening, almost honeyed stench of burning pitch. It coated the throat and burned the eyes.
High above the carnage, roaring through the roiling tempest of fire and ash, rode Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.
He sat astride Vermax like a man born to the sky because he was. The great emerald dragon cut through the smoke-choked air like a gleaming blade, his scales catching the hellish firelight below, wings spread wide. Jaceās riding leathers were already dark with spray and soot. His dark curls whipped against his face. He did not notice. His eyes were fixed on the battle, calculating and measuring, feeling the terrible weight of command settle across his shoulders with the intimacy of something he had worn all his life.
He had locked his mother in her chambers at Dragonstone before leaving. Had stood outside the door and listened to her pound against it, her voice cracking on his name. The sound had nearly unmade him entirely. But she was the queen. She was the cause. She could not be lost, and Jacaerys Velaryon had long since made peace with the arithmetic of that.
She lives. Therefore, I go.
Beside him, Baela streaked across the smoke on Moondancer fierce and brilliant, her silver hair streaming behind her like a war banner. And then, piercing through the mist like something half-imagined, a new silhouette emerged. Jaceās eyes snapped to it. His stomach lurched with shock before his heart swelled with a pride so fierce it nearly hurt.
Rhaena. Flying the wild dragon Sheepstealer.
Of course she was.
Together they were three dragons raining hell from the heavens, and for one blazing, exhilarating moment, Jace believed they might actually win this despite Sheepstealer almost knocking him out. He watched their collective fire devastate Admiral Loharās vanguard below, great tongues of flame consuming the armadaās leading ships, sending men screaming into the sea. He felt the savage triumph of it. The rightness.
Then the heavy, rhythmic thrum of scorpions began.
Massive iron bolts tore through the clouds around them. The Triarchy fleet was enormous, he had known this, had known it academically the way one knows a thing from maps and reports but knowing it and watching it materialize below him in all its terrible scale were entirely different experiences.
He pressed Vermax into a steep, dangerously low dive.
Below, through the roiling chaos, Jace had spotted Lord Corlysās flagship being violently rammed by Loharās vessel. The silver-haired sea snake, his grandfather by every measure that mattered, surrounded and struggling. Jace made his decision in the space of half a breath. He would break the enemy lines. He would fly low. He would end this.
He flew too close to the water.
His focus had narrowed to a single burning point, the ships, the threat, the duty and so he did not hear the volley until it was already too late.
A heavy iron shaft sliced violently through the membrane of Vermaxās right wing with a sound like tearing cloth and screaming metal fused together. Another slammed directly into the dragonās chest with a concussive, world-shaking force that Jace felt through every bone in his body.
Vermax screamed.
The sound ripped through Jace like a physical blade. Not a roar, not the magnificent, terrible declaration of a dragon in battle. A scream. Raw and agonizing and so deeply personal that Jace felt his own lungs seize in sympathy, as though the bolt had pierced him too. The great emerald body shuddered beneath him. The massive wings faltered, losing the steady rhythm that held them aloft. The world tilted.
They were falling.
āNo-ā
Jace yanked desperately on the reins, his boots straining hard against the stirrups, body thrown forward as the sea rushed upward to meet them with terrifying speed. Wind screamed past his ears. The fire and the smoke and the battle became a chaotic blur of sensation.
āVermax, fly!ā
The dragon fought. Even now, even broken and burning, Vermax fought. A beast born of fire, refusing absolutely to yield to the water. One wing beat heavily, then another. The torn membrane fluttered uselessly, a tattered rag of what it had been, but still Vermax tried, and something in Jaceās chest shattered at the sight of it.
āSoves!ā His voice broke on the word, all royal dignity stripped away, reduced to something raw and helpless and very young. āSoves, Vermax! Please-ā
One final, agonizing beat of the wings.
It was not enough.
Freezing, brine-heavy water swallowed Jacaerys Velaryon whole. It was not like diving, it was like being struck by the earth itself, like the sea had become solid in the last instant before collision, and he felt the shock travel up through his ankles, his knees, his spine, rattling his teeth in his skull. The sheer velocity of the crash tore his fingers from the saddle. The weight of his armor dragged at him immediately, a slow, patient, lethal pull downward into the dark.
Primal instinct flared.
He unhooked himself and practically clawed upward. His lungs burned. The cold was absolute, the kind that doesnāt feel cold at all but rather feels like being unmade, like the sea was simply erasing him a layer at a time. He could see nothing, only dark water and distant fire and the enormous bulk of Vermax somewhere below him, a shadow become a nightmare.
He burst through the surface with a gasp so violent it tore his throat.
āVermax!ā
He spun in the churning water, hair plastered to his face, salt burning his eyes. The battle raged on around him, ships groaning and splitting, men screaming, iron raining from all directions. The world had not paused for him.
āVermax!ā
Through the haze of cresting waves, he found him. His dragon, his Vermax, who had carried him since boyhood, who had grown as he had grown, who had been as much a part of him as his own heartbeat was desperately trying to swim. The damaged wings beat uselessly to try to swim up. His great neck was straining upward. His eyes, when they met Jaceās from below the water, held something that a person with less grief in them might have dismissed as imagination.
They did not look like the eyes of an animal.
They looked like the eyes of someone saying goodbye.
A massive anchor, or debris, Jace could not tell which, tangled around Vermaxās exhausted body. The sea accepted its offering. With a final, sorrowful look that Jacaerys Velaryon would carry with him for the rest of his life.
He never resurfaced.
Something inside Jace broke. Not cracked. Not bent. Broke, the way an old bone breaks, the kind that doesnāt ever quite knit back the same way. He hauled his upper body onto a large piece of floating wreckage with the determination of a body that had not yet received the message from his mind that none of this mattered anymore. His chest heaved in ragged, desperate gasps. He was shaking. He was exhausted in a way that reached all the way down into whatever part of him had believed, until this moment, that he might survive this.
He had not brought enough of that belief. He saw that now.
He thought of his mother.
The image of her face, proud and terrified and trying not to show either rose unbidden. He had done this for her. Had done all of it for her. He hoped she would understand, someday, that locking her in her chambers had been the most love he had ever offered anyone.
He thought of Baela. Of Rhaena.
He thought of-
A sharp, dull impact struck his upper back.
Jace lurched forward with a sound that was almost nothing, barely a breath. Confused, of all things, not yet understanding, he glanced over his shoulder. A heavy crossbow bolt protruded from his shoulder blade at an angle that his mind catalogued with strange, distant calm, the way one notices a detail in a painting.
Slowly, numbly, he turned his head toward the source.
A Triarchy war-galley drifted just yards away. Lined along the wooden railing stood a row of Admiral Loharās soldiers, unhurried, methodical, their crossbows leveled at the figure in the water.
They knew exactly who he was. There was no urgency in their posture, no battlefield fever. This was an execution.
The heir to the Iron Throne, stranded and defenseless.
A second bolt flew. It slammed into his chest. He heard it before he felt it.
Then a third...straight to the neck.
A strange, sudden calm washed over him.
The deafening roar of the battle receded, becoming muffled, distant, the way sounds narrow when one goes underwater. The sea rocked him gently now, almost tenderly, as if it had been waiting all along to offer this small mercy at the end. He had not expected kindness. He was grateful for it.
He thought of his mother, safe on Dragonstone.
He thought of Baelaās laughter.
He thought of his brothers.
And he thought with a softness that surprised him, with something that might have been the very last warmth his body could generate, of you. Of a future that would not be built. Of a promise he was not sure, now, that he had ever been given the chance to make.
The last image to imprint itself on the fading mind of Jacaerys Velaryon was that reflection.
A burning sky, mirrored in the water.
Beautiful.
Tragic.
Then everything went black.
āā㻠⦠ć»āā
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Jacaerys bolted upright with a gasp that felt like surfacing.
His eyes flew open. His hand flew to his chest and then to his neck, pressing hard against his sternum, feeling for something, a wound, an absence, a bolt buried in bone and found nothing but the soft cotton of his t-shirt and the solid, living rhythm of his own heart.
He sat there for a long moment, chest heaving, and simply stared at the ceiling.
White plaster. Crown moulding. A small water stain shaped vaguely like a continent.
No smoke.
No dragon.
No sea.
No battle.
Just a bedroom. His bedroom.
Morning sunlight filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows in long, clean shafts, illuminating the warm disorder of his life: the desk buried under business textbooks and notebooks with pages dog-eared and margins crowded with his handwriting, his laptop open from the night before with a lecture slide still visible on the screen, a hoodie slung over the back of his desk chair. Outside the windows, Kingās Landing stretched endlessly in the early light, the city already stirring, glass towers catching the sun.
His alarm clock flashed 7:00 AM.
No swords or the banners of House Targaryen.
Jace pressed the heels of both palms against his eyes and breathed.
The memories were still there. That was the wrong word for them, memories. They did not feel like the soft, dissolving stuff of ordinary dreams that faded on the edges as soon as you tried to examine them. They felt like the other kind of remembering, the kind that lives in the body rather than the mind. He could still feel the cold of the Gullet in his fingers. He could still smell the smoke. He could still feel the weight of dragon-riding leathers across his shoulders, the particular pull of Vermaxās movement through the air, the way the saddle had sat against the backs of his thighs.
He could still feel the bolts.
Just a dream, he told himself. The words felt inadequate in his own mouth, like trying to describe a storm with the word weather. He muttered them anyway, pressing his face harder into his palms.
āJust a dream.ā
A dream where he had been a prince.
A prince who had died.
His stomach dropped with a physical lurch. The alarm was still beeping. He silenced it with a slap and sat on the edge of the bed for one more moment, just one, breathing in the ordinary scent of his ordinary room..
Then his brain supplied the information he had been avoiding.
Classes.
Shit.
He was already late.
He moved through his morning routine with the efficiency of someone running on instinct rather than thought, shower, clothes, a cursory battle with his curls that ended, as it always did, in a draw. He emerged from the bathroom in jeans and sneakers and his favorite dark hoodie, his hair doing exactly what it wanted. There wasnāt time to argue with it. There was rarely ever time.
The smell of coffee reached him in the hallway. It pulled at something in his chest and he followed it through the penthouse to the kitchen.
His steps halted in the doorway.
Rhaenyra stood at the island counter, reading something on her tablet with the focused, slightly stern expression she wore when she was processing information she found annoying. A coffee mug steamed beside her elbow, forgotten. She was already dressed soft grey, elegant, effortlessly so in the way that had always seemed to come naturally to her and she looked exactly as she always looked in the morning, tired by all the corporate bullshit.
CEO of Targaryen Corporation. One of the most influential women in Kingās Landing. The most formidable person he had ever known.
His mother.
The word hit him somewhere unsteady. Something twisted painfully in his chest, relief so acute it nearly hurt, threaded through with the dreaming grief of a boy who had watched her face in his mind as the water closed over him, who had spent his last conscious moment believing she was safe, needing her to be safe, and had been right without ever knowing he was right.
He crossed the room before he had consciously decided to.
He wrapped his arms around her.
Rhaenyra nearly dropped her coffee.
āJacaerys-ā
She caught herself, setting the mug down with a firm clink on the marble countertop, and then without hesitation, because she had always been this, whatever else she was, she wrapped her arms around him and held him back.
āSweet boy.ā Her voice was softer now. Her fingers found their way into his curls the way they had when he was very small. āWhatās the matter?ā
Jace swallowed against the tightness in his throat.
The dream came rushing back through him like a tide, the war, the weight of a crown his mother should have inherited without blood, the desperate, bone-deep need to protect her. The image of her face as he had walked away from Dragonstone, toward the dragon, toward the battle, toward the Gullet. The way he had looked back.
He shook his head against her shoulder.
āIām fine.ā
āYou are clearly not fine.ā
Her hand moved in slow, soothing circles against his back. Despite himself, despite everything, Jace felt something in him begin to loosen.
He laughed. A weak, slightly broken sound, but genuine. āI justā¦ā His voice cracked on the nothing he was trying to say.
Rhaenyra pulled back slightly to look at him. Not the way she looked at her board of directors, or at rivals across conference tables, or at the city from thirty floors up. The other way. The private way, that only he and his brothers ever saw.
āWhat happened?ā
He wiped his eyes quickly, hoping she wouldnāt comment on it and took a breath.
āI had the most vivid dream.ā
āWhat kind of dream?ā
He hesitated. There was something strange about saying it. As though speaking about it aloud would make it either more real or less, and he wasnāt sure which outcome he wanted.
āI was a prince,ā he said.
Rhaenyra blinked. Whatever she had been expecting, it was not that.
āA prince?ā
āYeah.ā A small smile found its way onto his face, unwilling, almost involuntary. āYou were a queen.ā
Something passed across her expression something soft, something she would never have allowed in a meeting room. āOh?ā
āI died fighting a battle for you.ā
Silence.
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she reached up and brushed a curl from his forehead with the gentleness that had no performance in it, something she reserved for the three of them and no one else.
āWell,ā she said finally, her smile warming to something that was almost, almost teasing. āThat sounds exhausting.ā
Jace stared. āThatās all youāve got?ā
āYou are standing in my kitchen wearing yesterdayās hoodie and telling me about dragon wars, Jacaerys.ā
He opened his mouth to protest then closed it. āFair.ā
She squeezed his shoulder. āIt was only a dream.ā
āYou know,ā said a new voice from the doorway, āsome families start their mornings with good morning.ā
Luke wandered in carrying a cereal box like a trophy, nineteen years old and permanently, professionally smug. He surveyed the scene with the cheerful heartlessness of a younger brother who had found ammunition and intended to use it.
āDid Jace finally lose his mind?ā
Behind him, Joffrey, fourteen and grinning with the particular delight of someone who had been waiting for this squeezed past into the kitchen. āAbout time.ā
Jace rolled his eyes so hard it was almost an athletic achievement. āThere he is.ā
āDreaming about being a prince?ā Luke plucked a bowl from the cupboard with casual ease. āThatās because youāre already treated like one.ā
The napkin Jace threw hit him square in the face. Luke threw it back. Rhaenyra sighed with the air of a woman who had calculated exactly how many more years of this lay before her and found the number disheartening.
āMy sons,ā she said, picking up her coffee. āTruly intellectual giants.ā
āā㻠⦠ć»āā
Breakfast passed with the comfortable velocity of mornings that had been rehearsed through repetition until they ran themselves. Luke complaining about something, Joffrey eating cereal in quantities that defied his size, Rhaenyra reading from her tablet while simultaneously tracking all three of them with the peripheral attention of someone who had never once been entirely off duty.
Jace was reaching for his coffee when Rhaenyra glanced up.
āAre you still picking up your girlfriend?ā
He froze.
The coffee cup remained halfway to his face, arrested in mid-air.
āā¦My what?ā
Lukeās head snapped up. The expression that crossed his face was one of pure, unalloyed joy. He looked like he had been handed a gift.
Rhaenyra stared at her eldest with the patient, faintly incredulous expression of a woman who had not expected to be performing this particular reality check on a Tuesday morning.
āYour girlfriend.ā
āOh.ā Jace set the cup down carefully. āRight.ā
You.
He had a girlfriend.
A beautiful girlfriend, and she was his girlfriend, and she had been his girlfriend for- he was briefly lost in the arithmetic of it, which was itself a kind of answer and she was wonderful, she was brilliant, she made him laugh, and somehow in the space between waking up with the sea in his lungs and standing in his motherās kitchen in yesterdayās hoodie, he had momentarily forgotten she existed.
And then, because his brain was apparently in full catastrophic mode this morning: betrothed.
Not yet. Not technically. But the word had been sitting in the back of his mind ever since he woke up from his dream.
Heat flooded his face with spectacular completeness.
Luke nearly choked on his cereal.
āOh my God.ā
āShut up.ā
āYou forgot your girlfriend.ā
āOnly briefly.ā
āOnlyā Luke dissolved entirely, shoulders shaking. Across the table, Joffrey watched with the dignified appreciation of a connoisseur.
Rhaenyra shook her head slowly. āHonestly, Jace.ā
āIt was a very intense dream,ā he said, with as much dignity as one can muster while slowly turning the color of a sunset.
āYou forgot your girlfriend.ā
āThe dream had dragons, Mum.ā
She gave him the look. The specific look, the one that had been making him feel twelve years old since he was actually twelve years old. āSheās a lovely girl. I wish youād bring her home more often.ā
Jace stood from the table with the decisive energy of a man drawing a conversation to a close.
āI was planning to.ā
āWhen?ā
āSoon.ā
āToday?ā
āā¦Possibly.ā
āGood.ā Rhaenyra returned to her tablet, the slight smile at the corner of her mouth saying everything she was too dignified to say aloud.
āā㻠⦠ć»āā
The underground parking garage was cool and dim, smelling of concrete and oil and the expensive quiet of a building where people took the lift rather than the stairs. Jaceās Porsche sat in its usual spot, Oak Green Metallic, catching the fluorescent light.
Vermax.
He had named the car Vermax which now sounded so ironic to him.
He stood beside the driverās door for a moment, hand on the handle, the thought arriving fully formed and then sitting there in his chest with an odd weight. He had named his car Vermax years ago. He had thought it was because he liked the sound of it, or because it was the name of a character in a book heād read, or because of some half-remembered reason that had never quite solidified into anything coherent.
He looked at the car. The deep green of it. The long, low lines of it, built for speed, built for the sky-
Built for the sky.
A strange feeling settled over him, the kind of not-quite-vertigo that comes with recognizing something without being able to name what it is youāre recognizing. Like seeing an old friend across a crowd before youāve registered their face.
He shook it off. Got in and drove.
āā㻠⦠ć»āā
The street outside your house was quiet in the way that Tuesday mornings in Kingās Landing occasionally managed to be, with the morning light that made ordinary things seem briefly considered. Jace pulled to the curb and sat for a moment with the engine idling, window down.
Then the front door opened and you stepped out.
He got out of the car.
The morning light caught your hair the way it always did, making you look almost angelic in Jaceās eyes in that moment. You were still in the act of adjusting the strap of your bag when you spotted him, and the smile that crossed your face. Happy just to see him.
And for one strange, suspended moment, another image overlapped the morning like a transparency laid over a photograph. A figure standing on the cliffs of Dragonstone. The sea grey below and the wind pulling at dark fabric. Watching him leave. The expression on her face, your face, heartbroken and resolute and trying to be neither.
Waiting for him to come back.
The image dissolved as quickly as it had arrived. The morning reasserted itself. You were walking toward the car, your bag settled on your shoulder now, your smile still in place, and Jace found himself already stepping forward already moving toward with certainty that was less decision than gravity.
Before you could say a word, he took your hand and raised it, and pressed a kiss against your knuckles.
Deliberatea and unhurried. Like heād done it a thousand times before, in other rooms, in other centuries.
āHow are you, my beloved?ā
You stopped.
Looked at the hand.
Looked at him.
And then, because you were you, you laughed, the bright, surprised sound of someone caught genuinely off guard. āWhat has gotten into you this morning?ā you questioned him.
Jace grinned, and the grin felt more like him than anything else had all morning. āI genuinely have no idea.ā
āYouāre being sooo weird.ā You studied him with the narrowed eyes trying to grasp his words and actions. āHow weird is this going to get?ā
āI had the wildest dream.ā
āOh?ā Already your expression was shifting into the one you wore when you were preparing to be entertained.
He leaned forward and kissed you softly quick, warm and certain.
āIn it,ā he said against your smile, āyou were my princess too.ā
Your cheeks went pink with entirely gratifying speed.
āOh my God.ā
āYou asked.ā
āI asked what was wrong with you, not-ā
āDetails.ā
āJacaerys Velaryon, I am going to need you to be normal for the next five minutes-ā
āI make no promises.ā
He opened the passenger door for you, still grinning, and the morning felt lighter than it had when heād left the penthouse.
The dream wasnāt entirely terrible, he thought, settling behind the wheel. If nothing else, it had done this, sharpened his vision, made ordinary things brilliant again. Made you more vivid than youād already been, which was saying something considerable.
He found himself smiling the entire drive to university.
āā㻠⦠ć»āā
University should have felt normal.
Instead, Jace spent the entire morning convinced he was losing his mind by degrees as new details of his dream would hit him.
The dream lingered with a persistence that ordinary dreams did not have, the kind he usually forgot by the time he reached the kitchen. This one clung. Every corridor he walked reminded him of castle hallways, the echo of footsteps on stone, and the smell of torch smoke. Every crowded lecture hall conjured the geometry of noble courts; the subtle theatre of power performed through proximity. His Strategic Management lecture had an entire section on resource allocation that kept pulling his thoughts sideways, toward councils and war rooms and Dragonstone.
He stared at his notebook.
He had written, in the margin: Corlys was right about the Gullet.
He had no idea when.
āYouāre disassociating again.ā
Jace blinked.
Across the seminar table sat Cregan Stark, regarding him with the expression he used on everything: tall, dark-haired, slow-blinking, fundamentally and constitutionally unimpressed by the world and all its events. He was from Winterfell like genuinely, actually from Winterfell, which Jace had always found slightly funny without ever quite being able to explain why.
Theyād been best friends since secondary school, the friendship that had calcified into something so much more. They were like brothers in every sense.
Also, he looked almost exactly like the Cregan from the dream.
Same jaw. Same eyes. Same expression, the one that said I am listening to you and I find you exhausting.
Same, in other words, as he always looked well except his had slightly shorter hair.
āWhat?ā Jace managed.
Cregan raised one eyebrow. āYouāve been staring at me for ten seconds with an expressionless face.ā
āSorry.ā He rubbed a hand over his face. āI had a strange dream. I feel like I keep repeating these words over and over again.ā
āYou texted me at four in the morning.ā
Jace went very still.
āI did?ā
Cregan reached for his phone with the patience of a man who had long since resigned himself to the chaos of being Jace Velaryonās closest friend. He scrolled briefly, then began reading aloud in the flat, informational tone of a news anchor delivering a weather report.
āāBrother, imagine if we were medieval nobles.āā
āOh, God.ā
āāYou would have loved Winterfell.āā
āCregan-ā
āāYou were Lord of the North.āā He glanced up briefly. āIām from Winterfell, Jace. I grew up in Winterfell. I know what Winterfell is.ā
āPlease stop-ā
āI miss Vermax.ā
Cregan lowered the phone.
āI donāt know what Vermax is, if its not talking about your car.ā he said.
Jace buried his face in both hands and made a sound that was less a word than a comprehensive statement.
āYou were never meant to read those.ā
āYou sent them to me.ā
āI was apparently not fully conscious at four in the morning. I donāt remember doing this at all.ā
āThatās concerning.ā
āYes.ā
āAre you okay?ā
The question arrived without ceremony, Cregan always asked things he actually wanted to know, dropped into a conversation like a stone dropped into water, watching to see what it displaced. Jace hesitated for long enough that the silence became its own answer.
āYeah,ā he said. Then, quietly: āNot entirely.ā
Cregan nodded. He didnāt push. This was something Jace had always valued about him, the Stark capacity to hold space without filling it.
āTell me later,ā Cregan said, and turned back to his laptop.
Mostly, Jace thought. He was mostly okay.
āā㻠⦠ć»āā
You found him outside the business building at noon, materializing from the flow of students and your smile arrived before you did.
Jace felt the thing in his chest that had been clenched since 7 AM ease, slowly, like a hand opening. There was something about you that operated on him this way, had always operated on him this way, since the beginning. A quality of presence that grounded him, that made the worldās coordinates make sense again. Heād never found quite the right words for it. Heād stopped trying.
You slipped your hand into his without ceremony.
āBetter than this morning?ā
āA little.ā
āStill thinking about your prince dream?ā
He laughed, the sound freer than he expected. āUnfortunately.ā
āYou are such a nerd.ā
āI was literally fighting a war.ā
āYou were dreaming about fighting a war.ā
āDetails.ā
āJacaerys Velaryon, if this dream becomes your entire personality, I want it on the record that I tried to prevent it-ā
āNoted and rejected.ā
You rolled your eyes with magnificent feeling. āI make no promises about what I tell your mother.ā
You had barely settled into your seats when a familiar voice arrived from approximately two tables away, belonging to someone who had apparently been watching for them.
āWell, if it isnāt my favorite nephew.ā
Aegon Targaryen dropped into the empty chair beside Jace with the comfortable confidence of a man who owned, and this was literally true, approximately half the building they were sitting in. Twenty-six, blond, expensive, reliably catastrophic. His jacket probably cost more than Jaceās car maintenance for the year, and he wore it with the carelessness never once considering the cost of anything.
He was nothing like the monster from the dream. The dream-Aegon had been something Jace couldnāt fully bring himself to examine yet. Jealous and bitter and capable of terrible things. This Aegon was mostly known for throwing parties that became local legend and mysteriously managing to avoid all professional consequences for anything he did, ever. Jacaerys supposed that has something to do with his mother and his uncle Aemond keeping these things contained.
āTo what do we owe the honor?ā Jace asked.
Aegonās attention had already moved to you.
āAnd how are you?ā
āGood,ā you said politely.
āStill putting up with him?ā
You smiled. āBarely.ā
āExcellent answer.ā
Jace groaned. Aegon looked absolutely delighted.
āYouāre blushing,ā Aegon observed, with the tone of someone reporting a natural phenomenon.
āIām not.ā
āYou absolutely are.ā
You leaned over the table, and Jace recognized the look on your face immediately. The collaborative look. The look that meant you had identified an ally.
āHe was calling me his beloved this morning.ā
Aegonās chair nearly lost him. He grabbed the table.
āNo.ā
āYes.ā
āIn what context?ā
āHe kissed my hand. In the street. Before nine in the morning.ā
Aegon looked at Jace the way someone looks at an archaeological discovery with facination, slightly appalled, deeply pleased. āThis is the greatest thing that has ever happened.ā
Jace contemplated his options. Leaving. Changing his name and moving to Braavos. Committing entirely to the persona of someone who had never been caught calling his girlfriend my beloved at eight forty-five on a Tuesday.
None of these were practical.
He reached for his coffee and said nothing, which Aegon correctly interpreted as total defeat.
You and Jace remained at your table, and the laughter faded naturally, the way good laughter does, not dying but simply becoming something quieter.
He was staring into his coffee again.
You watched him for a moment.
āYou never told me the whole dream, since it has you in a weird mindset today.ā you said quietly.
His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the cup. He was aware of you looking at him, with your full attention, which had always been more like listening than looking, patient and genuine and without agenda.
āTo put it simply, there was a war,ā he said.
You didnāt ask him to explain. You waited.
āA civil war.ā He looked up briefly, then back at the table. āA war over who would rule over Westeros. My mother was supposed to inherit as was the rightful heir to the throne but there were those who didnāt accept it. Didnāt accept her.ā
āAnd you fought for her.ā
āOf course.ā
The images came without invitation, Dragonstoneās grey halls, the council table, the maps spreading the whole kingdom out before them like a wound. The feeling of duty that had lived in his chest since childhood, not as a burden but as a definition. This is who you are. This is what you do.
You reached across the table and took his hand.
He continued.
āI flew a dragon. I know this sounds no so scary but-ā Despite everything, he heard the ghost of wonder in his own voice. āVermax. He was- he was mine. Since I was a boy. He knew me.ā The wonder curdled, softened into something heavier. āHe died with me.ā
Your thumb moved in a slow arc across his knuckles.
āThe last thing I remember,ā he said quietly, āwas dying. Floating in the sea, after everything.ā He paused.
āIt was strange. It wasnāt- it wasnāt the way I would have imagined. It wasnāt terrifying.ā
āWhat was it?ā
He thought about it honestly.
āIt was sad,ā he said. āBut calm.ā
You were quiet for a moment. Then you reached up, and the gesture was so unexpected that he went still, your hand cupping his cheek, steady and warm, thumb tracing a line beneath his eye.
He leaned into it without thinking.
āIām glad it was only a dream,ā you said softly trying to calm his anxieties that he didnāt want to confess out loud.
āIām glad youāre here.ā
The tightness in his chest released, not all at once but in stages, like a knot worked loose over time. He turned his head slightly, pressing his lips briefly to your palm, and you let him, and neither of you made anything of it.
Sheās right, he thought. Whatever that was. Whatever it meant.
He was here. Alive. With his family, with his best friend, with his girl.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe that was, actually, everything.
The afternoon passed.
Classes ended. The university slowly emptied like it did every day at dusk, students and professors releasing themselves back into the city like a pressure valve opening. The parking lot filled briefly with the usual chaos and then thinned.
āMy mother wants you over more often,ā Jace mentioned, as they walked toward the Porsche.
āApparently she likes you.ā
You brightened immediately. āReally?ā
āShe said so unprompted. First thing this morning.ā
āGood.ā You smiled with satisfaction. āIām charming.ā
Jace looked at you sideways. āYou are deeply smug about this.ā
āIām charming,ā you repeated, pleasantly.
He laughed. āCome over tonight?ā
You looked at him, with that look you had, the one heād never found a word for, the one that made him feel simultaneously seen and unsteady in the best possible way. Made him feel a bit giddy.
āIād love to,ā you said.
āā㻠⦠ć»āā
The penthouse was unusually quiet when they arrived.
Rhaenyra was visible through the glass of her home office, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, reading from a document with the focused intensity and it was clear that the woman needed a break from everything. Luke had evaporated somewhere. Joffrey was reportedly studying, a claim no one in the household had ever been successfully able to verify.
You and Jace settled at the dining table with laptops and scattered notes and the collective fiction of productivity.
For forty minutes, it was remarkably functional.
Jace had his economics module open. You were working through something, he didnāt ask, didnāt need to and the sound of quiet typing and the occasional turn of a page created a kind of companionable silence that he had always thought of as the specific luxury of being comfortable with someone. presence. You could simply be in it.
He was reading about capital allocation.
āJace.ā
He looked up.
āYouāre getting lost in your mind again.ā
āIām not what are you talking about?ā he said automatically. Then, because honesty was something heād apparently committed to today: āI was thinking about- uhhh. Economics?ā
āThat is not better.ā
āYou look pretty,ā he said simply.
The silence that followed had a distinct texture.
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you slowly, deliberately, closed your laptop.
āNo,ā you said.
āWhat?ā
āYou donāt get to say things like that when Iām trying to study.ā
āI was simply making an observation.ā
āYou are impossible.ā
He was very pleased with himself. He did not bother hiding it.
An hour later, the economics module had not progressed. The textbooks had been consolidated into a single pile and pushed to the far end of the table, a gesture that meant these exist and will eventually be addressed, which was as much as either of you were willing to commit to. A film had been agreed upon via negotiation.
Blankets appeared.
The overhead lights went off.
And somehow, as these things always somehow managed, you ended up curled against his chest on the enormous sectional, his arm around your waist, the film playing distantly while neither of you particularly watched it. Your breathing slowed first. His heartbeat was steady and familiar beneath your ear.
The city moved quietly outside the windows.
You didnāt remember falling asleep.
āā㻠⦠ć»āā
The prince stood before you.
The wind came off the sea like a cold hand, whipping through his dark, curling hair, pressing his black riding coat against his frame. Behind him, Dragonstone rose in its glory against a steel-grey sky, all sharp towers and dark stone, magnificent and terrible, built by people who had never believed in half measures. The sea crashed against the rocks far below. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon with the patient, deliberate advance of something inevitable.
āNo.ā
Your voice came out broken.
āNo, please.ā
He looked at you the way he always looked at you as if you were the clearest thing in a world that had lately become very unclear, like looking at you was the one thing he could do without effort in a life that had demanded extraordinary effort from him since the moment he was old enough to understand what he was.
āI have to go.ā
āYou donāt,ā you said, even though you knew it wasnāt true. Even though somewhere beneath the desperate present tense of the argument, the truer, older part of you already knew exactly what was coming. Already knew the shape of this farewell.
His hands found yours.
They were warm. Strong and real, so real that makes their loss so much more brutal than the loss of things you never fully believed in.
āYou can stay,ā you said. Your voice was steadier than you felt. āYou can let someone else-ā
āI cannot.ā His voice was gentle but stern. He was stubborn and so if he made peace with this decisions, he wouldnāt have it any other way.
Tears burned behind your eyes. The fear inside you was almost unbearable and burning, it was twisted and layered, because you knew. You already knew. This was not a premonition, not a vague presentiment. It was knowledge, carried somewhere beneath language, beneath memory, in whatever part of you had been this person before.
You knew what awaited him at the Gullet.
Fire.
Water.
āYou promised.ā The words escaped before you could decide to say them.
His expression shifted. Something moved across it, grief, tenderness, the ache of a man who loves something too well to pretend it isnāt breaking.
āAnd I will keep that promise but this is a battle I must fight for both myself and my mother.ā
He stepped closer, and you let him, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead so gently it barely qualified as a touch at all.
Then he rested his brow against yours.
His eyes never left yours.
āIf I do not return- which I intend to,ā
The world seemed to hold its breath.
āI will find you.ā
A tear escaped. Traced the line of your cheek. He watched it with eyes that were very dark and very steady.
āIn every lifetime if not this one. I promise.ā
The words landed somewhere deep in you, somewhere wordless, somewhere older than the language you used to think with. A promise that had the weight of truth rather than intention.
You memorized his face. The curls. The strong jaw. The eyes, brown and earnest and alive, so alive.
He smiled.
Then he stepped away.
He turned toward the waiting dragon.
Toward the dark water below.
Toward a destiny that was also a death.
And all you could do was watch him leave.
āā㻠⦠ć»āā
You woke with a gasp that tore itself from somewhere past your chest.
For several seconds, you could not find the room. Could not find yourself in it. There was only the dream...the cliffs, the wind, his forehead against yours, the sound of his footsteps retreating and the grief of it, which was specific and devastating and nothing at all like the vague emotional residue of ordinary sleep.
Tears burned behind your eyes. Your heart was pounding.
You pushed yourself upright. A blanket tangled around your legs. The room was dim, the film long since ended, the television showing a menu screen. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Kingās Landing glittered in the full dark of night, the cityās lights reflected upward in a warm wash against the low clouds. Jace must have moved you to his room when you fell asleep.
The bedroom door opened.
Jace stepped in carrying two mugs, steam rising from both. He had apparently, at some point during your sleep, been productive.
The moment he saw your face, he froze.
āHey.ā
The concern in his voice was immediate, the shift from normal to careful happening in the space of a single syllable.
āWhatās wrong?ā
You didnāt answer. The words were somewhere on the way, but in the meantime your body had already decided what it needed, and what it needed was to close the distance between you and him as quickly as possible.
You stood.
Crossed the room.
The mugs barely survived. He caught them against the edge of the side table with an impressive reflex, setting them down quickly before his arms came around your waist, and you buried your face against the side of his neck, and breathed him in.
āSweetheart?ā Low and careful. His chin came to rest on top of your head.
You stayed there for a moment just letting the reality of him replace the dream of him. The warmth of him. The solidness.
Then you pulled back. Not far. Your forehead came to rest against his, which put you close enough to feel his breath and see the small crease of worry between his brows.
āI had a dream,ā you said. It seems it was your turn to utter those words.
Something moved across his face. He went very still in the way that meant he was paying every variety of attention he had.
āWhat kind of dream?ā
āI saw a prince.ā
His breath caught. You felt it.
āI saw him leaving for a battle. He was going to fight-ā
Your voice faltered, then steadied. āHe knew he might not come back. And he said-ā You stopped.
Jaceās arms tightened around you, almost involuntarily.
āHe said he would find me,ā you continued. āThat if he didnāt return-ā Your eyes met his, and something in your chest recognized something in his. āHe would find me in every lifetime.ā
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
Jace stared at you.
Because those were the exact words. Not a version of them, not a paraphrase but the exact promise, the exact phrasing, the exact scene, the stone of Dragonstone under grey skies and wind coming off the sea. He had lived it from one side and you had lived it from the other, and here you both were, in a penthouse above a city that did not have dragons, with the memory of them living in your bones.
His throat moved.
You smiled softly with tears still bright at the corners of your eyes. Your hand lifted, your fingers moving gently through his curls, the same gesture that felt simultaneously new and ancient.
āI donāt know what any of that means,ā you said.
āNeither do I.ā
āBut if it was real-ā
His forehead pressed more firmly against yours.
āYou kept your promise,ā you whispered.
He felt his throat close.
And for the first time since he had woken to the sound of an alarm clock and a bedroom that wasnāt the sea, he stopped wondering whether the dream had been real. He stopped wondering whether he was grieving something imagined or something true. He stopped needing to know.
Because you knew.
You had been there.
You rose onto your toes.
Your lips met his.
It was slow and gentle. He kissed you back like someone returning to something, like a navigator finding a landmark in familiar water.
Like he had been waiting centuries and perhaps his soul had waited for this moment. The moment to return to her.
āā㻠⦠ć»āā
The knock was soft.
They both startled apart with the excellent reflexes of guilty consciences, then immediately demonstrated the dignity of two people pretending they hadnāt.
Jace cleared his throat. Rested his forehead against yours for one final second. His breath was unsteady in the best way.
Another knock.
āJacaerys?ā
Rhaenyraās voice, measured, carrying through the door with the easy authority of a woman who managed board rooms and board members and the shenanigans of three sons as a single uninterrupted professional skill.
āDinner is ready.ā They heard the muffled voice of his mother.
Jace answered at a volume calibrated for normalcy āWeāll be there in a minute!ā
A pause that had weight.
āFive minutes,ā his motherās voice returned, drier than a desert, and entirely aware of everything and perhaps making a wrong assumption of you two being alone in his room.
You laughed, pressing your face briefly against his shoulder to muffle it. He was already smiling.
āYour mother doesnāt trust you.ā
āShe absolutely does not.ā
āAnd honestly?ā You poked his chest. āI donāt blame her.ā
āYou wound me.ā
āGood.ā You pulled your hand back, but he caught it, quick and easy, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles again. The same gesture as that morning. The echo of it traveled through both of you clearly.
Your cheeks went pink.
He watched it happen with a feeling in his chest that was too large and too simple to require any examination at all.
There she is, he thought. My girl.
My princess.
He took your hand properly, fingers laced and led you toward the dining room.
āā㻠⦠ć»āā
They heard the argument before they reached the dinner table.
Luke and Joffrey, seated across from each other in the arrangement that the family had collectively accepted as a flaw, were conducting a debate with the commitment of two people who had come to win.
āNo, because youāre objectively wrong-ā
āIām objectively right-ā
āYou donāt even know what objectively means.ā
āI literally do.ā
āYou used it wrong.ā
Joffrey groaned with his whole body. āI hate this family.ā
āYou are this family,ā Luke pointed out.
Joffrey considered this. āExactly.ā
Rhaenyra, at the head of the table, was pinching the bridge of her nose with annoyance. This was her normal and yet it was tiring.
The moment she saw you, her face entirely changed.
āThere she is.ā
You smiled. āHi.ā
She stood and pulled you into a hug with a warmth that was, Jace thought privately, rather more enthusiastic than his own homecoming greeting most mornings. āI was beginning to think my son had invented you.ā
āMum.ā
āWhat? He never brings you over.ā
āThatās his fault,ā you said.
āTraitor,ā Jace said.
āYouāre literally my boyfriend.ā
āExactly.ā
You smiled sweetly. āIām allowed.ā
Rhaenyra looked delighted in the specific way she allowed herself to look delighted when she was genuinely pleased, a rarity outside this apartment. Luke immediately leaned toward you.
āSee? This is why sheās my favorite.ā
āIām sitting right here.ā
āUnfortunately.ā
Jace threw a bread roll at him.
Luke threw one back.
The war began immediately, and lasted approximately five seconds before Rhaenyraās single sharp look ended it. She had a look for this. It was very effective.
āSometimes I wonder,ā she said, settling back into her chair and accepting a bread roll from the basket with the serenity of someone who had already mentally exited the building, āif I raised wolves.ā
āThatās insulting,ā Joffrey said.
Everyone looked at him.
The fourteen-year-old shrugged with the composure of someone who had thought this through. āWolves are smarter.ā
The silence held for two seconds before Lukeās expression cracked. Jace looked at the ceiling. Rhaenyraās attempt at severity collapsed at its foundations.
You sat beside Jace with your hand warm against his under the table, and you were already laughing, and the sound of it filled the room the way laughter does when a room is already full of people who are glad to be there.
āā㻠⦠ć»āā
Dinner found its rhythm.
Conversation moved in the easy, overlapping way it does with people who have logged enough hours together that they no longer need to manage it consciously. Luke complained about a group project with the vivid resentment of having decided the problem was everyone else.
Joffrey explained something about a game or a film or a historical period but the audience could not quite keep up, but that seemed to be part of the experience. Rhaenyra complained, with great economy, about company politics, and then told a story about a colleague that had everyone at the table paying full attention (It was Aemond who everytone is afraid of in their company).
You listened to all of it.
Jace, mostly, watched.
He had not expected this. Had woken this morning in the sea, or the memory of it. Had spent the drive to university with the dream still active in his body, had sat through lectures half-present, had carried the weight of Vermaxās last look in his chest all day like a stone.
And now.
He watched his mother smile at something you said. He watched Luke do the thing he did when he was actually amused, which was different from when he is pretending. Watched Joffrey explain something to you directly, having apparently determined that you were worth the effort, and watched your face do the thing it did when you were genuinely interested in something, slightly forward, slightly bright, entirely present.
You fit here. Not as a guest, not as someone being accommodated. As someone who belonged.
He thought of the dream again.
Remembered standing at the dragonpit of Dragonstone with his armor on and the dragon saddled and the sea grey behind him, and looking back at everything he was leaving, his mother, his brothers, you, the stone halls and the cold salt wind and the ordinary miracle of a morning that didnāt require a kingās son to die for it.
He had wondered, in those last seconds at Dragonstone, if he would ever see any of them again.
He had his answer now.
The realization settled in his chest quietly, without drama. Not a revelation, something more like a confirmation. A peace he hadnāt known he was looking for, finding him here, at a dinner table with a bread roll dent in the tablecloth and Joffrey currently holding forth on something no one else understood.
No war. No dragons. No succession. No battles. Just family. Just love.
Just this.
Halfway through dessert, Joffreyās phone lit up.
āOh!ā He reached for it with the speed of receiving news theyād been waiting for. āDadās calling.ā
Jace felt himself smile before the screen even showed Laenorās face.
It appeared a moment later, that face, familiar and warm and slightly tanned by whatever sun was currently shining on whatever harbor on whatever coast he was sailing toward. Behind him, a bright blue sky suggested somewhere in Essos, probably. The man was perpetually in motion, perpetually somewhere else and yet found time for them. He was not their real father, but he might as well have been. After Harwin passed away, Rhaenyra had remarried Laenor as more of a deal since Laenor wasnāt interested in anything but he cared for Rhaenyra platonically and it seemed to have worked out great and thatās all that mattered.
āThere are my favorite children.ā
Luke snorted. āWeāre your only children.ā
āAnd yet somehow still my favorites.ā Laenorās gaze found you across the table, and his face smiled āThere she is.ā
You laughed. āHello.ā
āGood. Finally, someone sensible has arrived.ā
āHey!ā Three voices, simultaneous.
Laenor continued as though he hadnāt heard. āHow are you, darling?ā
āIām well, thank you.ā
Jace groaned. āWhy does everyone in my family like her more than me?ā
āBecause,ā Laenor said, and the timing was beautiful, āshe has manners.ā
The table erupted. Even Rhaenyra, which was a significant achievement.
Laenor spent twenty minutes on the call, chatting about his route, trading insults with. He heard both Luke and Jofferyās rambling. He asked Rhaenyra about the board meeting sheād complained about, and listened to her answer. He asked you about your studies, and remembered something youād mentioned three calls ago, and asked a follow-up question about it.
The man had walked into their lives years ago and simply decided, without announcement or conditions, that these were his sons. No performance of it. No documentation. Just- love, extended to fill the available space.
Dream Laenor had disappeared. The thought arrived gently, without bitterness. The dream-Laenor, who had been present mostly in his absence, who Jace had barely known, who had been lost before Jace could understand what losing someone meant. This version was here. This version showed up.
And Jace was, quietly and completely, grateful for that.
The call ended. The dessert finished. The evening moved toward its natural conclusion with the comfortable inevitability of all good evenings. Luke vanished in the direction of his room. Joffrey disappeared with a quantity of snacks that could feed a whole army. Rhaenyra retreated to finish what sheād started, she always had something she was finishing, this was simply who she was and the penthouse settled into quiet
Which left you and Jace, alone on the balcony.
āā㻠⦠ć»āā
Kingās Landing stretched below them without end.
The city was all light from up here, not the individual lights, not streets and windows and the moving points of cars, but the collective glow of it, the warmth of a few million people living their lives in proximity, translated upward into something that looked, from this height, almost like its own kind of fire.
A cool breeze moved through the dark, carrying the cityās particular nighttime mixture of warm pavement and distant food and the faint, improbable ghost of something floral from a rooftop garden somewhere below. It found its way into Jaceās curls and did what it wanted with them.
You stood beside him. Close enough that your shoulders touched.
Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to. The city was enough, for a while.
Then you broke the silence the way you often did when a thought entered your head.
āDo you think it was real?ā
He didnāt ask what you meant.
The dreams. The prince and the princess. The battle. The promise made at the edge of the world on the morning of an ending. The specific weight of standing on Dragonstone and knowing.
āI donāt know,ā he said.
You slipped your hand into his. Your fingers were cool from the night air. He closed his hand around yours.
āBut it felt real,ā you said.
āIt did.ā
Another silence, this one richer. Weighted, but not heavily, weighted the way a good book is heavy, in a way you want.
āIf it was realā¦ā
Jace looked toward you. The cityās light caught you from below, softening the angles, turning you luminous in the warm way of a portrait painted with care. The same thing heād thought this morning returned, effortlessly, as though it had simply been waiting for the right lighting.
Radiant.
The same as the princess from the dream. The same, and also entirely herself.
āIf it was real,ā you continued, a smile finding the corner of your mouth, āI think sheād be happy.ā
āWho?ā
āThe princess.ā
Your fingers squeezed his.
āBecause she got her prince back.ā
Something moved in his chest and he felt a giddy sensation.
āAnd he got his princess,ā he said quietly.
The smile you gave him in return was the specific, undone kind that he privately thought was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He doubted this would change.
āYou know,ā he said, after a moment, āIāve spent all day thinking about the battle.ā
āThe Gullet?ā
āYeah.ā He looked down at the city. āThe part where I died.ā
You were quiet beside him.
āAnd?ā you said, finally.
He looked back through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse.
His mother, visible in her office, signing something. The small movement of her hand showing her actions.
Luke in the hallway beyond, typing away at his phone aggressively with determinations of someone looking to win an argument even if he may be wrong.
Joffrey somewhere in his room planning a prank on his mother.
And all of it, all of this life, this ordinary, extraordinary life, glowing warm behind glass thirty floors above a city that had never known a dragon. His family.
āI think that prince wouldāve liked this,ā he said.
You followed his gaze.
You understood immediately. He could see it in the way your face softened, not with sadness but with tenderness that recognizes grief and holds it carefully.
A life without war. Without the weight of a crown.
Without sacrifice, the kind that swaps one beloved thing for another in an endless, devastating ledger.
Just family.
Just love.
Just peace.
You rested your head on his shoulder.
He turned his head and pressed a kiss to your hair, slow and quiet.
Neither of you saw it.
But just for a moment, a breath, almost a blink, the glass of the balcony door held a reflection that was not quite yours.
Two figures. Side by side. Dressed in black and red, the colours of a house that had once held the world.
Standing exactly as you were standing. Looking out at exactly what you were looking at.
Smiling.
At each other, and at this, and at everything that had managed, against all odds, to survive.
Then the image dissolved.
The glass held only the room behind it, warm and lit and full of the sound of Luke losing the argument.
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytaleābut gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
genre/warnings:
arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, fluff and lots of kissing afterwards, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! takes place in season 1 of house of the dragon
notes:
gif by @/bladeofdreadfort. wc. 4.5k ! hotd s3 is finally here and so does my man gwayne <3 i really loved writing this so i hope youāll enjoy it!
For the longest time, Gwayne had known that the matter of his marriage were not his to ponder. As the son of the Hand of the King, his future was a tapestry woven by him in a series of cunning, calculated moves.
Yet, he had never truly expected to be betrothed to youāa princess of the realm.
The young princess for the queenās brother. By every measure, it was a masterful stroke of politics and his father had once again outdone himself. After binding his sister to the king, it was now his turn to seek the heart of the realmās most coveted maiden after the Princess Rhaenyra.
However, to Gwayne, you were more than just a political alliance. You were a paragon of beauty, the girl haunting his dreams, the princess who has stolen his heartā
But seven hells, were you also one hard lady to entice.
Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didnāt swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.
Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.
Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squireās shieldābecause he knew you were watching.
He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impressādetermined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.
With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor ladās legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.
Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boyās chest in a classic pose of victory.
āYou are just dead,ā he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.
You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.
And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayneās smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.
Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.
āPrincess,ā he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.
āAn impressive display, Ser Gwayne,ā you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, whenā
āI must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.ā
Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.
āA knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,ā he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.
He hoped that you would recognize itāthat you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.
However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.
āIs that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.ā
One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadnāt asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?
And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadnāt looked at him as you do now.
āWe are to be married in no less than a moon,ā he reminded you, still with a smile. āTell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?ā
You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.
āCompliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?ā
Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. āI shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.ā
You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.
What a fool he was.
He didnāt give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayneās language of affection.
He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.
Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.
āYou do not like it,ā he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.
āIt is exquisite. Truly,ā you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. āBut... you must not expect me to wear it often.ā
āIs it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, orāā
āI assure you, I know your intentions are kind,ā you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. āIt is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.ā
The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayneās smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.
He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.
āI just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,ā he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. āWhenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.ā
You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. āYour kind thoughts are much appreciated.ā
So he had failed, again. Sigh.
What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the Kingās nameday tourney?
Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.
Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.
With Criston Cole.
The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.
It could have been anyone but Cristonāthe Dornishman!āCole. Why him?!
A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.
āGood day, Ser Criston,ā Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didnāt quite reach his eyes.
Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. āMy betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldnāt have to sully yourself with the dirt.ā
āI was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.ā As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. āThe competition looks fierce today.ā
What about him? You hadnāt thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?
āFierce for some, mayhaps,ā Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Coleās line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.
āBut I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.ā
He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.
But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.
āYour romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.ā You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, ābut victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.ā
The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.
āIt is said even a scrap of favor from oneās bride can turn the tide of many battles,ā Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. āUnless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?ā
His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:
āMay the best knight win, ser.ā
Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.
āNo, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.ā
Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldnāt help but fall for it each and every time.
You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.
Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?
āFrom today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.ā
That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.
He didnāt possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.
You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should beā genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.
Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.
But he is still Ottoās son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your beingāthe manās thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your fatherās bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.
However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadnāt asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.
Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.
Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his fatherās sins?
Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.
Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.
The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They chargedā one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.
And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.
With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Coleās lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Coleās lance hadnāt just brokenā it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.
Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.
Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arenaādesperate to reach him.
The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.
āWill he be alright?ā your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. āTell me he will be alright.ā
āThe steel hasnāt pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,ā one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.
But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayneās gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand awayā
āDo not touch me,ā he rasped.
The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.
. . .
Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.
It wasnāt just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.
He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realmāand worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldnāt bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldnāt bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.
āIāmā fine,ā he choked out then. āSo... go back to the Keep.ā
It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heirās Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.
He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.
The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.
But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truthā you despised him.
So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.
You are in love with him.
You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightowerās son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicentās son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you allā
But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.
āMrawgh...ā
āIām not lonely,ā you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghostās silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.
To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass fasterā he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.
Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.
Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.
A sharp, ragged gasp left your saviorās lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chestāpressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.
āSteady there,ā the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he wasā
āGwayne!ā you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. āWhy are youāyour wound! I didnāt mean toāā
āI am fine, truly,ā he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. āIt is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.ā
Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale stillā
From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.
āYou are supposed to be resting!ā Your voice rose despite yourself. āWhy are you here?!ā
This wasnāt what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldnāt bear the thought of losing himā
His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.
āIf I wasnāt here, then you would take a fall.ā His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. āI canāt very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?ā
This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.
Gwayneās thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.
āTell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Deathās door, for you to look at me like this?ā
Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.
Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?
āEven if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...ā he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, ā...my heart might just run out, one of these days.ā
He gave you one last, kind smileāa look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.
When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:
Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?
As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.
You didnāt want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.
He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.
āSer Gwayne!ā
Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinchingā
But then he heard you sob.
āPrincess...?ā he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.
Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayneās breath hitched in his throat.
He didnāt think. He didnāt let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.
āShh, please do not weep,ā he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. āDarling... please.ā
Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.
As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:
Has she... returned my feelings?
When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.
He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimplesā still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.
Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didnāt wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collarā
āand pressed your lips to his.
Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.
He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.
āYou really areāā he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, āmy utter undoing, Princess.ā
Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.
Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gaspsā
His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mindās eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.
In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.
Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.
āSer Gwayneāā your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.
He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.
āWell, you did kiss me first, Princess,ā Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. āIf I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.ā
āPlease donāt,ā you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.
āAh, but think of the romanceā a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his brideās arms.ā
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.
Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.
Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.
āYou might not know it,ā he whispered, ābut I have been in love with you for a very long time.ā
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.
āSo let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.ā
In that moment, you couldnāt have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldnāt have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.
None of that matters right now. All you wanted was to lose yourself in his embrace and savor the fragile perfection of your wedding to the man of your dreams... for as long as it would last.
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ugh you all have gwayneās character so wrong (imo). he is not going to try to stave off his desire for the reader (in whatever role you might have in his life but especially if the reader is a targaryen or daemonās neglected bride etc) by going to street of silk and drowning it in the touch of another. the touch of a thousand whores could not undo the hold reader has on his heart. no, he is going to the sept. that man is pious (whether it be towards the gods or you, you choose). he is going to get on his hands and knees, sword laid across his lap, head hung in solemn devotion and pray that reader leave his thoughts, pray that the image of reader's soft supple curves and the sight of their beautiful lips parting in a smile at something he said would stop torturing him every time he closes his eyes. he would pray that this sickeningly sweet sense of devotion leave him, that the gods absolve him of it. when he leaves and lays his head to rest that night, however, he dreams of kissing reader, by some pond deep in the godswood, where lilies float on the surface of the pond, and the late afternoon sun drifts through the leaves, and when he wakes up suddenly, in the hour of the wolf, the ghost of an āi love youā is imprinted on his lips and his hand is clutching the ring that hangs on the chain about his neck ā his motherās wedding ring, given to him upon her passing, to be exact. he canāt help but take it as a sign, a sign that his love is not something to abstain from, some sin to absolve himself of ā nay, itās his gods given duty. and so he finally gives in and claims the reader for himself and all the while he is gentle ā his touch feather light as it drifts across their cheekbone, his lips soft as they find the reader's over and over in a sweet rhythm, his body practically radiating his joy at the proximity to their own, his tongue (when it isnāt vying for control over the readers mouth) sings sweet nothings and praise in hushed tones and reverent devotion. the only name on his lips is reader's. the only pleasure his heart finds is with reader's.
gwayne is not one to drown himself in pleasure, unless it is given by his gods given beauty, the reader
You look down at your ever obedient knight, knelt on the cold stone floor of your chambers with his head buried between your legs, tongue greedily licking up the seam of your cunt. It had taken a lot of persuading. Gwayne Hightower, ever a man of honour, would never dream of taking the maidenhood of a woman he was not wed to- let alone the second daughter of the King.
But after weeks of longing stares and shared moments in rare bouts of silence- you couldnt take it anymore. He shouldnt have accepted the invitation to your chambers he knows, but it seemed something greater than him was willing his feet to carry him there.
You thread your fingers through his mussed red locks and gasp at the feeling, rocking your hips up against his mouth to chase the brand new sensations he was pulling from you. You had reasoned with him that this would not taint you. That his mouth kissing over your soaked folds was not technically sex and that you would still bleed on your wedding night. Normally he would have fought back harder but the needy, pleading look in your eyes made his usually ironclad resolve crumble and accept your words. You were a princess after all, and him a knight. He was meant to serve you.
"Gods, Gwayne." Both of your hands grip at his head mostly as a way to keep yourself grounded. The feeling of him sucking over your pulsing clit was making you feel as though you might float away. A particularly loud moan broke past your bitten lips causing one of your hands to fly up and cover you mouth so as to not alert the guards outside. A needy groan vibrated against your core and was soon followed by one of Gwaynes hands coming up to grab your own to put it back in his hair. You smiled at the confirmation that he was enjoying this escapade just as much as you were.
"I- I think im-" You gasp suddenly, legs threatening to close around the knights head as your first orgasm from another persons touch burst through you. You were unashamedly grinding against his face now desperate to draw out your pleasure for as long as possible. He continued mouthing at your cunt, hooking his arms under your thighs so he could press his face further into you.
You collapsed back into the arm chair panting heavily and sliding your hands down to cup his face. "Thank you, Ser." You mumbled with a satisfied grin. He looked more beautiful than usual. His hair a mess (caused by you), a light flush over his cheeks and the remnants of you orgasm smeared over his mouth.
He replied simply with a slow reverent to the soft flesh of your inner thigh. "Glad to be of service, Princess."
Authors note: I have no idea how Ser Gwayne Hightower managed to crawl under my skin by appearing for a few seconds on screen but here I am writing for the sad noble knight as if my life depended on it.
Warnings: SMUT 18+
Word Count: 5,8 K
Summary: a wounded knight, a healer's hut, and a love neither of them can afford
Dividers by @cafekitsune
The rain had come and gone three times that day. The forest smelled of wet earth and pine, and the cool air had made goosebumps rise along your arms. You shivered and gripped tighter your woven basket half-filled with mushrooms and wild herbs.Ā
Most villagers avoided the forest even during the day, and every child knew the stories about spirits wandering beneath the trees once the light faded.
You knew better. The woods held wolves, thieves, and men. Those were the real danger.Ā
The shadows were getting longer, you had to get homeĀ before darkness settled in.
It was when a distant sound reached you through the trees ā a groan, low but unmistakably human.
You stopped and listened, the sound came again, so full of pain and angry despair that it made you flinch.Ā
For a moment, you considered turning around and running. You didnāt. You couldnāt.Ā
Your mind screamed at you in agony, calling you a fool, that whatever had happened here had nothing to do with you, that the only sensible thing to do was to vanish before anything worse happened.Ā Ā
You had never been good at sensible.Ā
You stepped from the path and pushed through the undergrowth. The forest slowly darkened around you as the last remnants of daylight vanished behind thick clouds, but the direction you had chosen was right ā the groaning grew louder.
A shape emerged between the trees.
A horse.
Dead.
Saddle half-torn loose, some pieces of armor scattered just next to it and several paces farther on ā a man, sprawled against the roots of an ancient oak, one arm hanging uselessly at his side, face streaked with mud.
Your breath caught.
Not a bandit.
A knight, or rather what remained of one.
You stopped dead in your tracks. Men in armor brought trouble. Noblemen brought even more.Ā
For all their faults, thieves and bandits understood the sacred rule: do not bite the hand that heals you. They knew what it was to go hungry, to bleed, to depend on the mercy of another. Noblemen rarely did.
They moved through the world as though it had been laid at their feet for their use alone. Gratitude flowed upward, never down. Kindness was expected, service demanded, and debts forgotten even before blood had dried on a bandage.
You had learned that lesson young, and life had seen fit to repeat it often.Ā
Yet as you watched, the manās head shifted weakly and you heard a strained breath escape him.
Not dead, not yet at least. You cursed at your foolishness as you moved closer.
The man's hair, damp with rain, stuck to his forehead, and even the mix of dirt and blood couldnāt completely hide the fine features of his handsome face.Ā
The embroidery on his green doublet, the remnants of his armour, every single thing about this man screamed he was someone important, someone dangerous and surely someone far above the concerns of a village healer living alone on the edge of nowhere.
You leaned in and put your palm on his forehead. Burning hot.Ā
His eyes opened. Blue of the morning sky and still sharp despite the pain. A shaky hand reached for you.
"Water," he rasped before his eyes rolled back, and his body slumped back against the tree.
You stared at him, at the blood seeping through his doublet, at the straight line of his nose, the sharp eyebrows.
The sensible choice would have been to leave him.Ā
Instead, with a muttered curse and a prayer to every god willing to listen, you set down your basket and knelt beside the unconscious stranger.
You fetched the flask hanging from your waistband and slid one hand behind his neck.
"Easy."
His head lolled heavily against your palm and his eyes opened again, unfocused and glassy with pain.
You tipped the flask carefully.
He swallowed once, coughed, then drank again, greedily.
"Not too much," you warned, pulling it away.
His brow furrowed, whether at your words or simply from the effort of staying conscious, you couldn't tell.
For a long moment he simply stared at you. He looked confused, trying to place where he was, who you were, perhaps even remember his own name.
You set the flask aside and turned your attention to the armor.
The breastplate was dented along one side and mud had worked itself into every buckle and strap. You had to get it off but it was clear it was not going to be an easy task.Ā
"What are you doing?" he managed as you started to pull at the straps.
"Saving your life."
Your fingers worked at the leather fastenings, the knight frowned and his hand moved weakly toward yours.
You slapped it away.
"Stop that."
A surprised blink and then, despite the blood loss and obvious pain, something almost resembling offense crossed his face.
"I can't carry you," you said with a slight scoff. "And you can't walk carrying half a forge on your shoulders."
The final buckle came loose, the breastplate shifted and he groaned in pain as you moved his body to ease it away from him.Ā
You kept going ā the pauldrons, the vambraces, all went off. He didnāt protest anymore, and piece by piece, all the steel fell away.
You looked at the man revealed beneath it ā wiry but well built, pale and far younger than he had first appeared.
The doublet was stained dark with blood. The wound would need cleaning, stitching, perhaps, but none of that could happen in the middle of the forest.
"We need to move."
His eyes closed briefly and when they opened again, they were sharper and more aware.
"I canāt."
"You want to live, you will."
The look he gave you suggested he was unused to being argued with.
You rose to your feet and dusted off your skirts, his gaze followed you.
You offered your hand and after a moment's hesitation, he took it.
You braced your feet.
"Ready?"
"No."
"Good."
You pulled, he cried out as he put all his remaining strength in holding on to you and pushing himself upright. For a second his knees buckled and you already thought he would fall back on the ground, but somehow he managed to keep standing.Ā
"Seven, help me," he muttered through clenched teeth.
You quickly stepped closer, draped his good arm over your shoulders and wrapped your own around his waist.
The weight that settled against you was considerable.Ā
"Gods," you breathed, looking with remorse at your basket on the ground. There was no way you could lean down to fetch it without letting the man drop back into the mud.Ā
The two of you stood there for a moment, swaying slightly.
āMove,ā you ordered.Ā
There was a pause but then he shifted his weight forward.
One step. It was shaky and painful, the movement drew a sharp hiss from him but it was a step.
"Good boy," you gave him an encouraging smile.Ā
His jaw clenched but another step followed.
Consciousness returned slowly and in fragments.
First was the feeling of warmth, then the sound of crackling fire, next came the scent of dried herbs.
Pain. A dull, throbbing ache spread through his ribs, shoulder, and side.Ā
Gwayne frowned, his eyelids felt heavy but he forced them open.
A low wooden ceiling, smoke-darkened beams, a small window.
Memories run scattered through his still somewhat foggy brain.Ā
The battle. The screams. The pain.Ā
The fire. The rain. The forest.Ā
A woman.
Beautiful, large eyes looking at him with open annoyance.
He was alive.
The realization came with a fresh pulse of pain and a ragged gasp.
The door opened and you stepped inside carrying a wooden bowl filled with steaming water.
"Look who's decided to rejoin the living," you smiled seeing the young man awake and set the bowl down.
The blanket shifted as he moved, attempting to sit up, and he instantly froze and looked down, realising there was nothing between him and the blanket. Completely, absolutely nothing.Ā Ā
His eyes widened.
"What in the..." his voice sounded hoarse but it still was pleasantly soft.Ā Ā
He looked pointedly at the blanket, then back at you.
You blinked.
"What happened to my clothes?" The accusation in his voice was hard to miss.
You folded your arms.
"They're drying."
A beat ofĀ silence passed.
Gwayne's face grew steadily warmer as the implications arranged themselves in his mind and the speed with which the young manās cheeks all over to his ears turned brightly red made you chuckle.Ā
"You removed them."
"You were unconscious."
"You removed all of them."
You stared.
He stared back.
Finally you let out a long, disbelieving breath. "Seven preserve me."
"What?"
"You wake up in one piece after nearly dying in the middle of nowhere and that's your first concern?"
His jaw tightened.
"You undressed me."
"I saved your life."
"You undressed me."
"I stitched your wounds!ā
The man looked genuinely mortified and offended. You looked genuinely ready to throw something at him.
His mouth opened, closed, then opened again but nothing emerged.Ā
"Not even a thank you," your frustration spilled out before you could stop it. "Not one."
Gwayne blinked.
"I carried you out of the woods, spent half the night cleaning blood off you, used almost every bandage and pain soothing herb I had and unless you've discovered some miraculous method of treating wounds through a doublet, yes, I removed your clothes."
The room fell quiet.
Gwayne found himself staring at a knot in the wooden wall, and his ears felt suspiciously warm.
"You stitched my wounds?"
"That is generally how healing works when someone has a hole in his side."
Gwayne shut his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, the movement pulled painfully and he hissed.
The concern drove away the annoyance from your features so quickly that it caught him off guard. You immediately stepped forward.
"Don't. You'll tear the stitches."
Your gaze dropped to the bandages wrapped around his torso.
"Try sitting up slowly."
Gwayne eyed you suspiciously.
"Why?"
"Because if you're going to continue being difficult, I'd at least like you to be conscious for it."
It had been on the third day that the young man finally revealed his name.
To his credit, there had been no grand announcement, no expectation that the world should stop and marvel at it.
The truth had surfaced gradually, piece by piece, through idle conversation and half-answered questions until, with visible reluctance, he admitted that he was Ser Gwayne Hightower.Ā
You cursed inwardly.Ā
A Hightower. As if sheltering a wounded knight beneath your roof was not enough trouble to tempt fate. Of course he had to be a nobleman as well. Of course he had to belong to one of the most powerful houses in the realm, a house with its hands buried up to the elbows in the bloodiest war of the century.Ā
Just your luck.
You dragged a half-dead stranger out of the forest and somehow ended up with a piece of the realm's troubles sleeping in your bed.
The days that followed settled into a rhythm neither of you acknowledged aloud ā each morning began with fresh bandages and a new argument.
Gwayne healed quickly, much faster than you had expected. The fever broke after three days and by the end of the week, he could cross the room without needing to lean on walls or furniture. He stubbornly refused your hand whenever you offered it to him.Ā
He had tried to ask you questions about the course of the war. You cut him off before he could speak them out.Ā
"No discussions about kings, queens, claimants, dragons, battles, or whichever noble lord is currently trying to kill whichever noble lord."
A faint frown appeared between his brows.
"I merely wished to know..."
āI said, no,ā you tied off the fresh bandage with perhaps a little more force than necessary.
Gwayne studied you for a moment.
"I'm too poor to have the luxury of caring who sits on the Iron Throne," you finally said and turned to face him. "When lords quarrel, villages burn. While princes decide who is entitled to crowns, common folk bury their sons. Armies take grain, horses trample fields, and healers like me spend their days stitching together whatever is left behind."
You folded your arms.
"I heal whoever comes through that door. Farmer. Merchant. Shepherd. Drunkard. When I picked you up in the woods, I didnāt ask for your title.ā
Your gaze drifted briefly to the fresh bandages wrapped around his torso.
"I have no desire to be part of noble quarrels," you said at last, more quietly. "I don't want favors. I don't want rewards. I certainly don't want enemies."
A muscle shifted in Gwayne's jaw as it slowly hit him, the reason for that distinct feeling that learning his name had somehow lowered your opinion of him.Ā
"You think knowing my name places you in danger."
"I know it does."
The certainty in your voice surprised him.
"When you leave this place, Ser Gwayne, I sincerely hope you forget the path that brought you here."
His expression tightened.
"You saved my life."
"Exactly."
You pointed at him.
"And if, after all that, the thanks I receive is having soldiers, rivals, debt collectors, spies, or ambitious noblemen showing up at my door asking questions, then I hope every old and new god in the Seven Kingdoms curses you for the rest of your days."
For a heartbeat, Gwayne simply stared, his blue eyes met yours and something softer flickered there, something unusually sincere.
"I give you my word. No one will hear of this place from me," the solemn certainty in his voice surprised you, and for reasons you could not entirely explain, you found yourself believing him.
A week later, Gwayne Hightower discovered that recovering from a near-death injury was considerably easier than earning your approval.
Gwayne had spent most of his life knowing exactly what was expected of him.
He was a knight. A Hightower. A soldier. The son of a powerful house.
There had always been a place for him in the world, a purpose that fit as naturally as a sword hilt in his hand until he woke up in your hut and discovered that in your world he had none of all that. Even more - he was entirely useless.
The realization did not come all at once.
At first, there was the wound. No man could be expected to work while half stitched together and burning with fever but the fever broke and the strength returned.
The days passed.
You rose before dawn every morning.Ā
By the time he woke, water had already been fetched, the fire lit, herbs sorted, breakfast prepared.
Then the rest of the day began: children with split open knees, farmers with swollen joints, old women seeking remedies for aching backs, broken bones, cuts, fever.
You treated them all.
Then there was laundry, cooking, cleaning, mending, collecting herbs, brewing potions, the work never seemed to end, and somehow everything that needed doing simply found its way into your hands.
For the first time in his life, Gwayne found himself uncertain of where he belonged within it all. Worse still, he discovered that he wanted to belong.Ā
Every morning he woke to the scent of porridge or fresh bread and the soft sounds of a household already awake around him.Ā
It was a small life by the standards of lords and castles, a simple one, hard, undoubtedly, and demanding in ways he had never seen before, yet there was something about it that drew him in.
Perhaps it was the honesty of it, the quiet purpose woven into every task, or perhaps it was simply you.
Whatever the reason, Gwayne found himself wanting, more and more, to be a part of this strange little world fate had thrown him into.
It took him a while before he braved to offer help, but it seemed the least he could do.
A mistake.
A terrible mistake.
The first task you entrusted him with was watching the bread.
It sounded almost insultingly simple ā sit by the oven, keep an eye on it, take it out when it was done.
A few distracted thoughts later, smoke began pouring from the oven and by the time he realized something was wrong and dragged the loaf out, it had transformed into a charred black brick that could scarcely be called bread anymore.Ā
Your face when you discovered it haunted him for days.Ā
The bowls proved even less cooperative. The task was to wash and dry them.Ā
How could anyone wash dozens of fragile things every day without breaking them?
As the third one hit the floor, Gwayne stopped and sat down with his head in his hands.Ā
Not that he had more luck with the wood.Ā You had found him standing in front of the chopping block and watching the axe stuck in the log after his first swing with absolutely no idea how to get the stubborn tool out of it.Ā
The truth was humiliating.
He was a knight and yet you were more capable than him in almost every practical matter that kept a household alive.
At first he found that realization uncomfortable, then impossible to stop thinking about.Ā
He started to watch you. Not intentionally, at least, not at first.
His gaze simply found you. Again and again.Ā
There was confidence in everything you did ā competence earned through years of doing.
There was no one else in your life. No servants. No household staff. No family helping. Just you and yet somehow you managed it all.
And for the first time in his life, Gwayne found himself wondering if fate had dropped him into the world with nothing but his own hands, would he have managed half as well as you?
He wasnāt certain, and it made him feel both shame and admiration.Ā Ā
The realization arrived gradually like the dawn creeping across a room.
No single moment or dramatic revelation, just a growing certainty.
He liked your sharp tongue, the way you refused to be intimidated by him, the way you argued with him without hesitation or the way your eyes flashed whenever he said something particularly foolish.
Gods.
Especially that.
You were infuriating and somehow he found himself looking forward to every argument.
He liked hearing your voice, just simply being near you and seeing you smile. At some point, without noticing when or how, you had become the first thing he looked for when he woke and the last thing he thought about before sleep and once he acknowledged that, the rest became impossible to deny.Ā
Your handsome knightly patient was getting better with every passing day and somehow it made you inexplicably sad.Ā
Patients came and went. Some stayed for an afternoon, some for a few days. They arrived carrying pain, fear, and uncertainty and departed as soon as their bodies allowed it.
That was how it was meant to be.
Yet lately, whenever you looked at Gwayne, you found yourself wishing his recovery would slow.
Not stop, just... slow.
The wound along his side had nearly closed, the bruising had faded. He moved easily now, no longer wincing every time he stood, soon there would be nothing left keeping him here.
The thought sat heavily in your chest whenever you allowed yourself to think about it for too long, but even if you tried not to allow it, your attention kept drifting toward him.Ā Ā
The truth was, he was not at all what you had expected.
When you had learned who he was, you had imagined the worst ā a proud nobleman, demanding and entitled, the sort who believed the world existed for his convenience only.
Instead, fate had delivered you a knight who burned bread, shattered bowls, and spent half an hour contemplating a log because he did not know how to chop it.
The memory still made you laugh and there was one thing you couldnāt deny ā his efforts had been genuine, even after repeated failures, especially after repeated failures, he still never acted as though any task was beneath him.
Despite all his attempts to appear composed, he still blushed every time you changed his bandages.
A grown man and a knight, reduced to awkward silence and burning cheeks whenever you untied the laces of his shirt.
You glanced up from sewing the torn sleeve of his doublet.
Lost in thought Gwayne was staring into the fire again. He looked so out of place when he did that.Ā
He looked lonely.
You had spent most of your life alone, you were used to it, and yet for a brief, foolish moment, you found yourself imagining what would happen if he stayed.
The thought lasted all of three seconds but it was enough for you to accidentally drive the needle into your thumb.
Then common sense returned with the pain.
āOuch,ā you hissed.
He would never stay and even if he wanted to, he shouldn't.Ā
Gwayne belonged to castles and armies and great stone cities, to duties and responsibilities, to a world you could scarcely imagine.
You lived in a forgotten hut at the edge of a forest.
Your lives were not even supposed to touch.Ā
Carefully, you brushed your fingers over the healed skin on Gwayneās side one last time.
The gash was gone, the skin had knitted together cleanly and what remained would also fade with time.
You didnāt even notice Gwayne had gone suspiciously still beneath your touch.
"Well," you leaned back. "Congratulations. You are healed."
You both glanced down at the discarded bandage in your hands.
"There is no need for another one," you said more quietly.Ā
You knew exactly what that meant. He could finally leave.Ā
You placed the bandages aside and pushed yourself off the bed as a hand closed around your wrist.
Your eyes dropped to the place where his fingers touched your skin.Ā
Gwayne immediately looked as though he regretted every decision that had led him to this moment.
Color flooded his face.
Gods.
You had never seen a man blush so thoroughly.
The redness reached all the way to his ears.
For a heartbeat he simply stared at your joined hands.
Then he released a breath.
Opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
You waited.
Gwayne looked like a man preparing to charge a dragon.
You blinked.
"I ⦠Iā¦,ā he stammered.Ā
āWhat?"
A flash of horror crossed his face.
"Gwayne."
His gaze found yours again.
"Come⦠come with me," he finally managed.
You stared, certain you had misunderstood.
"What?"
His grip tightened slightly before immediately loosening again.
As though he feared frightening you away.
"When I leave."
The words came slowly now.
Carefully.
"I want you to come with me."
For a moment, you simply looked at him, at the handsome knight sitting on your bed with an earnest terror in his eyes.
A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
"Gwayne."
"I know how it sounds."
"Do you?"
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
That, at least, was honest.
Neither of you moved but neither of you looked away.
Gwayne still held your wrist lightly. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he loosened his grip and turned your hand in his.
His gaze dropped to your fingers as he lifted your hand toward his mouth.
The touch of his lips against your knuckles was feather-light.
You could have pulled away.
You knew that.
You should have.
Instead, your hand remained where it was.
Gwayne kissed your knuckles first, one after another, slowly, eyes shut close, savouring every touch of his lips against your skin.Ā
When he finally looked up at you again, something had changed.
The uncertainty in his gaze remained, but now there was something else alongside it.
Wonder.
As though he could scarcely believe you were still there, that you hadnāt pulled your hand away.
Slowly, giving you every opportunity to stop him, he leaned closer.Ā
"Gwayne..."
His gaze flickered briefly to your mouth then back to your eyes. You held your breath but didnāt move away.
Carefully, tentatively his lips brushed yours. So lightly, so briefly that at first you almost wondered whether it had happened at all, even so your heart stumbled painfully in your chest.Ā
Gwayneās eyes fluttered shut and he leaned in once more. His hand cupped your cheek and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers as though he could scarcely believe he was allowed to touch you.
You felt him smile faintly against your lips, a small, disbelieving thing, as if he had spent so long hoping for this moment that now he didn't quite trust it to be real.
Without thinking, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.Ā
It drew a soft breath from him, something between a soft moan and a whimper.
The sound sent warmth flooding through you.
Gwayne's hand, still resting against your cheek, slipped into your hair, his fingers threading through the strands before settling at the nape of your neck. The touch was careful, almost protective, yet there was nothing uncertain about it anymore.
The kiss deepened, his lips moved against yours with impossible tenderness but you could feel the quickened beat of his heart beneath your palm on his chest.Ā
When you finally broke apart, it was only because breathing had become necessary.
"Gods," he murmured.
"What?"
A smile appeared. It was slow but bright enough to transform his entire face.
"I was certain you were going to throw something at me."
Despite yourself, you laughed.
Gwayne drew back with the unmistakable look of a man gathering the courage to say something that mattered.
His lips parted.
You already knew what was coming.
A promise, a plan, something sensible and reassuring.
You did not want any of it. You didnāt want promises that were impossible to keep. You wanted this moment, this beautiful fleeting moment between now and then, where everything was possible and nothing was spoken out loud.Ā
Before he could say anything, you lifted a finger and pressed it gently against his lips.
"Hush."
He blinked.
"Don't."
There was confusion in his gaze, you ignored it.
Slowly, you guided him backward. He let you. The mattress dipped beneath his weight.
His gaze never left your face.
You crawled on top of him, straddling his hips. His heartbeat picked up beneath your palm. Fast. Much too fast for a knight.
You smiled.
"Don't speak," you murmured.
His throat bobbed.
"Just feel. No promises. Just this one night."
Your fingers drifted absentmindedly across taut planes of his abdomen tracing the familiar lines of the body you had spent weeks tending back to health.
Beneath your touch, every muscle seemed to go still.
You leaned in and pressed your lips to the scar on his side. Gwayne's breath caught audibly, head tipping back with a soft gasp.Ā
The sound emboldened you. You kissed the line of the scar again, letting your tongue trace its length. His hips twitched beneath you and a low, broken sound left his throat.
āGodsā¦ā he breathed, fingers flexing against the sheets as if he didnāt know whether to reach for you or hold himself back.
āSchhhh, my knight,ā you whispered.
You took your time exploring him with your hands and mouth, every scar, every ridge of muscle, every place your fingers had once brushed as you tended his wounds, you worshiped them now with your lips and tongue ā the hollow of his throat, the sharp line of his collarbone, the sensitive spot just beneath his ribs that made his breath hitch sharply.
Gwayneās head pressed back into the pillow, eyes half-lidded. You loved the soft, helpless sounds that spilled from his lips with every touch, all the quiet gasps and shaky moans. His hands finally rose to your waist, gripping lightly, reverently, as though you were something sacred he was terrified of breaking.
āDonātā¦,ā he managed, voice wrecked. āI⦠I canātā¦āĀ
You silenced him with a deep kiss, swallowing his words as you rocked your hips slowly down against his. His fingers dug into your waist, then loosened again, trembling with the effort.
āItās my choice,ā you said firmly. āYouāre mine for this one night. Unless you tell me you donāt want it.ā
Gwayne swallowed hard but didnāt say anything.Ā
āI take it for a yes,ā you smiled and started to pull your dress over your head.
You let your fingers trail the hem of his breeches.Ā
The moment you pulled him out, your noble knight almost stopped breathing. He was beautiful, hard and flushed, a vein running along the underside from base to the flushed tip.Ā
You wrapped your hand around him slowly, stroking once from base to tip with a feather-light touch and Gwayneās chest started to rise and fell rapidly, his hands fisting the sheets.Ā
You stroked him a few more times, gliding your thumb over the sensitive head, drawingĀ beautiful broken whimpers from him.Ā
His hands settled lightly on your thighs, fingers trembling. He didnāt guide or rush you. He simply held on, as if touching you was the only thing keeping him from shattering.
You shifted higher on your knees, Gwayneās gaze snapped back to yours, pupils blown wide.
āAre you sure?ā he rasped. You silenced him by sinking down onto him, slowly, unhurriedly, savoring every inch. Gwayneās head fell back with a broken moan, hands clutching at your thighs.
You stayed still for a moment, savoring the way he pulsed inside you, then you began to move. Slow rolls of your hips, rising and sinking down on him again and again.Ā
You loved every desperate sound your movements drew from him: the soft, needy moans, the sharp gasps and pleas he couldnāt seem to stop.Ā
Your proud, noble knight was completely unraveling beneath your touch. The flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes fluttered half-shut with every roll of your hips, the broken sounds he couldnāt hold back⦠you loved it. You loved it more than you could ever admit.
His hips started to buck up to meet you, sharp needy thrusts that almost knocked the air out of your lungs. You stemmed your feet against the bed and rode him harder, faster, grinding down, chasing your pleasure shamelessly.
Gwayneās back arched clean off the bed with a strangled moan, one hand flying up to clutch at your waist as he kept moving against you.
āGood boy,ā you moaned, leaning down and capturing his mouth in a messy kiss.Ā
The praise hit him like a spark to dry tinder. Gwayne whimpered into your mouth, the sound raw and needy, his tongue sliding against yours in urgent sloppy strokes.Ā
His fingers dug into your waist as he flipped you over like you weighed nothing.Ā
āSay it again,ā he gasped, voice wrecked and pleading, hips slamming against yours in almost desperate rhythm. āPleaseā¦, I need to hear it.ā
You moaned beneath him, nails raking down his back, as the new angle sent sparks of pleasure shooting through every nerve.
āMy good boy,ā you breathed against his lips. āMy perfect knight.ā
āFuck me harder, knight!ā you moaned and a low, broken groan rumbled from Gwayneās chest, his hips stuttered, rhythm faltering before he managed to get the hold of it and startedĀ driving into you with deeper, more powerful thrusts.Ā
It didnāt take long, a broken sob of pleasure tore from you as you shattered, back arching against the bed. He kept fucking you through it, arms wrapped around you, holding you close. The tenderness never left him even as moments after he came, gasping, shuddering, groaning hoarsely against your neck.
The night passed in quiet whispers and lingering touches. Neither of you spoke much, there seemed little point.
Words belonged to tomorrow, tonight belonged only to the two of you.
Gwayne held you as though he feared the dawn, you rested against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.
At some point during the night, when sleep still felt far away, Gwayne pressed his face into your hair.
"I never want to let you go."
The honesty of it was both beautiful and unbearable.
For a moment, you closed your eyes. Gods help you.
It would have been so easy to pretend, to let yourself believe impossible things, that the war did not exist, that he could stay or that you could follow.
Instead, you reached up and brushed your fingers through his hair.
"This was my parting gift, Gwayne."
You felt him go still and the silence that followed hurt more than any argument could have.
His arms tightened around you again.
"You could come with me."
"And go where?"
He did not reply.
You shook your head.
"You belong to your world and I belong to mine."
His breathing grew uneven, but he didnāt say anything.Ā
Morning arrived far too quickly, by sunrise you slipped out of bed.Ā
āItās time,ā you whispered. He didnāt answer.
A moment later Gwayne stood fully dressed beside the door, his sword at his hip.
The sight felt wrong.
Neither of you seemed able to find the right words, but in the end, it was you who broke the silence.
"You should go."
Gwayne looked at you, eyes moving over your face.
He took a step toward you, then stopped and nodded once. A small, broken gesture before turning and walking out the door.
You remained where you were, arms folded tightly across your chest.Ā
The path disappeared between the trees a short distance from the hut.Ā
Gwayne reached it and stopped.
Your heart betrayed you immediately.
For one terrible second, hope surged through your chest.
He turned around.
Even from there, you could see the question in his eyes.
Come with me.
Stay.
Choose differently.
Slowly, you shook your head.
No.
His eyes closed briefly, then he turned and continued down the path.
You watched until the trees swallowed him completely, only then did you allow yourself to sit down.
You did not see the tears that finally slipped down Gwayne's face once he was safely hidden by the forest.
And he never saw yours.
Years passed. The realm endured.
A fragile peace settled across the land, uncertain and imperfect, yet peace nonetheless.
Life continued.
The little hut remained where it had always been, tucked against the edge of the forest, the herb garden had grown larger, the roof needed repairing twice.
The ache had softened with time and become something quieter, a fond memory tucked carefully away, a story belonging to another life.
The afternoon sun was warm against your skin as you sat outside sorting herbs into neat bundles.
Your hands moved automatically, the work was familiar enough that your mind could drift elsewhere ā toward a broad-shouldered knight with kind eyes and a talent for burning bread.
You paused, a stem of lavender still between your fingers as you couldn't shake a feeling of being watched.
Slowly, you lifted your head, the forest stood silent. Nothing there. You shook your head at your own foolishness yet looked up again.Ā
A movement caught your eye. A figure was standing at the edge of the woods, far enough away that another person might not have recognized him.
You did. Immediately.
Not because he looked unchanged, time had touched him, as it touched everyone, yet you would have known him anywhere.
A soft smile appeared on your lips before you could stop it.Ā
The figure remained motionless for a heartbeat longer, as though he needed a moment to convince himself you were real.
Then Ser Gwayne Hightower began walking toward the hut, and with each step he made, you found yourself smiling a little wider.
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not sure if you are still taking requests but this idea of Maekarās new (controversially young) naive wife is with him for the first time at the red keep. Sheās indulged in a bit too much wine and other lords are acting as if she is an unspoken for lady.
Maybe I just like to see Maekar be both possessive and protective lol!
Prince Maekar x Tyrell!reader
WC: 900
TW: Hurt/comfort, implied attempted SA, protective!Maekar, a bit of vomit, possessive behavior, threat of violence, age gap
"Please, Ser, I am spoken for," you whispered, trying to push Osfrey Bracken away. You tripped over your slippered feet, wondering why this man was advancing upon you.
"Yet here you are, all by yourself, little flower." His breath stunk, his teeth half rotted, and it made your stomach sour.
You didn't remember following him down this hall. The amber glow from the flames flickering in their braizers along the wall made you dizzy. Hazy memories unrecalled. Too much Arbor Gold. Barrels of it gifted by your mother's side to celebrate your wedding to Prince Maekar Targaryen and it overflowed in the Great Hall. Another deep voice spoke from behind you, and your blood ran cold. Armen Peake, his hand sliding over your waist, trapping you between the two men. How brazen they were, how cruel, to do this during the celebration feast. The wedding had taken place privately two nights past, and now King Daeron the Good held the feast.
Oh Gods, no, please. Mother, I beg for your mercy and protection.
"You dare lay hands on my wife?" Maekar growled, withdrawing his sword as his boots clacked against the stones beneath his feet.
"My Prince! No, no, we were merely helping the lady find her way back to the feast," Armen said.
"She wished to show us around Maegor's Holdfast," Osfrey smirked.
Your eyes went wide, locking with Maekar, who opened one arm, and you went running into it, tucking yourself against his side. All you could do was tremble and hold onto him, hoping he would not believe the vile lies sliding from their mouths.
"The only thing keeping me from slicing off your cocks and shoving them into your repulsive mouths is that my father and brother would not want blood spilled in the Keep, but be assured, they will be hearing of this matter. It is not forgotten that you sided with the bastard pretender," Maekar growled. He sheathed his sword before bending down, pressing against your belly before tossing you over his shoulder and carrying you to the chambers.
You were breathless for a few moments, nausea swirling in your belly, and you could not help but make a soft retching sound.
"Dear wife, please do not dispose your sick onto me," Maekar huffed.
You squeezed your eyes shut, kept your mouth closed until he got you safely into the privacy of your shared chambers, and he carefully placed you onto a nearby chair. He grabbed the metal basin and pressed it into your hands. That's when it all came toppling up along with your tears and fears.
"You think me foolish and naive," you sobbed, and he raised a brow, stunned by the words. He thought no such thing. Well, mayhaps he thought you a bit naive, but you were young, barely a woman of one and twenty.
"I think you had too much to drink, and two villainous men took advantage of such," he responded, removing his belt and setting it along with his scabbard aside.
You sniffled. "You do not believe them?"
Maekar scoffed. "A Bracken and a Peake? I'd sooner throw them out a window, watch them land on the spikes. Their houses are a blight on the kingdoms."
He prepared two cool cloths from the ewer of water and used one to wipe up your face with before laying the other across your forehead.
"I have ruined our celebration," you pouted, the adrenaline slowly seeping from your system and the pleasant effects of the wine wearing off, leaving you feeling downtrodden and rather sorry for yourself.
His jaw twitched. "You have ruined nothing. Must I put you over my knee and smack sense into you, girl?"
You gasped. "You wouldn't dare!"
"I would," he smirked, slipping his hands beneath your pale green dress with golden rose brocade and squeezing your stockinged calves.
A terrifying yet thrilling threat.
"Not until I am feeling better," you sulked.
He hummed, sliding your skirts further up before rolling down your stockings to rub your feet. "Close your eyes."
That, along with the cool cloth, alleviated some of your ailments. You became silk in his hands as he pulled you to your feet and undressed you, changing you into your pale green nightdress and silken golden robe. Then he changed as well, draped in black and crimson silk. Your hair fell in loose ringlets around your shoulders, and he made you take a few sips of water.
"No more wine tonight, dear wife," he whispered before drawing you agaisnt his chest, stroking your hair.
"Thank you for coming to my rescue," you murmured against the tuft of white hair that clung to his muscular chest, left exposed from his nightshirt.
"Always, my little flower," he whispered, tilting your chin up and pressing a soft kiss to your flushed mouth. Oh, how you needed him to call you that. To chase away how horrid it sounded coming from Osfrey Bracken. Your husband reclaimed the sobriquet. Once again, he gathered you into his arms, holding you in his lap while resting in front of the fire. You breathed in the spice and citrus clinging to his skin with your face tucked into the curve of his neck. His fingers dug into your hip, knuckles blanching. You were his, and he'd make the whole kingdom run red with blood if another dared to lay hands on you.
15. w Maekar would absolutely change my brain chemistry!!
Maekar going feral is always a win, that man is a certified freak and you can't convince me otherwise
Grateful Prompt List
15. Bulge Kink | modern!BFF's dad!Maekar x f!reader
It happened by accident, the first time.
You were on your back, knees pulled toward your chest, Maekar above you with that deep angle he favoured when he wanted you to feel all of him ā and he always wanted that, approached it with the same methodical thoroughness he brought to everything. His eyes had been on your face, the way they usually were, tracking every reaction with the focused attention of a man who considered your pleasure a problem worth solving precisely.
Then his gaze dropped.
You didn't notice immediately. You were occupied ā his cock moving inside you with that deep, certain rhythm, your hands gripping the sheets, your whole body arranged around the singular fact of him. You noticed the rhythm change before you noticed his eyes: a fractional slowing, something shifting in the quality of his attention, the way it shifted when he encountered something unexpected and was deciding what to do about it.
You looked at his face. He was staring at your stomach.
"Maekarā"
He didn't answer. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on a point below your navel, and the expression on his face was one you hadn't seen before ā not the almost-smile, not the flat certainty, not even the dark focus of him when he was close. Something rawer than any of those. Something that looked almost like disbelief giving way to hunger.
His hand left your hip. He pressed his palm flat against your lower abdomen, slow and deliberate, right below your navel ā and that was when you felt it.
The shape of him. Moving. Against his own hand, against your skin, the unmistakable pressure of his cock visible from the outside with every stroke, rising and subsiding in a rhythm that matched him perfectly because it was him, because he was that deep inside you, because your body was showing it.
The sound you made was involuntary and immediate.
"Ohā"
"Yeah," he said. Low. Rough. The word scraped out of him like something had been pressed on. "Feel that, princess?"
He moved again ā deliberately this time, watching his own hand, watching the subtle shift of your skin against his palm with every thrust ā and the expression on his face did something that went straight through you, bypassed every rational thought you had and landed somewhere animal and immediate.
You had never seen him look like that. Had never seen anyone look like that ā the flat composure entirely gone, replaced by something that was frankly feral, his eyes dark and fixed and slightly wild, like the sight of it had rewritten something fundamental in him and he was still catching up to what he'd become.
"Maekar," you breathed.
"Don't move," he said. His hand pressed down, slightly firmer, and the added pressure against the next stroke made you gasp so hard your back arched off the mattress. "Stay exactly like that."
You looked down at his hand on your stomach. Looked at the faint, unmistakable movement beneath it. Felt the full overwhelming weight of what that meant ā that he was so deep inside you it showed, that your body was advertising him, that every thrust was legible from the outside ā and something in you snapped sideways into want so acute it was almost unbearable.
"I can feel you filling me up," you cried, breathless.
"Yes," he said, the word rough and barely controlled.
"Feel ā ah ā every stroke," you grabbed his forearm.
"Every single one," he said, and the rhythm he found then had nothing measured left in it, his hips driving forward with a focused urgency, his hand staying flat and firm against your stomach, tracking himself, and you watched his face and felt entirely insane with it.
He groaned. Low and guttural, from somewhere deep in his chest. His rhythm stuttered and then drove harder.
"Look at you," he said, rough, his eyes moving between your face and his hand with the obsessive quality of a man who couldn't decide which sight was doing more damage to him. "Look at you. All pretty and so hungry for me."
"Maekarā"
"You're taking me so fucking well it shows," he growled, his voice dropping further into something that barely resembled his usual register, the flat certainty still there but stripped of everything civilized, everything managed. "Right here." His hand pressed down again on the next stroke and you cried out and he made a sound in response that you felt in your spine. "You feel that?"
"Yesā"
"Tell me," he said.
"I feel you," you gasped, "fuckā I feel you moving, I can feel the shape of you, you're so deep itā" you pressed your free hand over his, both of you feeling it together now, his cock moving against both your palms simultaneouslyā "gods, Maekar, you're so deepā"
"Fuck," he said, sharp and involuntary, his hips snapping forward hard enough to drive the breath out of you. "That's it ā keep doing thatā"
He was entirely gone. Whatever had remained of his composure ā and there hadn't been much, not since his hand had pressed flat against your stomach and found what it found ā left entirely. He fucked you with a focused, ravenous intensity you hadn't encountered from him before, his hand pressing down in time with every stroke, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the point of contact between his palm and your skin with an expression that was somewhere past want and into something more consuming.
"I'm going to leave a fucking imprint of my cock in you," he said, the words ground out rough and low, barely coherent. "So you never forget who you belong to."
The sound you made at that had no composure left in it at all.
"Yes," you breathed. "Pleaseā"
"Mine," said flat and absolute and breaking apart at the edges simultaneously. His free hand found your clit, pressed firm and steady, and the doubled sensation ā him inside you and his palm tracking every movement and his fingers working you and that voice saying things that were rewiring your nervous system ā built so fast and so total that you had no warning before it hit.
You came with both your hands pressed over his against your stomach, feeling him move through the whole of it, clenching around him hard enough that he made a sound he would not have made in any other context ā high and broken and startled out of him ā and then his rhythm lost every last thread of structure and he followed you, his hips pressing flush and staying there, shuddering, his hand still warm and heavy against your skin.
He didn't move it after. Not immediately. His thumb moved, slow and absent, back and forth across your lower stomach. Like he wasn't ready to let go of the sensation yet. Like he was still processing what he'd just confirmed.
After a short while, you started to chuckle with what little strength you had left. "I fucking loved what that did to you," your hand moved across his chest, covered in sweat from the exertion.
Maekar laughed with you, a low sound resonating deep within his chest cavity. He kissed your ankle, which was still at his eye level. "Thought I was a goner for a minute," he lowered your leg and crashed into the mattress by your side with a groan.
"How do they call it," you asked yourself aloud while repositioning yourself against his chest, "la petite mort?"
Maekar laughed and pulled you closer to him, his arms heavy against your frame. "Keep pulling tricks like that and you'll soon be fucking a corpse indeed, princess."
"I'd be making love to a very handsome corpse," you corrected, your hand pressing teasingly against his sternum. "Great ass, that corpse would have."
His hand came to your own ass, squeezing its meaty roundness. "I think it would be far more enjoyable for both of us if I stayed in the realm of the living, don't you think?"
A moment of silence in which you feigned deep thinking. Maekar slapped your asscheek playfully to draw your attention back, earning a heartfelt laugh from you.
"I wouldn't actually mind dying while you fucked me," you joked. "Imagine the epitaph."
Maekar laughed again and the hand that sat at your ass came to your back again, pressing your body even more to him. Sometimes you thought that he intended to fuse you into him.
"I'd like to spare my brother from having to write that," he chuckled and kissed your temple. "And I think he'd like to be spared too."
A very comfortable silence swept over the bedroom. You were both actually on the verge of falling asleep when a very particular thought came to you accompanied by a devious smile.
"Next time," you mumbled against his side, "we can check if you could make me squirt."
Maekar's breath hitched, you noticed it. His body went rigid for a moment, and after that he turned on top of you again, his own kind of teasing smile adorning his face.
"Why wait for a next time when we have all night?"
āŖļøwant more modern!BFF's dad!Maekar? check out this masterlist!
*ā§ļ½„ļ¾: *ā§ļ½„ļ¾ "in the dead of night"dļ¾ā§*: dļ¾ā§*
pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!Reader
words: 7000
summary: when Jace is attending a late council meeting, two hired assassins take their chance to sneak into your chambers and hold you captive. Taken to the dragon caves below and meant to be slain by your own betrothedās dragon, you have to trust the bond between Vermax and you is strong enough to escape your captorās murderous plans.
warnings: soft!reader, fluffy start but HEAVY angst (reader being held captive by two assassins similar to Blood and Cheese), physical violence (slapping, hair pulling), verbal abuse, threats of rape and violence, Vermax being Vermax and also protective of reader, hurt/comfort, shock and crying, Jacaerys being a caring betrothed, Rhaenyra being the best mother in law, aftermath of trauma, healing, hopeful ending
a/n: please mind the warnings for this story, itās my angstiest so far!
Ėāā§ź°į ā ą»ź± ā§āĖ
You smiled to yourself as you held two small wooden figures in your hands, a princess and a prince, their hands linked together and small attires made of cotton and wool. When you were younger, you remembered playing with them for hours, creating little scenarios of the prince who might sweep you off your feet someday.
Now, many years later, you had found the love of your life in Prince Jacaerys.
Ever since your own parents had died too young, Jaceās family had welcomed you as if you were one of them by blood, making you a home at Dragonstone and accepting you with open arms as theirs. Perhaps, a huge part of it was because Rhaenyraās oldest son had been in love with you ever since he had first laid eyes on you, but there was more to it. His mother adored you and you got alone with his siblings and cousins and brought a joy into their house that was much needed in those dark times of war.
This afternoon, you were sitting on the soft fur carpet in one of the big living rooms of the castle, Rhaenyraās twins peacefully playing with their wooden toys all around you. Earlier, Baela and Rhaena had joined you for a chat and the newest gossip, but you didnāt mind being alone with the kids as well, your own inner child always coming down around their soft souls.
You let out a playful gasp as little Viserys assembled a row of knights on their horses along the imaginary street you had built together. āAre your noble knights going to a tournament, Vis?ā
The boy nodded timidly at you, letting one of the horses gallop forward and making you laugh.
Your betrothed Jacaerys leaned against the doorframe and smiled softly as he watched you. Little Aegon had snuggled close to you and you helped Viserys move the toy carriage around the carpet.
You looked up as he pushed himself off the frame, walking towards you with pure adoration in his eyes. āOh hello. I didnāt hear you enter.ā You said, letting your hand be lifted by him so he could press a soft kiss against your knuckles.
Moving to stand and placing Aegon on the ground, he laid a hand on your shoulder, shaking his head. āI didnāt want to interrupt your play. What adventures is my princess going on today? Have my brothers been behaving?ā
āThey are the sweetest.ā You told him in all honesty, your heart melting at the two little blond boys in front of you. Whenever you spent time with Jaceās smaller siblings, you could not help but notice how your heart expanded and spoke to a deep part in you that wished for children of your own someday. āWe were playing a carriage ride to a tournament, I believe, but then a dragon escaped and now we have to look for him.ā
Jace squatted down for a moment and handed Aegon a rattle shaped like the bell of a sept, which he immediately took with a toothless grin and tried out. You watched your betrothed with a soft heart and thought what a wonderful father heād makeā¦
āI dream of the day this will be our life someday.ā He confessed to you, the corner of his plump lips lifting sadly. āWhen there is peace in the realm and we have time to take care of our future children together.ā
āI wish for nothing else.ā You replied softly, your heart blooming with love for him.
For a moment, Jacaerys looked as if he wanted to sit down and join you and his little brothers, but as you knew your hard-working betrothed all too well, he sighed and stood up again, careful not to step on the big skirts draped around you like a blooming flower.
āThere will be a late council meeting this evening.ā Jacaerys announced to you, his displeased expression betraying him. āEveryone of the council and the dragon keepers will sit together to discuss. I wouldnāt ask you to join us, it will be very boring and entirely unnecessary.ā
You chuckled, knowing all too well how different Jace would do many things if his say in the matters of his mother would be of more weight. But at the same time, you were glad, Rhaenyra kept him sheltered and protected with you for now, at Dragonstone where it was the safest place for the future king and his queen.
āWill you come to bed later?ā You asked shyly, although it was not uncommon for the prince and you to share a bed before your marriage had even been consummated.
A small and narrow passage connected your room to Jacaerysā and you had often made use of it, whether you wanted someone to talk to before heading to bed or were in need of his warm embrace before you eventually drifted off into an innocent sleep together. When he was gone or bound to duties, you usually made yourself comfortable in his bed, but perhaps youād return to your own tonight if the meeting was going to take a while before heād be released.
Jacaerys smiled softly at you and nodded before he raised your hand towards his lips. āI will. Donāt stay up too late, Iāll be with you as soon as I can, I promise.ā
You hummed pleased and let him kiss your knuckles. āI hope it wonāt be too long. And donāt take their words to heart too much, Jace. Youāre the prince and theyāre lucky to have you.ā
āIt is me who is lucky to have you, my beloved.ā He said and watched in delight as you blushed at his appreciation. āMy safe haven, my light.ā
Jacaerys leaned down, softly cupping your cheek before he gently kissed your lips, your back arching a little to reach him better. Your lips brushed tenderly against one another and you sighed in bliss at his open affections for you.
You smiled at him when you separated, squeezing his hand in yours. āI love you. Iāll see you later.ā
āI love you.Iāll do my best to hurry.ā He promised, hugging his little toddler brothers as well and softly stroking their hair before he departed. You sighed to yourself, eager to have the hours pass and let the two of you be reunited again as little Aegon presented you a wood dragon, silently asking you to rejoin their play..
āAlright, where were we, my princes?ā
Ė ą¼ ą³āļ½”Ė
Being alone in your private chambers had become a rarity since you had been promised to Jacaerys.
You listened to the quietness of the room, the fire cackling in the pit as you sat on your bed and combed out your hair. You had taken a bath after bringing the princes to their nurseries and changed into something comfortable for the night.
The small evidence of Jaceās frequent visits to your room were visible all over the place. A cloak of his was thrown over one of your chairs by the fire and one of his books laid open by your desk. Even his smell still faintly clung to your pillows, a little gift from the last time he had fallen asleep here, not bothering to retreat back to his own chamber under your soft and lingering touches to his hair.
You could not even remember the last time the connecting door between your rooms had been closed.
You let out a small sigh as you sunk into bed, watching the dark outside of your window for a while. The council meeting mustāve been going on for a while now and you tried to read a few pages to keep you awake, not wanting to miss the moment Jace would come to you.
The time went by and your eyelids kept dropping.
But after a while, the door to your chamber opened and a wide smile split your face as you sat up in your bed, ready to welcome Jace back. Your hair fell over your shoulders, the blanket slipping down your body a little, but just a second later, everything in you froze to a stop.
Two men entered your room, their clothes dirty and faces dark as they took you in. These werenāt your guards and as one of them unsheathed a blade from his belt, you opened your mouth to scream.
They were on you in a heartbeat.
One of them drew the blankets off the bed while the other grabbed your hair, dragging you from the mattress and onto the floor, every sound in your throat seizing up and choked off by their sudden display of violence.
You were not a fighter, never had been. You stood no chance as they manhandled you in their middle, the taller one quickly looking over his shoulder as you struggled to no use against their tight grip.
āLook at that.ā You heard close to your ear, the deep raspy voice sending shivers down your spine. āThe bastard princeās little bird, right between us. What would your man say now if he could see you like this, huh?ā
You whimpered when your head was tugged back, the other gripping your wrists and making quick work of a tight rope around them, scratching over your soft skin and successfully binding you.
āWho are you?ā You demanded to know, your voice barely louder than a whisper. You were shaking from head to toe, your body and mind gone into overdrive when they had first laid hands on you.
They shared a grin with each other. āDoes it matter? All you have to know is weāre not your fucking maids. And that you will die tonight, princess. Now be a good girl and shut the fuck up.ā
You tried to press your heels into the floor, to keep them from stirring you towards the door, but after a moment the tall one simply picked you up and carried you towards the door. Your nails scratched over the manās back, but it was like he didnāt even feel it, his grip around your legs too tight for you to struggle and free yourself.
āBehave.ā
You were set on your feet again, crowded by them against the door. You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat, your eyes flickering between the two of them. āWhoever paid you, their reward is not nearly enough for the misery my family will bring down on you when they find you. I am a princess of Dragonstone and you have no right to-ā
They pushed you out of the door, not bothering to listen.
A horrified gasp escaped your lips as you stepped outside your chamber and nearly stumbled over the dead bodies of your two guards, bleeding out and cold on the floor. The sound echoed through the hall and before you knew what was happening, your head was pulled back by your hair and a hard hand slapped you across the face.
Pain exploded in your mind, blinding you for a moment before the sting ebbed away and was replaced with a dull throb in your cheek.
You held the palm of your trembling hand to your throbbing cheek, breathing hard as you recovered from the blow. āYou will die for this.ā You said oddly calm and collected. It had to be the shock, you could not think clearly, but you knew one thing for sure: āThe prince will cut your hands off for laying hand on me.ā
The tall one grinned as if it was an empty threat. āWe will be long gone once your prince finds you, stupid cunt. And in what state that will be, I still have to decide.ā His disgusting hungry gaze crept over your body, barely hidden underneath your thin sleeping gown. You wanted to throw up.
āYou will lead us to the place where the dragons are.ā The shorter one said. āWe know the keepers are all at the meeting and you know ways where no guards keep patrol. And if you dare to scream or run to wake anyone, Iāll cut out your tongue and heart and throw it in front of the bastard princeās feet.ā
You swallowed down bitter tears, your head screaming at you to do something, anything. But your hands were painfully tied and you did not find your voice as you slowly began to walk with them through the castle.
In the past, you have had nightmares like this, terrible visions of you being powerless as hands held you down in the dark, doing horrible things to you. You sometimes had woken up screaming, but Jacaerys had been there for you every time, holding you until the worst of it was over and you slowly were able to calm down in his safe and warm embrace. Now, there was no one, all people living and working at Dragonstone either asleep or summoned by Rhaenyra and Jacaerys for the council meeting. By the time someone had discovered the corpses of your guards in front of your chambers, youād likely be dead or taken to who knew where.
You walked through your home, shivering against the cool air with only the thin nightdress you wore on you, the dangerous presence of your captors behind your back. You knew Jacaerys would blame himself for leaving you alone and suddenly, a sorrow so consuming filled your chest, you choked on a quiet whimper. You had not even said goodbyeā¦
āShut the fuck up.ā They hissed at you and one of them slung his arm around your waist, your fingers digging into his flesh in protest as cool metal suddenly rested against your ribcage. A dagger. āBe fucking quiet and keep walking.ā
Soon, the air began to smell of salt and sea and you heard the distant crashing of the waves against the island. The entrance to the dragon caves came into sight and you turned around to face them.
āNow tell us, girl, where is your precious dragon?ā
Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach, but before you could open your mouth for a reply, the other one of them shook his head. āNo. Donāt be stupid. The beast will kill us right away if it sees their rider in our clutches. Butā¦the bastardās dragon. Itās a foul ill-tempered beast, isnāt it? Where is it?ā
Vermax.
A protective wave washed through you and for a moment, you regained the little confidence you had before the man had laid his hand on you. āWhat do you want with the dragon? You are in no state to have a chance at killing him.ā
They shared a look, both grinning viciously. One of them stepped up to you and touched your chin with his dirty hand, right where a fresh bruise from his violence bloomed. You tried to flinch away, but he held you close.
āWe donāt mean to kill it, flower.ā He told you, bloodthirst flickering over his features and making you sick. His knuckles brushed over the cut on your lip and you wanted to gag from disgust. āWeāre going to watch as it kills you.ā
Your mind was swimming as you led them through the darkness, watching their big shadows looming over your small own. The taller one still held his dagger against your waist and you knew heād make use of it if he noticed you playing any games. There were wild beasts slumbering in the depths of these caves, but would they be faster at attacking your captors than the knife against your skin?
The hope in your chest thinned the further away you walked with them from where you knew your own dragon slept, but one last shimmer of it remained in you. You knew Vermax and he knew you just as Jacaerys did. You had to hold on to that.
āItās here.ā You announced quietly, your whisper echoing across the cave near the ocean. It was quiet here and you had to squint your eyes to make out the big nest at the end of the cave where a green-scaled dragon slept fitfully.
āCall it.ā The smaller one muttered, his eyes fixed on the beast. You winced as the tip of the dagger pressed into your skin, a warning. āWe will stand behind you and when it has come out, you will command it to kill you, you hear me? No tricks or Iāll gladly be the one to end your suffering, right after my friend here has had his fun with you, princess.ā
You took a deep breath as they retreated into a safe distance.
āNaejot MÄzÄ«s, Vermax.ā You commanded shakingly and the sound of your familiar voice, the big pile of green and red in the corner of the cage moved, uncurling himself from his light slumber.
Jacaerysā dragon blinked at you sleepily, a shudder going through his beautiful scales as he tilted his head to the side questioningly. When he spotted the two men in your company, he tensed, stepping forward and showing himself in his full height.
āLykirÄ«ā¦ā You lifted your hands, trying to catch Vermaxā eyes again so heād look at you instead of them.
With a low growl in his throat, he settled, stepping closer to you until his snout almost touched your outstretched hand.
āSay it, girl!ā You heard the commanding voice behind you, in a safe distance of the beast that slowly blinked at you, considering. āWeāre not going to wait much longer!ā
You took a deep breath and looked Vermax in the snake-like eyes.
He met you with a calm stare, tilting his head to the side again, a deep rumble in his chest.
You had to trust in him now. You had to trust in the love Jacaerys and you were sharing and the bond between you and the dragons.
Out of the sudden, a heavy thrown stone hit you in the back and you gasped in pain, stumbling forward and almost slipping in a dirty puddle.
āDO IT!ā
Trust in Vermax, just as you trust in your Jace.
āDracarys.ā You whispered finally and closed your eyes.
Vermax surged forward with a furious roar, one sharp claw in the ground, his wing shielding you from the scenery. Nearly pushing you out of the way, he advanced on the men who had threatened you with a snarl and warmth filled the large cave, fire burning low in his green-scaled stomach.
A horrible realization flickered over their faces as the green beast drew closer, their backs hitting the wall behind them as they looked at you one last time. āYou fucking cunt-ā
Vermax wiped out their miserable existence with one single breath of fire. Heat tore through the cave and you stumbled backwards as the dragon fire burned them and the scent of roasted human flesh reached your nose.
You squeezed your eyes shut and buried your face in your hands as you listened to their screams. Their agony bounced off the stone walls and heat crept down your spine, but Vermax kept you close, the leathery feel of his wing a small comfort against your skin.
Suddenly, silence rang in your ears.
You dared to peek up over the protective curl of Vermaxā wings.
Where your captors had stood, only ashes and bones remained.
Vermax let out a self-satisfied growl, clearly pleased with what he had unleashed on the terrors. He bent down, blinking at you with his sharp eyes as if to make sure you were alright. Tears, both from the shock and gratitude, filled your eyes and you leaned your forehead against his snout, trying to take deep breaths to steady yourself.
You shrunk back as you heard footsteps in the caves, hurried steps running over gravel and through the water puddles, a flame throwing a long shadow over the walls. You felt Vermax tense, his wing drawing itself tighter around you. Any other threat advancing, heād burn to the ground.
In the next moment, Jacaerys stormed into the chamber, his sword drawn as his other hand held a lit torch. His chest was heaving, sweat gathering at his hairline as he quickly took in the state of the room. He looked like he had run the length of the castle and you knew it likely had been the case.
Vermax snarled without threat, greeting his rider and lifting his wing to present you to your love.
Your eyes met and you let out a shuddering breath.
The sight of you was a thousand daggers to his heart.
Your face was smeared with soot and the blood from your split lip coated your chin, your hair unruly and disheveled from the way they had grabbed and dragged you along. Your silk dress was dirty and you shivered against the cold of the cave as you slung your bruised arms around yourself.
Behind you, Vermax hovered like a protective shadow and waited, willing to serve with Jacaerys now here with you.
As he took a step towards you, his boot made contact with the skulls of the assassins. Two of them, he realized and the rage surging through his veins was all-consuming. He looked down at their bones and wished to go back in time to kill them himself, over and over again until not even these mortal remains stayed behind.
But his own bloodlust vanished as he raced towards you, your own legs unsteady and finally giving out under you just as he reached you.
He fell to the ground with you in his arms, holding you tightly as you clawed your hand in his clothes, his heart breaking for you right underneath your tight grip. It was like any last strength in you had left, leaving you a broken and sobbing mess in his embrace.
āYouāre safe, youāre safeā¦ā Jace murmured into your ear, softly swaying you back and forth as you wept, the adrenaline and shock from the situation finally crashing down on you with full force. āNothing is going to happen to you, Iām hereā¦ā
The Queen and the dragon keepers found the prince and his princess just like this.
Jacaerys was kneeling on the ground, the princess dissolved in tears in his arms and the ill-tempered beast that had saved his love curled around them, chortling comfortingly as the prince stroked her hair and whispered sweet nothings in her ear.
Ė ą¼ ą³āļ½”Ė
You had been escorted back to the castle, but you couldnāt say you remembered much from the journey. Your mind had gone into an odd state of survival, the girl from before the attack having retreated into a far corner of your mind.
The guards, now dead because of you, had been carried away in front of your door and you had stopped in the middle of the hallway, not able to go another step as you stared at the spot where maids were now scrubbing the blood from the floor.
āCome on, my dear.ā Rhaenyra had gently told you and you tore your eyes away from the scene as your Queen and Jacaerys led you into his chambers instead. The warmth and unique scent of Jaceās quarters ā the smell of old parchment and books, mingled with the wax of the candles and the smell of his sheets ā enveloped you and you drew the cloak Jace had draped over your shivering form tightly around you.
Now, a little later, you were seated at Jaceās work table and blankly stared at your scraped hands in your lap.
Jacaerys had instantly expressed his dislike for an interrogation at this hour of the night, but you had shaken your head, willing to recount the situation to Rhaenyra as if words could wash away the poison they had brought onto you. Your skin felt coated with it and you feared the stain might never go away again.
Yet, you had told her and Jace what happened, slowly and quietly, and when you were done, Rhaenyra was holding your hand and Jacaerys looked as if he wanted to break something.
āMy brave girl.ā Rhaenyra murmured and softly cupped your cheek as she looked at the bruises on your face and neck. āYouāve fought enough for tonight, darling. Iāll call the maids and healers and-ā
āNo.ā You cut her off, shivering at the prospect of unfamiliar hands on you, seeing the evidence of what had happened on your naked skin. You swallowed hard, your eyes filling with unshed tears again. āNo one else. Itās- itās alright, I can do it myself, I really can-ā
Rhaenyra smiled sadly at you. āYou are hurt, my dear.ā
āIām not broken.ā You insisted, although you felt like it. You were shattered pieces on the ground.
āAnd no one says so, dear.ā
Jacaerys, sensing you were on the verge of breaking down, knelt down next to your chair and caught your gaze with his. āI can help, if you want.ā He offered quietly.
You looked back at him, conflicted. If Jace stayed, thereād come the point where heād see the damage you had taken and you did not know what troubled you more; him seeing you like this or seeing him as his heart shattered for you.
āJace.ā Rhaenyra looked at him. āPerhaps a womanās presence at this time is better suited for her. Iāll fetch you later, I promise, but she needs a moment for herself now, alright?ā
He was tense, your beloved prince, but after a moment he nodded with a set jaw before he stood and looked at you one more time. āIāll wait outside.ā
You didnāt want to meet his sad expression, so you kept your gaze down as mother and son went to the door, talking in quick and hushed voices before Jace stepped outside and Rhaenyra returned to you.
She leaned down and brushed a little bit of soot from your cheeks, careful not to touch your split lip. āVermax surely knows how to rain down fire on our enemies, hm?ā
A weak smile tugged at the corner of your lips. āHe saved me. He knew exactly what was going on the moment I entered and he was intelligent enough to play along until the right moment had come.ā
Rhaenyra hummed, offering you a hand to stand up. āAnd still, they only call my sonās dragon ill-tempered. How does a bath sound? Iām sure youād like to step into more comfortable clothes, wouldnāt you?ā
You nodded, longing for a simple cotton shirt, preferably one of Jaceās that smelled like home and warmth and safety.
Your future mother-in-law went to the big bath next to Jaceās bedroom with you, a steaming bath already having been drawn for you.
When you saw her drawing a stool close to the tub, your eyes widened and you were quick to interject: āI-I can do it myself, Your Grace, there is no need for you to-ā
āPlease let me help you just as I would help any other child of mine.ā She interrupted you kindly and soon after, you gratefully sunk into the bath, your sore muscles relaxing in its warmth.
Rhaenyra helped you tilt your head back and you closed your eyes as warm water flowed over your hair and down your neck, tears of your own silently running down your damp cheeks. Your throat bobbed painfully as you let her work, the Queenās gentle hands a motherās comfort as they helped to get rid of the dirt from the caves and a root clinging to your skin.
āI have sent Jace to fetch an ointment for your bruises and cuts.ā She told you quietly and you nodded silently, cupping some of your water to rinse off your face, careful not to touch your throbbing lip. āI want you to tell me if I should send him away for the night. You can be honest with me, dear.ā
You sniffled, gladly accepting the towel she lent you after helping you out of the bathtub. After a moment, you rasped: āIt is not him I am scared of. Itās justā¦I know it pains him to see me hurt.ā
āHe hurts because he hasnāt been there for you, my dear.ā Rhaenyra explained softly and you sighed to yourself as you slipped into a silken robe, the fabric easy on the big bruise on your back and arms. Underneath, you already wore one of Jaceās long shirts, the fabric more of a dress on you. āIf it is one thing I have learned, as someone who loves and is lucky enough to be loved, itās that healing means accepting the help of others. No one will fault you if you want to be for yourself tonight, but I know Jace will do anything he can to help you recover from this, no matter what that might look like.ā
You did not want to be alone.
You feared it, laying down in bed once again when the door could open at any moment and reveal the terrors, although Jacaerys had doubled the amount of guards outside his door, simply so youād feel safe.
You wanted to feel sheltered and able to move past this with the one you loved more than anything else, the one who had first thought about when your life had been in grave danger.
You needed Jacaerys.
āJace may come in again.ā You said quietly, suppressing the urge to groan with every step. You had not seen it yet, but the pain the stone thrown to your back caused felt like a flare and you were sure the spot was already turning a deep shade of purple.
Rhaenyra led you towards Jaceās bed, seemingly pleased with your decision. āIāll make my leave then. Sleep in tomorrow, the both of you. You need all the rest you can get.ā
āThank you, Your Grace.ā You squeezed her hand in yours, bowing your head in gratitude. āAnd thank you for helping me.ā
She smiled at you one last time, although there was a strain to it, her worry over a sneak attack like this consuming her mind. Tomorrow theyād speak about this in council, but tonight sheād let her son do the rest, his wide eyes meeting hers when she opened the door and let him in.
You turned around to look at him, your damp hair falling over your shoulder and his clothes, a princess despite the cuts and bruises on your skin. Jacaerys slowly walked to you and your heart stung when you noticed his blood-shot eyes and how pale he still was. He was tense all over, yet he softened as he came to a stop in front of you.
āWhere does it hurt?ā He asked quietly, looking for your honesty and not a false promise towards him.
You let out a shaky breath and leaned into him.
For a moment, you simply stood in front of each other, forehead against forehead and breathing each other in. Hot tears welled up in your shut eyes, his closeness rescuing and suffocating you at once. Jaceās nose touched yours and his soft curls tickled your cheeks and for a second, you thought that everything might be alright again when the morning came.
āMy back. My cheek and wristsā¦ā You whispered, your breath tickling his lips. āI know Iāve bathed and changed and Iām safe in your rooms, butā¦it feels like theyāve put me apart and Iāve been assembled back together wrongly.ā
He shook his head, swallowing against his own lump in his throat. āYou could never be wrong, my love.ā
Your bottom lip wobbled dangerously, only doubling the pain in the cut grazing it. āIāve been so scared, Jace. When they entered my room- Anything couldāve happened, they couldāve done anything to me-ā
You gasped both in relief and sorrow as his arms pulled you against him, the hug both grounding and warm, something you thought youād lost forever mere hours ago. You were too exhausted to cry once more, but the horror over what else couldāve been done to you shook you to your very core.
āIām never going to let something like this happen again.ā Jace promised you darkly as he tightened his arms around you, soothingly brushing his hand through your hair as you rested the unwounded side of your face against his heart. āYou will never have to be afraid again, I promise. I shouldāve been there, I shouldāve stopped them-ā
āYou didnāt know they were here.ā You reminded him, but you could feel the fury radiating off his body, an all-consuming rage deeply rooted in him. āNo one did. No one is to blame except for the ones who sent them, Jace.ā
āAnd they will pay.ā You could practically feel the daggers he was glaring at the wall behind you. But just after a moment, you felt his anger deflate as he softly kissed the top of your head and gently lifted your chin so he could look at you. āYouāve been fighting all alone tonight, but I am here now and I want to be of use, beloved. Will you let me help?ā
āI donāt want to upset you.ā You almost bit your lip before you remembered the pain.
His gaze softened endlessly and he tucked a damp strand of your hair behind your ear. There were lots of tangled emotions inside of him still, but he saw you, this sweet delicate girl he had fallen for ever since the beginning and knew he had to take care of you now. āYou could never upset me, my beautiful strong princess.ā
The words were mending on your shaken soul and you closed your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before you let him to his work.
āThe maester said the salve might be a little cool on the skin.ā Jace murmured and you nodded in understanding. āAnd he gave me ice, scratched from the old side of the islandās cliffs, for your cheek.ā
You took the dripping bundle from his hand, sighing as the cold cloth touched your cheek, the swelling subtle so far yet inevitable to strengthen throughout the night. But every bruise and cut on your body was better than not living to see the sun rise in the morning. āI could apply the salve on my own?ā
Jace shook his head. āLet me do this for you.ā
He walked with you to his bed, helping you sit down as he knelt before you, devotion shimmering in his eyes. You realized that he needed this just as much as you did, to prove himself he was able to take care of you now, even if he had not been there for you then.
He cupped your healthy cheek as you covered the other one with your ice. āShould we start with your back?ā
Jace helped you lift the fabric, only so much so he could see where the stone had struck you, a dull bruise blossoming right next to your spine. It was nothing he had not yet seen so far, still you felt self-conscious under his attentive eyes.
You held very still as Jacaerys began to carefully apply the ointment to the bruise, his finger drawing soft and soothing circles over the blue spot. His other hand touched your waist, just barely underneath the fabric of his shirt on you and you closed your eyes as the cooling sensation drew a little pain from you and let it vanish.
āGood?ā
āFeels goodā¦ā You murmured and tried to crawl into the feeling, the tiny relief washing away a little of the darkness from before. With a small kiss to your nape, he let the shirt fall and cover you again.
Next came your sore wrists. He lifted both of them, seeing the red marks where the tight rope had cut into your skin and swallowing hard. He wanted to unleash Vermax on the dusty bones of your captors again until their remains were annihilated from this earth. Jace softly kissed both of them before he dipped his fingers into the small jar again and repeated his careful motions.
You made a small sound in your throat and he stopped instantly.
āToo hard?ā
You shook your head. āMy lipā¦ā
He sat down beside you, the mattress dipping underneath his weight and bringing you closer to him. The cut wasnāt pretty, but no cut was and you did not shy away from him as he took in the damage, one of his hands still rubbing circles into your wrist.
You held your breath as his coated thumb touched your bottom lip, his touch light as a feather as the cooling salve instantly mended the throbbing. Your hand reached up to hold his wrist, not ready yet to let him go when his touch felt infinitely good for your aching body. There was nothing sexual about the way you breathed against the pad of his thumb, relishing his care and simply letting it wash over you, and for a while you were simply content like this, Jacaerys remaining close to you as you breathed through the slowly ebbing pain.
āDo you want me to braid your hair for the night?ā He asked quietly like he had so many times before.
Your wonderful beloved Jace. You nodded gratefully as he shuffled once more on the bed and sat behind you. Kissing the back of your head and brushing your hair over your shoulders for you, he got to work.
Your body was lulled into relaxation as his fingers combed through your hair, loosely braiding it so you wouldnāt have to wake up with tangles and knots in the morning. His warmth was a comfort against your back and if the vicious bruise hadnāt been there, you wouldāve leaned back against him, ready to melt into his tenderness.
āVermax saw right through them.ā You spoke up after a while, your eyelids drooping from time to time from exhaustion as Jace finished up his braid for you. āHe didnāt let them see at first, but there was a moment where I knew he was going to protect me, that he knew what was happening.ā
āHe loves you as if you were his own rider.ā Jace mumbled, affection for you and his dragon in his voice. āI am glad he had been there for you when I wasnāt.ā
āI want the finest sheep the shepherds can organize for tomorrow.ā You looked over your shoulder with determination and Jacaerys frowned at you, a question in his eyes. You welcomed the small sting your lip caused you when its corner lifted up into a weak smile: āI want Vermax to be rewarded for defending his riderās princess so honorably.ā
āAnd Iād be honored to be the one to select it for you, my princess.ā Jaceās face darkened, fury swirling in his brown orbs. āI still wish they wouldāve suffered more. They deserved much more than a quick death of fire.ā
His revengeful words were nothing against the soft touch with which he doted on you and when he was done and brushed his fingers once more over your hair, your body wanted to sink into his pillows and melt into them.
Jace laid down with you, carefully adjusting his position beside you so he wouldnāt accidently bump into your sore body. You exhaled deeply when your head touched his pillow, smelling so comfortingly of him. You could not bear to lie on your back, so you snuggled into Jaceās bed on your stomach, hugging his pillow and turning your head so you could look at your love.
He was resting on his side, his brown eyes searching for any discomfort you might have. Your eyes flickered over his shoulder, towards the door of his chambers.
āYou are safe now, I promise.ā Jace whispered and leaned forward, pressing a small kiss to your nose. āThere are five guards outside and my sword leans against the bed. Iām here. Nothing bad will ever befall you again, my love, I swear it with my life.ā
You gave him a tiny nod and tried to relax, although it was hard to keep the shadows lingering in the corners of the room at bay. You wiggled one of your hands out from under the pillow and found his, tugging him closer until his lean body warmed your side, one of his hands resting securely on your lower back.
āTomorrow, I want to take a walk to the cliffs.ā You whispered, longing for the fresh air and its cleansing effect.
Jacaerys smiled. āThen it will be arranged. Does my princess wish for any company?ā
You nodded timidly, his playful undertone distracting you from the dull throb underneath the ointments. āAnd I want to have a picnic if the sun is out, with all my favorite things.ā
āIāll tell the kitchens then, first thing in the morning. Theyāll be happy to please their future queen.ā
āAnd when Iām healed, I want you to kiss meā¦ā Your eyes drooped, the exhaustion from the night overpowering the little anxiety that remained in you.
āYour wish is my command...ā Jacaerys mumbled back, his eyes on you as you slowly drifted off into a well-deserved sleep. He had not been entirely honest with you, there were many things he wanted to do.
He watched you sleep beside him, the most innocent sweet being he knew, covered with his warm clothes and bruises on your skin. Jace still held your hand and was not willing to let it go for the rest of the night.
At the soonest time, heād convene a council meeting and strengthen the security around Dragonstone. He already had caught word of Daemon wreaking havoc on the guard unions patrolling around the castle for not being more attentive, for the princess was one of his favorite people in this family and Jace knew heād have an ally for his cause.
Heād take his revenge for you.
But for now, he knew you needed him more than ever, and tomorrow heād do his best to make you happy again.Ā
He could almost see it in the dark of the room, your eyes closed blissfully against the sunbeams, your hair dancing with the wind as you walked hand in hand as you had done so many times as children. Youād eat ripe peaches and cake and slowly, this incident would move past you until it was only what it was; a shadow in the corner, in the dead of nightā¦
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cw: hotd season 3 spoilers, fix-it fic!, heavy angst, hurt/BIG comfort, fluff so much fluff, mention of violence, mourning but no death, yearning, kissing, jacaerys loves his wife more than anything, (3.8kw).
synopsis: He promised. To you, to himself, right before giving the order. "I will come back to you," Jacaerys whispered, pressing warm lips to wood, as if sealing his silent vow through the door.
a/n: mama will hold ur hand through this. it'll ALL be okay! bawled my eyes out at this but god i needed it. translations for the high valyrian used at the end!
He had never felt so cold before.
A chill seeping into the marrow of his bones and encrusting muscle and tissue, making it hard to move; to breathe.
His eyes battled the shroud of darkness, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldnāt halt the certainty, which in that instant appeared like his end. Not slumber, not unconsciousness, but his demiseās unyielding grip curled around him like a serpent and squeezed until it wrung every bit of life out of him.
Jacaerys felt the bite of the arrows like a brand, pulsing like another denominator of what was to come, to swallow him whole. One in his neck, one near his heart, and others in places he couldnāt name, but remembered your hands and mouth touching countless times before.
The Gods were cruel to punish him right where your sweetness had been, where your love had touched and imprinted itself onto him, now stained by sharp steel and blood.
He hopes youāll have it in your heart to forgive him, for he cannot do so for himself. The more the world feels like a distant memory, the more his heart aches, its beating slowing, as if trying to mimic the syllables of your name one last time before it inevitably stops. One last call out to you, willing to see if you would answer, even if he knows that to be impossible.
Would you cry, he wonders, as if he doesnāt already know the answer. Would you curse him? Would you hate him? Would you damn every moment youāve spent together, turning it into poison and ash?
Jacaerys would not fault you if you did, but his chest feels hollow at the prospect of causing such vile emotions to bloom in your tender heart, most of all towards him.
You are his most precious jewel, and losing his life is one thing, but knowing that means losing you as well? It tears at him more than those arrows have.
He thinks of his mother, who was so delighted knowing he had found someone to love, and someone to be loved by in return, truthfully and wholeheartedly. You two were meant to have a Valyrian wedding in a few moons, as it is custom, and he had been ardently awaiting to see how beautiful you would look in traditional garments. Trying to imagine it now, just as he had many times before, feels like another arrow aimed straight at his heart, plunging deep. Now, he will never get to teach you how to recite the vows in High Valyrian, wonāt get to see the sparkle of joy in your eyes when youāre face to face, exchanging them, binding your destinies together for all eternity, even in death.
Death. Jacaerys supposes that if he dies without binding his soul to yours before his ancestors, he wonāt have any pieces of himself that he knows will certainly be kept in the sanctity of your heart.
But maybe it is better this way, for you will not have to carry such a heavy burden ensnared in the crevices of your chest, reminding you of all youāve lost; of all heās made you lose.
It might seem callous of him to think so, but the thought of you mourning him brings warmth to his veins, even through the chill of the sea. Knowing you have loved him enough to let tears fall from those pretty eyes of yours makes the inevitable hurt a little less.
Someone had cared for him and felt strongly enough to weep at his departure. That, in itself, is a gift. One of the many you had given him. You yourself have been the greatest one, blessing his days and easing his worries with nothing but a look, a word, a kiss. It had come like breathing to you, and he had never felt like he was out of air until now.
The sea is seldom merciful, and no matter how much he tries to beg the Gods to spare him, Jacaerys knows this time it might be in vain.
But how can he not beg? How can he not plead? If not with his voice, then with the remaining beatings of his heart, with the last vestiges of the memories he has of you.
He wishes he wouldāve said I love you more often, for it seems like he had been scarce in his vocalization of it. Now, every day doesnāt feel like enough, because no matter how hard he tries, his throat is clogged with water and the words he means to say, if only for the last time. He wouldāve hoped it enough to ease the grievances he knows you would feel upon hearing of his demise.
Jacaerys wonders if you would eventually surrender yourself to another. If there would come a day where another man would sweep you off your feet, chipping away at all the parts of Jace burrowed deep in your flesh and blood. The thought makes him want to weep. You forgetting him, replacing the memories you have of him with those of another, as if painting anew on an old canvas one has no use of anymore.
If his promise wouldāve rung true, Jace would be by your side now, celebrating the victory at the Gullet, hugging his mother, then you so tight it wouldāve knocked the air out of you both. He wouldāve twirled you around while laughing, leaning in to press a multitude of kisses onto every patch of skin he could reach, knowing itāll make you laugh, cheeks flushed, looking at him like heās your whole world.
May that be the last thing he wishes for before the sea takes him. May your face be the last thing on his mind before there is nothing but darkness, engulfing every bit of light that was you. May he always remember you, even when buried beneath the sea and the sand, wishing for nothing than to hear your voice saying his name one last time, your gaze softening upon looking at him, and maybe, if the Gods allow him one last mercy, the feel of your soft lips upon his own.
He knows he is not worthy, for if he were, Jacaerys wouldāve held onto his promise to come back to you, to his mother, to the Realm. But he couldnāt. The Gods were ever cruel and took from him the very essence of his being, cursed to wait for his impending doom.
And wait, he had. Was it another punishment to still feel like he was hanging on but never sinking deep enough? To will him to replay every single memory of you and imagine thousands of others? To feel so close but so far away from the object of all his affections and desires?
Jacaerys would know you anywhere, he thinks. Even blind, hard of hearing, or sinking into nothingness, he would not fail to know you are close.
So why does it feel like you are? Is this another cruel trick before the ancestors welcome him to them? He swears he can feel the soft lilt of your voice somewhere in his vicinity, and it makes him want to move, to lean towards it and taste it. Make sure itās real.
Please let it be real. To the Old Gods and the New, let it be real. Donāt dangle such hope in front of him only to take it away, for it would feel like getting speared with arrows again and again andā
āI shall watch him,ā your voice sounded, just as sweet and lovely as he remembered, but also tired, croaky at the edges. What had happened? Why were you ā āYou need rest, my queen. Let me, for now.ā
My Queen? Mother?
The sounds were a bit muted, but he could hear footsteps, then the creaking hinges of a door, followed by a thud.
A long, hitched sigh followed, the one people do when they try not to let it show they were hurting, right before the tears inevitably fall.
Were you crying? He couldnāt bear when you were. That pretty face he loved so much, marred by tears, undid him every time.
Jacaerys had to see, had to make sure you were okay, that nothing had befallen you too, that the Gods had been merciful to an angel such as you.
He was struggling. His body was not responding the way it should, barely able to feel his hands and feet properly. But that didnāt matter now, for he only needed his eyes to will open so he could glimpse you, even if it was all a cruel fiction of his imagination, probably allowing him one more wish before taking him to the depths forever.
Please.
Please let him see his wife. His lady. His love.
Please.
One last time is all he asks.
If the Gods had ever looked down upon him and smiled, let them look down and smile once more. Grant him this one mercy. Just this once. Only this once.
He knows heās begging, but what is there to do other than implore with all the strength left in him for one last look at you? In case he is to meet his end soon, let the sight of you be what he goes down feasting upon.
Blessed be The Mother, for I beg for one last mercy, for I shall gaze upon the one I hold most dear before my death and meet my end with a settled heartā
Jacaerys wonders if you are wearing one of your soft gowns, the ones he loves most, for you look like a Fae from the library tomes you so love. Would you still wear the necklace he had given you, or have you thrown it away in a fit of grief and anger because of his recklessness? He wouldnāt fault you for it. Just wished he could give you another to atone for his many sins, for how much sorrow he mustāve brought you.
But he is wrong.
You are wearing the pendant. Your fingers are wrapped around it, settled at the base of your throat, holding so tight your hand shakes, lips pressed to it, murmuring to yourself, eyes closed in prayer.
Are you praying for him to come back to you, just as he was? The thought makes warmth bloom beneath his ribs, licking upwards towards his chest, weaving until it finds his heart, willing it to beat faster. Even so close to dying, he supposes, you still manage to affect him just the same.
If this is but a dream, he hopes he never wakes up. Because standing here, looking at you, just as beautiful as the day he lost you, brings him more peace than any prayer he couldāve uttered. You are so pretty. His pretty girl. Always, always so very pretty. Even now, looking worn out, expression pinched, and hands shaking.
He wants to see your eyes, at least once, before he can't do so again.
"M-may you look at me, my love? For I want toā"
Jacaerys is startled from finishing his sentence by the loud gasp you let out, body jumping beside him, startled and alert, like a doe sensing hunters on its tail. Your eyes are so, so wide with disbelief, watching him with the sort of bewilderment one would when seeing a creature unknown or some oddity come to life. Why were you looking at him like that? If this were but a dream, then whyā
"Jace," you whisper, shaky and soft, like a petal swept by the wind, hands trembling so hard the pendant slips through your fingers. "Jace," he hears you repeat, as if the sound of his name in your mouth is something foreign you have to taste again. "Gods, Jace!" Your voice cracks along the syllables of his name, before moving closer, gazing at him with those pretty eyes he near plead to see, now teary and wide, sweeping over him as if checking to see if he's whole. He knows he isn't, for the battle must've left him with more than grievances and a hollowness in his chest that could only be filled if he still had a chance to live.
Your movements are shaky and hesitant, wanting to reach for him but shackled by a fear he does not know yet. Why won't you touch him? He can tell you want nothing more than to feel him beneath your palms, and yet you waver. Why? If this is to be the last mercy before his death, why is he imagining his beloved faltering instead of pressing close, so close and grasping at him like the air one needs to breathe?
Jacaerys tries to lift a hand, grimacing when his body again does not count him as its master, and makes it hard to move properly, feeling a sharp pain lance through his forearm, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. One to which you react instantly, shaking your head as you plead with him not to move, cradling his hand between both of yours, letting Jace feel the softness of your skin again. "No, no, my love, do not move," you sniffle, blinking back those stubborn tears lining your pretty eyelashes. "Please, you must rest. The Maesters said you are not to tire yourself any further."
The Maesters? What ever could you mean?
Blinking his eyes rapidly to dwindle the fog clinging to his vision, Jacaerys's breath catches when your own room comes into view, surrounding both of you. He supposes his imagination could not help but want to remember you in the place where you felt most at ease, the one where you shared your first kiss, first bedding, and many, many other milestones that now feel like a vice around his heart, squeezing tight. Will this be the last time he gets to pine for what once was and for what could never be again?
"H-how do you feel?" Your voice shakes again, snapping him out of his reverie, gaze finding its way back to yours, feeling himself melt just at the sight of you anew. Gods, you couldn't be more gorgeous. "You had been asleep for half of a fortnight. We didn't know if you would ever wakeā"
And oh, his heart shatters into pieces when your words trail off into hiccuped sobs, soft chin wobbling, not being able to hold the weight of your grief and sorrow. His sweet wife was crying beside him because of his own foolishness, and there was no punishment severe enough for his transgressions. He could be put to the sword, and it would never erase the guilt in his chest at making you shed even a tear.
It takes him but a few moments to rear his mind from blame to the words you spoke, eyes widening in bewilderment as he registers the information you bestowed upon him. "Asleep?"
His voice is rough and unpolished from disuse, and he's watching you like you brought both salvation and perdition to his door.
But you only nod, squeezing his hand tighter, bringing it up to your mouth to press warm lips upon his skin, feverish and lingering, before cradling the back of his hand against your tear-streaked, warm cheek. "Yes, my love," you confirm, tone lightening with pure relief. "The Gods were watching over you, breathing life into you anew, just like we prayed for."
Breathing life back into you.
Does that meanā
But he cannot hope yet. What if this is nothing but another trickery? The cruelest way to tear his heart asunder by making him believe he escaped from the unforgiving claws of the sea and is now granted another chance at spending a lifetime with you?
Jacaerys can feel a lump form in his throat, near choking him, his lashes dampening rapidly. "Do not forsake me, please," he pleads, willing his hand to clutch at your fingers again, with what little strength he has. "I cannot bear knowing this is but a dream." It is hard to speak as his chest heaves, blubbering like a child as he begs for a miracle from you, who he now hopes is all flesh and bones and not smoke and ash in front of him.
Your expression pinches, studying him carefully, as you so often used to do with your tomes and books in the low candlelight before bed, thumbing each page as you uncovered the secrets written through the dried ink. He feels like one now, as your eyes narrow, before those soft lips part in a round shape, understanding dawning on you.
"Oh, my sweet prince," you whisper, voice damp from your tears, but then the sweetest sound of all accompanies the wetness of your eyes.
A laugh.
Amidst all this confusion, all this befuddling turmoil between dream and reality, you laugh as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, and your mouth dared to form the shape of happiness again.
You turn your head to press a fervent kiss to his hand before moving closer, cradling his face between your palms. Thumbs soften the traces of tears onto his own pale cheeks from being under slumber for so long, willing to see a flush to them soon. "I am flesh and bone, not a mere mirage," you assure, another soft, disbelieving laugh tinkling between you, as if the mere thought of him believing this to be a play of the mind is ridiculous. "The Gods brought you back to me, just as I wished for, my love."
Gods, he thought he'll never get to hear that sound fall from your lips again. It makes his vision blur with tears, lips trembling as he chokes back from babbling again like a babe, but eager to quiet the ghosts of his mind that insist this is a delusion.
"P-prove it to me," he hiccups wetly, no longer preoccupied with how weak he must look, nothing like a prince and all like a man at the end of his hope, begging you to pull him towards salvation. "Please, Ʊuha jorrÄeliarzy," his tongue wraps around the endearment like it never forgot it, full of longing and desperation. "Show me I still have you, for I cannot bear the thought of losing you againā"
He feels his heart breaking and mending itself back together over and over, waiting for you to grant him this one certainty in his hopelessness.
And Gods, you do.
Your lips are on his before he can blubber another supplication, palms tilting him the way you want to as you slot your mouths together so, so tenderly, like two wings of a butterfly touching while they flutter.
He feels it. He tastes it. Your tears, his tears, your promise, his desperation.
Jacaerys wishes he were stronger, for his body is weakened by the tragedy that befell him, not being able to grasp you as fiercely as he would if his limbs had not forsaken him. He can only will his fingers to brush against the folds of your skirts onto the bed, curling into the material until his hand shakes with the ardent want of closeness; of wanting to do more but being cursed into only hoping.
"You have me," you whisper against his mouth, branding the truth on his lips as you continue kissing him. He can feel you smiling into it, and it is unbecoming of him how that only makes him weep harder, his own tears trailing down your cheeks and chin now, too, from how close your faces are pressed together, smushed in your eagerness to prove what he so feared was nothing but a cruel twist of his mind. "And I have you, dÄrilaros Ʊuha."
Gods, your tongue tangles around the words so clumsily, no matter how many times he had patiently taught you the right way before, and still, he would never trade it for the world. Jacaerys wants to hear it a thousand times more, and then tenfold that, for the rest of his days.
He's overwhelmed. All the hopelessness he felt before, thinking he would never get to hear the sound of your voice, taste the sweetness of your lips, feel the warmth of your love. And now you are offering him all of those and more, and he feels like he cannot breathe if you dare stop for even a moment.
"Avy jorrÄelan, " he sobs, trembling lips barely able to return the soft kisses you so kindly confer to him still. "Avy jorrÄelan. Always," the words tumble from his mouth, choked and utterly devout. "Not a moment went by when I did not plead with the Gods to bring me back to you. I curse the sea for trying to wrench me from your side. For its greed and its cruelty, forā"
But you silence him with a firmer press of lips, swallowing the last of his blubbering with the sweetness of your mouth, tasting salt and love and life. You exhale shakily, drawing back so your gazes meet, lips brushing, leaning to nuzzle your noses together as you whisper, voice fervent with conviction. "No more talk of misfortune," you say, nudging his cheek in reprimand with the tip of your nose. "Let me rejoice in having you again."
Jacaerys had always been weak to your whims, never one to deny you anything, least of all when spoken with such longing, such relief, bodies close and shaking with lingering grief and solace alike.
He nods, gathering strength enough to nuzzle you back, eyes fluttering at the feeling, to which you shakily let out another one of those honeyed laughs as you whisper. "But do not think I shall forgive you for trapping me in mine own chambers before rushing to battle with such recklessness."
Oh.
In the midst of all this, he forgot the events that led him to this whole predicament. Closing his mother's door, then yours, vowing to come back in the end, no matter the cost.
"But I haveā"
"Coming back in such a state is hardly enough for me to count this as you honoring your vow," you say, eyes narrowing, even teary and full of adoration as they were. And he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything, but the fullness of his chest as it filled with so much love for you, it damn near burst open. "We shall discuss more of this when you've healed properly."
"Yes, my lady," he whispers, having the gall to look a bit sheepish, but alas, a small smile curls at his lips, the normalcy of your reprimand willing his senses into solace.
You harrumph, trying to show displeasure, but he knows there is too much relief blooming between you two now, softening even this attempt at being stern.
He makes an effort to tilt his chin up until his lips brush your tear-streaked, warm cheek, kissing it softly, not moving for a very, very long time.
"I'm sorry," is pressed against the damp skin, and he knows it'll take time and an exuberant amount of grovelling to will you to forgive him, but he wouldn't have it any other way.
Now that he has escaped death's grasp, he has a lifetime ahead of him to try to gain your favour.
And Gods, what a fortunate way to live out the rest of his days.
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Ā iāve never seen you without wanting to pray to you. iāve never heard you without wanting to place my faith in you. iāve never longed for you without wanting to suffer for your sake. iāve never desired you without wanting to be able to kneel before you ā rainer maria rilke.
ā you are the silence on sacred shores. you've got diamonds for teeth, my love; vampire!reader and vampire hunter!ormund.
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