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in which jack abbot is the first to notice the wallflower resident of the ER.
summary; reader has always been used to being left behind, and eventually stopped trying to make space for themselves. she doesn't think anyone notices her, until jack abbot starts paying attention.
warnings; fem!reader. use of y/n, use of she/her, probably medical inaccuracies bc all my medical knowledge comes from shows lol, also NO AI used !!! i use em dashes sometimes but i PROMISE this is strictly a no-ai account!! also reader has a cat bc i said so
i might make a part two of this tbh but i wont label it as a series bc then my brain will start procastinating and i'll lose all motivation to write it LOL
The noise of the ER buzzed around you. The muscles in your neck ached, begging to be stretched and massaged. One of your hands came up to gently rub on your neck, the other slowly typing out the chart of your latest patient.
Some of the interns were huddled together, giggling to each other about something. It had become a habit of yours to listen in on them— on whatever gossip they had going on this time. Sometimes, you liked to pretend that you were part of it. That you got to gossip with friends just like they do.
That'd never been the case for you. In your intern year, you were the only one. Already feeling alienated, you struggled to find your place in the ER. Everyone seemed to already know who they were, aside from you.
For a while, you tried. You tried to include yourself. You joined the others when they went for a beer after a heavy shift. But as time went on, you didn't feel any closer to belonging. It didn't feel like anyone was making room for you either. So, you stopped showing up. And no one said anything.
Now, you just worked. You took all the patients no one else wanted. You stayed a little later to make sure another coworker could get home on time. You helped in traumas, then slipped away as soon as it was done.
This routine worked. It'd been your routine for years now. It wasn't that you were a bad doctor, no. You just didn't fit in.
A small wince covered your features as you rubbed your neck again. You truly couldn't wait to get off shift, and go home. You know your cat must already be sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting for the sight of you walking through the door.
"Nice catch, earlier." You heard a gruff voice behind you— one you recognized as your attending, Jack Abbot. Being the eavesdropper you are, you waited to hear the response of the person he was complimenting. You wondered if they'd be humble or gleeful. You know that if you were complimented like that, you'd be over the moon.
The light of the monitor made your eyes burn a little, but you just had to push through this last chart.
Then, you felt a hand tap your shoulder.
"Kid?" Dr. Abbot hummed, looking down at you, the corner of his lips quirking into a small smile. "Did'ya hear me?"
Your eyes go wide, and you swear you can feel your heart jumping up into your throat, making your breath hitch. He was talking to you. No one ever bothered talking to you, not if it wasn't necessary.
"I— er- sorry, what did you say, Dr. Abbot?" You cleared your throat, trying to get your heart to return to a normal pace, the chart all forgotten now.
He watched you for a moment, his gaze softening from playful to a more gentle one. "I said..." His hands gripped both ends of his stethoscope, the one he always had around his neck, "Good catch earlier. With the silent heart attack patient. Not many of us could've caught that."
The apples of your cheeks shifted into a deep red color, your eyes darting from him to your keyboard, then to your water bottle, the floor, keyboard, him...
"Oh- um, yeah, thank you, sir." You nodded in response, already mentally degrading yourself for being so awkward. This is your attending, for gods sake. You should be professional.
But that easy grin rested on his face, and he nodded. "Oh, sure, kid. You're one hell of a doctor. Keep it up." He gently squeezed your shoulder, and walked off. And that was that. He complimented you like it was nothing.
That simple compliment swam in your head the entire day. It made you smile as you prepared your lunch for work at home that evening. It made you hum with content as you settled into bed, curtains drawn shut to hide the rising sun.
Good catch earlier.
It started happening more and more. Abbot would pull you into traumas with him, let you take the lead on them, and then give you a small compliment, and one of those warm smiles. He'd linger when you charted, always trying to spark up small talk.
You never came out of your shell, though. It was driving him insane. He tried everything. But you always shut it down and got back to work. For a while, he thought you might just dislike him. But he could see the small smiles you gave him, and the pink tint in your cheeks at his compliments.
So, he tried asking the other residents about you. Imagine his shock when no one knew anything about you. Everyone just responded off-handedly.
'Oh, Y/N? Yeah, she's a quiet one. Dunno much about her.'
'Y/N? Great doctor. Haven't talked to her much.'
'Saw her a few times in her first year of residency. Then she stopped coming out.'
No one knew anything. That's what made Jack perk up a little more. He tried to subtly keep notes on you throughout the day. See who you spoke to. If maybe you left with someone. Maybe discussed patients. But he got nothing.
You were all alone.
The last straw was when he spotted you slipping into the abandoned wing of the hospital, settling yourself on the dusty staircase, and opening your lunchbox. You even hid away to eat.
He had to fix that.
So, he became a little more persistent. He'd ask you to eat lunch with him, and before you had a chance to decline, he'd already led you into the breakroom, making you sit down with one pinned stare.
He could tell you were a little anxious. So he always made the first move. He'd ask questions that required more than a nod for an answer, just to get you talking. And he would listen. Full attention, eyes glued to you the entire time you spoke.
No dismissive nods, no hums of acknowledgement in a way to just make you feel heard, no. He made sure you knew he was listening. When you mentioned your cat, he asked for its name. He asked to see pictures. When you made an offhanded complaint about the hospital coffee, he asked what your favorite coffee place was.
The next day, a coffee from said place was waiting for you.
50 ways to leave your lover. (6k followers celebration fic!)
(michael 'robby' robinavitch x ex-wife!reader)
The four times Robby tries to win you back after your divorce, and the one time he finally manages to lock it all down.
warnings: 18+, mdni! explicit sexual content, ex-husband!robby, robby's done some work pre-sabbatical in this universe, doesn't follow pitt s2 timelines, age gap (34/52), robby sleeps with his medical student (what's new?) oral (f receiving), protected sex, ditching dates for your ex-husband w/c: 5k
main masterlist // robby masterlist
Number one. Eighteen months post-divorce. The Abbot-Mohan wedding.
Stupid Jack Abbot.
Were it not his wedding day today, you'd seriously consider wringing his neck. The only thing stopping you is the prospect of widowing Samira after three hours of marriage.
Your first encounter had been right at the front door, where Robby and Jack were positioned to greet the guests.
This, you were prepared for.
Jack's his best friend. There was no way he wasn't going to be at this wedding. So, you plaster a smile across your face, and put on the show of a lifetime.
Jack's easy. You've always liked him. He was Best Man at your own wedding to Robby.
It becomes more of a struggle when your eyes land on the man you thought you'd be with for the rest of your life. "Michael," You nod curtly, decidedly not going in for the hug you had with Jack.
He holds a hand to his chest in faux-offence. "You wound me, sweetheart. I thought we put the animosity to bed with the divorce settlement."
There hadn't been much to settle. No children, and Robby let you keep the house. The only thing he let you give him was your engagement ring.
The sight of it made you sick. A reminder of all the ways you failed each other.
At the time, it felt like an attack - like he was trying to one-up you, prove that he could be the bigger person. Eighteen months on, you're endlessly glad you didn't have to try and find another place to live while your world was crumbling around you.
"You look good," he continues, and when your gaze meets his, you know he's being sincere.
"I should get inside," is your reply. "I promised Dana I'd grab seats for her and Benji."
And with that, your first interaction with Robby in twelve months comes to a close.
*****
Glancing quickly at the seating chart, your heart sinks when you see your name scrawled next to Michael Robinavitch. Normally Best Man is up beside the couple, but the Mohan-Abbots had opted for a sweetheart table.
Meaning you're doomed to four hours of your ex-husband's company. And what's worse: you're enjoying it.
Robby's always looked good in a tux, but the charm offensive is at its highest today - pressing a kiss to your cheek in greeting, dealing out the compliments in spades, and refilling your glass each time it starts to get low.
"Remember ours?" He asks, voice quiet as he leans over to you during the first dance.
"Of course I do. We danced to Roy Orbison and then my heel snapped halfway through, so I had to go barefoot for the rest of the night."
"That was a good day," He muses, expression unreadable as he watches Jack and Samira. He looks almost... wistful?
"Yeah, it was. Pity they weren't all like that."
Against all the odds, COVID had been one of the better times for you and Robby. Freshly married, where the work had been absolute hell, you'd found solace in each other.
Things were good, until they weren't. Until Robby couldn't outrun his demons anymore, and then stopped trying entirely.
"Yeah, uhm, about that..." He says softly. "I wanted to apologise."
This you weren't expecting. Arching an eyebrow, you turn towards him. "For what?"
"For everything," Robby murmurs, his gaze finally dropping from Jack and Samira to his own hands. He swallows hard, his jaw tight as he traces the line of his thumb. "For checking out. Giving up on us."
Your hand tightens around your wine glass, as you search his expression - looking for the catch, the deflection. You find none. "It's in the past now, anyway." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "We just... weren't meant to be. And that's fine."
"Mhm," is his only response. As if unconvinced.
You're not even sure you've convinced yourself, much less him, and against your better judgement, he talks you into a dance.
Were it not a wedding, you're positive you'd be able to resist him. But when it feels like everybody around you is perfectly happy and coupled up, you find it incredibly easy to slip back into Robby's embrace.
You still have some sense.
Keeping his hand firmly on your waist, rather than slipping downwards to where it used to settle, you try and think of anything but the man in front of you.
The potential melanoma that you saw in clinic last week.
Not the wrinkle lines that crease at Robby's eyes.
Your shopping list for next week.
Not how warm he feels against you.
The fact that you're running out of Black Honey.
Not anything to do with Michael Robinavitch.
You tap out after a ballad, unable to take the proximity to him anymore, and excuse yourself to go mingle with Dana and Perlah.
The rest of the night is spent willing yourself not to look back over at him.
*****
"You know, it'll be us next," Robby says, voice low as he watches you say goodbye to Samira.
"By us, do you mean your ex-wife?" Jack asks, eyebrow arched. "Because I hate to break it to you, brother, but you've already done that. And it went up in fuckin' flames."
"It would be different this time," Robby shakes his head.
"Yeah? How?"
"You'll see." Robby pats Jack on the back, and gets to his feet, moving to intercept you as you make for the door. The stairs down from the venue are pretty steep, and he clocked your Louboutins during dinner.
He bought you that pair on your honeymoon. He wonders if you remember.
"Need a hand?"
He can see that you're about to decline, before taking a sample step, and letting out a sigh. "Yes, please."
Robby tries not to let the contact get to his head too quickly as he slips an arm through yours. He hadn't even realised until tonight just how much he's missed you.
Truly.
The days after he moved out of your shared house had been some of the worst of his entire life. After about six months of no-contact, he'd finally decided that he needed to get his life together, and move on with things.
Get back on the horse, as Jack put it.
Except now it's eighteen months on from the divorce, he's been on exactly zero dates, and all he can think about is winning you back.
"This is purely because I can't walk in these shoes," You warn. "Nothing more."
Robby's jolted from his daydream and back to reality. Right. You don't want him back at all.
He's gotta find a way to change that.
Number two. Nineteen months post-divorce. A persistence.
After Jack and Samira's wedding, you're not expecting to see Robby again until they start having kids and you're invited to the baby shower.
That doesn't appear to be the case when you watch his motorcycle pull into the parking lot of your clinic exactly one week later.
A notch appears between your brows immediately, but you're still in the middle of a consultation - you have a feeling that your patient wouldn't be too thrilled with you leaping up to investigate.
Instead, you assure her that her mole has not, in fact, grown three centimetres since you saw her last week. It takes multiple pictures and two rulers before she'll even consider that it may be stress-related.
By the time you're finished, the last person you want to deal with is your ex-husband.
At least it's a paeds clinic after lunch. The children tend to be much easier to handle, and usually have straight-forward presentations. Eczema, contact dermatitis, or psoriasis for the teens.
All things you can do in your sleep.
But first, lunch. And getting Michael Robinavitch to leave.
He's leaning over the desk at reception, one of his more charming smiles plastered across his face as he talks to Pippa at reception. “I was just wondering if you knew when she'd be finish– oh, there she is. No need. Thanks for all your help.”
You've known Pippa for two years, and you've never once seen her crack a smile out in the lobby. She's practically grinning at Robby.
Uh oh.
This is bad.
Still scowling at him, you reach for the collar of his shirt and tug sharply, forcing him to fall into step behind you as you head for your office.
You don't need to air all your dirty laundry in the middle of your practice.
As soon as the door clicks shut, you're spinning on your heel. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Robby just shrugs. “You said you work Fridays usually. Thought you might like some company for lunch.”
“You know - ex-husbands don't usually just hang out with their ex-wives.”
“When have we ever been ordinary though?” He's exhaustingly chipper today - a far cry from his demeanour during the latter years of your marriage.
You take him in, trying to work out if this is all some big practical joke. After trying to tell yourself that the Abbot-Mohan wedding was a fluke, you grudgingly have to admit to yourself that Robby does look good.
He's got exactly the right amount of scruff going for him right now, he's lost the alcohol bloat, and he seems like there's less of the world's weight on his shoulders.
“I don't think this is a good idea.”
“Lunch is always a good idea,” He replies easily. “Three meals a day, and all that.”
There's no way out of this. Once Robby sets his mind to something, he's going to get it. Sighing heavily, you reach for your bag and jacket. “Only if you're paying.”
“Always, sweetheart.”
You fight the urge to remind him that your salary exceeds his by about 40k a year these days, with all the private work.
Even when you were married, you were still the official breadwinner of the family. Skin pays more than emergencies.
“And don't call me sweetheart.”
You're expecting some kind of quip, or snarky remark, but he just nods, and offers you his hand. “Got it.”
“We're not holding hands.”
Another nod, and he follows you out of the clinic and onto the street. You pretend to miss the looks exchanged between your staff.
A few of them know Robby already, and you're betting the ones that don't are wondering why you've been keeping him a secret.
“Noted. Hand-holding's more of a date two activity then?”
The expression on your face is nothing short of murderous. “This is not a date. It's lunch.”
“With somebody you've slept with many, many times before.”
Whatever illusions you'd managed to conjure of Robby after the wedding are completely shattered.
Because Michael Robinavitch is many things, but cool and suave are not amongst them. He's annoying and persistent, and a bad husband.
“I'm going back inside and ordering from Uber Eats-”
“No, no, no - wait!” A hand curls round your wrist, and you think that there might be a hint of desperation in his tone. “M'sorry, shit - just, don't go.”
“Why not?” Yanking your arm out of his grasp, you cross them both over your chest, and do your best to stare him down.
He swallows heavily, voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. “I miss you.”
"Robby," You sigh, but he cuts you off.
"We were in each other's lives for almost a decade - don't you think it's a little unnatural for that to have all disappeared? Surely we can be friends."
You have to bite back a scream. "If I remember correctly, it was you who didn't want to be friends."
"I didn't want us to break up in the first place!"
It slips out without thought, and you're suddenly regretting taking a lunch break at all. "I'm not doing this here," You start, but he beats you to the draw.
"Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He scratches the back of his neck, and glances around the sidewalk before his chin drops to his chest. "I've been doing the work. Going to therapy, no more alcohol, you name it. M'even taking some time off work to really get into it all."
The Robby you were married to would never have considered taking the blame for his actions.
"Can't undo the last decade, Michael," you reply softly.
"I know," he insists. "I know. Believe me. It's a well-discussed topic in therapy. I just... I'm trying to be better. And I want to try and make things right with you. One hundred percent platonically."
"You literally just called this a date," you deadpan.
He scoffs. "I didn't say I was perfect."
Number three. Twenty months post-divorce. Another man.
Apparently, you and Robby text now.
You're as surprised as anybody else, but in the time you've been separated, Robby's persistence appears to have intensified greatly.
Each Thursday, he meets you at the clinic for lunch, having bribed newly-qualified attending Frank to cover for him.
He offers to pick you up after nights out, which you accept more often than not (you hate getting Ubers when you're drunk).
Currently?
He's fixing your busted boiler.
You'd be lying if you said that you hadn't dropped it into a text because you knew that he would drop everything to come and fix it for you. Even with a sabbatical looming in just a week, his reply had been instantaneous.
Now, you're perched on the washing machine while you watch a sweaty Robby tinker around in the washroom.
He's already been warned that you have a date tonight, and therefore has to be finished by seven - complete honesty is the main policy of this tentatively developing friendship.
All you'd received in response had been a thumbs up.
That means he's furious.
Really, it had been a little mean on your part. But he doesn't have a claim to you anymore, and you need him to know that if he's going to still be in your life.
When you excuse yourself to the bathroom, you're not expecting your phone to be in Robby's hand when you return. "Roger from Hinge said he's going to be late tonight."
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Your phone vibrated. Thought it might have been an emergency."
You snatch it out of his grasp and scowl. "Why would an emergency text and not call?"
You both go to step at once, awkwardly colliding chest-to-chest. "Can I see a picture of him?"
"What? No!"
"Why not? Thought we were being honest."
It amazes you that Robby manages to somehow be the most serious man you've ever met, and also emulate a toddler with his petulance. You reach for your phone, and don't even notice Robby dipping his head.
His lips are on yours, and suddenly you're twenty-six again and making out with your attending for the first time after the worst shift of your life.
You'd already decided that Emergency Medicine was not for you, but that Michael Robinavitch absolutely was.
In your head, it was going to be a fling. Something sexy and secret for your final year of med school.
The wedding had been a surprise - you never thought that Robby was the type.
The 3 carat emerald cut bezel had told you otherwise. You'd never been able to build up the courage to ask him exactly how much money he spent on it.
The divorce had been an even bigger surprise.
Not to you, by the end. The last eighteen months of your seven-year-marriage had been decidedly less-than-stellar, to the point where couples counselling couldn't even make a dent.
After COVID and Pittfest, you didn't even recognise your husband anymore. You didn't recognise yourself.
While your mind might be surprised by the contact, your body certainly isn't, and you gasp into his mouth.
His hands are everywhere, hauling you closer to him, and you can feel your carefully-applied lipstick smudging across his cheek.
It's only after two minutes of kissing that you finally pull back, and surface to catch your breath. "Robby, I have to go - I have plans."
He's not quite so easily deterred, though. "Yeah, with a guy who looks just like me." You didn't even make it to showing Robby his photo, and yet he's right. Tall, dark, and broody - you've very clearly got a type. He leans in to kiss you again, feeling a perverse sense of pleasure when you melt into his touch. "You could have the real thing, baby. I'm right here."
That's the problem. Ever since you reconnected with him at Jack and Samira's wedding, it's like Robby has been everywhere.
He's practically inescapable.
He moves to suck a mark onto your collarbone, and you make the feeblest of attempts to push him off. "This is a bad idea."
"It's only a bad idea if we make it one," Robby hums, crowding you up against the kitchen counter, as you feel your willpower start to seep away. You have plans with Roger in thirty minutes.
But when Robby sinks to his knees in front of you, hiking one leg over his shoulder, you forget he even exists. “Say the word, and I will,” He mumbles.
There are many words that would end this right now.
Stop. No. Don't.
And yet, your lips can't seem to conjure any of them. You try and form each of the letters, but the only one that forms is an R.
Then an O.
Two B's.
And a Y.
He doesn't need to move your underwear to get you where you need to go. Kissing and nipping, licking and sucking - your grip on the doorframe tightens with every passing second.
Suddenly, you're struck with a vision of a morning with Robby, a week before you filed for divorce. A vision of what your future could be like if you let him in again.
The television hums in the background, something neither of you is watching. Dinner's been sitting in the oven on low for almost half an hour. The chicken is drying out.
You hear him sigh before he even rounds the corner into the kitchen.
"Hey." His voice is flat. Tired.
You look up from the sink. "Hey."
He drops his keys into the bowl by the door. Misses. Doesn't bother picking them up.
"Long day?"
"Mhm."
You wait for something more. Anything. But it doesn't come.
"You want me to plate up dinner?"
"If you want."
It's always 'if you want' these days. It's a Herculean effort to bite your tongue. "My brother called - asked if we wanted to come round next weekend."
"M'working." It's barely more than a grunt.
"You've worked the last six Saturdays - surely someone else could cover. Jack would cover. You could tell them no for once."
"I can't."
"You mean you won't."
"Stop!"
Your voice is the firmest it's been all night. Chest heaving, it's all you can manage to scramble away from Robby. He kneels where he is, hands hesitating where you were just a second ago.
"W-What's wrong? Did I do something?"
Your lip is trembling. “I don't think I can do this again. You hurt me so much, Michael. I-I mean, you're fucking leaving in a week-”
Robby's face falls.
“M'going on sabbatical, not leaving. I'm really trying to work the rest of my shit out. Let me do that, and then let me win you back. Please. I haven't done any of this solely to get you back. But I can't imagine being with anyone else.”
He folds his hands together.
"I spent a long time thinking providing was enough. That if I worked harder, put in more hours, kept the lights on, paid the mortgage..." He shrugs. "That was love."
"You stopped talking to me."
"I know."
"You stopped letting me in."
"I know."
Finally, you summon the courage to ask the million dollar question. "Would it be different this time? If we did it again?"
"Yes." He sounds so sure of his answer that you're almost envious.
But you're still not quite ready. "I hope you're not expecting me to sit at home for three months and wait for you."
"Never," he replies immediately, and you genuinely believe him. "I just want to be in the running again. And earn it. Properly."
Number four. Two years post-divorce. A date.
Robby. 22:01.
Just got back to town
What are you up to?
You hate your heart for doing a little flip as soon as it sees Robby's name flash on your phone.
Two years ago, the same sight made you sick to your stomach.
He had told you that he'd be in touch when he was finished with his sabbatical, but you assumed that meant you'd get a call a week after he was home. Not the same night.
Maybe Michael Robinavitch has had some character growth. Maybe he could be a good husband this time round-
No. You can't let yourself think like that.
You and Robby got divorced for a reason. Many reasons. More reasons than you got married in the first place.
He was married to his work, first and foremost. Never once did he stray, and he barely even glanced at the nurses and interns who would look at him with stars in their eyes, and yet you were still the other woman within your own marriage.
Then there were the self-destructive tendencies. The times when he'd hit the alcohol a little too hard after a long shift, and be almost unresponsive for hours as he slept it off.
Mostly, you think it was the refusal to try and help himself.
To try therapy. Properly. Not just a few meetings before calling it quits, but really making some efforts towards self-improvement. He couldn't do it for himself, and he wouldn't do it for you.
You couldn't handle the stress long-term. Of not knowing when he'd be home that night, or whether you were getting sweet, romantic Michael, or sour-faced Robby.
It had been the hardest decision of your life, serving him with divorce papers.
But it clearly all worked out for the better. You're both healthier apart, though happier is probably debatable. You like the peace that being single affords you.
So why are you considering letting him back in, after all the therapy and work to get over him?
"Is everything okay?" Mark's voice cuts through your spiral, and your gaze snaps up to him.
"Hm?"
"You get bad news or something? You've been staring at your phone for like two minutes."
Shit.
Your fingers start moving before you can consider your response. If Robby's matured so much, he'll be perfectly alright with this.
You. 22:04.
I'm on a date, actually
"Sorry, it was just work. Asking for a consult." Your smile is tight, and you're hoping he doesn't see through the very obvious lie.
If he does, he doesn't comment on it, and you return to your conversation about shares, or stocks, or something equally boring.
Robby had handled all the investment stuff while you were married, and now you pay someone to do it for you.
Finally, he heads up to the bar to get more drinks, and you slip your phone out again.
Robby. 22:05.
When will you be done?
I'll come and pick you up.
Miss my girl.
A text like that from anybody other than Robby would have earned an instant block. Unfortunately, despite his three months away, you're still not immune to the Robinavitch charm.
You never have been.
Besides - you'd already decided you weren't going to sleep with Mark tonight. He's a nice enough guy, but the deal had been sealed when you'd been discussing music, and he hadn't known who Patti Smith was. This man is not your soulmate. But going home alone would mean a date with your vibrator, and one orgasm at most.
Robby would double that, at least.
You. 22:21.
...Not your girl
But you can pick me up around 11.
You shoot him the address of the bar, and consider how you're definitely going to hell for this.
The rest of the date passes in half-time, so painfully slowly that you figure you must have a few new wrinkles than you did at the start. Finally, it's time to make your escape. To ease the impending blow, you throw down your half of the cheque in notes, along with a sizeable tip. "You know, I'm really sorry, but there actually was a work emergency. Thought it would be okay, but they need me in."
"A... dermatology emergency?"
"They're more common than you'd think - my colleague is coming to pick me up," You lie through your teeth. "But I had a really nice night."
Another lie.
You try to dart out so that Mark won't see you leave with Robby, but no luck. The motorcycle is pulled up to the curb with Robby leaning against it, a second helmet in his hands.
“I thought you were going to bring the car!” You hiss, throwing Mark an apologetic glance over your shoulder.
"Bike was what I was riding, and I missed my girl. Mark have a problem with that?"
"If he knew you were my ex, probably."
Maybe you and Robby do deserve each other. God, you're awful. Robby clips the helmet under your chin, and you pretend to not notice your date's gaze staring at you both while he waits for his car to be brought round.
"You ready?"
You nod, though you feel anything but. You've never liked the bike, much to Robby's chagrin. One of his favourite things is having you wrap your arms around his waist while he drives.
*****
Fuck, he knows you too well. It's almost unfair, that even after over a year of separation that he still knows you better than anybody in the world.
There are no pleasantries. No discussions. Just a beeline for the house, before clothes are discarded in a haphazard manner as you try and make it to the bedroom in one piece.
You don't quite make it there before Robby gives you orgasm number one. Torso on the top landing, he gets carried away on the staircase, leaving you totally seeing stars.
Thankfully, he's more than familiar with the house layout, and carries you the rest of the way.
“W-Wait - condom," You interrupt. Last thing you need is a baby to complicate matters. He reaches for the bedside table, complete muscle memory, but you shake your head. “Down one.”
He huffs a little, obviously put out at the change in what he still considers to be his home.
Of course, the fact that you have these at all makes his blood boil a little.
Not that you can't have seen other people.
You've been separated for almost two years, and were growing apart long before that, but god is he so glad to have you like this again. In the home that you both shared - on the bed that he paid for.
Like nothing ever went wrong.
Determined to put the memory of all other men to shame, Robby takes you around his cock, before giving you his fingers and tongue again. By the time you come down, you're more spent than he's ever seen you before.
You're barely awake as you curl into his side. "How was the trip?"
"Really great," he answers honestly. "Did me a lot of good, but I'm glad to be back. Missed you too much."
"Shouldn't be telling you this," you hum slightly, eyes fluttering closed. "But I missed you too."
Number five. Three years post-divorce. Forever.
“You have some white coming in,” You hum, fingers carding through Robby's hair where his head rests in your lap. The windows are cracked open just enough to let a breeze in, and you can hear the faint sounds of a lawn mower down the street.
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
You separate a few strands between your fingers, tilting his head toward the light. "Right here. My favourite old man."
Robby scoffs. "That feels excessive."
"Well, you did marry a woman eighteen years younger than you. Feels like something you brought on yourself."
You think back to the man who used to come home after twelve-hour shifts, kiss you on the forehead, tell you he was just tired, then carry the weight of the world around in silence until it crushed everything else.
This version of Robby still has bad days.
Still wakes up anxious sometimes. Annoyed. Still gets overwhelmed by work. Still occasionally retreats to the garage or the backyard for half an hour when his head gets too loud.
The difference is that he always comes back.
And he lets you help.
Sure, it had been a little embarrassing announcing that you were back with your ex-husband - especially after all the shit that had gone down between you both.
But Robby had been right.
There's no one else you could ever imagine being with.
Despite all this, you're still shocked when the next words fall from his lips. "Marry me."
"What?" Your fingers freeze mid-motion, and you try to gage from his upside-down expression whether he's joking or not. You don't think he is.
"Marry me. Again."
"Holy shit," You breathe, head spinning. "What? Are you joking?"
He sits up, turning to take your hands in his. "Deadly serious, sweetheart. I uh, didn't really know what the etiquette was for this kind of thing - I know you liked your first ring, but that felt sort of like bad karma. So I was thinking, if you say yes, we could go shopping for a new one together."
A few years ago, you would have been making the biggest mistake of your life. Now, you don't feel a shred of hesitation. "Yes."
His face breaks into a smile. "Yeah?"
You nod, lip between your teeth as you fight back tears. "Fuck it. Let's get married again."
summary: Jack Abbot has one very expensive habit: Spoiling his girlfriend.
𝒘 — Jack Abbot & Fem! Reader ⟢ ( 1k-ish ) proofread. age gap. (not mentioned, but r is like 25-30.) established relationship. fluff.
Dior, Miu Miu, Tom Ford, Chanel, and Prada are all brands that have somehow invaded your bedroom. Perfumes stacked neatly on a sterling silver stand on your dresser. Charlotte Tilbury palettes on your vanity, and Tiffany diamonds sparkling on your jewelry tray.
Despite your best efforts to tell him you really don’t need any of it, Jack Abbot buys you quite literally everything you show the tiniest amount of interest in.
It isn’t that you can’t afford it, you absolutely can. Years of medical school and brutal residency shifts had earned you a salary you were more than proud of, which made Jack’s habit of paying for everything simultaneously frustrating and endearing.
It started small. You’d pause a second too long in front of a perfume display, eyes widening at the price tag as you muttered something about how insane it was. The bottle would appear on your bathroom counter the next morning.
You’d complain that your work tote was falling apart. Three days later, a brand new leather one arrived at your apartment with your initials hand-stitched on the side in dainty gold thread.
You’d compliment a necklace in passing, and somehow Cartier already knew your address.
At first it was sweet. Then it became excessive. Which is why you now have enough designer items in your home to pay off someone’s mortgage.
And somehow… that still wasn’t enough for him.
・・・۶ৎ・・・
You’re standing in the Sephora checkout line, fully intent on spoiling yourself for once. Jack stands close by your side, seemingly distracted by his phone, squinting down at a text from Robby. You make a mental note to increase the font size later when he isn’t looking.
As the person in front of you finishes, you see his hand slip into his pocket out of the corner of your eye, reaching for his wallet.
“Jack,” you huff quietly, no real heat behind it.
“Hm?”
“Put your wallet away. I told you, I’m paying.”
He glances up from the screen, expression perfectly innocent. “Why?”
You turn to face him fully, arms crossed. “Because these are my things. I can buy my own makeup, Jack. You’ve already bought me three things today.”
His eyebrow lifts just slightly, that calm, steady doctor look settling over his features. He steps closer until his chest brushes your shoulder, voice low and warm against your ear.
“I like taking care of my girl. Why wouldn’t I?”
The cashier is smiling politely, pretending not to listen. Your cheeks are hot, fairly certain that they’re tinted a faint shade of red.
“Jack,” you warn, softer this time.
“You gonna stand here and argue with me, baby?” His hand settles lightly at the small of your back, thumb stroking once, slow and deliberate. “Or are you gonna let me pay?”
You exhale a defeated laugh, cheeks burning.
A small, satisfied smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. “That’s what I thought.”
He slides his card into the reader before you can make any move to protest again. While the cashier rings everything up, his arm stays looped around your waist, holding you close like it’s his favorite thing in the world.
・・・۶ৎ・・・
The drive home is quiet at first, city lights sliding across the windshield. You keep glancing down at the heavy Sephora bag in your lap, then over at him.
“You promised you’d let me pay today” you say, gently poking his arm.
Jack’s hand leaves the gear shift to rest on your thigh instead, squeezing gently.
“I said I’d try,” he corrects, voice low with amusement. “There’s a difference.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re ridiculous. We’re both doctors, y’know? I don’t need you dropping half your salary on me every time we leave the house.”
He’s quiet for a moment, thumb brushing back and forth over your leg as he drives.
“You work harder than anyone I know,” he says finally. “Longer hours than me sometimes. You come home exhausted and still make time for us. Let me take care of you, sweetheart. It makes me feel good. Like I’m doing something right.”
Your chest flickers with undeniable warmth. You reach down and lace your fingers with his. “You do plenty right, Jack. You don’t have to buy me half of Sephora to prove it.”
“I know.” He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles without taking his eyes off the road. “But I want to. And I like seeing my baby have pretty things.”
The words settle warm and heavy in your stomach. Your eyes are soft as you study the side of his face.
・・・۶ৎ・・・
Back at your apartment, Jack carries the bags inside like they weigh nothing. You kick off your shoes and start unpacking the new products on your vanity, admiring the sleek packaging.
He leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that soft, focused look that always makes your heart feel 10 pounds heavier.
“You’re staring,” you tease, fighting off a genuine smile.
“Can’t help it.” He pushes off the doorframe and comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder. “You happy?”
You lean back into his chest. “Yes. Thank you… even though you have no self-control.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrates low and warm against your neck. “Good.”
You turn in his arms, looping yours around his neck. “But next time, I’m paying. I will hear no arguments.”
Jack hums, pretending to consider it. “We’ll see.”
“Jack.”
“Alright, alright,” he says, lips brushing your forehead. “I’ll behave.”
You narrow your eyes. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
・・・۶ৎ・・・
Forty minutes later you’re curled up on the couch together when your phone buzzes. A notification from the jewelry store you’d walked past earlier on the way to Sephora.
Order confirmed. Your custom initial pendant will be ready for pickup tomorrow.
You sit up slowly, staring at the screen, then turn to look at him.
Jack doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty. He just pulls you back against his chest with a lazy grin, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck.
“You said you’d behave,” you whisper, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
“I did behave,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your temple. “For a whole forty minutes. That’s gotta count for something, right?”
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Summary: After the Battle of the Gullet, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should be dead, instead, he washes ashore on a mysterious island, where a lonely woman nurses him back to health. As the days pass, Jace finds himself falling in love with his beautiful savior.
CW: The relationship contains themes of coercion, emotional dependency, and captivity. SMUT
Genre: Dark Fantasy
AN: First Jace fic! Different from what i usually write, comments are appreciated!
WC: 26K
He should be dead.
The last thing he remembered with any coherence was the sky, a sky choked with smoke and screaming. Beneath that memory lay only fractured images that swam behind his closed eyelids, fragments of chaos that refused to assemble into anything whole.
Vermax.
The name pierced through the darkness like a blade. His dragon. His beautiful, loyal Vermax, who had hatched from an egg placed in his cradle when he was nothing more than a squalling babe with a tuft of dark hair that already marked him as different from his silver-haired mother. Vermax had shrieked as the grappling hooks tore into his wings, as the Triarchy ships surrounded them, as the sea rose up to swallow them both.
Jace’s chest seized, he remembered the impact. He remembered the bone-shattering crash as Vermax slammed into the churning waters of the Gullet, and he remembered the dragon’s terrified, agonized roar. That sound had carried more than pain. It had carried something that felt like betrayal, as if Vermax could not understand why the sky had abandoned them. The cold of the sea had been absolute, salt water flooding his mouth, his throat, his lungs.
He had surfaced somehow. He had gasped and choked and reached for something, a piece of wreckage or a shattered mast, though the memory refused to sharpen. The waves had tossed him like a child’s toy. Through the spray and the smoke, the first bolt had taken him in the shoulder. The second had buried itself in his side, just beneath the ribs. The third was a blank space in his memory, a sensation his mind had simply refused to record.
What remained was the feeling that followed. A slow, spreading numbness. The way his limbs had stopped obeying him. The way the sky had tilted and spun, grey and gold and red bleeding together like watercolors on parchment. His last conscious thought had not been of his mother, nor of his brothers, nor of duty or the Iron Throne or the war that was tearing the realm apart. It had been of Vermax.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
—
He woke to the glow of candlelight, the light came from dozens of candles, the air smelled of salt and something else, something green and living. Herbs, perhaps, or flowers. It was an earthy smell, a growing smell, utterly unlike the smoke and blood and terror that had filled his nostrils before the darkness took him.
Jace tried to move, and his body screamed in protest. Every muscle, every joint, every inch of skin felt like an open wound packed with burning coals. Pain lanced through his shoulder, his side, his ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, and even that small motion sent fire racing down his spine.
“You shouldn’t move.”
The voice was soft and female, carrying an accent he had never heard before. The vowels were rounder than he was used to, the cadence lilting and unfamiliar, Jace turned his head slowly, every vertebra in his neck protesting, and saw you.
You were kneeling beside the bed, on a cushion of deep blue silk, and you were looking at him with an expression of such open relief that Jace forgot, for a moment, how to breathe.
You were beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the powdered faces and elaborate hairstyles of court ladies. You wore no jewelry, no rings, no gems at your throat. Your dress, if it could even be called that, was unlike anything he had ever seen, layers of fabric in pale ivory and soft gold that had been draped rather than tailored. The cut left your arms bare, and the neckline was wide and flowing. It was clothing from a warmer world entirely, bearing no resemblance to the heavy velvets and structured bodices of Westeros.
“You’re awake,” you said, and your smile was like dawn breaking over still water. “I was beginning to fear you wouldn’t open your eyes again.”
Jace opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was a dry, rasping croak. His throat felt as though it had been scoured raw.
You reached for a clay cup beside you, glazed deep blue, and lifted it to his lips with a careful hand. “Drink. Slowly. You’ve been without water for a long time.”
The water was cool and impossibly clean. It slid down his throat like mercy. He drank until you pulled the cup gently away, your expression soft but firm.
“I said slowly. Your body has been through a great ordeal.” Jace sagged back against the furs, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Even drinking had exhausted him. He could feel the heat radiating from his own skin, a fever burning beneath the surface. “Where…” His voice was barely a whisper, cracked and ruined. “Where am I?”
You set the cup aside. “My home. I found you on the shore.”
He tried to form another question, but his thoughts were slipping away from him like water through fingers. The shore. The battle. The arrows.
“Your body was full of arrows,” you said quietly, as if you had followed the path of his scattered thoughts. “You looked dead. I do not know how you survived.” A pause. “But I am glad you did.”
Jace stared at you, his vision blurring and sharpening in turns. The candles made halos around your silhouette. The cave walls curved around you both like cupped hands. He lay in a bed of soft furs with clean linen bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder. The space around him was strange, a blend of cave stone and polished wood and silk cushions.
He tried to focus on you again, on your strange dress and your unfamiliar accent and the way you looked at him without the calculating gaze of a courtier. Your expression held only simple, unguarded relief.
“You…” he started, but the words crumbled before he could shape them. He was so tired. The heat in his blood was growing worse, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air of the cave.
“Shh.” You leaned closer and pressed a cool cloth to his brow. Your touch was impossibly gentle. “You have a fever. The arrows were laced with something, I think. A poison, or something like it. It will take time to burn it out.”
Jace’s eyes fluttered. The cool cloth was a mercy, and your hand was steady against his skin.
“Where is this island?” he managed, the question barely a whisper. “How far from the battle…”
You shook your head, a small and quiet movement. “This is my island. That is all that matters now. You are here, and you are safe.” Your hand brushed the dark, sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead. “You are my guest. I will take care of you.”
He should have questioned you. He should have demanded to know where he was, who you were, how any of this was possible. He was a prince, raised on suspicion, trained to trust no one. But the fever was burning through him, and you were so calm, so steady, and your hands were so gentle, and he was so gods-damned tired.
“Rest,” you murmured. “You are not strong enough to stay awake. But you will be. In time.”
Jace’s eyes closed against his will. The darkness pulled at him, soft and warm. The last thing he felt was the cool cloth on his forehead and the gentle weight of your hand smoothing his hair back from his face.
“Sleep, Jace,” you whispered.
—
The days blurred together like watercolors left in the rain, Jace measured time by the changing quality of light that filtered through the cave's entrance, a distant glow that brightened and dimmed in a rhythm he slowly came to recognize. Morning, afternoon, evening, night. The cycle repeated itself over and over. He could not see the sky from his bed, only the rough stone ceiling and the flickering candles and, whenever he turned his head, the soft silhouette of you moving through the chamber.
You were always there, that was the first thing he truly understood once the fever broke and his mind began to piece itself back together. You were always there. When he woke gasping from nightmares of Vermax screaming, the arrows striking, the water closing over his head, you were beside him with your cool hand on his forehead and your voice murmuring words he could not quite catch but that soothed him anyway. When the pain in his wounds flared hot and unbearable, you were there with the medicine, spooning bitter liquid past his cracked lips and following it with cool water to wash away the taste. When the fever spiked and he thrashed in the furs, soaked in sweat and half-delirious, you were there with cloths dipped in cold water, pressing them to his chest, his neck, his brow.
He did not know how you slept. He did not know when you ate. He only knew that every time he opened his eyes, you were somewhere nearby, kneeling beside his bed or mixing herbs at the stone table or simply sitting on your silk cushion with your hands folded in your lap, watching the candles burn.
“You don’t have to stay,” he rasped one night, though it might have been day for all he could tell the difference. His voice was still weak and still cracked, but it no longer hurt to speak. “You must have other things to do.”
You looked up from the bowl you were mixing, and your lips curved into that soft, patient smile he was beginning to recognize. “I have nothing more important than keeping you alive, Jace. That is a full-time occupation, it seems.”
He wanted to argue, but exhaustion pulled him back under before he could form the words, the fever broke on what might have been the fifth day, or the sixth, or the seventh. He had lost count.
He woke drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead and the furs kicked to the foot of the bed, but his head was clear. For the first time since he had opened his eyes in this cave, his thoughts were not swimming in a haze of heat and pain. He could feel the wounds in his shoulder and side, still tender and still healing, but they no longer burned with the sharp, insistent fire of infection.
He was alive. He was going to stay alive, and that meant he had to get back.
His mother. His brothers. The war. Every day he spent lying in this bed was another day the Blacks fought without him, another day his family believed him dead, another day the Greens advanced their stolen throne. He had to get stronger. He had to return to Westeros.
“Your thoughts are very loud.” Jace turned his head. You were sitting on your cushion beside the bed, a piece of fabric in your hands and a needle moving in small, precise stitches. He had no idea how long you had been there. He had not even noticed you.
“My thoughts?” he repeated, his voice hoarse but steadier than before.
“You are frowning at the ceiling as though it has offended you.” You did not look up from your sewing, but there was a hint of amusement in your voice. “I assume you are planning your escape.”
Jace blinked. “I was not planning an escape. I was only thinking about how to leave.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It is absolutely not the same thing.” Now you did look up, one eyebrow raised, and Jace felt his face warm. He had walked directly into that.
“You want to go back,” you said, and your voice was quieter now, the teasing edge softened into something more serious. “It is natural. You have people waiting for you. A family. A war, perhaps, judging by the state of you when I found you.” You returned your attention to your stitching. “I understand.”
He was quiet for a moment, watching your hands move. The fabric you were working on was pale blue, the stitches neat and even. You were making him more bandages, he realized.
“Yes,” he admitted finally. “I have to go back. My family needs me. They probably think I am dead.”
“Then we will work to make you strong enough to leave.” You bit off the thread with your teeth, smooth and practiced. “But you cannot rush it. The wounds are healing well, but if you push too hard, too fast, you will undo all my hard work. And I have worked very hard, Jace.”
There was something almost stern in your tone, and despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “I would not dream of undoing your hard work.”
“Good.” You set the sewing aside and rose to your feet, your gossamer skirts rustling softly against the stone floor. “You have been lying in that bed for days. I think it is time you tried to sit up properly. Do you think you can manage it?”
Jace took a breath. His shoulder throbbed. His side ached. But the fever was gone, and his head was clear, and he was so gods-damned tired of lying flat on his back.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I can.” It was harder than he had expected.
His muscles had atrophied during the days of fever and stillness. His arms shook when he pushed himself up, and the wound in his side pulled sharply, and by the time he was sitting upright against the carved headboard, he was breathing hard and sweating again. But he was sitting. He was upright. He was looking at the cave from a new angle, and it was strange and wonderful and disorienting all at once.
“There,” you said, and you were smiling now, truly smiling, something brighter than the gentle curve of lips he had grown used to. “That was not so terrible, was it?”
“Terrible,” Jace managed, still catching his breath. “Absolutely terrible.”
“But you did it.”
He looked at you, at the way the candlelight caught the strange color of your eyes, and he found himself almost smiling back. “I did it.”
—
The days that followed fell into a pattern, you would help him sit up in the mornings, propping him against the headboard with pillows and furs. You would change his bandages, your fingers quick and efficient, your touch never lingering longer than necessary but never cold or impersonal either. You would bring him food, strange fruits he had never tasted before, sweet and tangy, and a porridge made from some grain he did not recognize, and fresh water that tasted cleaner than anything he had ever drunk in his life.
And you would talk about small things, the weather on the island, the herbs you used in your medicines, the fish you caught in the tidal pools below the cliffs. You had a dry, quiet sense of humor that surprised him, and a way of tilting your head when you were thinking that he found himself watching for.
In return, he told you things about himself. He was still a prince, still trained in caution, and so he held back the details that mattered most. But he told you about Dragonstone, about the volcanic rock and the sea winds and the dragons that wheeled in the sky. He told you about his brothers, careful to speak of them in the present tense even though Luke was-even though Luke had become something he could not yet say aloud.
He told you other things instead. That he missed the sea. That he had never been good at dancing. That his mother had taught him to read when he was four years old, and he had been so proud that he had carried the book around for a week straight, showing it to anyone who would look.
You laughed at that, a real laugh, bright and surprised, as if you had not expected him to say something so ordinary. “A week?”
“I was very proud of myself.”
“I can imagine. A little prince with his book, demanding that everyone admire his genius.”
“I did not demand. I simply made strong suggestions.”
“That is the same thing.”
“It is absolutely not the same thing, and I will not have my diplomatic skills insulted.”
You laughed again, and Jace realized with a jolt of surprise that he liked making you laugh. It was a good sound, your laugh, unstudied and unguarded, the sound of someone who spent too much time alone and had forgotten to be self-conscious about joy.
You were his only companion. His caretaker. His only visitor.
He had not seen another person even once in all the days he had been lying in this bed. No one came to the cave. No one called your name from outside. No one brought supplies or messages or news. It was only you, always you, appearing and disappearing through the winding passages of the cave system with the quiet confidence of someone who knew every stone by heart.
He had not asked about other people. It felt rude, somehow, when you were taking care of him and feeding him and changing his bandages and sitting beside him through the long, fevered nights. To ask about the absence of others would have sounded like an accusation, as though your company were insufficient, as though he had grown bored of you.
So he did not ask, but the question sat in the back of his mind, growing heavier with each passing day.
—
The day he walked for the first time was the day everything began to shift.
It was morning, the pale silver light filtering through the distant cave entrance, and you had just finished changing his bandages. The wounds were healing well, the flesh knitting together into angry red scars that would fade to white in time. You told him he would have a collection of them, a constellation across his shoulder and ribs. He said he would wear them with pride. You called him ridiculous.
“Today,” you announced, rising to your feet and brushing off your skirts, “you are going to walk.”
Jace looked up at you. “Walk.”
“Yes. Walk. Put one foot in front of the other. I assume you knew how to do it before you arrived here.”
“I knew how to walk.”
“Then today you will remember.”
It was harder than sitting up. It was harder than anything he had done since waking in this cave. His legs felt as though they belonged to someone else, weak and unsteady, the muscles wasted from days of lying still. You had to help him, your arm around his back and his arm across your shoulders, bearing some of his weight even though he tried very hard not to let you. You were smaller than him and slighter, and he was terrified of crushing you.
“You will not crush me,” you said, as if reading his thoughts. “I am stronger than I look. Stop trying to hold yourself up with pride alone and lean on me.”
He leaned on you, by the time he had taken five steps across the chamber, his legs were shaking and sweat was dripping down his face. But he had walked. Five steps. Then ten. Then, a few days later, he crossed the entire chamber without help, his hand braced against the wall and his breath coming hard and fast.
And the day after that, you smiled at him and said, “I think it is time you saw the sun.”
The cave system was a maze, Jace knew, that your home was larger than the single chamber where he had been lying. He had seen you disappear down passages and emerge from different directions, had caught glimpses of other rooms, a kitchen carved into the rock, a storage chamber lined with jars and barrels, a space where water trickled down the wall into a natural basin. But he had not grasped the full scale of it until you led him through it yourself.
The passages twisted and turned, branching off into side tunnels and dead ends. Some were narrow, barely wide enough for a single person to squeeze through. Others opened into wide chambers with high ceilings, lit by candles placed in alcoves and by thin shafts of daylight that pierced down through cracks in the rock. The walls were rough in some places and smooth in others, worn down by time and water and the patient labor of whoever had carved this place.
“Did you build all this?” Jace asked, his voice echoing strangely in the stone corridors. He was walking slowly, one hand on the wall for balance, but he was walking.
You glanced back at him. “The caves were here long before me. I only furnished them.”
“You furnished them very well,” he muttered, stepping around a carved wooden chest that would not have looked out of place in a merchant’s manse.
“I had time.”
That was all you said, as if it explained everything. As if it explained anything at all.
The light grew brighter as you walked, the grey-silver of filtered daylight giving way to a warm golden glow. Jace could smell the outside now, salt air and flowers and something green and growing. His heart beat faster. He had been underground for so long that he had almost forgotten what the sky looked like.
Then you stepped through the cave entrance, and he followed you, and the world opened up around him.
It was beautiful, there was no other word for it, no word that could possibly capture what Jace saw as he stood at the mouth of the cave, blinking in the sudden brightness, his eyes struggling to adjust after so many days of candlelight and shadow.
The island spread out before him like something from a dream, the cliffs where the cave was carved dropped down to a shoreline of white sand that gleamed in the morning sun. Beyond the beach, the water was the most extraordinary shade of blue he had ever seen, turquoise at the shore, deepening to sapphire further out, clear and calm and glittering with reflected light. The sky was vast and cloudless, a pale, soft blue that seemed to go on forever.
But it was the island itself that stole his breath, flowers grew everywhere, wild, sprawling, abundant blooms that cascaded down the cliffs and carpeted the meadows in explosions of color. He saw flowers in shades he had never encountered before, deep violet, vivid orange, a blue so pale it was almost silver. Trees heavy with fruit he did not recognize bent over natural pathways, their branches laden with something golden and round, something dark and pear-shaped, something that resembled a pomegranate but was the color of honey.
The air was warm and sweet, thick with the scent of blossoms and salt and damp earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance, strange, melodic calls that were not quite like any birdsong he knew. A waterfall tumbled down the cliff face to his left, a thin silver ribbon that caught the light and threw rainbows into the air.
Jace stood there, swaying slightly on his still-weak legs, and he could not speak.
“I know,” you said quietly, standing beside him. “It is a great deal, after so long underground.”
“I have never seen anything like this.”
“It is home.” Your voice was matter of fact, but there was something softer underneath it, something almost sad. “Come. There is a place to sit not far from here. You should not stand for too long yet.”
He let you lead him to a flat outcropping of rock cushioned with moss and ferns, and he sat down heavily, still staring out at the impossible landscape. The flowers swayed in the breeze. The waterfall sang its endless song. The sea glittered and danced.
And there was no one here, the realization crept up on him slowly, settling over his shoulders like a cold cloak. He looked out at the island, the meadows, the fruit trees, the white sand beach, the cliffs, and he saw no houses and no fishing boats pulled up on the shore. He saw no paths worn by the tread of many feet and no smoke rising from chimneys. He heard no voices calling in the distance. He saw no sign of human life at all.
Only the flowers. The birds. The waterfall. The sea.
And you.
—
He did not say anything at first, you helped him walk a little further each day, down to the edge of the meadow where the strange golden fruit grew on low, sprawling trees, up to a ridge that overlooked the eastern shore where the water was even bluer and the sky even wider. You showed him the tidal pools, teeming with tiny creatures he had never seen, brightly colored shells that moved on dozens of legs, star-shaped animals that clung to the rocks, fish that darted and flashed like living jewels.
And everywhere you went, you were the only person, he saw no footprints but yours, he saw no structures but the cave. The only signs of cultivation were a small vegetable garden tucked into a sheltered hollow behind the cliffs, neat rows of plants he recognized, mostly herbs and some kind of root vegetable, and further back, half-hidden by a grove of flowering trees, a low stone wall enclosing a patch of churned earth.
He heard the pigs before he saw them, a grunting, snuffling chorus rose and fell, punctuated by the occasional indignant squeal. Jace followed the sound, moving carefully along a narrow path between two rock formations, and emerged into a clearing where at least two dozen pigs were milling about in a large stone enclosure. They were fat and healthy, their coats glossy, their ears flopping. Piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt while larger sows dozed in the shade of the trees.
And you were in the middle of them, you were scattering something from a woven basket, scraps of fruit rinds and vegetable peels and some kind of grain, and the pigs crowded around you like old friends. You were speaking to them in a low, affectionate murmur, and your hands moved among them with the ease of long familiarity.
You looked up and saw him standing at the edge of the enclosure. Your expression shifted, just slightly. Something guarded, something wary, flickered behind your eyes before you smoothed it away.
“You found my pigs,” you said, Jace leaned against the stone wall, catching his breath. The walk had been longer than he had realized, and his side was aching. “You have a lot of pigs.”
“They keep me company.” You tossed another handful of scraps into the enclosure, and a particularly large sow shouldered her way forward to claim it. “And they are useful. The meat, the fat, the leather. Nothing goes to waste.”
He watched you for a moment. The pigs jostled around your legs, grunting and snuffling, and you moved among them without the slightest hesitation, like a shepherdess, like someone who had been doing this for years.
“Where are the other people?” he asked.
Your hands stilled on the basket. You did not look up.
“What other people?”
“The villagers. The farmers. Whoever else lives here.” Jace gestured vaguely at the enclosure, at the pigs, at the island beyond. “You said this was your island. But someone has to help you with all of this.”
He trailed off. You were looking at him now, and your expression was strange, as though you had been expecting this question and dreading it in equal measure.
“There are no other people, Jace,” you said quietly.
He stared at you. “What do you mean, there are no other people?”
“I mean it is only me.” You set the basket down on the stone wall. Your hands, now empty, folded together in front of you. “There is no village. There are no farmers. There are no fishermen or shepherds or traders. There is only me, and the pigs, and the birds, and the fish in the sea. That is all.”
The words refused to make sense. Jace shook his head, a short, sharp movement. “That cannot be right. You cannot live here alone. How do you survive? How do you get supplies? There has to be someone else, a trader who comes by ship, a neighboring island, something.”
“There is no one else.” Your voice was calm and steady, but there was something raw underneath it now. “No ships come here. No traders. No neighbors. The island is hidden. It does not appear on any map. No one knows it exists.”
“That is impossible.”
“It is simply true.”
Jace pushed himself off the stone wall, ignoring the protest of his healing wounds. His heart was beating too fast. His thoughts were spinning. “How did you get here, then? How do you live? You cannot simply be alone on an island forever.”
“I did not say I chose it.”
The words stopped him cold, you were still standing in the middle of the pig enclosure, surrounded by grunting, oblivious animals. Your strange dress fluttered in the breeze, the pale fabric catching the sunlight. Your face was composed, but your eyes were dark with something old and heavy and carefully buried.
“My brother sent me here,” you said. “As punishment.”
Jace opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Punishment for what?”
“For disobeying him.” Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings. “I did something he could not forgive. And instead of killing me, he sent me here. He had the means to do it, the ships, the men, the knowledge of this place. He left me with supplies and seeds and animals and told me I would never leave.”
“You have been here ever since,” Jace said slowly.
“I have been here ever since.”
“How long?”
You looked away, out over the blue water, and for a moment you were utterly still. “A long time.”
Jace’s mind was racing, scrambling to fit the pieces together. A brother with enough power to exile someone to a hidden island. Ships and men and the means to keep the place secret. A lord powerful enough to make his sister disappear without anyone asking questions.
“Who is your brother?” he asked.
Your jaw tightened. “A lord. That is all you need to know.”
“A lord of what? Where? What house?”
“It does not matter.” Your voice sharpened, just slightly, the first hint of steel he had ever heard from you. “What matters is that he is powerful enough to do this. Powerful enough that if I try to leave, if I find a way off this island and set foot on the mainland, I will be found and I will be brought back, and the consequences will be worse than exile.”
Jace stared at you, you were alone. Completely, utterly alone. You had been alone for what might have been months or years or decades. You had built a life in a cave, furnished it with silk and polished wood, grown a garden and raised pigs and taught yourself to heal. And no one had come for you. No one had visited. No one had even known you were here.
Until a dying dragon prince washed up on your shore.
“I am sorry,” he said, and the words felt pathetically inadequate. “I did not know.”
“How could you have known?” You picked up the basket again, your movements brisk and practical, as if you were eager to change the subject. “You were unconscious when you arrived. It is not as if I introduced myself and gave you a tour. Welcome to my prison, please enjoy the flowers.”
“It is not a prison.” You looked at him, and your smile was tired and sad and strangely kind. “It is a very beautiful prison. But it is a prison nonetheless.” You turned and walked away, the basket tucked under your arm, the pigs trailing after you like a strange, grunting entourage. Jace watched you go, your bare shoulders and your flowing dress and the way you moved through the meadow as if you had memorized every inch of it.
And he understood, suddenly, why you had never hesitated to save him. Why you had sat beside his bed for days on end. Why you had laughed at his stupid jokes and argued with him about the proper way to brew medicinal tea.
You were lonely.
Jace stood at the edge of the pig enclosure, the sun warm on his face and the sea glittering in the distance, and he thought about his mother and his brothers and the war and the throne.
He had to go back. He had to, but as he watched you disappear into the grove of flowering trees, your figure growing smaller and smaller against the impossible beauty of the island, he realized that leaving might be harder than he had thought.
—
In the days following your revelation—it is just me, there is no one else—Jace threw himself into the work of recovery with a ferocity that surprised even him. He woke early, before the light through the cave entrance had shifted from silver to gold, and he pushed his body harder than was probably wise. He walked the island's paths until his legs stopped shaking. He climbed the low cliffs until his arms stopped burning. He ate everything you put in front of him, slept when you told him to sleep, and bit back every complaint when you made him drink your bitter medicines.
"Someone is motivated," you remarked one morning, watching him pace the length of the chamber. He had been doing laps—back and forth, back and forth—testing the strength of his newly healed legs. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to pink, then to white, and the pain was a distant memory now, only flaring when he moved too quickly or twisted the wrong way.
"I have to get home," he said, not breaking stride. "My mother needs me. My brothers need me. Every day I spend here is another day they think I'm dead."
You nodded, your expression unreadable. "Then we had better build you a boat."
The boat took shape slowly, you showed him a grove of trees on the eastern side of the island, tall and straight, their wood pale and close-grained, ideal for shipbuilding. You had an axe, kept sharp and well-oiled in one of the storage chambers, and you handed it to him without ceremony.
"I will help where I can," you said, "but I am not a shipwright. You will have to figure out most of it yourself."
Jace had never built a boat before. He had sailed on dozens of them but knowing how to sail and knowing how to build were two very different things. He felled the first tree through trial and error, the axe handle blistering his palms, the sweat dripping into his eyes. By the time the trunk crashed to the ground, he was exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure.
"Not bad," you said from where you sat on a nearby rock, a pile of mending in your lap. You had been watching him work for the better part of an hour, offering no advice but plenty of company. "For a prince who has never done a day's labor in his life."
"I've done labor."
"Name one example."
He opened his mouth and swung the axe into the fallen trunk with more force than necessary. "I trained with swords. That's labor."
"Swords are not labor. Swords are play for princes."
"Then what do you call this?" He gestured at the tree, the axe, his blistered hands.
You smiled, that slow, warm smile that was becoming as familiar to him as the sunrise. "I call it a good start."
The days passed, Jace shaped the wood as best he could, stripping branches and hewing planks with tools you provided from the depths of the cave. Some of them were strange—shaped for hands slightly different from his own, their handles worn smooth by use that was not his. He didn't ask where they came from. He was learning that there were questions you would answer and questions you would not, and the line between them was invisible until he crossed it.
But you were always there, always nearby.
He had grown accustomed to the rhythm of your presence, the rustle of your strange, flowing dresses, the soft pad of your bare feet on stone, the quiet humming you did when you worked. You brought him water when the sun grew hot. You checked his scars every evening, your fingers against his skin, pronouncing him healed and healing well. You sat with him while he ate, and you talked about nothing and everything, and your laugh was the brightest sound on an island full of bright sounds.
"I should be further along by now," he said one evening, staring at the skeleton of the boat with frustration. The hull was taking shape, but slowly—too slowly. At this rate, it would be months before it was seaworthy.
"You are one person building a boat by hand," you pointed out. You were sitting cross-legged on a flat rock, sorting through a basket of herbs. The setting sun caught the planes of your face, the curve of your bare shoulders, the way your dress draped across your lap in soft folds. "I think you are allowed to take your time."
"I don't have time." He ran a hand through his hair—longer now, curling past his ears, in desperate need of a trim. "My mother—she needs me. The war—"
He stopped.
The war.
What war?
The thought slipped through his mind like water through fingers, there and gone before he could catch it. There was a war. Of course there was a war. He was fighting in it. Or he had been fighting in it. That was why he had been in the Gullet, why Vermax had—
Vermax.
His chest tightened. He remembered the dragon's scream. He remembered the water closing over his head. He remembered the arrows.
But what was the war about?
"The war," he repeated, more quietly now. "I have to get back to the war."
You looked up from your herbs, and your expression was gentle. Unreadable. "You will. When the boat is ready, you will."
"Right." He nodded, the motion jerky. "Right. The boat."
He picked up the axe and got back to work.
—
One afternoon you were down by the shore, sitting in the shade of a flowering tree while Jace worked on the boat's hull. "Brothers," he said, sanding down a rough edge of wood. "Three of them. Well—two full brothers. Two half-brothers. That's four. No, wait." He frowned. "Joffrey and... and the little ones. Aegon and..."
He stopped, the name wouldn't come.
"Viserys," you said quietly.
"Viserys. Right. Viserys." He shook his head, laughing at himself. "I don't know why I couldn't remember that. He's the youngest. Named after my grandfather."
You said nothing. You only watched him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and your fingers were very still on the mending in your lap.
"And Luke," Jace continued, the name coming easier now. "Lucerys. He's the second one. He's..."
Dead.
The word surfaced from somewhere deep, cold and sharp as a blade. But it didn't hurt the way it should have. It was distant. Muffled. Like a scream heard through a closed door.
"He's what?" you asked.
Jace blinked. "He's... he's at Dragonstone. With our mother. Waiting for me to come home."
You nodded slowly. "I am sure he misses you."
"He probably thinks I'm dead." Jace turned back to the boat, running his hand along the smooth wood. "I have to get back soon. Before he does something stupid. He's always doing stupid things, Luke. He's impulsive. Reckless. He doesn't think before he acts."
Luke is dead. Luke was torn apart by Vhagar above Storm's End. You weren't there. You didn't protect him.
But the voice was fading. Growing quieter. Harder to hear over the sound of the waves and the breeze and your soft, steady breathing.
—
The boat took longer than it should have, some days Jace worked on it from sunrise to sunset, his hands raw and calloused, his back aching, his mind fixed on the singular goal of getting home. But other days—more and more days, as the weeks wore on—he found himself... distracted.
The waterfall, for one thing.
It tumbled down the cliff face on the western side of the island, a silver ribbon that caught the sunlight and scattered it into rainbows. The pool at its base was deep and clear and shockingly cold, fed by some underground spring that kept it cool even in the heat of the afternoon. Jace had discovered it on one of his exploratory walks, and he had been drawn back to it again and again.
You came with him sometimes. You would sit on the rocks at the edge of the pool, your feet dangling in the water, your dress hiked up to your knees. You would tilt your face toward the sun and close your eyes, and Jace would find himself watching you instead of the waterfall.
"Are you going to swim or are you going to stare?" you asked one day, not opening your eyes.
"I wasn't staring."
"You were staring."
"I was... appreciating the scenery."
You opened one eye. "The scenery."
"The waterfall," he said, gesturing vaguely. "It's very nice."
You laughed—that bright, unguarded laugh that he had come to love—and he felt something warm bloom in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with the sun.
"Come on, then," you said, and before he could react, you slid off the rock and into the water with a splash that sent droplets arcing through the air like diamonds.
Jace stared at you. You surfaced a moment later, your hair plastered to your head, your dress clinging to your skin, the wet fabric rendered nearly transparent. The water lapped at your collarbones, and you were laughing again, and you looked—
You looked beautiful.
He had known you were beautiful from the moment he opened his eyes in the candlelit cave. But there was something different about you now. Something that had shifted, the curves of your face seemed softer. The color of your eyes seemed deeper. The way you moved—the way you laughed—the way you looked at him—it all seemed more vivid. More precious.
"Are you coming in or not?" you called, treading water in the center of the pool.
Jace pulled his shirt over his head and dove in after you, the water was cold and clean and wonderful. They splashed each other like children, chasing each other around the pool, ducking under the waterfall and emerging gasping and laughing. Jace couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like this—freely, openly, without the weight of duty pressing down on his shoulders.
Your dress clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric outlining every curve of your body. Jace tried very hard not to notice. He failed. "You're staring again," you said, but your voice was different now. Quieter. Almost shy.
"Sorry." He wasn't sorry.
—
"I was betrothed," he said one evening.
You were sitting on the rocks overlooking the western sea, watching the sun sink toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and pink. Jace sat beside you, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your arm near his. The boat sat half-finished on the beach below, forgotten for the day.
"Was?" you asked.
"Am. I am betrothed." He frowned. "I think. We were supposed to marry before... before I left."
"Before the battle."
"Before the battle, yes." He stared out at the sunset, trying to conjure her face. His betrothed. She was a Targaryen, he was sure of that. Silver hair. Purple eyes. A dragon. But her name—her name wouldn't come. "She's my cousin, I think. Or my step-sister. Both, actually. It's complicated."
"What is her name?"
Jace opened his mouth. The name wasn't there.
"I can't remember," he said, and the admission felt strange. Not frightening—it should have been frightening—but strange. Like discovering a pocket in a familiar coat that he had never noticed before. "I know her face. She's... she's fierce. Brave. She has a dragon. A small one, I think. Or maybe it's large. I can't..."
He trailed off.
You were quiet for a moment. Then, very softly: "Do you love her?"
"Love?" He considered the question. "I don't know. She's family. She's duty. She's... she's what I'm supposed to do, but i care for her, a lot."
"That is not the same as love."
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
He didn't say anything else. Neither did you. But your arm was warm against his, and the sunset was beautiful, and when he finally walked you back to the cave, his hand found the small of your back without thinking, and you leaned into the touch instead of pulling away.
—
He forgot about the betrothed entirely by morning.
—
The days grew warmer. Or perhaps they didn't—perhaps it was only that Jace had stopped paying attention to the passage of time. The boat sat on the beach, half-finished, and he told himself he would work on it tomorrow. Tomorrow came and went, and he spent it with you instead—walking the island paths, gathering fruit from the strange golden trees, sitting by the waterfall and talking about nothing.
What are you doing? a voice whispered in the back of his mind. You have to go home. Your mother needs you.
But what did his mother need him for? There was something—something important—something about a throne, a war, a betrayal. But the details were foggy now, blurred like ink left out in the rain.
He remembered her face. Her silver hair. Her voice saying his name, but the rest was slipping away, piece by piece, day by day, and the more he forgot, the more he noticed you.
The way you moved through the meadow, your skirts brushing the wildflowers. The way you hummed when you cooked, some melody he had never heard before but that felt familiar anyway. The way you looked at him sometimes, quick glances from beneath your lashes, as if you were checking to make sure he was still there. Still real. Still alive.
The way your hand felt in his when he helped you over a rocky patch of ground.
The way your laugh echoed off the cliffs and came back to them multiplied, a chorus of joy.
The way your eyes caught the light of the setting sun and held it, like they were made of something more than flesh.
He loved you.
He loved the sound of your voice and the curve of your smile and the gentle patience with which you had nursed him back from the edge of death. He loved your dry humor and your quiet strength and the way you never pressed him for answers he didn't have. He loved the life you had built here, alone on an island that should not exist, and he loved that you had let him into it.
He loved you.
And the more he loved you, the less he remembered.
—
The morning was hot and still, Jace had woken early, as he always did now, but instead of reaching for the axe or walking down to the beach where the half-finished boat sat waiting, he had gone straight to the waterfall.
The pool was cool and clear, fed by the endless rush of water that tumbled down the cliff face in a silver curtain. He shed his clothes on the rocks, just the loose linen breeches you had sewn for him from fabric found somewhere in the depths of the cave, and dove in without hesitation. The cold shock of the water stole his breath and cleared his head, chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep.
He floated on his back, staring up at the pale blue sky, watching the birds wheel overhead. His dark hair fanned out in the water around him. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to thin white lines, barely visible now. He was stronger than he had ever been, his muscles hardened by weeks of manual labor, his skin tanned golden by the sun.
He should have been thinking about the boat, about going home, about his mother and his brothers and the war.
He was thinking about you. Your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes caught the light. The way your hand felt in his. The way you looked at him sometimes, soft and searching, with something unspoken hovering just behind your lips. He had kissed you before, small kisses, brief and chaste, a press of his lips to your forehead when you fell asleep beside him, a brush of his mouth against your knuckles when you handed him a cup of water. But he had not kissed you properly. He had not kissed you the way he wanted to, the way he had been imagining for weeks, the way that left no doubt about what he felt.
He was thinking about that when he heard your footsteps on the rocks above. "You started without me."
Jace turned in the water, treading easily, and looked up at you. You were standing at the edge of the pool, barefoot on the smooth stone, wearing your dress of pale purple gossamer that drifted around your ankles in the faint breeze. The sun caught the planes of your face and the curve of your neck and the dip of your collarbones, and the sight of you struck him silent for a moment.
"Someone has to," he called back, forcing his voice into something approaching normal. "You sleep too late."
"I was gathering herbs. Some of us have work to do."
"Swimming is work. It builds character."
You laughed, that bright, warm sound that he had come to treasure more than anything else on this island. "Is that what you are doing? Building character?"
"Come in and find out."
You hesitated for just a moment. Your eyes met his across the water, and something flickered in your expression, something tentative and questioning, as if you were making a decision and waiting to see if he would notice.
Then you reached up and untied the clasps at your shoulders.
The dress fell and Jace stopped breathing.
You stood above him in nothing but the sunlight, bare to the sky and the water and his gaze. The curves of your body were soft and smooth, your skin glowing in the morning light. Your breasts were full and round and tight in the open air. Your waist dipped inward in a graceful curve before flaring out to the swell of your hips.
You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"Are you coming in or not?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.
You smiled, then you dove into the water in one clean, graceful arc, slicing through the surface with barely a splash.
You surfaced inches from him, the water lapped at your collarbones, but beneath the surface he could see the pale shape of your body, distorted by the ripples, impossibly close. Droplets clung to your lashes. Your hair floated around you like ink spilled in water. Your lips were parted and slightly wet, and you were looking at him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and Jace forgot how to think.
"The water is nice," you said, and your voice was teasing and light, but there was a tremor underneath it.
"Nice," he repeated. He could not stop staring at your mouth.
"Very refreshing."
"I had not noticed."
"No?"
"No."
His hand found your waist beneath the water. Your skin was cool and slick and impossibly soft. You did not pull away. You drifted closer, your bare legs brushing against his, and the contact sent a jolt through him like lightning striking water. He could feel the heat of your core through the cool water, a promise of the warmth waiting for him, and his cock stirred against the confines of his breeches.
"Jace," you whispered.
That was all. Just his name, but the way you said it, breathless and aching and full of want, broke something open inside him.
He kissed you, his mouth strong against yours. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand came up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. You made a small, desperate sound against his lips and kissed him back just as fiercely, your arms winding around his neck, your bare breasts pressing against the hard plane of his chest.
You were bare beneath his hands, there was nothing between his palms and your skin but water. He could feel every curve of you against the hard muscle of his own. His thumbs traced the ridges of your middle, and you shivered, and he swallowed the sound you made. His hands slid lower, cupping the full curve of your arse, kneading the firm flesh, pulling your hips against his so you could feel the rigid length of him pressing against your belly through the wet linen of his breeches.
"Jace," you gasped against his mouth. "Jace, I—"
"Tell me to stop." His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "Tell me to stop and I will stop."
"Do not stop." Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting into his sun-warmed skin. "Please do not stop."
He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened for him with a shuddering breath. The taste of you, sweet and clean and faintly herbal from the medicines you were always brewing, flooded his senses. He explored your mouth thoroughly, learning the texture of your tongue, the ridge of your teeth, the softness of your inner cheeks. You moaned into his mouth and sucked on his tongue, and the sensation went straight to his groin. He could feel your heart pounding against his chest, or perhaps that was his own heart, hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.
Your legs wrapped around his waist beneath the water. The movement was instinctive and natural, and it brought your hips flush against his, the heat of your sex pressing against the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches. He groaned against your mouth, low and rough, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. You were so warm. Even in the cool water, the core of you radiated a heat that he could feel through the fabric separating them.
He walked you backward through the pool, still kissing you, still holding you, until your back met the smooth stone of the cliff wall. The waterfall rushed beside them, a curtain of silver sound. He kissed the hollow of your throat, feeling your pulse flutter against his lips. He traced the delicate line of your collarbone with his tongue, tasting the clean, mineral tang of the spring water on your skin. He let his mouth drift lower, over the swell of your breast, and when his lips closed around one tight, pebbled nipple, you gasped and arched against him, your fingers fisting in his hair.
He lavished attention on your breasts, suckling first one and then the other, his tongue circling the tight buds, his teeth grazing them with just enough pressure to make you moan. Your breasts were perfect in his hands, full and soft, fitting his palms as though they had been made for him. He kneaded them gently, thumbs brushing over the wet peaks, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your head had fallen back against the stone, your lips parted, your eyes squeezed shut. The sight of you like this, bare and wanting and completely surrendered to his mouth, made his cock throb painfully against his breeches.
"I have wanted this," he breathed against your skin, his voice ragged. "Gods, I have wanted this for so long."
"Then do not wait any longer."
He lifted his head and looked at you. Your eyes were dark with want, your lips swollen from his kisses, your chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. The water lapped at your breasts, revealing and hiding, and he could feel every inch of you pressed against him, every curve, every soft place, every point of contact where your body met his.
"Are you sure?" he asked. He needed to hear it. He needed to know.
In answer, you cupped his face in your hands and pulled him down to you. "I have never been more sure of anything in my life."
He kissed you again, soft and sweet this time, a promise and a question all at once. Then his hand slid down your body beneath the water, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your legs tightened around his waist, and he felt you tremble against him. His fingers found the heat of you, warm and slick even in the cool water, and he traced the folds of your sex with a feather-light touch. You gasped and bucked against his hand. He explored you slowly, learning the shape of you, the soft outer lips, the slick inner petals, the hard pearl of your pleasure at the apex. When he circled that sensitive nub with his thumb, you cried out, a sound half-lost in the rush of the waterfall. He swallowed it with his mouth, kissing you through it, his touch gentle and searching and patient. He slid one finger inside you, feeling the tight, wet heat of your body grip him, and you moaned against his lips. He added a second finger, stretching you gently, his thumb still circling your sensitive peak, and you writhed against his hand, your inner walls clenching around his fingers.
"Please," you whispered, the word broken and beautiful. "Please, Jace. I need you inside me."
He withdrew his fingers, and you made a small sound of protest that he silenced with a kiss. He reached down and freed himself from his breeches, his cock springing out, hard and thick and aching. The head was dark with need, a bead of moisture already forming at the tip. You glanced down through the clear water and your eyes widened at the sight of him, long and rigid, curving slightly upward toward his belly.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured, positioning himself at your entrance. He rubbed the head of his cock against your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing you both with the promise of what was to come. "I want to watch your face when I enter you. I want to see what I do to you."
Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back. "Then do it. I want to feel you."
He pushed into you slowly, so slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The water made everything liquid and easy, but he wanted to savor this, the way your eyes fluttered closed, the way your mouth fell open, the way your body welcomed him. You were so tight and so warm and so perfect around him. He could feel every ridge and fold of your inner walls as they gripped him and fluttered and stretched to accommodate his size. Your heat enveloped him, searing even through the cool water, and he had to stop and breathe when he was fully sheathed, his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back.
"Look at me," he murmured. "Please. Look at me."
Your eyes opened. They were dark and shining, full of something that looked very much like love. "You feel incredible," you breathed. "I am so full."
He began to move, he withdrew almost completely, feeling the drag of your body against every inch of his length, and then pushed back in with a slow, deep thrust that made you both gasp. The sensation was overwhelming, the tight clutch of your body, the heat, the way your inner muscles rippled around him. He set a steady rhythm, each stroke deliberate and full, sliding into you to the hilt and then pulling back until only the head remained inside you. The water splashed gently around them, ripples spreading outward in concentric circles with every movement. Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper with every thrust. Your hands slid down his spine, tracing the ridges of muscle that flexed with every movement. You were making soft, breathless sounds, gasps and moans and fragments of his name, and he caught each one with his mouth, kissing you, drinking you down like wine.
"You feel incredible," he groaned against your lips. "So tight. So perfect. I could stay inside you forever."
"So do you," you gasped, your words barely coherent, slurred with pleasure. "Harder, Jace. Please."
He did not need to be asked twice. His pace quickened, his hips slamming against yours with increasing force. The sound of their coupling echoed off the cliff walls, wet and rhythmic, the slap of skin against skin beneath the water. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and he watched them, mesmerized by the way they moved, the way the water lapped at the peaks. He bent his head and captured one nipple in his mouth again, sucking hard, grazing it with his teeth, and you cried out sharply, your inner walls clenching around him.
He shifted his angle slightly, tilting his hips, and on the next thrust you cried out sharply, your head falling back against the stone, your whole body arching against his. He had found the right spot, that sensitive place deep inside you, and he drove into it again and again, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your brow furrowed and your lips parted and your eyes lost focus, and you were babbling now, a stream of broken words, his name and pleas for more and incoherent praise.
"There," you gasped. "Right there. Do not stop. Please do not stop."
He did not stop. He could not have stopped if the world was ending. There was nothing but you, your body, your voice, your hands on his skin. He felt your inner walls begin to flutter around him, the first warning signs of your approaching climax, and he moved his hand between your bodies, finding the slick, sensitive pearl of you beneath the water. He pressed his thumb against it in tight, circling strokes, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.
"That is it," he murmured against your ear, his voice low and rough. "Let go. I want to feel you come apart around me."
Your climax took you by surprise. He felt it building, the way your breath quickened, the way your nails bit into his shoulders, the way your body tightened around him until he could barely move. And then you shattered, crying out his name, your head thrown back, your whole body arching and shuddering against his. He felt the rhythmic pulsing of your release gripping his cock, your inner walls milking him in waves, and he watched your face contort with pleasure, your mouth open, your eyes squeezed shut, your cheeks flushed dark. The sight of you, bare and beautiful and completely undone, was enough to push him over the edge. He drove into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and let go. His release surged through him in hot, pulsing waves, spilling deep inside you, and he groaned your name against the curve of your neck, his body shaking with the force of his climax.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breathing slowed, your chest rising and falling against his. Your fingers traced lazy patterns on the back of his neck. He remained inside you, still half-hard, reluctant to separate from the warmth of your body. He could feel his seed and your slickness mingled together, warm and wet around him, and the sensation was so intimate, so perfect, that he never wanted to move again.
"Jace," you whispered, and your voice was hoarse and sweet and utterly content.
He lifted his head and looked at you. Your cheeks were flushed. Your lips were red and swollen. Your hair was a wild tangle around your shoulders. Your eyes were soft and hazy with satisfaction. You had never looked more beautiful.
"I love you," he said.
The words came out before he could stop them, before he even realized he was thinking them. But once they were spoken, he knew they were true. He loved you. He loved you so completely and so absolutely that he could barely remember what his life had been before you. You were everything. You were the sun and the sea and the stars. You were the only thing that mattered.
Your eyes widened. "I love you too," you said. "I have loved you since the moment you opened your eyes."
He kissed you again, softly this time, tenderly, a kiss that tasted of water and salt and promises. And then he held you, your body still wrapped around his, the waterfall cool against his back, the sun warm on his face.
They did not leave the pool for a long time. When they finally climbed out, their skin pruned and their limbs heavy with satisfaction, they did not bother to dress. Jace carried you to a patch of soft grass beneath the flowering trees, and he laid you down among the fallen petals, pink and white and gold. He knelt between your spread thighs and looked down at you, at your bare body glistening with water droplets, at the place where his seed was already beginning to leak from your swollen folds, and he felt himself harden again at the sight.
He made love to you again, slower this time, sweeter. He kissed his way down your body, his mouth tracing the hollow of your throat, the swell of your breasts, the plane of your stomach. He paused to dip his tongue into your navel, making you squirm, and then continued lower, pressing kisses to your hip bones, the sensitive crease where your thighs met your body. When he reached the junction of your thighs, he settled between them and looked up at you. Your scent was intoxicating, musky and sweet and mixed with the salt of his own release. He could see the evidence of their earlier coupling, the glistening slickness that coated your folds, and the sight made him groan with want.
He tasted you properly for the first time. His tongue parted your folds, tracing a slow path from your entrance to the peak of your pleasure. The taste of you combined with the taste of him was earthy and raw and utterly intoxicating. You cried out and fisted your hands in the grass, your hips rising to meet his mouth. He took his time, learning what you liked, alternating between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and focused, circling attention to your sensitive peak. He slid two fingers inside you as he sucked on that tight bundle of nerves, curling them forward to press against that sensitive spot on your inner wall, and you came apart against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head, your voice breaking on his name, your body gushing wetness that he lapped up eagerly.
After that, they walked back to the cave hand in hand, bare and unashamed, their clothes forgotten on the rocks by the waterfall. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, and the island was alive with birdsong and the scent of flowers. Jace kept his hand on the small of your back as you walked, unable to stop touching you, his thumb tracing small circles against your skin.
When you reached the bedchamber, the bed where he had first woken, the furs soft and the candles flickering on the walls, he took you again. This time you pushed him down onto his back and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. You looked down at him and you reached between your bodies to guide him to your entrance. He watched his cock disappear inside you, inch by inch, watched the way your folds stretched to accommodate him, and the sight was almost enough to make him spend right there. You sank down until he was fully seated inside you, and you both moaned at the sensation.
You began to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sinuous rhythm. He watched you move above him, your breasts swaying with each roll of your hips, your stomach flexing, your head thrown back in pleasure. He reached up and cupped your breasts, rolling the tight peaks between his fingers, and you gasped and increased your pace. Your thighs flexed as you rose and fell, taking him deeper with every stroke. He guided you with his hands on your waist, helping you find a rhythm that made you both moan, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your hips.
"Look at you," he breathed, his voice full of wonder. "You are so beautiful riding my cock."
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and the new angle made you gasp. He thrust up into you from below, meeting your movements, and the wet sound of your bodies joining filled the chamber. Your inner walls were fluttering around him again, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He moved one hand to where your bodies were joined and pressed his thumb against your sensitive peak, circling it in time with your movements. You cried out and shattered above him, your body clenching around him, your back arching. The sight of you, lost in pleasure, pushed him over the edge. He thrust up into you one final time and spilled his seed deep inside you, groaning your name, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.
You collapsed against his chest, spent and trembling, and he wrapped his arms around you and held you close, still buried inside you. Your breath was warm against his neck. Your heart hammered against his chest. He could feel the thrum of your pulse where your bodies were still joined, and he never wanted to let you go.
You fell asleep like that, joined together, your body draped over his, and when you woke an hour later, the candles had burned lower and the light through the cave entrance had shifted to the gold of late afternoon. You stirred against him, and he felt himself harden again inside you, still buried in your warmth. You smiled sleepily and began to move your hips in a slow, lazy rhythm, and he rolled you onto your back and made love to you again, gentle and tender, whispering your name like a prayer.
After that day, they could not keep their hands off each other, it was as if a dam had broken. Every moment they were together, they were touching. His hand on the small of your back, your fingers tangled in his hair, his lips on your shoulder, your thigh pressed against his beneath the dinner table. The boat sat forgotten on the beach, the wood beginning to weather and grey in the salt air. The days blurred into a haze of sun and water and skin.
He took you in the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, the grass tickling your bare skin as he moved inside you, your legs wrapped around his waist and your fingers digging into his back. The sun was warm on his shoulders and the scent of blossoms was thick in the air. He rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him without breaking their connection, and you rode him among the flowers, your head thrown back, your breasts bouncing with every movement, the bright petals clinging to your damp skin.
You pulled him into the storage chamber one afternoon and pressed him against the cool stone wall. You sank to your knees before him on the worn stone floor, looking up at him and you freed him from his breeches with practiced hands. He was already hard, his cock springing out, the tip glistening. You wrapped your hand around the base of him, feeling the weight and heat of him in your palm, and then you leaned forward and took him into your mouth.
He groaned and buried his fingers in your hair as your lips closed around him. You took him slowly, deliberately, your tongue tracing the ridge on the underside of his shaft, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked. You worked him with your mouth and your hand in tandem, your head bobbing in a steady rhythm, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head on every upstroke. He watched you move, mesmerized, watching his cock disappear between your lips again and again, feeling the wet heat of your mouth, the gentle scrape of your teeth. When you took him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate his length, he groaned your name and tightened his grip on your hair.
You pulled back, your lips slick and swollen, a strand of saliva connecting you to his tip. You looked up at him and smiled, a slow, wicked smile, and then you took him deep again, hollowing your cheeks, increasing your pace. Your hand cupped him gently, rolling him in your palm, and the dual sensation pushed him closer and closer to the edge. When he could not hold back any longer, he warned you, his voice ragged, but you only took him deeper, and he spilled into your mouth with a ragged cry of your name. You swallowed everything he gave you, your throat working around him, and you did not pull away until he was spent and trembling.
You looked up at him, your lips slick and swollen, a tiny bead of his release at the corner of your mouth that you caught with your tongue. The sight of you, kneeling before him, having taken everything he had to give, made his spent cock twitch with interest. He pulled you to your feet and kissed you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue, and then he spun you around and bent you over the stone table where you mixed your medicines.
He bunched your skirts around your waist, baring you to his gaze. Your folds were already slick and glistening, your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. He ran his hand over the curve of your backside, kneading the firm flesh, and then he positioned himself at your entrance. He entered you from behind in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and you gasped and clutched at the worn stone surface. He set a hard, fast rhythm, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints and the other braced on the table beside yours. The sound of his hips slamming against your backside filled the small chamber, wet and rhythmic, punctuated by your breathless gasps and his low groans.
"Is this what you wanted when you got on your knees for me?" he asked, his voice rough. "Did you want me to bend you over and fuck you until you screamed?"
"Yes," you gasped, pushing back against him. "Yes, I wanted this. I wanted you."
He reached around and found your sensitive peak with his fingers, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The angle was perfect, driving him deep, hitting that spot inside you with every stroke. Your gasps turned to cries, your cries turned to screams, and when you came, your body clenching around him so tightly that he could barely move, he followed a heartbeat later, groaning your name into the curve of your shoulder, spilling himself deep inside you.
He stayed inside you until he softened, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade, both of you breathing hard. Then he pulled out gently and turned you around, and he kissed you softly, tenderly, his hands cupping your face.
Every night, they fell asleep tangled together in his bed, their bed now, and every morning they woke the same way. Sometimes he would wake first and simply watch you sleep, the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips curved into a faint smile as if you were dreaming of him. Sometimes you would wake first and trace the lines of his scars with your fingertips, until he stirred and rolled on top of you and the day began the way all their days began now, with your legs around his waist and your soft cries filling the candlelit chamber.
He could not get enough of you. He could not get enough of your taste or your scent or the sounds you made when you came apart in his arms. He could not get enough of the way your eyes fluttered closed when he kissed your neck, or the way your back arched when he ran his hands down your sides, or the way you whispered his name in the darkness, over and over, like an incantation. He learned every inch of your body, every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and every place that made you moan. He learned the rhythm you liked, slow and deep when you were tender, fast and hard when you were hungry. He learned how to read your body well enough to know which one you needed before you had to ask. He learned that you liked it when he talked to you while he moved inside you, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he loved you, how he wanted to stay buried in your warmth forever.
And every time he was inside you, every time you came apart in his arms, every time he lost himself in the heat and the pleasure and the overwhelming, consuming love he felt for you, something else slipped away.
In many ways, you were. You were his world now. You were everything.
And he was forgetting that there had ever been anything else.
—
The ship appeared on the horizon like a ghost from a life Jace had almost forgotten, he was down by the shore, skipping stones across the glass-flat water while you gathered shells further down the beach.
Then he saw it, a dark shape cut against the glare of the sun. At first he thought it was a cloud, or a trick of the light, or one of the strange birds that sometimes wheeled overhead. But the shape grew larger and sharper and resolved itself into masts and sails and a hull cutting through the water.
Jace's hand froze mid-throw. The stone dropped from his fingers and plunked into the shallows.
"Jace?" Your voice came from further down the beach, laced with concern. "What is it?"
"A ship."
The word felt strange in his mouth, foreign. He had not seen a ship in how long? Months? Years? He could not remember. Time had stopped meaning anything on this island.
He squinted against the sun, his heart beating faster. The ship was large, a warship by the look of it, three masts and a reinforced hull. As it drew closer, he could make out the banner snapping from the mainmast.
A seahorse. Silver on sea-green.
Velaryon.
The name hit him like a wave. His grandfather's house. His mother's allies. His family. The memories surged up from wherever they had been hiding, Dragonstone, Driftmark, the fleet, Lord Corlys, the war.
The war. He was fighting a war. His mother needed him. He had to go home.
"They are here for me," he breathed, and then he was running down the beach, waving his arms over his head, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Here! I am here!"
The soldiers came ashore in a longboat, six of them, their armor gleaming in the sun, the Velaryon seahorse embossed on their breastplates. They were grizzled men, seasoned fighters, and when they saw Jace standing on the beach, their faces broke into expressions of shock and relief and barely contained joy.
"Prince Jacaerys," the lead soldier breathed, dropping to one knee in the sand. "We thought you were dead. The Queen, your mother, she sent ships to every corner of the Narrow Sea. She never gave up hope."
Jace pulled the man to his feet, his hands shaking. "My mother. Is she well? Is the war still—"
"The war continues, my prince. The queen has taken Kings Landing. She will be overjoyed to see you. Everyone believed you had perished at the Gullet."
The Gullet. The arrows. Vermax screaming. The water closing over his head.
Jace shoved the memories aside. "I am alive," he said, and he was laughing now, giddy with relief and adrenaline. "I am alive, and I am coming home."
He turned to find you, you were standing a few paces back, your hands clasped in front of you, watching the soldiers with an expression he could not read. Your strange dress fluttered in the sea breeze, and your eyes were dark and unreadable.
"This is Y/N," Jace said, pulling you forward. You came reluctantly, your bare feet dragging in the sand. "She saved my life. She pulled me from the water and nursed me back to health. I would not be alive without her."
The lead soldier bowed to you, respectful. "The Queen will want to thank you personally, my lady. You have done the realm a great service."
You said nothing. You only nodded, a small, stiff movement.
Jace pulled you aside while the soldiers began unloading supplies from the longboat. His hands were still shaking. His heart was pounding. He felt more alive than he had in weeks, or months, or however long it had been.
"You are coming with me," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I know what you told me about your brother and the exile. But I am a prince, and my mother is the Queen. Whatever power your brother holds, it is nothing compared to the Iron Throne. We can protect you."
Your eyes widened. "Jace..."
"I mean it." He took your hands in his, squeezing tight. "You saved my life. You have been alone here for so long, and I am not going to leave you behind. Come with me to Westeros. I will keep you safe. I swear it."
For a long moment, you only looked at him. Your sea-glass eyes searched his face, looking for something he did not recognize. It might have been doubt or hesitation or some reason to refuse, then you smiled.
"Yes," you said. "I will come with you."
Jace pulled you into his arms and held you tight, his face buried in your hair, breathing in the scent of you, salt and flowers and home. "We leave at dawn," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we leave at dawn."
That night, you cooked a feast, the soldiers were camped on the beach, their tents pitched in a neat row above the tide line. They had offered to share their rations, but you had insisted, telling them in that quiet, gracious way of yours that they were guests on your island and that you would feed them.
Jace helped you carry platters of food down to the beach. There was roasted pork, crackling and golden, seasoned with herbs from your garden. There were strange fruits sliced and arranged in intricate patterns. There was fresh bread baked in the stone oven at the back of the cave, still warm and fragrant. And there was wine, more wine than Jace had ever seen in the cave, deep red wine in clay amphorae, rich and dark and potent.
"Where did you get all this?" he asked, watching you fill cup after cup for the soldiers.
You smiled, your hands steady on the amphora. "I have been saving it. For a special occasion."
The feast was a joyous affair. The soldiers laughed and sang and told Jace stories of the war, battles won and lost, allies gained and betrayed, the endless, grinding struggle for the Iron Throne. He listened with half an ear, nodding in the right places, but his attention kept drifting to you.
You moved among the soldiers like a ghost, refilling cups, offering plates of food, your smile never wavering. The men thanked you with drunken enthusiasm, their faces flushed with wine and gratitude. Jace felt a swell of pride watching you, his savior, his love, soon to be his companion in Westeros, where he would shower you with every luxury you had been denied on this lonely island.
"To the Prince!" one of the soldiers bellowed, raising his cup. "To Prince Jacaerys, returned from the dead!"
"To the Prince!" the others roared.
Jace raised his own cup and drank deep. The wine was stronger than he expected, and it went to his head almost immediately. The stars above seemed to blur and swirl. The fire on the beach danced and flickered. Your hand found his under the table, and he squeezed it tight.
Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, we go home
—
He woke to sunlight and the sound of birdsong, his head pounded. His mouth was dry and sour with the aftertaste of wine. He groaned and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to drive back the ache that throbbed behind them. How much had he drunk? He remembered the feast. He remembered the soldiers laughing, the wine flowing, your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered the fire on the beach and the stars wheeling overhead and the giddy, overwhelming relief of knowing that he was finally, finally going home.
The soldiers, Jace sat up so fast that the furs tangled around his legs and nearly sent him sprawling. The soldiers. The ship. They were leaving at dawn. He had to get up. He had to get dressed. He had to—
He stumbled out of the bed and through the winding passages of the cave, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone. The light grew brighter as he ran, golden and warm, and then he burst through the cave entrance and stopped dead at the edge of the cliff.
The beach was empty, his eyes swept the shoreline, back and forth, back and forth, searching for the tents and the longboat and the supply crates. He looked for the ship, the great Velaryon warship with its three masts and its silver seahorse banner, riding at anchor in the bay.
There was nothing there, the white sand stretched out below him, pristine and unmarked. The sea glittered in the morning sun, calm and blue and utterly empty all the way to the horizon. No ship. No sails. No sign that anyone had ever been here at all.
"What..." Jace's voice came out hoarse, cracked. He turned and ran down the path to the beach, his legs still unsteady, his heart pounding against his ribs. He reached the sand and walked through the place where the camp had been, his eyes scanning the ground for any trace of the soldiers. A footprint. A scrap of cloth. A ring of stones where the fire had burned. A spilled cup. Anything.
The sand was smooth and unblemished. The tide had come in during the night and erased whatever marks might have been left behind.
"Jace?" Your voice drifted down from the cliff above, calm and curious. "What are you doing?"
He looked up. You were standing at the mouth of the cave, barefoot, wrapped in one of your flowing dresses, your hair loose around your shoulders. The morning light caught the soft curves of your face and made your eyes gleam.
"The soldiers," Jace called up to you. "The ship. Where are they?"
You tilted your head, your brow furrowing slightly. "What soldiers?"
The question hit him like a physical blow. He stood there on the empty beach, staring up at you, waiting for you to laugh or smile or tell him it was a joke. You only looked back at him with mild, patient confusion.
"The soldiers," he repeated, his voice rising. "The Velaryon soldiers. Six of them. They came yesterday in a warship. They landed on the beach. We had a feast. You served them roast pork and wine. They were going to take us home this morning."
Your expression did not change. That small, puzzled frown remained, as though he were speaking a language you did not quite recognize.
"Jace," you said gently, "I think you must have dreamed it."
"I did not dream it." He was breathing hard now, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "They were here. They said my mother sent them. You spoke to them. You—"
He stopped, you were walking down the path to the beach now, your bare feet moving sure and steady over the rocks. When you reached the sand, you came to stand beside him, and your hand rose to rest against his cheek.
"You had a great deal of wine last night," you said, your voice soft and soothing. "More than I have ever seen you drink. Sometimes wine can make dreams feel very real."
Jace shook his head, pulling away from your touch. "It was not a dream. They were here. They were real."
"Then where are they now?" You gestured at the empty beach, the empty sea, the empty horizon. "Where is the ship? Where are the footprints? Where is the fire? If six men camped on this beach last night, where is the evidence of it?"
The sand was smooth. The sea was empty. There was no smoke rising from the ashes of a campfire. There were no tent pegs driven into the earth. There was no ship, no longboat, no sign that anyone but the two of you had ever set foot on this island.
"I do not know," he said, and his voice sounded thin and uncertain even to his own ears. "I do not understand."
You stepped closer, and your hand found his cheek again, and this time he did not pull away. Your palm was cool against his flushed skin.
"You have been through so much," you murmured. "Your body is still healing. Your mind is still healing. Dreams and memories and wishes can all blur together. But you are here with me, and you are safe. That is what matters."
Jace stared down at the sand. His head was pounding. His thoughts were tangled, slipping over each other like stones in a landslide. He remembered the feast so clearly, the taste of the roast pork, the sound of the soldiers' laughter, the weight of your hand in his. He remembered the banner snapping in the wind, silver seahorse on sea-green. He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, the shock and relief on his weathered face.
But the beach was empty.
"Perhaps you are right," he said slowly, and the words felt like surrender. "Perhaps I dreamed it."
You smiled, and your smile was warm and gentle and full of something that might have been relief. "Come back inside. I will make you something to eat. You will feel better once you have eaten."
He let you lead him back up the path and into the cave. He let you sit him down at the stone table. He let you place a plate of fruit and fresh bread in front of him, and he ate without tasting it, his mind still chasing the fragments of the dream that had felt so real.
That was what you had called it. A dream. And perhaps you were right. Perhaps the longing for home had grown so strong that his mind had conjured a rescue where none existed. Perhaps the wine had done the rest, weaving the longing into something that felt like memory.
Perhaps.
He did not think about it for the rest of the day, it was not until late afternoon that he noticed the pigs, he was walking past the enclosure without any particular destination in mind, his feet carrying him along the familiar path, when he stopped and frowned.
The pigs had always been numerous, he had never bothered to count them exactly, but now, looking at the enclosure, he could see that there were more than there had been the day before. Many more.
The sows jostled and grunted. The piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt. They were fat, healthy animals with glossy coats and floppy ears, rooting in the churned earth of the enclosure, there were at least twice as many pigs as there had been the day before.
Jace stood at the stone wall and stared at them. The pigs stared back, their small dark eyes unblinking, he stood there for a long time.
—
Days later, Jace found the hole by accident, though later he would wonder whether anything on this island ever happened by accident at all. He had been exploring, something he did more and more often now, wandering the island's paths and cliffs and hidden coves as if searching for something he could not name. He had walked further than usual that afternoon, following a thin stream that wound through a cleft in the cliffs, its water cold and clear and tasting faintly of minerals when he cupped his hands to drink. The stream led him deeper into the interior than he had ever gone before, past stands of flowering trees whose blossoms released a sweet, drowsy perfume, past moss-covered boulders that loomed overhead like the shoulders of buried giants and that was when he saw it.
A dark opening in the rock face, half-hidden by a curtain of flowering vines that spilled down from the cliff above in cascades of white and purple. The vines were thick and tangled, but they did not quite conceal the gap behind them. An opening wide enough for a man to walk through without ducking his head.
He should not have gone in. He knew that, even as his feet carried him forward, even as his hands reached out to push the vines aside. A voice in the back of his mind, the voice that had once belonged to a prince trained in caution and suspicion, whispered that he should turn around and walk back to the sunlit meadow and forget he had ever seen this place. But that voice had grown very quiet in the months he had spent on this island, and something else had grown louder.
The darkness swallowed him whole. He stood motionless for a long moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust, one hand pressed flat against the cool stone of the wall. The passage sloped downward, the floor worn smooth by the passage of time or water or the tread of feet. He could not see more than a few feet ahead, but he could feel the space around him opening up, widening into something larger than a simple tunnel. The air was dry and still, the silence so complete that he could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.
He walked deeper, the passage twisted once, then twice, then opened abruptly into a chamber so vast that Jace's footsteps echoed back to him from walls he could not see. Thin shafts of daylight pierced down through cracks in the ceiling high above, illuminating the space in pale, dusty columns that fell across the floor like the bars of a cage made of light and in those columns of light, Jace saw them.
Armor.
Dozens of sets, perhaps hundreds, arranged against the walls and stacked in corners and laid out on stone slabs that rose from the floor like altars. Breastplates and greaves and gauntlets and helms, their surfaces catching the thin light and throwing it back in dull gleams. Some were polished and gleaming, as if they had been cleaned and oiled with meticulous care. Others were rusted and crumbling, their edges flaking away into red-brown dust, their shapes barely recognizable beneath the corrosion of years or decades or centuries. Swords and axes and spears and maces, their blades dull with age and disuse, their hilts wrapped in leather that had rotted away to nothing.
And clothes, stacks and stacks of clothes, tunics and breeches and cloaks and boots and belts and gloves. They were piled against the walls in drifts that rose nearly to the ceiling, some of them neatly folded as if awaiting a return that would never come, others tossed carelessly into corners in tangled heaps of faded fabric. Some were new, the dyes still bright, the wool still soft, the linen still crisp and clean. Others were ancient and moth-eaten, their threads crumbling at the slightest touch, their colors bleached to ghostly echoes of what they had once been.
Jace stood in the center of the chamber and turned in a slow circle, his breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a fist beating against a locked door. The scale of it was incomprehensible. There were so many. Too many. More than one person could ever need. More than a dozen people could ever need. More than a hundred people could ever need. This was not a collection. This was a graveyard for the belongings of the dead.
His eyes caught on a breastplate near his feet, and the world tilted sideways, it was newer than the others. Its metal still held a faint gleam beneath a thin layer of dust, and its leather straps were still supple, and on its chest, embossed in silver that caught the light like a blade, was the seahorse of House Velaryon.
He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, his weathered face breaking into shock and relief. He remembered the feast on the beach, the crackling fire, the roast pork and the wine and your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered waking to find the beach empty and the sea bare and you standing at the mouth of the cave with your head tilted and your brow furrowed, asking him what soldiers he meant, telling him it was only a dream, only a dream, nothing more than a dream.
The soldiers who had never been here. The soldiers he had only imagined. Their armor was lying at his feet.
He stumbled backward. His heel caught on a gauntlet and sent it skittering across the stone floor with a sound like a startled crab. The noise echoed through the chamber and died away into silence, and Jace stood there with his hands shaking and his mind blank with a terror so absolute that it felt almost like calm. He could not think. He could not breathe. He could not make sense of what he was seeing, and some part of him understood with terrible clarity that making sense of it would destroy everything he had built on this island. Every moment of peace. Every hour of love. Every whispered word in the darkness. All of it balanced on the edge of this pit, and if he looked down, if he truly looked, he would fall.
"What are you doing here?"
He spun around so fast that his boots skidded on the stone floor, his heart slammed against his ribs, once, twice, a frantic drumbeat of pure animal terror.. "Nothing. I was only looking, I wanted to understand—"
"You were only looking." You stepped out of the shadows and into the thin light that filtered down from the cracks in the ceiling, and the expression on your face made his stomach drop. The gentle warmth he had come to love was gone. The softness was gone. Your jaw was tight, the muscles corded beneath your skin, and your hands were clenched into fists at your sides, and your eyes were fixed on him with a glittering intensity that pinned him in place like a butterfly on a board. "At what, precisely? At the belongings of dead men? At the evidence of my sins? At the proof that I am not the gentle, lonely woman you thought you loved?"
Your hands unclenched and clenched again, the fingers curling and uncurling in a rhythm that seemed almost involuntary, as though you were strangling something invisible.
"I asked you a question, Jace." Your voice dropped, soft and dangerous. "What are you doing here?"
He should have been afraid. He was afraid. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, and his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, and every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to run. But something else rose up inside him too, some scrap of the prince he used to be, some stubborn remnant of the boy who had faced down enemies on the battlefield and never flinched. He straightened his spine and met your eyes and refused to look away.
"Why are they here?" he asked, gesturing at the armor that surrounded them. "All of these. Dozens of sets. Hundreds, maybe. The soldiers who came for me, their armor is here. The same breastplate, the same sigil. It wasn't a dream was it? What happened to them?"
You stared at him. A muscle in your jaw twitched.
"It does not matter."
"It matters to me."
"It does not matter, Jace." Your voice was rising now, cracking at the edges, splintering into something raw and desperate. "It should not matter, Jace. Those men are gone. Let them stay gone. Let the past stay buried. We were happy. We were so happy. Why could you not leave well enough alone?"
"Because I need to know the truth."
"The truth will not make you happy. The truth will not keep you warm at night. The truth will not hold you when you wake from nightmares and tell you that everything is going to be all right."
"The truth is the truth. I deserve to know it."
You laughed, it was sharp and bitter and jagged, the laugh of someone who had been hurt too many times to believe in fairness anymore. "You sound just like them. Every single one of them. They all wanted the truth. They all thought they deserved to know. And do you know what happened when they found it?"
Jace did not answer. He did not need to answer. The armors answered for him.
"What happened to the soldiers?" he asked instead. His voice was very quiet. "The ones who came for me. The ones whose armor is lying at my feet. What did you do to them?"
Your face crumpled, the coldness shattered and the fury crumbled and underneath it was something far older and far more terrifying, a grief so immense it had calcified into rage over centuries of solitude. The tears that spilled down your cheeks were real, hot and sudden and utterly convincing.
"Why do you want to leave me?" you screamed, the sound echoed off the stone walls and came back multiplied, a chorus of accusations that battered him from every direction. Your voice was raw and ragged, shredded at the edges, and the pain in it was so enormous that Jace felt his own heart clench in response. The anger that had been building in him, the righteous fury at being lied to, began to waver. How could he be angry at someone who was in so much pain? How could he accuse someone who was so clearly suffering?
"Why do you want to leave me?" you cried again, and your voice broke on the last word. "Why do they always leave? Every single one of them, they wash up on my shore and I save them and I nurse them back to health and I give them everything I have, everything I am, and they tell me they love me, they look me in the eyes and they swear they love me, and I believe them every time, every single time I believe them because I am so desperate to be loved by someone, anyone, and then they remember. They always remember. And they always leave. They always want to go home. Why am I never enough? Why am I never enough for anyone?"
The question hung in the air, raw and bleeding. Your chest was heaving. Your hands were shaking. You looked at him with those burning eyes, and Jace felt his resolve crumbling, you were not a monster, you were wounded, a woman who had been abandoned and betrayed so many times that she had forgotten how to trust. How could he blame you for what you had done?
"I love you," he said, and his voice was shaking but he meant it with every fiber of his being. "I love you. I do. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone."
"Then why do you want to leave me?" Your voice was small now, wounded, the fury draining away to reveal the vulnerability beneath. "If you love me, why isn't that enough? Why do you need to go back? Why can't you just stay here with me? Why do you need a mother and brothers and a war and a throne? Why can you not just stay here and be mine?"
"Because I have a family." He was pleading now, hating himself for the pain he was causing you. "Because I have a mother who needs me and brothers who are waiting for me. Because there is a war, a war I was fighting, a war I was supposed to win. Because I have a duty."
"A duty." You laughed, but it was a broken sound, a laugh that was really a sob. "Duty. Honor. Family. I have heard all of this before. Every single one of them said the same thing. They had to go back. They had responsibilities. They had people who needed them. And what about me? What about what I need? I needed them. I loved them. And they left me anyway. They all left me. Just like you will leave me."
"I don't want to leave you," Jace said, and the words felt inadequate, pathetic. "I want to go home, yes. I want to see my mother. I want to protect her from the enemies who would see her dead and her throne stolen. But I want to take you with me. I want you to meet her. I want to marry you properly, before the whole court, with a septon and a cloak and vows spoken in the light of the Seven. I want to make you my queen. When I sit the Iron Throne, you will sit beside me."
He reached for you, desperate to comfort you, to wipe the tears from your cheeks. You did not pull away, but you did not lean into his touch either.
"I do not care what you did to these men," he said, his voice low and fierce. "I do not care what you have done. I love you. I love you more than I have ever loved anything in my life. I just want you to come with me. Please. Come with me."
For a long moment, you were silent, then you shook your head. Slowly. Miserably. With the exhausted certainty of someone who had heard these same promises too many times to count.
"It is not true," you whispered. "They always say this. When my brother sends them here, they always tell me they love me. They always promise they will stay. They look at me with those earnest eyes and they swear they are different from the others, and I believe them. I always believe them. Because I want to believe. Because I want so desperately for it to be true. And then they remember who they were before, and everything changes."
You pulled your hands out of his grip and wrapped your arms around yourself, your shoulders hunching inward as though you were trying to make yourself smaller, harder to hurt. Jace felt a surge of protectiveness so strong it almost knocked the breath out of him. He wanted to hold you. He wanted to shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.
"They remember their old lives," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "and they tell me they will save me. They tell me they will break the curse and take me away from here and marry me in a real sept with real vows. They promise me everything I have ever wanted. And for a little while I let myself hope. I let myself believe that this time will be different. This time the love will be real."
Your voice caught on the last word, splintering into something that was almost a sob. Jace felt tears prick at the corners of his own eyes. Gods, how could anyone have done this to you? How could anyone have been so cruel?
"But they never mean it," you said. "They are only saying what they think I want to hear. They are only trying to placate me, to buy themselves time, to find a way to escape. And when they try to break the curse and they fail, when they realize their love is not strong enough, when they understand that they do not really love me at all, they run. They try to leave. And I—"
You stopped. Your hands were trembling violently now, the fingers twisting together in front of you.
"What do you do?" Jace asked, though he already knew the answer. He knew it, and it horrified him, and yet somehow he could not bring himself to judge you for it. You had been hurt. You had been betrayed. You had been left alone for so long that you had forgotten what it felt like to be held. How could anyone expect you to react with grace when another man tried to abandon you?
"I do not let them leave." Your voice was barely a whisper, so quiet he had to lean closer to hear it. "They do not get to leave. They do not get to go back to their families and forget about me while I rot here alone. They stay. They stay here with me. Forever."
"The pigs," Jace said.
"They are happier as pigs," Your voice took on a defensive edge, almost childlike in its insistence. "They do not remember their old lives. They do not feel the disappointment. They do not want to leave. They are content. They have food and shelter and each other. I take care of them. I take better care of them than anyone ever took care of me." Your eyes searched his face, looking for understanding, looking for absolution. "They are better off this way. I gave them peace. I gave them a life without pain. Do you know what my brother gave me? Do you know what it feels like to be left here, alone, for centuries, with nothing but the sound of the waves and the crying of the gulls and the knowledge that no one is ever coming for you?"
Jace's throat was dry. "Why did you not do it to me?"
"Because I thought you were different." Your voice was small now, so small it was almost swallowed by the shadows of the cave. "Because when I looked at you, when I held you through the fevers and listened to you talk about your home and your family, I thought—I hoped—that you might really love me." A tear slid down your cheek, and you did not wipe it away. "I thought you would stay."
The guilt hit Jace like a physical blow. You had hoped. You had let yourself hope, despite everything, despite centuries of betrayal and abandonment, and he was about to become just another name on the long list of people who had disappointed you. He was about to leave you, just like all the others. He was about to prove that your hope had been misplaced, that love was a lie, that no one would ever truly choose you.
"I am sorry," he said, and he meant it with every part of himself. "I am so sorry. I do not want to leave you. I want to stay. I want both things. I want to go home, but I want you to come with me. Can I not have both things?"
"No one ever wants both things." You pulled your hands away, and your expression was hardening again, the vulnerability sealing itself back behind walls of old resentment. "They want to leave. They always want to leave. As soon as they remember their old lives, they want to leave. And when they realize they cannot break the curse, they run. They all run. And I have to stop them because if I do not stop them they will leave me alone again, and I cannot be alone again, Jace, I cannot, I would rather die than be alone again—"
"What curse?" Jace cut through your spiraling words, his voice urgent. "You said they could not break the curse. What curse?"
"It does not matter," you said. Your voice was empty now, drained of all the fury and grief that had filled it moments before. "You are going to leave me too. You are going to try to break the curse, and you are going to fail, because no one has ever succeeded, and then you are going to run. Just like all the others."
"Tell me what the curse is. Please. Let me help you."
You stared at him for a long, long moment. The candles flickered in their alcoves, their flames guttering in a draft he could not feel. The armor gleamed dully in the shadows, the relics of a hundred men who had stood where he was standing now and made the same promises he was making. Somewhere far away, muffled by stone and distance, the pigs grunted in their enclosure. The men who had failed. The men whose love had not been strong enough.
"My brother exiled me here," you said finally. Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings, as though you had told this story so many times that the words had lost all meaning. "Centuries ago. So long ago that the world I came from does not exist anymore, and when I disobeyed him, when I refused to do what he asked of me, he put a curse on this island as punishment. I cannot leave. No ship will carry me. No boat will bear my weight. If I try to swim, the sea itself will rise up and drag me back to shore. I am bound here, bound to this rock, until the curse is broken or the world ends."
"How do I break it?"
You looked at him, and your eyes were ancient and exhausted and utterly without hope. Jace felt his heart twist. You had been disappointed so many times. You did not believe he could do it.
"There is a cave," you said. "Behind the waterfall on the western cliff. There is a statue inside, a statue of me carved from black stone, wrapped in chains. I cannot enter the cave. It is spelled against me." Your hand rose unconsciously to your neck, as if feeling for the links of a collar that was not there. "If the statue is broken, the curse will be lifted. The chains will fall. I will be free."
"Then I will break it."
"It is not that simple." Your voice was quiet now, almost gentle, and there was something in it that felt like a warning, a kindness, an attempt to protect him from the disappointment you were certain was coming. "Only a man who knows my true nature can destroy the statue. Only a man who has seen what I am, what I have done, every monstrous thing I have committed in my long and miserable existence, and still loves me truly. Not charmed. Not tricked. Not fogged by the magic of this island. Real love. Clear-eyed love. Love that looks at the worst of me and does not flinch." You paused. "If his love is false, if it is only gratitude or loneliness or the lingering effects of my enchantments, the statue will not break. It will not even crack. And I will know. I will know that his love was a lie."
"I am not them," he said.
"You are. You are exactly like them."
"No." He stepped forward and took your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks. "I am not them. I am going to break the curse. I am going to set you free. I am going to take you away from this island and give you the life you deserve. I swear it."
"You cannot promise that."
"I can. I am." He pressed his forehead against yours. "I love you. I know what you are. I know what you have done. And I love you anyway. I love you not despite the worst of you but because of it. Because the worst of you was born from pain, and I want to heal that pain. I want to be the one who finally proves to you that love is real. That you are worthy of it. That you have always been worthy of it."
You let out a sound that was half laugh and half sob. "You are a fool, Jacaerys Velaryon."
"Take me to the cave behind the waterfall," he said. "Let me prove it."
"Alright," you whispered, as if you had expected him to ask. "I will take you. But do not say I did not warn you."
You turned and walked out of the cave, and Jace followed you, his heart pounding and his mind clear and his love for you burning in his chest like a flame that no wind could extinguish. He was going to save you. He was going to be the one. He was going to prove that love was stronger than any curse, stronger than any magic, stronger than centuries of solitude and betrayal.
He had to be the one. The alternative was unthinkable.
—
The walk was silent, you led him along the familiar path, the meadow with its strange flowers swaying in the breeze, the grove of fruit trees with their golden bounty hanging heavy from the branches, the rocky outcropping that overlooked the western shore where the sea stretched out blue and endless and utterly indifferent to what was about to happen. The waterfall was roaring louder than usual, or perhaps it only seemed that way. Perhaps it was the blood pounding in his ears. Perhaps it was the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him like a physical thing, a stone laid across his chest that made every breath feel shallow and insufficient.
You stopped at the edge of the pool, where the water churned white with the endless cascade. Your face was pale. Your hands were shaking at your sides, the fingers twisting together in that nervous gesture he had come to recognize, the one that always made him want to pull you into his arms and promise you that everything would be alright.
"There," you said, pointing, Jace squinted through the spray. Behind the curtain of falling water, barely visible through the silver torrent, was a dark opening in the rock face. A cave mouth, smaller than the one you lived in, half-hidden by the cascade. It looked like something that did not want to be found.
"I cannot enter," you said, and your voice was quiet, almost reverent. "The spell prevents me. The moment I step through the water, I am pushed back. It burns." You wrapped your arms around yourself, your fingers digging into the flesh of your upper arms. The gesture was meant to look vulnerable, meant to make him feel protective. It worked. "You have to go alone."
Jace nodded. He had expected this. Of course he had expected this. The hero always had to face the trial alone. That was how these stories went.
"I will come back," he said.
You did not answer. Your eyes were fixed on the waterfall, dark and terrified, and your lower lip trembled just slightly, just enough for him to notice.
"Hey." He touched your chin, turning your face toward him. Your skin was cold beneath his fingers. "I will come back. I promise."
"Everyone promises." Your voice was barely a whisper, and there was something in it that snagged at his heart like a fishhook. "Everyone who has ever stood on this shore has promised to come back."
"I am not everyone."
He kissed your lips and for just a moment he felt something move beneath the surface. A flicker. A pulse. Something that was not quite human. Then the moment passed, and you were just you again, fragile and frightened and looking at him with those sea-glass eyes that held all the sadness in the world.
He turned away before he could lose his nerve. He dove into the pool, and the water closed over his head like a fist.
The cold was shocking. It was more than cold. It was the absence of warmth, the absence of life, a cold that sank into his bones and wrapped around his heart and squeezed. He surfaced gasping, his breath torn from his lungs in a ragged gasp, and swam toward the waterfall with strong, desperate strokes. The roar grew louder as he approached, a wall of sound that pressed against his eardrums until he could hear nothing else. The spray blinded him, stinging his eyes, filling his mouth with the taste of minerals and stone. The current tried to push him back, tried to shove him away from the cave entrance as if the water itself did not want him to pass.
But he kept swimming. He had promised. He had promised he would come back, he reached the rock face and pulled himself up onto a narrow ledge, slick with moss and running water, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wet stone. The cave entrance yawned before him, dark and silent and somehow hungry, as if the darkness itself was waiting for him to step inside. He looked back once. You were still standing at the edge of the pool, a pale figure in a pale dress, your hands pressed to your mouth. You looked like a ghost. You looked like a memory of someone who had died a long time ago.
Then he turned and walked into the darkness.
—
The cave was small, smaller than he had expected. The passage was short, barely twenty paces, the walls rough and wet beneath his trailing fingers, the floor sloping downward into the heart of the rock. The roar of the waterfall faded behind him, muffled by the stone, until the only sound was the drip of water and the soft scuff of his bare feet on the rock and the steady, insistent pounding of his own heart.
The passage opened into a round chamber no larger than your bedchamber back in the main cave. The walls were smooth and wet, glistening with moisture, catching the light and throwing it back in a thousand tiny reflections. The only illumination came from somewhere above, a thin shaft of daylight that pierced through a crack in the rock and fell in a single golden beam onto the center of the chamber. It was like something out of a sept, that beam of light. It was like the light that fell on an altar, or a tomb, or a place where something sacred had been buried and forgotten.
And in the center of the chamber was the statue.
It was you, smooth and luminous, carved with such skill that it seemed almost alive. The surface of the stone had been polished to a soft gleam, catching the golden light and holding it, and the details were so fine that Jace could see the individual strands of hair. The statue knelt on a stone pedestal, its head bowed in an attitude of submission or prayer, its face frozen in an expression of such profound sorrow that Jace felt his chest tighten just looking at it. The eyes were closed. The lips were slightly parted, as if caught in the middle of a sigh. The shoulders were hunched forward, the spine curved, every line of the body speaking of exhaustion and despair and the weight of an eternity spent alone.
And the hands, the statue's hands were raised in front of its chest, palms facing each other, fingers slightly curled as if holding something invisible. And around those marble wrists, coiled so tightly they seemed to be part of the stone itself, were two snakes.
No. Not snakes. Bracelets. Golden bracelets, each one shaped like a serpent eating its own tail. But the serpents were not connected to each other. They were separate, independent, each one locked around a single wrist, each one devouring itself in an endless cycle of consumption and renewal. Their golden eyes gleamed in the shaft of daylight, bright and watchful and aware. Their scales were so finely detailed that Jace could count every one, each scale overlapping the next in perfect, reptilian precision. Their jaws were clamped tight around their own tails, and their bodies were wound around the marble wrists in coils that looked tight enough to bruise.
They were not chains. Not exactly. They were something worse. They were a trap that could not be escaped because there was nothing to break. The snakes held her wrists, and her wrists held the snakes, and neither could let go, and the whole thing was a perfect, closed loop of imprisonment that had no beginning and no end.
Jace stood in the darkness at the edge of the chamber, staring at the statue. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. His hands were slick with water and sweat. The marble figure knelt in its beam of light, motionless and patient, and the golden snakes watched him with their glittering eyes, and the silence was so complete that he could hear the blood rushing through his own veins.
He bent down and picked up a rock from the floor of the cave. It was heavy, sharp-edged, big enough to do damage. He turned it over in his hands, testing its weight, feeling the rough edges bite into his palm. Break the statue. Break the curse. Simple. You had told him what to do. You had told him it was simple.
He took a step toward the pedestal.
"Are you quite certain about this?"
Jace froze, the voice was male. Low and smooth and echoing, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It bounced off the wet stone walls, slid through the darkness, coiled around him like smoke, like water, like something that had been waiting in the shadows for a very long time. It was not a human voice. It was too resonant for that, too layered, as if many voices were speaking at once in perfect, dissonant harmony.
"Who is there?" Jace demanded. His voice sounded too loud in the silence, too harsh, too frightened. He hated how frightened he sounded.
No answer. Just the dripping of water. The distant, muffled roar of the falls.
"You should think very carefully before you do something you will regret for the rest of your life. Which, I should warn you, may not be very long."
Jace spun around, the rock raised like a weapon. The chamber was empty. The passage behind him was empty. The shadows pressed against the walls, still and silent and utterly unoccupied.
"I said who is there?"
"A friend." The voice was almost gentle now, almost kind. It was the voice of a father speaking to a wayward son, a mentor guiding a confused student. "Someone who does not want to see you make a mistake you cannot undo. Someone who has watched this same scene play out more times than I can count, and who is very, very tired of seeing young men throw their lives away."
Jace's grip tightened on the rock. The edges cut into his palm, grounding him. "Show yourself."
"I cannot. I am not really here. I am just a voice in the dark. A warning. A kindness, if you will let me be." The voice paused, and when it spoke again, it was softer. Sadder. "I am the only person on this island who is actually trying to help you, Jacaerys."
"Don't listen to it," Jace muttered to himself. He turned back toward the statue. "It's just another part of the curse. It's trying to stop you. She said there would be things trying to stop you."
"Is that what she told you?" The voice sounded amused now, deeply and darkly amused. "That the curse is the villain? That she is the victim? How very convenient for her. How very convenient that she has a story that makes her the helpless damsel and everyone else the monster. She tells that story very well. She has had centuries of practice."
Jace ignored it. He stepped closer to the pedestal. The marble woman knelt in her beam of light, motionless and sorrowful. The golden snakes glinted.
"She is very beautiful, isn't she?" the voice continued, and now it was almost conversational, almost casual, as if they were two old friends discussing the weather. "Of course she is. She's had centuries to perfect the act. The dresses. The smiles. The way she looks at you like you are the only man in the world, like you are the answer to every prayer she has ever whispered into the darkness. It is all very convincing. It is meant to be. She has been refining it for longer than your entire bloodline has existed."
"You do not know anything about her."
"I know everything about her." The voice was sharper now, the amusement draining away to reveal something harder underneath. "I know what she is. I know what she has done. I know how many men have stood exactly where you are standing now, holding a rock just like that one, thinking they were going to be the one. The special one. The one whose love was strong enough." A pause, heavy with meaning. "Do you know how many of them succeeded?"
Jace did not answer.
"None. Not one. In all the centuries she has been trapped on this island, not a single man has broken that statue. Do you know why? Because it cannot be broken. It is a trap. It is the bait, and you are the fish, and you are swimming toward it with your mouth wide open."
"You are lying." Jace's voice was shaking now. He hated that it was shaking. "You are just another part of the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."
"I am trying to stop you from destroying yourself." The voice was closer now, seeming to come from just behind his left shoulder. He spun around, but there was nothing there. Only shadows. Only the dripping of water. "Let me ask you something, Jacaerys. Can you remember your mother's name?"
He opened his mouth but nothing came out, the name was gone. It had been there a moment ago, he was sure of it. He could see her face, silver hair and sad eyes, could feel the shape of her in his memory. But the name, the name would not come.
"Your brothers," the voice continued, relentless and calm. "How many brothers do you have? What are their names?"
"I have brothers. I know I have brothers." His voice sounded desperate, even to his own ears. "Luke-Lucerys. And the others. The little ones."
"You are reciting words. You are not remembering. She has taken them from you, piece by piece, day by day. She has been stealing your memories since the moment you arrived. The food she feeds you. The wine she pours you. The herbs she puts in your medicine. They do not just heal your wounds. They erase you. They hollow you out. They make room for her."
Jace's mind was blank. Empty. There was nothing there but fog, thick and white and impenetrable, where his memories should have been.
"She has taken them from you," the voice said, and now it was almost gentle again, almost pitying. "Piece by piece. Day by day. Every moment you spend in her presence, she is stealing more of who you are. Your family. Your home. Your past. Your very self. And you call that love? You think that is what love looks like?"
"She saved my life."
"She kept you alive because she needed you. There is a difference. She needs a man to break the curse. She always needs a man to break the curse. That is how it works. That is how it has always worked. She lures them in with her beauty and her vulnerability and her sad, sad story, and she makes them love her, and then she sends them here to die. Because no one can break the curse. No one. The statue does not break. It has never broken. And when the man fails, when he realizes his love is not strong enough, she has her excuse. She was right all along. No one really loves her. So she turns them into pigs and waits for the next shipwreck, the next castaway, the next fool who will believe her lies."
He kept going "You think that is love?" The voice laughed, a soft and pitying laugh. "You think a woman who erases your past and steals your future and traps you on an island where you can never leave loves you? You think any of this is real?"
"I love her." Jace's voice cracked. "I know I love her. That is real. Whatever else she has done, my love for her is real."
"Oh, it feels real. I am sure it does. But do you know why it feels real?" The voice paused, letting the question hang in the darkness. "Because she makes it feel real. That is what she does. That is what the magic does. It wraps around your mind and makes you think you are feeling something true. But it is not true, Jacaerys. It is a trick. A trap. You have been ensnared since the moment you opened your eyes in that candlelit room and saw her kneeling beside your bed like a worried bride."
Jace's arm was lowering. The rock felt heavier now, so heavy he could barely hold it. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.
"She told me you would say things like this," he said, but his voice was weak. Uncertain. "She told me the curse would try to stop me. She warned me there would be voices."
"The curse is not stopping you. I am not the curse. I am the only thing standing between you and an eternity of rooting in the dirt with all the other men who believed her lies." The voice was right next to his ear now, so close he could feel the cold breath of it against his skin. "Do you want to know the real story, Jacaerys? Do you want to know who she really is?"
He did not answer. He did not want to know. He wanted to cover his ears and run back through the waterfall and hold you in his arms and forget this voice had ever spoken to him. But his feet would not move. His body would not obey him.
"She is not a victim," the voice whispered. "She is not a lonely woman trapped by a cruel brother. That is a story she invented centuries ago because it makes men feel protective. It makes them feel noble. It makes them want to save her. The truth is much simpler, and much uglier. She is a goddess, a thing that was worshipped before your ancestors crawled out of the mud. And she was imprisoned here not as punishment, but as containment. Because she is dangerous. Because she feeds on devotion the way a spider feeds on flies."
"You are lying."
"Am I? If you break that statue," the voice said, "she will be free. And the moment she is free, she will have no more use for you. Her love for you, such as it is, will vanish. It is not real love, Jacaerys. It is bait. It is a lure. It is the promise of everything you have ever wanted, dangled in front of you to make you do what she needs. And once you have done it, once you have served your purpose, she will discard you like all the others."
"Stop." Jace's voice cracked on the word.
"That is the part she did not tell you, is it not? She did not tell you that her love is conditional. She did not tell you that it lasts only as long as she is trapped. The moment she is free, the magic breaks both ways. The chains fall from her wrists, and her love for you falls with them."
"You are lying." Jace's voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the distant roar of the waterfall. "You are the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."
"She told every man before you the exact same story. Word for word. The cruel brother. The lonely exile. The curse that can only be broken by true love. She told it to the knight in rusted armor whose bones are rotting in that cave. She told it to the merchant captain whose shield is propped against the wall. And you are just the latest audience."
"Stop."
"She does not love you. She cannot love you. She is not capable of love. She is capable of hunger, and she calls it love because that is what makes men stay. But it is not love. It has never been love. It is just need. Just appetite. Just the endless, grinding loneliness of a creature that consumes everything it touches and is still never full."
Jace opened his eyes. The statue knelt in its beam of light. The golden snakes watched him with their glittering, knowing eyes. The marble face was frozen in its expression of eternal sorrow.
What if the voice was right?
What if none of it was real?
What if he broke the statue, and your love disappeared, and he spent the rest of his life chasing a ghost?
What if he was just the next fool in line?
"Go back," the voice whispered. "Go back to the beach. Build your boat. Leave this place while you still can. While you still remember enough of yourself to want to leave. She will try to stop you. She will cry and plead and tell you she loves you. But it will be a lie. It has always been a lie. Go back, Jacaerys. Go home. Save yourself."
—
You had been waiting for hours. You stood at the edge of the pool, your bare feet sinking into the damp sand, your eyes fixed on the curtain of falling water. The roar of the waterfall filled your ears until you could hear nothing else, but you were listening for something beneath the roar. A shout. A crash. The sound of stone breaking. The sound of a man drowning.
Anything. Please, anything.
Jace surfaced at the edge of the pool, gasping, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his skin slick with water and gleaming in the sunlight. He pulled himself onto the sand, his chest heaving, his arms trembling with exhaustion, and for a moment he just knelt there on his hands and knees, catching his breath, water streaming from his body in rivulets. You just stared at him, searching his face for some sign of what had happened, some clue in the set of his jaw or the light in his eyes. Was the curse broken? Had he succeeded? Had he been the one, the only one, the man whose love was finally strong enough?
"I did it," he said, and his voice was warm and triumphant and full of a joy you had never heard from him before. "I broke the curse."
You stumbled forward, your legs barely supporting you, your hands reaching for him before your mind had fully registered what he had said. "You—you did? It is broken? I am free?"
"You are free." He rose to his feet, still smiling, and opened his arms to you. "You are free, Y/N. We can leave. Together. Just like I promised."
A sob tore from your throat, raw and jagged and utterly involuntary. You threw yourself into his arms, your body shaking, tears streaming down your face in hot, messy rivulets. He caught you and held you tight, his hands warm on your back, his lips pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, your cheek, his voice murmuring reassurances that you could barely hear over the pounding of your own heart.
"I love you," you gasped, the words tumbling out between sobs, unstoppable, irrepressible. "I love you, I love you, I love you—"
"I love you too." His voice was soft. Tender. Everything you had ever wanted to hear. "I told you I would save you. I told you I was different. I told you I was not like the others."
He kissed you, it was a deep kiss, a passionate kiss, the kind of kiss that spoke of relief and joy and a future finally within reach. You melted into him, your body pressing against his, your hands sliding up his chest, his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his wet hair. The waterfall roared behind you, but it sounded different now, less like a threat and more like applause. The sun was warm on your skin, warmer than it had ever been. You were free. You were finally, impossibly free. After centuries of solitude, centuries of hoping and losing and hoping again, someone had finally loved you enough.
You did not notice anything until you felt the cold metal snap shut against your skin, you tore away from him, stumbling backward, your hand flying to your wrist. Something was there. Something heavy and cold and horribly, sickeningly familiar. You looked down, and the world stopped.
A golden snake. Coiled around your forearm, its tail clamped in its own jaws, its scales gleaming in the sunlight with a wet, organic sheen. Its eyes were bright and watchful and alive. It was warm against your skin, warm like something that had a heartbeat, warm like something that was feeding.
Identical to the ones in the cave. Identical to the ones that had bound the statue for centuries, the statue that was supposed to be destroyed, the statue that he had told you he had broken.
But the statue was not destroyed. You knew that now with a cold, creeping certainty. He had not broken it. He had done something else. Something worse.
"What—" Your voice came out strangled, barely a whisper, the words catching in your throat like bones. "What is this?"
Jace was still standing by the water's edge. His smile was gone. His face had changed, shifted into something you did not recognize. The warmth in his eyes had drained away, replaced by something flat and cold and terribly, terribly calm. He looked at you the way a scholar might look at a pinned insect, curious and detached and utterly without feeling.
He raised his own arm.
The matching snake was coiled around his wrist. Twin to yours. Identical in every detail, from the curve of the scales to the glint of the golden eyes. Linked by nothing visible. Linked all the same. You could feel it, the connection between them, an invisible chain that stretched from your wrist to his and bound you together tighter than any iron ever could.
"I could not break the curse," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The voice of a man who had made a decision and was at peace with it. "The statue would not break. I struck it with the rock, and the rock shattered. I struck it with my fists, and my knuckles bled. I threw myself against it, and it did not even crack." He paused, his dark eyes fixed on yours, unblinking. "The voice, your brother, he told me the truth. He told me what you really are. He told me what you have done. He told me what you would do to me the moment you were free."
"No." You shook your head, backing away from him. Your wrist was burning where the snake touched your skin, a cold fire that spread up your arm and into your chest. "No, Jace, whatever he told you, it is a lie. It is always a lie. He is trying to trap you, he is trying to turn you against me—"
"Is it a lie?" He tilted his head, regarding you with that terrible calm. "He told me the curse made me love you. He told me you have been feeding on my devotion since the moment I opened my eyes. He told me you would leave me the instant you were free."
"That is not true!" You were screaming now, your voice raw and cracking. "I love you! I have never loved anyone the way I love you! You have to believe me!"
"Then why can I not remember my mother's name?" His voice cracked on the word mother, just slightly, and beneath the coldness you saw something flicker. Something wounded. Something that still hurt. "Why can I not remember my brothers' faces? Why did I wake up this morning and realize that I could not recall the sound of my father's voice, or the color of my brother's eyes, or the name of the dragon I rode into battle? You took everything from me. Everything I was. Everything I loved. You hollowed me out and filled me with yourself, and you expected me to believe it was love?"
"I did not mean to!" You were sobbing now, the tears hot and bitter on your cheeks. "I did not want to take your memories, i loved you so much i did not want you to leave me."
"You loved being loved." His voice was flat. Final. "There is a difference."
You stared at him. Your chest was heaving. Your wrist was throbbing, the golden snake pulsing against your skin like a second heartbeat. You could feel it now, the thing that bound you together. It was not just a chain. It was a tether. A leash.
"The statue forced you to have a physical body," Jace said, and his voice had shifted again, becoming almost conversational. Almost pleasant. "You are not mortal. You are not human something that was bound to this island and trapped in the stone. The chains kept you here. The statue kept you solid. Touchable. Real." He paused. "Without the statue, you would have no body. You would be nothing but mist and memory. Is that not what your brother wanted? To keep you contained? To keep you in a form that could touch and taste and take?"
You did not answer. You could not answer. Your throat had closed around the words.
"I could not break the curse," Jace said, and he took a step toward you, his bare feet silent on the sand. "I could not destroy the statue. But I could transfer it. I could take the chains off the stone and put them onto something else. Something living. Something that could carry them." He raised his arm again, showing you the snake coiled around his wrist, and his smile returned. It was not a kind smile. "You are not bound to the island anymore. You are bound to me."
The world tilted. The roar of the waterfall seemed to fade, replaced by a high, thin ringing in your ears. The sun was too bright. The sand was too soft. The golden snake was too warm against your skin.
"You—" Your voice would not work. "You did not—"
"I did." He was still calm. Still cold. Still looking at you with those eyes that used to be so full of love. "The voice told me it was the only way. The only way to make sure you could not leave me. The only way to make sure your love was real. The only way to be certain that when I woke up tomorrow, you would still be there, and the day after that, and the day after that."
"You trapped me."
He laughed. It was a soft laugh, a quiet laugh, but there was nothing warm in it. "I freed you. You can leave the island now. The chains that bound you to this rock are gone. You can walk onto a ship and sail away and see the world again. Is that not what you wanted? Is that not what you have been begging me for since the moment we met?"
"You bound me to you!"
"And you bound me to you first." His voice sharpened, the calm cracking for just a moment to reveal the fury underneath. "You made me love you. You made me forget my own mother's name. You drugged my food and whispered in my ear and wrapped yourself around my mind so tightly I could not tell where you ended and I began. You trapped me on this island long before I ever trapped you. The only difference is that my chains were made of kisses and lies, and yours are made of gold."
"I loved you!" The words tore from your throat, raw and ragged. "I loved you! Everything I did, I did because I loved you!"
"You made me forget my mother's name," he said again, and his voice was quieter now, almost sad. "Do you understand what that means? Do you understand what you took from me? She is out there somewhere, fighting a war, grieving a son she believes is dead, and I cannot remember her name. I cannot remember her face. I know I love her. I know I owe her everything. But when I try to picture her, there is nothing there. Just fog. Just you."
You opened your mouth, but no words came. What could you possibly say? What defense could you offer that would not sound hollow and selfish and monstrous?
"You stole my memories and drugged my food and lied to me for months," Jace continued, and now he was walking toward you, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. "You let me believe I was going home. You let me build a boat I was never going to finish. You let me dream of a future that did not exist. And when I found out the truth, when I confronted you in that cave full of dead men's armor, what did you do? Did you apologize? Did you offer to help me leave? No. You cried. You made yourself the victim. You told me how lonely you were, how sad you were, how much you had suffered. You made me comfort you. You made me feel guilty for discovering your lies."
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, close enough that you could see the pulse beating in his throat. "And I did feel guilty," he said. "I felt so guilty that I almost forgot what you had done. I almost let myself believe that you were the victim. That I was the one who had wronged you by wanting to go home. That is how good you are at this. That is how deep your hooks go."
"Please." Your voice was barely a whisper now. "Please, Jace, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I only wanted to be loved. I only wanted—"
"I know what you wanted." He reached up and touched your face, his fingers gentle against your tear-streaked cheek. The gesture was almost tender. Almost loving. It made your skin crawl. "You wanted someone to stay. You wanted someone to choose you. And now someone has. I have chosen you. I have chosen you over my family, over my throne, over my memories, over everything I ever was. I have given up my entire life to be with you. Are you not happy? Is this not what you wanted?"
"You have made me your prisoner."
"I have made you my equal." His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. "We are connected now. Bound together. What happens to one of us happens to the other. If you leave, I will feel it. If you try to run, I will know. And if you try to hurt me—" He shrugged. "The snakes will not let you. They protect what they hold. That is what the voice told me."
"The voice. He told you to do this?"
"He gave me a choice. Break the statue, free you, and watch you leave me the moment we set foot on the mainland. Or bind you to me, keep you close, and never wonder again whether your love was real." His smile returned, and it was the saddest smile you had ever seen. "It was not a difficult choice. I love you. I cannot lose you. So I made sure I would never have to."
You stared at him. The man you loved. The man who had just destroyed you. The man who had looked at your chains and decided to put them on himself rather than break them, because he could not bear the thought of you walking free.
"This is not love," you whispered. "This is possession."
"Is there a difference?" He tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering. "You tell me. You have been doing this for centuries. You tell me where love ends and possession begins. You tell me whether what you felt for me was really love, or just the desperate hunger of a lonely creature who needed someone, anyone, to fill the void. You tell me whether I am any different from you, or whether I am just the first man who was willing to sink to your level."
You opened your mouth. Closed it. The words would not come.
"Exactly," Jace said. "You cannot tell me. Because you do not know either. Because you have been confusing love and hunger for so long that you cannot tell them apart anymore. And now I am the same. You have made me the same." He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. "We are equals now. Partners. Two monsters bound together for eternity. Is that not romantic? Is that not what you always wanted? Someone who would never leave you, never abandon you, never choose anything over you?"
"You are insane," you breathed.
"I am what you made me." He pulled back and looked into your eyes, and his expression was unreadable. "You wanted me to stay. I am staying. You wanted me to love you. I love you. You wanted me to be different from the others. I am different. I am the one who did not run. I am the one who looked at the chains and chose to wear them. I am the one who gave up everything to be with you." He cupped your face in both hands, gentle and terrible and utterly inescapable. "Why are you not happy? If you really loved me, you would be happy. This is what you wanted. This is what you have been asking for since the moment we met. Someone who would stay. Someone who would choose you. Someone who would never leave."
He kissed your forehead, and his lips were warm, and the golden snake pulsed against your wrist like a second heart.
"I am going to build us a boat," he said. "A real one this time. One that can carry us both back to Westeros. And you are going to meet my mother, and I am going to take back my throne, and you are going to be my queen. Just like I promised. Just like we planned. The only difference is that now I know you will not leave me. Now I know your love is real. Because it has to be. Because you have no choice." He pulled back and smiled, and his smile was beautiful and broken and utterly terrifying. "You are free now, Y/N. Free from the island. Free from your brother's curse. Free from the statue and the chains and the centuries of solitude. You can go anywhere you want. You can do anything you want. The whole world is open to you." He took your hand, the one with the golden snake coiled around the wrist, and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. "As long as you never leave my side."
You looked down at the snake. At his hand holding yours. At the invisible chain that stretched between you, unbreakable and eternal.
summary: when the prince of dragonstone visits the north on a diplomatic mission, you begin to notice just how close he and your husband are. the last thing you expect is for him to set his sights on you, and for your husband to be content to let him see.
warnings (mostly in order of appearance): afab!reader, Mallister!reader, canon divergence (no dance, but it comes kind of close), discrimination? (reader is looked down on for not being northern), consumption of alcohol, canon typical views of gender and sexuality, sexual tension, piv sex, fingering, descriptions of m/m, implied emotional affair/leftover feelings between cregan and jace (reader isn’t super jealous and is MOSTLY into it), wet dreams, exhibitionism/voyeurism, threesomes, hot springs sex, dry humping, minor angst as a result of miscommunications (cregan is VERY emotionally repressed and has a hard time vocalizing his feelings as a result), oral sex, cucking, cunnilingus, implied gender envy (jace and reader), three way kissing (challengers style!!), m/m/f, blowjobs, sloppy seconds, perfume oil as lube, anal fingering, anal sex, cum eating, dom!cregan, switch!reader, switch!jace, top!cregan, bottom!jace
word count: 29.6k. don't ask me how.
a/n: alexa, play i want my boyfriends to kiss by ashnikko.
Matters of business and pleasure, Cregan had told you. Diplomacy.
Diplomacy was why Queen Rhaenyra was sending her eldest son to the North for a diplomatic tour on behalf of the crown. Her son, beloved in the North, by virtue of his friendship with your husband.
You had always known of the pair’s close bond. Years ago, when the continent was on the brink of war, Jacaerys had flown to Winterfell in hopes of reinforcing Cregan’s oath to his mother. He had hunted with Cregan and they had exchanged tales of boyhood. They had bonded so fiercely that they had made a blood oath. When Jace left, and the world remained right side up, so did their bond.
You had wed Cregan a year after, and came to know only of his dear Jace in the form of their correspondences and a scar across Cregan’s left palm. It was endearing, to hear your husband speak so gently of his friend.
Cregan had been made a man far too soon, in your mind. His tumultuous rise to lordship had yanked him out of being a boy straight into the world of harsh, emotionless Northern men, and had hardened him similarly. You hadn’t seen him smile–truly smile–until 3 months into your marriage.
But as Jacaerys dismounted Vermax, and strode towards the small crowd of bannermen and servants gathered to greet him, you watched your husband light up. Cregan—who usually demonstrated as much emotion as a wet woolen sock left to freeze solid in the snow—had grinned like a boy, embraced his old friend in a tight bear hug.
And then the prince turned to you.
His eyes passed you up and down, in a moment that felt both too slow for comfort and too fast to savor. His brow twitched, and then he glanced briefly at Cregan. The expression wasn’t doubt, nor critique. You wouldn’t come to understand the emotion in his gaze until later in his visit.
“Lady Stark,” He said gently, “How lovely it is to at last meet the woman who has warmed my dear friend’s frozen heart.”
He took your gloved hand in his. His gaze didn’t break from yours as he pressed a dedicated kiss to the leather.
“Prince Jacaerys,” You answered, curtsying, “I could say the same to you. You were there first, after all.”
Genuinely, there had been no jealousy in your reply. How could there be? You loved Cregan as he was, but knew few loved Cregan instead of Lord Stark of Winterfell. Anyone else who saw into the window of Cregan’s soul was a dear friend of yours, no questions asked.
“Please, my lady,” He insisted, “Call me Jace. All of my friends do.”
WEEK ONE.
You noticed the intricacies of their dynamic almost immediately. It was not necessarily hard to miss, not even for the feeblest of minds. Anyone who had spent an hour in the presence of Cregan Stark knew he was a man of few words, with a disposition as icy as his homeland. There were very few things that brought him joy, and even fewer that brought him visible joy.
Jacaerys was one of those things. At his welcome feast, your husband had sat at the front of the room, you at his left, your guest of honor on his right. Feasts were only your strong suit in the planning stage. You ran the household in a highly organized manner and had mobilized the entire castle in preparing for Jacaerys’ welcome. Once the event came, however, you were happy to fade into the background. You were sure others would be happy too.
Tonight, all eyes would be on your visitor. To honor the occasion, you had worn one of your finer gowns for the affair—a warm, heavy silver gown with deep purple embroidery, displaying the joined colors of yours and your husband’s houses.
It was no surprise to you that the prince was happy to lap this attention up. He was heir to the Iron Throne, of course. He had been primed for all eyes pinned on him since birth. He radiated light—a light so bright it was contagious, transmittable only to your husband.
In the two years of your marriage, you had learned one thing: smiling was rare. It was rare between the two of you, but the absence of a smile did not mean he was displeased with you–a trait you had struggled to cope with in the early days of your union. Cregan was naturally stoic and spent most of his time preoccupied with matters of state and the Wall. His brow and lip were always turned downwards. The weight of responsibility made it hard to do otherwise.
When he smiled, it was small, or it was the consequence of a gentle laugh. It happened most often when he was tired, when he had just woken up, when he was sated, or when he was full of love. They rarely lasted. He would fall asleep or get up, and you would be left trying hopelessly to render the moment immobile.
Smiling from Cregan was rarest in front of everyone. He was a master of composure, born from years of projecting security and worthiness of his claim to be Lord of Winterfell. Jokes did nothing. He did not sing songs with the rest of his men. Cups loosened his shoulders, but not his lips. Not until after he was back in your bedchamber.
And yet, when he stood to make a toast, he smiled graciously. A hush fell over the room as he loomed over the guests of the hall. An unexpected sight indeed.
Some would suspect flattery—but this was Winterfell, not Highgarden. Northerners were hardly men of lip service. Others would suspect graciousness—no, Cregan Stark did not need to flatter his guest, but he did need to show the Prince of Dragonstone that he was welcome in the North.
That would leave only honest, unabashed happiness. From Cregan Stark. Warden of the North. Something few expected. And while you knew the prince was one of your husband’s favorite people, you couldn’t have expected that he would be smiling at his welcome feast during his toast.
“To all gathered here tonight,” Cregan’s voice boomed across the hall, “Let us all raise a toast to our prince, and to his mother. Treat him as you would your fellow Northerner in these coming weeks. Drink, eat, rejoice. Long live the queen!”
“Long live the queen!”
Cups were raised to the future king and his mother. Ensuing cups were filled, and refilled. Once he sat down, Cregan seemed content to sit between his wife and his prince and let them lead the conversation. Jacaerys was incredibly easy to speak to. He regaled you with tales of his correspondence with Cregan, life on Dragonstone, his childhood in the Red Keep. Every now and then, Cregan would interject, with a comment, a rebuttal, or an inside joke, which would send Jace into fits of laughter, especially as the prince sank deeper and deeper into his cups.
Cregan and you continued drinking too, albeit Cregan handled his wine far better than you and Jace. Not that he was impossible to sink. You could see his eyelids growing heavy, his shoulders dropping the tension, his body settling into his chair as the night progressed. Your laughter grew higher in pitch and frequency. The hall was warm and welcoming, something rarely felt this intensely in your home. While you had grown to love Winterfell over the past few years, you knew that its doors opened this widely for a very precious few. This was a welcome that had to be earned.
The party remained lively. The singers took up a spot in a far corner of the room, and the men took women into their arms to prance about the open space.
“Do you indulge Lady Y/N in dance at these feasts often, Cregan?” Jacaerys asked, and you stifled a laugh.
“He would sooner take the black,” You joked, “And besides, Cregan is a fine warrior, but a terrible dancer.”
Cregan raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “I’m glad you find this insufficiency of mine humorous, wife,” He conceded, before looking at Jacaerys, “I seem to recall you are fond of dancing.”
You smiled, looking at the prince gleefully. “You dance?”
He bobbed his head up and down, noncommittal in his answer. “I wouldn’t call myself a dancer, necessarily. I’ve learned the dances at court.” His expression turned smug. “I am certainly more capable than he is.”
Cregan scoffed, shaking his head. “I should have pledged for Aegon. Look at how you repay me.”
You stiffened at Cregan’s remark, only to relax when Jace burst out laughing. Cregan’s eyes were warm. Swallowing down your nervousness, your gaze flickered between them both. The Year of Tension—the final year of the late King Viserys’s life, and the two moons following his death where the realm teetered between peace and war—had been three years past now. Many still grew awkward when discussing the crisis of succession. Evidently, not Jace, who scoffed right back at your husband.
“And then what?” Jace quipped, “Vermax was right there. We would have made you the warmest Northerner in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.”
The prince moved his eyes back to you. “Come, my lady,” He said, standing and extending a hand, “If my friend will not indulge you in a dance before the night is over, then the pleasure shall be mine.”
You looked at his hand, and recognized a scar matching your husband’s. He led you to the dance floor, with no protests from Cregan. He seemed to watch you both with a deep interest. Jace faced you, and allowed you to come to him. One hand placed itself on his shoulder, and when you lifted your palm, he brought his to yours. A moment later, his hand landed on your waist, a gracious and polite distance between you both. A moment later, the music began.
“Are you happy to be back in the North?” You asked, beginning to move in tandem with him. Jace smiled.
“I am. It is an honor to be received in such a way, especially as an outsider.”
He said outsider the way most Northerners said it. Like an insult.
“You understand, yes?”
Shrugging as best as you could amidst the dance, you had to agree. “Many had their doubts when I wed Cregan. That the only woman suitable for Cregan Stark could be one bred by the North. Some were particularly vocal. To some, I’m a Northerner now. I’ve slowly started to think of myself as a Northerner. My children will be Northerners someday, and I will die in the North, most like.”
You paused, thinking about the friction you still came face to face with. “But some will always consider me to be an outsider. It can be admirable, I suppose. How united they are. Gods know they could use the unity down in the Riverlands.”
“Do you miss it?” He asked, breaking eye contact briefly to eye his feet. “Cregan told me you kept the Seven after your marriage. I imagine it must get lonely.”
“It can be.” You did the same, looking down at where your feet fit in between his as the dance continued. “But I am grateful. Many a husband would have demanded I take their gods instead. Not only did he welcome me to keep mine, but he has repurposed use a room in the southern wing of the castle as a room of worship. My own personal sept, if you will.”
“Do you keep a septon?”
“No,” You replied, almost sad, “There are few willing to make the long journey, only fewer wishing to preach to only one. Some visit, and stay for some moons. Not many.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Jace nodded affirmingly. “I can see to it personally that one be stationed here at Winterfell, if you would like.”
Immediately, you shook your head. “This is the North,” You said resolutely, “Ultimately, I must respect their customs. The servants in the castle are wary of the septons when they visit—they are wont to preach. I’m sure you know.”
He chuckled. “Oh, I do. My brother Lucerys and I were often on the receiving end of the preaching, when we were boys in the Red Keep.”
You smiled at the newfound warmth on his face, different from the happiness at being in Winterfell. A vicarious pride, happy to gush about his family. “How is your brother?”
Jace beamed, ever the proud eldest son. “Luke is well, thank you for asking. He’s soon to be seven and ten, and is likely a constant in the hearts of the young ladies at court. He spends most of his days out on the Velaryon fleet with our grandsire and has become adept at sailing.”
“A true Velaryon, indeed. You must be proud of the man he’s become.” You smiled, “I’m sure he will one day make a grand Lord of the Tides.”
“I agree, and I am proud, as any eldest brother can be. Extremely so,” Jace said wholeheartedly.
The music swelled. He knew the steps of this dance well, it seemed, and suddenly you seemed inclined to believe he had downplayed his proficiency. He spun you with one hand and grabbed your other hand mid-spin. The two of you were now facing the same direction, Jace guiding you with his hands on yours.
You looked up, focusing back on Cregan. He was watching you both lazily, one hand around the goblet. Gray eyes shifted ever so slightly, and you knew he was locking eyes with you. He clenched his jaw. Your breath hitched, fighting to maintain your composure and remember the steps to the dance.
I adore you, you wanted to call from across the room, keep looking at me like that and it will kill me from want, and I will die the happiest woman in the world.
Jace let go of your hand, finishing the spin, returning to the beginning of the sequence of steps. He had yet to stumble or hesitate. When he pulled you back in, it was closer now. He exhaled, and you felt it on your cheeks.
“You are exceedingly humble, my prince,” You sighed, looking up at him, “You are extremely graceful.”
He hummed, hand landing back on your waist. “You are too kind, Lady Y/N. Besides, someone has to dance with you, yes?”
A giggle fell from your lips. “You say that as if it is the ultimate tell of a marriage—whether a husband will dance with his wife.”
“Not necessarily.” Jace shook his head. He spun you around again, and when you saw his face next, he too was looking at Cregan. “As long as you are suited to each other’s company. As long as his character fits yours—which by the sound of his letters, they do.”
You blinked, watching him watch your husband. He seemed oddly transfixed. “We are quite happy. A-after two years…”
You craned your neck, searching for your husband. Cregan was still watching. This time, however, his gray eyes held just above you, over you.
He was watching Jace. And when you looked back at Jace, he was holding his gaze firm. Subtly, his hand tightened against your waist. You hardly noticed, until you began to slow as the music calmed.
“...I believe we understand each other quite well.”
The music ended moments later. The couples around you came to a stop, and when the applause began, Jace finally looked back at you. He smiled, but his eyes were unreadable.
“It brings me much joy, that you and my friend have a happy marriage. You are very lucky.”
“Thank you, my prince.”
He led you back to the table, and the three of you retook your previous conversation. Cregan had drained another cup by then, a servant stopping by to refill it as you and Jace sat back down. When you sat, his neck craned to stare deeply at you. His gray eyes shone in the candlelight, pupils wide and dilated. You could feel your heart skip a beat, waiting for him to say something.
“Yes?” You asked. He shook his head, raking up and down your figure.
“Nothing, pet.”
He did this often. Staring just to stare. The closest thing to adoration he would allow himself in front of others. Any man could look at his wife. None of them could look at you the way Cregan did. A profound longing, soliloquizing with a silvery stare all the things he could never bring himself to say out loud.
The conversation picked back up, at Jace’s insistence. You tried your best to continue, to remain active in the conversation, but it was the point of the night where Cregan’s intentions were beginning to bleed through, thanks to the drink.
The most telling of all was when Cregan’s hand moved past his plate, past his cup, beginning to inch towards yours, and by the gods—this tactic of his never failed to hit you like a young maiden.
How ridiculous it seemed, that he could exert such power over you. His hands rarely ever touched yours on nights like these. He would make a game of drawing his hand near and pulling away before he could ever actually touch you. Coming close and inching away, like waves lapping at the side of a ship.
You’d never have taken Cregan for a tease, when you first married. And you supposed, in a way, he wasn’t truly. Not in the original sense of the word. You rarely had to tell him off, rarely had to shove sneaky hands away. He didn’t grab at you in front of his advisors, for which you were grateful. But small things like these, in a hallway or at supper…
The unfairly tantalizing push and pull of something as miniscule as whether or not he would touch your hand. A side glance without actually turning his head, one with hooded eyes from either the drink or the suggestion of something more, once he had you all to himself. Anything more than touching was always relegated to the bedchamber.
No, Cregan’s teasing lied mostly in the negative, the promise of more without ever even giving anything in the first place. Not until the only eyes placed upon you were his own. He loved these things, how he could see your pupils dilate or your breath catch. And when the time finally came, when his hands found their way between your legs, he loved the evidence of just how much he affected you.
Where they found themselves inevitably, at the end of the night. Once the lords and ladies had sung their goodnights to the three of you and welcomed Jacaerys back to the North. Cregan had led you up the stairs with a hand at the small of your back and had pressed you up against the door of the bedchamber the second it closed behind you.
Nights with your husband tended to reveal his more brutish nature and true strength, hidden beneath layers of furs. He could be loving and tender every now and again. But often, Cregan seemed to need to prove himself worthy of the Stark name. A wolfish nature would emerge on nights like tonight. Bite marks on your shoulders, breasts, hips.
Even then, he was rougher than usual tonight. You never complained. Not when he drove himself into you with a force that pushed the air from your lungs, using rough hands to push your thighs up to your chest, and slot himself between them. Not when he took a thumb to your pearl and swirled it in circles until you sang so beautifully for him. Not when he bent down to press a bruising kiss to your mouth, giving you a moment to recover before he parted and asked for “just one more, my girl. Let your husband show you how much he loves you.”
When he spilled in you finally, and lay his head on your chest, you racked what was left of your mind to wonder what may have triggered an appearance from the wolf. Whenever he was challenged, he liked to take it out on you. Whether the challenge had been issued by one of his advisors during council gatherings, a lesser lord at an audience, or by you during an argument, Cregan seemed to revel in using your body as an outlet to release his frustrations.
But who had challenged him that night? Everyone had smiled at him all night long, especially with his guest of honor at his side. There were no attempts to provoke him, not in front of Jacaerys.
Which left Jacaerys himself. Jacaerys, who landed just outside of Winterfell atop a hulking bright green dragon, who had temporarily displaced your husband from his pedestal of most important man of the room. You furrowed your eyebrows as you stroked Cregan’s sweaty hair.
“I had not realized the prince triggered such envy in you,” You murmured, looking up at the canopy of your bed.
“Jealousy?” Cregan spoke against the skin of your breast. It briefly sounded as though he was a child caught doing something he should not have been doing.
“Aye,” You said gently, “You don’t get like this often. Only when you get angry, or jealous. Or if I work you up, which I cannot imagine I did tonight.”
“No, you didn’t,” He hummed, “Very well behaved. And the feast was beautifully planned.”
“Do not coo at me like I were a pup,” You grumbled, pushing gently at his shoulder. “Besides, I was not about to provoke you in front of your friend and our future king. Or do you think so poorly of me?”
Cregan rolled off of you gently, and you puffed out a sigh when you felt him leave you. He propped his head up on his hand, the other tracing the curve of your breast.
“No, and I know you wouldn’t. You didn’t work me up, love.”
“Did it anger you when I danced with him?”
“Anger?” Cregan shook his head, frowning as if you had just spoken in tongues. “I was not angry at all. Nor was I jealous.”
You scoffed. “You were looking at each other like two horned deer about to spar. What a fight that would have been.”
Your husband tilted his head. It looked like he was holding back a smile. “Is that what you think it was?”
“Don’t deny it,” You huffed. Cregan smiled now, waving his hand.
“There is nothing to deny, because it is not true. You misunderstand, love. You’ll see.”
And see, you did. But it was not unsettling.
By the end of the first week, none of it seemed strange to you. You didn’t think it strange when Jace accompanied you both on a tour of the armory, and Cregan’s fingers brushed Jace’s when Cregan was showing him how to use a crossbow thought to have belonged to Torrhen Stark’s daughter. Nor when Jace passed by your husband in a small hallway, and instead of waiting for precedent, for Cregan to step to the side for a Prince of the Realm, Jace took it upon himself to brush past, gently nudging Cregan to the side by brushing his hands along Cregan’s waist.
What befuddled you was that even through all of this, you never felt a drop of jealousy. Even when you noticed the nature of Cregan and Jace’s relationship: the long bouts of eye contact, the unspoken conversations, the laughter, the way they seemed to orbit too close to each other. If anything, it only spurred curiosity. Every movement was now artwork for you to repaint in your mind. Every conversation became a dead man to dissect, and you the maester.
You waited, admittedly, for the twist in your chest, the urge to cling to Cregan, the ugly bloom of green in your heart that would turn your impression of the Prince of Dragonstone ugly and unpleasant. It never came. Instead, you were left with the strangest desire to push them closer. Like when you played with your dolls as a girl, and made your princess kiss her knight. You almost wondered if there was something wrong with you.
Because there was no knight or princess to be seen here. In their place stood your husband and a prince of the realm.
You sat with the doubt, but not for very long. Mostly because you had a spectre of a thought, one that could never be put into writing or spoken into words. A hunch. An inkling.
That if you truly were to push them closer, they would not protest.
Your husband was, for all intents and purposes, an emotionless wall of a man. Until it came to you. You could read him like a sailor could the stars. You had lived and learned his tells over the course of your alliance. The twitch of his lips, the flexing of the joints in his fingers. Whenever Jace was in the room, you could feel it. Taste it.
Jace would crack a joke, smug and wry. Bring up an old memory, or something they had discussed in a letter. His head would tilt back with an air of pride expected from the heir to the Iron Throne, and in a moment anyone else would miss, a fraction of a second, Cregan’s eyes would glance down at the span of his neck.
Every now and then, if Jace veered too close, you could make out the smallest dimpling of Cregan’s right cheek. Immediately you knew what from: gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Because he couldn’t bite down on what he really wanted to. You knew this look—you had been on the receiving end of it at feasts that dragged on for too long, or council meetings that grew too boring.
What you hadn’t anticipated was the prince turning his attention to you.
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
The end of the first week came to a close in Cregan’s private study. Cregan had sent you off to bed without him, and together with Jace, they had opened an old cask distilled in Karhold many years ago. The final day of the first week had been slower, and had left time for the old pair to finally have some time on their own.
The conversation began as normal as ever. Debriefing the first few days here at Winterfell, rehashing memories, discussing politics and logistics. Until Jace decided to change the subject.
“Your wife is a wonderful woman,” He said genuinely, “Your match was well suited.”
Cregan smiled at his mentioning you. “It did not always feel that way.”
Jace swirled the liquor in his goblet. “Oh? No?”
Cregan sighed. “The arrangement was made before we ever met. We had no time to become familiar before—”
“Before you became familiar.”
“Not—Jacaerys.” Cregan flashed him a look, but it was not threatening in the slightest. Jace snickered, and Cregan felt his chest grow warm.
How he had missed this. There were few in Winterfell with whom he could simply joke with, like this. He was always the most needed man in the room, here. Everyone wanted something from him, always. Not Jace.
Not in a way Cregan would have complained about, anyway.
No, here in this room, he could simply be Cregan. No one to lord over or wrench power away from. He supposed all of that fell on his prince’s shoulders. He returned to the question he’d asked himself for years: who took all of that from Jacaerys?
“Lord Tully took it upon himself to arrange the match,” He continued, “I think Y/N’s father was positioning things to have her wed Lord Oscar.”
Jace raised his eyebrows. “He’s around Luke’s age, I’d wager. He was so young back then.”
“Aye,” Cregan agreed, “And not keen on taking a wife at that time, certainly not one several years older than he. No, Oscar Tully wrote to me instead, and one of my men who’d ridden to Riverrun once and held court with them all around that time told me she was beautiful, and I thought it time.”
“I take it Lord Mallister didn’t care which great lord got his eldest daughter, just that a great lord had her,” Jace quipped. Cregan shrugged, somewhat indifferent at the mention of his father in law.
“He seemed overjoyed at her match with the Warden of the North.” Cregan sat down opposite him, lost in thought. When he spoke again, his tone was downturned. Regretful.
“We had a misunderstanding, the night of the wedding. I believe I’ve told you.”
“You thought you’d frightened her.” Jace crossed his arms, trying to recall the story. “And she thought you resented her.”
Cregan sighed, mournful of the entire affair. He pinched the bridge of his nose, recalling the distance he found in you back then. “Everything went… well enough that night. It was wonderful. Then in the morning I opened my big idiot mouth and said something I should not have. We did not lay together for another three moons after. She looked at me as if I had threatened to bite her head off.”
“You always were such a poet, Lord Stark.”
“And you have always loved to make fun,” Cregan bit back, straightening his posture. Jace finished his drink, and Cregan poured himself another one.
“She seems transfixed with you now,” Jace observed, “Always watching you. She is exceedingly… warm towards you. Though neither of you say it much.”
“Sometimes she is of fewer words than I,” Cregan conceded, “But there can be such joy in a shared silence when there is no pressure to fill it. We speak freely when we want.”
Jace was silent as he mulled over Cregan’s words. The prince looked over to where his friend was sitting, taking note of the fond expression on his face. He opened his mouth. Hesitated. But pressed on nonetheless.
“I’ll admit, it’s not what I would have expected from you.”
Cregan tilted his head towards Jace, gaze turning firm. “This came because it was expected of me.”
Jace pursed his lips. “I would have expected someone more talkative than you. A bit more willing to push.”
They held each other’s eye, and the air turned tense. The topic was a seal that should have remained unbroken. Cregan took a deep breath.
“Someone like you?” He asked, in that low gentle tone he took when he already knew the answer to the question he was asking. The seal gave way, peeling Cregan’s walls back until what was left was a man Jace had known much closer, once. Someone he remembered quite frequently, late at night. He lifted the goblet and drank, but did not look away. Cregan squared his shoulders.
“Have you considered that it may have been good for that moment in time,” He said, “But would not have suited me long term?”
“It was never suitable for either of us,” Jace countered, setting down the goblet, “And we did it anyway, Lord Stark.”
“Jacaerys,” Cregan mumbled, “You are being unfair.”
He had misstepped, he realized. “Do you take me for a spurned lover, Cregan?”
Cregan stared back at him, wordless. Cold gray eyes that had been warm not five minutes ago caused Jace to reevaluate his words. At the realization, Jace shook his head. He held up his hands in truce, offering a small gentle smile to boot. “I do not mean to turn this into a grudge or an argument. Truly. I just wondered…”
He watched Cregan’s jaw clench when he trailed off, feeling something warm and familiar bloom in his chest.
“Wondered what, my prince?” His tone was gruffer, words clipped. This was dangerous territory. In another life, his teasing likely would have burst into something that would have had Jace’s toes curling, legs raised towards the sky.
His smile turned sly. “Your wife is beautiful,” He said, tracing his fingers up and down the intricate details of the goblet, “Any man can see that.”
“Jace.”
The prince licked his lips, watching Cregan’s nostrils flare. Already, he seemed to know what Jace would end up saying. How delightful, he thought. Another opportunity to tantalize him.
“Would you be willing,” He said slowly, “Would she be willing…?”
Cregan’s voice dropped a dangerous octave. “Jacaerys.”
He blinked once, twice. The subtlest fluttering of his lashes. “Yes, my lord?”
Cregan’s knuckles were white against the tip of the armchair. Jace had known those knuckles very well, once. He had committed the ridges of them to memory. He would commission sculptures of them for his own personal collection, if Cregan had allowed it.
A pity. If this was how Cregan reacted to Jace asking him to fuck his wife, he doubted he’d say yes to that.
Cregan drained his cup, standing. “I ask you to leave my lady wife out of this conversation. I would not leave her to the devices of other men in our own bedchamber. She would not allow it.”
Before he could move to leave, Jace stood, making quick work to block Cregan’s path to the door with his own body. Cregan froze, hovering dangerously close.
“Who said anything about our being alone?” Jace shook his head, grinning. “How unimaginative, Cregan. That I want simply to ravish your wife and make a cuckold of you in your own home.”
“Is that not what you’re asking of me?” Cregan said, voice dangerously close to a growl.
At this, Jace shook his head again. His smile widened, showing teeth that would strike if he had the chance, the permission. The permission could not be granted by either person in this room. They both seemed to understand this. It did not mean they wanted it any less.
“I was of the understanding that cuckolds do not participate. I would not want her without you there. I want both of you.”
If Cregan asked him to leave, he would leave. Leave the room, leave Winterfell. He would walk into the snow, climb atop Vermax, and return to Dragonstone at this very moment. If Cregan punched him, he would perhaps also welcome it. He was well aware of how out of turn it sounded, noble hierarchy be damned.
It seemed Cregan had not considered this a possibility. His mouth opened, then closed. He studied Jace’s gaze, seeming to look for any inclination that he may be joking. The entire time, Jace held firm.
When Cregan found none, his eyes travelled down to Jace’s heart-shaped lips. Jace’s heart hammered in his chest.
“One night,” Jace suggested, “The three of us. You and her, as the gods intended it. Her and I, you and me, as we intend it.”
Cregan took a deep breath, brows furrowing. His tone seemed to waver, simmering with apprehension. “Jace…”
“One night, and I will never ask you anything of the sort again. I know you love your wife,” He insisted, “And ours is long past. But do you not also think back on how we once were? How good we could make each other feel, and wonder whether or not we could ever do it again?”
“My duty is to my wife.” He looked away, but from here, Jace saw no denial. He craned his neck downwards.
“I would wager gold,” Jace murmured raspily, “That if I were to grab you right now, your cock would be hard.”
Jace didn’t move, but Cregan’s hand shot out to stop him before he could, wrapping against Jace’s slender wrist. Cregan was facing him again, and Jace lifted his head. How close they had drifted in the past few minutes. He could feel Cregan’s body heat radiating off of him.
Cregan’s hand felt like a brand, heat starting at his skin and melting through his flesh until it burned at his bones.
“Where has this greed come from, my prince?”
“Search your memories,” Jace answered, “I have always been like this. Only the last time, you bent me over in the middle of the Wolfswood to satisfy me.”
Cregan licked his lips. Jace watched the glide of his pink tongue with the rapt attention of a rabbit suddenly aware of a wolf.
“Your… idea,” Cregan began, “It interests me. I must admit it.”
Jace smirked, but it was premature. Cregan let go of his wrist, and straightened his posture. He jutted his chin out, probably trying to feel even taller than he already was.
“I have never known my wife to look at another man, however,” He said, sounding rather proud at this. “Her eyes have never wandered, nor have mine. Our vows are resolute.”
Jace swallowed, starting to prepare to apologize, to patch his ego. He wondered how cold it was in the skies at this hour of night.
“But we have never been issued a challenge of this sort,” Cregan finished, and Jace’s brows began to raise.
“Challenge?”
Finally, Cregan smiled. It was small, lopsided. Jace felt his heart stutter, wondering how many times Cregan had given you this smile. What a privilege, to be on the receiving end of it for the rest of your days.
“If you can entice my wife,” Cregan murmured, “I will broach the subject with her.”
“I’ll charm her. Just as I charmed you.”
Cregan shook his head. “You don’t know Y/N like I do. She has a will made of steel.”
“So did you, I recall.” Jace had done this once. He could do it again. He raised a hand slowly, placing it in the center of Cregan’s leather doublet. Jace pressed down, searching eagerly for a restless ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. He found it, feeling the beating of Cregan’s heart against a three-year old scar that spanned the middle of his palm.
“All it took was some pouting and some wine. And you folded the moment I pressed my lips to yours.”
There it was, Jace realized a moment later. Looking at Cregan, however, he would not have guessed such an uneven pace.
“I will say again,” Cregan said, slowing down his cadence, “You—do—not—know—her.”
Gods, how familiar this felt. Jace loved to push. Years past, Jace would poke and prod at the sleeping wolf, hoping desperately to wake. His antagonizing would lead to a pay off in teeth-clacking kisses, a pleasing soreness in his lower abdomen, and bite marks on his nipples (and once, his left ass cheek).
“No, but I know you.” Jace leaned forward. Cregan smelled of pine and bittersweet liquor. “I know your methods. All I have to do is inspire. Create a fantasy worthy of making her thoughts stray.”
Cregan remained silent. This proximity was dangerous. Jace knew that Cregan could also feel the way the air moved differently at such a short distance. When he tried to meet his brown eyes with Cregan’s gray, he found them turned just below his nose. Jace swallowed.
The Lord of Winterfell watched as Jace’s lips pressed together to hum, then turned upward.
“Besides,” Jace murmured, wanting so terribly to just lean forward and reunite. “I have already made your eyes wander. And it has not yet been a week since I’ve returned.”
Cregan bit his lower lip, and paused for a beat before stepping away. The sweet moment was gone, torn away, but deep down Jace knew that he had reached the end of this path. They could not pass this wall without crossing into the realm of dishonor. He wondered if Cregan’s heart was beating as hard as his own.
And still, he grinned hungrily. Bracing. Willing.
“What more can it be to make hers?”
WEEK TWO.
Whatever initial anxiety you’d had prior to the prince and his dragon touching down in Winterfell seemed to melt away as you became better acquainted with him. The first week had been largely focused on the North as a whole: Jace had met with representatives from the likes of the Dreadfort, White Harbor, and Bear Island. A small envoy had been sent from the Wall to discuss the needs of the Night’s Watch with the prince. One more grand banquet was held that week, the planning leaving you too preoccupied to join your husband and his guests.
This second week, however, felt more focused on Winterfell. Thus, as the Lady of the household, Jace’s attention turned to you. You walked the grounds with him speaking of the logistics of granaries, food distribution, expectations for your servants.
Many men would scoff or roll their eyes at the womanly duties of running a household. Not Jace. He remained attentive, clearly listening, asking genuine questions. Others, when they made it this far, would take it upon themselves to saddle you with recommendations you did not need. You do not need this many servants to do the washing, they might say.
And they would turn their lips if you answered genuinely: perhaps not, but I would rather have a few more servants than needed than to deprive these people of coin to feed their families. Winter is hard enough.
Instead, Jace would listen to you speak. He would mull it over, then ask. When you offered your rationale, he would consider it—actually consider it, not pretend that he valued your insight.
“You are incredibly receptive, Your Grace,” You said, “Some men have very strong opinions on how I run my household.”
“What know I of running households?” He answered, tone tinged with offense on your behalf. “Much less Northern ones at the height of winter.”
“You would be surprised.” Your smile held no joy. “You’d think I was Dornish, the way they think I know nothing about a long winter.”
He tilted his head. “Have you ever challenged their notions?”
You sighed, tracing a piece of embroidery over your skirt. “The septons say grace is of utmost importance. I would rather turn the other cheek than argue.”
Jace frowned. “How heavy it must be, to carry all of it in silence.”
With resignation, you looked at him. The freckles across his cheeks, just below eyes tinged with empathy.
“It can be.”
Jace crossed his arms, rubbing them up and down slowly. Despite the furs draped across his shoulders, he still seemed cold. Or perhaps it was more for comfort. You couldn’t be sure.
“I held back like you, once,” He said after a moment of silent rumination. Brown eyes met yours. His dark, curly, rather un-Valyrian hair fluttered in the wind.
“When the knife comes for you, holding it by the blade will only you more. There must come a time when you turn it on whoever you’re duelling with.”
You didn’t ask him what he meant by that. You didn’t think you needed to.
There was a refreshing frankness about him, one that was exceptionally rare around these parts. Many Northerners seemed to use honesty as an opportunity for jaggedness. Honest to a fault, particularly brutal at your lowest. Jace’s honesty was nestled in kindness. The intention behind it was entirely different. It was comforting and not reproachful. He did not seek to pick apart your every action and your sex was not immediately discrediting to him.
It was pleasing and surprising. He seemed to be molded by gentleness that you would not expect of a dragon prince, and seemed to genuinely like you as a friend. Not just as the wife of his friend and political ally.
They had to have spoken about you, you assumed. What man did not speak of his wife to his closest friend? What friend did not offer advice or insight in return?
Honesty was never lacking in your husband. He was not normally one to hide things from you, not unless he knew you’d delight in the surprise. That being said, there was a difference between honesty and openness. While Cregan was not lacking in the former, he certainly did the latter. Pulling truth from him was easy. Pulling the whole truth, however, and asking him to lay his emotions bare, was worse than removing an arrow from a wounded man.
So, whenever you wanted his truths laid bare, his heart on his sleeve, you waited until you both returned to the shared intimacy of the bedchamber. Right before it became too late, and Cregan blew out the candles so that you may both rest your heads together.
And so it came when he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Sitting behind him on your knees, brushing out his long, dark hair. His shoulders were slumped and his breathing was slow.
Lax, your man. At rest from a world that demanded so much of him, with someone who demanded only his full self. Tonight, the latter was not the scarier option.
“Does he like me?” The peace in the room was so resounding that your murmur felt like yelling into the void. “Do you know what he thinks of me?”
Cregan didn’t turn, seemingly content to let you brush through his hair. His low tone seemed weighed down with sleep. “Who? Jace?”
“Hmm,” You confirmed, “He has been incredibly kind.”
“Has he, now?” He rumbled mirthfully. You frowned. He knew you had worried over the crown prince’s approval. Why did he seem to be teasing you all of a sudden?
“I… yes.” You worried at your lower lip, lowering the brush. The loss of sensation was what finally made him turn back to you. He had a smile to match his previous tone, but when he saw the unsteadiness in your brow, the nibbling at your mouth, his face changed. His eyes filled with warmth, and a hand came up to caress your cheek.
“Why would he not like you then, love? If he has been so kind, as you are telling me.”
You looked downward, suddenly unsure. “I don’t know. I just… I want him to like me. I need him to like me, Cregan. He had a spot in your heart before I did. I cannot have us at odds.”
He shifted his position to fully face you now, pulling his legs onto the bed before pulling you into his lap.
“My anxious little wife,” He whispered, “So desperate for the approval she has already been given. One she never would have had to earn.”
“He likes me then?”
He shook his head, but not in denial. “He does. But I wish the opinions of others would not worry you so.”
“I care not for the opinions of others,” You huffed, “I care for the approval of our future king and your dear friend.”
Large hands caressed your sides, warming your skin through the fabric of your nightgown. You wrapped your arms around his neck, analyzing the details of his face. Ones you already knew but would be happy to stare at again and again. A small scar at the top of his cheekbone from sparring in his youth. The soft stubble on his chin. A mole near his jaw.
“He’s quite taken with you, love,” Cregan whispered, tension in your chest releasing at his admission, “He says you are quite capable at running our home. He considers you gentle. Graceful.”
Your cheeks went warm. “Does he really?”
He nodded. “Beautiful, too.”
“Oh.”
He stifled a laugh. “Are you blushing?”
“I—no.”
“You’re blushing,” Cregan said, boyish and teasing, “I just told you Jacaerys Velaryon thinks you’re beautiful, and you’re blushing.”
You straightened your posture, trying to push yourself off of him. “Well, it is quite late. Let us sleep, husband—”
He finally laughed, and you wanted to smack him. He pulled you in closer, despite your squirming, and gave you a chaste kiss. “Worry not, Y/N. It does not offend me.”
“Enough of this foolishness, Cregan. It is time for bed.”
He laughed, reveling in your bashfulness. “You asked me—”
“Hush. Bed.”
Throughout the week, Jace’s attention remained fixated on you. Walking the grounds with you, engrossing you in conversation on a variety of topics, from history, to your taste in wines, to snickering about your husband’s habits. He seemed to slowly come closer as your bond grew. Standing at a respectful distance at the beginning of his visit. Closing the distance with every passing day.
It did not dawn on you until the end of your third banquet, halfway through the second week. The night grew rather late, again full of dancing, singing and well roasted meat. Drinking games accelerated the chaos of the night. Jace had even convinced Cregan to partake in one—a game of tongue twisters and limericks, which he had inevitably lost.
By the end of the night, you were swaying on your feet. While Cregan was not, he was clearly not in possession of all his wits. You retired while there were still a few lords and ladies insistent on seeing the rest of the game through, Jace lingering with them.
His touch was innocent enough to the onlookers. Lingering on your hip, steering you up the stairs. A lord gently taking his lady wife to bed. How noble, how chivalrous. As you went up the stairs, yours and his steps seemed to echo a little louder than they usually did.
And then, once the lull of the party was far away enough, you rounded a corner, and he pinned you up against an alcove in the wall. You froze, unsure what to do. You weren’t going to turn him down, but gods, you couldn’t think of the last time he tried to ravish you in an empty hallway where anyone could walk past.
“You looked beautiful tonight,” He growled against your neck, “and I am the luckiest man in the world.”
“Cregan—what are you—”
“What do you think, pet?” A hand slid down your side, finding your hip under your dress and hiking it around his waist. With a finesse you did not usually expect from him, he slipped past the hem of your dress. His touch trailed up your ankle, past your stockings and thigh, searching, searching, and oh, finding…
“Cregan,” You whimpered, trying to stay quiet as his fingers came to glide through your folds. Your hands clung to his back.
“Let me,” He pleaded, restrained and throaty that made you clench around nothing, “I could take you right now, if you let me.”
“They will hear—” He chose your protest to plunge a finger in, thick and teasing.
He brought his mouth up to your ear. “Let them.”
Your head tipped forward, back pressing into the cold stone of the wall. Your lips yearned for the skin of his shoulder, his collarbone, but he was still fully dressed. You chose instead to press your mouth against the fabric of his doublet, trying hard to stifle your keening as he explored your walls.
His fingers began to speed their pace, pleasure rolling up your body, starting at your core and travelling up your torso, down your legs. You let yourself imagine it, a deep shiver taking over your person
His lips took your earlobe into his mouth, suckling gently. You could feel him pressing against your thigh, and you furrowed your brow. Whatever madness had possessed your husband, it had spread to his fingers, and you gasped against the thick gray wool at his shoulder when he pushed another in.
“Do you want me to?” He pulled you closer with his free hand, and you couldn’t hold back the cry that came with being impaled further on his digits. “To fuck you up against this wall, and let Lord Glover hear how good I make you feel?”
You couldn’t find your words, eyes screwing shut as you imagined what he was suggesting.
And when you opened your eyes, you found you didn’t need to. Peeking from around the corner, in the dark, you saw him: dark curly hair, slightly dishevelled from a night of drinking. Dark eyes trained on your face. You could feel it, at the base of your spine, and it spiked when you realized who you were looking at.
“Fuck—”
“Tell them, Y/N,” He demanded, free hand digging into your side, as if he wanted to break past the dress and melt his skin into yours, “Tell them who’s going to make you cum like this.”
Jace stepped out from behind the corner, and when your eyes trailed downward, you could see how hard he was. He wanted you. You wanted him.
“I—”
Cregan bit down on your neck, and a cry wrenched from the back of your throat.
“Jace!”
You shot up in your bed, heart threatening to break out of your chest. Cregan stirred by your side, but did not wake. You clutched the blanket to your bare chest, remembering how the night had ended. The three of you had retired together after a third round of drinking games. You and Cregan had walked Jace back to the chamber he was staying in, and then when you returned to your own, Cregan had pinned you to the ground, hiked your skirts up and fucked you until the embers in the hearth burned low.
Your eyes drifted back to your husband, who looked so unbelievably peaceful at your side. He was naked under the covers, and you willed your breath to steady. A hand brushed your hair out of your face. Your voice was trembling as you whispered into the cold air of the bedchamber.
“Father, give me strength.”
You tried to ignore the dream. A figment of your imagination. All the time around your guest and his proximity to your husband had clearly caused a lapse in your subconscious. Yes. Yes, this is what you told yourself.
This was all happening in your mind. Jace was not really closing the distance. It could not be.
At the end of the week, he took you to meet his dragon. Cregan had ridden to Wintertown that morning to settle a land dispute, and had left you alone in Jace’s company. The pair had joked with each other before your husband’s departure in such a manner that had you peeling your eyes to watch the twitch of gloved fingers against reins, the furling and unfurling of lips.
Gods, how they had crafted a work of art together. A mosaic of seemingly innocuous looks and turns of phrase. How you wondered what the grout that held it all together was made up of. The promises whispered into the tiles as they had dried. And whether there was still room in the center of it all, where you could carve perfectly sized shapes of your flesh and shove them in between.
“Mind your manners, my prince.” Sarcasm from Cregan was seldom heard, but Jace had unfolded corners of your husband you scarcely knew existed. His lips threatened to curl up as his men began to ride off ahead of him.
“Of course, Lord Stark,” Jace had answered, “I know how to share. Do you?”
Cregan had said nothing. His fingers seemed to tighten their grip on the reins. A breath later, his eyes landed on you. You felt a ball of nerves grow in your chest.
“Take good care of our guest, wife. I’ll be back before dark.”
And then he left.
The guards had shown you where Vermax was resting—a large, empty barn meant to stack provisions tens of feet high into the air, emptied ahead of the prince’s visit to accommodate the large creature. Most days, the beast spent his time flying, stretching his wings, always returning to his rider and the attendants who had ridden up prior to Jace. A devotion you would never know. A blood oath Jace would rather die than live without.
“Cold then, are you, old friend?” Jace asked Vermax, stroking his snout affectionately. The dragon leaned its head into Jace’s touch, letting loose a sound that sounded like a complaint.
“Ever spoiled, my Vermax. I know, I know,” Jace cooed, speaking to him as if he were a pet cat and not one of the most powerful creatures in the world, “Only two more weeks, and then we can return to Dragonstone.”
He spoke to the dragon as if they drank together, or were hunting friends. Mouth tipped open in awe, you realized that that was what they were. Brothers spanning species. Metals forged together in the fire, into the ultimate weapon. Jace turned back to look at you, a smile spreading across his face as he took note of your expression.
“Come say hello, Lady Y/N,” Jace suggested, and you eyed the dragon warily.
Women of the Riverlands knew how to hunt and how to respect the wild animals they hunted. You knew the likes of bears, deer, wolves. Quite literally, this was an entirely different beast. A being bred from blood magic and scales that glittered like emeralds. You had only seen dragons twice before this, and only ever from overhead. This was the closest you had ever come to one.
You took half a step before your body became too tense to move forth. “Y-your grace. Are you sure he’ll let me…”
“He can feel my trust in you,” Jace explained, nodding encouragingly, “We share an emotional bond. I trust anyone he trusts, and he the same.”
Vermax let loose an excited growl, and were your feet not glued to the ground, your bones would have jumped from your skin. Jace tipped his head back, laughing as if Vermax had told the greatest joke Jace had ever had the pleasure of hearing.
“He can feel your apprehension, which he appreciates.”
Your brows furrowed, looking up at Vermax. His glowing, orange eyes peered back down of you, and you forced yourself to keep his gaze.
“He… appreciates it,” You said flatly, trying hard not to jump back “Well, I’d scarcely take joy in offending him.”
“Dragons consider gentle hesitation as a sign of respect,” Jace continued, still petting Vermax’s side, “Oftentimes those who have never so much as seen a dragon think they can tame them with their touch. It never ends well, I have seen it myself. They are not lap dogs, my lady.”
You wanted to laugh, looking back at Jace. “Are they not? I hadn’t realized.”
The Prince of Dragonstone seemed to be enjoying himself far too much for your comfort. He stepped away from the dragon, in your direction. “There is a fine line, funnily enough. Hubris aggravates them. Excessive displays of fear make them impatient.”
His smile faded, but his expression remained warm. Beckoning you closer. “Come. He won’t harm you while I’m here.”
Moving too suddenly around the dragon, in your opinion, Jace swept forward and closed the gap between you both. He stepped behind you, a hand coming up to the small of your back to guide you. The other traced your arm gently, starting from your elbow and ghosting down until his fingers wrapped themselves around your wrist.
His touch was light. His palms were cold, calloused from years of dragonriding. He lowered his voice to a murmur, speaking from over your shoulder.
“Here,” He offered, using his grip to raise your hand, “Let me help you.”
With Jace as your guide, Vermax lowered his head. You could feel the dragon’s hot breath warming the space, being pushed low with his exhales and moving up as the heat from within him expanded before rising up into the rafters of the barn. The smell of smoke filled your nose.
“Slowly.” Jace’s mouth was both too close and too far away from your ear. “Though he’s harmless, right now at least.”
“Is he as gentle as you, my prince?” You asked, and he exhaled–an almost laugh with such a specific sound you didn’t need to see him to know he was smiling again. He sounded closer now.
The emerald dragon was inches from you now, rumbling low. You could feel the sweat beginning to form in your hairline.
Jace’s lip pressed itself to your ear. Your eyes fluttered shut, and his voice lowered itself to a whisper.
“Whoever said I was gentle, Lady Stark?”
Scales in your palm, pressing up into you. Fingertips at your knuckles, holding tightly. Your eyes opened, and it fell into place for you as you peered up at Vermax, now nuzzling into your palm.
“You are one,” You murmured, awestruck.
Jace nodded proudly, the movement vivid against the side of your head. “He is mine own brother in all but blood. Were one of us to die, the other would feel a hollow in our chest the rest of our days.”
“Does that scare you?”
This time, Jace doesn’t nod. You heard him swallow. He let loose a shaky breath, now too looking at his dragon. His hand prompted yours, and you began to scratch the tip of Vermax’s nose. Vermax let out a pleased huff, but it did little to assuage Jace.
“It is my worst fear,” The prince admitted, “One so strong I’ve lost count of the nightmares it has brought me.”
Your head turned to look at him then. Emotions danced in his eyes—pain, admiration, adoration, all for his dragon. He looked so young, still. Even if it was winter, and the sun was dull and dim, freckles still spanned his sharp cheekbones and angular nose. If you wanted to, you could probably count every single one. Gods, did you want to.
With a purse of your lips you realized just how close he was. Jace wasn’t looking at you, however. And Vermax, despite pressing into your palm, was looking at Jace.
They have known each other for a thousand years, it would have seemed. There was some sort of conversation happening here you were not physically capable of being privy to. It was all too familiar, you thought, and your lips turned up before you could help it.
This drew Jace’s attention. He raised an eyebrow, smirking. Face to face now, still behind you. Pressing close. Too close. “What?”
“This is a talent of yours, Jace. Holding entire conversations with your eyes.”
He shook his head. “It is a bond between dragon and rider.”
Your eyes widened, gaze curious but not prying. “Oh? Since when is my lord husband your dragon, then?”
Jace looked surprised for a moment, before scanning your face. Dark eyes lingered on your lips a beat too long, causing your breath to hitch.
“Is that jealousy I hear, Lady Stark?”
Now you shook your head with a wry smile. “Not at all. I’m simply curious.”
Jace’s forehead tilted forward, ever playful. His breath fanned your face. “Ask away, then. I am an open book.”
“You may be an open book, Prince Jacaerys,” You murmured, blood roaring in your ears, “Yet my lord husband seals himself shut until you are at his side.”
“What can I say,” He whispered, nose ghosting across yours, “I’ve a gift for opening people up.”
If either of you moved half an inch closer, your lips would touch. This was an exquisite torture. Surely, this was crossing someone’s line. Yours, Jace’s, Cregan’s. At some point they merged. Stopped being lines and curved, woven into a circle.
You exhaled steadily. Vermax, suddenly disinterested, stepped away. Jace didn’t let go of your hand as you lowered it. His other hand—when had it moved from the small of your back to your hip?
You were warm. The dragon was warm—surely, this was why. You should have stepped away. Jace should have stepped away. This was hardly proper.
“You and my husband share the strangest bond,” You pointed out, “One I’ve seldom seen between men.”
The statement was a question you didn’t need to pose. Jace hummed, raising his eyebrows. Goading. Expecting. The hand on his hip began to rise.
“Is this an accusation, my lady?” His low tone held no malice, hand tightened against your hip. The rise and fall of his chest pressed up against your back told you everything you needed to know. He wanted this as much as you did.
“Not in the slightest, my prince,” A third time, you shook your head, slower. More deliberate. Using the movement to brush the tip of your nose against his. A small smile graced his pretty lips, lips now so close to yours anyone from afar would think the worst of Lady Stark and The Prince of Dragonstone.
His nose pressed harder into yours. Your mouth tipped open, nearly trembling with anticipation. Every second grew infinite.
“No?” Jace murmured, eyes trained on your parted lips, “What should I take it for, then?”
He dragged a finger across your wedding band. You felt your mouth go dry.
An invitation, you wanted to say. A door I want you to open.
He would have kissed you. Or you would have kissed him. Someone would have stumbled in the next few seconds, you knew it to be true. Your blood was running too hot and the pupils of his dark eyes were too dilated. You were two objects in unstoppable movement in the direct line of each other’s fire. The collision would have been inevitable and ruinous and you would have welcomed it with open arms.
But then Vermax’s head snapped up, grunting at something behind you. Jace, feeling his dragon’s altered state, split from you. You jumped at both of their movements, perfectly in sync with each other. And when the pair of you turned, your eyes landed on one of your guards, who looked incredibly uncomfortable at the entire ordeal.
“Y-your grace, Lady Stark,” He said, “Lord Cregan has returned.”
You cleared your throat, hands smoothing out your dress. At your side, the prince clasped his hands behind his back. He clenched his jaw, and any hint of his playfulness was gone.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” You sighed, heart pounding, “Thank you, Ser Justin.”
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
The whole ordeal left you with an ever growing sense of anticipation and dread. At dinner—tonight a smaller affair between some of the higher ranking lords and ladies who had come to visit—you sat at Cregan’s side. He sat at one head of the table, Jace at the other.
The table was long enough to where you could easily avoid conversation with him. You hardly spoke a word to him the entire evening. You could hardly speak a word to anyone. Somewhat naively, you hoped to make it through the evening without anyone noticing.
And then Lady Umber opened her mouth.
“You are rather quiet tonight, Lady Stark,” She pointed out, the table quieting to listen to her speak, “I hope you are not fatigued by the large number of guests.”
“Not in the slightest, Lady Umber,” You answered, painting on a smile, “The conversation flows so well amongst you all tonight I am happy to simply listen.”
“How glad I am that we are such a source of entertainment.” Her tone was dripping with knives disguised as niceties. “I take it after all these years we are still novel to you.”
You set your knife down, taking a deep breath. You glanced over at Cregan, who was eyeing Lord Umber with a silent urge to wrangle his lady wife. Lord Umber looked as though he was about to break into a sweat. You felt something take hold of you, starting in your chest and spreading through your shoulders.
Lord Umber stammered, “Wife—”
“Two years is a long time, Lady Miranda,” You said, trying hard not to stumble over your words, “Though I’m sure after all of yours, it feels quite short.”
Silence. Lady Umber’s eyes widened, and for half a moment, she looked like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing with no sound to accompany the movement. The rest of the table grew deathly still. The sound of silverware scraping against plates all but disappeared.
Your eyes found Cregan’s again. Even he seemed surprised, but not angry. His stare held a subdued wonder, one brow raised in bewilderment. He looked across the table, and you didn’t need to follow his gaze to know who he was looking at. You swallowed, unsure of what to say or do. Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on you as the person who had taken control of the moment. And here you were, unsure of where to take it next.
Thankfully, you weren’t the one to decide.
Jace snorted so hard into his goblet of wine that it broke the tension entirely. He was bright red, having held back so hard from laughing. But now, he could no longer handle it, hastily setting the cup down and covering his spluttering with his other hand.
Your mouth fell open, face burning profusely. Then, at your side, the impossible happened. Cregan coughed, looking down at his plate.
Everyone’s heads turned to look at him.
He nodded once, clenching his jaw. When he looked back up, eyes trained in the prince’s direction, his mouth twitched.
And then he laughed. Once, twice, and before you knew it, his shoulders were heaving.
Awkward laughter erupted at the table. Some unsure, some genuine. Most in disbelief. The chain reaction of your challenge, Jace’s choking, and finally Cregan Stark laughing. Actually laughing.
When you looked back at Lady Umber, she was clearly fuming. But she had lost.
And perhaps, for the first time, you had pushed back. Refused to turn the other cheek.
You sat an inch higher for the rest of dinner. And when you finally looked in Jace’s direction, you stared at him until he was the one to break eye contact.
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
“I cannot believe you said that.” Cregan lifted his elbows out of the hot water, resting back on the dry stone not submerged in the hot spring. You shook your head, thinking back on your behavior.
He didn’t sound upset at all. Rather, he still sounded surprised. In awe. His head craned, the candlelight bathing him in a soft light that stole your breath.
“I’m proud of you, Y/N. It was about time you bit back. You’re a wolf now, after all.”
You leaned into his side, giving him a gentle peck on his upper bicep, just below his shoulder.
“Thank you,” You mumbled against his skin.
You kept your face there, feeling the warmth of the muscle against your cheek and forehead. When your eyes closed, all you could see were a pair of brown eyes and freckles you wanted to map out like the stars. You cleared your throat nervously.
“There is… something I must ask you. About the prince,” You said softly, not meeting his eyes. Rather, you remained buried against his arm. Cregan made a face, brow quizzical.
“Has something happened?” He asked. You didn’t know whether or not to answer his question. When you remained silent, his mouth turned upwards. He considered the possibilities, before making a curious observation.
“You could hardly look at him during dinner. He couldn’t stop looking at you.”
Sometimes you wished he’d remain incurious. A fundamental impossibility, a pipe dream never to come true, considering your husband’s disposition. Much like the wall, nothing got past Cregan. He may well be the end of you one day.
His lips found the crown of your head. You continued looking at the steam rising up above the water. When he spoke, his voice was low, raspy.
“Ever the seducer, our crown prince.”
Your head snapped in his direction, surprised eyes meeting his knowing ones. He gave a small half-smile. No anger, no joy. If anything, he looked sympathetic. As if Jace had also once pinned Cregan between himself and Vermax and delighted in blurring lines. Chest hollow, you were slowly realizing that it was more likely than not. You swallowed.
Pity. From Cregan Stark. A rare sight, indeed. Though tonight certainly seemed the occasion.
“Has he made you uncomfortable at all?” Cregan asked, searching your face for fear or discomfort. Half of you wanted to kiss him breathless. The other half was moments away from bursting into tears. Any other husband may well have accused you of temptation. Brazenness. Whorishness. Cregan’s first concern was your own wellbeing.
“No, not at all,” You said immediately. “He’s very… persuasive.”
At this, his expression morphed from a somewhat-smile to a genuine one. “May I ask what happened between you both today?”
A peace banner. There was no threat of anger from him, you realized, and you relaxed. Your shoulders sagged, guardrails you hadn’t knowingly put in place. He just wanted to know.
“I… We almost kissed,” You admitted, “He was trying to get me to pet Vermax, and he grabbed my hand, and then…”
“Almost?” If you hadn’t known better, you might even think he sounded disappointed. “What stopped you?”
You bit your lip. “Ser Justin came in to announce your return.”
Cregan reached for your hand under the water. The air was not tense. Awkward, more like. Cregan was never one to talk. You were always the one to coax it out of him. When it was your time to be silent, it rarely proved productive.
“Are you angry?” You asked, placing your free hand on top of his. When you looked up at him, his gaze was warm, and he shook his head.
“Not at all,” He answered, “Were it any other man, maybe. But our prince has always been very… what did you call it? Persuasive. So long as you did not feel coerced, I won’t fault you. He may be our prince, he may be my friend, but you are my wife.”
His reaction was as jarring as it was relieving. You needed to know. You could hold back no longer. “Did you ever…?”
Cregan licked his lips, and hesitated for a beat. Eventually, he replied. “Him and I? …Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Seven. At least.”
Your eyebrows shot up. Cregan looked like he wanted to laugh.
“Have you ever known me to be sated easily?”
You couldn’t argue with that, even if you wanted to slap that smug look off of his face.
“I suppose I’m just… curious.” You swiped a damp strand of hair off of your neck. “Clearly, you care a great deal for each other. I didn’t realize just how much.”
“He is our future king,” Cregan remarked, “I am Warden of the North.”
He said it as if this was meant to explain all of it. You didn’t want to tell him that you doubted Jace behaved this way with Jason Lannister, Warden of the West. When your face didn’t change, he sighed.
“When we first met,” Cregan began, “We were on the brink of civil war. You remember.”
You nodded. “I remember when my father received the raven notifying him of Vermax being spotted flying over the Twins.”
“I had become so preoccupied with matters of running everything. All that… all the loss, all the anger, all the fighting. It made me numb. I truly hadn’t realized how it had… hardened me. When he came to Winterfell, I accepted him as my guest, and I renewed my vow to his mother. My men and I invited him to hunt for three nights—it was summer still. How could we not? He was the prince. Impending war be damned.”
You said nothing, waiting for him to continue. “None of us expected any fun. The mood was bleak. We hardly knew him. But he put on his best spirits, and he charmed us all. He was smart, gracious. Humble, which none of us expected from a southern prince.”
Cregan’s mind was seemingly far away, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “And one night, we’d all had too much to drink. Everyone else had gone to bed. The fire was burning low, and he was sat right next to me. He looked so… pretty.”
At this, your eyes softened. “It just happened.”
“It was so easy to speak to him. That never happens—you know my character, love. It didn’t even occur to me that I wanted him until he kissed me. Like I hadn’t even considered it to be an option.”
You thought of Cregan when you’d first met him. He was gruff, closed off, easily the coldest man you’d ever met. You’d been convinced he didn’t even like you until a few months into your marriage, when he stumbled into your bedchamber drunk mumbling, “I missed you today. And I wish I could tell you that without the drink.”
You thought of your husband as a little boy, small and unsure and stifled by an uncle who would rather be rid of him entirely, all for the sake of control of the North. What that did to him, what retaking his birthright would have entailed for a young boy forced to become a man far too early. What all of that and the death of a little brother could do. You pressed a kiss to his hand, and he hummed at the gesture.
“Do you love him?” The question left you before you could think twice. When it was out in the open, you decided to press. There was no taking it back now. “If he had been the princess of Dragonstone, would you have asked for his hand?”
Cregan looked down at the water, where your hands were joined. He squeezed, gentle but insistent. Affirming. “I suppose… I suppose there may have been a time where I thought myself to be in love with him. I care for him still. Deeply, in ways that I cannot say I’ve ever cared for any other man. But I would not have married him, even if it had been an option.”
You tilted your head, and Cregan acquiesced without you even needing to ask. “I married you out of duty, yes? We’d never met until you arrived at Winterfell.”
“Yes,” You said, “And I thought you hated me.”
He sighed regretfully. “And I’ll spend the rest of my days making it up to you. But Jacaerys and I had different duties at the end of it all. I am Warden of the North. He is our future king. Those two titles cannot merge, not without one of us giving something up—which neither of us would do. Regardless of the circumstances, it would not have worked.”
You swallowed, a lump beginning to grow in your throat. Under the water, his hand with the scarred palm began to burn. “So you married me out of duty. But you love Jacaerys.”
“What? No.” The rebuff was immediate, bitten out. He frowned, and you bit down on your tongue. This had taken a turn you hadn’t wanted it to.
Here it was, you realized. That awful shade of green in your chest you’d wondered so much about, turning your heart from deep red to brown to a bright, flaming green. Suddenly, the image of Cregan and Jace seemed much less enticing. You wished you hadn’t thought about the green so, wished so badly to yank it from the root and toss it into the fire.
“Gods, I wish I were better at this,” Cregan muttered to himself, before opening his eyes to look at you again. “No, love. You are not a placeholder. You’re my wife, and I love you so differently than how I loved him.”
He moved to be in front of you now, grabbing you by the shoulders. Forcing you to look at him, though the determination in his eyes did little to assuage your confusion.
“I would never have asked Jacaerys to marry me, not if he weren’t heir to the throne, not if he were a woman,” He told you, “Fundamentally, it would not have worked. The only way it would have worked would have been if Jacaerys were a Northern woman born to a noble house, bound to no one but his father. And then he would not have been Jacaerys, would he?”
You blinked. “What?”
“What?”
You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Officially declaring surrender, completely lost. You wondered if Cregan was more lost than you were—he seemed on the verge of distress.
“So…” You shook your head, chest clenching. You took a shaky breath, hating the way your voice sounded on the verge of cracking. You started to pull away. “So then would you or would you not have—I… C-Cregan, do you not–?”
His grip tightened on your shoulders, head shaking furiously. “No,” He said with gritted teeth, “No. I love you, Y/N. My soul is yours.”
“But–”
He groaned, the top of his head leaning into your chest. “This isn’t… I don’t mean—fuck, I’m sorry.”
He pulled you into his lap, large hands cradling you gently. A position the two of you had taken a hundred times in this exact same spot. Instinctively, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, ignoring the low heat in your stomach that always pooled there. Your muscles knew what usually came next: joined bodies moving in such a way that caused water to spill onto the floor. Not now. It could wait.
When Cregan met your eyes, he looked pained. Like he wished he’d never spoken. Your husband, who never spoke much to begin with, who guarded his emotions the way a starved wolf guarded a kill.
He grabbed your arm, then interlaced your fingers. His wedding band glittered in the light. The scar brushed against your palm. You didn’t want to think about how the ring could be taken off.
“I loved Jacaerys differently then, before I loved you. It’s different from the way I love him now,” He explained slowly, clearly searching and painstakingly choosing each word. “A-and both of those forms of love are vastly different from the way I love you, the way I’ve loved you since we married. I can’t quite put it into words. I don’t know that there are enough words in the Common Tongue for me to fully describe it, and I don’t know I’d be able to if there actually were.”
His face scrunched up, trying to articulate his thoughts clearest. Your heart was in your throat the entire time, but you dared not interrupt him.
Finally, his eyes opened, clarity interlaced with fear. He took a deep breath before he placed his final verdict.
“My vow to him is my sword. My vow to you is my heart. And my heart will always come before my sword.”
Your lips parted, eyes brimming with tears. No longer from jealousy, or the fear that you were nothing to Cregan but a second choice. You brought a hand to his cheek and he pressed into it desperately, longingly.
“Cregan,” You whispered, smiling, “I love you.”
His eyes closed at your touch, sighing when your forehead touched his. “I love you, and I’m sorry if candor escapes me. I do not mean to dishonor you, wife. It has never been my intention.”
“No,” You cooed, “No, thank you for telling me.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to know?”
Sighing, you gave him a gentle, chaste kiss. When you pulled away, you studied him. His gray eyes were darting frantically across your expression, searching for any leftover doubt or anger. A hand slid down his shoulder and landed just above his sternum, pressing into the skin, caressed by the hair on his chest. Underneath, where his heart lay, you could feel it hammering quickly. You almost wanted to laugh.
“Honesty is the only thing that scares you so,” You mumbled, “A wildling horde south of the wall would not cause your heart to falter this way.”
“I can slay a wildling horde,” He whispered, “Matters of my heart, decidedly not.”
Your hand lingered on his chest, the other beginning to scratch at the baby hairs at his nape. He hummed contentedly—this was one of his favorite forms of contact. Deeply soothing, comforting, one he had never known until you taught it to him.
“You needn’t answer if you wish not to tell me,” You began, “But can I ask how it’s different? Not the emotion. Rather…”
You cleared your throat, feeling an awkward heat crawl up your neck, reaching your cheeks and temples rather rapidly. You reached for his hand out of comfort, but grew even warmer when you saw the scar. “I know… how it works, between two men. Did he… did you…?”
It was his turn to watch you struggle for words now, and for all of his struggling earlier, he seemed quite amused to let you writhe like a fish.
He bit back a grin. “Did I what?”
You scrunched your lips together, unsure of what to say. With every word, his smile grew and grew until he was holding back laughter. “Who… well. Cregan, I’ve no better way of putting it. Who was the scabbard, and who was the swo—?“
At last, he could no longer resist, and a laugh escaped him. He laughed and all the previously tense air evaporated from the room, and then he laughed some more.
“You’re wondering who stuck their cock in who,” He said once he’d settled, “Is that it?”
You gasped, swatting at his chest. He seized your hand, pressing it back into his chest, rubbing over your knuckles. “Vulgar man,” You chided affectionately, but then quickly added, “…Yes.”
“I had no preference. I think I would have enjoyed it.” He answered candidly, “But he seemed rather keen on being bent over. Not quite something you’d expect from a prince.”
“Oh,” You sighed, cheeks burning brightly, “Oh, I see.”
“He tried to kiss you.” Bringing the conversation full circle, his hands slid down to your hips. “And you liked it.”
Wordlessly, you nodded. Cregan huffed, looking as if suddenly everything made sense.
“What if I told you…” He eyed your lips, tongue darting out to wet his own, “The prince… propositioned me, shortly after his arrival?”
Your eyebrows shot up. “He attempted to seduce you?”
“Not exactly. I wouldn’t have allowed that to happen. No, he suggested the three of us share. That for one night, the three of us indulge in each other. You and I. Him and me. You and him.”
Oh. “A-and what did you say?”
“I wasn’t sure what to say. Ultimately, I told him I would make no attempt to force the idea on my wife unless you seemed interested. It would seem his grace has taken upon itself to lay his plan into motion, with or without me.”
“What a scheme,” You murmured. The heat in your lower stomach had returned now, spurred by the mental images Cregan had built you. Him sprawling Jace across the forest floor. The three of you, together, tangled in bedsheets. And Jacaerys Velaryon, beautiful Jacaerys Velaryon, lips swollen from kissing and covered in sweat.
“How unfairly he plays, and how he underestimates us, love. Do wolves not wander in a pack?”
You furrowed your eyebrows, thinking back to everything that had transpired over the past few weeks, now with the knowledge you’d just acquired. Jace’s history with your husband. His propositioning you and Cregan.
If his attempt with Cregan had been anything like what he had done with you, you had to agree with Cregan’s choice of words. Unfair. But not necessarily cruel, or manipulative. No, this was a game to Jace, and he was eager for the two of you to play along.
“What say you now, husband?” You searched his face. “Now that his intentions are laid bare.”
He took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and looked at you for a good long while. Then, his hands, still on your hips, pressed down, water moving around you.
Your breath hitched, feeling the hardness of his cock catch against your core.
“I believe it speaks for itself,” He replied. “But only if you wish for it, too. You are my wife, and you come first.”
“You like the idea of the three of us together,” You remarked, almost astonished.
“I cannot lie.” His hips shifted upwards, and you gasped at the pressure, of the sensation of him catching against your entrance. “How pretty the two of you would look on your knees, with both of your lips around my cock.”
Your hips responded in kind, hands scrambling to find purchase on his shoulders. “Cregan.”
“Don’t lie to me, Y/N. Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it, whether I made him beg while pinning him to the bed, same as I have with you. Which I did. Grabbed him by his hair and made him plead to let him cum.”
Your breath weighed heavily in your lungs. Out of nowhere, the air seemed to weigh a thousand stones. The heat radiating off of the water was certainly not helping.
“Answer me,” He said softly, firmly. Looking for your voice, you nodded.
“Can you blame me?” Gritted teeth, fluttering eyes—two more things you could pin on Cregan. “You look at each other so lecherously.”
He huffed, eyes locked on your breasts as your hips began grinding down onto him in earnest. “We do not.”
“Oh, you do. I’ve been watching.”
“That’s all you ever do,” He grunted, “Maybe you should do more than just watch.”
“Something—ah—something would need to happen in order for me to do that.”
He grinned, yanking you closer. Before his tongue forced itself into your mouth, he said against your lips, “That can be arranged.”
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
WEEK THREE.
This week was a tour of Wintertown and some other villages nearby, and decidedly more laid back. There were no tourneys to be had, hunts to embark on, or great festivals to curate. Winter was here, and threatened to come for you all if you decided to spend more time outside than remotely necessary.
Jace and Cregan heard petitions coming from the smallfolk that had travelled in advance to see them both. To speak with the Warden of the North was one thing, to do it while the Prince of Dragonstone was sitting at his side was another thing. They heard petitions for hours, and even insisted on staying an additional two after seeing the amount of people who had yet to be heard.
The week was strangely absent of them, then. You were preoccupied with your daily work and overseeing the planning of Jace’s farewell banquet, the grandest of them all. You saw them in small glimpses. Cregan in the morning or Jace at meals. Glimpses of both of them in the courtyard.
You weren’t sure if Cregan had spoken to Jace. How unfairly he plays, he had said, how he underestimates us. Jace had expected to be playing two different one-on-one games. He didn’t know that he was actually only playing one, and was outnumbered on the turf.
So when Jace passed you by, you allowed yourself to look. Really look at him, and to let him see that you were looking. And when he noticed you one morning in the middle of an empty hallway, he stopped, stepped forward and took your hand in his.
“Lady Stark,” he said. He raised your hand to his lips, staring intensely as he pressed a kiss to your glove. “You look lovely today.”
“Thank you, my prince,” You answered, “You look well.”
“I’m beginning to grow accustomed to the cold.” He rolled his shoulders back, seemingly at ease.
“It can be jarring at first.” You thought back to your first few weeks at Winterfell after the wedding. You weren’t sure if you’d ever be warm again, and that was at the end of summer. “We’ll make a Northerner of you yet.”
He laughed, and looked like he wanted to reply. His opportunity was stolen by a maid of yours, who rounded the corner and smiled when she saw you.
“Milady! Giselle has found the linen napkins you were asking for,” She called, “Shall we have them pressed?”
You gave Jace a regretful nod of your head, before replying, “Thank you, Greta! I’ll be right over to have a look at them.”
It was then that she seemed to realize who she was in the presence of. She noticed Jace, and immediately turned bright red before stumbling into a curtsy.
“My deepest apologies, your grace,” She stammered, “I-I didn’t see—”
“Worry not, my lady,” He said genuinely, “The work of a maid is a never-ending list. Carry on.”
Her eyes flickered nervously between you and Jace. You nodded in agreement. “All is well, Greta. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
She left, clearly still feeling awkward. When she was gone, the air felt lighter. “Thank you for not frightening my staff, Jace.”
“I could never. I’d rather they blush than tear up, and I’ve done the former twice already.” He studied your figure.
“Twice…” You took a steady breath. “Do you plan on teasing my staff any further?”
“Not necessarily. But if we drop the pretense, I might do more than tease you.”
“What pretense?” You gave him a coy smile, tracing the threadwork on your gloves. “Is there a game afoot?”
He stepped forward. You stepped back, eyes never breaking away from his. At this, Jace tilted his head.
“You are so brave, suddenly.”
“And you are so bold, Prince Jacaerys. You are a fountain of temptation.”
He licked his lips. “How pretty it sounds, my name falling from your lips.”
“I’d argue my husband’s name sounds even prettier.” Jace raised his eyebrows, taken aback at your sudden bite. You laced your fingers together, before gracing Jace with a curtsy of your own.
“I must go now, your grace.” You stepped past him, aiming to follow Greta’s direction. You landed a foot away from him, and stopped to lean in close.
“But perhaps one night you might listen for it before you leave us.”
You did not look back when you walked away. But you could feel him watching.
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
He took you up on it that night. You shouldn’t have been surprised. You had issued a challenge, and Jace had simply taken you up on it.
You were in Cregan’s study, going over some documents regarding the household budget. The fire burning behind you, he had brought you onto his lap to look them over.
A knock at the door, following the heavy wood swinging open. You scrambled to stand, but widened your eyes when one of Cregan’s hands tightened on your hip, holding you in place. Jace stepped into the room, and for half a moment you wondered if you had been double crossed.
Then you craned your neck to meet Cregan’s eyes, and he nodded. Then, he looked at Jace. You watched his brow twitch subtly as he raked his gaze over the prince, and the grip he had on your side did not loosen. You stiffened, anticipation tinging your senses.
“Your grace,” Cregan greeted, “The hour grows late.”
“I can see that.” Jace jutted his chin in the direction of where you were sitting, zeroing in on Cregan’s hand on your hip. “If you are preoccupied, we can reconvene on the m—”
“Not at all,” Cregan interrupted, shifting you in his lap until you were perched entirely on his right thigh. “We were just finishing our own conversation. Was there something troubling you?”
“Safety, along the Kingsroad.” Jace shook his head and shifted his posture back and forth. “Though it seems you have something different on your mind.”
“Speak freely, my prince,” You murmured, setting the ledger down on the desk in front of you. Jace moved forward, his gait cautious. Still, there appeared to be a silent excitement about him. You looked down at your fingers. Were you trembling or were you just cold?
Cregan studied Jace’s trajectory, and when the prince’s path began to trace around the desk, he shook his head.
“Sit, Jacaerys.” Cregan took an authoritative tone. He refused to look away as he grabbed your hand and placed it upon his chest. The hand over yours squeezed gently, and you forced your shoulders to loosen. “What can be done about the Kingsroad?”
You attempted to pay attention to what Jace was saying—something about harsher sentences for those caught thieving. You tried to think of what would come next. Something was building, surely. What, you could not be sure.
This was entirely uncharted territory for you. Cregan had mostly kept everything contained to your bedchamber, as you tended to prefer. You’d had sex in this room once, because Cregan had been very convincing. Up until two weeks ago, you had never considered any man other than your husband. Here the challenger stood in front of you, a dragon prince with a gaze that might as well set you on fire just as much as the beast that had carried him here.
You knew that if you wanted to, if you were to stand up right now, or to push Cregan away, he would understand. He would lay the game to rest and promise to never pick it back up again. There was no threat of coercion or pressure from him. And because you trusted your husband’s judgment so well, you knew that it had to have been the same for Jace. There was not a single hair on your body that doubted the notion.
You could say no. You had every freedom to do so. But did you want to?
You’re a wolf now, Cregan had told you a few nights ago. And that same night, he’d also said, do wolves not wander in a pack?
You were a wolf. You were his Lady Stark, a woman belonging to the North now. Not because you were given to the North or because it had taken you. You had welcomed the becoming of your own volition.
Before that you had been Y/N Mallister, and while eagles were just as fierce as wolves. But they were solitary birds.
And you and Cregan were one pack.
Your body relaxed. You leaned into Cregan, who understood immediately. The game moves forward.
Jace continued speaking, but Cregan leaned into you. His eyes closed, and he took a deep inhale against your jugular, taking in the smell of your skin and perfume oils. On instinct, you leaned your head back, letting him take it in. Jace’s voice faltered, trailing off in the middle of talking about a scourge of muggings near the Dreadfort. Cregan opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow.
“We’re listening.”
Jace interlaced his fingers, fixated on Cregan nosing along the expanse of your neck. “Are you?”
“Yes,” Cregan insisted, closing his eyes again, “There seems to be a network of bandits along the stretch of Kingsroad nearest to the Dreadfort. Go on.”
Jace licked his lips, before lifting his gaze, meeting yours. You wondered whether the look in his eyes was jealousy or impatience. Sliding your hand from Cregan’s chest to the shoulder closest to you, you held firm. Surprisingly, that sensation of jealousy you had felt the night in the hot springs had returned. But you did not shy away from it, did not let it stop you from having your fun.
You were putting your hands on your husband, you were hoping to convey, and Jace would lay hands on him and on you because you allowed it.
He certainly didn’t seem offended by it. He shifted in the chair, legs parting slightly. Then, he cleared his throat and began speaking again.
“Yes. Lord Bolton had told me when he spoke to me last week…”
Cregan’s lips met the base of your throat, and you inhaled sharply. Another hand gripped his shoulder, and your eyes fell shut. You could hear the crackling of the fire behind you and the depth of Jace’s voice, but the only sensation at the forefront of your mind was Cregan’s gently chapped lips just above your collarbone. He pressed a few kisses around the area before deciding on which spot he preferred best and anchoring there by opening his mouth and biting down. You let out a hmph at this, loud enough to cause Jace to falter once more.
“Lord Cregan,” He glowered, breath growing heavier, “You are forgetting yourself.”
There was no threat in the statement. Bait, more like.
“I remember myself plenty.” Cregan spoke against your skin before biting even harder. You gasped, reaching for the back of his head to push him closer. “I’m sure you remember me too, my prince.”
You heard Jace shift again in the chair, but did not open your eyes. He asked, “What good is memory when the experience is right in front of me, here in the present?”
Your eyes opened when you heard him get up in the chair. He took one step forward before Cregan sat up straight to look at him dead on.
“No.” You knew this tone. This was Cregan at his most domineering, typically reserved for nights he wished to prolong the most agonizing pleasure you’d ever felt in your life. “No, you watch tonight. You will sit there while I fuck my wife, and you will thank me for it. You will thank her for it.”
You never knew you could feel your cunt jump, but then, you also didn’t know forcing the future king of Westeros to watch you fuck your husband had been an available option to you until about five minutes prior.
Jace’s mouth fell open. He blinked stupidly. And then he laughed, sitting down. It was just as Cregan said, the near immediacy of his submission to your husband. Not quite something you’d expect from the Prince of Dragonstone.
He let loose a heavy breath, eyes growing darker. “Yes, Cregan.”
Cregan maneuvered you, forcing you to stand, nudging you towards the desk. You placed both hands on the wood, a slight bend to your back. Less than five feet away, Jace sat in the chair, fingers laced back together. His mouth was slightly ajar, tongue darting out to swipe across his lower lips. They were so pink, you wanted to finally kiss him.
But right now, that was not a call you were allowed to make. Cregan had made the command, and it would hold in stone until he changed his mind. If he changed his mind.
Cregan pressed his chest to your back, draping his broad shoulders over your frame. A hand snaked up your front, landing in a place where calloused fingers spanned your neck and your chin. He placed a wet, worshipping kiss just below your ear, and his hips rocked against your backside.
He was halfway to being hard already. His hand slid down your neck, other hand meeting at your chest to fondle your breasts over your dress. His body heat was radiating off of him so intensely you thought the fire would probably be cooler.
“Did you know I used to bend him over like this, love?” He asked in your ear, loud enough for Jace to hear. “One of the last times I had him, I took him just like this in the Wolfswood.”
Gods, that mental image should not have ignited what it did in you, but it did, and you keened at the thought. Jace chuckled.
“That’s exactly how I felt,” He said, lingering his gaze on Cregan’s hands.
“What a memory,” You panted, pushing your chest into your husband’s hand, “Describe it to me.”
“Why tell you when I could just show you?” Cregan pulled up the back of your skirt, holding it in place with one hand. Your entire body felt like a furnace, dragging your eyes up and down Jace’s person, listening for Cregan’s movements. You tried to conjure up the idea.
The end of summer. Cregan’s hair had been shorter when you met him. Had his hair been shorter then, when he took Jace up against a tree? Was he just as muscular then? What about Jace?
You could vaguely imagine two young men exploring each other in the Wolfswood, after weeks of learning and mapping out each others’ bodies. Two young men who had grown into the lords of the realm. The crown prince submitting to the Warden of the North. And if Cregan was truly showing you what had happened between the two of them, you could hear Cregan shuffling onto his knees…
He parted your legs, and your eyes widened when you felt his tongue lick at your slit from behind. He tugged on your dress, and you understood what he wanted. You grabbed the hem of your skirts, clutching the fabric for purchase. His giant hands grabbed your ass cheeks, spreading them apart for better access. You gasped, other hand sliding papers around the desk in search of something to hold you to the earth. You would float out the window otherwise.
“For someone so terrible with words, he certainly knows how to use his tongue, doesn’t he, Lady Stark?” Jace flashed a smug grin at you as your head fell. He spread his legs again, and you saw it then—the bulge in his pants, and the twitching of his hands on his thighs.
You just watch. You groaned, fully realizing the extent of Cregan’s dominion over Jace, his actions, his body. How quickly he had retaken it.
“Lady Stark?” Jace’s voice rose slightly. “Do you agree? Now that he’s showing you how he prepared me for his cock?”
You nodded, biting back a whimper as Cregan changed the movement of his tongue, delving into you. “S-so good,” You said.
“He licked me just like that. He had some stubble that time. A most pleasant ache.”
“Oh gods.” The room filled with the sound of your frenzied panting and the wet, insistent sound of Cregan’s mouth against your mound. This was perhaps the most aroused you’d ever felt in your life.
Jace laid back in the chair, eyes hooded. From under your skirts and behind the desk, he probably couldn’t see what Cregan was doing. But your sounds and his own experience had to have been indication enough.
“I bet I’ll be able to hear when he puts a finger in.”
“I wonder if—” You bit back a keen, “–if it feels the same for me as it does for you.”
“Probably not,” Jace mused, “Gods, that I could get wet like you. Poor Cregan’s face was drenched in spit by the time he was done with me. He looked lovely like that. So messy.”
Cregan hummed from behind you at the same time he decided to brush his fingers against your clit. Your voice jumped in pitch, and Jace nodded.
“I was right.” He sounded so excited about his theory being proven true. He licked his lips. “I always loved how thick his fingers were. Perfectly r–”
“Rough,” You finished for him, nodding in agreement. You pushed your hips back against Cregan’s face, teeth catching your lower lip in hopes of staying quiet. “Gods, Cregan…”
“And when he finally puts his cock in, it’s such a relief, isn’t it? Like an itch you can’t scratch on your own. I swore I could always feel him in my stomach—”
“Fuck!” Your head tossed itself back, feeling a few strands of hair beginning to stick to your forehead.
“What do you want?” Cregan asked, voice muffled from between your legs. He pressed down on your clit even more insistently. The paper under your hands crumpled as your fingers curled. You weren’t quite sure how you were still standing.
“Tell him,” Jace jeered, almost singing, “Tell your husband what you want him to do to you.”
You opened your eyes again to look at Jace once more, and your lower lip trembled from the pleasure. Your hips began to rock against Cregan’s face. His other hand squeezed your ass in a manner you knew would leave bruises. You would never shy away from this.
He shook his head back and forth between your legs, trying his hardest to get in closer. Your knees buckled, crying out his name.
“Tell him.” Jace’s voice was dripping with desire. “Beg him for his cock. Just like I did.”
“Cregan… Cregan, please fuck me.”
He pulled away, giving you a moment to catch your breath. You yelped when he smacked your ass.
“Soon, pet,” He said, too gentle for someone who had just been fucking you with his tongue, “Come for me first.”
And then he stuck his face back into your pussy, beginning to flick your clit in tandem with the rhythm of his tongue. You jolted, unsure if you were moving away one movement from the sheer overwhelm or into the other from the pleasure. You could feel your lower stomach growing taut, a building pressure underneath the tight, tight heat.
Now, you were fully fucking back onto Cregan’s tongue, whines spilling from your lips. You could feel his hot breath on you.
Your eyes cracked open and you landed back on Jace. You couldn’t count how many times you had done it already, but every time felt like the first. You would revel in him looking you up and down every single time. How ready he looked to strike had he not been shackled by Cregan’s words alone.
You swallowed a lump in your throat, eyes fluttering from the pleasure of Cregan lapping at you like a parched hound. Trying your damnedest to hold eye contact and keep them from rolling up into your skull. Your jaw hung slack, searching helplessly for words to string together.
Jace didn’t need to hear them. He seemed to recognize what you wanted to ask for. Perhaps he had struggled to ask for it himself, then, and was taking it upon himself now to be merciful.
“Cum.”
The ecstasy started at the crest of your head and dripped its way down your spine in such a way that it caused your back to curl in on itself. You held back a sob, body trembling at the sensation.
Cregan stroked you through all of it, prolonging your agony. He hummed too, clearly enjoying the tightening of your thighs against his head and your moaning into the hot, heavy air of his study. He kept at it until you were actively trying to run from him, too much to handle.
He squeezed your thighs in reassurance before he stood. When he reappeared behind you, he grabbed you by the chin, smearing your face with your own release. His lips found yours in a sticky sweet kiss, tasting your own musk on his tongue. You moaned into his mouth, pushing back in a redundant effort to bring him closer.
When Cregan parted from your mouth, he smiled triumphantly. His chin was still gleaming.
He nudged your cheek with his nose. “And to think that was only the beginning.”
You almost keeled over. Cregan gripped your chin again, repositioning your head in Jace’s direction.
“You really haven’t moved,” Cregan murmured, almost surprised, “You’ve settled down since then.”
“I had my reasons for restlessness back then,” Jace offered, very much an understatement. He shrugged. “Times have changed.”
The next moment, he tilted his head. “Are you really not going to let me touch her? Or you?”
“If you keep up the act, maybe,” Cregan answered, wrapping his arms around your middle. Palming again at your chest. “If I could get her out of this dress faster, I’d let you suck on her tits. They’re divine.”
Jace hummed imaginatively, and you had to hold yourself back from ripping at your bodice. You rather liked this dress.
“I told you, she’s beautiful,” Jace eyed your cleavage. He ogled your chest, which was still heaving from Cregan’s mouth, and now his hands.
“Yes, well,” You huffed, growing impatient, “She is right here. Ready and waiting.”
Cregan chuckled against your cheek, kissing the flushed skin before pulling away. “‘M here, pet. I’ve got you.”
His palm met the small of your back to bend you back over the table. Trousers were unlaced, your skirts pulled back up. Your breath hitched. You realized, once more, that this was actually happening.
His weight returned to your back, slotting himself where he had so many times before. He moved against you like it was a birthright, like he knew this was where he belonged. The main difference was sitting right in front of you, painfully hard. Jace groaned quietly, his hands tightening into fists on his thighs.
Cregan reached a hand back, and then you felt him at your entrance. Teasing you by sliding his cock up and down your slit. You clenched around nothing, desperate to feel him fill you.
“Don’t tease,” Jace grunted, taking a deep inhale through his nose.
And for once, Cregan was the one inclined to obey. His head squeezed through your entrance, and the two of you groaned at the pressure, at your togetherness. Cregan gripped your hips, and your head rolled back onto his shoulder. His eyes found yours, noses bumping gently against each other.
The solace he allowed for this brief moment as he slid into you was an eternity in itself. One hand remained on your hip, the other slid between your stomach and your sternum. Whether it was to hold you up or if it was a subtle show of dominion, possession, you couldn’t be sure. Both. Could it not be both? Darkened gray eyes the same color of a turbulent storm raked over your face, flushed and burning. You mewled softly when he bottomed out, jutting your chin out in search of his lips.
Here, in this small bubble, it was just him and you. It would always be him and you.
“Cregan,” You sighed, barely above a whisper. He groaned your name softly, seemingly in agreement.
He jerked his head at the third in the room, and you were reminded of Jace. When he reentered your sight, he did not seem offended at the sudden exclusion. His eyes were full of admiration and reverence, breathing heavily at the erotic intimacy on full display in front of him.
“You’re beautiful,” He whispered. He was talking about you both.
“Cregan.” Your voice was reedier, insistence dripping off of it.
Cregan grunted again. He placed his mouth by your ear. The warmth of his body was rolling off of him, even despite the fact that you were both still clothed. “You wanted to know how I fucked him, Y/N?”
“Yes.” Your brows scrunched together, nodding frantically. “Please move.”
Cregan drew his hips back, sliding out until only his tip was inside of you. Jace’s tongue slotted itself on the inside of his cheek, the skin stretching as it rested there.
“I let him feel every vein on my cock when I put it in him,” He explained, sliding in at an agonizingly slow pace. “I teased him until he was begging for it. I let him squirm. Almost like you were, just now. He sounded a bit more desperate. ”
He bottomed out again, punching the air out of you. He practically spit the next word out, aimed directly at Jace, who grinned at the sound.
“Whorish.” The hand on your sternum slid down, just above your womb. Then, he pressed down, and you gasped, feeling him at both sides. “I let him feel me so deep in him, I wanted him to feel me in his throat. I wanted to eat him from the inside out. Tried to fuck back on me, I didn’t let him.”
He held still for a beat. Two. All the air felt sucked out of your lungs, and Cregan’s tongue snaked out to ghost along your earlobe, and then he lowered his voice to the quietest, lowest whisper he’d had all night.
“Not you, Y/N. You do everything I say. You’re so sweet, my love.”
He slid out again. And when he fucked back into you, the slow, measured, torturous pace was gone, replaced with a forceful, quick one that filled the room with a wet, obscene plap plap plap as his fat balls slapped against your pussy.
Your body seized in his clutch. “C-Cregan!”
“I know, pet,” He growled, low tone dripping with faux sympathy, “I’ve got you, little thing.”
You shifted onto your tiptoes, fighting for a better angle. You were fully sweating now, overheating in the warm, thick fabric of your dress. His force continued to wreak havoc on your lungs, and combined with his body lumbering over your back, it almost felt like you were suffocating, choking on your husband’s essence.
His hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to look back at Jace in the chair, who was clenching his jaw now, nostrils flaring with every deep heave of his breath. You wanted to say something, either to him or to Cregan, it didn’t matter. The pleasure was fogging your brain so beautifully that someone, anyone needed to hear it, but your words were gone.
“Think about him,” Cregan commanded, “Look upon our prince and imagine him taking my place.”
Jace’s eyebrows shot up, arousal so clearly painting his features. He was flushed, hair dishevelled, trousers wrinkling from where he had gripped them so clearly. And he was still so hard, tenting the dark, rich fabric. You wanted it in your mouth. You wanted to tear the fabric from his body and take him into your throat, to let him wrap his fingers in your hair and take and take and take and take—
“Say his name.”
You clenched down so hard on Cregan, his exhale turned into a moan, throaty and hungered. Your hips tried to push back, movement involuntary and animal, but he held you in place.
“No,” He scolded, “No. I held him in place, so I’m holding you in place now too. Now do as you’re told.”
“J—” You choked out, breath coming out short and shallow, “Jace.”
Jace’s head tipped back, groaning quietly into the air. His hips shifted upwards, humping like a dog at something that wasn’t there. A reprieve he was not allowed to receive.
“Y/N,” He murmured, eyes fluttering shut.
“You want her,” Cregan said, “You want me.”
Jace’s words emerged, pulled from behind gritted teeth. “I do.”
“What do you want?”
“Anything—” You’d never heard him sound so desperate. How quickly he’d gone from pretending to be in control to showing that he’d never really had it in him at all. “Everything. Her cunt on my mouth and your cock in my ass and her tongue in my throat and—and—”
“My fingers against that little spot in your hole, yeah? The one that makes you cry like a girl?”
Jace’s hips jerked, and he nodded. “Yes. Gods, yes. I miss you inside me.”
“You’ll get it. Soon. Be patient.”
You moaned, the conversation in you bringing back that sweet shade of green that you’d felt in the hot springs. Except the jealousy wasn’t aimed at Jace, and it didn’t have the bitter aftertaste. The jealousy enveloped them both, a jealousy that you hadn’t been there, that you hadn’t seen them rut against each other in the woods or to watch Cregan fuck Jace with his fingers until tears spilled from his pretty brown eyes. When you spoke, you almost weren’t aware of it.
“Y-you too, Cregan.”
He twitched inside of you. He seemed to know what you wanted, but needed the confirmation.
“Me?”
“Say his name too, Cregan. Pretend I’m him.”
At that, they both moaned. Desire. Adoration. Surprise. The melody filled the room and travelled down your diaphragm into your stomach, compounded by the shift in Cregan’s movements.
Animal instinct seemed to recognize your request first. His thrusting turned brutal and mean, befitting of a spoiled, antagonizing prince that needed to be ground into submission. When his brain caught up to his body, he groaned again, and fisted a hand in your hair. You yelped.
“I—Fuck,” Cregan slurred, “You feel so good, my sweet boy—”
Your cunt clenched unexpectedly. My sweet boy. You could be his sweet boy.
“Jace,” You whined.
“Jacaerys.” Cregan drew out every syllable, savoring this flavor of his prince’s name, one he had not tasted in a very long time.
The both of you dissolved into each other quickly. Cregan continued to pound into you, and you managed to fuck back onto him, despite his best efforts to hold you back. You reached for your skirts, the movements clumsy and jerking. You searched for the hem, trying madly to reach past it. When you did, you immediately found your clit and swirled your fingers, rutting into the movement like a rabbit.
Jace’s name filled the room until it no longer held meaning, until it sounded abstract, until it rose in pitch, grew throatier, and was cried out by the both of you. All the while, the man whose name it was stood watching, jaw gaping, cock aching, as the two people he’d been yearning for peaked in their shared pleasure. And in that shared pleasure, they shared a single word, a single idea, a single thought: him. Jace, Jace, Jace, Jacaerys, Jace.
He watched your back tilt upwards, pushing against Cregan until you bared your neck and your head fell onto Cregan’s shoulder. Your breasts strained against the neckline of your dress and your skin seemed to glow when the firelight hit the sheen of your sweat just right. He watched Cregan’s lip curl, looking more beast than man, before burrowing into your neck and calling Jace’s name against your carotid artery.
His eyes sank down, to where you had lifted your skirts to rub at your clit, and where Cregan fucked into you once, twice, before burying himself as deep as he could in you, likely hoping that he would spill right up against your fertile little womb. He remained fixated on the sight, like if he stared hard enough he would be able to see through your skin and watch it happen.
When you came down, you were trembling in Cregan’s arms, his broad chest searing into your back. Your breathing was labored, loud, groans marking your every exhale. You could feel just how much Cregan had filled you, and braced yourself for the walk back to your quarters with his spend dripping down your thighs and stockings. He stayed in you, enjoying your warmth for a little longer.
You cracked your bleary eyes open. Jace shifted in the chair and considered his next action. A few seconds later, he stood, and walked slowly towards the desk. Cregan hadn’t told him he could move. But Cregan seemed almost as ruined as you, hair mussed and fingers curled into the fat of your hips. He lifted his head from your neck ever so slightly to watch the prince approach, and said nothing. Jace seemed willing to take his chances.
He leaned over the desk, finally seeing how Cregan had ruined you up close. The corners of his lips, which were pink and swollen from biting them, turned upwards. One hand came up to trace your face, thumb swiping across the apple of your cheek. His touch felt akin to someone stoking a dying fire. He flashed a glance at Cregan before looking back at your own mouth.
And then he leaned in, and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was gentle but deep, like he was trying to drink up any remaining pleasure that might have been left in your body. Your neck craned, chasing after the taste of Jace’s mouth as he swiped his tongue against your lower lip. You folded immediately, mouth falling open and a hand coming up to his chest. Finally, you wanted to say. You’re here. I’ve been waiting for you.
You heard a sound leave Cregan’s throat, needy and absolutely involuntary. You had never heard him make a sound like this. How new everything felt suddenly. A spot you had never seen before, on a map you had studied a thousand times.
So quickly Jace came and so quickly he was gone, parting from your lips with a fond phantom of a smile. You blinked slowly, finally able to trace his features without fear or apprehension. You watched as his eyes, nearly blown black from how wide his pupils had become, shifted from your face to another just below yours.
Wordlessly, his neck shifted downwards, brown eyes meeting gray at a closeness now unmarred with risk or potential betrayal. Jace raked his gaze over Cregan’s face, spent, sweaty and flushed with release. A sight he had seen in person years ago, and seen most recently in his dreams when he was at his loneliest.
Cregan leaned in first. Jace simply met him halfway.
Your breath caught at the back of your throat as you watched your husband kiss his best friend, chiseled jawlines moving in tandem, tongues lapping at each other. You felt your core pulse, and Cregan groaned into the kiss, brows creasing. Jace’s second hand rose to Cregan’s face, mirroring the position it had taken along your own skin.
They savored each other for longer than Jace had kissed you, and you let it happen. Your chest was full of all of the moments over the past few weeks, every question, every what if. Moments where you had watched them brush against each other or meet each other’s gaze, in such a manner that had you trying to string together a narrative, evidence, a theory, anything, that indicated something like this.
The proof was right in front of you. And you were happy to catalog every second.
When Jace pulled away, he flickered his eyes between both of your faces, both so close to his. You watched his brown eyes simmer with something you could not name. Then his gaze turned calculating, and then it turned sly. He applied a gentle pressure to your cheek, at the same time he did to Cregan. Pushing the three of you even closer, which seemed almost impossible.
Cregan made a face. “What—”
“Shh,” Jace whispered, “Let me.”
He pushed again. You would run out of room. Your mind pulsed as it tried to identify what he was trying to do. When the side of your face not held by Jace met Cregan’s, you seemed to understand.
This won’t work, you thought, desperately hoping you were wrong, surely, he can’t mean to—
The corner of your lip met Cregan’s, and then Jace’s mouth descended on you both.
The sensation was strange. A rhythm you hadn’t quite danced to before. You tried to mimic Jace’s movements, but Cregan was motionless at your side, and you wondered how this was meant to work.
Jace’s skin was softer. You could feel some stubble off of your husband, the slight dryness from prolonged exposure to the cold.
You would have pulled away. You almost did, worried the moment would turn awkward.
Until Cregan reached over to grab at the back of Jace’s head, and his other hand reached over to the one the prince had on your face. He pressed the three of you even closer—a difficult feat—and opened his mouth. His tongue darted from your lips to Jace’s. You jolted, realizing that you could feel Cregan’s tongue against Jace’s mouth, because you were there too.
Something clicked into place. Something frantic, primal, ancient. Jace opened his mouth. You opened yours. And when their tongues touched yours, you understood then why many said good things came in threes.
Three noses bumping into each other. Three pairs of lips navigating a familiar sequence, this time with an entirely new component to it. Best of all, three tongues flicking against each other, two of them licking into the third, then switching places. You and Cregan pushed into Jace, you and Jace pushed into Cregan, they pushed into you. The three of you tangled together in a delicious, frenzied cycle, needing still to be impossibly closer.
You whined against their mouths when you felt Cregan’s cock twitch inside you. You knew what would happen if you kept at it. He would get hard again, and this time, no matter what he said, you would not be able to hold back and demand Jace join, despite how spent you were. They would press you between them, bodies so hot that you would inevitably melt into the two of them, drip down their chins and their throats, and cease to exist as a person.
This had to end. You did not want it to. While your spirit was willing, you felt your body utterly ruined. You relished it for a few moments longer, before pulling away, lips wet and panting. Your eyes fluttered open, watching them pull away too.
Cregan was breathing heavily, face bewildered, but not unsettled.
“I–” He licked his lips, trying to commit your combined tastes to memory. “Where the fuck did you learn that?”
Jace had the audacity to look sheepish in his reply. “Some Lyseni courtesans were guests at court last year. They can be very, well, creative in their pursuits of pleasure.”
You laughed once, breathless and still trying to process what had just transpired.
“You’ll kill me,” You muttered, “Both of you are going to kill me.”
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
The next few days were a blurred build up to the night of Jace’s farewell feast. You were filled with a seemingly perpetual arousal, kept on the precipice of the best kind of waiting. You returned to your host of administrative tasks, but found the occasional sweet reprieve at being cornered by either of them in an empty hallway or disoccupied study.
“My lady, the napkins have been pressed as you asked.”
At night, the kissing, gods, the kissing. The three of you, late at night after the work was done, would return to Cregan’s study with an excess of Dornish wine. When the three of you were drunk enough, you would sit in one of their laps and do nothing but alternate kissing each other. You would sit in Jace’s lap, brace your hands on his firm chest, and grind yourself down onto him, feeling his hard cock through your smallclothes and his trousers. Or, you would sit in Cregan’s lap and let him drag his teeth against your neck while Jace claimed your mouth with his own. Regardless, you would be reduced into a whiny stupor from the visual and physical stimuli descending on you.
“Lady Stark, will you still be wearing the violet gown tonight?”
If the hour stretched late enough, one of you would eventually crack, and ask Jace to show you that Lyseni kissing again. You came twice during this, mind hazy from the hours of grinding against them and the drawn out state of arousal they had placed you in. This strange new union was always a forceful push enough that would have you falling apart in someone’s lap.
“Lady Stark?"
And other times, you would watch, transfixed, as he and Cregan swapped spit lazily for minutes at a time. You had gripped your goblet with such a force that you were positive you would bend the fine metal, unable to look away as your husband and the prince moved mouths and bodies languidly against each other. As if you were analyzing, studying, preparing yourself to reach out and slot yourself between them both—
“Milady?”
You snapped back to where you were standing, in the middle of the banquet hall where preparations were well underway for the farewell feast. You blinked, meeting eyes with the woman who had just been trying to get your attention.
“Hm?” You raised your eyebrows. “Oh. Yes. Yes, thank you, Rose.”
She nodded sheepishly, and walked away. You pursed your lips, trying to forget about it. A fruitless endeavor. You were on the verge of becoming rabid. You had begged and pleaded for more. It never came.
“Please,” You murmured achingly, “Touch me. Both of you.”
Cregan shook his head.
“He asked for one night. That’s all I’m willing to share you for. You’ll get it when the time is right, pet.”
If not tonight, when? It had to be tonight. Jace was set to leave on the morrow, good weather permitting. They had taken such a hold on your brain that you found yourself retracing parts of your body that they had traced. A hand on your ribcage where Jace had placed his in the barn with Vermax. Tracing your collarbone with your fingers, where Cregan had placed a bruising kiss while you had been sitting in Jace’s lap a few nights ago. Running your tongue across your teeth, where you had felt both of their own tongues tracing the night it had all started.
Gods bless Lyseni courtesans, you thought distractedly.
The rest of the evening was spent in a similar daze. You made your rounds in the kitchen, taste testing sauces, soups, and the sweet creams that would be drizzled on the desserts. You headed up to bathe, attended by your maids as you stared into the distance.
You were dressed in the deep violet gown you had asked them to press for you, with a neckline low enough to garner attention but not too low as to be immodest. They placed silver pins in your hair, and dressed you in your favorite set of jewelry: a silver pendant with amethyst stones inlaid delicately against the metal, with earrings to match. A gift from Cregan for your wedding.
You met Cregan at the bottom of the stairs. He walked you down the hallway, a hand on the small on your back.
“Thank you for planning everything,” He said, “Everything has been delightful.”
“It’s been busy, but I was happy to do so.”
“Tonight will be exciting.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Will it?”
A voice from behind you replied, “I certainly hope so.”
The pair of you turned to see Jace. He was a vision in crimson velvet, a dark sash draped over his shoulder, pinned in place with a silver dragon pin. His hair was perfectly curled, sword at his hip. The only word that came to mind was regal. When he smiled, his chin turned upward, carrying himself with all the grace and pride befitting the heir to the Iron Throne.
“Your grace,” Cregan greeted, “Are you ready?”
“I am.” Jace’s eyes landed on you. He raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”
He didn’t need to specify what for. For a second, you glanced at Cregan, who was just as smug. Something you didn’t really see from him.
You took a deep breath. “I… Yes.”
To say the next few hours were excruciating would have been an understatement. And yet, it made total sense.
The entire night was wrought with an evolution of that initial dynamic you had been so keen to observe when Jace had first arrived. If Jace brushed past you, without fail, he would gently readjust you with delicate fingers on your waist. “Pardon me, Lady Stark,” he whispered every time, loud enough for only you to hear. Your little secret.
There was no shortage of drinks, of this you had made sure. You had also brought out a gift Jace had sent ahead of time before his visit—several cases of wine from The Reach and The Arbor as a thanks to the lords and ladies of the North for receiving him. At dinner, he raised his cup to the North, its people, and his gracious hosts, Lord and Lady Stark. When Jace mentioned you, Cregan squeezed your thigh under the table, and you grew rigid as a brittle wooden board, ready to snap at any moment.
As the drinks flowed, they were the final ingredient to a potent and dangerous concoction. The first ingredient had been the heat of the room, the hustle and bustle of the conversation and the music blending together as you took it all in. Next, the pace you had taken all day long, running here and there to make sure everything was perfect and ready to go. Worst of all—strongest, too—had been the mounting expectation of whatever was going to happen once this was over.
You searched the ballroom for a tall frame draped in dark furs. Dark hair partially tied up. There, speaking with two of Lord Bolton’s sons, he stood tall, poised and elegant like a wolf before a hunt. You held back a sigh. Your husband, your Cregan, your man. He looked beautiful, though he would reject the word outright. Men were not beautiful, he might say.
Or maybe he wouldn’t. Not anymore, you hoped. There was no need to shy away from it now that the truth was out in the open. He was Cregan and he was human and he had been in love with Jace once and he still loved him, but he also loved you. He was capable of holding both of those loves and they were not at odds with each other. Quite the opposite.
Cregan Stark. Your husband. Lord of Winterfell. Lover of princes and ladies alike. Your heart felt full.
“I told you. You are very lucky.”
Around you, your guests started to pair up. The singers were preparing for another number. Jace looked at you knowingly, and held out a hand.
He raised an eyebrow. “Will you indulge me one last time, Lady Y/N?”
You placed your hand in his. “How could I refuse?”
When he positioned himself, he pulled you closer than he had the first time. Your chests were nearly touching. The music began, and he immediately took the lead. You grinned.
“You know this one.”
Jace nodded. “It is one of my favorites.”
He moved with you around the hall, not even needing to watch where he was going. Instead, he remained trained on your face. You felt your face grow warm from the attention.
“Have you enjoyed your time in The North, Jace?” You asked, blinking up at him.
“I have,” he conceded. “I have learned so much more than I did my first time here. And I leave with a new friend. You have been so welcoming to me, my lady.”
He paused, considering his next words. The next time he spoke, he leaned in, lowering his voice. “Especially considering the… behavior I exhibited initially. I imagine that were I a woman, you would have assumed the worst.”
“Your being a man did not matter,” You confessed, “I assumed it within the first few days of your being here.”
This surprised him. “I… You did?”
You laughed. For once, you seemed to have the upper hand with him. “I know my husband. I saw the way he looked at you, and how you looked back. I’m not quiet because I don’t like speaking. But because when you’re silent, you hear every whisper, my prince. Even those that might not be spoken aloud.”
Jace blinked. He seemed stunned, unable to find something to say. The Prince of Dragonstone, words stolen away by Cregan Stark’s meek southern wife. You beamed, triumphant. A moment later, you tilted your head, success giving way to something more genuine.
“Will you miss him?”
Jace lifted his gaze, fixing on one point in the room. You watched his eyes and neck move, coordinating with his feet to keep his eyes on him. You didn’t even need to look to know. Jace watched Cregan with the serenity of someone who had held something once, and come to terms with not being able to hold onto it forever. That was what you saw when they stared at each other, you realized.
Finally, there was a name for it. Peace. A bond forged from mutual respect and absolution. Whatever had once taken root was no longer there. They would never resent each other for it. If anything, they would care for each other even more. When he looked back at you, you saw yourself reflected in that peace.
“Yes and no,” He answered clearly. “I will miss my friend. But I feel as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders having been here after so long. It was a confirmation I hadn’t realized I’d been searching for. I have you to thank for that, also.”
He spun you around, but you didn’t look away from him as you made a face. “Me?”
Jace nodded, smiling. “I knew coming here how much Cregan loved you. He’s never been good with emotions, but his tone when writing about you was so warm, and… meeting you, spending time with you and him, I see why. I see how he cares for you, and you him. I leave here knowing his heart is safe with you. Just like I know how yours is safe with him.”
You smiled back at this, heart swelling even more. “Thank you, my prince. It has been an honor and a pleasure to be your host, and an even greater pleasure to gain your friendship.”
The dance slowed to an end. The room burst into applause, and when you looked up, Cregan was watching you both, seemingly ignoring one of the Bolton boys as he attempted to keep Cregan’s attention. The emotion on his face could only be labeled as affection.
The two of you watched Cregan apologize to the Boltons, brush past them, and cross the room. He seemed to part the onslaught of guests as he walked through them. People would see him, bow their heads, and step to the side. When he landed in front of you both, he held out his arm. You let go of Jace’s hand.
“The night grows long,” Cregan mused, “And the prince has a long journey ahead of him on the morrow. Shall we say our goodbyes and escort him back to his quarters, wife?”
You felt your mouth tip open. It was here. You paused for a beat, then nodded. Jace clenched his jaw, then smirked.
The three of you made a quick round to bid your guests a restful evening. Everyone seemed quite understanding that Jace was feeling tired. The entire time, when you were not speaking, you bit down on your tongue. Lest your teeth rattle with anticipation.
Cregan led you and Jace up the stairs. The ascent was slow, quiet. The symphony of your steps bounced off the stones, echoing throughout the stairwell.
“The music was lovely,” You murmured innocently.
“The food was marvelous.” Jace echoed your tone.
Your trio rounded a corner and you found everyone’s slow walk speeding up. Compliments were paid to your organizational choices. Another flight of stairs. Your thighs tensed with exertion and excitement. By the time you hit the top of the staircase, Jace grinned.
He grabbed your hand, then he grabbed Cregan’s. Cregan chuckled quietly, and you found yourself breaking into giggles as well.
“I’ve been waiting for this for weeks,” Jace admitted. Then, he broke into a light jog, taking you and your husband along with him. The drinks, the arousal, the warmth in your chest. All three of these had your head tipping back in joyful, girlish laughter. This was everything you had been wanting, and all of your clothes were still on.
Jace’s door appeared at the end of the hall. He let go of your hands only to open it, and once you were all inside, they pounced on you. How they seemed to move so in sync, you could not say. You had been wound up so tightly you could no longer tell which way was right and which way was left.
Cregan’s mouth landed on yours, and you immediately opened yourself for him. Pure instinct, letting him lick into your mouth with hot breaths against your mouth. Rough and demanding. He grabbed at your sides, squeezing your hips. Jace stepped behind you, tracing open mouthed kisses along the side of your throat, moving up under your ear. His hands slotted themselves over Cregan’s hands, calloused hands brushing even larger calloused hands.
You reached behind you to fist Jace’s curls between your fingers, and rubbed Cregan’s chest in front of you. Already, your heart was pounding. Cregan pulled away to nip at your collarbone, and as if reading Jace’s mind, you craned your neck in pursuit of his heart-shaped lips.
Jace’s kisses were not as aggressive as Cregan’s but they were just as deep. He did not immediately demand you open his mouth to slide his tongue against yours, but rather he spent time courting your lips, then teasing with a quick slide of his tongue against your lower lip. When you bit down on his lower lip, he took that as permission. Only then did his kisses grow faster, humming against your lips when you sucked on his tongue, desperate to get it deeper in your throat.
His front pressed up against your back, and there, nestled between your buttocks, you could feel something poking you, growing more and more insistent with each passing moment. His hands moved away from Cregan’s at your side and slid up your back, trying to find the laces of your bodice. He parted from your lips to fully concentrate on undoing the problematic knots, and you wrapped both of your arms around your husband’s neck.
Cregan immediately straightened, moving his hands down to squeeze at your ass. You gasped, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck.
“Who goes first?” You asked breathlessly.
“Me,” Cregan responded immediately, “I fuck you first, then Jace fucks you.”
You sighed, bodice becoming looser as Jace successfully undid the laces. “When do you fuck Jace?”
They froze. Cregan gaped at you, then looked at Jace.
Jace cleared his throat. “I–”
Cregan raised an eyebrow. “You–”
“What,” You asked, taken aback at their surprise, “I ask to watch you stick your tongues down each other’s throats, can I not watch my husband stick his c—”
“I didn’t think you’d want to see the… well. The whole of it,” Jace answered.
Cregan snickered, a hand gripping your chin. “Oh, she wants to see the hole of it, Jace, I promise you.”
“She continues to surprise me.”
“I’m not surprised at all,” Cregan sighed after a moment, rubbing his forehead against yours, “Gods, you greedy little thing.”
You leaned forward, needing someone desperately. He kissed you again, groaning as you began to unbutton his black jerkin. The vest fell to the floor quickly, leaving him in his thick, gray, cotton doublet. Cregan helped you with the buttons on this one when you pulled away to watch your fingers, which had started to tremble with excitement.
“Easy, pet,” He murmured fondly as his chest was revealed, “We’ve not even touched you yet.
That could not remain true for much longer, you thought, as your bodice and skirts finally gave way thanks to Jace’s ministrations. They pooled at your feet, leaving you in your slip, stockings, and boots. Jace took you by the hand and pushed you back to sit gently on the bed.
Your boots were unlaced. Two pairs of foreign hands pulled down each stocking, and then they parted your legs. You were left to lift your cotton slip and pull it over your head. It left you the first to be naked, you realized as you laid flat on the bed. Cregan was right behind you, and Jace’s clothes remained in place.
The pair of them hovered above where you needed. You propped yourself up on your elbows and found yourself with Jace’s eyes dragging slowly up your body, twinkling in the firelight all the meanwhile.
“You’re unreal,” Jace mumbled, “Sculpted in the image of Mother and Maiden alike.”
“O-oh,” You sighed, a shudder traveling down your spine. You had never been told that before.
Cregan nipped at your bare thigh, before touching Jace’s cheek. “So this is how you southerners seduce women.”
“Only the exceptionally beautiful ones,” Jace argued, flicking his eyes between you and Cregan, “You use it too much and it becomes blasphemy.”
You licked your lips seeing them both slotted between your legs. “This is already blasphemy enough.”
“Quite true,” Cregan said, moving his hand to the back of Jace’s head, “And it’s about to be even more so.”
Cregan’s lips wrapped around your pearl. Jace’s mouth landed at your hole, immediately beginning to lap at your wetness as if he hadn’t seen water in days.
The simultaneous pleasure, courtesy of two of the most powerful men in Westeros kneeling at your feet to worship at your altar. Such a devotional was unlike any other.
The difference in their kisses translated almost perfectly to this. Cregan enjoyed a bit of force when pinning you down like this. “I know she can take it, she’s taken worse,” was his rationale. Jace, for all of his teasing and mastery of making you want, was as gentle as he was needy. He seemed to understand that this was new to you too, but that this would be his only chance to lap at you.
They switched places, tongues touching as they moved around your pussy. Jace moaned when it happened, and between watching it happen and feeling the vibration against your core, you cried out, head falling back. Now, it was Jace’s turn to suck softly on your clit, while Cregan decided to stick his tongue inside of you and fuck you with it. You couldn’t make up your mind on where to focus—at this rate your mind was gone, turned to mush, leaking out of your cunt and being soaked up by their mouths.
Cregan’s hands squeezed at your thighs and Jace had one hand on your hip. You were so focused on your own pleasure you didn’t see Jace’s free hand land at the front of Cregan’s trousers, cupping your husband’s hardness with a restrained vigor. Cregan’s hips pushed into Jace’s touch, and he grunted into your pussy as Jace began to squeeze his bulge.
Jace slid his tongue down to where Cregan’s was. He stuck his tongue into your walls as well, holding back a humbling moan when he felt the tightness of your cunt forcing Cregan’s tongue up against his own. He could take it no longer, delving his hands under the dark wool of Cregan’s trousers.
Jace wrapped his hand around Cregan’s hard cock, remembering the weight of his thick, veiny member, before cupping his fat, heavy balls. Jace’s touch had Cregan groaning into your hole, causing you to gasp out, reaching for both of their heads. Your orgasm was approaching embarrassingly fast, and they got the message when your fists landed in their hair. You hung one leg on their respective outside shoulders, heels digging into their shoulder blades.
Closeness. What a funny word. How could it be that something was too much but never enough?
Cregan’s hand rose up to meet yours in his hair. His index finger tapped your wedding band. Your head rose, face screwed up in pleasure, and saw them both joined together inside of you. A different form of Jace’s Lyseni kiss. The sight was more than enough. You descended into your pleasure, hips bucking against their faces as you demanded for more, for them to stop, for them to keep going, for someone to fuck you, for this night to never end.
Jace was painfully hard. Between Cregan’s cock in his hand, and now you reaching your peak all over him and your husband’s tongues, he could no longer bear it. As you came down, he realized that he’d be relegated to the side yet again before being allowed to participate. He would not be able to just sit idle while watching the two of you again.
You lay limp on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as you tried to regain your bearings. They pulled their mouths away, and you let them go. Your eyes fluttered shut for barely half a second, before you heard more kissing, Cregan grunting, Jace gasping.
You lifted your head with a speed you didn’t think you still had, only to find Jace’s hand in Cregan’s pants while Cregan gripped Jace by the scruff of his neck. Like he was a pup who had just been caught misbehaving. If the hand pumping his cock was the misbehavior, Cregan didn’t seem eager to correct it. You whined at the sight, so ready to watch the prince fall apart on Cregan’s cock.
Your sound roused them both. Cregan’s movements slowed, and his eyes cracked open. He found you staring at the both of them, chest rising and falling with need. He jerked his hips into Jace’s hand, and for a moment, you almost understood what it was like to be Jace the very first night it had all happened.
Jace opened his eyes to look back at you, and he bit his lip. He looked at Cregan, who was watching you as well. Jace spit into his other hand, moving to wrap it around Cregan’s member, before leaning over to suck on Cregan’s jugular. Cregan inhaled sharply, hips thrusting into the prince’s hands.
“Go to her,” Jace murmured against his skin, “Fuck her and I’ll ready myself for you.”
They stood, shedding their remaining clothes as you moved further back on the bed to make room for them both. Soon, the pair were just as naked as you were, moving to the edge of the bed closest to where you were. Standing next to each other, you could not help but compare.
Jace’s muscles were different from your husband’s. Where Cregan was stocky and strong, the muscle was hidden beneath a small layer of plush skin, which was very common in Northern men. Foolish southerners would call it “pudgy”. You called it very, very attractive. His long, thick cock stood at attention, red and willing, hefty balls sagging beneath.
Objectively, Jace was prettier. He was leaner, lighter. Better for riding. His slimness did not necessarily mean fragility—his arms and thighs were well sculpted from years of training, and his shoulders and chest were dotted with freckles too. While his cock was slightly smaller than Cregan’s, it was, like the rest of him, a bit prettier than your husband’s. Pink at the tip, with a generous upward curve that left your mouth watering.
Cregan tilted his head. “Have you had enough of your ogling?” He asked, nodding once. “Lie back.”
As Cregan crawled onto the bed, Jace walked to the vanity on the far side of the room. He heard you and Cregan kiss as he inspected the vials spread across the grain of the wood, before landing on a vial of perfume oil. He grabbed it before returning to the bed, setting it on a table right next to the mattress.
When Jace’s head hit the pillow next to yours, Cregan took it as permission to hike your legs around his waist, one hand propping himself up against the headboard. He took himself into his hand, pumped his cock a few times before sliding it up and down your slit, gathering your wetness along his tip.
“Cregan,” Jace said softly, “How many times have I told you not to tease?”
They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Cregan clenched his jaw, and you could finally tell what was being said. So did Jace, who immediately lowered his eyes.
“Prepare yourself for me,” Cregan said finally, nodding at the vial Jace had grabbed, “Give her something pretty to look at.”
A moment later, Cregan entered you, and did not give you a moment’s reprieve. His pace was immediately fast and rough, and you reached for his arms to find purchase on something. Cregan’s hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to turn your head to where Jace was lying, currently opening the vial.
“Watch him,” He ordered, “You love watching, don’t you, love?”
You nodded as best you could with your head in his grip, eyes pinned to Jace’s form as he came onto his knees, pressing his face against the pillow. His fingers glistened with oil, and a faint smell of jasmine hit your nose. Your mouth fell open as he lifted his fingers up and behind him. From where you were, you couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but the face he made and accompanying sound that escaped him seconds after left nothing to the imagination.
“Good boy,” Cregan praised, before looking back down at you. You felt yourself clench at his words. Cregan’s pace continued, your hands tracing whatever part of your body you could land your hands on. His broad back and shoulders, hairy chest, or strong plush biceps, you needed something to hold onto as you watched the Prince of Dragonstone finger himself open in preparation for the cock you were currently speared on.
“See normally,” Cregan mumbled into your ear, “I’d have him just like that, but I would be the one to put my fingers in his pink little hole.”
Jace nodded, lip curling up in pleasure. “His f-fingers are quite long,” Jace answered, “Not sure if you’ve noticed.”
You keened. “Yes,” You agreed, “Quite—ah!—quite talented too.”
Jace groaned. You watched his arm begin to speed up. From atop you, Cregan watched slack-jawed as you both compared notes in front of him. He thrust even harder a few times, desperate to drive the breath from your lungs. The movement pushed you into the pillows, back arching into him.
“C-Cregan,” You cried, whining as the harsh thrusting slowed into deep grinding, “Gods, s-so good.”
His lips crashed into yours, so bruising and demanding and so very much Cregan, you tightened your legs around his waist. His weight on top of you was almost crushing, but the way he draped himself over you as he moved languidly in and out of you had you enveloped in a blanket of pleasure and veneration radiating off of his being into yours.
Across from you, Jace was already pressing a second finger into his ass, his other hand wrapping around his cock as he watched Cregan fold you in half. The sound of your cries was soft and needy, but you didn’t complain or try to run from Cregan’s force. You soaked it all up, thirsty and wanting.
When Cregan pulled away, he groaned against your open mouth. “Soon,” He told you, “And after I fill you up, he’ll fuck you too.”
You snaked a hand between you both, rubbing at your nub with a mounting need. You looked back at Jace, moan wrenching from your throat as you watched him, moaning into the pillow, flush covering his delicate freckles. There was a sheen across his forehead and cheekbones, lips forming a delicate little o-shape. Jace’s eyes locked with yours, and you wanted so badly to reach out and touch him. You were rendered immobile beneath your husband’s weight.
You looked down at Jace’s pink cock. He seemed to have found a good rhythm, fucking his cock into his hand and then fucking back onto his fingers. When you realized that he was matching the thrust of his cock into his hand up to the rhythm of Cregan’s hips, your eyes screwed shut, pleasure building impossibly high.
“Cregan,” You called, bucking your hips up into his, “Please.”
“It’s alright, love.” He nodded against your neck, hips beginning to stutter. “Me too. I’ve got you.”
He thrusted a few more times, movements out of rhythm but still so deep inside of you, until his grunts turned into long, drawn out calls of your name. When you felt him spill his hot seed, cock pulsing inside of you, it tipped you over the edge as well, clit pulsating as you pushed your fingers into the sensation. There was always so much, and this time was no different. You looked up at him, vision blurred, to see his hair mussed and a bead of sweat dripping down his nose. It landed on your cheek, and he wiped it away.
Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Jace shift. He whimpered when his fingers left his hole. He moved closer, eyes trained on where you and Cregan were still connected.
When Cregan pulled out of you, the three of you twisted your necks to watch Cregan’s creamy, white seed spill out of you. You sighed, lower belly warm as he dragged a finger through his release, smearing it across your cunt. He pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Keep them open,” He murmured in your ear, rubbing your thighs. “You’ve been such a good little hostess, wife. How kind of you to gift our prince your tight little cunt.”
His words caused you to clench down on nothing, and Jace groaned when more cum spilled out. Cregan rolled to your side, letting Jace take his place. Jace’s lips landed on yours, deep but not demanding. His eyes studied your face, the flush of your skin as it travelled down your shoulders and tits.
“My lady,” He whispered, cock poking at your entrance, “Can I? Let me—”
“Yes, fuck.” Your voice was breathy, shifting your hips to catch the head of his cock. The two of you gasped at the sensation. Cregan sighed next to you and both of you shifted to look at him. Your eyes were wide, Jace’s were hooded. Waiting. He had held the reins for most of the operation. Was it any wonder the two of you deferred to him?
Cregan looked between you both, before his lips turned upwards. “Well, go on,” He goaded, “Or does our prince need to tell me where to put his cock?”
Jace swallowed, shaking his head. He grabbed one leg, slinging it over his shoulder. Your chest lurched at the angle, and Jace slid into your pussy. An involuntary sound spilled from his lips, a similar whine coming from yours. You were so—
“So wet, Y/N,” Jace growled, licking up your jawline, “Is that you, or is that his cum?”
“Both,” You said, “It’s both of us.”
Jace’s thrusts were slow and controlled, but still had a way of wrenching soft whimpers from your lips. His lips descended on one of your nipples, and you buried your hands in his hair. You opened your chest to give him better access, nodding desperately as he grazed his teeth delicately across the hard nub.
His hips tried different angles, each one hitting better than the last, until he shifted his movement to the left ever so slightly and let out a breathy laugh when you clenched around him and moaned his name.
“Jace,” You said, “Oh, right there, my prince, please, please, please.”
Jace hit the spot again, experimentally, and he pinned your wrists to the bed to stop you from curling in on yourself. He grinned, groaning softly.
“No, you’re not going anywhere.” His pace became faster, your head beginning to writhe back and forth on the pillow. You were so sensitive, but Jace was just beginning to let his more merciless nature show.
“You’ll sit there and take it and show your husband how obedient you are, hmm?”
Your hands balled into fists, unable to touch Jace where you wanted. You wanted your fingers in his mouth. You were sure he would accept them willingly. His pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked more black than brown, and his brows were furrowed in concentration, nose scrunched up ever so slightly as he chased after his own pleasure. He tilted his head, eyes widening.
“Yes? Answer.”
“Yes!” You nodded, unable to deny it. “Yes, yes, I’ll do whatever you want.”
“She always gets desperate when she’s sensitive,” Cregan told Jace. Your head turned, spotting him lying on his side. His cock was half hard, and beginning to swell again. A man starved, his eyes did not settle in one place for very long. Between your face and Jace’s, your tits, where Jace was fucking into you, there was simply too much to take in. “She doesn’t know whether to run from it or let it happen. Isn’t that right, Y/N?”
You chewed on your lip but nodded. The observation was true, but to be teased like this made the faintest shame brew in your chest, and even worse, the shame made your pussy clench. Jace gasped at this, gripping the headboard with one hand and your clit with the other. Your body tensed up as Jace used the headboard for leverage, swiping his fingers across your nub, doubling the sweet anguish traveling through your veins.
Cregan began to stroke himself again, spurred on by the sudden mania overtaking Jace and being taken out on you. His two favorite people, making each other feel so good right in front of him. The two of you looked so beautiful, your eyes rolling back up into your head as Jace’s head tipped back, revealing the creamy expanse of his neck. He almost wanted to cum again, but knew to save it for what was to come.
Jace groaning your name, you moaning Jace’s. Gods, what a sight, what a sound. He didn’t think he would ever forget tonight.
His hand left your clit to grip the leg not propped over Jace’s shoulder, and then he hauled it up to match. The angle allowed him to reach even deeper, and the curve of his cock proved sweet in ramming up against that warm, spongy spot inside of you that had your legs beginning to tremble. This much pleasure could not be good for your body. Surely, you would combust.
“Oh, fuck,” Jace grunted, returning his fingers to between your legs. A fire licked up your mound and shot straight up your spine, fingernails digging into your palms. You bucked against Jace’s movements. He pressed a kiss to one of your ankles before his pace turned harder, rhythm slowing just enough to maintain precision—an effort in vain.
“Jace, I’m going to—”
“Yes,” He nodded, “Can I—please, inside—”
“Yes,” Your legs slid off his shoulders, immediately wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his ass cheeks, “Yes, Jacaerys, cum in me too.”
Your words pushed him over, paired with the insistence of your legs. Jace could not have escaped even if he wanted to, he realized as his balls tensed up. His arms wrapped around you and yours wrapped around him. His ache crashed into yours, and the two of you hurtled into release, writhing against each other in the aftershocks.
He buried his face between your breasts, hips bucking wildly as his seed mixed with Cregan’s. The thought had him thrusting weakly as his orgasm died down, trying to extend the sensation in his lower stomach for as long as possible.
He pulled out of you, cock beginning to soften, and remained draped over you, panting against one of your breasts. He flicked his tongue against your nipple, and you almost shoved him off. You were too weak to actually see it through, twitching against Jace’s lean frame as he pressed kisses into your hairline, damp with sweat.
“Gorgeous,” He whispered into your skin, “Doing so well for us, pretty girl.”
Jace lowered his mouth to yours, lazily tangling his tongue with your tongue in the brief interlude before the final act. You felt Cregan stand from the bed, too engrossed in the taste of Jace’s lips to actually focus on what your husband was doing.
The prince pulled away, and you cracked your eyes open to see Cregan at the foot of the bed, gaze dark, shoulders squared. Jace twisted his head. They exchanged a glance, and then Jace looked back at you. He gave you one final kiss, before crawling backwards until his buttocks met the tops of Cregan’s thighs. You moved to sit up, but Cregan shook his head.
“Come here.”
You raised your eyebrows, eyes darting from side to side. “Me? What are you—”
“Look at the mess his grace made,” Cregan murmured, hand sliding up Jace’s spine. The prince shuddered, eyes falling between your thighs. Your cunt was ruined, he realized, swallowing thickly. Cum was oozing out from your hole, your clit was swollen, and Cregan’s cum, previously dislodged by Jace’s fucking you had smeared across your folds.
“Should he not be made to clean it up?”
Your thighs twitched, mouth gaping. You looked at Jace, who seemed near close to drooling like a hound. When your eyes returned to Cregan’s face, there was no room for argument. Still, you tried.
“I can’t—”
“But you will.” Cregan’s hand nestled into Jace’s hair, giving it a light tug. “And he will be good and clean you up. You can take one more, pet. I know you have it in you. You always do.”
You almost hesitated, before spotting where Cregan’s fingers were tangling themselves in Jace’s hair. Your lower lip found itself pinned down by your teeth, but not out of apprehension.
A few moments later, you slid down the bed, at the same time as Cregan walked to the nightstand. He took the oil and smeared it over himself. When he stood behind Jace again, he rubbed the remainder all over the prince’s hole. Jace jumped, before craning his hips back.
Cregan smiled crookedly before applying a gentle pressure against Jace’s hole with his thumb. It gave almost immediately, welcoming Cregan back in greedily. He dipped his thumb in and out too slow for comfort, and Jace’s forehead made contact with one of your parted thighs.
He toyed with Jace’s hole a little longer, gauging whether or not he was ready for Cregan’s cock, now fully hard again. He wasn’t sure how long he would last, having came once already, on top of watching Jace fuck you. When he pulled his thumb out, he also pulled the softest whimper from the back of Jace’s throat.
“Please,” Jace said, one hand reaching back to spread himself open for Cregan, “Please, I need you.”
Cregan bent down, slotting a wet, open mouthed kiss between Jace’s shoulder blades. He gripped himself, pressing the head of his cock right up against Jace’s asshole. All of the air still in Jace’s body left him, leaving only anticipation that bled from every pore on his skin.
“Put your mouth on her.” The command was said quietly against Jace’s skin. “Then I’ll fuck you, my sweet boy.”
Jace exhaled shakily at the name. He had not been called that in years. He licked his lips, looking back at your cunt. Your tired eyes were watching him fondly, a hand reaching for his cheek. You took a trembling breath, before falling in line with what Cregan wanted.
“Eat,” You whispered sweetly, beaming when he pressed his face into your palm, “Be good for us.”
The silver of your wedding band was cold against his cheek. A miniscule oasis from the layer of heat that had blanketed the room. He shut his eyes and allowed himself one more moment to enjoy the cool metal on his skin. Then, he turned, and placed a dedicated kiss on your palm. When he drew away, he lowered his neck, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth to trace a long stripe from your hole to your clit.
The sensitivity was too much. You jumped at the wet warmth of his tongue, and Jace splayed a hand over your lower stomach, pinning you in place. You shivered, scar touching your skin. He licked you again, and then began to dip his tongue into your folds.
“Fuck!”
Jace hummed against your folds, half-hard member twitching at your expletive and the mixed flavor of his own cum and Cregan’s. He canted his hips back, unable to form words anymore.
Cregan chose mercy. He pushed in, forcing Jace to gasp against your cunt. His eyes burned as he stared unblinking at how he slid into Jace’s tight hole, jaw clenching as he gave Jace a moment to adjust. The prince was still as tight as he remembered him. Jace seemed to disagree with the decision.
“Ngh, move.” This was the most princely he’d sounded since coming into the room, his demand bitten out and gruff. Jace brushed his nose against your clit, and you tangled both hands in his hair. Cregan lifted his eyes, landing on your debauched, sweaty face, and you nodded.
Cregan bottomed out, reaching for Jace’s slender waist. He was going to need the leverage. He held Jace in place as he slid out, and then began to fuck the prince with an abandon Cregan hadn’t expected of himself.
The three of you were falling apart. This drawn out session had stripped the three of you to your most animal senses. Humping, grabbing, moaning, licking. Titles were seemingly gone, and what was left were three sweaty lovers in search of a reverie so prolonged it verged on painful, still delicious enough to keep at the pursuit.
Cregan’s hands tightened around Jace’s waist. Jace groaned, hoping desperately he’d have bruises to further commit the night to memory. He angled his hips upward, knowing how close Cregan he was to his prostate. He knew Cregan was looking for it too. All Jace had to do was guide the way.
When he found it, Jace’s voice cracked. The timbre of his voice gave way, leaving a whiny mess still dipping his tongue into your hole. His whimpering and the accompanying vibration had you crying out too. The praise spilled out of you, a woman possessed.
“That’s it,” You said, “Take it, Jace. I know you can do it, darling. Take it like I did.”
Cregan, yearning for that mythical closeness, rested his knees against the mattress, stomach pressing against Jace’s lower back. He began mouthing at Jace’s shoulders, showering him with affirmations every time his lips were detached from his skin long enough. Cregan’s hips never let up.
“Just as tight as I remember, sweet boy,” He growled, “‘M going to fuck you until you’re begging me to stop.”
“Never stop,” Jace pleaded, lapping at your clit, “Don’t want you to.”
“No?” Cregan’s hands slid to his front, tweaking at Jace’s nipples, before sliding a hand down to grip Jace’s twitching, ruddy member. “Even like this?”
Jace cried out again, wrapping his lips around your clit. Your back arched off the bed, tugging so intensely at Jace’s pretty locks that his scalp ached sweetly. Your entire body was trembling now. Jace was wrecked, pinned between you and your husband as Cregan took and you were made to give.
The three of you, connected. You and Cregan, slowly suffocating Jace with your love. And Jace, in the middle of it all, unable to do anything but accept it all. Even as his a knot began to form in his lower stomach, ass tightening with Cregan still inside. When he clenched down on Cregan, Cregan’s hips bucked, before retaking the rhythm he was still trying to hold onto.
“Feel too good, Jace,” He groaned, “‘M not gonna last.”
“Cum in me,” Jace demanded, lifting his mouth off of you, “Let me feel you in me when I leave.”
Cregan drove himself into Jace even harder, final orgasm now in view. He cupped Jace’s balls, squeezing, as if attempting to coax Jace’s cum out of them. Jace reattached his tongue to your clit, two fingers sliding into your painfully sensitive hole, trying to find more of the sticky, creamy cum they had both placed so lovingly in you. Your body was no longer your own, you realized with a pleased satisfaction. They had taken control of it and decided how to position it, how to fill it, when you’d had enough.
“And you,” Jace murmured breathlessly into your skin, “I want to feel your pussy squeeze around my fingers one more time.”
His words triggered an avalanche, starting with you and ending with Cregan. Your vision turned white, body stiffening for a beat. Then, your body jolted, cunt clenching helplessly around Jace’s digits. He suckled on your clit through every single wave of painful pleasure, until you were sobbing, trying weakly to push his head away.
Jace let his head fall back on your soft thigh. He couldn’t tell if you were the one trembling or he was. His eyes squeezed shut, feeling the familiar tug in his balls. He bit down on your thigh when he came again, cum spilling over Cregan’s fist, his own walls fluttering against Cregan’s incessant pounding.
Finally, Cregan wrapped himself on Jace, burying himself the deepest he’d been in the prince all night, shuddering on top of him as he spilled more of his warm, sticky cum into the heir to the Iron Throne.
The three of you rode out the final waves until it hurt, room smelling of sweat, sex, and funnily enough, jasmine. The only sounds were those of the crackling wood of the hearth and three different staccatos of breath.
Carefully, Cregan pulled himself out of Jace. Jace, boneless, fell forward, nuzzling into your thigh. You carded a hand through his sweaty curls, attempting to soothe after all of your yanking. You felt the mattress dip behind you. Cregan had slid onto your side of the bed, lying behind you. He pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder. He looked utterly spent, heart still hammering just under his sweaty chest.
When Jace had regained his bearings, he crawled up to be level with you and Cregan. He wrapped his hands around your waist, and looked at you both. Cregan had one hand splayed across your lower back, and used the other to slide up Jace’s arm. All your touches had turned tender, now. Any tension or desire had bled into each other late into the night, leaving only fondness and a feeling of completion. A circle being closed.
“If Aegon the Conqueror had done this instead,” Jace decided, “I believe the North would have fallen much faster.”
Cregan swatted his arm. Jace caught his hand, scars brushing. You giggled, sleep beginning to settle over your body.
“I mean it. If he’d just bent over for Torrhen Stark–”
“Jacaerys.”
As your eyes fluttered shut, you smiled between their bodies. It was cold outside, but you had your husband at your back, and a prince of dragon blood at your front.
For the rest of the night, there would be no cold to be spoken of.
•❆·. ❆ .• ·• ❅ ·❆.
minors dni. if i didn't tag you, it was because i couldn't see an age anywhere on your blog <3
SUMMARY: A prince washes up on the shore outside your cottage, and you must decide whether you’re going to leave him to his fate or save his life. Either way, you know there will be consequences.
WARNINGS: fem!reader, commoner!reader, eventual dragonseed!reader, jace lives, eventual smut, class differences (jace is obviously a prince and reader is a commoner). Reader is not too fond of him at first because she is from Sharp Point. This is a bit of a mix of show canon and book canon in that Jace went to the Gullet to save his brothers and Rhaena still claimed Sheepstealer
AUTHOR'S NOTES: i HADDDD to do a fic for our beloved boy </3 i miss you jacaerys velaryon, prince of dragonstone, heir to the iron throne. I will truly never move on from this death </3 so we need a world where he does not die. I'm saur excited for this because it's my first time writing a reader who comes from a commoner background, AND I finally get to write the dragons ... originally she was not supposed to be a dragonseed, but I just cannot help myself. If I'm going to be writing a hotd era fic, our girl is going to have a dragon. ANYWAY I hope you guys enjoy! please leave a comment or reblog mwah mwah
You wonder whether it is chance or divine intervention that a Targaryen prince washes ashore beside your cottage.
By the time you get to the edge of the sea after catching a glimpse of the corpse from your porch, it is half buried in the wet sand, lying limp at your feet, and there is a lump in your throat that you cannot seem to swallow away.
You do not know how you didn’t notice the sigil sooner.
It should have been the first thing that caught your eye, considering it was only a fortnight past that the Prince Aemond brought the great dragon Vhagar over the town you were raised in and razed it to the ground. The green and gold banners have been flying over the area since, and soldiers from the Reach have been constantly patrolling the roads, seeking out rebels and sympathizers.
You know better than to involve yourself in the affairs of any man that dons the three-headed dragon, you tell yourself, trying to will yourself to walk away from the corpse before anyone can catch you standing near it.
Red or gold, black or green—it does not matter to you, the wars of nobles are graves for common folk, and you have no desire to meet an early one. You have done well enough for yourself since your father passed. You refuse to squander the life you’ve built because a prince washed up on the shore near your home.
The boy at your feet is young, you cannot help but notice—your age, perhaps—dark of hair and fair of skin. At a distance, he had looked like any other body the sea had decided to return, and your first instinct had been to rush toward him rather than avert your gaze and pretend you had seen nothing.
Your hands tremble at your sides, and you have to forcibly still them as you take in a deep breath.
This is war, you recall the soldiers saying when the survivors demanded to know the reason for the tragedy that took place at Sharp Point—mothers with tears in their eyes and no bodies to bury, fathers who had lost their livelihood and the children for whom they built it, your neighbors, your friends. They say Lord Bar Emmon sits on the usurper’s council, so all of the commonfolk who were unfortunate enough to be born beneath his banners have been made to pay the price of his loyalties, allies of a queen they have never seen and casualties of a war they never chose.
This is war, they will tell you the same as they cut off your head if they see you kneeling beside this corpse and call mercy treason. Because it is always the burden of the commonfolk, paying the price of noble quarrels. Princes speak of honor and succession, of rights and oaths and stolen crowns, and it is fishermen and farmers who have to bury their dead. They will not care to hear what you have to say if they think you're affiliated with the Black queen and her supporters, just as the Prince Aemond did not care whether the people of Sharp Point had declared for the Blacks or merely happened to be born beneath the wrong lord.
But now, a prince lies dead upon your shore, and you wonder if this is how it begins again.
You should leave him.
The thought comes immediately, sensible in light of the circumstances, even if it does make your stomach flip. You should turn around and go home, bolt your door, and tell no one what you saw. The sea will reclaim him, or the crabs will pick his bones clean; maybe the patrol will stumble upon the body before the tide rises, and they can parade it through the streets the same way you heard they did to Princess Rhaenys’s dragon.
By the morning, he will be gone one way or another, and you can move on with your life as though you never saw him at all. He will be somebody else’s misfortune, or more hopefully, no one else’s at all.
It is a corpse, anyway. The boy has not moved since you arrived, and his chest does not seem to be rising and falling. There are two arrows through his shoulder, and a blueness to his lips that you’ve only seen in the dead, so—
As though to mock you, he lets out a wet, ragged cough, water bubbling at his lips, lashes fluttering just enough for you to catch sight of dark, hazy eyes that slip over you once before they slide shut again.
You feel sick to your stomach.
He does not stir again. One side of his face is bruised an ugly purple, his dark hair plastered to his brow with seawater and blood. He cannot be much older than you—the traitorous thought crosses your mind again. There is something terribly young about him, lying there half-drowned in the surf, one hand curled weakly into the sand as though, even unconscious, he is still trying to cling to something.
He does not look like a prince, you think miserably. He looks like a boy who is going to die.
The sea foams around your boots, and his body twitches as it threatens to reclaim him—the only feeble resistance he’s capable of in his state. You do not know how he still breathes—the fires might still burn on the Gullet, but the fighting ended days past. How long has he been floating about, dragged around by vicious currents and tossed by waves? It doesn’t even seem as though it should be possible, as though the Seven themselves intervened and—
—and dropped him on your shore, in your hands, and you are contemplating leaving him to die.
The thought is unpleasant, a heavy stone in your chest in place of your heart.
You are not a cruel person. You have cared for gulls with broken wings, and you leave scraps outside your door for the old orange cat that wanders the area. During the winter three years prior, you spent a fortnight nursing a lamb that did not even belong to you because you could not bear the sound of it crying.
And now there is a boy at your feet—bleeding, drowned, scarcely clinging to life—and because there is a dragon sewn onto his chest, you are trying to convince yourself to let the sea finish what arrows and war could not.
His lashes are dark against his cheek. Young, you think again, even more traitorous than the last, no older than ten and nine, if even. There is salt crusted at the corners of his mouth and blood soaking through his tunic in sluggish, rusty streams that stain the pale sand beneath him.
He looks cold—traitor, traitor, traitor.
He looks like a prince, you try to insist. A dragon prince, fire and blood and ruin, dangerous.
Cold. Hurt. Dying.
You need to walk away, you tell yourself again, desperate this time, because the longer you stand there staring at him, the more you fail to convince yourself of the correct path.
A prince's life is worth more than yours, more than your cottage and your little patch of land and the fishing boat your father left you. It is worth armies and dragons and castles and men willing to kill for a name.
If this boy lives, others will come looking for him.
And if the soldiers discover him in your home, they will not ask questions. They will not care that you found him by chance or that you never bent the knee to Queen Rhaenyra—that you could not even tell anyone why one half of House Targaryen wishes the other dead. They will see the three-headed dragon on his breast and the roof over his head, and that will be enough to condemn you.
Worse, the Prince Aemond and the dragon Vhagar could return. You think of Tom, the miller’s son, pulled from the boiling river after dragonfire reached the gristmill. You think of little Grace’s face as she searched the ashes for her mother. You think of all of your neighbors, all of your friends, who hardly survived the first time fire rained from the sky, and you think of all of those who didn’t.
He is not worth it. He is not worth the risk. A prince is only a man born with a special name, there’s no reason you should save him and condemn countless others—he bleeds the same, he dies the same, and when the Stranger comes for him, he is no more spared than any other man.
Except, he didn’t, did he?
He should be dead—any other man would be dead.
Two arrows through the shoulder, half-drowned, tossed upon the sea for days on end—there is no surviving that. Yet he breathes still, ragged and shallow though it may be, his fingers twitching every now and then.
The Stranger came for him and left empty-handed.
The Stranger came for him and left him with you.
Why?
There are no prophecies in your life, no gods whispering in your ear. You are a fisherman's daughter with a cottage by the sea and enough coin to keep yourself fed through winter if the catch is good. You know little of the gods save for the prayers your father taught you as a child and the candles you light for him on his nameday. The Seven did not save your father or your town; they did not save Tom or Grace’s mother or any of the others who screamed as dragonfire turned their homes to ash.
So why? Why this boy? Why this prince? Why should the gods spare a dragon's son when they had not spared children and fishermen and mothers? Why have they left him for you?
You do not have an answer. The only answer before you is a body on the sand, breathing when it ought not to be.
You stare down at him, furious and distressed and so, so unsure. He looks dead again—still as driftwood, cold and pale, stiff. His lips are blue like the dead, and his chest hardly rises and falls. You wonder if you imagined what you saw before. If your guilt conjured a cough where there had been none, if your conscience simply could not bear the thought of walking away even from a corpse.
Slowly, you sink to your knees beside him, damp sand clinging to your knees, the sea foam wetting your trousers. Your hand is still trembling in spite of all efforts to still it. You lift it to his throat, hesitating only for a moment.
If there is life, you will do what you must.
If there is not, you will turn and walk away.
You have never prayed for someone to be dead before.
Please, you think now miserably. Please.
Your fingers brush the skin of his throat—it is cold. He must be cold. So cold, that for a brief, terrible moment, hope flares in your chest, and then—
There is a flutter—it is weak and uneven, so faint that you almost miss it, but it is there.
Your head hangs forward, and you blink away the tears that prick in your eyes, because you know this action will have consequences. You know that there is no going back once you have entangled yourself with dragons. You know that every story told of House Targaryen ends in blood and fire and ruin for everyone foolish enough to stand too close them.
You know that this boy could be the death of you.
The soldiers could discover him. Your neighbors could discover him—as much as they care for you, they fear Vhagar more. If word spreads that a prince of the black faction lives and is hidden beneath your roof, you could hang for it. They could burn your cottage to the ground. They could drag you through the streets and call you traitor.
Worse still, he could recover.
Because then he would not be a half-dead boy on the sand. He would be a prince again. A son of the house of the dragon. He would leave, and the war would continue, and perhaps one day you would hear his name in some tavern and learn that he had mounted a dragon and burned a town much like your own.
The sea rushes forward again, cold water washing over your boots and his legs alike. He does not move. He is so cold.
“Why did you have to wash up here?” you breathe out—frustrated, angry, resigned, because you have never been one to turn your back on someone in need.
His pulse flutters once more against your fingers, and he does not stir.
Then, because the gods have a cruel sense of humor and because your heart has always been softer than your head, you slide your arms beneath the prince’s shoulders and knees.
With a soft curse and the sea at your heels, you gather the dragon prince into your arms and carry home your ruin.
—————————
He is Jacaerys Velaryon, son of Queen Rhaenyra, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne.
Three days have passed since you found him on the shore, and he has hardly stirred since you dragged him into your cottage. You have been riddled with anxiety since, jumping at every sound and fearing the worst when someone addresses you. It is only a matter of time—whenever a rider passes on the road beyond the trees or the patrol sweeps down your shore, you think they care coming for him. Coming for you.
You spend the first day trying to keep him alive.
You drag him home, soaked to the bone and half-frozen, laying him atop your bed as you get a fire going and wrap him in your blankets. For a while, you can only stand there staring at him, because it is one thing to decide not to leave a boy to die and another entirely to realize you have no idea how to save him.
You have to cut away his tunic to remove it, and it makes it easier to breathe once the three-headed dragon is out of sight, but then you have to address the monstrosity beneath it—bruises darkening one side of his ribs, yellow and purple and black, cuts everywhere, salt crusting his skin and body a ruin of blood.
You wonder how many rocks the currents slammed him into before he finally washed to shore. The sea around Sharp Point is, well, sharp. Jagged rocks and narrow inlets line the coast, and more than one fisherman has vanished into the sea after his boat drifted too close to reefs beneath the tide.
It is a cruel stretch of sea—crueler still to a boy half-dead and alone.
And then there were the arrows.
The shafts protrude from his shoulders at awful angles, the flesh around them angry and swollen. You cry while removing them, because you have never done something like it before, and your hands cannot stop shaking. A part of you wonders if the gods left him for you so that his blood could be on your hands instead, and you cannot fathom what you’ve done to deserve this.
You expect him to wake once you start removing them. At the very least, you expect him to scream. The first shaft pierced cleanly through his shoulder and is easy enough to ease out, but the second lodged itself deep in the flesh, refusing to budge until you brace your foot against the bedframe and pull with both hands.
It should have been agony—any man would have cried out.
The prince does not so much as flinch.
You remember staring at him afterward, the arrow clutched in your hand and your own cheeks wet with tears, wondering if he had died while you were removing it. You press your fingers to his throat with a panic that borders on hysteria, and you aren’t sure if you’re relieved or disappointed when you feel the fluttering pulse still there.
A traitorous part of you wishes that he had died.
A corpse is a tragedy, but a tragedy can be dumped in the sea and abandoned. A tragedy will not bring more war to your ravaged home.
A living prince, on the other hand, is a catastrophe that you do not know what to do with. Your home has already faced ruin once, and the longer he remains in your care, the more at risk you will be of bringing it upon you all again, because if he is captured in your care, then that means war and blood and fire and more dragons. The whole town, all of the survivors, everyone will be branded traitors to the crown.
But the prince lived, so you can only hope that he will heal quick enough and be gone before you have the chance to regret helping him.
The fever comes on the second day, and the corpse in your bed finally gives to life.
You notice it when you are wiping the blood from his face, and your hand brushes his forehead. It’s as though all of the cold of the sea had fled his body at once and left only fire behind. It’s what you expect of a Targaryen prince, really—the burning heat, closer to dragon than man— it feels more natural than the cold, but you are scared anyway.
You do not know much about treating battle wounds, but you do know about fever.
Your younger brother died of it during a long winter a decade past—no matter how hard your mother worked to keep it at bay, he was dead by nightfall. Your mother passed in the same moon, to the same sickness, as did half of the children in Sharp Point, because fever does not care whether you are young or old, rich or poor, prince or peasant.
His skin is flushed, sweat beading along his brow and soaking the dark hair at his temples as he twists in the sheets violently, threatening to reopen the wounds you just stitched close. His breathing changes too—no longer the slow drags of air, shallow and erratic, like he had spent days at sea only to begin suffocating on dry land.
You fetch water from the well until your shoulders ache. You lay cloths upon his brow and change them whenever they grow warm. You feed the fire, then fear you have made him too hot and let it die down, only to panic that he would grow cold again and build it back up.
Every few minutes, you find yourself pressing your hand to his forehead or his throat, checking for fever and pulse alike. There is never a change—still alive and burning, and you don’t know whether to be grateful or terrified.
At one point, he begins muttering. You cannot make out most of it—the words are slurred, little more than broken sounds spilling from fevered lips. Names, you think. Places, maybe. Some do not seem to be spoken in the common tongue.
Once, very clearly, he whispers, "Mother.”
You have to change the cloth on his forehead afterward and pretend your eyes are not stinging with tears. You curse the gods throughout that second day—you wish that you’d never left the cottage at all the morning you found him, you wish you’d left him to die, you wish, you wish, you wish, as though any of it matters anymore.
You sleep little that night, sitting beside your bed and watching him breathe. Terrified every time his breathing slowed, and equally terrified every time it quickened. You count the moments between each breath until dawn creeps through your shutters, and by morning, you feel like you have lived a lifetime in a single night.
The third day—today—you have to make the trek into town.
You have used the last of your willow bark, and there is only a heel of stale bread left, a few onions, and enough drinking water to last another day if you’re careful. You need fruit and vegetables, more barley, and you have a catch that you never got the chance to bring to the market to trade the morning you found the prince.
You cannot put it off any longer, much as you may wish—the prince needs supplies, and unfortunately, so do you.
You do not like going into town. You have never liked going into town—you have always been fond of your neighbors and your friends, but you were not fond of the way they circle and crowd you whenever you make your weekly appearance for trade. You got overwhelmed too quickly, and you didn’t know how to make an exit without seeming rude, so you ended up staying there for hours when there were many chores you had to get done at home.
Now, it is like a graveyard. The destruction following the Prince Aemond’s attack on Sharp Point has yet to be cleared. The soldiers are too busy with war and patrols, and the survivors are too busy trying to salvage what they can of their ruined lives.
When you enter the town, you can still smell charred flesh and death.
The children usually run to you when you arrive, chattering about the games they’ve played and the rumors they’ve heard, if you saw the wild dragon Grey Ghost while you were out on your boat this week, and you smile and nod along with them. But all of the children are dead now, and you are not crowded by friends and neighbors eager to make conversation with you, because most of them are dead now too.
It is in the market when you overhear green-cloaked soldiers talking about the battle that took place in the Gullet, and you finally put a name to the face of the prince in your home. You try to pretend that you’re not eavesdropping, fingers shaking terribly as you sort through the fruits and vegetables that Wylem carted in from his farm, because you need to know if they have figured out what you’ve done, if they know the prince is in your care, under your roof.
But they only laugh as they speak of dead dragons and a mourning pretender queen. They say the Blacks have lost two dragons, and the bastard prince, Jacaerys Velaryon, is dead. Any man who can find his body washed up on the shore to deliver to the King will see unfathomable riches.
Momentarily, you are angry at yourself because the royals brought this war and have caused all of this suffering, but when your lashes flutter shut, for a split second, you can only picture the haunted look on your mother’s face as she held your dead brother in her arms. You think of Miss Ellyn, who tossed herself into the sea when she found out her son had been killed on the Kingsroad. You think of your friend, Marie, who you found screaming, fisting her infant daughter’s ashes after the burning of the town. You think of them, and then you think of the black queen on her throne, and you feel the same lump in your throat.
Then you remind yourself that this is her doing.
Her doing, her half-brother’s doing, the other nobles’ doing. They brought this war to Westeros, they brought death and destruction, fire and blood, and you force yourself to shake your head and push it all away, trading some of the fish you caught for fruits and vegetables and barley with a watery smile that you’re sure Wylem took notice of.
There are more important things to worry about: if there is a bounty on the prince’s body, everybody will be searching for him. Not just soldiers, the people too—your friends, your neighbors, everyone. Many starve, more struggle, so if there is an opportunity for gold, they will all be on the hunt. You need to burn his cloak and tunic when you get back to the cottage, anything that associates him with House Targaryen.
You nearly trip over your own feet racing back to the cottage, second-guessing every conversation you had in the town. Wylem asked you why you were getting twice as much food as you usually get—you do not remember how you responded.
Did you imply that you had a visitor? Why can’t you remember? What excuse did you give? Did the soldiers overhear? Are they following you? Do they know? Why can’t you remember? You’re scared—you do not think you’ve ever been so scared in your entire life.
You look over your shoulder every five steps, worried that they’re going to come charging after you, demanding you to bring them to the Prince Jacaerys before taking your head. You’re not cut out for this—you’re the daughter of a fisherman. There’s no world where you should be worrying whether soldiers are going to hunt you down for saving a prince.
There are tears in your eyes when you make it back to the cottage, and your fingers are trembling around the bags Wylem packed for you. You shut the door behind you, and it takes you three tries to bolt it properly. When you finally do, you rest your forehead against the wood and let out a trembling sigh.
You—
“Who are you?”
There is a knife to your throat.
You stare at the crack in the wood of your door, breath catching, desperately trying not to move lest you risk the knife slicing through your skin. The crack appeared last winter, you remind yourself, trying not to focus too much on the fact that you can feel the cool edge of the blade. Your friend, Evander, was meant to fix before the next, but Evander is dead now, and you may well be too, if the knife at your throat presses any deeper.
“Answer me, who are you? Where am I? Wh—” the prince—Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne—falters suddenly, and you can only breathe again when the knife drops from your neck, and you feel the presence at your back disappear. “You—you are a woman.”
You do not turn to look at him immediately, eyes sliding shut as you fight to steady the frantic beating of your heart, drawing one slow breath after another until your shaking eases enough to trust your legs. Your fingers tighten on the bags cradled in your arms before you force yourself to turn around.
Prince Jacaerys Velaryon stands three paces behind you, one hand braced against the edge of your table, pained, pale, barely conscious. He is bare from the waist up, and the stitches you painstakingly worked through his torn skin have pulled loose, fresh blood soaking the bandages and dripping down his chest and back.
You see more clearly in the light of the afternoon sun just how ruined his body is, bruises and cuts—you think his ribs must be broken, you did not notice just how bad off he was when you had him lying in the dim corner where you keep your bed.
For a moment, you forget that you are face-to-face with a Targaryen prince—it is only the boy you dragged in from the sea and spent hours trying to keep alive.
Your lips curve down into a deep frown, brows knitting together. You exhale as you say, “You reopened your wounds. It took me an hour to get them properly closed.”
The prince stares at you.
As soon as the words fly from your mouth, you remember who it is before you. The son of a queen. The heir to the Iron Throne, if one listens to his mother. A pretender's heir and bastard, if one listens to her enemies. You do not know which of them is right, nor do you particularly care. Such questions belong to lords and knights and people with far too much time to argue over crowns.
To the likes of you, prince is title enough for you to keep your mouth shut and your head bowed.
He does not immediately respond, gaze flicking around your cottage uncertainly. Your bed, stained with his blood. The dying hearth. The table where you left out the last bits of the bread, just in case he awoke while you were gone and was hungry. The bandages you left at his bedside. The basin of pink water you forgot to empty before leaving for town.
His lips, dry and cracked, part as he stares at you and murmurs more to himself than to you, “You tended my wounds.”
You hesitate, then nod, swallowing once. “I found you on the shore a few days past, my prince—” Your Grace? What is the proper way to address a prince? My Lord does not seem grand enough for the heir to a queen. Prince feels the safest—whatever he may be, no one seems inclined to dispute that part. “—I… you should probably be resting.”
“I need to know what happened,” he says instead, stepping closer to you. He is too pale, sweat beads at his forehead, dark curls matted to his skin. His eyes are wide and wild, pupils dilated the same way you’ve seen in men mad with grief or fear or fury, moments before lashing out at the nearest person. You find yourself tensing instinctively. “What do you know of the battle that took place on the Gullet? Did Baela make it back to Dragonstone? And Rhaena—she was on that wild dragon, and—my brothers, did my brothers make it back? How long has it been? Where are we? How far is it to Dragonstone? I must return immediately, I—”
The prince only just seems to realize how you’ve drawn away, back pressed against the door to your own home, arms tightening around the sack in your arms whenever he comes closer. His tongue darts out to wet his cracked lips, gaze flicking to the knife he dropped onto the floor and the fear in your face.
Shame crosses his expression instantly.
“I—” His expression twists as he puts space between the two of you again. You wonder whether it’s from pain or from struggling to force out an apology. Both, likely. He continues, “You have helped me—saved my life, most like—and here I am frightening you. I… I thought I’d been captured. I woke in an unfamiliar place. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know if I was a prisoner or if the battle had been lost. I heard the door open and…”
He trails off, and you stand there awkwardly, tension easing slowly from your shoulders. He is still on guard, but he does not seem so inclined to pull a blade on you again. Your lips part to tell him where he is, what little you know of the battle on the Gullet.
Instead, you ask, “Do most enemy strongholds look like a fisherman’s cottage, my prince?”
You are mortified the moment the question spills from your lips—he is a Targaryen prince, they are known for blood and fire and madness, dragons and crowns, and you speak to him as though he’s one of your peers.
Prince Jacaerys stares at you for a long moment, and then, to your astonishment, his gaze flicks around the inside of your home again, and something suspiciously like embarrassment crosses his face.
“I suppose not.”
The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself, and you let out a soft puff of air through your nose before making your way across the room to place the sack you’ve carried from town onto the table. You will have to sort all of what you’ve got later; for now, you need to get the prince resettled before he opens up any more of his wounds.
You turn to look at him again, faltering when you see the pained expression that crosses his face, so sudden that it steals all the color from his cheeks. His hand shoots to his side, fingers digging into the bandages wrapped around his ribs.
“My prince?” you ask hesitantly, taking half a step forward, arm only slightly extended. It is one thing to carry him to your cottage and treat his wounds while he’s unconscious; it is different now that he’s awake.
Prince Jacaerys inhales sharply through his teeth. He is swaying on his feet, breath gone shallow—he looks as though he’s moments from collapsing hard onto your wooden floor. Still, his jaw clenches and the muscles in his neck tighten as he draws himself upright through sheer stubbornness.
“I am fine,” he insists.
“You should sit, my prince.”
“I am standing,” he replies with a tight smile, as though a bead of sweat isn’t rolling down his temple from strain to remain upright and his lips aren’t trembling with pain.
“Barely.”
The prince blinks as though caught off guard by the response, casting a look that is partially confused, and mostly offended in your direction. Your lashes flutter shut as you brace yourself for a volatile reaction, because he is a prince and you are a fisherman’s daughter, and you are arguing with him as though he is an equal and not one of those dragon-riding royals people compose songs about. You think you must have lost your wits entirely these past few days.
Instead, he shoots back, with all the dignity he can muster while visibly swaying, "I have endured worse."
You stare at the blood soaking through the bandages wrapped around his shoulder, uncertain if you believe him. You say with less heat, "That is not the same as being well, my prince."
His jaw tightens, and you fight a sigh. Gods, he actually looks as though he is preparing an argument.
You wonder, briefly, what your life has become. Three weeks ago, your greatest concern had been whether the currents would ease up enough for you to take the boat out of the shallows to catch some fish. Now, Sharp Point has burned and you are standing in your cottage, arguing with a dragon prince about his injuries.
The absurdity of it nearly makes you laugh, wondering if perhaps this entire ordeal is some fever dream brought on by bad fish and Leila’s uncle’s dubious ale.
Then, Prince Jacaerys’s left leg buckles.
He reaches for the table and misses, injured shoulder slamming into the edge hard enough to wrench a strangled cry from him, and before you can think better of it, you're moving.
You let go of the sack of fruits and vegetables and barley you were keeping steady on your table; it topples over, and all of your pristine apples go rolling across the floor of your cottage, but you barely notice, panicked when you realize that he careening right toward the hardwood floor.
You catch the prince around the waist just as he starts to fall, but he is heavier than you expect.
You brace yourself, convinced that he is going to take you down with him, but you manage to steer him sideways toward the chair beside the table. He collapses into it heavily, breath hissing through clenched teeth as pain flashes across his face.
Momentum carries you forward with him—far, far too forward.
One hand lands against the uninjured side of his chest to steady yourself, the other gripping the arm of the chair. For a horrifying second, you are practically sprawled across the heir to the Iron Throne’s lap. You jerk away so quickly you nearly trip over one of the escaped apples, face burning and hands shaking.
"Sorry," you blurt, mortified. “Sorry. Sorry, I did not mean—”
“I believe,” Prince Jacaerys begins with a grimace, “that was my fault.”
You do not respond, flustered, trying to put more distance between you to calm yourself down. Your gaze flicks back over to him, but he is too busy grinding his teeth as he glances down at his wounds to pay you any mind. You let out a soft puff of air through your nose before you look at the apples rolling about your floor, and then reach for one still on your table—you might have lost some sense over the past three days with the little sleep you’ve gotten, but you are not about to feed a prince food off your floor.
You make your way back over to him and hold the apple out to him. He blinks once at it before his gaze lifts to yours questioningly.
“I do not know when last you ate—a while, certainly,” you tell him quietly. “You should get something in you while I redress the bandages. I’ll cook some stew once I’m certain you’re not going to bleed out.”
Prince Jacaerys exhales through his nose before he takes the apple from you, rolling it between his fingers. You step past him so that you can move the basin of water closer to where he’s sitting, grabbing a clean rag and the bandages that you left next to your bed.
You come to stand in front of him again, hesitating before you motion to the wounds on his shoulder. You ask, “May I?”
His dark gaze flicks up to yours briefly before he nods, and your throat tightens as you shift closer, fingers fumbling a bit as you grab for the edge of the bandages to unwind them from around him. It is much more intimidating doing this while he’s awake, inches away from you, and eyes tracking your every move.
“I found you three days ago, my prince,” you tell him at last, trying to remember all of the questions he asked earlier so that you can busy your mind with something other than the fact that you can feel his skin hot against yours. “Before that, the fighting died another three. In truth, my prince, I do not know how you survived so long at sea.”
Prince Jacaerys says nothing in response. His attention remains fixed somewhere beyond the wall behind you, expression distant. You suspect he is counting the days since the battle, the hours his family has believed he is dead, the minutes his mother has spent mourning him. You keep your gaze trained on his shoulder as you unwind the last of the bandages and set them down on the table.
You press your lips together when you see that the stitches have loosened at the back of his shoulder—where one of the arrows had dug deep, but not deep enough to pass cleanly through. Pulling it free had torn through muscle and flesh alike, leaving a ragged injury that had taken you nearly an hour to clean, stitch, and stop bleeding.
You exhale as you run the pad of your finger briefly over the stitches, trying to figure out if you can salvage what effort you already put in or if you would have to pull them out and redo them entirely.
“And my family? My younger brothers? Baela and Rhaena? Have you heard what has become of them?” the prince asks, and you glance up just enough to see how his jaw tightens when your finger brushes over the wound. “Did we win the battle?”
“I do not know if anyone can be said to have won that battle, my prince,” you answer quietly, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you finally start to get to work at reclosing the wound. Your gaze slips to the side when he finally starts to eat the apple you passed to him. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, as though he’s only just realized how hungry he is. “Both fleets were decimated. The dead still wash up on the northern shore.”
How did Prince Jacaerys make it to your shore, then?
Not for the first time, you have to wonder if the gods themselves placed him directly into your hands.
Most of the rest of the dead have washed up on the northern and western shores of Sharp Point, as it is where the currents run strongest, but the prince somehow made it to where your cottage sits on the eastern shore. If he had washed up anywhere else, the patrol would have certainly found him by now. You've heard they have spent the last several days combing the beaches, hauling bloated corpses from the tide and turning them over with the tips of their spears, searching for the dragon prince they are certain the sea claimed.
Prince Jacaerys’s breath hitches when you tug lightly at the stitches holding the skin of his shoulder together. Already, he’s finished the apple you handed him, absentmindedly turning the core between his fingers while his thoughts remain leagues away.
It is only when the last bite is gone that he seems to notice, and his gaze drifts toward the table. He hesitates, and you think it is almost comical—this is the heir to the Iron Throne, a dragonrider, a prince who has flown into battle, and he looks as though asking for another apple might be an imposition too great to make when he’s been floating at sea for at least a week.
You hold the stitches carefully with your right hand so that you can lean forward and grab another apple from your table to pass to him. His cheeks color slightly when he realizes that you noticed.
“I did not mean to stare,” he murmurs, taking the apple from you and cradling it carefully between his hands. He asks again, “Have you heard what has become of my family?”
You shake your head, focusing on tending to his wounds again. You think that you’ll be able to salvage your work. It is good, you think—you can get him resting and then cook some stew for the two of you. You didn’t eat much yesterday, frazzled by the fever and trying to keep him comfortable, and you’re starting to feel a lightness in your head.
“I’ve only heard what the soldiers say in town, my prince,” you murmur, trying to figure out how to go about speaking the news he certainly won’t take well. The last thing you need is for grief to send him bolting for Dragonstone before he can so much as walk across your cottage without collapsing. If he does not kill himself by straining his body when it is not ready, then the patrols will certainly catch him and have his head—and then yours.
You let out a soft sigh as you tie off the stitches on his shoulder blade and lean down to wet the clean rag before lifting it to his bloody skin. You’re careful around the edges of the wound, trying not to disturb the stitches, working slowly at the dried and wet blood from the curve of his shoulder, over the collarbone, down the length of his back.
You try not to think too hard about what you’re doing.
If you do, it begins to feel far too intimate.
It is one thing to drag an unconscious stranger from the sea. It is another to stand so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, to brush your fingers across the line of his shoulders. You have spent three days tending him without much thought, because there had been no room for embarrassment while the Stranger lingered at his bedside.
Now he is awake and watching you, and every accidental brush of your knuckles against his skin seems to linger a heartbeat too long. He is a prince of the realm, and you are a fisherman’s daughter—people like you are not supposed to touch people like him, and yet—
You exhale through your nose harshly. You busy yourself with the rag, scrubbing a little harder than necessary at a streak of dried blood along his collarbone simply to distract yourself, and his jaw pinches.
“Sorry,” you say quietly.
“It does not hurt,” he replies—a lie, surely, any man would be in agonizing pain. But maybe not; any man also would have died in the sea. Maybe the rumors are true: the Targaryens are closer to god than man; they do not feel pain or have to fear the Stranger the same way people like you ought to. “What have you heard from the soldiers in town? Where are we?”
“Half a league from Sharp Point, my prince,” you answer, still evading the question, which he seems to realize from the way he glances at you over his shoulder, gaze sharp and accusing. He knows you are withholding something. You exhale lightly through your nose and then say hesitantly, “They say two dragons fell over the Gullet. I could not tell you which.”
“Two?!” Prince Jacaerys demands, immediately rising to his feet, so quickly that the chair scrapes against the floor, and you fear he might rip back open the stitches. He whirls on you, eyes wide, pupils large as coins, and you almost flinch. “Two dragons?”
You swallow thickly as you nod. “My prince—”
“One must be—” His voice catches. He cannot finish the thought. For the first time since he awoke, real grief overtakes him completely. It drains his face of what little color had returned, leaves him staring at nothing as though he can already see the answer waiting for him. “I need to know the second. Whose was it? Which dragon fell?”
It unsettles you how close he sounds to pleading when moments before, you had been wondering whether the stories of the Targaryens’ deism held some weight, because gods do not look like this. They do not stand in a stranger’s cottage with fear plain on their face, hands trembling as they wait for an answer they already dread.
The same lump forms in your throat now that did when you heard the soldiers mocking a grieving queen and couldn’t help your thoughts from turning to your own mother, to Miss Ellyn, to your friend, Marie. For a moment, he is not a Targaryen prince or a dragonlord; you see a son and an older brother. A boy your age who knows there are only a handful of dragons flying over the Gullet, and every one of them belongs to someone he loves.
“I do not—”
“I need to return home,” he says immediately, as though his face isn’t white with pain and his stitches don’t strain every time he moves. His eyes glaze over you as though you’re not even there, and he takes a step toward the door to your small cottage. “Sharp Point—there must be passage to Dragonstone, there—”
Panic flares in your chest when he makes as though to leave. It is noon, and the patrols have become more frequent along the shores outside your cottage. They’ve spent a week carding through the western and northern shores, and they’ve been sending more and more men to the east—you worry they’re becoming desperate. The longer they go without finding a corpse, the more they may fear that there isn’t one.
If they have an inkling that Prince Jacaerys is still alive, they’ll start kicking down doors, and if they start kicking down doors, they will find him, and your life will be forfeit for harboring him.
“You cannot,” you say before you can think better of it, lunging forward as though to grab his wrist, but you stop yourself before you can make a terrible mistake, stopping a hairsbreadth from brushing his skin.
What is wrong with you? you think furiously. You need to rest tonight before you do something you cannot take back. Already you have gotten snide with and you have argued with a prince of the realm—now you have commanded him and nearly tried to seize him. You would have been lucky to only lose your hand in any other circumstance. Had he been standing in a hall instead of your cottage, surrounded by knights instead of rough-hewn furniture, you might have lost your head.
“I cannot?” Prince Jacaerys turns to you, bafflement momentarily eclipsing the fear that had consumed him only seconds before, as though he cannot quite fathom that someone has just told him no.
“My prince, you can scarcely stand,” you say. His gaze drops to where your hand is still hovering near his arm, head cocking to the side and brows lifting, and you snap it back to your chest immediately, heat flooding your face. “You have lost a lot of blood, you have barely eaten in a week, your wounds have only just been stitched again, and there are patrols searching for you every road between here and the sea.”
He continues to stare at you, disbelief riddling his expression. You have the distinct impression that no one has ever spoken to him this way before—certainly not a fisherman’s daughter. You force yourself to press on while he’s silent, hoping to make your point and rid him of this futile endeavor before he gets you both killed.
“The Prince Aemond burned Sharp Point’s harbor. There are no ships capable of navigating the currents of the Gullet, and the water still burns besides. I do not have a horse for you to ride to Stonedance. You could not get to Dragonstone even if you were not hurt,” you insist. “I will return to town tomorrow to try to get more information, but please, my prince, you mustn’t leave. You will only be putting us both at risk.”
For a long moment, you think that he will invoke his title or duty and insist upon leaving anyway, or maybe he will simply walk out the door despite everything you have said, and there is nothing you could do to stop him.
Then, his expression changes, twisting into something pained as he looks away, a shuddered breath escaping his lips. His shoulders, held tense since the moment you uttered the word two, sink ever so slightly. The panic that had driven him to his feet has nowhere left to go, draining from him all at once, leaving only exhaustion behind.
One hand drops back down to his ribs, pain crossing his face. Whatever strength carried him to his feet abandons him just as quickly as the panic, leaving him swaying where he stands. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he reopens them, the panic has been replaced by a type of defeat that is infinitely more difficult to look at.
You step forward cautiously when you see how his body is trembling, hand hovering uncertainly between the two of you, silently asking permission to help him. Prince Jacaerys stares at your outstretched hand, then at the bed on the far side of the room; you think, for a second, that he will attempt to cross on his own, but then his nostrils flare as he exhales, inclining his head just enough to grant you the permission his pride refuses to voice aloud.
Carefully, you slip beneath his uninjured arm, taking care to avoid the fresh bandages. He is warm—still warmer than he ought to be—and you can’t help but wonder if his fever has returned or if this is just how hot dragon prince’s typically run.
He leans into you only slightly, weight settling lightly against your shoulder—you suspect he is trying very hard not to. The journey from the door to your bed is scarcely a dozen paces, but it feels much longer.
“We were supposed to win this victory for her,” Prince Jacaerys says after a moment, voice breaking, the words slip free before he can stop it. You do not think the admission is meant for you, so you stay quiet. His throat works as he swallows. “We were supposed to—”
He cuts himself off, looking away again as you help him ease back down into your bed. As soon as he is seated, something close to relief crosses his face, lashes fluttering; the pain is still there, but not quite as terrible as it was when he was straining on his feet.
“The fact that you are alive at all is a victory, my prince,” you say quietly, even though you do not think the words will be of any reassurance. “You should rest. The sooner you are well, the sooner we can figure out a way to get you home. I’ll cook up a stew and wake you when it’s finished.”
He exhales again, jaw tightening as he looks away with a resigned expression. You turn your back on him to deal with the mess you made of the kitchen area, grimacing slightly at everything spilled across your floorboards and the table.
“What is your name?” Prince Jacaerys asks you suddenly. “I think I ought to know the name of the woman who saved my life.”
You let a soft breath, glancing over your shoulder at him. He is pained still, but there is an earnest look in his eyes that makes you falter—you remember how close you were to leaving him to his fate, and you have to look away again before he can catch the guilt that crosses over your face.
With a shaky exhale, you give the prince your name, and you cannot help but feel as though your life has irrevocably changed, and you do not think for the better.
————————————
The sea is on fire.
Jace cannot tell where the flames end and the water begins. Ships burn around him, masts collapsing into the waves with deafening cracks; men scream as they’re consumed by the fire, and dragons let out terrible shrieks as they dive low to bring down another ship full of Myrish mercenaries.
He tries to focus.
He chases after the rogue dragon, hoping to kill the rider before the dragon can burn any more of the Velayron fleet—or worse, catch Baela and Moondancer. But there is panic clawing at his chest, and smoke and salt clogging his throat and stinging his eyes. He’s screaming at Vermax to fly faster, to kill the rider, and then—then he sees Rhaena.
He sees Rhaena atop the wild dragon, and she is screaming, crying, desperately trying to get it under control, and Jace is confused, reeling as he yells at Vermax to stop at the last second. He and dragon both diving down away from the chase before Vermax could breathe fire on his cousin.
Rhaena does not have a dragon, he thinks, trying to figure out what is happening, and Rhaena is supposed to be with his brothers, and his brothers are captured by the enemy, and he isn’t sure if Stormcloud and Aegon made it to shore, and there is too much going on, and—
—and Vermax is falling.
Vermax is banking hard, being dragged down into the sea, and Jace’s stomach lurches. He’s yelling—begging—Vermax to fly, and Vermax is trying, he’s trying so hard, wings beating smoke through the air. He shrieks as another bolt catches him in the wing, and Jace feels the pain himself—he feels the pain, the primal fear, everything that Vermax does, because Vermax is his, and he is Vermax’s, and they are bonded, and Vermax is drowning, and the water is so cold, and Jace cannot feel his legs or his hands or his face.
He fumbles as he tries to unhook himself from the saddle, choking on water and air, maybe a sob, as Vermax sinks into the sea, a stream of bubbles rising to the surface as he cries for Jace, slowly disappearing into the dark waters. Jace desperately tries to dive after him, as if he has the strength to hold them both above the sea, because Jace has already lost Luke, and he—he cannot lose Vermax.
Not the dragon who had slept beside his cradle before he was old enough to walk, the hatchling he had grown up alongside, whose neck had once fit beneath his arm, whose first uncertain flights had ended with both of them tumbling into the sandy shore of Dragonstone while his mother laughed herself breathless.
Jace does not know a life without him—he does not want to know a life without him. His earliest recollections are not of nursery songs or wooden swords, but of warm green scales beneath tiny hands and the deep, rumbling croon that had lulled him to sleep when he was scarcely more than a babe.
When Jace learned to walk, Vermax learned to fly; when Jace’s voice deepened, Vermax’s roar had too.
There has never been a Jacaerys without Vermax.
But Jace’s lungs are burning, and he cannot see the familiar green scales anymore, and his body is reacting, seizing and spasming because there is no air left in him and water all around. He does not know which way is up and which way is down, the water is too dark and too cold, and he cannot think, but—but he sees the bubbles. He sees the bubbles, and he follows them, and even as Vermax sinks to the bottom of the sea, he saves his rider one final time.
He reaches the surface with a gasp, gulping the smoky air, and everything hurts. His arms ache, his chest is too tight, his eyes burn, and he cannot breathe, because Vermax is gone. He can feel that Vermax is gone; there is a gaping hole in his chest where his dragon used to be, and Jace does not know what to do, he does not know how to live anymore, and he wants—
He wants his mother.
He just wants his mother.
He hears the cheers before he feels the first arrow, gaze lifting to the sky as he searches for Baela and Moondancer—they are not too far, he thinks, she'll come for him.
And then, there’s a dull throb in his shoulder blade as he pulls himself over a floating piece of driftwood, but he hardly takes note of the pain, because everywhere hurts, because Vermax is gone, because he wants his mother. He turns when he hears the cheering, and he sees the men on the ship, and he sees the crossbows and the bows and the Myrish banners, but he does not see anything at all, really, blinking once, staring.
The second arrow catches him closer to the chest.
And then—then all he remembers is sea.
White foam and bubbles, vicious currents and sharp rocks. He thinks he is dead more than he thinks he is alive, but there is so much pain. There is pain and emptiness, and Jace just wants—
“... prince, the stew is ready.”
Jace startles awake, breath hitching in the back of his throat. His body tenses immediately, because he does not remember where he is—he remembers the sea and the waves and rocks and pain and Vermax, but he does not remember…
The cottage. Waking up alone. The door opening, the fear—was he captured? Where is he? Where are his brothers? Where is Baela? What was Rhaena doing on the wild dragon? Mother, mother, mother—
You avert your eyes suddenly, an awkward expression on your face, and Jace suddenly remembers. He remembers you, the apple you passed him as you tended to his wounds; how he held a knife to the throat of a woman who is risking her own life to save his. He remembers that he is stuck bedridden in the bed of a commoner while his mother thinks he’s dead and fights for her throne alone.
He opens his mouth to apologize—to tell you that he will leave as soon as he is able, that he will ensure you’re properly compensated for saving his life—but he falters when he feels something hot and wet drip down his face.
He lifts his hand to his cheek and wipes at his face, looking down at the wetness smeared on his fingertips. For a long moment, he does not understand—seawater, maybe? But he is no longer being tossed around by the sea. He is warm in your cottage, the hearth burns low and your blankets are tangled around him. He blinks once, and another fat droplet of water rolls from his eye down his cheek.
Is he crying?
Heat rushes to his face so quickly he thinks it rivals the fever. He wipes away furiously, not sure if it’s more or less humiliating that you’re pretending not to notice for his sake, turning your back to him to ready the table.
Jace has wept before, more than most ought to—for the father who taught him fishing and sea shanties, and the other who passed before either of them could speak the truth out loud, for the grandfather he never truly knew, for the brother who felt less like a brother and more like his other half—but never, never in front of a stranger.
Jace promptly clears his throat and pulls himself together. He glances at you, praying that his face does not betray him, an excuse on his lips as takes a deep breath. Then he falters, mouth watering instantly, gaze cutting to the side where you are busy ladling stew into two chipped wooden bowls, back politely turned, as though you never noticed anything at all.
Jace doesn't think he’s ever been this hungry. He has dined in castles all his life—roasted swan, lemon cakes, arbor wines. He has consumed the finest meals Westeros has to offer and found them lacking, but he almost feels dizzy with need and pleasure at the scent of the stew you made.
“It—” Jace’s voice is hoarse from sleep. Embarrassed, he clears his throat again to try to even it out. “It smells good.”
You look at him over your shoulder with a small smile and murmur demurely, “I’m sure nothing compared to what you’re used to, my prince.”
“I do not know that,” he says lightly as he forces himself to his feet, grimacing as pain immediately shoots through his body.
Everything aches—his chest, his shoulders, his legs, his arms, his head. In truth, all he wants to do is curl up and sleep more; he cannot bear to keep going. Not now. Not after Vermax, after Luke, after making such a terrible mistake that he might have cost his mother her throne. His stomach flips at the thought, and he fights a shuddered breath.
He needs to keep going—there is no other choice. He needs to get back to Dragonstone as soon as possible.
You pause in the middle of setting the bowls on the table at his words to give him a questioning look. “My prince?”
“I have not tasted it yet,” he tells you, forcing levity into his tone, because you have saved his life, tended to his wounds, and now stand over a pot of stew you cooked for him, worrying that it is not good enough to satisfy a prince. The least he can do is ease your mind. "It would seem unfair to compare a meal I have not eaten yet.”
You blink at him once, and then you smile slightly—it’s a genuine one, not like the small one you forced in his direction just before—and Jace tries his best to return it as he crosses the small room. He shuffles the last few steps toward the table with considerably less grace than he would have liked.
“Perhaps” you reply softly, waiting for him to take a seat at the table before you do as well.
You do not immediately lift your spoon, and Jace hesitates—for a brief moment, an old childhood lesson surfaces. Do not eat until someone else has tasted it. Feasts at King’s Landing and supper at Dragonstone had been meticulous about such things—cups were poured and tasted before his mother, and plates were sampled before any of them took a bite of their food. The paranoia claws at him and disappears as quickly as it comes.
You had dragged him half-dead from the sea, spent days stitching his wounds and breaking his fever, and gave up your bed so he could sleep comfortably. If you wished him dead, you need only have left him on the shore.
“I never thanked you for what you’ve done for me,” he says at last, fingers grazing the wooden spoon dipped into the broth. “When I return to Dragonstone, I shall speak with my mother. She will see you properly rewarded.”
“There is no need,” you murmur, finally taking a sip of the stew when Jace lifts the spoon to his lips.
The broth is hot enough to sting his tongue, but he scarcely notices. It is a simple meal—carrots and celery, chunks of what he thinks is rabbit. It is the plainest thing he has eaten in years, and yet somehow, the best meal he can remember.
His stomach twists painfully as warmth settles into it, and before he can stop himself, he takes another spoonful, then another, the hunger of the past week overwhelming whatever restraint court etiquette had once led him. It is only when half the bowl is gone that he realizes how quickly he is eating.
Embarrassed, he forces himself to slow, lowering the spoon.
“My apologies,” he says, clearing his throat. “I fear I may have forgotten my manners.”
“You haven’t had a meal in over a week, my prince. You’re allowed to be hungry,” you say with a faint smile.
Jace lets out a half-hearted huff of amusement through his nose, though his smile fades as quickly as it came, returning to conversation to try to force himself to slow down and show a modicum of etiquette before he embarrasses himself further.
“There is every need for reward,” he disagrees, leaning forward slightly to look at you. For the first time since he woke in your cottage, he actually observes you—you cannot be much older than he is, beautiful certainly, but there’s a weariness in your expression that Jace cannot help but feel as though is his fault. “You saved the life of the heir to the Iron Throne. You surrendered your bed, tended wounds that would have killed most men, and risked the wrath of the Greens simply by allowing me beneath your roof. I cannot allow that debt to go unanswered.”
You stare at him for a moment, a conflicted expression on your face, and Jace shakes his head slightly as he presses.
“I do not possess enough coin to repay such a debt myself—” nor, he suspects, does anyone “—but my mother will. You needn't live here any longer if you do not wish to. We could see your cottage rebuilt if the fighting has damaged it, or grant you land elsewhere, if that is what you'd prefer. Whatever you ask, so long as it is within my power, I will see it done.”
You are quiet for a long while as Jace finishes off the stew, but he expects hesitation as you mull over what to ask for: gold, land, a better ship, perhaps. Your gaze drifts off to the side, and Jace’s follows it, faltering when he realizes that you’re looking in the direction of what remains of Sharp Point.
That’s right, he remembers—you mentioned your cottage was less than a league away.
From where he sits, he can just see the destruction through the small window. The town is little more than scorched foundations and splintered timbers now, dragonfire having reduced generations of work to ash in the span of a single afternoon. He cannot look at it for long, stomach twisting so unpleasantly that he fears the stew you just cooked him might come right up.
You stay silent for so long that Jace wonders if you have not heard him, and his lips part to repeat himself futilely.
“We used to think they were beautiful, you know?” you say, voice barely over a breath. “We would watch your family fly from King’s Landing and Dragonstone. The children would cheer and call out the names of whatever dragon and royal was passing overhead, even though they knew you could not hear them.” A wistful smile tugs briefly at your lips, and Jace suddenly feels a rock in his stomach, a heaviness that he cannot seem to push away. “There is a wild dragon in these parts—we call him Grey Ghost. He hunts fish along the eastern shore. I see him frequently when I take my father’s boat out. We lived alongside him for years—sometimes he swoops down close when we have a big catch, but he never bothers us. My father always said he was curious—shy, but curious.”
You exhale suddenly as you rise to your feet; Jace wonders if he should ignore the unshed tears in your eyes the same way you politely did for him.
“Then the Prince Aemond and Vhagar came,” you say at last. “The only thing I want, my prince, is for this war to end, but I know you cannot give me that. If you don't mind, I should see to my father's boat before the tide turns. There is more stew in the pot if you would have it. Then you ought to rest. You'll not heal by arguing with your own body.”
Jace opens his mouth.
He does not know what he intends to say, caught between guilt and indignation, because everybody wants the fighting to end—he does, his mother does. Maybe not Daemon, but why do you say it as though he stands opposed to peace? He did not choose this, nor did his mother. It is not his fault that the Greens usurped his mother's throne.
He desperately tries to formulate an answer, but how is he supposed to respond to that? What were they meant to do? Yield to the usurpers? Stand aside while his mother’s birthright was stolen? Let Luke die for nothing? Should he say that he is sorry for your loss? That his mother would never have done this? That Vermax would never have burned a fishing village? That this was all the Greens? That they fight to avenge what happened here?
That dragons are not cruel creatures, he feels the need to tell you when he sees the disdain on your face—it is the people who ride them. It is the Greens. It is Aegon and Aemond, Alicent Hightower and her father.
His lips are parted as though to respond, but he only finds himself staring at you helplessly.
You incline your head politely before slipping out the door, the cool air rushing briefly into the cottage before it shuts behind you once more. Jace remains where he is, staring into the last of his stew until the steam no longer rises from it, the reality of his situation settling over him—Vermax is dead, Luke is dead, and his mother believes them both lost. He does not know whether his brothers and cousins are safe, if his mother still fights for her crown. He is useless, wounded in a fisherman's cottage, alive only because a woman from a town his family failed to protect chose mercy over sense.
He does not think he has ever felt less like the heir to a kingdom.
Summary: Jace is suffering from back pain, you offer to help.
Warnings: 18+, Suggestive, Tbh this is kinda smut, Jace is a little subby, Kind of mentions of time period sexism??, Potential Inconsistencies in the tense it’s written in (who is surprised? the answer is no one)
Notes: Hello! I’m so sorry I didn’t post this sooner like I wanted to BUT I am working on many different fics right now for many different ASOIAF characters!! I’ve even begun to draft for my October event so stay tuned!!
This is my first time writing something so suggestive/smutty so please be kind to me!
&& the header is for comedic purpose because… look at him lol
Word Count: 1.3k
MASTER POST , ASOIAF MASTERLIST
———————
You were curled up on the chaise by the fire with a book in your hands. This was your nightly routine. After shedding your heavy gowns, hair pins, and other jewels you would sit and read while in your thin night shift. You would typically do this until Jacaerys joined you in your shared chambers even though he had told you many times that you need not stay up for him.
You had just finished your chapter when he entered the chambers looking exhausted.
“Long day?” you ask as you close your book, standing up.
He nods, rubbing his neck, “I called for the maids to bring water for a bath.”
You make your way towards him before chuckling, “You need it. You smell like Vermax...”
Smiling, he tilts his head at you, “Yes, I was patrolling today.”
There was a knock on the door and maids filtered into the room with buckets of hot water, quickly making their way to the connected bathing room. They were gone just as quickly as they arrived. Jace never liked or wanted the maids washing him. He was perfectly capable of cleaning himself. Not to mention the fact that you had offered to help him many times after you had been wed, just as he would help you.
You sat beside the tub, taking turns telling each other about your day. You told him of your readings and research in the library, he told you of his conversation with Daemon. Jace did not remain in the bath for long, he never did unless you were bathing together, he didn’t find it relaxing and when the water cooled even the slightest bit he began to complain.
As he got dressed for sleep, you made yourself comfortable on your side of the bed. Jace groaned as he walked across the room, one hand clutching his lower back.
“You sound like an old man,” you say teasingly.
He rolls his eyes, groaning more as he sits on the bed with his back to you, “I feel like one. My back aches and my neck is so stiff…”
You sit up, scooting across the bed until you can rest your hands on his shoulders and your knees are touching his lower back. You tilt your head to look at him, a small frown on your face, “Well my love…”
“Well what?” he turns his head towards you.
“I believe it is from your posture.”
“My…posture?”
“Yes, you stand hunched over and sometimes you walk with your head jutted out.”
He looks offended, “I do no such thing.”
“My love,” you run a hand down his back til you reach the center, “you’re even slouching right now,” you push against his back, forcing him up straight causing his back to curve.
Then you return your hands to his shoulders and pull back slightly, putting him in a more proper sitting position. He looks at you again, only this time he appears shocked, horrified, and also relieved.
“How’d…”
“One of the very first things us ladies learn with our septas is how to stand proper. I don’t believe they teach such things to princes and lords. No, the first thing they teach you is how to swing a blade. Standing straight for me is subconscious but for you… it’s something you need to focus on.”
“You mean to tell me that I have been walking around hunched over my entire life and no one has said a thing?” he asks, exasperated.
“Not many people would dare question a prince… although I will say that Luke seems to stand properly, as well as Joff but he’s still little so that could change! Daemon is… well, sometimes I believe he stands with his shoulders too far back and his chest puffed out.”
Jace sighs, rubbing his temples, “My little brothers stand better than I do? What kind of example am I leading…”
You hum and scoot away from him, back to your side of the bed, “It can also come from stress, you carry a great weight on your shoulders Jace. No jest intended. Your back will likely ache for a while even as you adjust to the new posture… but I know something that will help for now, lay down on the bed.”
He gives you a startled look, his face flushing, “My love I don’t think that would help…”
You gasp, “You’re perverted! No! I meant… lay on your stomach, not on your back!”
“Oh.”
“Mhm.”
He complies, and moves to the center of the bed, resting his head in the crook of his arm. You click your tongue, “Put your arms at your sides.”
Jace does and only then do you move. Slowly, you move to straddle his lower back just above his tailbone. You start up by his shoulders, your hands working at tight muscles near the neck.
He immediately lets out a groan and hides his head in the pillows. You smile to yourself, biting your lip to suppress a giggle.
You hum a song while massaging his back, you can feel the tension leaving his body as you work your magic.
It seems as though he is going to fall asleep, completely relaxed as your hands are getting lower on his back. But that would be too easy. His hips began to rock into the bed, subtly at first and then more obvious, before he lets out a quiet moan.
“Love,” he croaks out, “I’m… sorry,” he hides his face entirely, “wait, please…”
You shush him before whispering, “It is natural Jace,” your hands fall to the bed on either side of the man beneath you as you lean forward til you're laying entirely on top of him, breasts pressed against his back.
“Do you wish for me to continue?” your lips brush his ear and he shivers letting out a noise that sounds like a whimper.
“Hm?” you hum, playfully biting his ear making him shudder, “I can not hear you with your face hidden in the pillows.”
Jace turns his head to look back at you. His eyes are dazed and his cheeks red, “Please…”
You smile, pecking his cheek before leaning back and continuing your work. You can’t help but feel pride every time he moans or groans or whimpers when his hips jerk into the bed. You were just about to stop and offer a proper solution to his current predicament when you felt him tense up harder than before.
“Fuck,” he mumbles your name, “‘m sorry…”
You slip off of his back and onto the cool furs on your side of the bed. He attempts to shimmy down the bed but you shake your head and pull him into your arms. Unable to hide his face between your legs, he hides in your breasts. You run your fingers through his curls, “You’ve made a mess of your trousers,” you tease.
He nips at your skin through your shift and you tug at his hair in response. Jace looks up at you and pouts.
“How does your back feel?” you ask, him being in pain being the main thing on your mind.
“Better, much better.”
“Good, we’ll work more on your posture tomorrow okay? I can begin to remind you if you’d like?”
“Please do,” he mutters, still embarrassed by the situation.
You laugh and pull him back to your chest. Just as you’re about to drift off Jace comes to a sudden, horrifying realization. His voice is muffled due to his face being buried in your breasts, “When I asked you to allow me to court you, to be my wife… I was walking like that? Standing like that?”
Synopsis: He fell from the sky. She rose from the deep. When an unlikely savior pulls a prince back from death’s door, neither of them can quite stay away from the shore that brought them together.
↳ Part Two
Word Count: 6.0K
Pairing: Prince!Jacaerys Velaryon x Mermaid!Reader
Genre: Little mermaid au, Jace lives!, fluff
Warnings: Mermaid descriptions of reader but nothing too specific about looks, Jace and Baela aren’t betrothed, vermax :(, brief mentions of nudity.
A/N: Based off THIS REQUEST, I hope this doesn’t seem rushed :) lowkey used my physics knowledge to make bs up 🥴
Divider credits to: @uzmacchiato <3
In a world where dragons roamed the sky and stranger things still lurked in the far reaches of Sothoryos, the existence of merfolk was hardly a thing beyond belief.
Yet for centuries the merfolk had kept to themselves, hidden from human eyes by choice rather than necessity, for the sea was their domain, vast and forgiving, older than any castle built of stone, and they had little wish to share it with a race that seemed forever at war with itself and everything around it.
In time, that same secrecy had turned them into little more than legend, tales spun by sailors over cups of watered wine on nights when the wind howled and the deck rolled beneath them. Sirens were known to lure ships onto rocks with voices sweet enough to make a man forget his own name, and feast on whatever remained once the rocks had finished their work.
Mermaids were a gentler breed by comparison, prone to guiding lost sailors safely home as often as they were blamed for storms and ill weather they had no hand in at all. Two natures entirely, wearing similar faces, and precious few humans who lived long enough to learn the difference between them.
They were beautiful creatures beneath the waves, long tails the colour of pearl and coral fading seamlessly into human torsos, faces too fine and too still to belong to any mortal woman, gill feathers tracing delicate lines along their throats that fluttered faintly with every breath of water drawn through them. Webbing caught the light between their fingers and along the curves of their ears, and their eyes, when a sailor was unlucky or lucky enough to catch one open beneath the surface, ethereal was the word men reached for, when they had any words left at all.
It had been pure chance that placed you so close to the Gullet on the day the battle came, chance and your own incurable curiosity, which your sisters had scolded you for since you were small enough to hide behind their tails.
You had always had a weakness for collecting things. Rings slipped from dead men's fingers, buckles and buttons and the little bronze bells that sailors sometimes wore for luck that had done them no good at all in the end, coins gone green and soft with centuries beneath the salt.
You kept them in the hollow belly of an old sunken hull you had claimed as your own years ago, arranging and rearranging them the way a child arranges shells on a beach, and you were forbidden, absolutely forbidden, from ever breaking the surface to retrieve anything that had not already sunk deep enough to be safely yours. The deep waters near the wreck sites were permitted. The world above the waterline was not.
You had seen fleets pass overhead before, dark hulls cutting shadows across the sunlit shallows, and it had never troubled you much. Ships came and went. Men fought their wars on the surface and left their dead to sink down to you eventually, and you had learned not to think too hard about where the trinkets came from.
What startled you that day, what sent ice through your veins even in water still warm from the summer sun, was the sound. A battle breaking out with no warning at all, not the slow grinding approach you were used to but something sudden and enormous, the water shaking with it as though the sea itself had been struck. Fire that should not have been able to burn beneath the waves somehow did, hissing and spitting where it touched the surface, and ash sifted down through the water like grey snow, and wood came apart in great splintering chunks, and bodies. So many bodies, falling and falling, sinking past you like stones dropped from a terrible height, men who had been laughing and cursing and praying only moments before.
You very nearly got swept into the worst of it yourself. Your pale pink tail caught for one heart-stopping instant on a length of trailing rigging, and you fought and thrashed to free yourself, kicking hard for clearer, deeper water, away from the chaos above. It was then that something struck the surface with such force that the shockwave of it rolled straight through your chest, and you turned back despite every instinct screaming at you to keep swimming, and saw a dragon.
Only the one. You did not know his name yet, though you would come to learn it soon enough. Vermax, green as new leaves, thrashing against water he had never been built to fight, wings beating in great useless sweeps, trying and failing again and again to claw his way back up into a sky that no longer wanted him.
And strapped to his back, tangled in leather that should have kept him safe and now threatened only to drown him with the beast, was a boy.
A very pretty boy, you thought, even through the horror of it, because you had always had a weakness for pretty things as well as shiny ones, and some habits did not care what was happening around them.
He fought his harness with a growing, panicked desperation, one leg caught fast beneath a buckle that would not give no matter how he wrenched at it, and you watched the fight slowly bleed out of him as the water rose past his chin and then his mouth. You watched him press his palm flat against his dragon’s scaled hide, whether in farewell or in simple desperate comfort you could not say, and something inside your chest twisted so hard and so suddenly that it hurt, a feeling you had no name for and no time to think about, and you were moving before your brain had caught up to it.
The buckles gave easily enough beneath your fingers, quick clever things built for human hands rather than merfolk ones but simple enough once you understood the shape of them, all but the one pinning his leg fast, which would not release no matter how you pulled. It was your sister's whalebone dagger, tucked always at your hip, that finally cut him free, the leather parting in one long stroke. By then the boy had gone entirely still, his eyes half open and unseeing.
You spared one moment, only one, though it cost you dearly to spare it, to press your palm flat against Vermax’s scales in something like an apology, for jot being able to save him. The great beast simply closed his eyes, as if content that his rider had found safer hands than his own to carry him the rest of the way, and sank without a struggle into the dark below, leaving no trace but a slow drift of green scales catching what little light remained.
Surfacing was a huge mistake. You broke into open air in the very heart of the wreckage, ships burning on every side, smoke thick enough to sting your eyes, and had barely a breath to get your bearings before an arrow split the water beside you, close enough that you felt the wind of its passing against your cheek and almost hitting the boy in the neck.
You looked up into a row of crossbows all trained your way, men shouting words you did not understand but whose meaning was plain enough in the set of their shoulders, and understood with sudden, terrible clarity exactly how little difference they would see between a dragon’s rider and whatever monster had come to finish the work the sea had started.
You went back under. Humans could not breathe water, but neither, you thought grimly, dragging the boy's dead weight down with you, could you survive a volley of bolts meant to end lives.
You swam hard and fast and low, keeping to what cover the drifting wreckage offered, dragging him through water gone thick and stinging with smoke and ash, until the sounds of battle fell away behind you into a dull, distant roar and the nearest shore rose dark and welcoming against the horizon. You hauled him up onto the sand with strength you did not know you possessed, adrenaline lending you what your body alone could not, and only then let yourself look at him properly.
Your stomach dropped. His lips had gone the deep, bruised blue of a man already claimed by the sea, his skin pale as the underbelly of a fish, and his chest did not move at all.
The old stories. Your grandmother had told them half as warning and half as wonder, back when you were young enough to still believe every tale she spun, of how a drowned man's lungs might yet be coaxed back to life if the sea inside them was driven out in time, before the body forgot how to want air at all. You laid both palms flat over the centre of his chest, unsure of your own strength, and pressed down hard.
Once. Nothing happened. Panic clawed up your throat.
Twice. Your own breath caught, tight and painful.
Thrice, and you pressed with everything you had left in you, uncaring now whether you cracked something beneath your palms, because a bruise, even a broken rib, was nothing at all set against death.
On the fourth press he convulsed beneath your hands and turned sharply to one side, retching a lungful of seawater onto the sand, coughing so violently his whole body shook with the force of it. You sat back, tail curling instinctively beneath you, heart hammering, and watched the grey slowly bleed out of his face as air, found its way back into him at last.
He did not understand, in that first hazy moment, anything beyond the fact that he was somehow, impossibly, still alive. The world swam in and out of focus around him, blurred and ringing. The last clear memory he had was of Vermax beneath him and the water closing over them both in a great green rush, of struggling against a harness that would not give no matter how he fought it, and then a blurred pale shape cutting toward him through the murk like something out of a half remembered dream, and then nothing at all.
He sat up too quickly. Pain lanced through his skull bright enough to make him gasp, and he only dimly registered that he had knocked someone backward in the process, hearing a small startled sound beside him.
"I am sorry- I did not mean to- are you..." The words died somewhere in his throat.
A hand still rested lightly against his shoulder, small and cool and strange. He gaze followed it down past a bare collarbone, down a torso, and then no legs at all, only a long tail the colour of pale coral, still trembling faintly where it lay half in the surf, catching what little light the dying sun still offered.
His eyes came back up to meet yours. Yours were already wide with fright, caught somewhere between diving straight back into the water and staying just long enough to see what he would do with the knowledge now sitting plainly on his face.
"You," he breathed, and could not seem to manage a single word more than that.
You did not wait to find out what he would say next. You began dragging yourself backward toward the water on your palms, tail scraping over wet sand, and that seemed to break whatever had held him frozen in place, because he scrambled after you across the shore despite the state of his own battered, aching body.
"Wait, please, don't go, who are you? What is your name? Why did you save me? Why?" The questions tumbled out of him faster than you could possibly have answered even if your voice had worked properly, one tripping over the next, desperation making him clumsy with his words. When you opened your mouth to try anyway, nothing came at all, no sound, not even a whisper. You touched two fingers to your throat and shook your head slowly.
"You cannot speak?"
You nodded, something apologetic in the tilt of your head.
There was no simple way to explain it to him, not with gestures alone, that merfolk voices were shaped and tuned for the weight and pressure of deep water and simply could not survive in air thin and empty as this, so you only looked at him, sorry, and slid a little further back toward the tideline, the cool water lapping welcome against your tail.
"Wait!" He was on his feet now, unsteady, swaying slightly as he turned to take in the shore around him properly for the first time. "This is Driftmark- I think- and that," he pointed to a dark shape rising jagged from the water in the distance, smoke still curling faintly from somewhere within the battle behind them, "that's Dragonstone. That is where I live. I must find some way to thank you properly, I do not even know how yet, but I will. I swear it."
You gave him one last long look, drinking in the sight of him properly now that the worst of the danger had passed, pale and shaking and utterly unlike anyone you had ever pulled from the wreckage before, and nodded once before the water closed silently over your head.
What he did not know, could not have known, was that you had not truly gone. You lingered just beneath the surface, hidden in the shallows where the light still reached, watching as the full weight of what he had lost caught up to him at last.
You watched his shoulders begin to shake, watched him sink slowly to his knees on the wet sand as the grief he had been too shocked to feel finally broke over him, grieving the bond severed so suddenly with his dragon, a bond you understood was not so different from the ones your own kind shared with the great whales that sometimes let mermaids ride upon their backs through the deep currents. You felt sad and helpless and entirely too far away to do anything about either, your own chest aching in sympathy for a boy you did not even know the name of yet.
Trinkets, you thought at last, retreating slowly deeper into the water where the cold and the dark could swallow the strange, unfamiliar feeling sitting heavy in your chest. I will bring him pretty things. Pretty things always help. Everyone knows that.
By the time Jace made it back to Dragonstone, disguised as best his battered state allowed, the sun had long since set and the castle had already begun to mourn a prince presumed lost at sea.
Rhaenyra, who had spent the whole of that day and the one before convincing herself, against every hope, that he was truly gone, very nearly lost her composure entirely at the sight of him standing whole in the doorway of her solar, swaying but breathing, and threatened violence on anyone who dared suggest it a cruel trick before she was even certain of it herself.
Then he was close enough to touch, close enough that she could feel the warmth still clinging to him despite the cold seawater soaked through every layer of his clothes, and she crossed the room in three swift strides and pulled him into an embrace so fierce it near cracked his ribs, one hand cradling the back of his neck the way she had when he was small enough to carry on her hip.
She pulled back only far enough to strike him hard across the face, the sound of it sharp in the quiet room, then dragged him straight back into her arms before he had time to recover from either the blow or the embrace that followed it.
"Never," she whispered fiercely against his hair, "never again. Do you understand me?"
Jace made no complaint about any of it. He only held on, breathing in the familiar smell of her, flowery and something that had always simply meant home no matter where in the world he found himself, and let himself be scolded and forgiven in the very same breath, over and over, until the shaking in his hands finally began to still.
There would be time to explain everything later, the mermaid and the potion he did not yet know he would go looking for and the strange ache already settling in his chest at the thought of never seeing her again. Tonight he only wanted this, his mother’s arms and the solid stone floor beneath his feet and the simple, overwhelming relief of being alive.
It was two full days before he saw you again, two days that felt considerably longer to both of you than their number suggested.
He had taken to walking the shore each evening as the sun went down, though he offered no one an explanation for it beyond a vague murmur about wanting air, and Rhaenyra, watching her son closely for any sign of the grief she knew still sat unresolved in him, chose not to press the matter, not yet.
On the second such evening, with the light turning gold and heavy across the water at the very edge of dusk, a small shape broke the surface some distance out from where he stood. Only your eyes showed at first, wary, scanning the beach with the caution of a creature that had learned, however briefly, exactly what danger humans could pose. Once you were certain he was truly alone, no soldiers, no crossbows waiting in the shadows, you swam closer, arms full of things gathered carefully from the seafloor over the two long days you had spent working up the courage to return.
He laughed before he could help himself, disbelieving, because you had brought him what looked like a small fortune of drowned treasure: coins gone green with centuries of salt, sea glass worn to the smoothness of river stones in every colour from deep emerald to pale, milky blue, pearls still crusted faintly with the ghosts of the shells that had once held them, all of it cradled carefully against your chest as though it were the finest gift any king had ever received.
"For me?" He pressed a hand to his own chest, incredulous, and you beamed and nodded so hard your whole body shook with the force of it, tail flicking once against the shallows in what he would later come to recognise as excitement.
"I have nothing half so precious to give you in return," he said, quieter now, kneeling properly in the wet sand so that he was closer to your level, and you shook your head firmly, as if to tell him that was hardly the point of any of it, that gifts given freely required nothing given back.
He knelt at the waterline for a long while that evening and talked, filling the silence you could not, telling you his name, his House, that he was a prince of Dragonstone and heir to something called an Iron Throne that sounded, from the little he explained, far heavier a burden than any crown ought to be. Your eyes lit at the word prince, delighted, and you pointed to your own chest in turn, tapping it twice for emphasis.
"A princess, then?" he guessed, and you nodded, pleased as anything with yourself, and something in his chest that had been wound painfully tight since the moment the water closed over his head two days before finally began, slowly, to loosen.
You tried, that first proper evening, to tell him other things too, though the telling was slow and clumsy without words. You drew shapes in the wet sand with one finger, a rough sketch of a tail, of waves, of something that might have been a whale or might simply have been a very poor circle, and Jace watched with a fascination that made you strangely warm beneath your scales, guessing at your meaning and laughing softly whenever he guessed wrong, which was often.
When the moon rose high enough that you knew you had to leave, you leaned in and pressed a quick, shy kiss to his cheek, as if to tell him not to be sad any longer, that you would return, that whatever grief still lived behind his eyes need not be carried entirely alone. That Vermax lay peacefully beneath the sea. And if he had been pretty enough to catch a second glance from you even amid the chaos of a burning battlefield, well.
You had always liked pretty things, and you saw no shame in admitting it, even silently, even only to yourself.
In the days that followed, Jace found himself buried in the library far more often than seated at council, a fact that did not escape his mother's notice for long. The war, if it could even still be properly called that, had cooled in the aftermath of the battle into something closer to a wary, watchful peace, both sides circling cautiously around the idea of parley rather than open slaughter, and so Rhaenyra could afford, for the first time in longer than she cared to admit, to spend her worry on her son rather than entirely on her crown.
It was on the seventh day since his return that she finally cornered him about it, finding him hunched over a table stacked high with scrolls he had clearly been picking through for hours, Daemon lounging nearby against a bookshelf with a look of a man who had already scented an amusing story and had no intention whatsoever of leaving before he heard the whole of it.
"The one who saved me from the water," Jace admitted at last, ears burning red under his mother's steady gaze, "was a mermaid. I have been meeting her at dusk every evening since. She brings me gifts."
Silence, and then Daemon's low, delighted laugh rang out across the quiet library. "A fish," he said, "has stolen my son’s heart. Rhaenyra, did you hear that? A fish."
"She is not a fish," Jace snapped, mortified, colour flooding all the way up to the tips of his ears, and would say nothing further no matter how Daemon pressed him for details, though his ears stayed scarlet the rest of the evening and he refused, quite pointedly, to look either of them in the eye.
It was only once they were alone, Daemon finally chased off by some matter of ships needing his attention, that Rhaenyra asked, more gently now, what exactly he hoped to find buried in all those old scrolls.
He confessed it slowly, haltingly, that he was searching for some means of letting you speak properly above the water, because you listened to him so patiently each evening, tilting your head at his every word as though nothing he said could ever bore you, and he found, to his own quiet surprise, that he wanted very badly to hear your voice in return, to know what you sounded like when you laughed instead of simply seeing it in the curve of your mouth.
Something in her face softened at that, the last of the earlier sternness melting away entirely. She crossed the room and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, something she would often do when he was but a babe and even now.
"I nearly lost you once already," she said quietly. "I do not think I would survive losing you a second time, not truly. If this girl from the sea brings you peace after everything, then that peace is worth more to me than I can properly measure. I will help you find your answer, if I am able. You have only to ask."
He thanked her, throat tight, and went to bed that night lighter than he had felt in a very long time.
By the tenth day, though, his search had turned up nothing but dust and disappointment, page after page of tidal charts and shipping records that told him everything about the sea and nothing at all about the creatures who lived beneath it, and he was scowling so fiercely at a particularly useless scroll that he did not hear Baela approach until she dropped a stack of books onto the table hard enough to make him jump nearly out of his seat.
"What have I told you about pouting, cousin? It hardly befits a prince, especially not one so recently returned from the dead."
"I am not pouting," he said, pouting.
She laughed, unbothered, and pushed the books toward him anyway, settling into the chair across from him with the satisfied air of someone bearing very good news. "Found these buried in the old archive, behind a shelf half the household seems to have forgotten existed. Scrolls on sea creatures, potions, that sort of thing, all written in the old tongue. Some of it looks to go back to Old Valyria itself, if the binding is anything to judge by. Thought they might serve you better than moping about the library like a wet cat."
His whole face changed, disappointment giving way so suddenly to hope that Baela laughed again just watching it happen. He thanked her so earnestly, gripping her hands in both of his, that she looked half embarrassed by the whole display and waved him off with a mock scowl of her own, and then he buried himself in the texts for the rest of the day and well into the night, barely stopping to eat, ink staining his fingers as he copied out passage after passage by candlelight.
The gods, it seemed, had finally decided to smile down upon him after everything, because tucked among the brittle, crumbling pages he found precisely what he had been searching for all along: an old Valyrian draught, described in cramped, faded script, said to grant a creature of the sea, mermaid or siren alike, a brief and temporary span of human legs, the magic bound to fade again once enough days had passed.
Gathering the ingredients took the better part of two more days, some of them common enough to find in any well stocked kitchen and others requiring correspondence sent quietly to a maester on the mainland who asked no questions he clearly did not wish answered, and finding an alchemist both skilled and discreet enough to brew the whole of it properly took longer still. But by the fourteenth day since the battle, Jace stood at the shoreline at dusk with a small vial clutched tight in one hand, its contents glowing faintly violet in the fading light, and his heart hammering somewhere up near his throat.
You surfaced as you always did by then, cautious first, scanning the shore out of old habit, then delighted once you saw him standing alone, swimming in swiftly with your usual haul of shells and drowned bottles clutched against your chest. He knelt at the waterline and, for once, did not simply talk about his day or ask after yours in the halting, gestured way you had both grown so used to.
He explained the potion instead, slowly, carefully, holding the vial up so you could see the strange violet light swirling within it, watching your face closely all the while for any sign that this was too much, too strange, too great a thing to ask of you.
You went very quiet. Your brow furrowed the way it always did when you turned something over carefully in your mind, weighing it from every side, and Jace, who had come to know that expression well over a fortnight of evenings spent together, made himself sit still and wait, though every part of him wanted to fill the silence with reassurance.
"It is only if you wish it," he said softly, when the silence had stretched long enough that he could not help himself any longer. "I would never have you feel forced into anything on my account, not after everything you have already given me. If you would rather not, I will understand completely, and I will still come to see you each evening, just as I have."
You studied the vial a long moment more, turning the choice over one final time, thinking of your sisters and the warnings you had grown up hearing about the dangers of the world above, of legs that were not truly yours and a voice that might vanish again the moment the magic faded.
Then you looked at him, at the earnest hope he could not quite hide no matter how he tried, and something in your face settled at last, resolve chasing out the last of the hesitation, and you nodded.
He could have wept from the sheer relief of it. He handed you the vial with hands that were not entirely steady, and you drank it down in a single determined swallow, immediately screwing your face up at the taste, which was somehow both bitter and sickly sweet beneath it, like rot dressed up in honey, and Jace laughed at the disgusted noise you made.
The change came almost at once, faster than either of you had quite expected. Your tail began to glow faintly from within, the violet light spreading through the coral pink scales, and then, slowly, the scales themselves began to dissolve and reshape, splitting and lengthening before your very eyes.
You watched it happen to your own body with something closer to wonder than fear, propping yourself up on your elbows in the shallow water to see it better. It did not hurt, not truly, only felt strange, an unfamiliar pulling and settling sensation that ran the length of what had been your tail only moments before, and then, quite suddenly, you had legs. Two of them, unfamiliar and entirely new to you, kicking weakly in the shallows as you tried, with no success at all, to make them do anything useful.
It was Jace who first remembered, with a start that nearly gave him whiplash, that you now had absolutely nothing on at all beneath the water. He spun to face the other direction so fast he nearly lost his footing on the wet sand, hurriedly unclasping his own travelling cloak and passing it back over his shoulder to you without turning around, ears burning scarlet all over again.
"Here, please, wrap this around yourself, I am so sorry, I did not think- I should have thought of it before you drank the wretched thing."
You took the cloak, bewildered by the whole strange business of clothing, and wrapped it clumsily about yourself as best you could manage with limbs that still refused to cooperate properly.
"Why," you whispered, voice thin and strange and entirely your own, and both of you went utterly, completely still.
"You spoke," Jace said, turning back around despite himself, eyes wide with wonder, all thought of modesty forgotten entirely.
"I did," you said, marvelling at the strange, thin sound of your own voice carrying through open air, so unlike the way words moved and pressed through water, lighter somehow, and stranger, but yours all the same.
He knelt properly before you then in the wet sand, something almost formal in the gesture despite how thoroughly absurd the whole moment truly was, both of them soaked and shivering and grinning like fools, and asked if he might finally know the proper name of the maiden who had pulled him back so stubbornly from death's door.
You told him. Your name, spoken aloud for the first time in your life, and that you were the seventh daughter of a house that ruled beneath the narrow sea, a true princess in every sense, just as you had claimed all along through nothing but gestures and a proud tilt of your chin.
"I know this may only last a short while," Jace said, still kneeling, still holding your hands as though he feared letting go might undo the magic.
"And I mean to keep searching, if that is what you wish, for some way to make it last longer, or even permanent. But for now, will you come and meet my family properly? They ought to see, with their own eyes, the girl who saved their prince from the bottom of the Gullet."
You tried to stand at that, eager and entirely too confident in limbs you had possessed for all of ten minutes, and discovered immediately that legs demanded a coordination and strength the sea had never once asked of you. You stumbled, pitched forward, and landed hard on your knees in the wet sand with a startled, frustrated huff.
You tried again, gripping his shoulder for balance this time, and managed perhaps three wobbling steps before your legs betrayed you a second time, sending you tumbling sideways with a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan of pure exasperation.
Jace, biting back a laugh of his own though it clearly threatened to escape, knelt beside you and tightened the cloak properly around your shoulders, then slid one arm behind your back and the other beneath the crook of your knees, lifting you up into his arms with far more ease than his still-recovering body should reasonably have allowed.
"I will teach you to walk properly," he promised, adjusting his grip as you settled, somewhat stiffly, against his chest, your new legs kicking experimentally against nothing at all. "Though I think that particular lesson is better suited to daylight and a rather softer patch of ground than this. Just now I have limited time before the magic fades, and I intend to make the very most of it while I can."
The jaws that dropped when Jacaerys Velaryon strode into Dragonstone’s great hall carrying a girl in his arms, salt still drying in tangled waves through her hair, wrapped in nothing but his own travelling cloak and kicking her bare feet with open, delighted fascination at the strange new sensation of having feet at all, were a sight none of the household would soon forget, and several among the kitchen staff would still be whispering about weeks later.
Baela nearly dropped the tray she was carrying. Rhaena’s mouth fell open mid sentence and simply stayed that way. You met Rhaenyra and Daemon’s twin looks of open astonishment with wide, curious eyes of your own, entirely unbothered by the attention, as though growing an entirely new pair of legs within the hour were the most ordinary thing in all the world, and gave the queen a doe eyed stare that made it very difficult indeed for anyone in that hall to remain suspicious for long.
Daemon was the first to find his voice, low and disbelieving, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Well- damn. He wasn’t kidding about the fish.”
Rhaenyra’s palm found the back of his head before he had even finished speaking, a sharp, swift smack that made him yelp and rub at the spot, wounded.
“Mind your tongue,” she warned, though there was little real heat in it, her gaze already softening as it moved from Daemon back to her son and the girl held so carefully in his arms.
In the end, there was little else for anyone present to do but believe it, however improbable the tale sounded when spoken aloud: that the lost prince of Dragonstone had indeed been pulled from the bottom of the sea by a little mermaid, and that she, in turn, without quite meaning for it to happen at all, had followed him all the way home.
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summary: The moment the third arrow struck Prince Jacaerys Velaryon's throat, his life ended. And yet, a second later, the Prince awakens, confused, in his bedroom, as alive as he'd always been, with his only company being the ultimate love of his life: his wife, you. The issue? You died months ago.
w.c.: 3k
c.w.: death, blood, grief. kind of a fix-it fic? I guess? if you finish this fic upset that it's fix-it, I've done my job . fluff and angst, jace and reader got married a few months before the war started. childhood best friends to lovers to married couple. reader is a dragonrider but I don't specify her family/relation to jace. no use of y/n.
a.n.: english is not my first language so forgive any mistakes and typo. not proofread.
THE DAY YOU DIED WAS THE DAY JACAERYS VELARYON’S SOUL WAS RIPPED APART. None could deny that the prince’s marriage, as short-lived as it ended up being, was filled with love and happiness. Your future together had been written for a long time: joy, love, children, more love, and that until the day one of you would inevitably die, old and gray after a lifetime together.
But the future is uncertain and unfair, and even more so to the innocent.
Jacaerys woke up gasping, his lungs still burning with the specks of water he'd swallowed during the battle. But the pain struck him instantly. Trembling, his hands jerked up to his throat, which, for some reason, sent the worse jolts of pain through his body.
Eyes widened, he pulled his fingers away from his neck, choking as they came back covered in blood. "What...?" He wondered aloud in a small voice, his heart thumping against his ribcage.
"Don't." A hand grasped his wrist before he could touch his wounded neck once more. Gentle and soft, he froze. There would never be a world in which he wouldn't recognize your touch or your voice.
It was only when you appeared in his line of sight that his surroundings finally registered in his mind.
His bedroom. Your bedroom. Your bed.
The one the two of you shared every night for months. Once, this room had been filled with laughter and love, shining the brightest within the castle of the island.
Now, the only thing Jacaerys felt was a shill down his spine.
Still holding his wrist with one hand, you smiled and took a seat besides him, your free hand brushing the locks of hair away from his forehead. As beautiful as you'd always been, it felt like the life had suddenly returned to him.
How could you be here?
"How — How are you —?” He choked out, his voice cracking in places. Perhaps due to seeing you before him, or perhaps because of the bleeding wound he couldn't remember getting.
Your hand left his face, and the only thing he could think was how much he wished it hadn't. But before he could even form any sort of word, you pressed a cloth against his forehead, gently wiping it. "What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into, my love?"
As innocent as they were, your words seemed to be the key to unlock whatever part of his brain had decided to seal his memories away. At once, his head was flooded with memories.
At once, Jacaerys remembered how he'd died.
You hadn't looked away from him, your eyes filled with love and patience. But try as he might, Jacaerys couldn't find surprise or horror within them. "Am I dead?" He choked out after a moment. Perhaps his mind had... made it all up? For a reason unknown to him.
And yet, you nodded, a somber expression covering your features. "Yes."
Shaking his head, Jacaerys frowned and took in a large inhale. The air burned his lungs from within, all the more proof that whatever was happening wasn't right. "How can I be dead? I'm... I'm right here."
Still pressing the cloth against his forehead, Jace found himself leaning into your touch, which he always used to do. His happiness had always been within your touch. He had always known that, and never once had he resented it.
Not even today. He leaned into your touch, and the only thing he felt was peace.
He couldn't be alive, not when he remembered dying so clearly. Not when you were sitting next to him, your soul at last reunited with his. They were never meant to be apart anyways.
But if he was dead...
His mother, his brothers, the war... they'll need to go on without him. Whatever plans included him turned useless. And, oh, his mother. She'd lost enough already. How terrible must it be for her in this very moment? None of this was fair.
Fairness was never promised to anyone. Jacaerys had come to learn this particular lesson very young, when everything in his life appeared to be perfect and easy. He was never treated fairly by anyone but his immediate family, all because of his hair color, all because of those vile rumors, all because of what he was.
Though, you were the exception, he realized. Never once had you ever looked down upon him or his brothers. You had heard the rumors that coursed through the Red Keep, you just didn't care. Jace had always liked that about you. Thinking back to this, it was undoubtedly the early signs of how entirely devoted to you he'd end up being.
Perhaps this wouldn't be bad. If you were by his side, death could be a kindness. The pain of living without you had been crushing, but he had pushed through it, all for his mother. It was over now, Jacaerys realized, he would never have to feel pain again. It was his time.
"No."
Jacaerys' eyes opened, though he couldn't remember having closed them. Had he spoken aloud?
"What?"
"You weren't supposed to die, Jacaerys." You merely said, your lip quivering before you pinched them into a thin line. Your eyes brushed over every feature on his face before your composure broke and you breathed out a shaky breath. "Oh, what did you do?"
Swiftly, his hands had found yours. Jace had never needed to look to find them, because you were as much a part of him as his heart was, perhaps even more. He nodded, hoping to reassure you and free you from the torment he knew you were haunted by. "I'm okay. I'm with you again, how could I not be?"
"No." You shook your head. "No, no, no. You're not okay, Jace, you're dead."
These words, though not a complete surprise, still managed to knock the wind out of him for a moment. "I will be. You have — You have no idea how much I missed you." One hand releasing yours to cup your face, he leaned forward to pull you into a hesitant kiss.
What if this was all a lie? What if his mind had conjured you up to feel a semblant of peace before the uncertainty of death took over his being?
But Jacaerys kissed you, and your mouth found his in the way it always had. The two of you were meant to be together, and nobody could ever deny that. Your hearts and souls belonged together. Your bodies fit so perfectly it looked as though they had been formed together. You were his, and he'd always been yours.
The familiarity of the kiss quickened the beats of his heart. He never thought he'd ever get to do this again. "I love you." He let out without thinking, his forehead pressing against yours.
Was his throat still wounded? Did it matter in here? Did anything matter when his love had been given back to him?
"And I love you, Jacaerys." You told him, your free hand reaching out to brush against his face.
"How am I here?" He asked quickly, his senses finally taking back a bit of control. "Where are we?"
"You died at the Gullet, Jace."
Jacaerys frowned at the tone you used, tilting his head back to look at you. For the first time ever, he could not find any kind of happiness on your face. "What —"
"You were struck by three arrows, and you died."
"I know that, but what are you —”
"You weren't supposed to die. Not today. Not anytime soon."
Letting go of your face, Jace leaned back with furrowed eyebrows. Obviously, neither of you were meant to die so soon. But that was the atrocity of war; how cruel it was. It was just how things worked, you knew that. Or at least, you used to know that.
Frustration took over your face, and you groaned, immediately dropping his hand and face to stand up from the bed, your back facing him. "You're not listening to me. You weren't supposed to die. Something went wrong somewhere, evidently. You are supposed to be alive, not dead in here."
"What are you talking about?" He choked out, sitting up with a wince. A dull pain coursed through his back, but nothing akin to what he should feel from a wound like the ones he'd sustained. Tentatively rolling his shoulder, he felt more of an ache than a direct pain. Had he healed already?
During his confusion, you'd reached the corner of the room and finally turned to him once more, though you held bandages in one hand and a bowl in the other. With your chin held high, your shoulders and back straight and your face as stoic as he'd ever seen, you stayed silent and approached him again.
Narrowing his eyes, Jace felt his heartbeat quicken once more, but not the way it had earlier. "What are you talking about?"
It was only when you had dabbed a clean cloth in the golden mixture within the bowl and pressed it against his neck — which, admittedly felt really, really good. So good, in fact, that his limbs relaxed at once and he almost forgot what the topic at hand was — that you deigned him with a reply. "I am not here to welcome you into death, my love. I am here because you are meant to be alive, yet you are not." You paused, the weight of your words not yet registering to him. "But you will be."
No... you couldn't be saying—
"I am sending you back, Jacaerys."
"No." The denial leaving him before he could even will it to. "You can't — Nobody's ever—"
But you nodded, and he saw the seriousness in your eyes. You had never been one to lie, let alone in a time like this, about a topic such as this one. "Your life is worth a lot in the Fates' plan. You've strayed from your path in a way you were never supposed to. You have to go back."
Jacaerys began shaking his head, and for the first time realized the pain in his neck had gone. What had you done to him? How could you—
Your hands cupped his face, and all the thoughts vanished from his mind at once. Softly, your fingers brushed against the skin of his cheeks. A sigh left his mouth. Jace never thought he'd feel this again. When the news of your demise had reached him, he'd thought his happiness had gone forever, and he'd never feel it in this life again.
In a way, he had been right.
Why would he ever agree to part with you again? With his happiness literally close at hand, he won't let it be ripped away from him again.
"Come with me, then." He spouted, his eyes widening. But you shook your hand, sadness painting your features. "Yes, come with me! We can be together again—"
"Love—"
"—Better, even, than before—!"
"Jace—"
"This is our chance—"
"Jacaerys!" You loudly cut in, flexing your fingers against his face to grab his attention. "I can't."
"Why not? Surely if you can send me back—"
"It is not my doing, Jacaerys. I was tasked with sending you back, but I had no say in the matter." You licked your lips, which had gone dry. "I am meant to be here. Not you. It was my time."
He shook his head again, your words failing to hit their mark. "No. If you can send me back, just... just hold onto me. We'll go back together. I'm not leaving you."
"That's not up to me." You countered in a small, shaking voice. "My life has ended. I lived and died the way I was supposed to. I can't go back to a world in which I don't belong."
"And yet you expect me to?" He dropped your hands, leaning away from you to stare at you in disbelief. You couldn't be serious, he thought to himself. "Do you honestly believe that I belong in a world in which you're not alive?"
Nodding, you licked your lips and sighed. "I do."
"You've lost your mind."
You ignored his interruption, "Because that is how it was always meant to happen. You have your family, Jace—"
"You're my family."
“— Your mother, your brothers, your people... You belong with them. You're meant to be with them, and one day, you will rule with them by your side. You have years ahead of you."
"No. I've died. I've given my life for my Queen, as... as crazy as that sounds to me. But it's the truth. I am as dead as you are, and I want to stay with you. Come with me, or I'll stay here with you."
A silence fell upon the room, and though you gave him a small smile, the determination in your face never faltered. "You don't have a choice."
"No."
"You've been given a second chance to live, and for that I am... endlessly grateful. You deserve this more than anyone. But we've also been given a second chance, and I don't want us to part with you angry at me."
He could never be angry at you. Not really. "We don't have to part."
"We do. For now, at least. We'll find each other again, someday. But you have to live your life first, Jace."
"No life is worth living if you're not in it."
"Yours is." This was the sole response you gave.
"You're not going to change your mind, are you?" He asked, expecting your response, but he still let out a long sigh as you shook your head apologetically.
Huh.
How many dead men and women would give anything to be in his place at this moment? How many had been ripped from the world of the living and forced into the realm of the dead? But here he was, begging to stay dead, all so he could stay with you.
It seemed almost ungrateful, but he couldn't help it. No parts of him wanted to leave you here. He had decided, long ago, that wherever you'd go, he would follow. He had always stuck to this promise, except for the day you died, and he couldn't follow you into death.
Time will pass, he had thought to himself more than once. In moments of despair, clutching your old dresses, hoping to catch a whiff of your scent so he could pretend he was holding you instead. Time will pass, and every day without you is a day closer to being with you again.
Lucerys had died, Rhaenys had died, Vermax — he shuddered at the memory, still so fresh in his mind — had died, and with you dead, the realm of the dead had more appeal than the one of the living today.
Jacaerys' life revolved around you, and he'd been walking around for months trying to find a purpose. Hoping for even brief moments that he would be able to distract his soul from the overbearing pain of knowing he would never see you again. It had never worked.
Now, you were sitting in front of him, looking as beautiful as he remembered, but you were telling him he could not stay and had to return to a life in which he would spend years missing you? Years feeling this pain every day that passes?
"I don't want to go back." He whispered, his hands tightly holding yours.
"But you will." Nothing in your voice showed the amount of gratefulness you felt, but Jacaerys knew you were. You were selfless, and it came as a surprise to no one that you were happy for him. Happy he got to live. Happy that his life wouldn't end today. "You have so much more life to live, love. You're supposed to grow up, marry again, have children who will inherit the throne after you —”
"You expect me to marry someone who isn't you? Have children with someone else? Do you honestly believe I would ever do that?"
You squeezed his hands once, then dropped them to reach for his face once more. "You will, Jace, because you will be alive, and no matter how much you love me, you cannot spend your life missing me —"
"As though I could ever stop it." He interrupted you again.
"No, Jace. You've been given a second chance. This isn't something that happens often, if ever. That's how worth it you are. You're supposed to live, be an amazing king, and you're supposed to be there for your mother and brothers. They need you, just as you need them."
"I need you."
"As do I, love. We'll get to be together again, I promise, just not now. First, I need you to live your life, Jacaerys."
Once again, he closed his eyes and leaned into your touch. His heart seemed to beat so much more passionately with you nearby, even in death. How could fate be so cruel as to write a worthy life for him, but one without you in it?
"You've wisened up." He mumbled, and your sudden laughter brought a smile to his face, in spite of the circumstances."
You were nodding when he opened his eyes.
"I'm glad I died, love." Jacaerys took in a deep breath and spoke the words with so much vigor and life it almost became ridiculous. "It gave me the chance to see you again."
Smiling, you leaned forward, capturing his lips in a deep, passionate kiss. Jacaerys could almost believe you had given him back his life with it, but he knew his soul was just soaking in every bit of you it could get.
"You'll see me again. Not for a very long time, I hope, but you will. We're not over yet."
When Prince Jacaerys Velaryon's eyes jerked open and his mouth took in a large gulp of air, no pain came to him. His eyes found the dark stone ceiling of Dragonstone above him, and yet he could not focus on anything but the rapid pace of his heart and the tingling sensation on his face. Bringing his hand to his face, he could vaguely remember fingertips brushing over them... but the memory slipped away from him, never to be grasped again.
jace believing living is a curse because you're not there with him
this idea didn't translate in writing as well as i'd hoped but meh, i still love it
Jacaerys Velaryon x wife!reader - House of the Dragon
Summary: It starts as something almost laughable: a dragon who prefers his rider’s wife to his rider. But when a dragon decides something is his to guard, the world learns to step carefully around what he has chosen.
Warnings: 16+ morning after, brief nudity, possessive/protective Jace, pregnancy, control/protection, scary dragon and his rider who are both secretly softies, innuendo, non-graphic childbirth, huge time jumps
A/N: This got a lil out of hand, I admit. It was meant to be a short blurb, and yet here we are. Ik people wanted smut, so I added some morning after here, and I plan to write another smut-heavy fic next so dw.
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 4.7k
The storm had burned itself out sometime before dawn.
Now all that remained was the steady drip of rain from Dragonstone's black stone walls and the distant crash of waves below the cliffs. Pale morning light slipped through the narrow windows in soft ribbons, washing the chamber in silver.
You wake slowly.
Not necessarily because you're rested, but because you're warm. Far warmer than you ought to be beneath a blanket that had long since been kicked to the foot of the bed.
Jace is wrapped around you as though sometime during the night he'd decided that simply sleeping beside you wasn't close enough. One arm is draped securely across your waist, his face buried against the back of your shoulder, his breathing slow and even. His dark curls are a complete mess, and one bare leg has somehow become tangled with yours beneath the sheets.
You smile to yourself.
"You'll complain about your shoulder later," you murmur.
A sleepy sound, somewhere between a hum and a groan, vibrates against your skin.
"I'll survive." His voice is thick with sleep and his grip tightens just enough to pull you impossibly closer. There's something almost boyish about the way he says it, as though it's a victory in itself.
You turn carefully within the circle of his arms until you're facing him. The movement earns another sleepy complaint, though he makes no effort to let go.
Up close, you can still see the faint flush lingering across his cheeks from the warmth of the room. A thin scratch is visible beneath his collarbone, your own fault no doubt.
You remeber is so clearly, how the rain had battered against the windows, how the candles had guttered low, how his forehead was resting against yours while the storm rolled over Dragonstone. But inside your bed chamber, you'd barely noticed.
"You look terribly pleased with yourself," you say.
One eye opens. "Well, I married you, didn't I?"
"Your point being?"
"It happens to be something I am very pleased about." He studies you for a long moment. "I was thinking..." He continues, thumb brushing lazily over your bare waist. "That I should arrange for more storms."
"Oh?"
"They appear to encourage you to stay in bed."
Outside, somewhere beyond the window, comes the deep, familiar rumble of a dragon.
Jace sighs dramatically without lifting his head. "He's awake."
He presses a kiss to your forehead before finally, reluctantly, releasing you. "If Vermax has flown all the way here simply to interrupt my morning," he declares, "I shall have to remind him who hatched him."
You grin as you reach for the discarded shift lying somewhere beside the bed.
By the time you're both dressed the castle has begun to wake around you.
You trail a step behind Jace, fingers loosely hooked around his sleeve more out of habit than necessity. To be honest, it is a habit you've only recently allowed yourself.
When you first arrived as his wife, you had been painfully conscious of every eye that followed you through the castle.
The princess, the prince's bride. Too young, some had whispered when they thought you were out of earshot. Too sheltered or too soft for Dragonstone.
You had smiled through every greeting, learned every name you could remember, and prayed no one noticed how often you got lost in the twisting corridors of black stone.
Jace had noticed.
Three days after your wedding, he'd quietly taken your hand before supper and walked every hallway, pointing out hidden staircases, quicker routes, which doors stuck in damp weather and which windows gave the best view of Blackwater Bay.
"I cannot believe you've spent an entire afternoon making sure I know my way around the castle." You'd said that evening in your chambers.
"Why can't you believe it?"
"You drew me a map."
"It was an excellent map."
"It had little dragons."
"So you wouldn't get bored."
You laugh. "You named one after Lord Celtigar."
"That one looked particularly grumpy." He grins, a quick flash of satisfaction that softens his usually princely composure, and reaches for your hand.
In your mind, the heir to the Iron Throne ought to be careful, composed, forever aware of watching eyes. But Jace rarely seems to remember, or perhaps he simply doesn't care.
A pair of servants step into the corridor ahead.
The moment they see the two of you, they bow hurriedly. "My prince. Princess."
You smile in greeting, Jace nods once, polite but distracted.
Only after they've passed do you realize he never let go of your hand.
Not even for a moment.
"You know," you tease quietly, "there are people who might think you're terribly devoted."
"They'd be right." He looks at you then with a familiar softness, so unguarded it almost steals your breath.
His thumb brushes absentmindedly across your knuckles. "And I'm not inclined to stop simply because people are looking."
Before you can answer, a deep, resonant rumble rolls across the courtyard outside.
Jace exhales through his nose.
"There he is."
You cross toward one of the narrow windows overlooking the inner yard. Far below, Vermax has landed.
The young dragon stands with his wings half-folded, emerald scales still glistening from the night's rain. A pair of dragonkeepers are speaking to him from what they clearly believe is a safe distance.
Vermax is paying them absolutely no attention. Instead, his great head is tilted upward.
Toward this very window.
You laugh. "I think he's looking for you Jace."
Jace joins you at the window. "No."
He follows the dragon's gaze for a moment before the corners of his mouth twitch. "I think," he says with theatrical resignation, "he's looking for you."
As though to prove his point, Vermax lets out another low, expectant chirr, quieter than his earlier call.
You blink. "Surely not."
Down in the courtyard, Vermax chirrs again.
It becomes impossible to deny by the end of the week. Vermax has decided you belong to him.
"No," Jace says flatly one afternoon, watching the dragon nudge your shoulder with surprising delicacy. "Absolutely not."
You laugh, scratching beneath the smooth ridge of emerald scales where you've discovered he likes it best. "What has he done now?"
"He is stealing my wife."
As if personally offended by the accusation, Vermax lowers his head another inch until the broad curve of his snout is pressed insistently against your side.
Jace stares. "You see?"
"He wants attention."
"I gave him an entire sheep this morning."
You can't help the laugh that escapes you, and it echoes across the training yard, bright enough that even a pair of dragonkeepers glance over with amused smiles.
You and Jace turn to go back inside, but only make it perhaps ten paces before heavy footsteps thud softly behind you.
The dragon has stood and started following.
"Vermax."
He stops, tilting his head.
"You can't come into the castle."
It doesn't stop there.
If you choose to read beneath the old weirwood overlooking the sea, Vermax appears within the hour.
If you wander the beach collecting shells after supper, a shadow passes lazily overhead before circling back toward shore. When you look up, the dragon is gliding against the afternoon sky.
The dragon dips lower, just enough that the rush of displaced air sends your skirts fluttering.
You laugh and wave. High above, Vermax answers with a delighted trill.
One morning you step into the gardens alone, intending only to cut fresh lavender for your chambers. You have barely even filled half the basket when a familiar shadow rolls across the flowers.
Then comes the gentle, unmistakable whuff of warm dragon breath.
You don't even look up.
"Good morning, Vermax." The dragon answers with a contented rumble.
He settles himself just beyond the garden wall, folding his forelegs neatly beneath him.
And there he remains.
When Jace finds you nearly an hour later, basket overflowing with lavender, he stops dead.
"You've got to be joking."
"What?"
He points.
Vermax, his great head rests on crossed forelegs, one eye lazily cracked open just enough to keep you in sight.
You walk over, unable to resist stroking the smooth scales along Vermax's jaw.
Jace follows, and you shake your head, laughing, and slip your free hand into his. Immediately, Vermax opens both eyes.
He watches the joined hands for a long, silent moment. Then, with another deep, satisfied rumble, he closes them again.
A couple weeks later, Dragonstone is hosting a small gathering of sworn lords from the Crownlands. Nothing particularly grand, just an awful lot of petitions, trade disputes, and endless discussions that leave Jace rubbing his temples by supper.
You escape the hall as politely as you can.
"I shall only be a moment," you promise him.
His hand lingers around yours before he lets go. "I know."
"You'll survive without me, Jace, I promise."
The sea air is cooler outside. Rain still clings to the black stone, leaving everything smelling of salt and earth. You breathe deeply, grateful for the quiet after hours of smiling at strangers.
You don't notice the shadow until it passes overhead.
A heartbeat later, Vermax lands beyond the outer wall with enough force to make loose gravel dance across the ground.
"You again?" you laugh.
His answer is a soft chirr as he lowers his head, inviting the familiar scratch beneath his jaw.
You indulge him. "You know," you murmur, "your rider insists you're abandoning him."
You continue scratching him anyway.
The interruption comes quietly. "My princess."
You turn. One of the visiting lords, a pleasant enough man whose name escapes you, has stepped into the courtyard. He offers a courteous bow.
"I hoped I might thank you for your kindness at supper."
"You are very kind, my lord."
He smiles. "I confess Dragonstone is rather less… welcoming than I imagined."
You glance at the dragon. "I imagine it has nothing to do with the fire-breathing beats circling at all times."
The lord laughs and takes a step closer.
Vermax's head lifts. The movement is slow enough that, for a moment, no one notices. Until the rumbling begins. It vibrates through the stone beneath your feet and the lord stops mid-sentence.
His smile falters.
Vermax does not bare his teeth, he does not spread his wings, he simply fixes the man with one unblinking emerald eye.
The rumble deepens.
"My lady," the lord corrects takes an instinctive step backward.
The sound stops.
You blink.
"…That was odd."
The lord laughs a little too loudly. "I believe… I shall return inside."
You think little of it.
Until it happens again, and again, and again. Not only with strangers, but with servants and guards. Even dragonkeepers he has known since hatching.
If someone approaches you too quickly, Vermax appears.
If voices grow heated nearby, he materialises as though summoned by instinct alone. He has become a living wall of green scales between you and the rest of the world.
A fortnight passes.
The castle settles into its familiar rhythm, though Vermax never quite returns to his old habits.
If anything, he grows bolder.
By now, even the servants have stopped remarking upon it.
"Your shadow awaits you, Princess," one maid says one morning with a knowing smile.
You peer from the window. Sure enough, a pair of emerald eyes are already fixed expectantly on the tower.
You laugh. "I do believe I've been adopted."
That afternoon, the weather is fair.
Jace has escaped the council chambers looking thoroughly exhausted, finding you exactly where he expected, beneath the old windswept tree overlooking the cliffs, a book forgotten in your lap while Vermax dozes nearby.
Or appears to.
His eyes are closed.
One wing lies stretched lazily across the grass, shimmering green beneath the sun.
Jace watches while walking towards you, finally bending to kiss the top of your head. Then, without thinking, he reaches a hand toward you.
Vermax's eyes snap open.
The dragon rises in one smooth motion, slipping between you and Jace with astonishing precision. His great neck curves across the narrow space, not striking, not threatening, but blocking.
Jace freezes.
For one suspended heartbeat, neither moves.
The dragon's head turns slightly, one brilliant green eye fixed on his rider, Jace stares back.
"...Vermax."
The dragon lets out a low sound, as though asking something only he understands. Then, just as suddenly, he steps aside.
You blink. "What on earth was that?"
Jace doesn't answer, he is still looking at Vermax.
"I've never..." he murmurs.
"What?"
"He has never stood between us."
By evening, Jace has sought out the dragonkeepers; he wants an explanation.
The oldest among them is already waiting when Jace reaches the caverns.
He bows deeply.
"My prince."
"You've noticed." It is not a question.
The old man is silent for a long moment. "...Yes."
"Then tell me."
Another pause.
"There are tales." The dragonkeeper folds weathered hands before him. "And the tales are all I have."
Jace says nothing, but his jaw tightens.
The old man continues carefully. "Dragons know certain things before men do, sometimes."
"What things?"
"Danger." Jace nods once. "Weather." Another nod. "And..." The man hesitates. "Life."
Jace blinks. "...What do you mean?"
"There are old records. Rare ones. A dragon becoming unusually protective of a rider's wife. Of a queen. Of a princess."
"Protective?"
"They guard." The dragonkeeper's gaze drifts toward the mouth of the cavern, where Vermax sleeps beyond the fading light.
Jace remembers every strange moment of the past weeks and his heartbeat quickens.
"No."
"It is only a possibility."
"No."
"Has the princess been unwell?"
"...No."
"Has she been unusually tired?"
Jace opens his mouth. Closes it again.
"And..." the dragonkeeper says gently, "when did the dragon's behavior begin?"
Jace's mind races backwards until he finally remembers the storm. How Vermax had refused to leave the castle, had hovered outside their chambers, nudging him toward the tower when he'd intended to return to his studies.
He'd laughed. "Apparently, he has plans for us."
Three months, almost exactly.
The dragonkeeper watches the realisation settle over his prince's face. Quietly, he says, "I believe... it may be time to send for the maester."
Jace finds you in your solar not five minutes later. You look up from the embroidery in your lap, smiling the moment he steps through the door, but the smile falters almost immediately.
"Jace?"
His hair is windblown from crossing the castle at nearly a run, his expression unreadable in a way you've never quite seen before. He closes the door behind him without a word and simply looks at you, searching your face as though expecting to find something different.
"What is it?"
He crosses the room in three long strides and kneels before your chair, taking both your hands in his. "Have you felt unwell?"
You blink. "...No."
"Not at all?"
"A little tired, perhaps, but you've been working me through every feast and council dinner on Dragonstone." You smile faintly. "I assumed being a princess was simply quite exhausting."
His thumb traces absent circles across your knuckles. "And nothing else?"
"I've slept later than usual."
"You've always liked sleeping late."
You grin, leaning forward to whisper, "I do when my husband keeps me awake half the night."
The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, though the smile never quite reaches his eyes. "When was your last moon's blood?"
You stare at him. "What?"
He doesn't repeat himself, and slowly, your own amusement fades. You set the embroidery aside. "I..." You pause, thinking. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I've never had reason to count the days so carefully, Jace."
Silence settles between you. You begin counting backwards in your head, tracing feasts, journeys, the passing weeks. Your brows knit together. "A couple of weeks, maybe," you murmur. "I'm not sure."
His expression answers before he speaks. "The dragonkeepers believe Vermax sensed it."
You let out a disbelieving laugh. "Jace."
"They've seen it before."
"Surely they haven't."
"They swear they have."
You shake your head, trying to make sense of it. "So... because Vermax has decided to follow me everywhere..."
"And because he stood between us."
"...he thinks I'm carrying a child?"
"Yes."
You both fall quiet.
"Oh."
It is the only word you can manage, and Jace squeezes your hands.
"I've sent for the maester."
"You've... already?"
"He'll be here shortly."
The maester, when he finally arrives, is kind and discreet, far too accustomed to royal nerves to comment on the tension hanging in the room. He asks a handful of careful questions, his expression growing steadily more thoughtful with each answer.
When he rises from his examination, he folds his hands inside his sleeves and smiles.
"My prince."
Jace has been standing by the window the entire time.
"So?"
The old man inclines his head. "My congratulations."
The room falls completely still. You look at Jace. He looks at you. Neither of you speaks.
The maester continues, almost gently. "If my calculations are correct, Her Grace is nearing the end of her third month."
He leaves you with instructions about rest, diet, and avoiding undue strain, but you hear almost none of it, too focused on the way the room seems to have shrunk around you.
The door clicks shut.
Then Jace crosses the room so quickly that you barely have time to stand before his arms are around you. He buries his face against your hair, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.
You laugh through the tears threatening your eyes.
"I think..." Your voice catches. "I think we're going to have a baby."
He nods once against your shoulder, voice barely a whisper. "I know."
Jace's spiral into overprotectiveness begins with the reasonable things.
"No more riding."
You open your mouth to argue, but are stopped before any sound escapes by a single raised eyebrow.
The maester, entirely unhelpfully, agrees with him.
Then come the stairs.
"If no one is with you."
"Jace."
"They're uneven."
"They have been uneven for a hundred years."
He insists on taking your arm every time you descend them after that.
By the time your gowns no longer sit quite as they used to, he has become impossible.
Servants carry anything heavier than a book. Meals appear in your chambers if the Great Hall is too crowded. Councils are moved rather than asking you to cross the castle, and if you so much as mention feeling tired, Jace is already leading you back toward your rooms before you've finished the sentence.
"You know women have been having children since the beginning of time?"
"I am aware, yes."
"They don't all require an escort to the library."
"I don't care, because you will have one.
Once, you disappear for nearly an hour.
Jace finds you asleep in the late afternoon sun, curled against the warm curve of Vermax's foreleg with a book lying open across your lap.
The dragon is awake. His head rests protectively around you, just close enough to shelter you from the wind without touching.
At Jace's approach, one emerald eye opens. For a long moment, dragon and rider simply look at one another. Then Vermax lowers his head again.
You stir at the sound of footsteps, blinking sleepily up at your husband.
"There you are."
"I've been looking everywhere."
"I was comfortable."
"I can see that."
By the eighth month, you start to begrudingly appreciate Jace's over-the-top efforts.
"I cannot reach my boots."
Jace looks up from the letter he'd been pretending to read. "You reached them yesterday."
"I was smaller yesterday."
He watches you glare down at the impossible curve of your stomach as though sheer determination might convince it to move. After another unsuccessful attempt, you huff dramatically and fold your arms.
"This child is already causing problems."
"Our child," Jace corrects.
"Our child," you sigh, "has stolen my feet."
A smile threatens at the corners of his mouth. With the patience of a man who has accepted this as his fate, he sets the letter aside and kneels in front of you.
"Oh, don't you dare."
"You said you couldn't reach."
"I did not ask you to-"
"You were about to."
He lifts one foot gently onto his knee and makes quick work of the laces.
"Jace, you don't have to do everything you know."
"I know."
"So why do you?"
He finishes tying the second boot before looking up at you. "Because I like taking care of my wife."
A number of weeks later the castle wakes before dawn to the sound of a dragon.
Not roaring; pacing.
The heavy scrape of claws against stone echoes through the courtyard, followed by a low, restless rumble that seems to vibrate through the walls of Dragonstone itself.
You stir beneath the blankets, still half asleep. "...He's at it again."
Beside you, Jace groans into his pillow. "If he has frightened another stableboy, I swear on all that is holy-"
Another rumble.
Closer this time. Longer, almost a whine in nature.
Jace sits up. "...That's odd."
For the past several months Vermax has scarcely left the courtyard beneath your chambers, but he has always been quiet. Content simply to stand and watch.
The windows rattle faintly as his tail sweeps across the stone.
Jace is already pulling on a tunic. "I'll see what's wrong."
You nod, pushing yourself upright with considerably more effort than dignity. He smiles over his shoulder as he ducks out of the room, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
The courtyard is in chaos.
Dragonkeepers stand well back from Vermax, speaking to him in soothing High Valyrian that goes utterly ignored. The dragon paces in tight circles, wings half-spread, head swinging constantly toward the tower above.
One keeper catches sight of Jace.
"My prince."
"What happened?"
"We don't know."
Vermax notices his rider. Instead of calming, the dragon lets out another deep, agitated rumble and immediately turns toward the tower again, toward your chambers. Then, he stamps a forefoot. Hard enough that dust shakes from the walls.
Up in the tower, you're sitting and waiting for Jace when pain tightens unexpectedly across your abdomen.
You stop halfway across the chamber, one hand finding the edge of the table. "...Hm."
The feeling passes as quickly as it came.
Outside, Vermax lets out the loudest cry you've ever heard him make. It rolls across the cliffs and back again.
You freeze before calling out. "...Jace?"
He is already taking the stairs two at a time. He bursts through the chamber doors moments later, slightly out of breath.
Before he can speak, another wave rolls through you. Your hand flies instinctively to your stomach.
Jace's face drains of colour. "What is it?"
"I..." You breathe carefully. "I think..."
Another pause. Then, despite yourself, you laugh. "I think Vermax has solved another mystery."
For one heartbeat Jace simply stares.
Then his eyes widen.
"No."
"I think so."
As if the universe itself objects to his denial, another wave steals your breath. You grip the bedpost but Jace is at your side before you can blink, one arm already around your waist.
"The maester."
His voice comes out far calmer than his expression.
"Someone fetch the maester!"
Outside, Vermax finally stops pacing.
He lowers himself heavily onto the black stone directly beneath your windows, refusing every attempt by the dragonkeepers to coax him away.
His head remains lifted toward the tower.
After hours of pain and effort the world slowly comes back into focus in pieces.
Sound first; soft voices, the distant rush of the sea, the occasional crackle of the hearth. Then warmth pressed against your side. You blink against the haze of exhaustion and find yourself surrounded by dim candlelight and movement that feels almost too gentle for how loud everything had just been.
Jace is here.
He’s sitting half on the edge of the bed, hair dishevelled, sleeves rolled up wrong, a smear of something dark on his cuff that you vaguely decide not to think about too hard. His eyes are fixed on you with a kind of stunned intensity, as if he’s afraid that if he looks away for even a second, this will all vanish.
“You’re shaking,” you murmur, though your own voice barely holds together.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
A beat of silence passes between you before he exhales and finally lets himself lean forward, pressing a careful kiss against your forehead.
“And him?” he asks, like he’s been holding the question in his teeth for hours.
You don’t even need to answer. The little bundle in your arms shifts slightly, a tiny sound breaking through the quiet and Jace goes utterly still. His gaze drops to the child as though he’s afraid it might disappear if he stares too hard.
“He's beautiful,” he says finally.
You adjust the blanket slightly, and the baby nestles closer, face scrunching briefly before settling again. Jace makes a sound that is halfway between a laugh and something dangerously close to breaking.
“I don’t-” he starts, then stops, swallowing. “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”
“You thought it would feel like what?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His hand hovers near the bundle, stops short, then retreats again like he’s not sure he’s allowed.
“Louder,” he admits.
You huff a weak laugh. “I'm not sure it'll stay this quiet, so we should probably try to enjoy it while it lasts.”
He finally looks at you again, and there’s something undone in his expression that you’ve never seen before. “I need to see him,” he says.
You tilt your head slightly. “You’ve been staring at him for an hour.”
“Alright, I need to hold him.”
You carefully shift the baby into his arms. It’s awkward at first, Jace holding himself too rigid, like he’s afraid of doing it wrong, like one wrong breath might undo everything, but then the child settles against him and something in his shoulders breaks open.
He exhales, slow and unsteady. There’s a long silence where he doesn’t say anything at all.
Jace looks down again, thumb brushing so lightly over the baby’s cheek it’s almost not there. “He looks…” He pauses, helpless. “He looks like he knows things already.”
“That’s probably just you projecting.”
Outside the window, a deep sound rolls through the cliffs. Jace’s head lifts instantly.
“Oh.”
Jace carefully adjusts his grip on the baby, like he’s handling something far more fragile than steel and fire could ever be.
“I should-” he starts.
You raise an eyebrow. “You should what?”
He’s already standing. “I should show him.”
You blink at him. “Jace.”
But he’s not really listening anymore. Not in the way he used to, at least. This is something else, instinctive and almost urgent.
“Jace, it’s freezing outside.”
“I’ll be quick.”
So you watch him wrap a cloak around himself and the baby like it’s the most natural thing in the world, then walk out of the room.
By the time he reaches the courtyard, Vermax is already there.
The dragon is enormous against the grey morning sky, wings folded, tail curled tightly around the stone like he’s been rooted there for hours. When he sees Jace, he doesn’t move at first.
Then Jace steps into the open.
Vermax’s head lowers immediately.
Jace stops a few paces away, breathing uneven, then lifts the bundle higher against his chest.
“This is my son.”
Vermax steps forward, so carefully. The ground still trembles slightly beneath the weight of him, but he is impossibly gentle as he lowers his head until he’s level with Jace’s arms. One massive eye focuses on the tiny face within the blanket.
For a long moment, he does nothing.
Then he exhales. Warm air, slow and careful, brushes over the child like a blessing.
The baby stirs, and Vermax freezes instantly.
Jace laughs under his breath, disbelieving and wrecked all at once. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “He’s yours too, apparently.”
The dragon makes a soft, almost questioning sound, then lowers himself further until his forehead rests against the stone directly in front of them, as if offering something wordless and absolute.
Jace finally looks up at him properly, smiling.
“Say hello,” he whispers.
Vermax answers with a quiet, reverent rumble that rolls out across Dragonstone.
this was too cute, idk where the idea came from but i needed some vermax jace fluff
Summary: You find a missing cat that belongs to a certain Targaryen. During the time which takes you to find the owner, Vhagar becomes attached to you, so now Aemond must deal with sharing her with you.
a/n: I had this in my drafts waiting for Aemond to come back in the show and him down and his dragon flying away was perfect for this!
The first time you saw Vhagar, she was a lump of storm clouds curled against the concrete base of your building, so still you almost mistook her for a discarded sweater. It was late autumn, that particular gray hour when the sun gives up and the streetlights haven’t quite decided to take over, and you were fumbling for your keys with cold-stiff fingers when the lump moved.
Not a sweater. A cat. A massive, ancient-looking cat the color of woodsmoke and iron, with a face like a disappointed dowager countess who had seen empires rise and fall. Her fur was thick and slightly ruffled, the way old velvet gets when it’s been stored wrong, and she was watching you with enormous yellow-green eyes that seemed to hold entire centuries in their depths.
“Hello,” you said, because you were the kind of person who talked to animals automatically, even when they looked at you like that.
The cat opened her mouth and yowled.
It wasn’t a meow. It wasn’t even a proper cat sound. It was a declaration, a demand, a rusty hinge of a noise that seemed to ask where you had been and why you hadn’t brought tribute. She stood up, stretched with the deliberate slowness of a creature that had never needed to hurry for anyone, and padded directly toward you.
“Do you belong to someone here?” you asked, looking at the entrance to your apartment building. The cat wound herself around your ankles with surprising force for something so elderly, nearly knocking you off balance. Her fur was cold from the outside air, and when you bent down to touch her, you felt the frail architecture of age beneath the thick coat, shoulder blades too prominent, a spine like a string of beads.
She had a collar. Good leather, emerald green, with what looked like real gold hardware. But there was no tag. No phone number. No name.
“Someone’s looking for you,” you murmured, scratching behind one ragged ear. The cat closed her eyes and leaned into your hand with the air of someone accepting their due. “Come on, then. Let’s get you inside.”
You opened the door and she walked in ahead of you like she owned the place, which was probably how she walked into every room she’d ever entered. The lobby was empty. You expected her to head for one of the apartment doors on the ground floor, to indicate somehow where she lived, but instead she sat down in the exact center of the lobby and began grooming her flank with the meticulous disdain of someone who had been terribly inconvenienced.
“Right,” you said. “Not helpful.”
You waited. The cat groomed. The elevator went up and came back down empty. Someone’s mail was sticking out of box 3B. The radiators clanked.
“Okay,” you said finally. “I have to go up. If you’re still here tomorrow, we’ll figure something out.”
She paused mid-lick to give you a look that said she had never been dismissed in her life and wasn’t about to start now.
She was still there when you got back from work the next day. Not in the lobby, outside again, on the same patch of concrete, curled into the exact same shape as if she’d never moved. The November dark had settled in thick and cold, her fur was beaded with the beginnings of frost, it made your chest clench.
“Absolutely not,” you told her, scooping her up before you could think better of it. She was heavier than she looked, a dense warm weight in your arms, and she made a sound like a creaking door as you carried her inside. “You’re coming upstairs. You’re eating something. We’re figuring out who you belong to.”
She didn’t struggle. She settled against your shoulder like she’d been doing this for a thousand years, her purr starting up low and rough like a motor that hadn’t been run in a while. Her claws kneaded gently into your coat, catching on the wool.
Your apartment was small. One bedroom, a galley kitchen, a living room that doubled as a dining room that doubled as an office. The cat surveyed it from the threshold with an expression you could only describe as politely appalled.
“It’s not much,” you said defensively, setting her down. “But it’s warm.”
She sniffed the baseboard. She investigated the corner where the radiator met the wall. She walked into the kitchen and sat down in front of the refrigerator with the clear expectation that it would open for her.
“What do you even eat?” you muttered, opening the fridge and scanning your meager contents. You didn’t have cat food. You didn’t have anything that seemed cat-appropriate. But you did have milk, and you did have a package of those cheap hot dogs from a supermarket.
“This is probably terrible for you,” you said, boiling one anyway and cutting it into small pieces, pouring a bowl of milk. “But you look like you’ve survived worse.”
She ate like she’d never seen food before. She drank the milk in laps. She looked up at you with a milk-white mustache on her gray muzzle and made a sound that resembled approval.
“You’re welcome,” you said, and sat down on the floor beside her.
You put up posters in the neighborhood: FOUND CAT, with a photo that didn’t do her justice and your phone number at the bottom. You posted in the local lost pet groups. You took her to a vet to check for a microchip, but there was nothing, which the vet found strange given the obvious quality of her collar.
“This is full-grain Italian leather,” the vet said, turning the collar over in her hands. “And the hardware is eighteen-karat gold plated. Someone spent a lot of money on this cat.”
“But no tag,” you said.
“But no tag,” the vet agreed. “Some people just assume their animals will never get out. Especially indoor cats. How’s she been eating?”
“Everything,” you said. “Anything. I gave her the crusts from my grilled cheese yesterday and she acted like it was a five-star meal.”
The vet laughed. “At her age, that’s a good sign. She’s healthy, just old. Very old. Probably fifteen, maybe older. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
So you did. You bought proper cat food eventually, the decent mid-range kind from the grocery store, and she ate it with the same enthusiasm she’d shown for the hot dogs and the milk and the leftover tuna salad. She slept on your bed every night. She sat in the window and watched the street below. You started calling her Lady, for lack of anything better, she ignored it with the same regal indifference she showed to everything else.
“You’re someone’s, aren’t you?” you said one evening, scratching under her chin while she purred like a broken generator. “Someone filthy rich.”
She closed her eyes and leaned into your hand, offering no answers.
You found the flyer on a Tuesday morning in early December, taped to a lamppost two blocks from your work office. The paper was thick and slightly glossy, the kind of paper that cost money, and the photo printed on it was clearly professional, the same gray cat, the same yellow-green eyes, but photographed against a dark background with studio lighting that made her look like a painting.
MISSING: VHAGAR, the flyer read. $7,000 REWARD FOR SAFE RETURN.
There was a phone number. That was all. No name. Just the cat’s name, the reward, and a number.
Vhagar. You tested the name in your mouth as you walked home, the flyer clutched in your cold hand. It sounded ancient. Mythological. Exactly the kind of name someone would give a cat who wore eighteen-karat gold on her collar and had professional photographs taken of her.
“Your name is Vhagar,” you told the cat when you got home. She was sprawled across your pillow in a pose of magnificent indolence, one paw draped over her eyes. At the sound of the name, her tail twitched. “That’s you, isn’t it? Vhagar.”
She lifted her head and looked at you, and for the first time since you’d found her, she let out a proper meow, short and declarative, as if to say finally, you’ve figured it out.
You sat down on the edge of your bed. Seven thousand dollars. That was two months of rent. That was the dental work you’d been putting off. That was breathing room, actual breathing room, the kind you hadn’t had since you’d moved to this city with its brutal rents and its casual cruelties and its complete indifference to whether you sank or swam.
But it wasn’t the money that made you pull out your phone. It was the way she’d been shivering on the concrete. The way someone had loved her enough to buy her that collar and take those photos and offer seven thousand dollars no questions asked, but not enough to put a tag on her. Not enough to think she might ever leave.
You typed the number into your phone before you could talk yourself out of it.
He answered on the second ring.
“Yes.”
Not hello. Not who is this. Just yes, flat and dry as old paper, a voice that expected the world to get to the point and not waste his time.
“Hi,” you said, suddenly aware that you hadn’t planned what to say. “I’m calling about the cat. The flyer. Vhagar. I think I have her.”
A pause. Just long enough to make you check if the call had dropped.
“Proof,” the voice said. “Send me proof.”
“What kind of...“
“A video that shows she’s alive and unharmed and actually in your possession.”
The demand was clipped, almost cold, and you felt a spike of irritation. You were doing him a favor. You could have kept the cat. You could have ignored the flyer entirely. But you swallowed your pride because seven thousand dollars was seven thousand dollars, and you’d already decided.
“Do you have Whatsapp or something with this number?” you asked, “I’ll send a video.”
He said yes and hung up without saying goodbye.
“Charming,” you muttered to the cat. Vhagar yawned, showing a pink mouth.
You recorded a thirty-second video of Vhagar on your bed, demonstrating that she was indeed alive and unharmed and being gently scratched behind the ears by someone who was not a cat thief. You sent it to the number. Thirty seconds later, your phone buzzed.
That’s her. Where can we meet?
You looked up the name attached to the number, of course. You weren’t stupid. You were about to meet a stranger from the internet to return a cat worth seven thousand dollars, and you wanted to know what you were walking into.
His name was Aemond Targaryen. The social media profile that came up was locked down tight: private, no profile picture, just the name and a cover photo of what looked like a dragon from some fantasy series. You scrolled anyway, finding nothing, until you thought to try LinkedIn.
His LinkedIn profile was not private.
The photo hit you first: a man in his twenties, maybe, with sharp cheekbones and jawlines like cut glass and hair so pale it was almost silver, pulled back from his face. He was wearing a dark suit and looking slightly to the left of the camera with an expression of controlled impatience, like he’d been forced to sit for the photograph and was counting the seconds until he could leave.
Below the photo was a wall of text. Degrees. Certifications. Projects. Internships at companies you’d seen on the news. A master’s degree. A bachelor’s from some private university in Oldtown. Fluent in four languages. Currently serving as Vice President of Strategic Operations at Targaryen Industries, which a quick search revealed to be a multinational conglomerate dealing in everything from real estate to renewable energy to defense contracting.
Old money. Very, very old money. The kind of money that had its own Wikipedia page and several unflattering investigative journalism pieces.
“You belong to him?” you asked Vhagar, who had climbed onto your laptop keyboard and was slowly erasing several paragraphs of an email you’d been drafting. “You belong to a billionaire’s son with a dragon fixation and cheekbones that could cut glass?”
Vhagar purred smugly and stepped on the delete key.
The meeting place was outside a high-rise in city center that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated poor people. All black glass and angular steel, a lobby visible through the ground-floor windows that contained more marble than the average museum. A doorman in a uniform stood at attention by the revolving doors.
Aemond Targaryen was waiting on the sidewalk.
He looked exactly like his LinkedIn photo and nothing like it at all. The photo had captured his bone structure but missed everything else: the way he held himself like a blade, the way his one visible eye tracked movement with unsettling precision, the way the left side of his face bore a long, pale scar that cut through his eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline. He was wearing a long black coat that probably cost as much as the cat’s reward, and he was looking at the cat carrier in your hands with an expression you couldn’t quite read.
“Vhagar,” he said, and his voice was different now, still dry, still clipped, but with something underneath it that you recognized. You’d made that sound yourself, sometimes, when you came home to find Lady waiting for you on the pillow. Relief, maybe. Or something close to it.
“She’s fine,” you said, setting the carrier down. “She’s been eating well. Sleeping a lot. She’s very…opinionated.”
He crouched down, actually crouched, in his thousand-dollar coat on the sidewalk, and opened the carrier door. Vhagar emerged with the slow dignity of a dowager queen descending from her carriage, and when she saw him, she made a sound that was almost a chirp. She headbutted his hand. She allowed him to pick her up, tucking her massive gray body against his chest like she’d been doing it all her life. Which, you supposed, she had.
“Where did you find her?” he asked, not looking at you. His attention was entirely on the cat, his long fingers stroking through her fur with a gentleness that seemed at odds with everything else about him.
“Outside my building. She was sleeping on the concrete.”
His jaw tightened. “How long?”
“About three weeks ago.”
He didn’t say anything. His hand stilled on Vhagar’s back. Then he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and your own phone buzzed in your pocket.
“The reward,” he said. “Thank you for returning her.”
You checked your banking app. Seven thousand dollars, transferred and pending.
“Right,” you said. “Well. Take care of her. And maybe…put a tag on her collar next time.”
He looked at you then. Actually looked at you, his single visible eye, the other was covered by a swoop of hair but seemed to be a glass prosthetic, you weren’t sure, fixing on your face with an intensity that made you want to step backward. His eye was violet. A pale, impossible shade of purple that you had assumed was contacts until you were standing three feet away from him and could see the way the light hit it.
“She has never run away before,” he said, and it sounded almost like an accusation. As if you had somehow lured his ancient cat away from her penthouse and convinced her to live on hot dogs and milk.
“Well,” you said again, because his stare was unnerving, “she’s home now.”
He didn’t thank you again. He turned and walked into the building, Vhagar draped over his shoulder like a fur stole, the doorman holding the door for him with a murmured “Mr. Targaryen” that you caught on the wind.
You stood on the sidewalk for a moment longer, the December cold seeping through your coat, and then you went home.
You assumed that was the end of it. You had your money, he had his cat, and your worlds had brushed against each other for exactly long enough to complete a transaction. You unfollowed the lost pet groups. You washed Vhagar’s fur off your pillowcases. You tried to ignore the way your apartment felt quieter now, emptier, the absence of her rumbling purr leaving a gap in the dark that you hadn’t expected to miss.
Four days later, your phone buzzed with a message from an unsaved number.
What did you do to my cat?
You stared at the screen. You had not saved his number but you had not deleted the chat.
Sorry?, you typed back.
The response came immediately. Vhagar. She won’t eat. She refuses her food. What were you feeding her?
You tried to remember. Milk? Boiled sausages? Some tuna. The vet said she was healthy.
The typing indicator appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then your phone started ringing.
“Milk,” Aemond Targaryen said when you answered, his voice flat with barely contained outrage. “You fed a fifteen-year-old purebred Persian cat milk and boiled sausages?”
“She liked them,” you said defensively. “She ate them right up. What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” he said, “is that Vhagar’s normal diet consists of sustainably sourced Beluga caviar, free-range quail eggs, and a fish broth reduction that my family’s private chef prepares fresh every three days. She has never eaten processed meat in her life. She has certainly never consumed grocery store milk. And now she is sitting in front of her bowl looking at me as if I have personally betrayed her by serving her the same food she has happily eaten for fifteen years.”
You sat down on your bed. “She ate Beluga caviar? Like, the stuff that costs hundreds of dollars an ounce?”
“That’s not the point.”
“It kind of feels like the point.”
He made a sound of pure frustration, not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. “The point is that she’s refusing to eat. She’s refusing to eat and she’s refusing to come when I call her and she spent the entire morning glaring at me from the top of her custom-built cat tower, which, I might add, has three separate levels and a water feature.”
You tried to picture Vhagar, your Lady, who had slept on a spare pillow and eaten crusts off your plate, in a climate-controlled cat tower with a water feature. The image wouldn’t resolve.
“Have you tried…playing with her?” you asked.
“She doesn’t play,” Aemond said, as if you’d suggested she do her own taxes. “I throw her the toy mouse from Hermès and she demolishes it. That’s not playing. That’s destruction.”
“What about cardboard boxes?”
Silence. Long, profound silence, broken only by the faint sound of Vhagar yowling in the background.
“Cardboard boxes,” he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.
“Yeah. You know. The things stuff gets shipped in? Cats love them. She went absolutely feral for the box my Amazon order came in. I put an old towel in it and she slept there for three days.”
“You want me,” Aemond Targaryen said, each word precise and clipped, “to give a member of my family, a cat who has been passed down through three generations, who has her own room in our estate, who has been photographed for Architectural Digest, a cardboard box?”
“I mean, it can’t hurt?”
Another long pause. The background yowling grew louder.
“This is absurd,” he said, and hung up.
The cardboard box apparently worked, because two days later he messaged you again. Not a call this time, a text, long and oddly formal, like a business proposal that had been written through gritted teeth.
Vhagar has been eating again. The box was…effective. However, she seems to have developed an attachment to your presence during her time away. She has been restless. The veterinarian suggested she may benefit from continued exposure to you as a source of environmental enrichment, which is a phrase I cannot believe I am typing. I am prepared to offer you a weekly retainer to visit and spend time with her. The compensation would be commensurate with your trouble.
Attached was a number that made your eyes water.
You read the message three times. You thought about the seven thousand dollars already sitting in your savings account. You thought about the way Vhagar had looked at you when you handed her over, that yellow-green stare that had seemed to say this isn’t over. You thought about Aemond Targaryen’s voice on the phone, dry and furious and somehow, despite everything, deeply concerned about a fifteen-year-old cat who missed you.
“This is insane,” you said to your empty apartment.
But you typed back: When do I start?
The first visit was awkward. Aemond’s apartment, if you could call a space that occupied nearly an entire floor of a high-rise an apartment, was a cathedral of minimalist wealth, all pale wood and pale stone and pale furniture that looked like it had never been sat on. Vhagar greeted you at the door with a yowl that seemed to say finally, you’ve arrived, and immediately led you to her custom cat tower, which was indeed three stories tall and featured a tiny chandelier.
“She’s been waiting by the door since this morning,” Aemond said. He was standing in the doorway of what appeared to be a library, dressed in a dark sweater that did nothing to soften the angles of his face. “I don’t understand why.”
“She’s a cat,” you said, sitting cross-legged on the heated marble floor while Vhagar climbed into your lap. “They’re mysterious.”
“She’s never sat in anyone’s lap but mine. And my mother’s. And occasionally my sister’s, though that ended badly.”
“What happened?”
“My sister is allergic. She found out when Vhagar sat on her face.”
You laughed. You couldn’t help it. Aemond was watching you with an expression that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t not one either, a slight softening around his mouth, a tilt to his head that made him look more like a person.
“Tea?” he asked, and it sounded almost reluctant, like the offer had escaped without his permission.
“Sure,” you said. “Tea would be great.”
Every Saturday, you took the train and spent the afternoon in Aemond Targaryen’s penthouse, ostensibly to entertain a cat who spent most of her time ignoring you in favor of her cardboard box. But Aemond was always there, hovering, appearing with cups of tea that grew progressively more elaborate, then plates of food that started as simple snacks and evolved into full meals.
“You said you’ve been eating bread and cheese for dinner,” he said one evening, setting a plate of something that looked like it belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant on the coffee table in front of you. “That’s not nutritious.”
“I’m aware,” you said, but you ate it anyway, and it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.
He started finding reasons to extend your visits. A new toy for Vhagar to try. A documentary about Chartreux cats he thought you should watch. An outing to a cat café that he claimed was for research purposes but that mostly involved him standing in the corner looking deeply uncomfortable while cats climbed all over you.
“You’re not a cat person,” you observed, as a calico tried to scale his leg.
“I’m a Vhagar person,” he corrected, gently removing the calico and placing it on the floor. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“I’m beginning to think there might be,” he said, and then he turned away before you could ask what he meant.
Winter turned into spring. Your Saturday visits turned into Saturday visits plus occasional Wednesday dinners plus a standing invitation to a Sunday morning walk in a park, which Aemond claimed was for Vhagar’s benefit even though Vhagar never actually walked. He texted you articles about cat behavior and screenshots of Vhagar doing mundane things with captions like She sat in the box again. I don’t understand and The chef wants to know if she can have the sausage recipe.
“There’s no recipe,” you told him. “You boil them.”
“I told him that. He didn’t believe me.”
He started asking about your life. Your job. Your family. The things you cared about and the things you were afraid of and the things you wanted but had never let yourself reach for. He listened carefully, his pale eye fixed on your face, his sharp features softening in increments so small you almost didn’t notice them until one day you looked at him and realized you couldn’t remember why you’d ever found him cold.
Vhagar, for her part, seemed entirely unimpressed with the whole arrangement. She spent most of your visits asleep in her cardboard box, a new one now, because Aemond had his assistant procure them weekly, and only occasionally deigned to acknowledge your presence with a slow blink or a rumbling purr.
“She likes you,” Aemond said one evening, watching the cat knead her claws into an old towel.
“She tolerates me.”
“No.” He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on Vhagar. “She likes you. She’s particular. She doesn’t tolerate anyone she doesn’t like. She bit my brother once. Drew blood.”
“What did your brother do?”
“Breathed too loudly, I think.”
You laughed, Aemond glanced at you, and the expression on his face was something you’d never seen before, open, almost unguarded, his mouth curved into the ghost of a smile that transformed his severe features into startlingly beautiful.
“I’m glad you found her,” he said quietly. “The cat. I’m glad you found her.”
“Me too,” you said, and you weren’t entirely sure you were talking about the cat anymore.
Vhagar yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep, indifferent to everything but the warmth of the room and the comfort of her box.
You learned the layout of his penthouse the way you'd once learned the streets of your neighborhood, by heart, by instinct, by the slow accretion of familiarity that turns the unfamiliar into home.
You learned other things, too. That Aemond took his coffee black but would drink tea if you made it. That he read three books a month and annotated them in a spidery, elegant script. That he had a brother he never mentioned and a sister he mentioned only in passing and a mother who called him every Sunday at precisely eleven in the morning, which he answered without fail even if he was in the middle of a sentence. That his left eye, the one always covered, the one the scar bisected, was a wound he carried with him everywhere, a quiet grief he never spoke about directly but that shaped the way he moved through rooms, always keeping his right side to the door.
You learned about Alys by accident.
It was a Saturday in late March, the kind of day that pretends to be spring but still bites with winter's teeth, and you had arrived at the penthouse to find Aemond already pulling on his coat.
"Something's come up," he said, and his voice had that clipped quality it got when he was trying not to show frustration. "I have to go out of town. I'll be back Monday."
"Okay," you said, hanging your own coat on the hook he'd cleared for you weeks ago. "Do you want me to come back then, or..."
"No." He paused, his hands stilling on his scarf. "I was hoping you could stay with Vhagar. She gets…unsettled when I'm gone too long."
The last time he'd gone out of town, a business trip to Westerlands, three days, he'd called you twice a day with updates on Vhagar's mood and appetite. You hadn't minded. The money was good, and honestly, you'd grown fond of the old cat's cranky companionship.
"Sure," you said. "Where are you going?"
"Riverlands."
You waited for elaboration. None came.
"That's…specific."
He didn't meet your eyes. "Alys lives there. She doesn't like the city."
The name landed in your chest like a stone hurled. Alys. A woman's name, spoken with a familiarity that suggested it had been in his mouth many times before. You realized, with a strange hollow feeling, that he'd never mentioned her. Not once. In all those afternoons and evenings and Sunday walks, he'd never said a word about a girlfriend waiting for him in some small town hours away.
"I didn't know you were seeing someone," you said, and you were proud of how neutral your voice came out.
"It's complicated." He adjusted his scarf, still not looking at you. "We've been together for a while. She prefers her independence. I prefer…" He trailed off, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "It works."
"Right," you said. "Well. Go. Vhagar and I will be fine."
He finally looked at you then, something unreadable flickering across his features. "Thank you," he said, and left.
The penthouse felt different without him. Larger, certainly, all those minimalist rooms spreading out around you like a museum after hours. But also quieter in a way that felt less peaceful and more hollow. Vhagar seemed to sense it too; she followed you from room to room with more persistence than usual, her ragged meow punctuating the silence.
You did what you always did when you were catsitting: you sat on the heated floor with Vhagar in your lap, you watched your shows that Aemond pretended to disdain but always ended up commenting on, you ate from the refrigerator that his private chef kept stocked with things you couldn't pronounce. But your mind kept circling back to the name. Alys. The way he'd said it: flat, contained, like a fact he'd long since stopped examining.
On Sunday morning, the house phone rang at half past eleven. You let it ring. The answering machine beeped. A woman's voice which you assumed belonged to his mother, given the time, came through:
Aemond, I've spoken with the surgeon. He has an opening in April. Answer your phone.
Surgeon. April. Cold settled in your stomach.
When Aemond returned on Monday evening, he looked tired in a way that went beyond travel fatigue. His coat was rumpled, his hair escaping its usual careful restraint, his mouth set in a thin line that softened only slightly when Vhagar waddled over to greet him.
"Good trip?" you asked, gathering your things.
"Fine."
"How's Alys?"
The pause was a beat too long. "Fine."
"She must be something," you said carefully, "to keep you driving hours every time you have a free weekend."
He didn't take the bait. He just bent down to scratch Vhagar's chin, his expression shuttered. "She's very busy. Her practice takes up most of her time."
"Practice?"
"Traditional medicine. Herbalism. Holistic healing." He said it without irony, without skepticism, as if a woman who made her living selling tinctures and salves was the most natural thing in the world for a man with multiple advanced degrees and a vice presidency at a multinational corporation. "She's very skilled."
"I'm sure she is," you said, and left before you could say something you'd regret.
After that, you started noticing things.
The way Aemond's phone would buzz and he'd check it immediately, his expression flickering. The way he'd disappear into his study for hours, his voice a low murmur behind the closed door, emerging with that same tired look he'd worn coming back from Riverlands. The way he never texted Alys, or if he did, she never texted back, because every communication seemed to require a phone call, a ritual, a set-aside block of time he guarded fiercely.
"She doesn't like texting," he explained once, when you'd commented on the absurdity of him scheduling a two-hour call in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. "She finds it impersonal."
You thought about the string of unanswered texts on your own phone: friends from college, coworkers, the guy you'd gone on two dates with last month before he'd ghosted you, and wondered what it would be like to have someone so devoted to you that they'd carve out hours of their day just to hear your voice, while you couldn't be bothered to send a single line of text back.
"She must be very special," you said.
"She is." But he said it the way someone might recite a fact they'd memorized rather than a truth they felt in their bones.
The pieces assembled themselves slowly over weeks. Alys was older than him. Alys had a practice in a small town hours from the city. Alys refused to move, refused to visit, refused to integrate herself into his life in any way that required effort on her part. Alys gave him just enough to keep him coming back: a phone call, a weekend, a jar of something homemade that he'd place on his kitchen counter and stare at with an expression that made your chest ache.
He was too smart for this. That was the thing that got you, the thing that lodged under your ribs like a splinter. Aemond Targaryen, with his degrees and his four languages and his portfolio of accomplishments that would have been impressive for a man twice his age, was being strung along by someone who couldn't even be bothered to answer a text message. And he accepted it. He accepted it like it was all he deserved, like affection was a currency that could only be earned through suffering, like love was something you had to bleed for. You suspected he was taught to fish out flirts and gold diggers easily, but he hadn't been taught to examine his emotinal needs.
You saw it in the way he was with Vhagar, too. The cat tolerated him at best: she allowed his attention, accepted his offerings of caviar and quail eggs, but rarely sought him out the way she sought you. And yet he adored her. He planned his schedule around her meals. He commissioned custom furniture for her comfort. He spoke about her like she was a revered ancestor, which, in his family, she practically was.
And you. You, who had been hired as a catsitter and somehow become something more: a fixture in his home, a recipient of his cooking, his concern and his increasingly frequent glances that lingered just a moment too long. You, who he'd started looking at like you were precious, unexpected, something he hadn't known he was allowed to want.
The pattern was right there, written in the architecture of his life: Aemond Targaryen attached himself to people who barely tolerated him, and he called it love because he didn't know what else to call it.
The call came on a Thursday in late April.
"I need you to take Vhagar," Aemond said, his voice strained in a way you'd never heard before. "For several days. A week, maybe. Can you do that?"
You were at work, hunched over your desk with a spreadsheet blurring in front of your eyes. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I just...I have a procedure tomorrow, and I won't be able to care for her."
"Procedure?" Your stomach dropped. "What kind of procedure?"
A pause. You could hear him breathing, slow and controlled, the way he breathed when he was trying to keep himself together. "My eye. My mother found a surgeon. Another one. He thinks there's a chance."
The word another hit you like a punch. How many surgeries had there been? How many times had he gone under the knife, hoping for something that never came?
"I'll come to pick her up," you asnwered.
When you arrived at the penthouse, the doorman let you up without question, you were on the permanent access list now, a fact that still felt surreal every time you thought about it, and Aemond was waiting at the door.
He looked terrible.
His face was pale. His left eye, the one that was always covered, was visible now, hair finally brushed back. He was holding himself very still, very straight, the posture of someone who had learned long ago to carry pain without showing it.
"Before you say anything," he said, "I'm fine."
"You're having surgery."
"Another surgery. They're all the same." He stepped aside to let you in. "My mother is optimistic. She's always optimistic. The surgeon says there's a thirty percent chance of partial vision restoration, which means there's a seventy percent chance of nothing at all. I've made my peace with it. She hasn't."
You followed him into the living room, where Vhagar was sprawled in her cardboard box, a new one, large and rectangular, with a towel that had been arranged just so. She blinked at you slowly and didn't get up.
"When is it?" you asked.
"Tomorrow morning. Early. I have a car picking me up at five."
"You're going alone?"
The question seemed to confuse him. "Yes. Who else would go with me?"
You thought about Alys, somewhere in Riverlands, mixing her herbs and ignoring her phone. You thought about his mother, who had arranged the surgery but apparently not her schedule to be there for it. You thought about his siblings, who he never spoke about.
"I could go with you," you said, before you could stop yourself.
Surprise flickered across his face. "That's not necessary. You're here for Vhagar."
"Vhagar can come. She's a cat. She'll sleep through the whole thing."
"Vhagar in a hospital waiting room?"
"Fine, not in the waiting room. But I can still go. You shouldn't be alone."
He looked at you for a long moment, his good eye searching your face. "Why?" he asked finally. The question sounded genuine, as if he truly couldn't fathom why anyone would offer him comfort without being asked.
"Because that's what people do," you said. "They show up for each other."
"Ah." He turned away, busying himself with a stack of papers on the kitchen counter. "I appreciate the offer. Truly. But I've been doing this alone for a long time. I know how to handle my own treatment. Take Vhagar. I'll call you when I'm home."
You took Vhagar. You packed her into her carrier, which was, of course, custom-made leather with a monogrammed cushion, and you carried her down to the lobby and out to the street, and you stood there on the sidewalk for a full minute before you turned around and went back inside.
Aemond was still in the kitchen when you walked back in, Vhagar's carrier swinging from your hand. He looked up, his expression shifting from surprise to confusion to what that looked almost like relief before he shut it down.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm staying," you set the carrier down and opened it. Vhagar emerged with an indignant yowl and immediately headed for her cardboard box. "You shouldn't be alone, and I'm not letting you send me home just because you're too stubborn to admit you need help."
"The guest room is made up," he said, his voice was very quiet.
"Good. I'm ordering takeout. What do you want?"
"I have a list of approved restaurants in the drawer."
"Of course you do."
The surgery happened. You didn't go with him, he insisted, and you could tell it was important to him, this one last bastion of self-sufficiency, but you were there when he came back, pale and shaking and trying very hard to pretend he wasn't. The bandage was fresh, the swelling worse, and he walked through the door like a soldier returning from a battle he'd already known he would lose.
"Thirty percent," he said, lowering himself onto the couch carefully. "We'll know in a few weeks."
"The guest room is very nice," you said. "Also I made breakfast."
"You made breakfast?"
"Don't sound so surprised. I can cook some things. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. The basics."
He ate the eggs and the toast. He drank the coffee. Then he fell asleep on the couch, his head tilted back against the cushions, his bandaged eye turned toward the ceiling, and you covered him with a blanket and sat in the armchair across from him and watched the afternoon light move across his face.
Vhagar jumped onto his lap and settled there, a warm gray weight, he didn't wake up.
You stayed longer. Aemond was supposed to be resting, but resting turned out to mean pacing the penthouse at odd hours, staring out the windows, picking at the meals you ordered from his list of approved restaurants because apparently your culinary skills didn't extend past breakfast.
"I can make pasta," you offered on the third day, when he was eyeing a container of takeout Thai with the expression of someone who had eaten too much takeout Thai. "It won't be good pasta, but it'll be pasta."
"I don't trust your definition of pasta."
"It comes from a box. You boil it. You put sauce on it."
"Sauce from a jar?"
"Sauce from a jar," you confirmed.
He looked genuinely pained. "Order from the place on 57th. The one with the green awning. They know my order."
"Of course they do."
That evening, as you were eating pasta that had definitely never seen the inside of a jar, you decided to ask the question that had been sitting in your throat for days.
"Does Alys know you had surgery?"
Aemond's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "I mentioned it."
"You mentioned it."
"We talked last night. She's sending a jar of her salve. For the inflammation." He said it matter-of-factly, as if this were a perfectly normal response to your partner undergoing eye surgery. "She says it's very effective. Arnica, mostly, with some other herbs. She grows them herself."
"She's not coming to visit?"
He set his fork down. "She doesn't like the city. I told you."
"She doesn't like the city enough to visit her boyfriend after surgery?"
"It's not that simple."
"It seems pretty simple from where I'm sitting."
His jaw tightened, the familiar muscle jumping beneath his skin. "Alys is…she's not like other people. She has her own life, her own practice, her own way of doing things. I knew that when we started this. I accepted it."
"What does she accept about you?"
The question landed harder than you'd intended. His good eye fixed on your face, sharp and suddenly very violet, and for a moment you thought he was going to snap at you, tell you to leave, remind you that you were just the catsitter and this was none of your business.
Instead, he muttered, "I don't know."
You ate in silence after that. Vhagar, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, climbed onto the table and tried to stick her face in Aemond's pasta, and he let her.
At three in the morning, you found him in the living room, sitting in the dark with Vhagar in his lap and the lights of the city spread out below him like a carpet of stars. His bandage glowed white in the dimness, he didn't turn when you came in, just kept staring out the window with an expression that made something twist painfully in your chest.
"Can't sleep?" you asked, settling into the armchair beside him.
"The pain medication wears off around two. I'm used to it."
"That's not what I asked."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I keep thinking about what you said. At dinner."
"I said a lot of things at dinner."
"About what she accepts." He turned to look at you, even in the darkness, even with half his face covered in gauze, the intensity of his gaze made it hard to breathe. "I don't think she accepts anything about me. I think she tolerates me. And I've spent so long thinking that was the same thing."
"It's not," you said.
"No. It's not." He looked back out the window. "Vhagar tolerates me. But she chose you. When she ran away, she found you, and she stayed. She doesn't do that for anyone."
"She stayed for the hot dogs."
"She stayed for you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I think I understand why now."
Vhagar purred in his lap. The distance between your chair and the couch felt impossibly vast and impossibly small all at once, a gap that could be crossed in two steps or two years depending on whether either of you had the courage to move.
"She's not coming," Aemond said. "Alys. She's not coming, and I don't think I mind as much as I should."
"How do you feel about it?"
He was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, scraped raw, the voice of someone admitting the truth against his will.
"Relieved," he said. "I feel relieved."
You sat in silence, keeping him company in the small hours of the morning until the sky began to pale and Vhagar yawned and stretched and demanded her breakfast.
Part 2: coming soon...
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sweet giggly sex with your fave where your noses are touching and you’re laughing into each other’s mouths and when you clench around him his moan is breathier than normal and you’re happy and safe and in love
Summary: You and Aegon have been married for several years and while you are happy with him and your children, you long to feel the cold winds of the north again- your home. When a letter from an old friend reaches you, you convince your husband to see the snow covered lands for himself. Unfortunately, Aegon was a jealous man and Cregan Stark was far too happy to see you again.
Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Wife!Reader, (unrequited) Cregan Stark x Reader
Word count: 7427 words
Warnings: Reader is female and is from House Karstark, arranged marriage, brief talks of smut, suggestive themes, jealousy, angst, a bit of fluff here and there, it’s briefly mentioned that the Reader had an abusive childhood, aegon being a good dad, no mention of Y/N
Notes: This didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to, but I hope you’ll like it still! Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Enjoy 💛.
The soft moon light fell through the high windows of your marital chambers in the Red Keep, casting gentle shadows into the room that served as the nursery. Aegon Targayen, second of his name, sat at the edge of one of the beds, watching his sleeping children with tender eyes. The twins Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were wrapped in warm blankets, their silver curls falling over their faces, and little Maelor, the youngest, had his tiny fingers wrapped around a stuffed dragon, clutching it tightly to his chest as if he would never let it go.
It was quiet. A peaceful moment — something Aegon would never have imagined possible a few years ago.
His wife sat by the window, her needle gliding through the fabric of her embroidery. But you were not really looking at the thread; your gaze was distant. Your brow was furrowed, your thoughts elsewhere, far from the warmth of your shared bed.
"Darling?" Aegon asked quietly, but there was no answer.
He rose from the bed and walked toward you with silent steps, his boots gently treading on the cold stone floor that was so typical of this castle. He stopped right behind you and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your soft cheek, as if gently bringing you back to the present.
"What are you thinking about, my love?" he murmured in a low voice, filled with a tenderness that only you could evoke.
Your eyes flickered and blinked, as if you needed to ground yourself and reassure yourself that you were still in your chamber and not in an entirely different world. But you did not answer at first. Instead, you sighed softly, and Aegon knew the answer before you even spoke it. He saw it in the way your gaze wandered over the castle walls, lost in a place only you could truly understand. Someone who grew up there.
"The North again?" His voice was gentle, yet it carried the weight of a question you had danced around for years.
You nodded your head slightly, barely a movement, but enough to feel the truth in its weight and depth, even if you did not use words.
Before he could continue, a soft, sleepy voice interrupted him.
"Father?" Jaehaerys stirred, his eyes half-open. Aegon smiled and returned to his firstborn's small bed, where he lovingly stroked his son's hair. The tension vanished like morning mist. "Sleep, my little dragon," he whispered, the warmth slowly returning to him where your answer had dispelled it.
"The sky never looks the same here. It is always blue, gold, or red—never white," you whispered to yourself, but Aegon heard you.
He always heard you.
His fingers continued to gently stroke the silver curls his son had inherited from him, while his gaze slowly slid over his twin sister and his youngest son, who could barely speak yet but was already so loved.
"I always thought I would be a terrible father, but they make it easy," he said into the room. His voice was loud enough for you to hear him sitting by the window, but quiet enough not to wake the little ones.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a smile creep onto your rosy lips, causing his heart to leap a little in his chest. You had this effect on him for quite some time now. Ever since he started seeing you, really seeing you, and you let him in.
"You are doing better than you think," you replied in the gentle tone that was so typical of you.
For a moment, the chamber was plunged into silence, but it was not heavy; it was pleasant. Whenever he did not know what to say, and you could not find the words either, you remained silent. Your children usually filled the silence with their games, jokes, or Maelor alone with his tears or shrieks when he had still been a baby.
"I still miss it, though. The snow. The silence. The way the world felt clean."
For a brief moment, the prince's gaze hardened, and his fingers stopped combing through the boy's hair, who had fallen asleep once more. Your story and your longings were familiar to him, and there was one topic that often hung in the air, but one that neither of you ever spoke about.
"Do you miss home, or is it him you miss?" he asked without looking over his shoulder at you.
"Aegon…" you sighed, shaking your head before finally putting down your needle and thread and standing up. The fabric of your white nightgown rustled as you approached him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, your face buried in his shoulder.
His hand found yours and he squeezed it — protectively, possessively.
"I am sorry, my love. I... I know he was your friend," he whispered to you, and you heard in the gentleness of his tone that he was truly apologizing.
"No, you are right," you finally replied. "We were promised to each other once. The Starks and Kastarks are very close as houses, and we have been friends since childhood."
He did not notice it, but you could feel his hand immediately tighten around yours, as if he wanted to keep you with him. Forever.
"Do you love me?" His voice was vulnerable, honest. He had asked you that question hundreds of times over the course of your marriage, and you had the same answer for him every time.
"You are my husband, Aegon. It is my duty and my pride to love you and to call you mine. I love you, I love our children, and I would not trade that for anything in the world. I regret nothing."
Your prince leaned into you and turned his head so he could press a kiss to your temple. Then to your cheek, and finally to the edge of your lips.
"I love you too, my darling. More than I could ever show you," he replied, causing a slight giggle to escape your lips.
"I did not know my husband could be so romantic."
"I have many other sides to me, darling,“ he replied and you knew immediately, as you saw that twinkle in his amethyst-colored eyes, that you would not get much sleep that night.
"I know. We have three children, and it seems to me you are trying for a fourth."
A wide grin crept onto his lips, and he turned fully toward you, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you close to him.
"A fourth, a fifth... how about ten?" he asked you mischievously.
You could not help but roll your eyes and flung your arms around his neck, tangling your slender fingers in his always messy silver hair, for which the Targaryens were so known for.
"Do you mean to overshadow King Jaehaerys, my dearest Aegon?"
"If the decision were mine, we would fill every spare room in this Keep with our children," he answered before pressing his lips against yours.
The kiss was, like him, demanding, fierce, possessive, but also so full of love and affection that your heart melted within your chest.
It had not always been this way, but thank the gods, it was now and it would always continue to be this way.
The letter arrived in the early hours of the morning, while you were both still in bed.
Only a thin sheet covered the bare skin of you and your husband, and he was still sleeping soundly. Aegon's face was buried in your shoulder and his arms were wrapped around your waist, while your legs were still entwined with his, and your fingers traced small circles on the pale skin of his back.
He always looked so beautiful when the golden light of morning fell on his face.
A few years ago, things had been very different. You had rarely slept in the same bed, and when you had, it had only been to fulfill your duty as husband and wife. He had drank and slept with whores, and you had been as unhappy as a lone wolf abandoned by his pack.
But then your twins had been born, and he has changed. Not overnight, but with every single day he had spent with you and the children instead of in the city among whores and drunkards.
And finally, your third child, little Maelor, had not been conceived out of duty, but out of love. A lord had cornered you during a feast and would not let you go, but before you could call for the guards, Aegon had punched him square in the face.
The lord had a broken nose afterward, the Queen had been furious, but your husband had told you for the first time that night that he loved you. He had whispered it against your lips over and over as he took you that night as if it were his last moments on this earth.
And you had finally felt whole again. You were no longer a lone wolf, but a mother and a wife. A wolf with a new family.
But your longing for your former home, the North, had never fully disappeared, and now it returned, like the first wave washed back onto the shore after the tide went out.
A servant had quietly entered your chambers and placed only the sealed letter on the bedside table before quickly and quietly disappearing through the doors like a little mouse would.
You did not want to read it at first, assuming it was from your mother or one of your brothers, but then you saw the seal. Gray wax with the face of a wolf in it. Stark.
And while your lord husband was still asleep, his arms and legs still wrapped around you like a snake, you broke the seal with your sewing needle and let your tired eyes glide over the inked words:
To my old friend of House Kastark,
The North misses you. It has been more than half a decade since I last saw you, and my heart aches at the thought that we have not seen each other for so long. I hope you and your children are doing well in the capital, as is your husband. My own wife — may the old gods watch over her — recently passed away, and my son mourns her every day. Winterfell is without its lady. These are dark days, and I must confess that it is difficult for me. I cannot do this alone. So, I would like to ask you, my old friend, if you would visit me at Winterfell for a sennight? Your children and your husband, as well as his dragon, are of course welcome here as well. The North misses you, and I would be glad to see you again after all this time. I await your raven until the end of this moon.
Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell
"No," was the first thing Aegon said as he finished reading the letter.
You sat at the foot of the bed, slipping into your shoes after wrapping yourself in a dress and a robe. He, on the other hand, wore only plain linen trousers that hung low on his hips as he paced back and forth in front of the open window, clutching the letter from the North tightly in one hand.
"It has been so long since I have seen my home, Aegon. I miss—"
"But this is your home!" he interrupted immediately. "The Red Keep, our children, me. Or do you not consider us your home, your family?"
A deep sigh escaped you and you ran a hand through your long, dark hair, which was still uncombed. You were in the habit of always doing your hair and jewelry last.
"My love, you and our children are my only family. The only one that matters. But do I not deserve to at least feel the snow on my skin again? To hear the howling of wolves and feel the cold winds brush through my hair after all this time?"
The silver-haired prince shook his head firmly and threw the letter back onto the bed where you had just given it to him. You had woken him with a kiss and snuggled so close to him that he had thought this morning would be a truly beautiful one, but then you had started talking about a letter.
A letter from the North. From him.
"But what about him? About the Stark? He mentioned his recently deceased wife. Why do you think he did that?" he asked you, his eyes hard and brooking no argument.
"I don't know, my love! Maybe he is looking for sympathy or—"
"Or what?" he snapped back, taking a quick step toward you.
Your shoulders tensed, and you instinctively took a step back, holding your breath. You knew your husband would never be violent toward you, but you had your instincts. Your father had been less reserved when he was alive and before you were placed in the care of the Stark family.
"Forgive me," he whispered, wiping his face with a hand before walking back to the window, where he leaned against the wall. "My heart, I know how much you want to return to the North, but are you sure we can trust him?"
You walked over to the bed and picked up his tunic, which you had placed there earlier for him to wear. The fabric was soft and pale blue, like the sky outside. You loved that color on him.
"Here, my darling. Come here," you said in a soft, conciliatory voice, and he obeyed immediately.
With a sigh, he came to you and slowly raised his hand before placing it on your cheek. He was always so gentle with you, for he himself knew what it was like to be treated roughly. He loved you more than anything in the world, and your children even more, and if anything were to ever happen to you or them, the world would not be ready for his wrath.
You leaned into his touch and pressed a quick kiss to the side of his hand before finally standing on tiptoe to pull the tunic over his head. He helped you by tucking his arms into the sleeves and finally tucking the ends of the fabric into his trousers before he noticed he was still wearing the pants he always wore to bed, which, even though they were rather comfortable, were not suitable for the outdoors.
"Do you trust me?" you finally asked him, wrapping your arms around his neck.
For a moment, he simply looked into your eyes before leaning toward you and kissing your forehead. "Do you really have to ask me?"
You raised your eyebrows, and he wrapped his arms around your waist.
"I love you. If I ever don't trust you, I want you to take a dagger and stab me through the heart, because then I would not be myself anymore."
A soft laugh escaped your lips. "How soon can we pack?"
"You will see your snow again by the end of this week."
"Higher, Sunfyre! Higher, I want to show my wife the sun!" Prince Aegon shouted over the wind so his dragon could hear him. He did not speak High Valyrian to him — he never did — but the golden beast always seemed to understand him anyway. It was almost as if dragon and rider were one and the same.
His arms were wrapped around your stomach, and his chin rested on your shoulder most of the way as you flew north. You had already been traveling for ten hours without a break and had five more to go. Your back was already aching, and all you wanted was to rest in a bed or stretch your legs, but no. Your husband insisted on traveling the entire way without resting.
It was too risky for you to take your children with you, especially Maelor, because he was still so young and you did not want him to get sick under any circumstances. He had already caught a fever shortly after his birth, and it was only thanks to the gods that your little boy was still alive.
Your children were the most sacred to you, which is why you did not want to risk losing one. Never.
"There, Aegon! I can see it!" you suddenly called out, causing him to briefly lift his head from the crook of your shoulder to look in the direction you were pointing.
"What? What do you see?" he asked, confused, because nothing unusual caught his eye. In the far distance, he saw a lot of white, but that could also be fog or clouds obscuring your view.
"The snow," you whispered in a tone that sounded almost reverent.
Aegon narrowed his eyes, and sure enough, the white thing he saw was not fog. It was snow as far as the naked eye could see.
It was beautiful.
As Sunfyre descended through the clouds, Winterfell came into view — an ancient stone heart nestled in a sea of northern forest. From the sky, the castle looked like a gray fortress carved directly from the land itself, its high walls squat and strong, weathered by countless winters. The massive, circular curtain walls enclosed a maze of rooftops, smoke curling gently from chimneys into the crisp air.
The great Keep rose at the center, solid and square, flanked by the first Keep, even older and more worn. Between them lay open courtyards and twisting paths, dotted with figures like ants — soldiers, stablehands, and the dark-cloaked shapes of people belonging to the Nightswatch moving with quiet purpose.
To the east, the Godswood sprawled like a shadow, a dense stand of ancient trees clustered around a single, pale Weirwood Tree, its red leaves vivid even from high above. Nearby, the steaming mist of the hot springs rose from the ground, giving the castle an ethereal quality, like it breathed warmth into the cold northern air.
Beyond the walls stretched snow-dusted fields, training yards, and the stables, with the rugged terrain of the North unfolding to every horizon —harsh, beautiful, and endlessly vast.
"Oh, Aegon," you whispered, leaning forward instinctively, as if that would help you see more of your homeland, which you had not seen in seven long years. "Is it not wonderful?"
The prince shivered all over. He had never been to the North before, and even when you had told him to wrap himself in thick fur, he had not listened, thinking it was summer and that it would surely not be so cold in the North. He was wrong. Even under his leather gloves, which he always wore for flying, his fingers felt like they were frozen to ice.
"It’s cold," he finally managed, his teeth chattering.
"I told you so, you imbecile," you replied with a loud laugh. One that sounded so free and melodious that he wondered why he had only brought you to the North now. You sounded so free, your smile was so broad, and with your cheeks flushed from the cold, you looked so beautiful that his heart melted in his chest. Perhaps your warmth would still save him from dying of the cold.
While your gaze rested solely on Winterfell, Aegon's amethyst-colored eyes swept over the streets surrounding the ancient fortress. Everywhere were people dressed in dark clothing and carrying at least one cloak over their shoulders, all looking up as Sunfyre flew overhead.
Pride rose in his chest, knowing that these people had probably never seen a dragon of such beauty and splendor before. He hoped they were also afraid, for his faithful companion was not only beautiful but also just as deadly.
He landed Sunfyre in the snow outside the stone fortress, and immediately a crowd gathered, curious and wide-eyed, to see the dragon as if it were a deity descended from the heavens. The children and young people, in particular, seemed thrilled, while their mothers had to restrain them.
His dragon let out a loud roar, and the prince climbed out of the leather saddle and slid down the beast's flank until his feet touched the ground. You followed his example and carefully slid down the dragon's side, where your husband was waiting for you below and immediately wrapped his arm around you. You knew why he did that.
He wanted to show everyone that you belonged to him.
"Come with me," you whispered to him and began to lead him inside the walls of Winterfell, where you immediately smiled at the sight of the courtyard you had not seen in so long. But it felt like only yesterday that you left the snow-covered lands.
Aegon was still shivering beside you, unaccustomed to the cold, when you saw him.
He stood in the middle of the courtyard, tall, with pale skin and brown hair that fell to his shoulders, wrapped in black furs and leather. At his side stood a small boy who looked no older than five.
The Northman smiled invitingly when he saw you, and you could not help but walk a little faster, oblivious to the way Aegon's expression had hardened and he was staring at the two of them as if they were about to declare war on you at any second.
"Hello, old friend," you greeted Lord Cregan Stark with a friendly smile on your lips. "You have grown."
"And you are just as small and delicate as you were then," he replied with a shake of his head.
"Come here, you old wolf," you said, slipping out of Aegon's grasp to embrace Cregan. The Northman let go of the child's hand and wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you tightly. He was tall, and your head barely reached his shoulder, but somehow you had known that.
As you savored the embrace, lost for a moment in memories of the two of you running through this courtyard as children, throwing snow at each other until you were tired and exhausted, Aegon clenched his fists so tightly it almost hurt.
He did not want to see this. He wanted to leave again, he wanted to take you home to your children and hold you so tightly in your arms that he was sure you would not leave him. All of them, but not you. Please, not you.
After a few seconds, you broke the embrace and knelt on the ground to be at the same level as the boy standing next to Cregan.
"And you must be the little Rickon, right?" you asked him in a gentle voice. You were a mother through and through.
The little boy, who had dark hair and looked almost identical to Lord Stark, though with softer eyes, nodded cautiously. His eyes were slightly reddened and his lips curled into a slight pout — still mourning his mother, no doubt.
"He does not talk much since his mother died," Cregan sighed, and you stood back up, feeling Aegon's hand on your lower back. Almost protective.
"My sincere condolences, Lord Stark," you said, and you meant it, even though you had not known his lady wife. He was your oldest friend, and you wanted him to be happy. Just as happy as you were with your children and your husband.
"From me too," Aegon said, but you heard the politeness in his voice, not the sincerity. You could not blame him, though. He did not know him, and neither did he trust him.
"Thank you, my prince. I did not expect you to come so soon, but it was a very pleasant surprise when I heard that a dragon had been seen in the sky," Cregan told you, as his son snuggled close to his side.
"My wife expressed to me her wish to see the snow again. I cannot refuse her anything," Aegon replied, instinctively moving even closer to you, as if to prove to the man that he should not even attempt to touch you.
Cregan Stark nodded his head. "That was very kind of you, my prince. Your wife is a wolf through and through, a beautiful northern flower."
You looked away and shivered as you saw Aegon grinding his jaw. His eyes were darkened, and you knew that he hated him. These two men would probably never be friends in this lifetime.
"She is beautiful, yes. My wife is the best thing that ever happened to me, and I love her very much. Our three children too," the silver-haired Targaryen said, pressing a kiss to your flushed cheek.
For a moment, the courtyard was enveloped in silence. The only thing that could be heard was the howling of the winds, the roar of Sunfyre in the distance, the conversations of a few men and women, and the loud, metallic clang of a sword being forged on an anvil.
"My dear friend," you began, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "My husband is too proud to admit it, but he has been cold ever since we encountered the first snow, and all I want is a warm bed to put my feet up in."
The Lord of Winterfell laughed and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, squeezing once before answering again. "Yes, forgive me. Your chambers have already been prepared for you, and the servants will prepare you a hot bath as well."
"Thank you, Cregan. It feels so good—"
"Yes, thank you. And Sunfyre needs a load of sheep. My poor dragon has not eaten in hours, and you do not want him feasting on the village children," Aegon interrupted, causing your eyes to widen in shock.
"Aegon!" you hissed quietly, but Cregan just chuckled in polite amusement.
"No, tis all right. We have ten sheep to give your dragon. Two each day until you leave," Lord Stark explained, to which your lord husband agreed. Two sheep might not be much, and back in King's Landing, Sunfyre would get an extra portion, but he did not want to overstay his welcome and have these people become angry that they do not habe enough sheep anymore.
The Northman whistled, and a young servant came immediately: "One of our handmaidens. She will escort you to your chambers and attend to your every need. Your belongings will also be brought to your chambers," he explained.
You were about to say something else, but Aegon had already wrapped his arm around your shoulders and subtly pushed you toward where the servant girl was waiting.
These five days would likely be the hardest and most strenuous of your life.
"He desires you," the Targaryen prince grumbled while he was scrubbing at his skin in the bathtub.
A deep sigh escaped you and you could not help but shake your head while you sorted his and your clothes in one of the drawers. You have already washed yourself and was now wearing a simple white nightgown, whose fabric was firmer and warmer than that in the south so that you would not get cold at night.
"My dearest love, he just lost his wife. He is only happy to see a friend again after all these years."
Now the prince is the one to sigh and he leaned his head against the head end of the wooden tub. Wood — not marble like in King’s Landing — because it was probably easier to carry it from one room to the other.
"The way he looked at you! As if he was already seeing you underneath him," he said, scrubbing the sponge even more over the skin of his arm, so that it was already completely red and partially scratched up.
You closed the drawer and moved to kneel down next to the tub, while you did not care that the ends of your gown probably got a little dirty.
"Give me the sponge," your voice was firm, but at the same time gently. He did not want to argue with you anyway.
After giving you the sponge, you began washing him as gently as ever, since you did not want him to smell too much like his dragon in bed. You did not want him to accidentally hurt himself, as he often did with his fingernails or the skin around it. A habit that he apparently inherited from his mother the Queen.
"Do you think I would let him do that? That I want him?" You asked him quietly, a test of his trust.
Aegon turned his head to you, his eyes wide, his soft lips opened slightly and you could see how much he thought about his answer. He did not want you to be angry on him, which you were not.
"I don't hope so," he murmured softly.
"Aegon."
"What?"
You put your hand on his cheek so that he would not look away, because you wanted him to become aware of these words: "I love you, Aegon. You. Not him. Yes, we were betrothed to each other once, but I never had romantic feelings for him. Cregan was always just my friend."
As best as he could, he turned his upper body, so that he could look better into your eyes while leaning his face in your loving touch.
"I love you too. Say, my darling wife, would you like to join your husband in the tub? There would be room on my lap."
You roll playfully with your eyes and let the sponge fall back into the now dirty bathing water. "You can count yourself lucky if I let you into bed at all."
"Do you want me to sleep like a dog in front of the fireplace? A wolf?" He asked you with a grin while he started moving the sponge over his chest again, washing the lingering scent of dragon away.
"I am sure you would enjoy it, when I kept you on a leash," you grinned and sat down on the bed while you looked at him with a mischievous glimmer in your eyes. Maybe you should not sleep with each other in a place that was not yours and possibly overkeep the hospitality, but this had been your home. You wanted this.
You observed your husband, how he bit down on his bottom lip in thought and how his violet eyes moved your body up and down. A pleasant warmth spread in your stomach and, following his gaze, he felt the same thing.
"Do you still remember when you told me that I would try to make an effort to have a fourth child?" He asked you, emerging from the tub and grabbing a towel to dry his wet body largely before he would climb into bed with you.
"Of course."
"How would you like it if it was conceived here in the north? In the snow?"
A smile spread on your lips and Aegon replied by letting his towel fell to the ground and quickly climbing on top of you, like he has done so many times before and like he would do it over and over again until you would grow tired of him.
Not Cregan saw you underneath him tonight.
He did.
The next morning, as the sun was just casting its first rays over the white long northern landscape, you were invited to breakfast with Lord Cregan and his son.
The prince wore a black doublet with gold embroidery on the arms and chest over a warm tunic, and over it a warm fur that was almost the same color as his hair. You, on the other hand, wore a dark green dress and a fur cloak over your shoulders, although it was brown rather than white, so that you too would stay warm.
You sat next to each other, with Cregan sitting across from Aegon and little Rickon across from you. The boy was sweet and innocent, and he somehow reminded you of your beloved son Jaehaerys, who was probably playing with his twin sister or studying with a Septa at that very moment.
"I hope you are pleased with your chambers," Cregan said, trying to start a conversation so you did not just have to listen to the sound of chewing or the fire burning calmly in the fireplace.
"Very," your husband answered before you could. "The bed is extremely comfortable and does not creak, even when you exert yourself."
A blush rose in your cheeks and you looked down at your plate to avoid Stark's gaze. Gods, why did he always have to make those lewd comments? You love it when we gets lascivious, but more so within your chambers and not when anyone was listening.
"I am glad to hear that," Lord Cregan finally replied, his tone neutral, taking a long sip from his cup, which was filled with strong northern wine.
His gaze turned back to you, and for a moment you could feel him looking — really looking. This time he did not just see a friend, who had to leave him back then after being betrothed to the prince. He saw the woman you had become over the years. The noble lady who would have been more than worthy of the title of a Lady Stark.
"My lady, how are your children?" he finally asked himself, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. "You have three, right?"
You nodded, and immediately your features softened again, because you loved thinking and talking about your little ones. You were so proud of them, even though they were still so young. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were both four summers old, and Maelor had had his second name day a month ago.
"Yes, exactly. Two boys and a girl," you told him proudly, looking at Aegon, whose gaze never wavered for a second from the man across from him, as if trying to skin him with his gaze.
"Little dragons, I presume?" His question was playful, but Aegon still placed a hand on your thigh under the table. Actually, he had to promise you last night not to be jealous anymore, because otherwise you would not have allowed him to spread your legs and dive into your softest flesh, but he could not help it. Aegon was indeed still jealous.
"Silver hair, violet eyes, and strong lungs," you chuckled, which also brought the briefest hint of a smile to Rickon's face.
"I would have liked to meet them," the Lord said, and his voice sounded as if he actually wanted to. Part of you felt bad that you could only tell him about them, but at least at home, the risk of them catching a cold was smaller.
"I would have liked to bring them, but I do not want them to get sick, and Sunfyre can only carry a maximum of three people. Not five, even if they are small," you answered honestly, to which he nodded his head in understanding.
"Then I suppose I will have to visit King's Landing one day to meet them."
Aegon opened his mouth to reply, but you quickly intervened, knowing your husband would not have been polite: "Of course. You are always welcome at the Red Keep."
“I will take you at your word.”
"I hope you realize he meant it," Aegon grumbled as you led him outside to show him around. You wanted him to see the beauty of the North with his own eyes, not just the bad.
"I know, dear, but enough of that. Look around!" you laughed, spinning around in a circle, the skirt of your dress touching the snow and dirt on the ground as small snowflakes landed in your hair.
"I do," he said, but he did not see the snow, the stone houses, or the trees in the distance. He only looked at you. Always at you.
"Lady Stark!" a woman suddenly called out, her skin wrinkled and her hair graying.
You instinctively turned to the woman, as if answering by that name. Lady Stark. Aegon swallowed the lump in his throat. He did not mean to get angry, but unfortunately he had always been quick to anger.
"Her name is Kastark, and she is no longer a lady, but a princess," Aegon snapped, whereupon the old woman stopped and bowed deeply, which certainly could not do her old knees any good.
"Forgive me, Your Grace. I knew her when she was a child," said the woman, still bowing deeply.
"You are the baker," you realized, holding out a helping hand so she would not have to bow any longer. Your husband remained suspicious at your side.
"You have grown so much. And beautiful you have become, too," the old woman gushed, gently squeezing your hand, at which point you could not suppress your smile any longer.
"We were all so sad when your betrothal to our Lord Stark was broken off, because of your father‘s death. You would have made a wonderful Lady Stark."
It was not the words themselves that made Aegon turn around and head back toward the fortress, but the way she said them. It had been so full of hope and regret, as if that old woman were hoping it could still happen. That you would still become the Lady Stark of Winterfell.
"Aegon! Aegon, wait!" you called after him, but he did not want to listen to this conversation any longer. He did not want to be reminded that this Cregan was a good and respectable man who would have made a wonderful husband to you. Probably a much better one than he was. Perhaps you would have been much happier here in the North than with him in the South.
You had always been too good for him, too kind, too polite, too—
"Mm—My prince?" a small voice stammered as he had just climbed the stairs to the entrance lost deep in his tumultuous thoughts.
Little Rickon Stark stood below, looking up at him with wide eyes, as if he did not know what to say, or as if he were afraid of something.
"Yes, boy?" he asked with a sigh. The child was innocent, and he did not want to frighten him.
"I—I wish to see the dragon."
His eyebrows furrowed and he tilted his head. "He is just up ahead. You have legs, have you not?"
The boy looked down to the ground. "Father forbade me from going to him alone. He said he did not want me to end up like a roasted pig."
Something about the way the boy looked at him reminded him of Jaehaerys. It was probably his eyes, so wide and full of childlike innocence. This boy was the child of his self-proclaimed enemy, but he could not just send him away all sad and disappointed.
Besides, he was talking now, which he did not do before.
"Fine. Come with me," he said, placing a hand on his shoulder and pushing him toward the gate, where Sunfyre lay curled up together in the snow like a giant cat. Peaceful as ever.
"His name is Sunfyre. The maesters call him the most beautiful dragon that ever roamed this earth," Aegon told him proudly, reaching out to gently stroke his golden scales.
"Is—Is he dangerous?"
A grin formed on his lips, and he could feel his earlier anger slowly fading. "Every dragon is dangerous unless you are its rider."
"Do your children have dragons, too?"
The silver-haired prince shrugged. "They have eggs that will hatch one day, so the gods will, and then, yes, they will have dragons."
"I want a dragon too!" Stark's son exclaimed enthusiastically, and for the first time, he saw him truly smiling broadly, his eyes shining. "I want to fly through the sky and see him breathe fire!"
"Do you Starks not have wolves, or at least big dogs to keep you company?"
"Yes, but father says I am too young to have one," the boy replied, still staring at the dragon with wide eyes.
"And he is right about that," your voice suddenly sounded from the side. You had overheard the conversation from the side, and it warmed your heart. Even though he was grumpy, this was the man you loved. Your lustful, angry, stormy dragon named Aegon Targaryen.
You were happy with him.
You could not help but wrap your arms around your husband and rest your head on his shoulder, which immediately calmed him down, because now you were with him again.
"Go back to your father, little one. Show him your smile," you said, and the boy immediately obeyed, running back toward the fortress where he was going to tell his father about the dragon.
Sunfyre raised his large head and simply looked at the two of you. Somehow, he looked happy, even though he was probably mostly cold. Well, if a dragon could even get cold.
"You are a good man," you whispered in a gentle voice.
For a moment, he said nothing, simply unsure what to say. He was not a good man. He was a drunkard, who had been whoring all the time, before he fell in love with you, and a jealous man who was afraid of losing you. So very afraid.
"I am not, and you know it, my heart," he sighed softly, raising his hand and stroking Sunfyre's chin soothingly.
"And yet I love you," you said, and the honesty in your voice nearly broke his heart in half. Suddenly, he was feeling terrible that he had ever been angry with you, ever thought you were not happy with him, because you were. Your smile told him that every morning.
"Did you hear me? I love you, Aegon," you repeated.
The gold-scaled dragon leaned into his hand, and Aegon blinked rapidly several times to hold back the tears. He did not want to cry, not now. Not out here, where everyone would see his weakness.
"I am so sorry. All you wanted was to see your cursed snow again, and I am ruining all that by being a jealous husband."
You shook your head and stood in front of him so he would look into your eyes and not be distracted by Sunfyre's beauty. The dragon laid his head back on the snowy ground and closed his eyes again. Out here in the north, he seemed to prefer lying around to flying. Perhaps he sensed the Wall, which was a few miles away from this place.
"You have not ruined anything. I understand that you do not like Cregan and that you want me to be safe, but I am. I never had and never will have any romantic interest in him," you told him, and you meant it.
"But I-"
"Stop it," you interrupted, repeating the same words to him you had said to him before: "You are my husband, Aegon. It is my duty and my pride to love you and to call you mine. I love you, I love our children, and I would not trade that for anything in the world. I regret nothing. Nothing."
A lone tear rolled down his cheek, and you moved to stand on your tiptoe and kiss it from his cheek before placing your hands on his chest.
"We have only been here a day, and I already want to go home," he chuckled, his pale cheeks flushing pink.
"You will survive these few days," you smiled, and he leaned toward you to press a tender kiss to your lips.
"As long as you are with me and I can call you mine," he murmured against your lips.
"Always."
And as the snow rained down on both of your heads and you held each other in your arms, he too realized that you would never leave him. You loved him, and he loved you. You and your family, which would hopefully continue to grow some day.
And if all he had to do for that was taking you to see the snow and not murder Cregan Stark, then he would do it.
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FEATURING: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader, minor Aegon II Targaryen x fem!reader
SUMMARY: Life changes when you spend years apart from those you care for most, but your love for Jacaerys never does—except his for you does, and not in a way you anticipate. OR, Jace returns to King's Landing after ten years apart, fully intending to steal you from Aegon, and nothing goes according to plan.
WARNINGS: fem!reader. TARGCEST (aunt-nephew, half-sibling). reader is a Targaryen (daughter of Viserys & Aemma)—no physical features are explicitly described (silver hair, purple eyes, etc) BUT it is implied through Jace's insecurity that he does not look like her because he references not looking like "everyone else". forced marriage (reader & Aegon). Reader & Aegon are VERY young when they have their kids (14 & 13 respectively), and reader has some complications/health issues following the birth because she was so young/her body wasn't ready for it. Post-partum depression. Smut. Oral (f!receiving). Jace is very sloppy and very eager and very inexperienced. Overstimulation. Dubcon-ish (not really, but Jace worries in the aftermath that he pressured her). Infidelity (technically—Aegon and reader are both cheating on each other LOL but neither gaf). Jace is wildly unhinged about reader and everybody but reader knows. Codependent relationship. Slight age gap (5 years between reader & Jace)
NOTES: Warning: this is 40k words, please read it anyway, I promise it will be worth it euhuhuhuhhh. ALSO, some of the fic might look as though it's oddly formatted (paragraphs are smushed together when they should be separated) that is because it is formatted oddly—I had to smush together 150 paras so that I could post it all in one post, so unfortunately I feel as though it lost some of the effect </3 but it should still read as I intended. Just know that if you look at it and there are some points where it's like paragraph after paragraph </3 that is not my fault, I had it separated very easily and very readable. Also, I messed up the timeline somehow, suspend thy disbelief, the dance still plays out as its supposed but for some reason it's happening a year earlier LOL. Anyway, love you all! All reblogs & comments are appreciated, especially on this one because 1) it is a lot of writing all at once, and 2) it was literally the most discouraging moment of my life when I tried to post and got an error and had to spend an hour and a half condensing my perfectly structured fic. On that topic, sorry for the lazy description, I fear my heart was not into it after I had to massacre the structure of this fic. If there's any warnings missing, pls let me know and I'll add them!
JACAERYS, 10; READER, 15; 120 AC
Two years have passed, but the ache in your chest has never quite subsided since you parted ways with your sister and her sons.
"How does it feel? That you get to see our sister anddearest nephews again? It has been what? Two years, has it? Are you excited, wife?"
You exhale hard through your nose, turning your face away from Aegon when you see him leaning over the rail trying to make eye contact with you, a shit-eating grin on his face. You do your best to ignore the way your heart sinks at the reminder of the silence you have faced from Dragonstone.
Aegon, naturally, is always quick to rub it in your face. You turn a half-hearted glare onto him when he pointedly shifts back into your field of vision, but you do not even have the energy to snap a snide comment back . Your chest is weak, and your fingers are trembling, nausea eats away at the back of your throat every time you open your mouth. Even just holding yourself upright is an effort—all you want to do is go sit in the captain's cabin, but your pride refuses.
"Leave her alone, Aegon," Aemond says, leaning on the rail of the ship next to you, looking up wistfully as Dreamfyre trills above the ship, spinning in the air before swooping down closer to the water. "Why do you always have something to say?"
Aegon scoffs, folding his arms over his chest as he looks away. "Mind your business, Aemond" he mutters. "I thought she would be pleased to see them again. It is not my fault she remains so sensitive."
Your eye twitches, and a familiar screech cuts through the sea air above.
Every head on deck turns skyward. High above the ship, Zūgaxes circles lazily through the clouds, always close enough to keep you in his line of sight, pale white scales gleaming beneath the afternoon sun as he follows the royal envoy to Driftmark for Lady Laena's funeral. Sunfyre dives after him, always keen on playing chase with the larger dragon, but Zūgaxes is in no mood for fun today, same as you—the moment Sunfyre comes within striking distance, Zūgaxes snaps viciously at his throat, forcing the young dragon to dive away with an indignant shirek, barely avoiding the bite.
"Your dragon is a vicious beast," Aegon mutters, downing another cup of wine, face a bit paler at the sight of his dragon nearly meeting an untimely end at the teeth of yours. "Keep him away from Sunfyre, would you?"
"You wouldn't have to worry about it if you would concern yourself less with your cups and more with my disposition," you reply wearily, rubbing at your temple. "Zūgaxes only takes issue with Sunfyre when I take issue with you."
Aegon looks up at the two dragons, then back at you. "… Right," he replies, clearing his throat and lowering his goblet. "Then I will take care not to bother you today, sister."
"Aegon the Sagacious," you murmur sarcastically, eyes sliding shut as a wave of dizziness hits you.
Beside you, Aegon grins boyishly and agrees, "Aegon the Sensible."
You find yourself smiling, despite how your hand drifts to your chest as your heart flutters weakly. Above you, Zūgaxes makes a noise closer to croon than roar, coming dangerously close to the ship, and Aemond hesitantly looks between the two of you, offering his arm for you to lean on.
You shake your head and say quietly, "I am fine, valonqar."
He stares at you for a moment, unconvinced, but returns his gaze to the sky as Zūgaxes swoops down lower, trying to remain as close to you as he can.
Over a year has passed since the twins' birth, but your body still behaves as though it had happened yesterday. You nearly died giving birth to them—fourteen years old, and the maesters had already begun speaking over your body as though you were no longer there, debating whether to save you or the children when the bleeding refused to stop, ignoring you when you begged them not to let you die. It was your father who stepped in when Aegon fled to the bottom of a flagon, trembling violently at the idea of having to choose between you and the children. The king ordered the maesters to save you first, voice carrying through the chamber with a fury you'd never seen from him before.
Somehow, all three of you had lived, though you reckon death may have been kinder if this is to be your fate. You tire too quickly now, and your hands shake when you hold the children for too long. Some mornings, merely fastening your gown leaves you breathless enough that your ladies insist you sit before attempting the stairs. The maesters tell you that you should be resting every time they catch you up and about, but there is only so much time you can stay abed before you would sooner collapse on the stairs than remain still.
In the beginning, they give you a general range for when they believed your body would return to what it was, but they stopped with that moons ago—you fear that this might be your life now. Even Aegon had stopped arguing with them, no longer laughing when they forbade you from flying or carrying both twins at once.
You hate it. You feel as though you've lost a part of yourself that you do not know how to live without. You have always been up with the sun, running about the castle long after the moon had risen. You were in the yard with Ser Steffon every morning until your hands blistered and your shoulders burned, and in the sky any other given moment, flying recklessly over King's Landing and the Blackwater with Zūgaxes every chance you got. You spent a year with your uncle, Daemon, perfecting your form and skill so that you could be the best—you were determined that one day you would beat him and claim the Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister for yourself.
When the court whispered that you should be gentler or softer, you would toss your hair over your shoulder and laugh, because you were neither gentle nor soft, and anyone who had a problem with it could face blade or dragon—you would be kind enough to give them a choice.
Now, you struggle to leave your bed in the morning and can scarcely make it to the dragonpit, much less climb atop Zūgaxes. There are days you look at yourself through a looking glass and do not recognize the girl staring back at you. Her face is thin, and dark circles linger beneath her eyes that no amount of sleep can erase—there is always a child in her arms and a shakiness to her limbs. She is a wife, a mother, a princess—all of the things the court had wanted her to become.
Yet, you are no longer entirely certain who you are. Somewhere between the wedding feast and the blood-soaked sheets, all of the endless, sleepless nights, you feel as though you lost the girl who spent entire days racing through clouds and challenging knights twice her size simply because she could. The girl once called hāedar and muña, whose greatest worry had been whether Rhaenyra would get upset with you for sneaking Jacaerys more snacks than he ought to have, had slipped through your fingers before you even knew you were losing her.
And no one cared to mourn her besides you. Rhaenyra had not come to your wedding, and Jacaerys had never come to visit. You sent ravens to Laenor asking if you could join him at sea and gifts to Lucerys from Pentoshi merchants who had arrived with the spring, and they had gone unanswered.
When your belly had begun to swell beneath your gowns, and you sent ravens with trembling fingers to tell Rhaenyra that you were scared, you would go to Maester Orwyle, eyes wide with anticipation only for him to give you a disparaging smile as he told you none had arrived for you. When the twins were born and the maestars whispered that the young princess might not survive the night, you cried every night because all you wanted was your sister.
Every morning for the better part of a year, you found yourself glancing toward the skies before you even realized you were doing it, looking for the familiar gold of Syrax or even Vermax's small green wings crossing the Blackwater, but they never came.
At first, you had made excuses for them. Rhaenyra has duties and children to tend to, and Jacaerys is too young to come on his own. But weeks turned to months and months turned to years, and there came a point where no excuse could rid you of the resentment. Because how could they leave you alone when you needed them most? You would never do that to them. Never.
And you had needed them. Not for the wedding—you endured standing beside Aegon in the sept without them after the two of you downed a flagon of wine together—but when the twins came too early, and the world narrowed to blood and pain and fear. You thought your final breath would be spent calling for people who you knew were not there, and the childish part of you had still waited for the doors to burst open anyway.
But every raven had gone unanswered, and every nameday passed without a visit. You wonder if something had happened on Dragonstone—maybe Rhaenyra had wanted to come and could not, maybe Jacaerys still asked after you. Or maybe they had learned to live without you—out of sight, out of mind.
"Driftmark!" the captain shouts from the quarterdeck.
You tense instantly. You do not know if you're ready to see them.
Aemond inches closer to you. "Do you want to come sit in the captain's cabin with Helaena and I, mandia? I become terribly seasick during docking."
You do not think Aemond has ever been seasick before, and concern is plain in his eyes when he glances down at how your fingers tremble on the wood rail. It is more for your sake than his, you realize, but he is courteous enough to allow you a sliver of pride, unlike his brother.
"Aemond the Chivalrous," you say with a small, teasing smile, causing the younger boy to flush when he holds his arm out for you to take.
"Aemond the Gallant," Aegon immediately echoes with a sharp laugh, mocking to your sincerity. "You will be a fine knight, if not dragonrider, dearest brother."
Aemond immediately scowls, gaze dropping to the ground, shoulders hunching slightly. You squeeze his arm lightly and say, "Do not listen to him. I fear a fish has more sense than he does. You will bond with a dragon one day, Aemond, that I have no doubt." He gives you a small smile as he looks up at you, but his violet eyes are still riddled with insecurity. You promptly change the subject and ask, "Did Helaena find the spiders she was looking for?"
"There are five," Aemond confirms. "She is trying to determine whether they might be a family."
Aegon makes a noise in the back of his throat, and you know he is rolling his eyes, but he follows the two of you as you make your way across the deck, hovering at your other arm in case you lose your balance.
Your teeth grind in frustration again. Once upon a time, you would have bounded across the deck three steps ahead of them, laughing when the ship lurched beneath your feet and Aegon lost his balance. Now, Aemond shortens his stride without comment, pretending not to notice when your hand tightens around his arm after a particularly rough swell, and Aegon tosses his cup to nearby servant so that he can catch you in case your legs give out.
Just as you reach the captain's cabin, the ship's bell sounds overhead. A voice calls, "Prepare for docking!"
Your step falters, gaze slipping to the side to settle on the pale stone of High Tide in the near distance. You see Syrax on the hill, golden head lifting when she notices Zūgaxes soaring above the royal envoy—she lets out a familiar trill, but he does not echo it the way he used to, the dread you feel undoubtedly weighing on him as heavily as it does you.
Somewhere on the island is Rhaenyra, Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey. You have spent two years imagining this moment. You have practiced what you would say in mirrors and anticipated every excuse you would be given for their absence, but somehow, none of it had prepared you for how much it would hurt.
————————————
You have always associated your sister's smile with warmth. Before she left for Dragonstone, seeing her smile could be the difference between a ruined day and a perfect one. It chased away every lingering stare from the court and soothed every anxiety faced. It reminded you that for all the loneliness of the Red Keep, you would always have her.
You're not sure what you expected, you think later, long after the services for Lady Laena had ended, and you are sitting in the chambers Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys had set up for you and Aegon as the sun sets across the sea. Your half-brother is nowhere to be found—likely drunk in a ditch or in some whore's bed—you do not care either way. You are happy to be alone, so that you may finally let yourself feel whatever it is you have been holding at bay all day.
Rhaenyra smiled at you when she saw you step off the ship beside Aegon, and you felt nothing.
You had imagined this reunion a thousand different ways over the past two years. You would throw yourself into Rhaenyra's arms, laughing as Jacaerys threw himself into yours, and you would shout at her until your voice gave out. You planned all of the angry questions: why did you never come, why did you never write, why did she let you face your wedding, pregnancy, and labor all alone? Why, why, why?
But you had only smiled faintly at her back and turned your gaze away.
You could feel her occasionally watching you throughout the services—gaze pinned on you, red and black in a sea of green and gold, the twins, the handmaidens that tend to you whenever your body weakens. The longer she stares, the more frustrated you become. Does she not even care to ask how you've been? To learn the twins' names? What had you done to make her so cold?
As difficult as it was ignoring her, ignoring Jacaerys was harder. You forced Aegon to run interference through use of threat of Zūgaxes to Sunfyre, but it was clear that the boy was angry with you. Every time you looked over at him, he was already glaring at you. His brows were drawn together in a furious scowl that you've only ever seen reserved for Ser Criston, and the moment your eyes met, he would raise his chin until you looked away. It was a far cry from the open adoration that you had become used to years ago.
You do not understand it. You had been the one abandoned and ignored. You were the one who had waited for people who never came.
There is a knock at your door, drawing you from your thoughts. You tense, glancing over to where the twins had only just fallen asleep after hours of wailing, but they do not stir.
"Come in," you call, uncertain of who it might be—Aemond or Helaena, you wager, because Aegon does not knock when he barges in.
Your gaze lifts to as the door creaks open, and you falter when you recognize Rhaenyra. You inhale deeply, shifting to sit up straight on the settee as you say quietly, "Sister."
Rhaenyra hesitates before she motions toward the cushions next to you. "May I?"
You almost tell her no. You stare at her so long that you see her visibly falter, looking uncertainly between you and the door as she considers taking her leave. Before she can, your gaze drops and you nod.
When she sits down next to you, she sits close enough that you can smell the faint scent of vanilla in her hair. Your heart aches—you have missed her. You have missed all of them—her and Laenor and Jacaerys and Lucerys—being near enough again to inhale the familiar scent of her hair oils only serves to make that longing worse.
She reaches for your hands, and you let her hold them.
"I…" Rhaenyra hesitates as she gathers her thoughts. "I confess, I have prepared many times what I would say to you when we met again, but I find myself at a loss anyway. I have missed you, sweet girl. I had… been under the impression that our father would wait to wed you and Aegon until your sixteenth nameday. I did not think—"
She cuts herself off abruptly, grimacing as she looks away.
You stare down at your joined hands, trying to push away the hope that rises, because how does this explain anything? A royal wedding is no trivial affair, and she expects you to believe that word did not reach Dragonstone that the King's secondborn daughter and firstborn son had wed? She expects you to believe that word did not reach Dragonstone when you gave Aegon a son and a daughter? That she did not receive any of your ravens?
It's nonsensical. She had to have known.
"I sent ravens," you say, voice clipped. "Dozens of them. More. I was alone, and I did not know what to do, and I—"
I needed you, you do not say—you do not need to say, because Rhaenyra's expression instantly drops as she shifts closer to you. She does not hesitate now when she moves to pull you into her arms, cradling the back of your head so that you can press your face into the crook of her neck.
You tell yourself that you want to remain strong—you want to question her, you want real answers, not excuses—but the next breath you take in breaks over a sob, fingers twisting into the red velvet of her dress as you sink into her familiar warmth.
"I did not receive them," Rhaenyra whispers, pressing her lips to the top of your head. "Hāedar, I would have come. I would have come in an instant, had I known."
You tremble in her arms—you have had your half-siblings over the last two years, but it is not the same. There is always a degree of distance between you and them because of Queen Alicent; they are not the woman who raised you, who snuck you snacks when you were sad and shielded you from the cruelty of the court. That was always Rhaenyra, and two years without Rhaenyra—
"I do not believe you," you rasp. "You had to have known. I do not believe you. I—"
"I knew you had wed," she admits, stroking your back and your hair. For the first time in two years, you feel as though all of the weight that has been bearing down on you lifts from your shoulders. You are hāedar, muña, the girl you thought dead in place of a mother and wife. "By the time word reached Dragonstone, weeks had already passed. I was furious with father. I wrote to you that very night. Then another raven after a week had passed. Then another." She shakes her head. "When none returned, I thought… I wondered if perhaps you blamed me. That you no longer wished to hear from me."
Your stomach turns, breath ragged as you press your face harder into her skin. What does she mean? What does she mean that she sent ravens? What does she mean that she only knew after the wedding took place? You sent ravens weeks before the wedding took place.
"I am a fool, sweet girl," Rhaenyra says softly, pulling back to look at you. There are tears spilling over her cheeks, though she does her best to wipe them away before you notice. You suck in a terrible, choked breath, because you know your sister well enough to know that she is not lying to you. "I should have known better. I should have flown to you the moment you did not respond. Someone must have been interfering with the ravens, I—" Her expression twists into one caught between fury and heartbreak. "—I will figure it out. I swear."
"I was so scared, mandia," you dare to say out loud for the first time now that you are back in your sister's arms, lifting your hand to wipe at your eyes messily. "I thought—"
I thought I was going to die, you cannot bring yourself to say, breath hitching as the fear you felt in that blood-soaked bed finally returns. You have pushed it down for months, pretended it did not exist every time your gaze fell upon a maester or septon who was in the room, and suddenly, you were back in that bed, fourteen and crying, drowning in your own blood while strangers tried to convince Aegon that the children's lives were worth more than yours.
"They stopped talking to me," you say, words tumbling out, because now that you have begun, there is no stopping the avalanche of fear you've held in for the last year. "The maesters and the septons—they were all talking over me like I wasn't there anymore. I kept telling them that I didn't want to die, that I wanted someone to send to you, but nobody listened. I thought—I thought maybe it was my fault. That the gods were punishing me."
"For mother," you whisper. "They cut her open to save me, mandia. I thought perhaps this was the gods' way of making things right. That they had decided a life for a life was only fair. That they would cut me open and I would die the same way."
"Do not ever say that again," Rhaenyra hisses, eyes meeting yours as she holds your hands tight. "Our mother loved you, hāedar. She sang to you while you were a babe in her womb; she could only sleep when she could feel you kicking against her hand. Her death was not your fault. She died because men demanded too much of her—and they demanded too much of you. You were a child, hāedar."
A wail escapes your lips before you can catch it, hand flying to your mouth to smother it—it is an ugly thing, loud and helpless, far from the silent tears and grief you swallowed every morning when you looked at yourself in the mirror. You crumple against Rhaenyra as she gathers you into her lap, like you weigh no more than you did at eight years old. Your fingers twisting in her gown as months of fear, exhaustion, loneliness, and resentment pour out of you all at once.
"I didn't want to die, and I didn't want to get married, and I didn't want to have children. I thought of you every day. I wanted to go to you, I tried, but I couldn't—I can't—"
Your words dissolve into another cry. Rhaenyra holds you for a long, long time—until your eyes start drooping and the wails turn to sniffles and even the sniffles fade to silence. She holds you still after you've calmed, lips pressed to the top of your head, humming the old lullaby she used to sing when you were a babe plagued with nightmares.
Your eyes linger on the cradles across the room. You have never sung to them.
"I hate them sometimes," you whisper after a few moments of silence pass, voicing the wretched words aloud for the first time now that you are safe in your sister's arms. "It is not natural that a mother should hate her children, I should think."
You regret them as soon as they've left your mouth, heart pounding and fingers shaking as you stare at where they are lying in their cradles, fast asleep, ignorant to the words their own mother has just spoken.
"Hāedar…" you hear your sister start to murmur, and you rush to continue, filled with shame.
"I do," you insist, shaking your head violently. "Sometimes I do. When they cry and cry, and my chest hurts so much I cannot even lift them without my arms shaking… when I wake and my whole body aches before I have even opened my eyes. I look at them, and I hate them."
The words taste sour.
"I hate that they took everything from me," you continue, voice breaking. " I look at them, and all I can think is that I used to be someone else."
You do not dare to look at your sister. You rub your face hard, trying to rid yourself of your tears.
"And then they laugh or reach for me, and they are so tiny, and they never wanted me to suffer." You curl into yourself, voice barely audible. "They deserve a better mother. There is something wrong with me, I think."
You almost expect Rhaenyra recoil, but she only gathers you close, tucking your head under her chin as she strokes your hair.
"You are too hard on yourself, sweet girl," Rhaenyra asks quietly. "All I hear is a little girl who was made a wife before she understood what marriage was, and a mother before she had finished being a child herself. It is not your fault, hāedar."
"But I should not think those things."
"You should not have been put in a position where you could."
"I wanted to love them immediately," you whisper. "The way you loved Jacaerys, but I—"
There is a loud noise from right outside your room, startling the both of you. Rhaenyra immediately stiffens, rising to her feet to stand between you and whoever is there.
She demands, "Who is there? Show yourself?"
The door creaks open, and Jacaerys stands there, tears streaking his round cheeks. He is dressed in his nightgown—your heart sinks. How much did he hear? He must have followed Rhaenyra when he heard her leave their shared chambers to see you.
"I—" he starts to say, voice wobbly. "I wasn't trying to listen, I promise. I—"
He is lying. His nose bunches and he cannot hold your gaze, the same he has always acted every time he tried to get away with a lie. When neither of you reply, Rhaenyra's brows knit together in disappointment and your lips parted in anxiety, Jacaerys shifts uncomfortably on his feet, looking between the two of you desperately before his gaze lands on you, brown eyes big and pleading.
"Nobody told me," he whispers so quietly you barely hear him. "I didn't know. I—"
The anger that had clouded his face throughout the funeral is gone, and in its place is only fear. The same fear you had seen on his face when he was running to you through the Keep after Ser Criston had struck him, the fear from the day you left for Pentos, and the fear from the morning you were forced to remain in King's Landing while he left for Dragonstone. The anxiety drains from you with haste as you let out a soft breath,
"Mandianna," you murmur, holding your hand out for him.
Jacaerys immediately rushes to you. Before you can say anything else, he drops to his knees in front of you, arms tucked around your legs. Your hands settle on the top of his head, fingers absently toying with his dark curls as he buries his face into your lap.
"I'm sorry!" he sobs. "I thought—you didn't come say hi. I thought you hated me because I broke my promise, and that's why you never wrote me back." His shoulders tremble violently beneath your hands as you smooth circles on them. You look at Rhaenyra desperately for help, but she only gives you a small smile. "I wanted to go back for you. I asked mother all the time when we would come, I promise. I asked and asked, and she always said soon, and then—" He hiccups. "Then it was never soon."
"Jacaerys," you start to say.
"I thought you didn't love me anymore," he continues, looking up at you with watery eyes. "Then I heard you saying you almost died, and I—I wasn't there. I should have been there, muña.
You pull back just enough to cup his cheeks. He presses his nose into your hand, still sniffling as you smile at him. You say quietly, "There is nothing you could've done, mandianna."
"It doesn't matter. You don't know that!" Jacaerys disagrees, eyes welling up with tears again as he looks up at you from the floor. "I could have been there. I could have held your hand. I would have told them to save you—" Your eyes slide shut briefly when you realize he heard everything "—I would have made them listen. I knew Aegon wouldn't take care of you. I knew it."
"Jacaerys—"
"What if you'd died?" he blurts. "What if I'd never seen you again? I was angry with you all day. I didn't even come say hi because I wanted you to be sorry, and—but if you had died—what if you had died thinking I hated you? Or that I broke my promise? Muña, I'm sorry, please forgive me."
You lean down to grab him beneath the arms, ignoring the way your whole body aches and screams for you to put him down so that you lift him up to sit him on your lap before he can spiral any further. You wrap both arms tightly around him as he collapses into you. He clings to you desperately, fingers twisting into your gown, face pressed to the crook of your neck, the same way you were with Rhaenyra just moments before.
"I'm right here," you tell him. "It's okay. There's nothing to forgive."
Slowly, his breathing starts to even out. "I don't want you to die," he says at last, sniffling still. "Please don't die, muña."
You laugh lightly and say, "I do not intend to, Jacaerys. Not for a very long time, if I can help it."
Jacaerys sniffles one last time, the tension gradually leaving his small frame as he melts into you. For a long moment, the room is quiet save for the crackling and occasional hitch of his breath, your fingers combing through his hair automatically, just as they had done countless evening before the world ever came between you.
Then, there is a soft cry from the opposite side of the room, and all three of you look toward the far side of the chamber. Jacaerys startles, as though he has just remembered the twins are there at all, and Rhaenyra cannot help the curiosity that slips onto her face as she looks in the direction of the cradles.
"Would you want to… meet them?" you ask hesitantly after a moment, looking between Jacaerys and Rhaenyra.
Jacaerys wipes hastily at his eyes with the heel of his sleeve before nodding frantically. Rhaenyra gives you a soft smile, reaching out to cradle your face briefly as she says, "Of course, hāedar."
You rise to your feet a little unsteadily, feeling a little faint from lifting Jacaerys onto your lap. Before you can take a step, both Rhaenyra and Jacaerys reach for you at the same time.
You tell them with a strained smile, "I'm all right."
Jacaerys's brows furrow as he insists that you hold his arm anyway, so you indulge him, crossing the room carefully with the two of them. You stop beside the cradles and stare down—for the first time since giving birth to them, you are not immediately filled with that familiar knot of dread and guilt.
"This is Maegelle," you say, brushing your fingers against the girl's face, watching as she reaches for your hand on instinct. She is quiet, unlike her brother, who is always babbling one thing or another unless he is asleep, and even then, sometimes. "And this is—"
His name catches in your throat, and your smile falters. Rhaenyra notices, casting you a concerned look.
"Maegor," you say at last, quieter, not daring to look at their reactions to your chosen name for your son.
The name feels different now than it had a year ago. You insisted upon it while still confined to your bed, too weak to sit upright for more than a few moments. Aegon had gone missing after they demanded he choose between you and them, so the choice of name was left to you. The septons had balked immediately, muttering that it was an ill-omened name, cursed by history. Alicent and Otto had looked scandalized. Even your father was surprised, eyes widening in confusion.
But you had not cared—not then, at least. The decision had been born of pure, childish spite—a tiny act of rebellion from a girl who had been denied every greater one. At the time, it had felt like the only decision in your life that had truly belonged to you in a long time, because you had looked them in the eye and, for the first time since your wedding, felt something other than fear and anxiety.
But looking at your son now, asleep and blissfully unaware of the burden his name carried, you feel only regret. You have cursed him to the same fate you have spent your life suffering—the same fate you have tried to shield Jacaerys from—with a single, stupid decision.
Rhaenyra seems to understand, because she always does. She gives you a small smile, leaning down to ghost her lips against your head. She says softly, "It is a strong name. We need not let one man own it forever."
"They are very tiny still," Jacaerys declares. There is an odd expression on his face as he reaches out to touch Maegor's silvery hair—he gnaws at his bottom lip and looks away uncertainly, pulling his hand away. "They are not as fussy as Joff was."
You laugh. "Give it a few hours," you tell him. "When they decide they would rather scream than sleep, you may change your mind."
"Can I help tomorrow? If they're awake?" Jacaerys asks, brown eyes wide and searching as he looks up at you. "Please." When your lips part to tell him to ask you properly on instinct, he corrects hastily, "Kostilus. Kostilus, kostagon nyke dohaeragon?"
Please. Please can I help?
"You've been practicing," you praise, smiling when he preens at the acknowledgment. "I'd like that very much, mandianna."
Rhaenyra watches the two of you for a long moment before she brushes a kiss against your brow, then another atop Jacaerys's curls.
"It grows late," she murmurs. "Lucerys is undoubtedly searching every corridor for his brother by now… Though, I suspect he may not be finding him tonight, so I should go find him."
Jacaerys looks up hopefully.
"May I stay?" he pleads before turning to you. "I'll be quiet, I promise, and I'll help if the twins wake, and I won't steal all your blankets. Maybe some of them."
"Of course, you can stay, silly boy," you murmur.
Jacaerys's face lights up in delight as he turns a questioning look on his mother, who smiles and inclines her head in approval.
"Sleep well, both of you. In the morning, we shall settle this mystery of the missing ravens."
————————————
It is still night when you wake up, and Jacaerys is gone.
One of your ladies in waiting, Lady Melynda Darklyn, sits near the cradles of the twins. She has always been the most dutiful of your companions, checking in when the moon is high to see if the twins are comfortable so that you might get a full night's rest. You push yourself out of bed, ignoring the weakness in your chest, so that you can make your way over to her.
She catches the movement from the corner of her eye and rises to her feet. "Princess," she says, taking a step in your direction and holding out her arm to you, but you hold your hand up to signal for her to stay seated.
"Melynda, did you see Jacaerys?" you ask, an uncertain feeling weighing on you as you glance back at your bed. Jacaerys is a horribly heavy sleeper—you'd once joked to Rhaenyra that the boy could sleep through Doom if given the chance. He has always slept later than you, and you doubt that he has suddenly become a light sleeper after two years apart. "He was spending the night in here."
Melynda shakes her head. "No, princess. Would you like for me to send someone to go search for him?"
"No," you reply immediately, lips pressed together as your gaze sweeps over the large room one last time. "Would you stay with the twins, please?"
"Of course,," Melynda tells you, unable to push the concern from her face when she sees how your hand instinctively lifts your chest when you move toward the door, but she knows better than to push when you have your mind set on doing something yourself. "Be careful, princess. It sounded like there was a bit of a commotion coming from the Hall of Nine."
You glance at her over your shoulder, brows furrowed slightly, but then you nod in thanks before pushing the heavy door open to your chambers to step out into the cool hall. Ser Steffon, Melynda's brother and your sworn sword, is nowhere to be found.
You reach back into your room to grab your cloak, sliding it over the nightslip you wear to make yourself presentable before you make your way down the winding hall in the direction of the Hall of Nine. Your body is always weakest before dawn. The maesters say it is because you do not sleep enough—if you remained in bed more and gave your body more time to heal, the weakness would ease—but you have stopped believing them. You have given yourself moons of rest and nothing has changed. You cannot remain abed forever.
By the time you reach the first flight of stairs, your legs are already trembling. You pause long enough to steady yourself against the cold stone wall before continuing onward down to the main level of the castle.
As you round the final corner leading toward the Hall of Nine, you finally hear the commotion Melynda had mentioned.
"He attacked Baela!" / "He broke Luke's nose!" / "They attacked me!" / "He stole my mother's dragon!" / "Enough." / "He was going to kill Jace!" / "I didn't do anything!" / "Enough!" / "It should be my son telling the tale!" / "He called us—"
"Silence!"
"What happened?" you ask quietly when you see Daemon leaning against the door, looking into the Hall of Nine. He tilts his head to the side to look at you, gaze slipping over the cloak you tugged around yourself and the weakness plain on your face. He holds his arm out to you silently, beckoning for you to lean on it; you exhale through your nose as you do so gratefully. "Do you know?"
"It appears your nephews and my daughters have taken the eye of your dearest half-brother," Daemon says flippantly.
You shoot him a wide-eyed look, unsure if you heard him properly, but Daemon only nods in the direction of where Aemond is being tended to by a maester. Your stomach drops at the sight of the stitches running through his eye, and your gaze cuts over to where Jacaerys and Lucerys are standing with their mother, blood running down both of their faces—Baela and Rhaena, too, curled into the dress of Princess Rhaenys. What has happened?
"—legitimacy of my sons' birth was put loudly to question," you hear Rhaenyra say as you focus back on the conversation at hand instead of the blood spilled.
Beside you, Daemon straightens slightly, and your own eyes widen, breath catching as you look from Aemond to Rhaenyra to Jacaerys. Aemond raises his chin as he stares at Rhaenyra and her sons, and Rhaenyra—she looks cornered. Alone. She knows that by voicing this, she will be doing something irreversible, but what choice does she have when faced with a half-brother who has lost an eye and accusations of murder being cast toward Jacaerys and Lucerys? You make a move as though to step forward, but Daemon stops you, shaking his head slightly.
Your father is the first to speak up. "What?" he demands.
Suddenly, all of the fears that have been festering in your gut since you were a child and first realized the whispers of the court had turned on your nephews resurface with a vengeance.
This is what you have feared, this is what you have dreaded—the whispers are about to be given life, and once they are given life, there is no returning to how it had once been. The accusations will haunt Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey for as long as they live and more.
"He called us bastards," Jacaerys says at his mother's shoulder, voice small, expression twisted. He tries to stand tall under the eyes of everyone in the room, but he cannot help the way he shrinks back slightly when the tension in the room triples after the word is spoken.
And Aemond—Aemond, who has walked you back to your chambers every night since the twins were born because he worried you would grow faint on the stairs, who spends entire afternoons searching the gardens for strange spiders because Helaena smiles whenever he finds one, who has sat beside Maegor's cradle reading aloud from histories he knows the babe cannot possibly understand because you were too exhausted to keep your eyes open—smirks as it is said.
He does not know better, you tell yourself, swallowing thickly. He has consumed his mother's poison like milk. He is only reiterating the filth she spews.
You know that your half-siblings dislike Rhaenyra and her sons. You know that Alicent has spent years cultivating that resentment, just as Otto Hightower has spent years whispering in your father's ear. But this is not childish spite—to openly accuse the crown princess's son of bastardy is to accuse her of treason, it is to declare that the heirs to the Iron Throne are no heirs at all.
To speak such a thing before the king—you know your father has spent years turning a blind eye to what the rest of the court knew as truth, but if push came to shove and he was forced to choose between throwing the Realm into chaos by upholding the lie or condemning his grandchildren, you do not know what he would choose.
And if he should choose to protect the realm, Rhaenyra, Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey could all lose far more than just their names—they could lose their heads.
"My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, your grace," your sister says, stepping forward in the direction of your father. "This is the highest of treason. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders."
Your eyes widen, gaze flicking over to Aemond, who instantly shrinks at the order, looking wildly between his mother, his father, and Rhaenyra. You feel sick to your stomach, fingers tightening on Daemon's arm.
Alicent scoffs, staring at Rhaenyra in disbelief. "Over an insult?" Alicent breathes out. "My son has lost an eye."
The king turns on Aemond and says, "You tell me, boy, where did you hear this lie?"
You feel light in the head again, all of a sudden. It is always worst before dawn, and worse still when you are under stress. Your hand instinctively finds your chest, eyes sliding shut—not here, not now.
Not while Aemond is shrinking in his seat as his father's demands. Not while Jacaerys stands trembling beside his mother with blood dripping down the side of his face. Not while Lucerys cannot breathe properly with a broken nose and tears in his eyes. Not while Rhaenyra stands alone before the king and queen, forced to defend her sons against accusations that could have them all hanged.
You force yourself to breathe slowly, but the room sways. Daemon's gaze cuts back down toward you, hand settling more firmly beneath your elbow.
"Easy," he mutters. "Not now."
As though you do not already know that, you think viciously and shoot him a look in kind that only serves to amuse him. If you could control when your body was weak, you would never be weak at all.
Your eyes turn back to Jacaerys—he is almost as tall as Rhaenyra's shoulders now, but he still looks so small. Only hours ago, he had buried his face into your lap, crying because he thought he had lost you, and now he stands before his grandsire, the king, trying to hold himself strong because he knows what is at stake. Lucerys does not understand the way Jacaerys does, but he knocks his shoulder against Jacaerys's anyway.
"—Aegon!" Viserys shouts, and your gaze lifts again to your half-brother, your husband, the father of your children, as he flinches under your father's demands. "Tell me the truth of it!"
Aegon does not reply right away, staring ahead blankly as though he is not sure what to say. His gaze lifts, meeting yours briefly, and you shake your head slightly, warning him. Do not do it. Do not say what I know you are about to say.
Aegon swallows and looks away, and then he says exactly what you fear: "We know, father. Everyone knows. Just look at them."
Your heart sinks, eyes sliding shut. You hear Daemon let out a breath through his nose just as you let out a trembling one through your mouth. Ten years you have dreaded the day that these words were given voice and life, and it is Aegon who has condemned them.
Your father shouts, but it is terribly muffled—garbled words spoken beneath water. Your pulse pounds, deafening in your ear, and your head aches. The air that reaches your lungs is shallow, not nearly enough to give you what you need to breathe. Your hand creeps up to your chest again—not now, not now, not now.
"—but I cannot restore his eye."
"No, because it has been taken," Alicent says desperately, taking a step toward your father.
"What would you have me do?"
"There is a debt to be paid," she insists, and you find yourself stiffening before you even truly understand what she is saying. Beside you, Daemon straightens, hand dropping to the sword at his side. "I shall have one of her son's eyes in return."
"Is she mad?" you breathe out as the hall erupts into murmurs. You see Rhaenyra push Lucerys behind her, and Jacaerys presses into her shoulder, looking between her and the king and queen uncertainly. "Do something, kepa."
Uncle.
"Not yet," Daemon murmurs, watching the scene carefully, gaze much sharper now.
"Ser Criston," Alicent says, gaze lifting to the knight standing on the opposite side of the room—far too close to Rhaenyra and the boys. You brush Daemon's hand off your arm, alarm subsuming all weakness as you take half a step forward. "Bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon."
For a heartbeat, no one moves, because the words seem too monstrous to belong in the same room as children, and then Lucerys lets out a frightened noise in the back of her throat
"Mother," Lucerys cries, scrambling behind Rhaenyra so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet. His small hands fist desperately in the back of her gown as he peeks around her, face drained of all color. Fresh blood stains his doublet where it had run from his broken nose, and now his whole body is shaking.
Jacaerys's eyes are wide as he looks between his mother and Alicent, reaching out to grab Lucerys's hand despite the fear plain in his eyes, and Lord Corlys is there an instant later, pulling Lucerys further behind him, placing himself between the boys and Ser Criston.
"He can choose which eye to keep," Alicent continues, voice breaking with grief and fury alike, "a privilege he did not grant my son."
She cannot mean this, you think desperately. She cannot.
"You will do no such thing," Rhaenyra hisses, voice cold, one hand instinctively reaching for Lucerys until she realizes Corlys has him safely tucked behind him while the other shields Jacaerys.
"Stay your hand," Viserys orders.
"No! You are sworn to me," Alicent says desperately.
For one terrible moment, you cannot tell whether the man standing across the hall is weighing the Queen's command or the King's.
"He is sworn to the blood of the dragon," you say, finally making your presence known, grateful that your voice is louder and stronger than you thought yourself capable of in this state. You step closer to the center of the room, halfway between your sister and the queen. "To protect and serve. To obey the King before all others. It is curious, however, how readily you expect him to forget his oath in favor of your… whims. It does make one wonder whether there is some precedent in place that leads you to believe that a sworn brother of the Kingsguard would draw his blade on a prince of the blood in the presence of his king at your behest. Does Ser Criston often set aside his vows whenever Your Grace asks it of him?"
The hall silences at the implication of your question, but you stand unrepentant, raising your chin and staring at Alicent, who lets out a disbelieving scoff as she looks over you. Daemon makes a noise in the back of his throat—a laugh, you think—as he peels off the wall to pace closer to Rhaenyra, positioning himself in line of Ser Criston.
"Muña!" Jacaerys gasps, moving to take a step in your direction, but Rhaenyra stops him from leaving out from behind her.
"Take care with your tongue, daughter," Alicent says after a moment.
"Gladly," you reply evenly. "As soon as your grace takes care with her commands."
"Enough," your father snaps at you, looking thoroughly exhausted. You press your lips together and look away, trying desperately not to roll your eyes. "Do not make this worse than it already is."
How does he not see what is plain before his eyes? It is Alicent who poisoned the ears of your half-siblings. Alicent, who has caused this terrible divide. Alicent, Alicent, Alicent. But your father proves blind to her true nature every day that passes.
There is a long moment where you think that perhaps that will be the end of it. You have made your bold commentary, and maybe it is enough to pull the attention off of the boys for the time being—you will suffer for it, surely, when you return to King's Landing alone, because your place is with Aegon now, whether you like it or not, but you would suffer endlessly if it spared Rhaenyra's boys even a little more time.
Then, Alicent says, "Then I will do it myself."
Your eyes widen, turning too slow as Alicent darts forward, pulling the Valyrian steel dagger from Viserys's hip sheath and lunging in the direction of Rhaenyra and Lucerys. Lucerys's scream tears through the hall. Everything happens at once.
Before you even register what's happening, Rhaenyra darts forward to meet Alicent, eyes wide, moving on sheer instinct to protect her sons. Lord Corlys draws Lucerys back behind him and Princess Rhaenys with Daemon's girls, but Jacaerys tries to run after his mother, shouting for her as he reaches for her arm.
You grab him by the bicep hard, yanking him out of the line of danger and behind you, panic flaring hot and fast in your chest when you see Ser Criston running down from the steps. You force Jacaerys to stay behind you as you put yourself between him and Ser Criston, ignoring the way Jacaerys tries to break free to get to his mother, but Daemon steps forward before the kingsguard can involve himself in the conflict, a smirk on his face as he press his hand to Ser Criston's chest plate and shoves him backward, daring him to draw his sword and give him a reason to draw his own.
Jacaerys clings to your cloak now, adrenaline fading to fear, as he stares at his mother and Alicent, then looks up at you. Blood streams down his face, crusted over his temple and jaw, eyes wide with unshed tears. You lift your hand to wipe the blood from his skin, and he instinctively presses his face into the palm of your hand. You catch the tears that threaten to fall with your thumb before they can, turning his face away so he cannot see as the blade cuts through Rhaenyra's arm.
Jacaerys jerks in your hold as Rhaenyra gasps in pain, and the nobles around scramble away. He tries to move toward her again, but your grip on him tightens.
"Stay," you order, and he immediately stills, eyes wide and throat bobbing as he stares at you helplessly.
You want to tell him that everything will be okay, but there is a terrible look on Rhaenyra's face that you have never seen before as she stares at Alicent, holding her wounded arm, and you have a distinct feeling that things have only just begun.
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"You should have woken me immediately," you tell Jacaerys firmly as you clean the blood from his face. He shrinks at your words. "I mean it, Jacaerys. I'm furious. How could you go out there on your own with your little brother and cousins? What were you thinking?"
"You were so tired, muña," Jacaerys whispers. "I didn't want to wake you. I wanted to take care of it so—"
"And look how that turned out," you say harshly, pinching his cheeks between your hands until he squirms and pouts. "You cannot be so reckless, do you understand? We are lucky that all that happened was—" You cut yourself off from saying what you were about to say, inhaling deeply. "You could have been killed. You, Lucerys, Baela, and Rhaena. You cannot be so reckless. Say you understand."
Jacaerys's throat bobs as his gaze drops down to your lap. He says quietly "I understand."
You let out a huff, hardly satisfied, but you busy yourself with wetting the warm rag and patting it lightly to his temple instead, grimacing at the blood still dripping from the shallow head wound.
"He's right, isn't he?" Jacaerys says after a few moments, shoulders hunched. "I'm a bastard. I'm Harwin Strong's son, not Laenor's."
You sigh, eyes sliding shut. Your head aches too much to have this conversation with him. The exhaustion of lack of sleep and the excitement in the Hall of Nine weigh your body down terribly. You say tiredly, "Jacaerys—"
"I know it is true," Jacaerys interrupts, voice small. "It is obvious, like Aegon said. I have known for a while, I think. Since we left King's Landing. Luke didn't know yet. I tried to keep it from him."
You do not answer for a long while, busying yourself with gently wiping away the blood crusted at his temple, because you do not know how to respond. Your heart hurts at the idea of Jacaerys knowing all along but trying to shield Lucerys from the truth—having no one to talk to about any of this because even just referencing it in passing could condemn his little brothers to a terrible fate. He has always tried to take more on his shoulders than he should, no matter how often you and Rhaenyra reminded him he was only just a child. His fingers are trembling in his lap, so you reach out with your free hand to hold his carefully; he immediately latches onto you, nails digging into your skin.
You finally tell him, "It does not matter."
Jacaerys whips toward you, brows pinched and lips pressed together. "How can you say that?" he demands. "You know that isn't true."
"What matters, Jacaerys, is that you are your mother's son. My nephew. You are fire and blood, and one day, the Iron Throne will be yours," you say, grabbing his chin to force him to look at you. "The Realm will whisper that Aegon deserves the throne more than you because his hair is silver and his eyes are purple, and you will prove them wrong just by being as you are."
"But what if being myself is not enough?" he asks quietly. "They will keep whispering, even after I am grown and am king. Even if I've done good. What if one day—"
He does not dare voice the question you know he wants to ask. What if one day steel is drawn? What if one day dragons fly against dragons? What if, what if, what if?
"Then, we will show them what we are," you tell him simply, stroking his jaw with your thumb. "They will learn swiftly that every man who rises against a dragon is burned by one."
"We cannot burn everyone who speaks out against us," Jacaerys says quietly, looking away, shoulders hunched slightly.
"Spoken like a true king," you tease lightly, and then lean in to brush your lips against his forehead. "You cannot, mandianna. A king must know mercy before he knows wrath. He must seek peace before war." A faint smile tugs at your lips. "That is why the gods, in all their wisdom, gave you me."
Jacaerys cannot help the giggle that spills from his lips as he rests his head against your shoulder. Your eyes slide shut as you lift a hand to cradle the side of his face, absently running your fingers through the ends of his hair.
You must get stronger again. The girl who once spent every waking hour in the training yard until her palms bled and fought her father, the king, because she sought to wield a sword like Visenya herself, the one who could remain astride Zūgaxes from dawn to dusk and dreamed of once taking Dark Sister from Daemon's hand, still lives somewhere beneath the exhaustion and aching in your bones. You know it. You felt her today in that hall, after two years of uncertainty.
There is no room for weakness anymore—not when steel has been drawn and you could not draw your own, not when Jacaerys looks to you with frightened eyes and Lucerys screams after being openly threatened and you can do nothing to ease their fear, not when your sister's blood has been shed on the pale floors of Hide Tide and you could not spill blood in kind.
"I will see anyone who should seek to raise hand or blade against you answer for it with their lives," you tell him quietly, pressing your lips to the crown of his head absently as you stare at where the twins lie in their cradles, ignorant of the conflict brewing around them. What would become of them, you wonder, if mother and father stood on opposite sides of a war? "Anyone who threatens my family, my queen, or my future king will learn exactly why our words are fire and blood."
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JACAERYS, 18; READER, 23; 128 AC
When Jace was six years old, his mother knelt before him and told him that his muña is very lonely and sad far more often than she allowed anyone to see, even though she has become exceptionally good at pretending otherwise. She told Jace it takes a very skilled eye to see when you are pretending, and Jace insisted that he knows you well enough to tell. His mother had kissed the top of his head with a fond smile and asked Jace to keep you company and try to make you smile in her place, when she could not be there herself.
He had not fully understood what she meant back then. Now he does, he thinks, looking back on all of the times he had caught you staring out windows with dull expressions before you noticed him looking and forced a smile. But he knew that you needed him and his mother had entrusted him with the important task of making you smile when you are sad, and that was more than enough.
Jace had taken that responsibility very, very seriously. From that day forward, every frown became an enemy for him to vanquish and every tear a personal failure. If he caught you looking particularly solemn, he would crawl into your lap or tug insistently at your skirts until you paid attention to him, armed with some ridiculous story or childish joke he had spent all morning preparing solely because he knew it would make you laugh.
Then, two years later, his family left for Dragonstone, and you remained behind in King's Landing, and he was tortured with the knowledge that he had left you alone, surrounded by people who did not know how to make you smile the way he did—who might not even notice when you were sad in the first place.
Now, after a decade away, he has returned, and you are nowhere to be found.
Jace stands toward the back of the throne room, jaw tight, hands locked behind his back as Vaemond Velaryon makes his petition for Driftmark, content—for once—to remain unnoticed.
It suits him better this way today. No one pays much mind to him while others argue over inheritance. They are too busy paying attention to Vaemond's accusation and his mother's reaction to realize the dark-haired, dark-eyed man lingering in the shadows is the heir to Dragonstone, firstborn son of the crown princess. So he is well able to overhear conversations that would shift into syrupy smiles and false pleasantries around his mother and Daemon.
Strong. Bastard. Plain. Lord Fossoway. Lady Ambrose. Ser Roxton.
It is about what Jace expected from a court full of Reachmen. More than half the throne room dons green, Faith heraldry has replaced the three-headed dragon wherever he looks. Jace's memories of the Red Keep are hazy, so in truth, he could not tell whether or not it is truly different from what it had been nigh a decade ago, but he does know for certain one thing is missing—you.
Every memory he has of this place begins and ends with you, and it is jarring that you are nowhere to be seen. You reading to him in the gardens until he fell asleep against your shoulder. You carrying him back to his chambers after he had faked dozing off during his lessons, giggling with him as soon as the two of you were out of sight from Maester Geradys. You waiting at the edge of the yard whenever Ser Criston was leading training, because you knew Jace was uncomfortable around him and would step in if things took a wrong turn. You laughing as Jace tried and failed to get Vermax to listen to him, slinking your arms around him when he pouted and pretended to be angry just so you would give him more attention. He has been to every place he once stood with you, and has found you at none.
Without you, it feels—it feels wrong. Unfamiliar. And it is all he can think about, even though he needs to be paying attention to what is being said around him. He tries to remind himself that what is said today could change everything. Vaemond is not just asking for Driftmark—he is asking the court to declare Lucerys no true Velaryon, and in doing so, to admit what half the realm has whispered since Jace was born with dark hair instead of silver.
And if Lucerys can be stripped of his inheritance because he is not Laenor's son, then Jace can be stripped of his for the same reason. Worse, if the court is willing to question the succession before his grandsire lives, Jace fears what they may do once the Iron Throne stands empty. And yet—
His thoughts invariably return to you.
He thought you would be waiting for him.
He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheeks as he fights the terrible mixture of frustration and disappointment that has been threatening to consume him since he stepped onto the docks and you were nowhere to be found. Maybe he was being foolish. It has been eight years since he had last seen you at Driftmark for Laena's funeral—ten since you were close enough for him to run to whenever you frowned.
Things had already changed in two—just in the time between Laena's funeral and when they had left for Dragonstone and you had stayed behind in King's Landing. Two years of unanswered ravens and sleepless nights had taught him that wanting someone did not mean they would come. More than once, his mother had let him cry into her skirts because he missed you so terribly his chest hurt. More than once, she had promised, soon, Jace, soon we will go to her.
But soon had become two years, and when Jace had finally seen you again at Driftmark, he had scarcely recognized you. Gone was the girl who had chased him through the Red Keep, laughing as he shrieked that she was cheating. Gone was the dragonrider who was more comfortable in the air than afoot and taught him the basics of swordplay so he would not embarrass himself in front of his father and Cole.
In her place was someone Jace could hardly stand to look at without being filled with rage. He thought, at the time, that he was angry at you. Angry at you for changing, angry at you for never answering his ravens, angry at you for abandoning him.
He knows better now—he had never been angry at you.
It had been he who promised to come back for you, he who promised to take care of you, to keep you safe, make you feel loved, devoted to you the same way you'd been to him for as long as he remembered. Instead, Aegon had married you. Aegon had stood beside you when you nearly died and left when you needed him most. Aegon had watched you become a shadow of the girl Jace had loved with every piece of his heart.
All Jace had done was arrive too little too late.
If so much had changed in two years, how much could have possibly changed in another eight? It has been a long time, he acknowledges. Long enough for people to become strangers. Long enough for memories to become distant. But he has never forgotten you, he thinks bitterly. How could you have forgotten him?
You couldn't have, he rationalizes. You exchanged ravens frequently enough that Maester Geradys grew irate every time Jace showed up with another to be sent. Several times a week, Jace had filled pages with every detail he could think to share, recounting the smallest happenings of his days simply because he wanted you to know them, because he wanted some part of himself always with you. And you had always written back with pages of your own, telling him of your days, your thoughts, the twins, all the little things that mattered only because they mattered to you. He had kept every one of them, read them until he knew whole passages by heart—surely you could not have written to him so often, given him so much of yourself and taken so much of him in kind, only to forget him now.
You could not have forgotten him, you are just—late. You are just late.
It does not quell the all-consuming disappointment. He has imagined his reunion with you so many times that he could recite what he wanted to say to you in his sleep. He had a whole plan that he envisioned, and it fell apart the moment he stepped off the ship and realized you were not there on the dock.
He imagined you would be waiting for him, smiling the moment you caught sight of him. He would cross the docks to you slowly, resisting every instinct that urged him to throw himself into your arms as he once had. Instead, he would take your hand in his and bow his head to press a kiss to your knuckles, watching for the moment you realized that the little boy you remembered had grown into a man in your absence.
He imagined that he would steal you away from everyone else after the feast celebrating their return to King's Landing, pressing his lips to your knuckles as his gaze spitefully met Aegon's. He would let you hold his arm, and he would guide you to the godswood, sitting with you as the sun set as you have countless times before, listening as you tell him about the twins and life over the past eight years. It would be different hearing it from your lips, in your voice, than it is reading it on parchment. He would let you rest your head in his lap, and he would absentmindedly comb his fingers through your hair the way you always had to him.
He imagined that he would stay there with you as the moon rose overhead, until the conversation dwindled into a comfortable silence. Then he would turn his head just enough to look at you, really look at you, and he would wonder if maybe you would look at him for him. Not as the little prince forever following at your heels, or the boy who climbed into your bed after every nightmare—but as a man.
One whose shoulder you could rest against without fear of being disappointed, one capable of taking care of you, one who could take your hand before the gods—one worthy of sharing your heart and your bed.
It is shameful, perhaps, to imagine such things with you, but he cannot help himself.
He imagined that he would be nervous as he reached up for your face the first time, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering against your cheek longer than it ought to, and then he imagined closing the distance between you, slowly enough that you could stop him if you wished. He never imagined you would.
He fights a heavy exhale through his nose as he shakes his head, eyes sliding shut. He would tell you that he has become a prince worthy of standing beside you. That he's no longer the frightened little boy who cried himself to sleep because you weren't near. That if you let him, he could finally be the husband he had promised you he could be.
The doors to the throne room reopen, and Jace has to force himself to be present. He can think of you later. He can wonder why you never came to the docks later. He can mourn the reunion that never was later. He can try to figure out a new plan later. He can tell you everything he has carried in his heart for the better part of a decade later.
If there is a later. Because Vaemond's words are not aimed at Luke alone, he reminds himself. They are aimed at his mother—at him. If Vaemond succeeds today and Luke loses Driftmark—if the court accepts the implication buried within his petition—then Jace's own birthright will be at risk. They will come for the Iron Throne, for him, next.
You had told him once that you would see anyone who sought to raise hand or blade to him pay for it with their lives—do you still mean it? Or have eight years of separation pushed you into the arms of Alicent Hightower and your half-siblings?
He cannot think of this now, skin crawling as soon as the question crosses his mind. He forces his mind away and lifts his gaze to see who had arrived. He expects another courtier draped in green, another enemy who will revel in his family's fall, but instead—
—instead it is you.
The throne room, the nobles, the whole petition—everything falls away. Jace forgets how to breathe momentarily as his gaze sweeps over you.
He remembers his mother weeping a few nights after Lady Laena's funeral, clinging to Laenor as she whispered that your hips had been too narrow, too slight, that you had still looked more child than woman when they forced you into a marriage bed to bear twins. But looking at you now, it is almost impossible to reconcile the woman before him with the frail girl who was leaning upon Aemond's arm eight years ago. Your figure has filled out where it once seemed painfully thin, your face has regained its color, and though there remains a weariness about your eyes, you no longer look so dull.
Somehow, impossibly, you are even more beautiful than he remembered. He has spent years trying to preserve your face in his mind, sketching you absently in his free time, terrified that time would blur it beyond recognition.
It had not done you justice.
Eight years have changed you. You are older now, certainly—the softness of girlhood has long surrendered to womanhood, just as the boyhood has left him. You are taller than he remembers, or perhaps he is simply no longer looking up at you from the height of a child. The gauntness left by illness has filled out with time, gown clinging to your body in all the right places as you sweep forward through the throne room, confident even as all eyes in the room turn to you.
You look… like a woman. Like the wife of another man.
Jace hates the thought viciously as soon as it crosses his mind.
You do not look his way, much as he tries to compel you to look at him without calling for you like a fool before the entire court. Your attention is fixed upon the throne—upon Otto Hightower seated where your father ought be and Vaemond Velaryon standing so boldly before the court as though the matter had already been decided—but Jace cannot drag his eyes from you. He watches as you make your way toward the front of the throne room at an even pace, the sea of green parting instinctively before black and red.
He does not remember deciding to move. One moment, he is standing among the gathered lords, hidden in the shadow of a marble pillar, content to remain unnoticed, and the next, he is following in your wake, eyes pinned on the back of your head.
He weaves through the crowd of gathered lords and ladies as you make your way down the center of the throne room, a few paces behind, never losing sight of you. He slips between Lord Caswell and Lady Fell, circles around a knot of Hightower retainers without so much as glancing at him. His feet seem to know where to go before his mind does.
He has spent half his life following you—through the winding halls of the Red Keep, trying to keep pace with your longer stride as you laughed over your shoulder, through the gardens, to the dragonpit, to the training yard, wherever your restless feet happened to lead, Jace was always a few steps behind. Eight years may have passed, but his body remembers the path before his mind even has a chance to question it.
For one horrifying second, it looks as though you're going to bear left—in the direction of Queen Alicent, your half-siblings, your husband—but then you lean in close enough to Vaemond that your lips must brush his ear, mouth tilted up in a lazy smile.
Jace cannot hear what you say to him, heart pounding at the idea of you standing amidst the sea of green instead of alongside black and red where you belong, but Vaemond Velaryon stiffens so suddenly that Jace knows he must have disliked whatever it was. You seem to let out a soft laugh, head hanging forward slightly, before you cross in front of Vaemond to stand next to Rhaenyra, on the opposite side Daemon already stands.
Jace does not think he's seen his mother so relieved in ages, and he can't even blame her because he's just as relieved to see you stand at her side instead of amidst green. For the first time in weeks, it seems, the tension that has been endlessly weighing on her disappears the moment you stand at her side again.
Jace watches you take her hand into yours before lifting it to your lips. You bow your head slightly as you ghost your mouth against his mother's knuckles, and his mother gives you a soft, fond smile—one usually reserved for Jace himself—as she turns her hand to cradle the side of your face briefly.
You tilt your face into her touch momentarily before you stand straight again, casting a look over your shoulder to where Alicent Hightower and your half-siblings are standing before you nod your head once, beckoning.
Jace's brows furrow slightly in confusion as he moves to stand beside Luke, two paces behind you, his mother, and Daemon, until he sees two children instantly dart across the throne room—Maegor and Maegelle, Jace realizes instantly. Maegor busies himself at your side, tucked beneath your arm, while Maegelle positions herself behind you, both of them clutching you as Otto Hightower commences the petition by addressing Vaemond again.
Jace should be paying attention now, but his gaze remains fixed on your children. The last time he'd seen them, they'd hardly been a year old. You have described them in your letters countless times over, but it is different seeing them in person again. Maegor is tall for his age, nearly ten years old and already reaching your shoulder, while Maegelle hardly reaches your chest, nose tucked beneath your arm.
They cannot be more than nine or ten now, all silver hair and violet eyes to Jace's brown on brown—every inch a Targaryen prince, no question about it. Maegor's hand is wrapped around yours, the other fisted tightly in the folds of your skirt as though it belongs there. The sight of it stirs an ugly feeling in his chest, one so irrational and shameful that it embarrasses him, because once, without thinking, he had reached for you the same way.
His jaw tightens before he can stop it. The feeling is petty, even for him. He is a grown man, his mother's heir, standing in the throne room as the fate of his family hangs in the balance, and the boy is your son. Yet all he can do is think the place at your side had once been his, and wonder when he had ceased belonging there.
A sharp elbow catches his side. Jace startles, finally tearing his eyes away to find Luke staring up at him with a look caught somewhere between confusion and outright disbelief, following his brother's line of sight before slowly turning back to him as if silently asking whether he has forgotten where they are and what is happening.
Jace flushes and looks away.
The rest of the petition is a blur. Vaguely, he remembers his grandsire entering the throne room, the argument escalating, the rage and dread he felt as bastard and whore rang through the hall, Daemon spilling blood before the whole court as soon as the words are spoken. He hears the collective gasp of the nobility and the sickening thud of Vaemond's body and severed head striking the floor, but his gaze finds you again and again, as though the rest of the room has dissolved into little more than noise around your silhouette, gaze incessantly dropping to where your hands rest on your children.
Protective. Shielding them. It is the same hand that once rested on the back of his neck whenever he was frightened, that pulled him behind you when Alicent drew steel on he and his family. The same absent touch that soothed nightmares and bruises before he had ever needed to learn how to hide them.
It belongs to someone else now, he thinks bitterly, and then feels ashamed for even letting such a thought cross his mind when it is your children on the receiving end of it.
Aegon's children, his mind traitorously reminds him—his eyes, his hair, his blood. Jace wonders, before he can stop himself, what they might have looked like had fate been kinder. Would a son of yours and his have inherited your hair or his dark curls? Would—
Luke elbows him again hard, and this time, Jace shoots him an irritated look, but Luke doesn't even acknowledge it, raising his eyebrows pointedly before flicking his eyes ahead. Jace follows his gaze, attention dragging ahead to where his grandsire descends from the Iron Throne, his mother and Daemon standing close beside him, speaking in hushed voices that Jace cannot make out over the murmurs still sweeping through the hall. And you—
You are looking at him, finally.
Jace's eyes meet yours, and for one long moment, he is eighteen and ten all at once—a prince standing in his grandsire's throne room and the little boy who used to search every corridor of the Red Keep until he found you.
He is not breathing, he realizes as he stares at you. His lungs are burning as he waits for you to say something—anything. He has imagined this moment a hundred, a thousand, a million times before. He has scripted what he would say to you—practiced it in his room as soon as his mother told him they would be returning to King's Landing at last—but now that he is finally in front of you again, his throat is dry and his heart is beating so loudly that he is certain you must hear it.
Then, you smile, and Jace can suddenly breathe again.
"Jurnegon rȳ ao, mandianna," you breathe out softly, taking two steps in his direction, hands lifting to cradle his face between your palms, "emā mazverdagon sīr olvie."
Look at you, nephew, you have grown so much.
Jace's breath leaves him, lashes fluttering shut. The warmth of your hands against his cheeks is achingly familiar, so familiar that his body responds before his mind has the chance to. He sinks into your touch, turning his face into your palm as though he had been starved for your touch. Your thumbs sweep slowly along his cheekbones, catching the dampness he hadn't realized was gathering on his lower lashes.
Then, you frown and say, "I hate it."
Jace stared at you for a moment, heart pounding, freezing between your hands—you hate it?
Luke snorts loudly somewhere behind Jace, and you tilt your head and give his brother an easy smile as you say, "Do not laugh, you know what I mean, Lucerys."
Jace does not know, but you pull him closer, hands sliding from his cheeks to the back of his head so that you can tuck his face into the crook of your neck, and all offense disappears in an instant.
He melts into you with the same ease he did ten years ago—as though no time has passed at all—and a ragged breath escapes him. His forehead presses against the warm skin of your neck, hiding his face there the same way he always had whenever he was frightened or overwhelmed as a little boy.
He inhales greedily, familiar lavender filling his lungs for the first time since you parted all those years ago—he had tried buying similar perfumes at the harbor market on Dragonstone, lingering over every vial the merchants swore carried notes of lavender, but none of them had ever healed the ache in his chest the way a single breath against your neck does now.
His arms find your waist, drawing you against him until there is scarcely any space between your bodies, and you thread your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck and press your lips to his temple.
He should be embarrassed, he thinks. He spent the entire voyage convincing himself that he would return to King's Landing as a man for you. He imagined standing proudly before you, kissing your hand, speaking with the confidence expected of the heir to Dragonstone. He would show you that he was no longer the frightened little prince forever trailing at your heels.
Instead, the first thing he has done is hide his face in your neck. He ought to pull away—loosen his grip on your waist, straighten his shoulders, meet your eyes and greet you with whatever slivers of dignity remained, but he cannot bring himself to when your fingers are carding so gently through his hair, lips lingering at his temple.
He wonders if you can feel the frantic beating of his heart through the layers of his tunic and your gown—if you notice how tightly he is holding you, how shamelessly he has folded himself into your embrace. But if you do and think less of him for it, you give no sign.
"You look well, niece," Daemon says as he approaches you, and irritation flares hot through Jace's chest at the interruption, jaw tightening when you pull away to look at Daemon. Your hand slides from the back of his head to his upper arm, and Jace feels electric beneath your touch, even as you turn to face your uncle. "Much better than you looked back on Driftmark, certainly."
Daemon takes your free hand to ghost a chaste kiss against your knuckles, gaze briefly landing on Jace. A curious expression crosses his face before he huffs out a laugh and takes a step back—Jace frowns at him, but Daemon's lips curve up into a knowing smile before he looks back at you again.
"I have you to thank for that, I suppose, kepa," you say with a ease smile. Jace cannot smother the sheer giddiness he feels when he realizes you have no intention of dropping your hand from his arm. You have missed him, he realizes, throat bobbing, you have missed him perhaps as much as he has missed you. "It was proper motivation, I'd say, threatening to send assassins after me to ensure I… ah, how did you phrase it? That I stopped feeling sorry for myself and climbed out of bed?"
Jace is immediately torn from his lingering thoughts, blinking once, unsure he heard you properly. He gives Daemon a furious look, but Daemon only laughs, tilting his head back. "Did it work?"
"Wonderfully," you say dryly. "I found the prospect of being assassinated while abed was an excellent cure for lingering weakness."
"Then all is well," Daemon says dismissively. "No need to stare at me so murderously, Jacaerys."
Jace flushes immediately when you glance up at him, embarrassed that Daemon called him out so plainly, but you only give him a fond smile, and Jace's heart flutters dangerously in his chest.
You have missed him, he thinks again, more desperately this time, because all of the time he has spent away from you, he had half convinced himself that you'd simply learned to live without him—out of sight, out of mind.
Have you ached for him the same way he has for you these last eight years? Have you thought about him? When you sat in the godswood to read, would you find yourself waiting for him? When you dined amidst the sea of green during feasts, did your gaze wander the crowd in search of him? When you lay abed with your husband, did you ever close your eyes and imagine it was him instead? He needs to know.
Before the thoughts can consume him entirely, your hand drops from his bicep, and Jace feels terribly cold again.
You reach your hands out to Maegor and Maegelle, and Jace realizes that they've been standing next to Baela and Rhaena, big violet eyes flicking between you and Jace curiously. They immediately rush over to you, each diving into your side.
Maegor looks up at Jace with a sharp, accusing look that he takes immediate offense to. Why is he staring at Jace as though he is the one who has wandered uninvited into someone else's home? Jace was here first. Long before anyone else had called you mother or wife, he had called you muña—he had known you first, he had loved you first, he had been the little prince forever tucked at your side. It was widely known throughout the keep that if someone sought him, they only needed to find you.
Jace is not the interloper here, because you were his first.
The childish part of him is bristling furiously, and shame follows it almost immediately. The boy is not even ten, and he has done nothing besides love his mother, and Jace is angry about it. He should be glad that someone in this keep cares about you enough to be wary of the strangers surrounding you.
Maegor's hand tightens around yours all the same, chin lifting ever so slightly, as though he's challenging Jace to say something, violet eyes fixed upon Jace with open suspicion. The prince edges a step closer, his shoulder pressing into you with unmistakable intent: it is territorial.
Jace almost scoffs. The little wretch is trying to stake a claim on you. Stake a claim from him. You finally notice it too, lips twitching up into a smile.
"Maegor," you say gently, resting a hand atop his silver hair, fingers threading through the silky locks absently. "There is no need to glare."
"I wasn't glaring," the young prince mutters, glaring.
"You were."
"I was looking."
"You were looking rather fiercely."
"I was making sure he wasn't upsetting you."
Jace blinks, but before he has the chance to become even more offended by the presumption that his presence might upset you, you laugh, and Jace is breathless. His lips part as his gaze fixes on your bright smile, the way your hair falls slightly in your face as you lean down to press a brief kiss to the top of Maegor's head.
You are beautiful, he thinks for the millionth time in his life—seeing your smile, hearing your laugh, it has always made the difference between a ruined day and a perfect one. Jace has always thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world—even when you were both children, he had thought no lady at court could ever compare to you, forever offended whenever singers insisted another lady was the fairest woman in the realm. They simply have never seen you laugh, he would tell them, full of righteous anger.
His gaze lingers on your smile too long—you look happy, he realizes, and it settles strangely in his chest.
For years, he had imagined your life here in King's Landing as… dark. Miserable. Lonely suppers eaten in silence, wandering the halls with no one to keep you company—a marriage endured rather than cherished. He was plagued by thoughts of you in Dragonstone, and they had always been riddled with guilt, because he had left you here alone, surrounded by enemies and—
—and it had comforted him, in some shameful way.
If you were unhappy, then perhaps you missed him as fiercely as he had missed you, perhaps you were waiting for him the same way he waited endlessly to return to you.
He had not imagined this. A daughter tucked beneath one arm and a son standing guard at your side as though protecting you were the most natural thing in the world. You love them, it is clear, and they love you the same.
Have you grown to love Aegon, too? Jace suddenly feels dizzy.
"Raqiarzy," you say fondly, smoothing an errant strand of silver hair away from Maegor's face before looking back up at Jace again. "This is Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. He is my nephew—your cousin. He will be our king one day after his mother."
Your words settle restlessly inside him. He will be our king one day after his mother. He has heard those words his entire life—from maesters, and lords, and his mother, and you. But it feels—it feels different now. He has fantasized standing beside you as your husband more times than he dares to admit, but—but as your king?
His throat bobs, breath catching, heart racing, mind shifting as his gaze slides up to the throne not a dozen feet away, then drifting to you, thoughts spinning and spiraling, enough to make him dizzy.
"Do you remember the plushes you two were gifted for your fourth nameday?" you ask the twins suddenly, drawing Jace from his mind, pulse hammering in his ears, shame crashing over him in devastating force.
—and what in the Seven Hells is he thinking?
He can see Luke giving him an odd look from the corner of his eye, and Jace desperately tries to compose himself, dragging in one slow breath through his nose as though it might somehow banish the treacherous images from his mind. His face feels unbearably hot.
Maegelle lights up beside Maegor. "Stuffed Hūraxes and stuffed Vēzarrion?" she asks, leaning into your arm and looking up at you with adoring eyes.
"Mhm," you confirm, running your fingers absently through her hair. "Do you remember who sent them?"
The twins exchange a thoughtful look, and then Maegor's eyes grow round as he looks at Jace, no longer accusing. "It was you!"
Jace clears his throat, grateful for something else to occupy his thoughts. He says faintly, "I hope they survived. I wish I could have been there for the celebrations."
"How did you know what they look like?" Maegor demands, leaning forward now. "You even knew about the little white patch on Vēzarrion's wing!"
"I keep stuffed Hūraxes in my room every day." Maegelle nods, excited. "He protects it!"
"We wanted to keep real Vēzarrion and real Hūraxes in our rooms, but mother wouldn't allow us," Maegor frowns. Then he asks again, "How did you know what they looked like? You've never seen them before."
Jace's eyes instinctively drift to you, but you only smile.
"Your mother writes to me often," he admits. "She is very thorough, as I'm sure you know."
You squint at him. "What does that mean?" you ask, but Jace only grins and holds his hands up in faux-surrender. You tilt your head and say, "Jacaerys."
Maegelle giggles, and Maegor immediately nods, brows knit together as he frowns, nodding in agreement.
"She knows everything," he complains. "I can never get away with anything. I try to skip lessons, and she knows. I try to sneak snacks, and she knows. I hid a frog in Maester Orwyle's desk, and somehow she knew that too."
Jace's smile widens a bit as he huffs out a laugh. He says, "Once I tried to hide beneath your mother's bed so I wouldn't have to attend sword training. I thought I was clever because certainly the last place she would look was right beneath her nose. She found me within ten minutes."
You laugh at the memory, and Jace's heart skips a beat when you lean slightly into him, head resting on his shoulder as you look down at Maegor and Maegelle, both of whom suddenly seem thoroughly delighted.
"You skipped lessons too?" Maegor asks excited.
"Frequently," you answer before Jace can.
Jace's lips part in mock offense. "I hardly think frequently is fair."
"Jacaerys," you say dryly, head tilted to the side as you give him a lazy smile. "You once convinced Luke that you had been kidnapped by pirates because you wished to avoid histories. He had the entire keep in a frenzy."
Luke snorts loudly behind him, finally taking a step forward to greet you. He leans in to ghost his lips against your cheek before he says, "I forgot about that."
"I was seven," Jace mutters, ears burning.
"You were a little menace," you correct.
Maegelle hides her face in your gown as she laughs, and Maegor stares at Jace with newfound admiration.
"Mother always said you were clever," he says, scrutinizing Jace carefully. Jace flushes slightly at the idea of you telling your children about him. "She did not mention you were also troublesome. You will have to share some of your tricks with me."
"He was dreadful," you confirm, "and if he knows what's good for him, he will share nothing."
"I protest," Jace says immediately, looking down at you. "You, too, were troublesome, muña. Do not cast the blame all on me."
Maegor and Maegelle gasp as though they were just handed gold.
"You used to adore me when you were little," you sigh wistfully. "You never used to talk back like this."
"I still adore you," he murmurs quietly, far more sincere than the teasing he aimed for.
You tilt your head up to look at him, and Jace cannot breathe again, because you are so close, so close that if he only leaned in a smidge then—Luke pinches his side hard, and Jace grimaces, shooting him an irritated look. Luke's expression is one of naked disbelief: what are you doing? it seems to say without a single word being spoken.
Heat crawls up Jace's neck, and he follows Luke's pointed glance across the Great Hall.
Aegon is watching him. Aemond, too.
The elder prince lounges against a pillar, but the amusement on his face is far too sharp to be entirely genuine. Beside him, Aemond stands with his hands behind his back, one violet eye fixed upon Jace with a type of scrutiny that makes him feel he's been caught doing something he ought not.
Jace's stomach drops, suddenly very aware that he is standing before half of the court and you, whether he likes it or not, are someone else's wife. It is one thing wanting you so desperately that it makes his heart ache—it is another entirely to put you in a position where your honor could be questioned.
He straightens immediately, subtly putting a bit of distance between the two of you. Your brows scrunch slightly, giving him a confused look, but luckily, Baela and Rhaena beckon you for a conversation, and you busy yourself with doting over them, pressing your lips to their hair as you fawn over how beautiful they've become.
He exhales, ears still burning as he chances another glance toward Aegon. The older prince tilts his head, the corner of his mouth curling upward ever so slightly. Jace's eye twitches in irritation. Then he looks down at Maegor as the boy grabs his hand, tugging insistently until Jace gives him his full attention.
"Will you tell us stories?" the boy asks hopefully. "About mother?"
Jace blinks, and his gaze flicks across the hall once more. Aegon is still watching. A curious, vindictive thought slips into Jace's mind, and a slow smile curls at the corners of his mouth. He intends to marry you one day—the thought comes as naturally as breathing, he has never doubted it once. One day, you will be his wife and his queen, and when that day comes—well, that would make your children his too, wouldn't it?
He kneels before Maegor and smiles as he agrees, "As many as you want."
Aegon can keep his goblet and his smug little smile. Jace will take everything else.
————————————
"What in the Seven Hells was that, Jace?"
Jace blinks as he looks at his brother, making his way across the outer edges of the training yard a few hours after the petition.
Soon, they will have to return to their mother's apartments to prepare for the supper the king wishes to host for his mother's family and Alicent's. Luke wanted to go down to the dragonpit and stay there until it was time, because he loathed to be around the vicious nobles of the court longer than he had to, but Jace thought it best that they show themselves a little longer. Prove to the court they are not afraid, that they are the rightful heirs—that they are Rhaenyra's sons and they will cower in the face of green schemes.
"What was what?" Jace asks, tilting his head to the side to look at Luke over his shoulder.
Luke stops walking altogether, and Jace stops with him. Luke says dryly, "You cannot be serious."
Jace squints at him questioningly.
"What?" he asks again, gaze flitting across the training yard. He sees Cole in the distance, and he frowns, trying to look over the crowd to see who else might be there—if you might be there—but he can't see over all of the heads. When Luke doesn't immediately reply, Jace glances at him again, raising his eyebrows, beckoning. "What was what?"
"Seriously,?" Luke hisses, grabbing his arm and forcing Jace to look at him. Jace frowns when he feels his brother's fingers digging into his upper arm, a pinched expression on his face. "You were practically climbing into her lap in front of the entire court."
Jace's face flushes, attention snapping fully to Luke once the mortifying accusation registers. "I was not."
"Yes, you were," Luke accuses. "In front of everyone."
"I was embracing my aunt," Jace denies, voice hushed as he pulls Luke to the side. "What are you talking about?"
"You were embracing her for an awfully long time," Luke whispers back, giving him an incredulous look. "What were you thinking? She's married, Jace. You do remember that, right?"
"Of course, I do," Jace snaps, bitter over the fact that his own brother is throwing it in his face. He does not need to be reminded that you are married. It has haunted him every day for the last eight years. "I was only acting as I always have. We have always been close. You know this."
Luke does not believe him. Jace can tell as much from the sidelong glance his younger brother gives him, but he does not care. He was acting as he always has—it is the truth. You have always welcomed him into your arms, and he has always gone willingly. He has always buried his face in your shoulder when he needed comfort, touch lingering a little longer than propriety perhaps allowed. He has always called you muña, has always reached for your hand without thinking, has always smiled whenever you smiled.
None of that has changed, only his intentions. That, Jace decides stubbornly, is not something anyone could have possibly seen.
"You're lucky Aegon found the whole thing amusing instead of making a fuss over it," Luke finally says, and Jace's expression hardens, jaw tightening as he inhales and stares ahead, fighting a shake of his head. "He won't be laughing forever."
"Perhaps she won't be his forever," Jace snips before he can stop himself, raising his chin and looking away. Luke's eyes bulge as he casts a disbelieving look toward him. Jace raises his hands in faux surrender. "I'm only saying."
"Jace," Luke hisses, "have you lost all sense?"
Jace shakes his head, staring ahead as he says simply, "No."
"I'm going to tell mother," Luke threatens.
Jace gives him a sharp, irritated look.
"What is there to tell?" he scoffs. Then, more aggravated, "Why must you tattle like a child? You are ten and seven now, act like it."
He does not need his mother knowing that he's infatuated with you—not that she would have much room to speak, all things considered.
"Bold coming from someone on the verge of throwing a fit for not getting his way."
"You—" Luke barely dodges as Jace tries to shove him hard, and Jace inhales sharply to calm himself down, shaking his head as he grabs Luke's bicep to pull him close. He says quietly, "I have loved her for as long as I can remember. I simply grew old enough to understand what that means. How do you propose I sit back and watch her be mistreated by Alicent's pig sons? What would you have me do, Luke?"
Luke sighs and looks away, chweing the inside of his cheek. "We are already under scrutiny, Jace. Look at what just happened—if grandsire hadn't shown, we would have been–" Luke cuts himself off, looking away. He does not need to finish the sentence for Jace to know what he was going to say: they would have been declared bastards before the whole court. "We need to tread carefully."
Jace knows this. He does. He knows he will be playing a dangerous game if he moves forward as he wishes—knows that it could backfire profusely, not just on him, but on you. But—but how is he not supposed to try?
"What do you even plan to do?" Luke continues, forcing Jace to look at him again. Jace rolls his eyes and turns away, but Luke steps in front of him again. "I'm serious. Do you plan to ask the High Septon to annul her marriage to Aegon? Approve of a divorce? They have two kids, Jace—it will not be so easy. And do you even know if she feels the same? Or does she still see you as the little boy who followed her everywhere?"
"I am a man grown," Jace scoffs. "I am not a little boy anymore."
"The last she saw of you, you were."
Jace rolls his eyes again, jaw tightening as he shakes his head. His chest aches as Luke's words settle over him—do you feel the same? Did you miss him? Ache for him how he ached for you? Or have you made a life for yourself that you are content with? His throat spasms as he swallows, uncertainty clawing at his chest.
"I liked you better when you couldn't speak," Jace snaps because he has nothing else to say. After a few moments pass, he says quietly, "I have to try. If she tells me that she—" He can hardly bring himself to push the words out. "—that she loves Aegon, if she tells me that she is happy and wants nothing more than the life she has, then I will leave it alone."
Luke squints as he searches his brother's face, as though he does not believe him. Jace presses his lips together, throat bobbing as he swallows.
Jace has wanted you for so long that he scarcely remembers what life felt like before the wanting began. It has become instinctive as breathing, woven so tightly into the foundations of who he is that he cannot imagine untangling himself from it. He has imagined futures with at his side, as his wife, his queen; he has imagined children, and children of children, and a long reign in his name and yours.
But he wants your happiness more. Preferably with him, of course. He wants to be the one who makes you laugh until tears sting your eyes. He wants to be the man whose children cling to your skirts, whose bed you crawl into after long days, whose name you breathe in throes of pleasure. He wants to grow old at your side and spend the rest of his life thanking the gods that they had finally been merciful.
But if that happiness belongs elsewhere—if, somehow, you have found it with Aegon… Then what right does he have to tear it away?
"I would never ask her to give up a happy life for me," he says quietly, gaze shifting to the ground, "but I need to hear it from her."
"Get him Maegelle! Hah!"
Your daughter? What is your daughter doing in the training yard?
Jace's gaze cuts to the side when he hears Aegon's obnoxious voice coming from the crowd on the opposite side of the training yard. He tilts his head to the side, sharing a look with Luke before he makes his way over. He grabs Luke's arm to keep him close as he pushes closer to the front of the people gathered, curious to see what has drawn so many knights and squires away from their drills.
Then he sees you.
You stand at the edge of the sparring ring, arms crossed over your chest, lips curved down as you watch the twins spar in the center with wooden practice swords and surprising enthusiasm. Your brows are knit together with the same concentration you always had whenever you were watching him and Luke train years ago.
Jace almost finds himself smiling, until he realizes Aegon is standing behind you, one arm slung comfortably around your shoulders, letting you rest your weight on him, a fresh goblet of wine dangling from his hand. The gesture is so effortless that it makes Jace's stomach turn, as though he's stood with you there a thousand times before.
Worse, you do not pull away.
Jace's jaw tightens. He can feel Luke looking at him to his side, and it's a distinct effort not to let the discomfort—the pain and uncertainty—show on his face. Could you be happy here? Without his mother? Without him? It has been eight years, he reminds himself. Eight years is a long time—long enough to build a life one can be content with, even when dealt a poor hand. Aemond, too, is on your opposite side, he realizes dully. He is leaning back against the wall, head tilted as he watches the twins spar with one another.
He says something to you that Jace cannot hear, and you snort and reply, giving Aemond an easy smile. He has to stop himself from physically shrinking from the sight of it.
He wonders, have you found in your half-siblings the home you once had in him, his mother, and Luke? When did Aegon's arm start resting there so casually? Do you seek him out at feasts the same way you once sought him? Do you instinctively drift toward his side after long days? Has that same hand, so casually resting upon your shoulder, held you through sleepless nights? Wiped away tears? Tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear? Every answer he imagines hurts.
He has always imagined Aegon to be a worthless cur undeserving of your hand, an absent husband who drowned himself in wine and whores while you tried to keep your family afloat—but he is here, a random evening watching as the twins spar with one another, one arm around your shoulders as though it belongs there. Like a husband. Like a father.
He had been pained for years at the thought of you being neglected, but—but it also brought him a semblance of comfort, because he would be able to swoop in and rescue you. He would show you love, he would take care of you, hold you, be with you.
Somehow, the idea of Aegon treating you properly feels infinitely worse, and he feels ashamed for it.
He watches a delighted expression cross your face at something Aegon says, and then you toss your head back and laugh. For the briefest instant, the prince grins—not the careless smirk he wears before the court, but something softer, almost boyish, that makes Jace nauseous.
"Jace," Luke says quietly.
Jace only shakes his head slightly, forcing a smile on his face as he glances over at his younger brother. His lips part to speak, but the smile freezes on his face when someone speaks somewhere to his left.
"I hear she entertains both of the brothers," an unfamiliar voice murmurs. "The princess."
Jace stares ahead blankly, the words taking a heartbeat too long to register. The blood beneath his skin simmers faintly. What did he just say? Is he talking about you?
"Aye," another answers with a snort. Jace tilts his head to the side, gaze focusing on the red-haired squire standing in the small crowd of onlookers—not much older than Jace himself. "The elder first. The younger whenever her husband is too deep in his cups. Makes you wonder whether those twins favor their father after all. Runs in the family, I'd say."
How dare they?
"What did you just say?" Jace asks coldly, turning to face the small group of men.
The red-haired one has the audacity to look annoyed at the interruption, gaze flicking up to meet Jace, and for a moment, his vision tints red—they wouldn't look at him like that if he looked like Aegon or Aemond. They would see his hair and eyes, and they would know who they were speaking to—instead, they look at him and see him as an equal.
"I asked you a question, you mongrel. What did you just say?" Jace repeats, taking a step forward, head tilting slightly. He can hardly think straight—he can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, drowning out everything else around him. "I dare you to repeat it."
For a second, it seems as though the squire is going to step forward, an indignant expression on his face, but before he could make a treacherous mistake, one of his thick-headed friends grabs his arm and bows deeply.
"My prince," he says quickly, stumbling over his words. The red-haired squire's face whitens, and the two behind him immediately follow suit, heads bowed so quickly they nearly collide with one another. "Forgive us. We meant no offense. We—we did not realize, truly—"
"I did not ask what you meant. I asked you what you said."
There's a long moment where all four of the squires remain silent, heads bowed—Jace can see that their hands are shaking, and his lip curls up in disgust.
"We said nothing, my prince."
Jace exhales through his nose—a laugh or a scoff, he's not sure. How dare they? He is furious in a way he has not been in a long, long time, nails digging so deep into his palms that he might draw blood.
"You had no difficulty finding your tongue when you believed no prince was listening," Jace says coolly. "Find it again."
They stand trembling now, heads bowed, hoping that if they pretend the words had never left their mouths, they might escape the consequences of speaking them. His fists curl tight at his sides—they do not know you. They have no right to speak your name or stain it with their filth.
He takes another step forward when they do not speak. "No?" he questions, and then huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "Then count yourselves fortunate that I do not take your heads for the insult. Get out of my sight."
Jace exhales shakily as the four squires stumble to their feet and rush away. His eyes slide shut as he wills himself to calm down, and just as he's about to turn to Luke, he feels a familiar hand brush against his lower back. He knows you are standing there before he even turns and opens his eyes.
"Is everything okay?" you ask quietly, and Jace lets out a wavering puff of air as he turns to look at you. Your brows are furrowed slightly in concern, eyes roving over him carefully as you try to figure out what's wrong. "Mandianna?"
Do you know what they say about you? Are these common whispers, the same as the topic of his birth had once been? Did they turn on you again once Jace and his brothers left? Is there any truth to them?
The more treacherous question makes his stomach turn. He does not want to know the answer to that. He has imagined you abed with Aegon too many times to count over the past few years, each time agonizing in a way he could never quite explain, a private form of torture he inflicted upon himself whenever his thoughts grew particularly cruel. He would picture Aegon's hands where he wanted his own to be, mouth wandering your skin, arms wrapped around you beneath the sheets, body pressed into you in way Jace has only ever been able to dream about. Your face buried into his neck, breath pitching every time his body moved against yours, fingers tangled in silver hair instead of dark curls.
Each imagination had been enough to leave him sick with jealousy. He does not need another uncle added to them.
"Everything is fine," he lies.
You know instantly he is not telling the truth—you have always been able to catch him in a lie before he's even spoken a word—but he presses on anyway. His hand drops to yours, fingers tingling as he lifts it enough so that he can bend his head down and ghost his lips against your knuckles. He wonders if he imagines the way your breath hitches.
"Luke and I should go," he tells you. "We need to prepare for supper."
Your lips part slightly, and Jace thinks you are going to press him—to give him that look you always did when he was a boy, the one that pulled every secret from him without you having to ask twice. Instead, your gaze drops to where his fingers remain curled around yours.
"Of course," you say softly.
Jace realizes he is still holding your hand. He should let go, he thinks distantly, but instead, his thumb glides along your knuckles once, lingering, before he finally forces his fingers to loosen. The loss of your warmth leaves his palm strangely cold.
"We'll see you there?" Luke asks from beside him.
You wink at him. "Of course."
You glance at Jace again, an unreadable expression on your face, Jace's lips part to question you, but then your hand comes up, fingers briefly smoothing one of his dark curls away from his forehead. Jace's breath hitches, smile freezing.
"Go," you tell him fondly. "Before your mother sends someone looking for you and blames me for your absence.
He swallows thickly and then inclines his head obediently, "Yes, muña."
Jace turns away before he can do something foolish. Luke has the decency to wait until they have crossed half the yard before speaking.
"You are hopeless."
"Shut up."
————————————
Jace has spent the better part of the last fifteen minutes pretending not to watch the doors, nodding along absently to whatever Baela is saying beside him while his attention strays toward the entrance every few breaths.
You are late.
Not late enough to warrant the growing impatience twisting inside his chest, but late nonetheless, and every moment that passes where you remain out of reach only serves to further agitate the restlessness that has plagued him since the moment he saw you again.
"Can you please stop tapping your foot?" Baela finally asks, letting out an exasperated puff of air as she glances at Jace.
He immediately gives frowns at her, confused, and then she looks down pointedly at Jace's left leg, rapidly bouncing against the floor. He stills it immediately, face flushing slightly.
"I have yet to eat today," Jace lies, because he does not want to admit that he's antsy waiting for your arrival. "I'm merely hungry."
Baela rolls her eyes as she takes a sip from her goblet, and Jace gives her an indignant look, because what is what supposed to mean?
"I'm sure," she agrees dryly, "because it is food you are waiting for to come through that door."
Jace blinks once, lips parting in offense, but he does not get the chance to question her before Luke snorts and agrees, "It is not food he is hungry for."
Jace gapes, face hot as he stares at Luke in sheer disbelief, but Baela and Rhaena burst into laughter as though they know exactly what Luke is talking about, and Jace feels the distinct urge to sink into his seat. Did he tell them? Did they already know? How obvious was he being about it?
He spares a glance over to the opposite side of the table where the Queen and the Hand sit with Aemond and Helaena. Alicent is looking directly at them—so is Otto—and neither appears particularly amused.
Jace's stomach drops. The Queen's brows are drawn together in suspicion, gaze moving slowly between Jace and the rest as though attempting to decipher what could possibly have been said that inspired such an outburst. Beside her, Otto raises his chin slightly, eyes narrowed in that calculating way Jace remembers all too well from Driftmark as he watched the accusations of Jace, Luke, and Joffrey's legitimacy finally be given life.
They could not have heard, surely. Luke had spoken quietly, and the distance between them was too great for his voice to carry over the conversation filling the room.
Still, Jace sits up straighter. "Stop laughing," he hisses through clenched teeth, but it only serves to make the three of them laugh harder. Jace exhales hard, shaking his head before he straightens in his seat and looks away, doing his best to ignore them.
He's about to drive his foot into Luke's shin when the doors finally open again, and Jace's heart thuds painfully in his chest as his gaze cuts toward them just as you enter the room. There is an unsettlingly dull expression on your face when you walk in, and Jace's brows furrow slightly in confusion until you seem to shake your head and the expression off of your face right with it.
Your lips curl up into a smile that is distinctly bland compared to the ones he's used to as his mother and Daemon rise to their feet to greet you.
Aegon is with you, Jace realizes bitterly—it does not hurt as much as it did to see you in the training yard with him. He expected him to walk in with you when he saw that Helaena and Aemond had already arrived with their mother and grandfather, but he still does not like it. Maegor and Maegelle trail closely behind the two of you, dressed in fine reds for supper, and the sight of them manages to soften some of the irritation tightening Jace's jaw, because Maegor immediately brightens at the sight of him, waving his hand in a quick greeting.
You exchange a few quiet words with his mother before ghosting your lips to her cheeks, and Jace finds himself watching your face closely, trying to catch another glimpse of that strange expression you had worn upon entering the room. What was that? Are you unhappy? Are you only pretending to be content? Jace cannot tell, and it is gone now, carefully tucked away beneath smiles and pleasantries.
Then your eyes find his, and the smile changes, warming and softening in that familiar way that makes his heart flutter. Jace is on his feet before he realizes that he has moved, taking one of your hands in his.
"Muña," he greets softly, pressing a kiss against your cheek, lingering perhaps a heartbeat longer than necessary before forcing himself to straighten. "Ao jurnegon gevie."
You look beautiful.
He is wistful as he looks over you, a tight feeling in his chest as he looks over the deep red gown you wear. The velvet fabric hugs your figure, spilling elegantly against the floor, and Jace cannot decide whether it is the gown that makes you radiant, or you simply are yourself—for he is fairly certain he would have found you the most beautiful woman in the room even had you arrived dressed in plain linen instead.
You smile at him lightly, a pleased expression on your face as your gaze roves over him once. Jace is giddy from it—he has always preened beneath your praise, seeking out that particular look of pride in your eyes. Even now, perhaps especially now, some part of him still desperately wants to impress you, to do something—anything—that might make you look at him as though he is everything you hoped he would become.
"Emā issare gūrēñare aōha Valyrio," you murmur. Jace loves the way High Valyrian sounds rolling off your tongue—it is musical and natural in a way he has never been able to make it sound on his, much as he tried. "Iksan biare."
You have been practicing your High Valyrian. I am glad.
"Hen rhinka," he replies easily. Of course.
He is still holding your hand, he realizes, pressing his luck and letting his fingers ghost up along the inside of your wrist just to feel the way your pulse flutters beneath his touch. Do you want him the way he wants you? Jace cannot tell, but the slight quickening beneath his fingertips sends a dangerous flicker of hope through him nonetheless.
"Mother!"
You both startle. Jace's hand falls away from yours as Maegor suddenly appears at your side, entirely oblivious to the moment he has interrupted. He does not have to look at Luke to see the disbelief plain on his face, and he does not dare glance over at Aegon or Aemond—or worse, the Queen or the Hand—to see their reactions to what just transpired.
It is fine, he tells himself. He was only greeting you.
The boy reaches for the back of your chair with both hands and pulls it out with such enthusiasm that the wooden legs scrape loudly against the stone floor. Once he's pulled out the chair, he stands beside it tall, gesturing proudly toward the seat.
"For you, mother."
Your lips curve up into fond smile. "How gallant of you, byka dārilaros. You are such a gentleman—your father could learn from your lead."
Maegor positively beams, and you reach down to smooth a hand over his silver hair before leaning forward to press a kiss to the crown of his head. The boy bounces on the balls of his feet beneath your affection, eyes wide and adoring as he looks up at you, and your lips curve up as you stroke his hair gently before nodding in the direction of the two empty chairs near Luke.
"Go on. You and your sister are sitting beside your cousin tonight. Be sure to torment him properly."
Luke gives you an alarmed look, but you only wink at him in response. Maegor grabs Maegelle's hand and drags her over to the empty seats, already reaching for Luke's arm and babbling about a story you read him last night. Jace snorts and looks over at you, breath catching slightly at the soft expression on your face as your gaze lingers on the two of them for a moment longer.
You finally begin to sit, and Jace moves without thinking, giving the servant waiting to push your chair in a sharp look to back off. His hand catches the back of your chair, gently pushing it forward beneath you so that you can sit properly at the table.
You turn your head to the side to look up at him, smiling lightly. "Thank you, mandianna."
"Of course," he murmurs, pleased with himself—until he feels someone staring at him, that is.
His gaze lifts to your opposite side, where Aegon has taken his seat. He is watching Jace with narrowed eyes—the amusement from earlier in the day long gone. For a long moment, neither prince looks away. Jace's hand remains on the back of your chair, and Aegon's gaze drops pointedly toward it, then back up at Jace.
Jace understands the message perfectly, but he tightens his fingers around the carved wood instead, stubborn, until Aegon tilts his head and straightens in his chair, irritated. Then Jace gives him a pleasant smile and releases your chair, moving to take his own seat beside you.
Maybe Luke was right—this is a dangerous game. But as he settles into the chair at your side, close enough that the sleeve of his tunic brushes lightly against your gown, he finds that he cannot bring himself to regret it in the slightest.
"I am a gentleman," Aegon finally complains, leaning his elbow on the table, head resting in his hand as he gives you a lazy smile.
"You are neither gentle nor man, valonqar," you drawl, leaning back in your seat to look at him. "I could not think of a word less fitting if I tried, and my vocabulary is vast."
Jace cannot even bring himself to feel pleased by your insult, because there is a casualness in the way you tease him that tells him this is familiar. The type of insult born from years in one another's company, where neither party has to wonder whether the other will take offense.
Aegon only grins. "How cruelly my own wife wounds me," he sighs. Then his smile sharpens, eyes meeting Jace's instead of yours—Jace is so focused on whatever Aegon is about to say that he almost forgets to stand as the kingsguard carries his grandsire through the door to sit at the center of the table. Aegon continues quietly, "Though you know better than most that I am very much a man, and as I recall, you rather prefer me when I am anything but gentle."
"Aegon the Crude," you roll your eyes and mutter.
Aegon winks at you and says in response, "Aegon the Generous. At least, that is what I have been told."
Jace flushes immediately, gaze averting to the side, trying to focus as Alicent leads a prayer and his grandsire begins a toasts to his brother and Rhaena's betrothal and failing miserably.
He hates the image that Aegon's words conjure almost as much as he hates the man for deliberately putting it there. You beneath him, back arched as Aegon's hands roam where Jace aches to place his own, his mouth tracing the bare skin of your throat while his body presses yours into the mattress, you panting his name as he stretches you open, silver instead of brown, pale, unblemished skin instead of sun-kissed freckled.
His stomach twists. The jealousy is vicious, burning through his veins with enough force to make him want to reach across the table and wipe that smug expression from Aegon's face. Under the jealousy is something far worse—hotter, more shameful, awakened by the very image he wants desperately to banish from mind. Because the thought of Aegon with you is unbearable, but the thought of you—
That is the problem. He cannot picture you in such a state without imagining himself taking Aegon's place. His hands, his mouth, his body, his name, his hair. Is that how you like it? he cannot help but wonder, tongue darting out to wet his lips.
Whenever Jace has imagined being with you—far more often than he would ever confess, one hand wrapped around his cock, head tilted back against his bed frame—it had always been different. Slow and tender, he would take his time with you, kissing you as though he has eight lost years to make up for, touching you with a reverence bordering on worship. He has imagined your arms wrapped around him and your forehead pressed to his, breathy words exchanged in the darkness as the two of you lost yourselves in one another.
But maybe that is not what you want. Maybe you prefer something less tender.
He swallows thickly, warmth creeping higher beneath his collar as the question takes root. What would you want from him, then, if tenderness alone would not satisfy you? His imagination betrays him at once: his chest pressed firmly against your back, his mouth at your ear, one hand sliding up to curl around your throat as he holds you close to him. He imagines turning your face toward his, mouth finding yours messily, panting, gasping, soft moans and ragged cries of his name.
Would you like him that way? Is that what you would want from him? He has never pictured it happening like that, but he could do it, he thinks—he could do anything you want, be anything you want.
Jace shifts in his seat, exhaling hard through his nose as he tries to focus on what his grandsire is saying—he should be ashamed, having thoughts like this at supper while you are sat at his side, oblivious. What is wrong with him?
Once he is certain that his mind is clear of the disgraceful images circulating through his head, he dares to spare a glance back at you. You are leaning back in your seat, head tilted back slightly so you can look up at the ceiling, looking as though you would rather be anywhere else.
It is horribly rude, he thinks, fighting a smile, considering your father, the king, is across from you, attempting to address the entire table, and you have apparently decided that whatever intricacies decorate the ceiling are infinitely more deserving of your attention.
Then, his gaze traitorously slips down the slope of your neck. He catches himself before it can wander any farther, eyes snapping dutifully back to your face, but the damage is already done. His mind drifts back to where he had only just freed it from—to the weight of his hand there, palm curved against your throat, thumb resting beneath your jaw.
Jace swallows thickly, suddenly wondering whether you would still look so carelessly bored then. Whether that distant expression would finally disappear as he leaned close behind you, breath warm against your ear, and demanded your attention in full for himself. He catches himself before his mind can go down another spiral.
What the fuck is wrong with him?
Then, your eyes slide sideways and meet his. Jace immediately realizes he has been caught staring and flushes. One of your brows arches. You ask silently, what?
Jace shakes his head quickly, jaw tightening. Your eyes narrow, and he looks away. He sees you tilt your head curiously from the corner of his eye, and then, he feels your foot brush against his ankle beneath the table.
His entire body goes rigid, gaze snapping toward you. You are still watching him, curiosity flickering in your eyes, and Jace knows that this was an innocent touch. You were only trying to get his attention after he so pointedly looked away from you—he should move his leg away and that should be the end of it, but… but instead, something reckless takes hold of him.
He inhales deeply before he shifts his leg beneath the table until his knee presses against yours. Your brows lifts, and his heart pounds as he waits for you to pull away. You do not.
Emboldened, Jace lets the contact remain, the length of his leg resting deliberately against yours beneath the cover of the tablecloth. It is such a small thing—hardly anything at all, really—but with the thoughts that had been consuming him only moments before, the warmth of you against him feels unbearably intimate.
He wonders, do you think anything of it? Is the reason you do not pull away because this is no different from the countless casual touches you shared when the two of you were young? Or is there some small part of you that is as aware of the contact as he is? That feels the warmth of his leg pressed against yours, that knows there is a distinct lack of innocence behind the touch, but you do not move away because, perhaps, you want him close too?
Jace turns his attention forward as though nothing has happened, and from the corner of his eye, he sees you glance down toward the tablecloth and then back at him.
"You know," Aegon suddenly murmurs, leaning over you to address Jace. Jace's heart skips a beat, wondering if he noticed the contact hidden beneath the table, but Aegon's gaze betrays nothing. "It's a shame your younger brother was betrothed before you. I'd rather hoped that marriage might finally afford you the opportunity to discover what it is like to share a woman's bed."
Jace scoffs under his breath, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. He glances at Aegon, and then his gaze drifts toward you—you are staring forward, face refusing to betray whatever thoughts are running through your mind with his leg pressed to yours the way it is.
Jace finally looks up at his uncle with a faint curve of his lips and asks easily, "What makes you think I haven't discovered it already?"
Your attention immediately snaps toward him, brows furrowed and gaze sharp, and Jace is thrown off momentarily by the intensity in it. There is something there, he realizes—surprise, certainly, but something that looks suspiciously like displeasure flickers across your face before you manage to smooth it away.
His pulse quickens. Are you jealous?
The thought is so hopeful and self-serving that he immediately tells himself he has imagined it. Why should you care whether he has shared another woman's bed? You are married—you have been married for eight years. Surely, you cannot expect him to have spent all that time—
Well, he has, but you do not know that.
Aegon catches a laugh before he can make a scene while the king is still speaking, grin sharpening as he looks at you pointedly and then tilts his head to the side to look at Jace more head on. "Oh? Have you now? Has our lovely little nephew wet his cock at last?"
Jace drags his attention from you with considerable effort and says, "I don't recall my private affairs being any concern of yours."
"They aren't," Aegon says easily, leaning back in his chair with a grin. "I am merely curious."
"Then remain curious, uncle."
"And let us toast to Prince Lucerys as well," his grandsire says, a tired smile on his face as he lifts his goblet to Jace's younger brother. Your gaze drifts over to Luke briefly, and he forces himself to follow, giving his brother a small smile when he sees how he stiffens beneath the attention of the full room. "The future Lord of the Tides."
Jace races his cup to his brother, ignoring as Aegon's grin widens when he leans in again. He can feel your gaze still fixed upon the side of his face, far more distracting than anything your husband could possibly say.
Then Aegon murmurs to you, "See, wife. It seems your perfect little prince may not be so perfect after all."
Aegon sounds openly bitter, and you make a noise in the back of your throat—a scoff or a laugh. Jace pauses. Your perfect little prince. The words warm some silly, childish part of his chest. Do you really talk about him, praise him, so much around Aegon that your husband is resentful over it?
Then he hesitates. Does the thought of him seeking pleasure in another woman's bed sit uneasy with you because, somewhere in your mind, Jace is still the sweet little boy you raised years ago? Or does it disturb you because you do not want him in another woman's bed at all? He finds himself deflating slightly, because one option is far more likely than the other. He needs to know.
Your eyes flick toward him, and he holds your gaze this time. There is an expression on your face that he cannot decipher. Something about it makes him feel strangely guilty, any delight he might have felt over the prospect of you being jealous trickling away.
It is absurd. He has done nothing. The entire insinuation is a lie of his own making, a careless remark offered only because he refused to let Aegon embarrass him. Yet suddenly, Jace feels as though he has disappointed you somehow—as though the perfect little boy you have apparently preserved in your memory all these years has returned to you a man, and, within the span of a single evening, revealed himself to be just as capable of vice as the brother you married.
Except he is not, he wants to tell you desperately. There have been no women. There has only ever been you.
His attention drifts to the side when the low murmur of conversation around the table begins to fade, the scrape of silverware against plates quieting as his grandsire struggles to his feet to speak. Jace reluctantly tears his gaze from you.
"It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table," Viserys begins, voice strained with exertion, breath shuddered. "The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other in the years past."
He hears you make a noise in the back of your throat, leaning back in your chair again as you share an unreadable look with Aegon. Jace hates it, fingers tightening in his lap as he wonders what passed between you in that single glance—what understanding eight years together has afforded the two of you that he cannot hope to decipher.
Then, your leg shifts against his. He thinks you might be pulling away, but you only press the side of your leg harder against his. Jace's breath catches, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales, gaze cutting to the side, but you are still looking at Aegon, talking to one another without speaking.
Was that an accident or intentional?
"My own face… is no longer a handsome one, if indeed it ever was," he distantly hears his grandsire continue, but his pulse is roaring in his ears again, throat bobbing as he tries to figure out if he should press his luck. Would it be too much to shift his leg beneath yours, to nudge your feet apart, spread your legs a little just to see how you react? The thought alone sends a wildly inappropriate rush of heat through him. "But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king… but your father, your brother, your husband… and your grandsire. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer among you."
Would you startle and pull away, finally realizing there is nothing innocent about the game he is playing beneath the table? Or would you let him? Would you glance at him with that same unreadable expression and leave your legs parted at his behest? How far will you let him go before you stop pretending not to understand what he's doing? Or have you already?
Gods, has he lost all sense? His grandsire is speaking of his death, of a house broken nearly beyond repair, and Jace is sitting at his table contemplating how far he might push the boundaries of your affection before you finally push back. Shame burns hot across his face, and he forces himself to remain perfectly still, ridding himself of all thoughts to slide his foot between your legs to nudge your knees apart.
"Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts," Viserys continues, his labored voice drawing Jace's attention forward again. "The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly."
Jace hears you inhale, looking away from Aegon at last, and his gaze drifts back to you. The boredom gone, along with whatever had passed between you and your husband, and you stare at your father with something far more complicated written across your face. Jace watches as your jaw tightens and brows furrow as you look down at the empty plate in front of you.
In Jace's defense, when his hand settles on your thigh beneath the tablecloth, he really, really does mean it only as comfort.
But your entire body stills and everything between the two of you changes. Jace feels it happen in the span of a single hitched breath—the moment the touch ceases to be innocent, when the warmth of his palm against your leg, fingertips pressing into the plush skin of your thigh, becomes something neither of you can reasonably mistake for the affection of a nephew comforting his aunt. His fingers remain perfectly still, but every nerve in his body is suddenly alive and tingling.
He does not dare to look at you now, attention pinned ahead as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, heart pounding in his chest, pulse roaring in his ears.
Somewhere beyond you, his mother rises to her feet. He distantly hears her speak of Queen Alicent, hears the scrape of a goblet being lifted, and the answering murmur as Alicent stands in return. The entire table seems to be listening as the two women raise their cups to one another after years of tension and resentment. Jace hears almost none of it.
His fingers tighten around your thigh slightly, accidentally, really, but when you still do not bat his touch away, his hand slides up slightly, thumb stroking over the fabric of your gown. Your breath catches again as you stare ahead, lashes fluttering slightly, and Jace's stomach clenches, heat rushing downward so quickly that he has to stop himself from shifting in his seat.
Then, Aegon rises. Jace watches warily as the prince steps out from his chair, subtly drawing his hand back into his lap. Aegon makes his way around you in Jace's direction, moving with the lazy confidence of someone already well into his cups. He stops behind Jace's chair and bends slightly, obnoxiously reaching across the table for the wine.
"I see it, you know," Aegon murmurs beneath the swell of conversation. Jace goes rigid. "The way you look at my wife."
Jace's jaw flexes as he forces himself not to react to Aegon's words. He stares ahead blankly. He cannot afford to lose grip of his temper—not here, not ever, but especially not here with the Queen and the Hand and both of his uncles watching him keenly for any and every mistake.
"Like a loyal hound, aren't you? Ten years is rather impressive," Aegon says quietly with a widening smile. "If you're so desperate to know what she's like, I'd be willing to give you a demonstration sometime. Save you all the trouble of wondering what pleases her."
Jace is on his feet in an instant, fist slamming so hard against the table that conversation silences and all eyes swivel to him.
"Jace," Baela hisses quietly, eyes wide.
"Don't," you say under your breath, quiet enough that only he can overhear.
On the far end of the table, Aemond rises to his feet slowly, head tilted to the side as though daring Jace to raise a hand to Aegon. For one terrible moment, Jace wants to. Damn the consequences—he'll put his fist into Aegon's jaw and knock the smug smirk right off of his face. He does not care that he'll walk right into the trap—angry and reckless, humiliated before the entire family—not if it means getting to watch him stumble back, bruised and bloodied.
Then, his gaze drops down to you, and he sees the severe expression on your face, expression hard and gaze sharp with warning. Jace exhales hard through his nose, glancing back slowly at Aegon.
The older prince grins shamelessly, leaning back again—the audacity to look amused as though he had not just spoken of you like some common whore whose intimacy could be displayed for another man's entertainment. He has never deserved you, Jace thinks furiously. Jace would never talk about you like this to another man, would never treat you with anything less than the devotion you deserve. It is infuriating that Aegon gets everything Jace has ever wanted and does not even have the decency to be appreciative of it.
Jace presses his tongue to the inside of his teeth, forcing the white-hot fury at bay as he smiles, strained. He says at last, "You should mind your cups, uncle. It is only the beginning of the evening, and you are already speaking in twisted tongues."
Irritation flashes across Aegon's face; he barely withholds a roll of his eyes, realizing that not only is he not going to get the reaction he wants, but Jace was able to get in a public dig at his drinking habits. Jace's smile is a little less forced and a little more mocking as Aegon makes his way back to his seat.
Then, his gaze shifts down to you. Your eyes meet his, and you tilt your head to the questioningly, wondering why he's still standing. He holds his hand out to you and murmurs, "Would you do me the honor of a dance, muña?"
"Yes, yes," his grandsire suddenly says, leaning forward and waving his hand. "The music."
You give him a small, indulgent smile before placing your hand in his and allowing him to help you to your feet. Your husband has settled back into his chair, sipping at his refilled goblet, but the careless amusement from moments before has vanished. His eyes follow Jace as he steps closer to you, releasing your hand only to settle his palm against the small of your back.
Jace hold's Aegon's gaze momentarily as he guides you away from the table, and he cannot help the faint satisfaction that curls in his chest—childish and vindictive and spiteful, but he does not care.
Behind him, another chair scrapes against the floor. Baela calls brightly, "Helaena—cousin. Dance with me?"
Jace glances back in time to see Helaena blink in surprise before a hesitant smile spreads across her face as she rises to her feet, lifting her skirts slightly as she shuffles over to Baela.
Maegor and Maegelle are quick to steal Rhaena, working in union to each grab a hand to drag her out of her seat, despite her vocal protests and pleas for her father and Rhaenyra and you to get them to release her. For the first time that evening, laughter begins to spread naturally around the table, and Jace turns his attention back on you, lips curled up into a small smile.
Your smile matches his as you say with a short laugh, "The last time we danced, you were half the height and I led."
"Well," Jace says, voice lower than he intends. "I am a man grown now. Perhaps it is time you let me take the lead."
Your brows lift, and Jace realizes what the words sound like only after they have already left his mouth. Heat creeps up the back of his neck—perhaps it is time you let me take the lead. After his lingering touch at your thigh and the thoughts that had plagued him at the table—wondering how you like to be touched, what you might want from him, what it would be like to take you in full—the words suddenly sound far less innocent than he intends for them to be.
Did you hear it too?
He cannot tell. The corners of your mouth curl upward, and Jace swears he sees something knowing flicker in your eyes before you question, "And what makes you so certain I would enjoy letting you do that?"
His pulse jumps. Surely that was intentional, wasn't it? You could have phrased that a hundred different ways that did not sound so—
Is he just reading too much into it? Jace cannot tell and it's driving him crazy. He swallows thickly. There is still time to retreat—to laugh it off and make some jest about how much his dancing has improved since he was a boy—but instead, he lifts his chin slightly.
He leans his head in slightly. "You should give me the opportunity to prove myself," he replies, finding himself growing bolder. "You might find I have learned a great deal since you last had me in your hands.
Your gaze searches his face for a moment before you tilt your head in acquiescence and step closer, allowing him to guide you into position.
"Very well, mandianna," you murmur at last. "Show me what you have learned."
Jace's heart pounds. He cannot tell whether the conversation is still about dancing.
The musicians start the opening of the song, and Jace takes your hand properly in his, his other settling at your waist as he leads you into the first steps. He remembers enough not to embarrass himself, thankfully, despite the fact that he has hardly danced at all over the last few years, but he is far too conscious of you to focus fully on the rhythm—your palm is warm against his, and you let him guide your body as he pleases.
"There," he says when you follow him through a turn without resistance. "This is not so difficult, is it?"
Your eyes narrow playfully. "Do not become arrogant, Jacaerys. You have only just begun. I'm hardly impressed yet."
Jace's mouth curves upward. Bolder, he says, "Then I suppose I shall have to pace myself, so that I may keep going until you're satisfied."
You inhale sharply through your nose, gaze more calculating now as you stare at him. His heart pounds as he waits for you to reply, because there is no ignorance to the twofold meaning to his words this time.
"Careful, mandianna," you murmur. "Someone might misunderstand you."
Jace's hands tightens at your waist as he pulls you closer for the next step of the dance. He lowers his voice as he says, "That depends entirely upon what you believe I meant."
You squint at him, and Jace slows with the music as the kingsguard prepares to return his grandsire to his chambers. He stands at your side, one hand still resting lightly on your mid back, as they gather around the king's chair and carefully lift it from the floor.
You both incline your heads dutifully as they carry him past, remaining silent until the guards disappear beyond the doors. Jace feels you draw a slow breath beside him, the playful tension between you momentarily forgotten as you stare to where your father had left.
You tell him quietly, "You are testing your luck, Jacaerys."
"Am I?" he questions, searching your face. Is this your way of warning him that his attention is unwanted, an attempt to draw a boundary he has been too blinded by hope to see? Or is it the opposite? The not knowing is enough to drive him mad. "Then let me know where my luck ends, muña. Speak with me tonight."
He hates that it comes out pleading when he was going for confidence.
You let out a soft puff of air, but before you get the chance to give him an answer, Aemond slams his fist against the dinner table and rises to his feet, cup in hand. Jace startles at the noise, glancing at Luke, who is still sitting at the table and looks closer to frightened fawn than man, and realizes he must have done something to set off Aemond. Jace stiffens, hand dropping from your back as he braces himself for whatever is about to be said.
"Final tribute," Aemond drawls,raising his cup to Luke and then to Jace. Baela and Helaena pause from where they were dancing around each other, laughter fading. Even the twins share a look with one another, slowing in their chaotic dance with Rhaena. "To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… Strong."
"Aemond," Alicent says carefully.
Jace exhales hard through his nose, fists tightening at his side as he tilts his head. He knows what Aemond wants—the knowledge should make it easier to ignore him, but somehow, it only makes the anger worse. Only hours ago, Vaemond had stood before the entire court and called his mother a whore, naming Jace and his brother bastards. His body has scarcely grown cold, and now Aemond stands beneath the same roof, moments after his dying father pleaded for unity, as he renews life to the accusation.
Aemond's lips curl up into a smug smile as he continues louder.
"Come," he announces, louder this time, ensuring that every person in the room hears him clearly, "let us drain our cups to these three Strong boys."
He should let it go. He should not give Aemond the reaction he wants.
"I dare you to say that again," Jace says before he can stop himself, raising his chin as he stares at Aemond.
Aemond raises his eyebrows with faux innocence.
"Why? It was only a compliment." Jace feels your fingers close around his wrist the moment he starts to move forward, and for a fleeting second, the touch stops him from doing something he cannot take back. Then Aemond meets his eyes directly and asks, "Do you not think yourself Strong?"
Jace tears his wrist from your grasp and drives his fist into Aemond's face before he can think better of it. Pain bursts across his knuckles, but the satisfaction Jace expects never comes. The moment his fist connects, the room erupts around him. Chairs scrape hard against stone as Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Alicent rise to their feet. Aegon slams Luke's face hard into the table when he rises to help Jace. Someone shouts Jace's name, telling him to stop. The twins scream in surprise. Jace hardly hears any of it, lunging forward again, only to be yanked backward.
"Enough, Jacaerys," you hiss, fingers digging hard into his bicep as you pull him back, shoving him hard when his gaze flits above your shoulder back to Aemond.
He turns toward you, chest heaving, because why is it he that you are telling enough? It is Aemond who started this, Aemond who all but called him and his brothers bastards for all to hear, Aemond who stands there smugly. Betrayed, he wonders, how could you take his side? Was he misreading everything after all? The shared look with Aegon, his arm around you in the training yard, entertains both brothers—
"Take Maegor and Maegelle back to their chambers," you say coolly, "before you make this worse than it already is."
For a moment, he can only stare at you in disbelief. He knows you are right to an extent—he is making a scene, and the last thing his family needs right now are more whispers circulating about them. Somewhere beneath the fury and betrayal, he knows it perfectly well, but the dismissal still burns with Aemond standing there watching, bloodied mouth curling into the start of another insufferable smile.
Then Daemon steps forward, gaze meeting his momentarily, as though daring him to defy you, before he steps between him and Aemond, his attention turning to the older prince instead.
Jace scoffs, looking away, and just as he is about to turn on his heel to leave, you reach out again, thumb pressing briefly against his pulse. You lean in this time as you speak, voice low enough that only he can overhear what you say: "You and I will talk later."
His anger falters, gaze searching yours before he finally nods, swallowing his pride and whatever protest is left lingering on his tongue as he obeys without argument.
————————————
Jace stands outside your door for nigh an hour trying to work up the courage to knock.
Ser Steffon Darklyn watches him with open curiosity from where he stands vigilant at your door. Every time Jace throws a vicious glare in his direction, the man averts his gaze back to the sprawling corridor leading to your chambers, and then he returns to observing Jace, not moments later, the next time he lifts his hand to knock and drops it back at his side.
Is it true? Do you favor Aegon and Aemond now? Have years away—
"My prince," Ser Steffon finally says, clearing his throat, and Jace's gaze lifts to the older man, cold. "Would you like me to announce your arrival to the princess?"
A sharp no is about to fly off his tongue when he hesitates, glancing at the door to your apartments one last time before he nods once, raising his chin and looking away.
He ignores the amused expression on Ser Steffon's face out of courtesy for you, because he knows that you have long favored the man for being the first to indulge your requests to learn the sword.
Ser Steffon knocks politely twice before he pushes the heavy door open and says, "Princess, the prince Jacaerys has been waiting outside your chambers for some time now. Would you see him?"
Jace flushes hot and fast, all courtesy for you disappearing as he glares wildly at the knight's back, because there was no reason for him to say he's been waiting for some time.
"Oh," he hears you say. The anger drains into nerves instantly as he raises his chin and stiffens slightly. "Let him in."
Jace exhales hard through his nose, gaze flicking up as Ser Steffon inclines his head before stepping to the side to allow Jace past. He gives the older man a serious side eye as he steps forward, but Ser Steffon ignores it, letting Jace into the room before shutting the door behind him.
Jace knows exactly what he's going to say: he's going to demand to know why it was him and not Aemond you told to back down earlier, he's going to ask if you are happy, he's going to tell you to let him know where his luck ends as you promised at supper.
Then, his gaze meets yours and you are wearing thin, silk night slip at your vanity, a platter of fruits before you, and every thought drifts away like dust in the wind. His lips part as he stares at you—the soft black fabric inching up your thigh, the strap threatening to slide down your shoulder, the way you tilt your head to the side curiously when you see how his pupils are suddenly blown wide as he stares at you.
Aggravation hits him just as swiftly as desire, because were you really dressed like this for that kingsguard of yours to see? Jace flushes hot as he looks around wildly before his gaze falls upon a robe draped over your dresser, he grabs it furiously and then tosses it at you.
"Put it on," he hisses. He hates the amused look you give him as you rise to your feet and slide the robe of your shoulders. It is hardly better, but Jace can actually bring himself to meet your eyes now. He demands, "You let your sworn shield see you dressed like that?"
You tilt your head. "It is not my fault you came to me when I was getting ready to sleep. I waited for you for three hours, mandianna—I resigned to bed because I figured you were upset and would not come."
Petulantly, Jace crosses his arms and raises his chin as he asks, "And why would I be so upset that I would not come?" simply because he wants to hear you say the answer.
You tilt your head with an amused smile. You say easily, "Because I sent you to your chambers after Aemond antagonized you."
Jace instantly points at you, vindicated. "And tell me, why should I be the one chastised when it was your half-brother who purposely reignited the rumors that were just put to question not hours before?"
"Because the realm expects more of you, Jacaerys," you say dryly without hesitation, taking a seat on the edge of your bed and motioning for him to join you. Jace falters at your words, shoulders slumping slightly, feet shuffling against the burgundy carpets as he makes his way over to you. "These rumors will be ignited and snuffed continuously throughout your life and reign. Do you plan to strike every courtier who dares reference your strength?"
Jace's eye twitches. "If they mean it as a slight concerning my—" His jaw tightens over the word parentage, unable to force it out. He finished simply, "Perhaps."
When you immediately give him a sidelong glance, he bristles in defense. He demands, "Do you think I forgot that you, yourself, said that we would meet such accusations with dragonfire, and you chastise me for striking?"
You raise your eyebrows, hand lifting to grab his chin firmly. Jace silences beneath your touch, breath catching when he feels how the blunt tips of your nail dig into his cheeks.
"No, you stupid boy," you say sharply. Jace thinks he should be offended by the insult, but he can hardly focus on anything besides the feeling your fingers hot against his skin and the fact that beneath the robe he handed you, you only wear a thin night slip. "I said that I would meet such accusations with dragonfire. You cannot afford such—”
You do not finish whatever you're about to say, hand dropping back to your side with an exhale, but Jace can imagine, swallowing thickly as he remembers your fury following the prank he, Aegon, and Luke played on Aemond. Shame coils low in his gut as he looks away.
"I should not have struck him," he finally says quietly, "but he deserved it."
You huff out a laugh through your nose. "He deserved far more than a strike," you say at last. "He is insolent. Alicent coddled him after what happened in Driftmark. He has become insufferable."
Jace hates the familiarity with which you speak of him. It makes his stomach turn, sourness building in the back of his throat. It is he and Luke and Joffrey you should be speaking of with such familiarity—not your half-brothers.
You do not even know Joffrey, Jace realizes, a lump in his throat. You do not know his favorite color or his favorite story, that he dislikes sweets and has taken to High Valyrian better than Jace ever did. You do not know Joffrey, or Aegon, or Viserys. It is not fair—none of this is fair.
"He is a prick," Jace mutters.
"That too," you agree, and Jace cannot help the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips as he looks down.
You rise to your feet. Jace's gaze shifts up questioningly, but you're making your way across the room to a table, you lift a flagon of wine and then look over your shoulder at him, lifting it and motioning toward him. Jace hesitates before he nods—you have never offered him wine before. The last time he remembers, Aegon had tried to slip him some as a joke at Lucerys's eighth nameday celebration, and you had slapped the back of his head so hard that his uncle had nearly cried.
"I have grown fond of it over the past few years," you say absently as you turn two goblets right side up and fill up both generously. "Wine, I mean. The gods know the twins drive me to it."
Jace is grateful for something to begin with, because he had struggling with how to approach the conversation he wants to have. He fixes his posture as you finish pouring the glasses and make your way back over to him.
He says, "They have grown." He winced at the observation—it has been eight years, obviously, they have grown. "You—" He cuts himself off abruptly, unsure how to phrase what he realizes he's about to say. Finally, he finishes, "You appear to have a good relationship with them."
I hate them sometimes, he remembers you crying to his mother nearly a decade before when Jace was not supposed to be listening. I wanted to love them the same way you loved Jacaerys—
You hum lightly as you pass him his goblet, and he fights a shiver when your fingers brush his. You do not respond right away, sitting back down carelessly at the top of the bed, relaxing back against the pillows.
Jace's throat spasms as he swallows a large gulp of the sweet Arbor Red. He has sat in bed with you hundreds of times before, but never with this type of intimacy—always two children curled up with one another, now you are both adults, sipping on wine, close enough to feel the heat on one another's skin. His chest is tight with nerves.
He could imagine this—life with you, life like this. Returning to his chambers after long days at court to you lounging in your robe against the pillows, smiling when you see him, a glass of wine in hand and another poured for him. He wants it desperately—more than he has ever wanted anything in his entire life.
"Children do tend to grow in eight years," you reply dryly as you take a long sip of your wine, not acknowledging the second half of his statement for a long moment. After what feels like an eternity, you finally smile wryly and tell him, "I struggled the first few years—to be a mother for them, that is."
"You were only a child yourself," Jace notes quietly. "You cannot be blamed."
Something softens in your face at his words—he wonders if anyone has ever acknowledged that beside his mother, or if they had simply placed two infants in your arms and expected you to be a mother for them, as though bringing two children into the world had somehow made you cease to be one yourself. Jace hates it—the idea of you being alone, struggling, drowning beneath expectations and exhaustion and no one around you willing to do everything Jace would have done without hesitation had he been allowed to be there.
"I was angry at them for a time," you admit after a long silence, staring into your wine. "I knew it wasn't their fault deep down, but I was—I was so weak after they were born, Jacaerys. I could barely walk without someone helping me. I could not climb stairs without feeling as though I might collapse. I could not ride. I could not fly. Zūgaxes would call for me, and I could not even get to him."
Jace knows this, but he doesn't dare interrupt you, gaze focused on the pinched corners of your mouth and the way your gaze lowers to your dark sheets.
He remembers seeing you at Driftmark during Lady Laena's funeral, remembers the way you could barely hold yourself up, the way your dresses were hanging from your shoulders, what you said to his mother when you thought the two of you were alone. He remembers the weariness in your eyes and the exhaustion plain on your face when you thought no one was looking, but he was always looking at you.
"Everyone kept telling me how fortunate I was," you continue, exhaling through your nose as you look away. "Two healthy babes. A son and daughter. They would place them in my arms and tell me how much I must love them, how happy I must be, and all I could think about was everything I could no longer do."
He wants to reach out for you. His fingers twitch in his lap as he holds his goblet carefully. Your free hand is not too far away—he could take it in his, entwine your fingers, squeeze it lightly.
I'm here, he wants to tell you, and if you want me to stay, I won't leave again.
"I tried to leave them behind and fly to Dragonstone once—after the birth," you tell him, drawing him from his thoughts. His hand settles back in his lap as his gaze lifts to the heavy expression on your face. "I did not even make it to the Blackwater before I fell unconscious upon Zuzu. I hadn't even been strapped in properly, because my fingers weren't strong enough to clip myself in. I would have fallen to my death had he not sensed when I lost conscious and turned around. I think I knew it was a risk when I was climbing atop him. I think a part of me would have preferred it."
He does not think you mean to say that last part aloud, because your expression immediately twists, and Jace feels sick. The wine he just sipped threatens to come up as he imagines you alone in the sky, barely conscious and too weak to properly secure yourself. What would have happened if Zūgaxes had not been able to get you back safely? Before he can stop himself, he imagines your hands slipping from his saddle, your body falling through open air. He imagines his mother receiving word on Dragonstone, and him—
"Do not say that," he whispers, jaw so tight that it is almost painful. "Do not say you would have preferred to die. I—I cannot—I do not want–"
Jace does not know a life without you. His first memories are of Vermax's green scales and the warmth of your arms around him. You have been the center of his life for as long as he can remember, and he has loved you just as long. You are as essential to him as air, water, food—there has never been a version of his world in which you did not exist somewhere within it, even during the two years of silence before Driftmark.
He would think of you every day, crying incessantly into his mother's skirts, demanding to know why you would not answer his ravens, what he had done to make you stop loving him. Rhaenyra would hold him while he sobbed himself sick, rubbing his back as he clung to her and begged her to bring you back. It had hurt, and not in the vague, aching way that people often spoke of missing someone, but in a way that manifested physically. His chest ached until it became difficult to breathe, and his stomach turned whenever he thought too long about the possibility that you had forgotten him. More than once, his mother had summoned Maester Geradys because she had been convinced Jace was falling ill. Those two years had nearly ruined him; he cannot imagine an eternity without you.
"Please," he finally says quietly, unable to even bring himself to meet your gaze. "Just—"
"Come here, mandianna," you murmur.
Jace comes without need for any more prompting, eyes sliding shut as you take the goblet from him and place it on your bedside table. Then your arms are around him, and Jace folds into you with a quickness that is more instinctual than anything else. For a fleeting second, he is ten years old again, small enough to bury himself against you and believe nothing terrible could happen as long as you held him tightly enough. His arms wind tightly around your waist, face pressing into the crook of your neck as you draw him closer, one hand settling against the back of his head.
He breathes you in—the familiar lavender and the faint trace of wine—his throat is painfully tight as he sinks into you.
"You have always been so sweet," you sigh into his hair, gently combing through the dark curls at the back of his neck, nails scratching his scalp lightly. Jace can hardly keep his eyes open as he presses his forehead to your warm skin. "So terribly sensitive."
Jace's eyes snap open as he pulls back just enough to frown at you, indignant. "You just spoke of—" He cannot finish the sentence, shaking his head as he protests, "I am not sensitive."
"Mm," you say, and you clearly do not believe him from the amused smile on your lips. "Of course not."
The amusement in your eyes is mortifying, suddenly painfully aware that he is still clinging to you with his face tucked to your neck. He releases you reluctantly, clearing his throat as he sits upright.
"You do not sound as though you believe me," Jace scowls, looking away.
This is not how this was supposed to go. He had come here determined to make you see him differently. He had spent the entire evening testing the boundaries between you, trying to prove that he was no longer the little boy who followed you everywhere and pretended to be asleep so you would carry him around. He wanted you to look at him and see a man—a man capable of protecting you, loving you, satisfying you, a man worthy of being called your husband.
Instead, within half an hour of entering your chambers, he has nearly cried in your arms. Wonderful.
"Pouting does not befit you, mandianna," you tease, leaning in to press your lips to his temple briefly before you reach for the goblet of wine you put to the side so that you could comfort him. He reaches for his own too, desperately in need of something to numb the embarrassment he feels. "Anyway, it has been a long time since then, Jacaerys. You do not need to worry; I do not feel that way anymore."
"What changed?" he asks you quietly, not daring to ask the question he really wants to know: are you happy now?
You stare at him inexplicably for a moment, as though you do not know how to answer, and then you smile lightly and turn your back to him, shuffling through the drawer near your bed to pull out two pieces of parchment.
The one you first show him is familiar—his cheeks heat up when he recognizes the drawing you set before him. He had forgotten it, or, rather, he had simply assumed it had been discarded years ago. The parchment is faded now, worn and yellowed with time, but the childish figures drawn across it remain unmistakable.
You stand at the center, a mess of scribbles and a big smile. Luke stands on one side of you and Jace stands at the other, both of them holding your hands with arms so long that it would be unsettling in reality. Rhaenyra and Laenor are squeezed into the remaining space, Rhaenyra little more than a head with an enormous crown and legs beneath her, and Laenor drawn absurdly tall, his smile taking up nearly half of his face. Above the five of you, several messily drawn dragons circle beneath a violently yellow sun.
Jace vaguely remembers making it. He and Luke had found you crying in one of the gardens after you thought everyone had gone to dinner. Neither of them had understood why, and you had wiped your face the moment you saw them, insisting nothing was wrong, but Jace had known better, so he and Luke had disappeared into his chambers armed with parchment and charcoal to make a gift for you.
Luke had drawn himself and Laenor, and Jace had drawn himself and Rhaenyra. They had argued terribly over who would draw you until Luke accidentally snapped his charcoal in half and solved the matter entirely. He remembers presenting it to you with Luke and telling you the same thing you had told them both dozens of times before: it is okay to be sad, so long as you are never sad alone.
"You kept this?" he asks with what he intends to be a laugh, but comes out too weak. "After all this time?"
"Of course," you say quietly, an unreadable expression on your face as you stare down at it. "Whenever I felt alone, I would take it out and remind myself that somewhere, there were people who loved me enough to draw me wildly disproportionate." Jace laughs, swallowing thickly as he looks up at you, heart fluttering at the soft expression on your face as you stare down at the picture. "It made me smile, even when I was sad."
He wants to reach out for you again, fingers twitching at his side. After a moment's hesitation, he does, slipping his hand into yours and entwining your fingers. His pulse pounds, half expecting you to pull away, but you do not, squeezing lightly as you finally show him the other piece of parchment.
"That's—" he begins, surprised, cutting himself off.
It's a replica of his and Luke's drawing, except a bit more sloppily drawn with two more tiny figures wedged on either side of you, each with a wild scribble of silver hair and big smiles.
"Maegelle said that I only smiled when I was looking at your drawing," you say quietly. "She and Maegor did not even know who any of you were then—I… I rarely spoke to them outside of when it was absolutely necessary. They only knew that these people made their mother happy, and they decided if they added themselves to the picture, perhaps they could make me happy too."
Jace does not know how to reply to that, staring down at the two little figures crudely squeezed into the new version of the drawing. He imagines the two children studying the first drawing, trying to understand why a bunch of scribbled strangers they had never met could make their mother smile when they could not, and rather than resent those strangers for possessing some piece of you that remained beyond their reach, they had simply decided to join them.
"I was awful to them, Jacaerys," you admit, voice breaking, and Jace hates seeing you like this. Hates seeing you sad. Hates the reminder that you have spent ten years alone, suffering, and he was stuck across the Blackwater, unable to do anything about it. He wants to wipe away your tears and hold you close the same way you did for him for years, but he doesn't know if you would let him. "When Maegelle cried, I would hand her off to Melynda and tell her to leave the room until she stopped crying. When Maegor reached for me, I would walk away. They didn't understand why I kept pushing them away, no matter how hard they tried to be near me, and they still only ever wanted me to be happy."
"Are you?" he finally dares to ask, voice little more than a breath. "Are you happy?"
You stare at him for a long moment, lips parting as though to answer, but no words leave them. Jace's heart is pounding again. What answer does he want to hear? Selfishly, he thought he wanted you to say no, so that he could be your knight in shining armor, your prince from a fairytale who would swoop you off your feet and carry you off to a brighter future.
Now, he isn't so sure, because the idea of you being unhappy for a decade, forced to content yourself with life so that you do not climb back onto Zūgaxes's back, knowing you might fall, makes him terribly sick.
"I love the twins," you finally say, thumb pressing over the little silver-haired figure that Jace assumes is Maegelle, if only because the hair is slightly longer than the other. "Even when they drive me mad. I have Zūgaxes. I can fly again. I can walk without someone hovering behind me—most days at least. Some days are still… difficult."
But are you happy? Jace wonders, a treacherous flicker of hope stirring inside him when he realizes you didn't mention Aegon.
"And Aegon?" he finally asks. His uncle's name tastes bitter in his mouth, and Jace feels your fingers tense between his. He watches you carefully, thumb stilling against your hand. He forces himself to press, "What of him? Does he make you happy?"
There it is again—that calculating expression you had worn earlier when his double-meaning words edged on too plainly spoken. Jace feels as though he has stepped onto dangerously thin ice, but instead of retreating, he finds himself leaning closer.
"Does he treat you right? Does he love you?" he murmurs, watching your face carefully. "Does he make you feel wanted?"
"Jacaerys," you start to say, voice low with warning.
Jace is undeterred. Perhaps it is the wine you gave him, the light buzz finally reaching his head, giving him all the confidence he needs to press the subject, or perhaps he is just desperate after having been plagued with uncertainty all day and all evening, but he cannot bring himself to back down.
"It is a simple question," he tells you quickly.
"No," you say quietly. "It is not."
His heart begins to pound. "Tell me," he insists. "Tell me that he loves you as he should. Tell me that he makes you happy. Tell me that you have never wanted for anything from him."
"This is none of your business," you tell him firmly, slipping your hand from his instead of answering. His skin tingles where yours had once been flush against his, and Jace's throat bobs as he tries to figure out what to do—should he press? Should he drop it? "You have no right to question me about my marriage."
"Why not?" he asks boldly, making his decision the moment he sees that dull expression from earlier in the night briefly cross your face again as your gaze flicks away.
"Why not?" you echo, giving him a disbelieving look.
"Yes," he says, agitated and unrepentant. "Why shouldn't I care whether or not you are happy?"
"That is not what I said," you sigh, shaking your head. "You are being deliberately obtuse."
"Then why don't you answer my question?"
"Because I do not owe you the details of my marriage, Jacaerys."
"I'm not asking for the details."
"Then what are you asking for?"
"I am asking for a simple answer," he tells you, reaching for your hands again, taking them both in his. He shifts onto his knees and leans in slightly, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Tell me. If he loves you, if he makes you happy, if he gives you everything you want, then it is an easy answer. I will never ask again."
It is a lie—he knows it the moment the words leave his mouth. He would ask himself every day for the rest of his life. He would lie awake wondering whether Aegon had touched you gently that evening, whether he had made you laugh, whether Jace might have had he been in his position instead. He would torture himself with knowledge that another man possessed everything Jace has wanted since he was old enough to understand wanting at all.
But he would leave you alone. If you told him that Aegon made you happy, Jace would bury whatever foolish hope had begun to take root inside of him today. He would accept that whatever he wanted from you could never be his and content himself with whatever place in your life you were willing to give him.
"What does it matter?" you finally ask him, shaking your head. He can see your defenses dropping in real time as you consider his question, a hopeless expression settling over your face as you look away from him again, but you do not pull your hands back. "What would it change, Jacaerys? If I told you that this marriage isn't what I'd wished, what would you do with that answer?"
Jace stares at you, and for one terrible moment, his mind goes completely blank of all of things he would do, everything that would change if you would just tell him what he needs to hear.
"Everything," he finally breathes out, pulse pounding, breath unsteady as his fingers tighten around yours. "I would do everything. Anything. I would—I could make you happy, muña."
"Jacaerys—" you start to say.
"I could," he insists. The words come louder this time, almost frantic, as though if he can only make you understand, everything will suddenly become simple. "I know I could. I know a part of you still looks at me and sees the boy I was when you left, but I'm not. I know I could be what you need."
"You do not know what you're saying," you say, shaking your head, but Jace's grip on your hands tightens. He shifts closer, desperate, knees pressing against yours as he tries to force you to hear him. "Jacaerys—"
"I do," he insists. His chest rising and falling too quickly, every shred of caution he possessed earlier in the evening abandoning him now. He has spent hours wondering how far you would let him go, months preparing for this moment, years fantasizing it. He cannot hide it anymore. He breathes, "I would be good to you. I would make you feel wanted. I would make certain you never have to wonder whether you are loved. I would never speak of you the way he did tonight. I would never treat loving you as though it were some burden I had been forced to carry."
Your lips part as you stare at him. He is so close to you that he can almost feel your breath on his lips, can see the way your pupils widen ever so slightly as you stare at him.
"I would choose you. Every day, I would choose you," he tells you softly, hands tightening around yours. "So tell me, what I am supposed to do, how I am meant to sit beside you and watch you be unhappy when I know—when I know that if you would only just let me—" He stops, swallowing hard. "I could make you happy."
You pull your hands away from his, and Jace feels cold, rejection spreading like ice through his veins as you shake your head and rise from the bed, stepping away from him.
"You do not know what you're saying," you say again, quieter.
Distantly, he recognizes that there is a distinct lack of conviction in your voice, that it seems more like you are trying to convince yourself than him, but it does not quell the rage that suddenly rises in his chest.
You still see him as a child.
"I am not a child anymore," he hisses, frustrated, rising to his feet, quick and angry.
"I did not say you were."
"You do not have to," he snaps, following you when you turn away from him. He grabs your wrist and forces you to face him again. He can feel your pulse hammering beneath his fingers when they circle your wrist. "You still look at me and see the boy who I was. I want you to look at me and see me."
"Jacaerys," you say, pleading for him to listen. "It would not change that I am married. It would not change that Aegon is my husband. What is it you want from me?"
"You," he answers before he can stop to think if maybe there is a better way of phrasing this. You stare at him, expression unsettlingly blank. "I want you. Gods, what do you think I have been trying to tell you?"
You swallow thickly, lips parting, but Jace barrels on before you can shut him down.
"I know that you are married." His voice rises with his frustration. "I know he is your husband. I know all of it, and I have spent years knowing it, and it has not made me want you any less."
"I do not know what you expect me to do."
"I don't know either!" The admission bursts from him, raw and almost angry. Jace drags a hand through his hair as he turns away for half a heartbeat to take in a shuddered breath before facing you again. A part of him had thought that once he confessed what he felt for you, everything would fall into place—that you would know what to do, as you always have."I don't know. I thought—I don't know." He laughs once, shaking his head, breathless and bitter. "I thought if I told you, perhaps I would know what came next. Or you would. Gods, I don’t know. But I cannot keep pretending that it does not ruin me to see you with someone who does not deserve you. To stand there and watch him take for granted what I have wanted for as long as I can remember and act as though it does not tear me apart. And then tonight—everything I felt before it was worse—stronger—because he was insufferable, and you kept looking at me like—" He stops himself, shaking his head. "You let me touch you. You knew what I meant when we danced. You knew what I was doing."
"I should have stopped you," you rasp, voice weak, catching over the words. "I—"
"But you didn't," Jace interrupts, taking a step closer, taking your hands in his again, "why didn't you?"
You stare at him so helplessly that Jace knows your answer without you even having to say anything.
"Muña," he breathes , trying to get you to listen to him. "Let me make you happy. Please. Kostilus."
Your eyes are wide, lips parted around a breath that never seems to come, and Jace waits, heart beating rapidly in his chest. He waits for you to tell him no, waits for you to order him from your chambers and finally draw the boundary he has spent the entire evening recklessly searching for.
You do none of those things. Instead, his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your gaze drops to his mouth. It is only for a heartbeat, perhaps less, but Jace sees it nonetheless, and whatever remains of his good sense abandons him entirely.
It all happens too quickly, all that desperate courage he has gathered over the course of the evening propels him forward before he has the slightest idea what he is doing. His nose bumps awkwardly against yours, and his mouth catches the corner of your lips instead of landing properly upon them.
Jace freezes, mortification washing over him. Neither of you moves for a horrible second, and he thinks, humiliated, that of all the ways he imagined this moment over the years, never once had he considered the possibility that he might fuck it up.
Then, you inhale sharply, turning your face toward his just enough that your lips brush his, and Jace stops breathing. His world narrows to that single point of contact between the two of you.
His hand rises to your cheek, trembling as his palm settles against your warm skin. This time, when he closes the distance, he does it slowly, eyes remaining fixed upon yours until his mouth presses to yours, your lips soft and sweet against his own. He braces himself for you to pull away, for you to tilt the lower half of your face out of reach. You do not.
Jace kisses you properly now. It is still too clumsy for his liking. He cannot figure out how to pace himself for the life of him. Too hesitant at first, then too eager when the realization finally crashes over him that this is you beneath his hands, your lips against his. He can taste the wine on your tongue, and the fruit from the platter you were picking at before he arrived.
Years of longing and an entire day of restraint unravel in the space of a heartbeat as he tilts your head back to kiss you deeper. His other hand finds your hip by instinct, drawing your body closer to his, and your breath hitches against his mouth. Jace kisses you until his lungs burn and his head feels light, and even then, he kisses you still, terrified that the moment he stops, you will send him away.
"I am sorry," he breathes when he is finally forced to part his lips from your, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged as he tries to catch it. He does not know what he's apologizing for. Kissing you? He is not sorry for that, and you certainly know it from the way he's holding you. His eyes are wide and searching as he tries to figure out where your mind is at. His thumb strokes helplessly along your cheek, gaze dropping back to your lips. "I should not have—I only thought you—"
His words dissolve into a low moan in the back of his throat when you press your lips against his this time. Jace's whole body feels hot and shaky. Your hands find his waist, and his lashes flutter when your lips move slowly against his, easing them open so that you might trace your tongue along the inside of his mouth.
Jace wonders if he is dreaming—a pleasant, wine-induced dream, and he would wake up in the morning hot and aching desperately for you, cursing himself for allowing his imagination to conjure something so terribly convincing.
But then your fingers tighten on his waist, and you pull him closer until his slim body is flush to yours, and Jace knows that it is real because no dream has ever felt like this before.
A shuddered breath escapes him against your lips, something between disbelief and relief, and whatever hesitation had seized him moments before disappears. You are kissing him. You are kissing him. He had stopped, apologized, given you every opportunity to push him away, and instead you closed the distance yourself.
He has imagined this dozens, hundreds of times before, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of having you like this, of having your lips on his, feeling your chest heaving and pulse pounding. Jace is dizzy with need—it is not enough, he has to have you in full.
His hands lift to your face, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head back as he kisses you again. A second time. A third. Needy and eager, you can hardly keep up with him, hands curled around his tunic, holding him close as he presses his mouth to yours like he wants to devour you. It is not enough.
"Muña," he breathes into your mouth, pulling your body closer so that he can feel you flush to him. He walks you backward until your back hits the cool stone wall of your chambers, and his lips slide messily from yours to your cheek, along the line of your jaw until he can kiss down your throat. "I just want you to be happy. I want to make you feel good."
The words aren't meant to come out as desperate as they do, pleading, begging you to just let him help you be happy, but you shiver against him all the same.
"Jacaerys," you gasp, breath hitching as he slides your robe off your shoulders, letting it drop to the ground at your feet. He lets out a low moan into the skin of your neck, fingers toying with the thin strap of your night slip. "I—"
"I will stay, if you'd let me," he continues, lashes fluttering as his teeth graze your collarbone. One hand lifts to entwine with your hair so he can tilt your head back gently, kissing back up the line of your throat until his lips hover above yours, eyes searching as he continues, "My mother plans to return to Dragonstone with the rest in the morning, but I will stay. With you. As I promised all those years ago. You only need say the word."
He does not know what the look in your eyes means as you stare at him. He hates that—hates there was once a time where he could look at you and know what you exactly what you were thinking, and hates that the privilege now seems to belong to Aegon.
He kisses you again, harder this time, deeper—if he cannot convey himself in words, he will do it through actions. He will kiss you hard enough that anytime you kiss another, you will only think of how perfectly his lips slotted against yours, deep enough so that you will taste him on your tongue when your husband tries to take your bed.
He lets out a low moan into your mouth as he drags his tongue along the roof of your mouth, the inside of your lips, gliding along your tongue. It is messier than he has imagined it in times past—when he would fist his cock pretending your lips were on his, he was kissing you slow and careful. Now, spit slicks around his lips and yours, and each breath of his is wet and ragged. He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth and rolls it between his teeth.
It is not enough, he thinks, kissing sloppily down your neck again, arms winding around your waist. He needs more.
"Jacaerys," you breathe his name again, and his gaze lifts to your face.
There is a haziness to your eyes that drives him crazy, a need that is only reflected in his own.
You want him, he thinks, inhaling shakily as his fingers bite into the skin at your waist. You want him as desperately as he wants you.
Before he can lose his courage, his hands slide up the curves of your body to shift the thin straps of your nightslip over your shoulders. His throat bobs, breath not reaching his lungs as he leans back just enough to watch as he lowers the slip from your body. The fabric catches briefly on your arms before sliding lower, and Jace's hands still, eyes sliding shut.
For all the times he has imagined this, he suddenly finds himself terrified to look.
It is ridiculous. He has conjured half a hundred different versions of you in the privacy of his chambers, pieced together by his traitorous imagination, but none of those fantasies had ever accounted for the sheer enormity of actually standing before you now. Of being allowed to see you. Of knowing that when he finally lowers his gaze, it will no longer be something imagined.
"Mandianna?"
His eyes reopen at last, and all the breath leaves his lungs in one fell swoop.
You are beautiful. The thought is almost painfully inadequate. He steps forward just enough to reach out for you again, fingers skimming along the bare skin of your waist, the curve of your hip. He has always known you were beautiful. He knew it when he was young and possessed no understanding of why he couldn't stop himself from giggling and hiding his face whenever you smiled at him. He knew it when he would have fits of irritation whenever a bard implied any noble lady other than you was the most beautiful woman in the room. He knew it in Driftmark, even when your eyes were tired and your body was weak and everyone around him said you looked closer to corpse than woman. He knew it when he saw you in the throne room earlier today, and for one humiliating moment, he had forgotten how to breathe. This is different.
"Gods," he whispers.
You tilt your head. "Is something wrong?"
"No." The answer comes so quickly that you laugh, and Jace flushes. "No, I—"
He fumbles for words. His hands continue their absent exploration, tracing the lines of your body with reverence. His gaze flicks up to your face, searching for the slightest sign you want him to stop, but you remain where you are.
"Iksā gevie," he breathes at last, and your expression softens.
You are beautiful.
Jace leans forward and kisses you again, gentler now. There is none of the frantic desperation from moments before, only the lingering wonder that you are really here, really allowing him to do this.
Then, the moment is ruined.
Aegon has seen you like this. The thought strikes him with enough force that his stomach twists, and he has to tilt the lower half of his face away from yours, parting from you as his jaw tightens. He cannot even relish in the fact that you find yourself chasing after his lips before he catches himself grimacing.
But now that the thought has crossed his mind, he cannot push it away. It sours inside him, curdling the sanctity of this moment.
Aegon has stood where he stands now. Aegon has known every part of you that Jace is only now discovering. Aegon's hands have been dozens, hundreds of times, where his only just touched for the first time. Eight years of marriage in which his uncle has been permitted an intimacy with you that Jace had only allowed himself to dream of.
"What is it?" you ask him, one hand coming up to his chin, tilting his face up so that he is looking at you.
"Nothing."
You tilt your head with an indulgent smile. "Jacaerys."
He exhales sharply through his nose, scowling as he looks away. It is foolish. He has you in front of him, bare and wanting, as he has dreamed, and instead of savoring in the moment, he is allowing your wretched husband to invade it.
"Does he tell you?" he asks you quietly. "That you're beautiful? Does he even know how fortunate he is to call you his wife?"
He would, Jace thinks darkly, if he knew the lengths Jace is willing to go to call you his.
Your lips part as you stare at him. Before you can dismiss the question with another shake of your head, he leans to ghost his lips against yours, relishing in the way you falter.
"Tell me," he murmurs against your lips. "Please, muña. I need to know."
"Enough of this, Jacaerys," you finally say roughly, turning your face away from his. Jace does not mind. He kisses you still, trailing his lips gently along your cheek, to your ear, down the length of your neck, easing the words from you. "He prefers whores. He only comes to me when he has indulged in a cup of wine."
Jace's mouth stills against your skin. He does not know why the words both anger and please him. He is glad that you do not lie with one another as frequently as he feared, you do not seek each other for pleasure as you do in his nightmares, but—but how dare he prefer whores to you? How dare he have the right to call you his wife, the right to your bed, arms, and cunt, and he still seeks out other women? If it were Jace—
If it were Jace, if it were Jace, if it were Jace.
"How often?"
"Jacaerys," you warn, voice low.
"Please, muña," he says again, glancing up at you. "I just want to know."
You relent when he looks up at you with beckoning eyes. You have always been weak for him when he looks at you like that, always struggled to deny him anything when he turns his eyes up to you, wide and pleading—he has taken advantage of it for as long as he could remember, and he takes advantage of it now.
You press your lips together and say, "Often enough."
Jace's blood runs hot. "And when he does?"
You sigh, tilting your head back against the stone, patience waning, and Jace quits while he's already behind, not wanting to risk an argument while you're bare and wanting in his arms for the first time. He busies himself at your neck again, kissing down the length of your throat slowly, fingers stroking the skin at your hip.
"It makes me angry," he admits, voice muffled slightly against your skin as he nips and licks at your neck. He continues lower, lashes fluttering as he trails open-mouthed kisses between the valley of your breasts. "Worse, really. There is no word that can articulate how it feels knowing that mongrel has everything I have ever wanted and treats you with such—" He cuts himself off abruptly, resting his forehead against your collarbone. "I only wish to see you treated as you deserve. I—"
I wish to be the one to treat you that way.
He does not give you the opportunity to respond again, lips finding your skin, mouth wandering lower. He presses lingering kisses along your skin—an apology for every careless touch you have endured because he was too young to do anything when your father handed you off to Aegon. He wants you to understand the difference without having to put it into words—that there is nowhere he would rather be, there is no woman in the world he would prefer to be abed with than you.
Your fingers slip uncertainly into his dark curls when he lowers himself to his knees before you.
"Jacaerys," you say hesitantly, and Jace glances up. The sight of you looking down at him with furrowed brows nearly steals what little courage he has managed to build up. "What are you doing?"
Jace does not fully know himself. The only experience he has comes from the poorly written romances he'd managed to sneak from Rhaena when she wasn't paying attention and the increasingly indecent conversations he had overheard from the men around him as he grew older, boasting crudely over cups of lovers beneath them, thighs closed tight around their ears—the pleasure a man can give with naught but his mouth—but he had always flushed and looked away, feigning disinterest. He wishes now that he had listened more.
Once or twice, he had considered visiting a pleasure house. He had even convinced himself it would be sensible—to learn what he was doing before he ever found himself in the position he is now. But every time he seriously entertained the idea, his stomach turned. The idea of touching another woman, of kissing her, of sinking inside her and pretending it was you beneath his hands, made his skin crawl.
So he has remained hopelessly inexperienced, despite what he might have implied at supper earlier.
"Trust me," is all he says, hoping you cannot hear the uncertainty behind the words. He press another soft kiss against your skin, a second to your inner thigh as he eases your legs apart. He cannot breathe at the sight of your cunt so close to his face, half-convinced this might be a dream. "I just want to make you feel good. Let me try, muña."
He does not wait for you to second guess him, dragging his lips from your skin to the apex of your thighs, warmth breath ghosting over you. Your breath hitches, entire body tensing, and before he can lose his nerves, Jace buries his face between your thighs. His breath hitches the moment his mouth is on you, savoring in the taste of you, the scent of you, the warmth of you. His fingers bite deep into the plush skin of your thighs to hold you still, and Jace's lashes flutter as he drags his tongue between your folds, lapping at you desperately before he presses the tip of his tongue to your hole.
"Oh," he hears you breathe, thighs tensing beneath his touch, hips jerking against his face. His eyes slide shut momentarily as he relishes in the sound of the soft noises spilling from your lips above him—gasps and moans and whines caught in the back of your throat. "I—What—what are you—"
Instead of answering, he shifts one of your thighs so that it rests on his shoulder so that he might bury his tongue deeper inside of you, and you choke on your words. His eyes flick upward, wide and searching, to watch the way your chest heaves, head tilted back against the stone, lips swollen and slick from Jace's own mouth, trying to figure out what you like.
Jace has spent years dreaming of this, he thinks for the dozenth that night. Years imagining the moment he could touch you, hold you, kiss you, lay with you; none compares to having you writhing against his mouth, cunt grinding on his tongue.
How could Aegon ever be with another after seeing you in the throes of pleasure like this? Jace would suffocate between your thighs if it meant he would die with the sound of your pretty moans in his ears.
Unless—unless Aegon has never seen you like this?
Heat rushes low—his trousers have been painfully tight from the moment his lips first touched yours, but he aches now, lungs burning as his hips jerk slightly, rutting against air as he seeks out friction. He parts his lips from your cunt just long enough to suck in a gulp of air to his lungs before latching back onto you, tongue sweeping between your soaked folds, lapping at your slick before he sucks the small little bud at the front of your cunt into his mouth.
The cry that spills from your lips is music to his ears, gaze flying up as your back arches against the wall, hips rocking against his face, your heel digging into his mid-back. The hand you buried in his hair twists at the dark locks painfully, your other scratching at the stone behind you, and his eyes half-roll back at the stinging to his scalp.
There is no way, he realizes, the image of you writhing on his tongue seared behind his eyelids as his eyes slide shut so that he can focus on eating you in earnest. He groans into you, one hand tight around your thigh, the other fisting your ass to pull you impossibly closer. There is no way Aegon has ever seen you like this, had you like this, because if he had, he would never go to another.
Jace is the only one who gets to see you like this.
Jace is the only one who gets to have you like this.
"Jacaerys," you gasp, voice breathy, hitching over his name, thighs trembling around his head. "Please."
Jace's gaze snaps back up toward you. He's panting as he pulls his mouth from your cunt, savoring the keening noise that spills from your lips.
Distantly, he knows that this is reckless. He knows that Ser Steffon is right outside your door, and he can likely hear everything happening behind your doors. He knows that you are married, and he knows the consequences for both of you would be dire if someone walked in while his face is buried in your cunt.
Still, he says hoarsely what you have told him dozens of times before, "Ivestragon ziry drējī."
Say it correctly.
You stare at him, eyes wide and lips parted in disbelief, and a thrill runs through him, grip tightening on your thighs, breath ghosting hot over your cunt. He wants so badly to drown himself in the taste of you again, tongue darting out to lap at the slickness on his lips and chin, but he refrains, waiting.
"Kostilus," you finally breathe out, voice shaky, fingers trembling in his hair. They slip down the slope of his nose, resting on his lips, and Jace's lips part instinctively, lashes fluttering as he takes your two fingers into his mouth. "Kostilus, Jacaerys."
Jace's vision flashes white as he moans around your fingers, hips rutting forward against air again. Your fingers slip from his mouth so he can dive forward again, sloppily dragging his tongue between your folds, fucking it deep into your hole before he kisses messily up your cunt to the sensitive bud that makes you writhe.
He's mortified when his abdomen tightens and his hips jerk one final time, and he recognizes the familiar, sticky warmth suddenly seeping through his trousers, but he's so lost in the taste and feel of you that all he can do is hold you tighter, panting as you grind your hips against his face and he desperately tries to kee up.
You're keening above him, pretty, pitched moans that make him dizzy—because he's making you feel like this. He is. Not your husband, not Aemond, not anyone—only him.
He wants to feel you fall apart on his tongue, wants you to grab his hair and rock your hips against his face, use him—he wants you to use him however you see fit. Take him for everything he has and more.
Jace knows that you are married. He knows he cannot ask you for what he wants yet because he does not know how to achieve it, cannot yet find the courage to tell you how desperately he needs to be the man you choose before all others. He wants to be your husband—he wants to be your husband so bad that it kills him sometimes to know that the path getting there will be a long, difficult one.
But Jace is patient. He has waited a decade to be reunited with you, he will wait a decade more to wed you, if need be.
If this is all you can give him for now, he will take it. He will accept being something can only exist in stolen moments behind closed doors, beneath sheets in the dead of night, in sweat slicked skin and breathy moans, if it means that one day he might have the right to love you openly and call you his wife.
"Hah—" you gasp, thighs trembling on either side of his head. Jace suddenly understands why men always sounded so proud of themselves when they spoke of having their women wanton and writhing on their tongue. He is so drunk off the taste of you, the sound of your pleasure, that he hardly cares that his lungs burn. "I'm—I think—I'm going—"
Jace's gaze cuts upward, jaw falling half slack as he watches you come undone above him. You cry his name, fisting his hair and grinding your cunt against his mouth, and Jace thinks he finishes a second time untouched, cock twitching in his trousers, seed dripping down his thighs.
His fingers loosen on your thighs, thumbs easing circles into your skin as he returns to lapping at your cunt, careful not to let a single drop of you go to waste. His lashes flutter as he dares to suck your bud into his mouth again, only for you to start squirming and tugging at his hair.
"Jacaerys," you gasp, trying to pull your hips away, but Jace follows, tongue swirling circles, dragging between your folds. He dips it back into your hole to feel the way it tightens around him, and his mind goes blank as he imagines his cock in its place. "J—mandianna, stop—hold on, it's too sensitive. Jacaerys!"
Jace only pulls back when your voice sharpens and your heel kicking hard into his back twice, eyes a bit hazy as he looks up at you. Your expression softens at the sight of him. He wonders how much of a mess he must look right now—on his knees before you, chest heaving with every breath, face flushed, lips swollen and chin slick, hair a tangled mess from where your fingers had been tugging it.
One of your hands, still trembling, drops to his face, cradling his cheek gently. You tilt his face up, and Jace leans helplessly into your palm, turning his face just enough to press a kiss to the center of it.
"I meant what I said," he tells you, voice hoarse, eyes searching your face. "I'll stay. You need only say the word, muña. You do not have to be alone anymore."
It would be a dangerous game, he realizes. One day with you—in the throne room, at the training yard, during supper—had been enough for him to nearly expose the two of you before there was even anything to expose.
What would become of the two of you after days of stolen glances and nights spent slipping unnoticed into one another's chambers? How long before his hand lingered where it should not, before someone noticed the way his eyes followed you through every room, before the whispers that already plagued the family found fresh fodder?
Jace watches the same realization cross your face and his heart sinks. Your expression turns distant and calculating as you consider every risk he has been too desperate to care about.
"Say something," he murmurs.
Your eyes meet his again at last. "We will talk in the morning."
His heart sinks. "Muña—"
"In the morning, Jacaerys," you repeat, softer this time, thumb brushing once across his cheek. "When neither of us has wine in our blood, and you have had time to consider what you are asking of me."
Jace wants to protest that he has had eight years to consider it. Instead, he presses his lips to your palm again and nods, rising to his feet so that he might guide you to the bed.
Perhaps it is for the best, he thinks, that despite everything that has transpired tonight, the two of you have not gone any further. His gaze drops briefly before returning to yours.
"We should be careful," he murmurs. "If this is to continue."
Your brows lift slightly. "You have only just discovered caution?"
Jace almost smiles. "I mean it. I will not make the same mistake my mother did." His expression sobers. "I will not put a child in you who bears my face and leave you to answer for it."
Your entire expression changes. "Jacaerys."
He mistakes the sharpness in your voice for offense—perhaps he was being too presumptuous, you could very well tell him this will never happen again come morning. The thought makes his stomach turn violently.
"I only meant—"
"You were not a mistake." Jace goes still, throat bobbing as he stares down at you. "Do not speak of yourself that way—or your mother, for that matter."
Jace makes a bitter noise in the back of his throat—a scoff, maybe a laugh, and then he speaks out loud the words that have haunted him for as long as he's known he does not look like his father. "You cannot tell me that no one thought it. That there was not some immediate disappointment—regret—when I came into the world with brown hair and brown eyes instead of silver and violet."
You have the nerve to laugh at him, and when he shoots you an accusing look, you only grab his hand so that you can ghost your lips to his knuckles.
"Mandianna," you say fondly. "Tomorrow morning, I want you to ask your mother what my reaction was when I saw you for the first time. She will tell you."
Jace falters, fingers tensing against yours as he gives you a questioning look, but you only raise your eyebrows, signaling you will say no more.
He sighs and looks away, "I only mean to say that I do not want my son to go through what I have. Nor do I want you to go through what my mother has."
"I know," you soothe, running your thumb over his knuckles before releasing his hand. "We will talk in the morning. I would ask you to stay, but the twins rise with the sun and enjoy waking their disgruntled father with them, so Aegon tends to appear at my door shortly after sunrise to deposit them here so that he might return to his own bed. I would rather not risk him finding you in mine."
Jace's jaw tightens at the reminder of your husband, hating the domestic image that comes to mind—Aegon with sleep trussed hair and tired eyes, two children at his heel, showing up to your door with a yawn so he might return to sleep.
It should be him, he thinks despondently. It should be him with your children, him who can be with you when the sun is high, him as your husband. Not Aegon.
"Of course," he finally says, voice strained. Then he swallows as his gaze lifts to yours, tone softening as he tells you, "I missed you a lot, muña."
"I missed you too, mandianna," you say quietly. "Go rest. We will figure everything out."
Jace does not think he's going to get a wink of sleep, but he nods anyway, inclining his head slightly before he makes his way to your door.
He takes one last lingering look at you, hesitating when he sees the distant expression on your face as soon as you think his back is turned, and then he inhales deeply before lowering his gaze and leaving your chambers, an ache in his chest that already feels unbearable.
If Ser Steffon heard anything from the other side of the door, he gives no indication of it beyond the faintly awkward look that crosses his face when Jace steps into the corridor, wiping at the lower half of his face.
Jace answers it with a vicious glare before hurrying away.
————————————
"Jacaerys," his mother demands when he finally makes his way to the courtyard, where she, Daemon, his brothers and cousins are all waiting. It is hours past dawn—they were supposed to leave for Dragonstone as soon as the sun breached the horizon. "Where have you been? We've been waiting for you."
Jace's jaw tightens as he walks past his mother without a word to the horse the stable boys readied for him. He has been trying to rationalize your absence for hours. He had waited in the godswood and the gardens, lingered near the training yard and the library; he was desperate to catch so much as a glimpse of your familiar smile. He did not dare go to your chambers.
You had promised. You had sworn to him that you would speak in the morning, and Jace had hardly slept because of it. He alternated between wild hope and sickening dread as he imagined every possible outcome of the conversation awaiting him. He paced the corridors of the keep and stared up at the moon above until his eyes were heavy and circled, but he could not bring himself to return to his chambers.
Finally, morning had come, but you were nowhere to be found. You are avoiding him.
The thought has been festering inside him for hours, growing uglier each time he searches another part of the keep for you. Perhaps sobreity had brought regret with it, he thinks with a lump in his throat. Perhaps you had wakened this morning and remembered his mouth upon yours, his hands against your skin, and realized with horror what you had allowed to happen.
What has he done? He had pushed all evening, testing every boundary you placed before him until eventually there had been none left to cross. He had kissed you. He had put his hands on you. He had—
His stomach twists so violently that he almost retches. What if he had mistakken hesitation for invitation simply because he had wanted you so desperately? What if you only kissed him because you have never been able to say no to him? What if—
"Jacaerys," his mother snaps, grabbing his wrist before he can sit astride his horse. Jace inhales sharply, raising his chin and straightening his shoulders, refusing to turn around until she forces him to. When she sees the expression on his face—the tears wetting his eyes, and the way his lips tremble faintly—fury drains into concern. Her voice softens immediately, hand rising to cradle his face as she asks quietly, "Jacaerys, what's wrong, sweet boy? What has happened?"
Jace swallows thickly, gaze averting up to the sky as he desperately tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He shakes his head once, but his mother is persistent, tilting her head, lips pursed as she waits for an answer.
"I cannot find her," he finally admits, and he hates how small his voice sounds. Rhaenyra's brows draw together, confused.
"Who?" she asks, and Jace gives her a look that makes the question unnecessary. Understanding flickers across her face. "I am sure she is just busy with the twins, Jacaerys. I—"
"She said she would speak with me in the morning," he continues, words coming faster. "She promised me, and I have looked everywhere, and she is nowhere, and I think–" His voice cracks. His lashes flutter as he forces himself to stop and swallow, clearing his throat. "I think I have done something terrible."
"Jace—"
"I should not have pushed her." His eyes squeeze shut. "I should have left things as they were. Everything was finally right between us again, and I ruined it."
His mother stares at him, concern deepening into confusion. "Jacaerys, what exactly did you do?"
Jace stares at his mother helplessly. He cannot very well stand in the middle of the courtyard and confess that he spent half the night with his mouth pressed to his married aunt's cunt while Daemon, his brothers, cousins, and half a dozen stable boys stand within earshot. Rhaenyra's brows furrow slowly, glancing at him once before her gaze draws back to the direction of the keep, a calculating expression on her face.
"It does not matter," he rushes out before she can put two and two together. "It does not matter. I just—I need to speak with her."
Rhaenyra studies him for another long moment, and Jace struggles not to squirm beneath her scrutiny, afraid she can see everything that he had done with you the night before. At last, she finally says, "Then come back with me."
Jace blinks. "What?"
"We will see the others safely to Dragonstone, and then you and I can return on dragonback. If you are so desperate to speak with her, I see no reason you cannot."
Relief loosens the tension in his shoulders. It is not ideal—he had wanted to speak with you this morning, had spent hours imagining exactly what he might say, loathes the idea of not knowing what terms the two of you are on for days on end—but at least he does not have to return to Dragonstone wondering when he might see you again.
"Yes, that—" he starts to say, voice catching. "I would like that."
Rhaenyra gives his cheek an affectionate pat before releasing him, turning to make her way toward the carriage.
"Mother," he calls after a moment, and she pauses. Jace hesitates, remembering what you had told him to ask in passing the night before. Jace shifts awkwardly on his feet, feeling strangely foolish now that he has to ask. "What did muña do when she first saw me?" His mother's eyes narrow, and Jace is flustered, feeling as though he needs to explain the sudden question. He defends, "She told me to ask."
Understanding dawns across Rhaenyra's face, and then she immediately starts to laugh, hand lifting to her mouth to stifle her giggles. Jace flushes the longer she laughs and does not answer, fighting a scowl.
"She wailed," his mother finally says through her a sigh as she calms her laughter. "Quite inconsolably, actually."
Jace stares at her, unsure how this was supposed to make him feel better. "She cried?"
Rhaenyra hums in agreement, and Jace's face falls. She notices immediately and gives him a small, fond smile, tucking a dark curl behind his ear.
"Sweet boy, not because she was disappointed. When I put you in her arms the first time, she refused to let you go. I, too, thought something was wrong at first, because she wept so hard that I could hardly get her to answer me when I asked her why she was crying. Finally, she told me that you were perfect—" Jace's throat bobs terribly, and Rhaenyra tilts her head slightly as she cradles his face again "—her exact words, mind you. Then she asked quite sweetly if she might keep you."
"Keep me?" Jace echoes.
"You must understand, she was very young." Rhaenyra laughs again, hand dropping from his face to adjust Viserys against her shoulder. "She seemed to believe that because I had made you, I could simply make another if I wished. I spent the better part of an afternoon explaining that you were my firstborn son and heir, and no, she could not keep you merely because she asked so sweetly."
Jace cannot help the smile slowly spreading across his face.
"That did not discourage her, of course, spoiled little thing. She does hate being told no. She asked for you again on her next nameday, and the one after that, if memory serves. Every year for quite some time." Jace's ears burn as he flushes and looks away. His mother reaches out to hold his hand gently. He wonders if she understands what prompted you to tell him to ask this, because she gives him a soft smile and says, "She loved everything about you, but your eyes were always her favorite. She used to hold you in the sunlight because she swore they looked like pools of honey when the sun caught them right. I had to tell her to stop more than once. She would have kept you there all afternoon if I let her, and I was afraid the sun would burn you if you were kept out there too long."
"Oh," Jace says quietly, swallowing thickly as he stares down at the ground.
Her expression softens, more serious now as she tells him, "You know, she was lonely before you were born, Jacaerys."
His smile fades slightly, gaze lifting to meet hers. His mother has mentioned this before in passing when he was younger, but never elaborated on it, simply sent him off to go spend time with you.
"I tried to be there for her. I loved her dearly, but I was fourteen years her elder. By the time she was old enough to want someone to play with, I had already grown beyond such things and had courtly duties to attend to." Rhaenyra looks toward the keep, something wistful passing over her face. "She tried to befriend Aegon when she was young—" Jace's expression twists at the mention of your husband. "—but Alicent—the Queen—kept her children away from me and mine, and your muña was always lumped in with us. Sometimes I would find her watching the other noble children in the garden and training yard. They would be running about together, playing their games, and she would simply stand at the edge and watch them."
Jace swallows thickly, voice hoarser than he intends as he asks quietly, "Why didn't she join them?"
"I do not know," Rhaenyra admits. "Perhaps she did not know how. Perhaps she was scared. She was always a little apart from everyone else. You know well that she had her own whispers following her. Many thought she was—" A bitter expression crosses his mother's face. "—thought she was cursed because of the manner she came into this world. The manner in which she claimed her dragon only made people believe it more."
Jace chews the inside of his cheek, chest aching at the thought of you younger, smaller, standing alone as you watched other children laugh together. He cannot imagine it.
For as long as he could remember, you have always been bright smiles and pretty laughter, the difference between a perfect day and a ruined one. He cannot stand the idea of you small and alone, desperate for friends but unable to make any. He thinks of the dulled look on your face as you entered the throne room, the emptiness in your eyes when you first arrived to supper—worst of all, the distant one you wore last night before he left.
He has ruined everything.
"So when you were born," Rhaenyra continues, looking back at him with a small smile. "I was happy for more reasons than one. I had my sweet son, and she finally had someone who belonged to her as much as she belonged to him. I knew that once you were old enough to toddle about after her, neither of you would ever truly be alone."
Jace swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat, head hanging forward slightly. Tears sting at the corner of his eyes again, and he blinks them away before his mother can notice.
"Jacaerys," his mother says quietly, beckoning him to look at her. He lifts his head reluctantly, eyes heavy. "Whatever happened between the two of you, she has loved you from the moment she first laid eyes upon you. There is nothing in this world that will change that."
Except she does not know that, Jace wants to say, fists curling at his side. What if last night had cost him the one thing he had spent eight years desperate to have back? What if, in his selfish desire to have more of you, he had destroyed the chance to simply have you at all? What if—
"She really asked you to give me to her?" he asks instead, voice rough as he tries to joke to change the subject, hoping that his mother does not see the doubt swirling in his eyes.
He thinks she does, because her smile is a bit sadder as she says, "Repeatedly."
"What did you tell her?"
"That she could borrow you." Rhaenyra laughs softly, reaching up to brush an errant curl from his forehead. "I'm afraid she never did learn to give you back. Come, sweet boy, it is time for us to bring your brothers and cousins home. We will return on dragonback soon after."
————————————
"What is the meaning of this?" you demand, slamming your fists against the doors to your chambers. "Ser Steffon—who is out there? Let me out this instant, you mongrels, I will feed you to my dragon if you do not unbar my chambers immediately."
You had woken late to find your doors barred from the outside and Ser Steffon conspicuously absent from his post. At first, you had assumed some drunken foolishness on Aegon's part—a poorly conceived jest that you would make your half-brother regret the moment you were free—but nearly an hour has passed, and no one will answer you.
You pace the length of your room, agitated, furious, terrified. Something is terribly wrong.
Had they figured out what you had done with Jacaerys? Were they locking you in your chambers so you might not flee before they bring you before the High Septon to humiliate you? You would not put it past them—Alicent has always held a particular disdain toward you, and you have been at odds with the Faith ever since the septons tried to convince thirteen-year-old Aegon to let the maesters cut you open to save the twins.
No, if they knew what happened, there would be much more noise. It is the silence that is unsettling. The Red Keep is never silent in the afternoon. You should hear servants rushing through the corridors, bringing meals to the lords who do not wish to leave their chambers, guards changing their watch, absent chatter and laughter. But there is nothing.
"Aegon," you call loudly, slamming your fist against the door, because he had not come by with the twins this morning either. He always comes by with the twins. "Who is out there? Answer me now!"
You press your ear to the door. For several heartbeats, you hear nothing. Then, there is the faint scrape of armor shifting beyond the door, and you tilt your head to the side, stilling as your focus narrows in on the sound.
"I can hear you," you say, voice dropping dangerously low. "Open the door immediately, and I might grant you the privilege of choosing how you are going to die."
"Forgive me, princess. I cannot open the door."
The voice is unfamiliar. Your stomach drops. What is happening? Fear curdles low in your stomach, skin itchy with anxiety. Your gaze flicks from the heavy door to the bars on your window—your apartments are too high to climb from, and there is no way for Zūgaxes to free you lest risking bringing the entire tower down with you in it.
"Where is Ser Steffon?" you demand. "Who are you? Where are my sister and my nephews? Where are my children?"
Where are Maegor and Maegelle? Where are Jacaerys and Lucerys? Rhaenyra, Daemon, everyone else? What is happening? Why are you locked in?
"Your children are safe, princess," the guard says simply.
"Where are they?"
"I have been instructed only to assure you that Prince Maegor and Princess Maegelle are unharmed."
What? Unharmed? Why would they be harmed?
"Instructed by whom?" you hiss, only to be met with more silence. You strike the door again, fury beginning to overwhelm your fear. "Where is my husband? Answer me, you worthless dog!"
"I cannot say."
"My sister?"
Your heart begins to hammer when the guard does not respond. Rhaenyra and the boys were supposed to leave for Dragonstone at dawn—Jacaerys was supposed to leave with her.
Jacaerys, who would be waiting for you. Jacaerys, who you had watched leave your chambers only with the assurance that when the sun rose, the two of you would speak about what had transpired between you and what in the Seven Hells you intended to do next. Jacaerys, who would undoubtedly assume the worst when you did not show.
Your stomach twists as you imagine him waiting somewhere for you, watching the hours pass with no sign of your arrival. You know exactly where his mind will go. He will convince himself that you regret everything that happened between you, that you had woken sober and ashamed and had broken your promise because you could not bear to face him after what you had allowed him to do.
He will think he had done something wrong. The thought makes panic claw at your throat. You slam your fist against the door again, and again, and again, tears of frustration pricking at your eyes.
He had been so uncertain when he left you. He had searched your face for reassurance, and his confidence crumbled the moment you told him the two of you must wait until morning to speak. You should not have sent him away. You do not even know why you sent him away. You had just been—you had been scared.
You had been scared for what you'd done, of what you'd allowed him to do, of how easily you'd forgotten everything else as soon as his mouth was on yours—your husband, children, his mother, the realm. Every consequence that should have been enough to make you push him away had disappeared the moment he touched you, and you'd been terrified of how desperately some part of you had wanted him to stay.
When he offered to remain in King's Landing with you, some reckless part of you had wanted to say yes before he even finished speaking. You'd wanted to pull him into your bed and keep him there until morning, consequences be damned. For one night, you had wanted to forget that you were Aegon's wife, that you have been alone, desperately trying not to drown for a decade, that war was most likely on the horizon and your children would be at the center of it.
So, you had sent him away and told yourself that morning would make everything clearer. Instead, morning has come and gone, and Jacaerys is somewhere far beyond these walls believing you had abandoned him again.
What is happening? Why are you locked in your rooms?
"Let me out," you demand, voice rising, furious, slamming your fists against your door again and again and again. "Let me out! Let me out, let me out, let me out!"
Halfway across the Blackwater, Jace startles from the deck of the ship, head lifting and turning back in the direction of King's Landing as Zūgaxes's distant roar carries over the water. He stares at the distant silhouette of the city, unease prickling along the back of his neck and cannot help but feel as though he has made a terrible mistake by getting on this ship.
Synopsis: A clash of wits beneath the canvas frame, his sudden terror turns to protective flame. She meets his roaring anger with her tongue, but melts beneath his weight before it’s done. His heavy, breathless conquest holds total sway, to claim the slight, sweet swell she risked away.
Warnings: SMUT 18+, Fingering, (Early Stage) Pregnancy, Argument, Dubcon, Male Dom, Protective Fury, Size Difference, Breath Control/Prolonged Kissing, Biting/Marking, Overstimulation, Rough Handling, Power Play, Breast Play, Semipublic Sex, Controlling Behavior
Word Count: 3.7k
A/N: this fic is based on a request & ideas by @fire-joestar 🫶
The heavy velvet flap of the pavilion did not just close; it violently shattered against the wooden stakes as Ormund kicked it shut, the heavy iron-shod heel of his riding boot punctuating his fury with a sound like a small thunderclap.
The air inside the tent was instantly suffocating. It was a sprawling, multi-roomed traveling structure built for the Lord of the Hightower, but the sheer, volatile volume of Ormund’s temper made the canvas walls feel as though they were closing in.
The atmosphere was thick with the scent of unwashed leather, crushed pine needles from the rugged trails, the smoky residue of tallow candles, and the pure, terrifying heat of a Hightower wrath.
Outside, the temporary war camps of the Reach’s vanguard were settling into a quiet, disciplined evening routine. Inside, Ormund was an absolute storm.
”You have the sense of a newborn calf,“ his voice boomed, deep and scraping from the back of his throat, vibrating the very marrow of her bones.
He had not even unbuttoned his heavy, wool-lined traveling doublet. The dark green velvet was stiff, reinforced with thick boiled leather across the broad span of his shoulders, making him look less like a husband and more like a merciless warlord ready to sentence a treasonous garrison to the gallows.
”The rocky banks of the Honeywine? Outside the perimeter of our scouts? In your condition? Do you take me for a fool, or do you simply hold your own life in utter contempt?“
Lying back against a mountain of rich, plush sable and fox furs on the low traveling cot, she did not even flinch. She was a grown woman, fully settled into the skin of her maturity and the formidable reality of her station. She knew exactly how to handle the legendary Hightower temper—not by shrinking, but by anchoring herself like the foundation of the High Tower itself.
Slowly, deliberately, she began to massage her swollen, aching feet. The pregnancy was still in its earlier stages—her belly bearing only a slight, soft swell that was easily hidden beneath the heavy folds of her fine wool skirts—but the sudden shift in her body’s balance had turned what she intended to be a brief, liberating stroll into a grueling, exhausting ordeal. Her ankles were puffy, her skin felt tight with discomfort, and a dull, throbbing ache radiated up her calves from the unaccustomed strain. She was still adjusting to the early, heavy fatigue of carrying his child, an exhaustion that left her breathless far too quickly.
When her foot had caught on a patch of uneven, loose slate near the riverbank, her breath had hitched. It had not been a fall, just a heavy, clumsy stumble that made her back ache fiercely.
But Ormund, who had been riding nearby inspecting the vanguard, had reacted as if a scorpion had struck her. He had dropped from his stallion, his face white with a stark, blinding terror that immediately solidified into raging fury. Before she could even utter a syllable of protest, he had unceremoniously hauled her over his massive shoulder, ignoring her furious demands for decorum. He marched her straight back through the center of the camp in front of half the Reach’s assembled nobility. She had spent the entire walk back swearing under her breath that she would strangle him in his sleep.
”Daeron, sweetling,“ she said, her voice smooth, cool, and entirely cutting through the heavy, masculine roar that filled the pavilion. She did not look at Ormund. Instead, she looked past the towering bulk of her husband toward the entrance of the tent.
Young Daeron Targaryen hovered there, his once pale, silver-gold hair now in the deep auburn of House Hightower. The boy’s hand was white-knuckled on the hilt of his training sword, his violet eyes wide with a genuine, anxious panic. He was a Prince, but he was also a boy fostered in Oldtown, and he had never seen his uncle’s wrath directed so fiercely at the woman who normally served as the calm, steady center of their world.
He looked ready to step between them, his young shoulders tense with a protective instinct he did not quite know how to execute.
She offered the boy a small, deeply reassuring smile, her gaze steady.
”Go find Sir Gwayne. Tell him your uncle requires a cold pitcher of ale to soothe his scorched throat. And remain at the campfires until the sun sets. The air in here is far too thick for a young Dragon.“
Daeron looked at Ormund’s rigid, towering back, then back to her. The absolute, unbothered maturity in her eyes, the sheer calmness she exuded while standing in the path of a storm, was the only thing that gave the young Dragon the courage to move.
Recognizing that his aunt was entirely in control of the situation, he bowed quickly and scrambled out of the pavilion, the heavy velvet flap falling shut behind him with a soft, final thud.
The moment the boy was gone, the fragile truce of public appearance shattered. She turned her sharp wit directly on the beast remaining.
”If you bellow any louder, Ormund, the High Septon will hear you all the way from the Starry Sept,“ she murmured, her voice dripping with a dry, tired sarcasm that she used as a shield against her own deep-seated anxieties. She unlaced the heavy, dust-covered leather of her walking shoe and let it drop to the floor.
”I went for a stroll. I am a grown woman, not a fragile piece of Myrish glass to be locked away in a cedar chest. I wanted fresh air. I wanted to feel the earth beneath my feet because your Maester’s strictly ordered diet of boiled fowl and bland porridge makes me feel as though I am chewing on old parchment. I am suffocating in this camp, Ormund, and I will not be caged.“
”Your feet are swollen to the bone!“ Ormund roared, taking a massive, heavy step toward the cot that made the floorboards beneath the rugs groan. The sheer size of him filled her entire vision—shoulders like an anvil, a chest broad enough to shield three men in his thick velvet tunic.
”You call it a stroll? You call it fresh air? You are carrying my child—the heir to Oldtown, the future of my house! The child is a fresh, delicate thing in your womb, and yet you think it wise to wander beyond the camp guards where a loose stone could send you crashing down? You could have collapsed. You could have bled. You could have–“
”I did not collapse!“ she countered sharply, her own temper finally igniting. She sat up abruptly, bracing her hands behind her on the thick furs, ignoring the sharp twinge of protest from her lower back. She tilted her chin up, meeting his furious, dark gaze with an unyielding fire of her own.
”I slipped! A minor, clumsy misstep because my body no longer feels entirely like my own. And instead of letting me rest, instead of offering me a hand like a husband, you hauled me over your shoulder like a prized stag and embarrassed me in front of our entire vanguard. You made a spectacle of your wife, Ormund.“
She took a sharp, ragged breath, her voice dropping into a deeper, more biting register.
”But we both know you are not truly furious at my fatigue. You are furious because you cannot command the rocks beneath my feet to bow to House Hightower. You are furious because my body, and the life beginning inside it, is the one thing your armies, your wealth, and your titles cannot completely control or guarantee the safety of.“
Ormund stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw clenched so hard that the heavy muscles in his cheek twitched violently.
Inside his chest, a sickening, agonizing knot of pure terror tightened. Her words cut through his anger like a Valyrian steel blade, striking the raw, bleeding nerve he tried so desperately to hide.
He was not just angry; he was terrified. He knew how fragile these early moons were, how easily a new life could slip away before it ever had a chance to take root truly. The birthing bed was a slaughterhouse for noblewomen, a battlefield where his sword, his shields, and his immense physical strength were entirely useless.
The thought of losing her—of his home turning cold, of the light in his life being extinguished while he stood by, helpless—was a nightmare that haunted his every waking hour. When he had seen her stumble on those rocks, his soul had left his body. His anger was the only armor he had to keep from falling to his knees and begging her to never leave his sight.
And yet, the absolute arrogance of her tongue, the complete lack of fear she displayed while staring down his worst wrath, was the very thing that made him worship her. She was his match in every sense—a formidable woman who refused to break. But right now, combined with that lingering, sickening terror, her defiance made something dangerous snap inside him.
The martial wrath did not fade; it ignited into something entirely different, a dark, possessive, and overwhelming heat.
”You think this is a game of wits?“ he growled, his voice dropping into a low, predatory octave that vibrated straight through the floorboards, losing its booming roar and gaining a quiet, terrifying intensity.
”You think I care about the vanguard? You think I care about titles?“
In three slow, deliberate strides, he crossed the remaining distance between them. The sheer, predatory gravity of his movement made her pulse hitch, a sudden, heavy throb of anticipation blooming deep between her thighs. But as his strong hands reached down to grab her waist, she did not shrink back into the furs. Her own frustration, her own need to push back against the suffocating walls of his hovering protection, boiled over.
Using his forward momentum and her own unyielding leverage, she wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers digging into the thick collar of his doublet, and pulled down with all her might. At the same moment, she shifted her weight with a sudden defiance that caught him entirely off guard.
With a low grunt of genuine surprise, the massive warlord stumbled slightly forward. She twisted her hips, leveraging his bulk against him, and pushed him back against the heavy cushions and furs of the cot. In a flash of stubborn rebellion, she dragged her body up, straddling his muscular thighs, pinning his legs beneath her own.
For a breathless, triumphant second, she was on top. She looked down at the Lord of Oldtown, her face flushed, her eyes blazing with a fierce, intoxicating glare of dominance. She braced her hands flat against his heavy, leather-trimmed doublet, feeling the rapid, powerful thudding of his heart beneath her palms.
”I am the Lady of the Hightower, Ormund,“ she gasped out, her chest heaving as she tried to maintain her authority over him.
”You will not cage me. You will not dictate where I walk, and you will never carry me like a beast of burden through your camp again–“
Ormund lay beneath her for a fraction of a second, his massive chest rising and falling beneath her hands. Then, his dark eyes flashed with a sudden, dangerous amusement that instantly melted into pure, suffocating dominance. A low, gravelly chuckle rumbled deep in his throat, a dark sound that vibrated right through his chest and into her palms.
”An admirable effort, my love,“ he whispered, his voice dripping with a raw, protective heat that made her core ache with sudden wetness.
”Truly. But you forget who commands this army. And you forget exactly who you belong to.“
Before she could even register the shift in his muscles, his calloused hands came up, gripping her hips like iron bands. The sheer, effortless power in his arms was staggering. With a single, terrifyingly easy surge of brute strength, Ormund completely reversed their positions. He did not just push her off; he twisted his heavy torso, lifting her entire body and rolling her over in a single, fluid motion.
The world spun for a breathless instant, and then she was flat on her back beneath him, her breath completely stolen by the sheer speed and weight of his movement.
He followed her down instantly, his broad frame safely but completely trapping her beneath him. The sheer physical contrast of their bodies was on absolute display; he was a mountain of muscle and dark velvet, completely enveloping her smaller, softer form.
Yet, even in his primal need to master her, his instincts ruled his movements. He was hyper-aware of the slight, tender swell of her lower belly. He positioned his thick, heavy thighs to flank hers perfectly, taking the brunt of his own weight, and threw his immense bulk onto his elbows, hovering over her so that he pinned her completely without placing any dangerous pressure on her stomach.
The containment was absolute, flawless, and terrifyingly beautiful. She was completely mastered, her brief rebellion utterly crushed beneath his weight.
Her sharp tongue opened to lash him again, to find some way to reclaim her defense, but Ormund was entirely done listening.
He slammed his mouth down over hers.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was a total conquest—a deep, bruising, utterly possessive claim that completely smothered her breath, cutting off her voice before she could form a single word. His tongue parted her lips with a rough, commanding urgency, drinking in the quiet, helpless gasp of shock she let out.
For a woman who valued the deep, intense intimacy of a kiss above all else, the sheer, crushing force of his mouth was intoxicating. It drove out every coherent thought from her mind, replacing her anger with a desperate, clawing hunger.
She tried to turn her head, an instinctual reaction to find a pocket of air, but Ormund’s large hand moved to her jaw. His thick fingers locked her face in place with unyielding firmness, forcing her to take every single ounce of his desperate, terrified passion. He kissed her as if he were trying to possess her soul, as if he could force his own breath into her lungs to keep her safe forever. He kissed her until the air in her chest burned, until her hands stopped pushing against his broad shoulders and instead tangled frantically into the dark, thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down, begging for the very weight that threatened to consume her.
When he finally pulled his lips away by a fraction of an inch, the silence of the pavilion was broken only by their ragged, desperate breathing. Her lips were dark, flushed, swollen, and slick with their shared saliva, parted in a frantic gasp for air.
”You belong to me,“ Ormund snarled against her damp skin, his hot breath sweeping over her burning face. He shifted his bulk slightly, his hand sliding down the front of her gown to rip open the delicate linen laces of her chemise with a rough, impatient jerk. He dragged the fabric down, exposing the slope of her shoulder and the elegant curve of her neck.
”Every breath in your lungs. Every step your feet take on the earth. You do not risk what is mine, do you hear me? You do not terrify me like that again.“
Before she could form an answer, his mouth dropped down to the sensitive juncture where her neck met her shoulder. He did not merely kiss her skin; his teeth grazed the flushed flesh, biting down with a sharp, possessive pressure that bordered on painful.
She cried out, her voice a sharp, breathy gasp. A direct spike of intense, white-hot pleasure darted from the bite straight down to her core, making her lower stomach tighten with a fierce, throbbing ache. His teeth sunk deeper for a second, leaving a dark, immediate mark on her skin—a visceral, burning brand that would remain for days, a reminder of who owned her.
”Let the camp see it tomorrow,“ Ormund muttered against the fresh wound, his voice a dark, rough purr that vibrated against her collarbone.
”Let my knights and the lords of the Reach see exactly what happens when my wife decides to wander beyond my sight. Let them know you are claimed.“
His large hand slid further lower, moving over the rounded swelling of her breasts. His fingers tightly cupping and squeezing the sensitive, aching flesh through the torn linen, completely overwrought by the lush fullness that came with her early pregnancy.
He bunched the ruined fabric in his fist, pulling it down roughly until her breasts were completely bared to the warm, candlelit air of the tent. They were heavy, their nipples tight and hyper-sensitive from the child growing within her.
Ormund let out a low, guttural groan at the sight, his large, rough thumb dragging heavily across one tight peak. She arched off the furs with a sharp, breathless gasp, her hands gripping his velvet sleeves for anchor.
The sheer overstimulation of his rough hands on her aching chest was dizzying. He pinched the swollen bud between his calloused fingers, rolling it firmly, sending a ruthless wave of heat straight down into the heavy, weeping pulse between her thighs. She whimpered, her hips rolling instinctively against his heavy thigh, completely undone by the harsh friction.
”Ormund… please,“ she whispered, her composure entirely shattered, her voice cracking with raw, trembling need. She was entirely at his mercy, her body screaming for fulfillment.
”You are too heavy… I cannot breathe… please…“
”Good,“ he growled, his dark eyes burning down into hers with a fierce, ungodly devotion as his hand moved back up to grab her jaw, tilting her head back.
”Do not breathe. Do not think of the shore, or the diet, or the camp. Only think of me. Only feel what I give you.“
He locked his mouth over hers a second time, renewing the prolonged, suffocating kiss, sealing her desperate whimpers behind his teeth. He starved her of air deliberately, using the restriction of breath to heighten every single sensation running through her nerve endings.
At the exact same moment, his large hand slid beneath the heavy layers of her skirts, pushing through the fine linen and silk until his fingers found the soaked, burning heat between her thighs.
She was already dripping, her body completely betraying her anger, slick and scalding hot.
Ormund let out a dark, approving rumble deep in his chest against her lips as his fingers sank into her wetness. He drove two fingers deep inside her, the thickness of them stretching her engorged walls, filling her so completely that she let out a muffled sob into his mouth.
But he gave her no time to adjust. His thumb found her hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves, burying itself against the swollen bead. He did not tease her, did not offer a gentle prelude; he ground his thumb against her center with a relentless, heavy, rhythmic friction that perfectly matched the brutal, deep, wet strokes of his tongue inside her mouth.
She was completely, utterly trapped. She was unable to move her head away from his locking grip; she was unable to move her hips away from the brutal pleasure of his hand. The sheer restriction of breath from his unbroken, crushing kiss, combined with the explosive, wet heat of his fingers stretching her inside and his thumb ruthlessly punishing her clitoris, turned the pavilion into a blur of pure sensory madness.
Her mind emptied of everything but the burning friction. Her inner muscles clamped down frantically around his fingers, convulsing in tight, desperate, weeping waves as the relentless overstimulation pushed her to the absolute brink of her sanity. She was flying apart, her controlled mind shattered by the primal force of his mastery.
Her eyes rolled back behind closed lids. Her fingers dug into the thick furs beneath her until the fabric tore, her legs trembling violently where they were pinned wide by the immovable weight of his heavy thighs. She tried to scream his name, tried to beg him to stop or to hurry—she was unsure which—but the sound was swallowed entirely by his bruising lips, muffled into a desperate, choked moan that vibrated deep in his own throat.
The prolonged kiss continued, deep and unbroken, holding her right at the precipice of an unbearable peak. The lack of air, the deep fullness of his fingers, and the heavy, unyielding rhythm of his thumb created a perfect storm of overstimulation. Her body could not hold it back any longer.
The climax hit her like a monstrous wave crashing against the stone cliffs of Oldtown. Her body violently convulsed, her internal walls locking down in a tight, crushing spasm around his fingers. She shattered fiercely beneath his massive weight, entirely undone, her hips bucking helplessly against his hand as a brilliant, blinding release claimed her senses. She came hard, her body weeping against his fingers, her muffled cries of pure ecstasy echoing inside his locked mouth.
Ormund held her through the entire shattering wave. He did not lessen the pressure of his thumb, dragging her through every single throbbing ripple of her orgasm, keeping his lips locked tightly to hers until her violent trembling slowly subsided into soft, ragged breaths.
Slowly, mercifully, he pulled his mouth away. A long, thin silver thread of saliva connected their lips in the dim candlelight. A dark, intensely victorious smirk played on his lips as he looked down at her dazed expression, her chest heaving heavily against his broad, velvet-clad chest, her eyes half-closed and unfocused.
The terror that had gripped his heart all evening was gone, replaced by a profound, worshipful calm. Her body was safe, she was here beneath him, and she was entirely his. His thumb gently wiped a stray tear of pure overstimulation from her flushed cheek, his touch suddenly shifting into the deeply tender, reverent care that always followed his fury. He looked down at the woman who ruled his heart, his chest swelling with an all-consuming devotion.
”Next time,“ Ormund whispered, his voice low, gravelly, and fiercely protective as his massive hand came to rest reverently over the slight, warm swell of her belly, his thumb tracing the new life they had made together, ”I will carry you the entire way. You will not take a single step.“
