czennieverse

the scent of peppermint sticks and honey-cakes clung to your dress, a fragrant cloud that felt absurdly out of place here, behind your father’s sweet shop. the air here smelled of damp brick, sour garbage and coal dust. specifically, the coal dust currently smudged on the cheek of haymitch abernathy, who had you pressed against the rough wall, his mouth hot and desperate on yours.

this was your secret. the district’s golden girl, the donner daughter from the town square shop with the pretty ribbons in her hair, and the sharp-tongued seam boy with violence in his eyes and a mocking smirk for everyone but you.

“you taste like sugar,” he muttered against your lips, his voice a low, rasping thing that sent a shiver straight through you. one of his hands was splayed on the brick beside your head, the other firm on your hip, his thumb tracing small, dizzying circles through the thin fabric of your dress.

“is that your way of saying you want more?” you retorted, tilting your head to give him better access to your neck, a thrill running through you at the daring of it. you were playing a part—the spoiled, pretty town girl slumming it—and you both knew it. but the way his breath hitched when you ran your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck? that was real. “it’s my family’s trade. you’re tasting.. proprietary donner caramel, abernathy. a luxury.”

he snorted, a warm puff of air against your skin. “a luxury, huh?” his teeth grazed your pulse point, not hard, but enough to make you gasp. “feels more like a necessity.” he pulled back just enough to look at you. in the dim alley light, his blue eyes were dark, intense.this was the haymitch only you got to see. the one who looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world of plastic capitol props.

“you’re insufferable,” you whispered, but you were smiling, tracing the line of his jaw.

“and you’re a terrible liar, sweetheart,” he murmured, closing the distance again. this kiss was slower, deeper. his hand left your hip to cup your face, his calloused thumb stroking your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your chest ache. you melted into him, the spoiled-girl act forgotten, your fingers curling into the worn fabric of his shirt. this was the truth: the frantic, hidden meetings, the stolen moments that tasted of desperation, the way he made you feel alive.

“ahem.”

the sound was like a bucket of ice water.

you jerked apart. haymitch moved fast, shoving you behind him in one fluid motion, his body a solid, protective wall between you and the intruder.

maysilee donner stood at the mouth of the alley, her arms crossed over her pristine apron. her pretty face, so similar to yours, was a mask of utter, profound disgust. her nose was wrinkled as if she’d smelled something far worse than the alley’s usual offerings.

for a long, terrible second, no one spoke. the only sound was haymitch’s ragged breathing slowly steadying into something cold and controlled.

“well,” maysilee said finally, her voice dripping with a disdain so pure it could have crystallized sugar. her eyes raked over haymitch, from his scuffed boots to his disheveled hair. “i wondered where all the peppermint extract had gone. i should have known it was wafting down here to cover the stench.”

haymitch didn’t move from in front of you. you peered around his shoulder, your face burning.

“maysilee, it’s not—”

“don’t,” she cut you off, holding up a hand. she focused her withering gaze on haymitch. “i suppose i should have expected this. you always were a magpie, abernathy. drawn to anything shiny that doesn’t belong to you.”

haymitch’s shoulders tensed. you felt the anger radiating off him, but his voice, when it came, was deceptively flat. “got something to say, donner? or did you just come down here to work on your capitol-worthy sneer?”

maysilee’s eyes narrowed. she took a step forward, ignoring him to glare at you. “father is looking for you. mayor allister is placing a large order for her town hall party, and he needs you to mind the counter. though, given where your mind currently is…” she let the sentence hang, her gaze flicking back to haymitch with fresh revulsion.

then, she delivered the killing blow. she sniffed, her lip curling. “really, sister. itchy itchy haymitchy? of all the boys in the district? he probably still has lice from the seam.”

the old, childish taunt, so absurd and so perfectly, viciously maysilee, hung in the air.

a sound escaped you. a choked, horrified giggle that you instantly tried to swallow. it was the tension, the shock, the sheer absurdity of your perfect sister saying something so ridiculous in her iciest tone.

haymitch went very, very still. you felt the exact moment the protective fury morphed into something else. his head tilted slightly.

and then, from behind him, you heard it. a low, rusty sound you’d only heard a handful of times. a genuine, quiet chuckle.

“lice, huh?” haymitch said, the smirk audible in his voice. he finally shifted, turning just enough to glance at you. his blue eyes were alight with a wicked, shared amusement. “better check your fancy ribbons, sweetheart. might be contagious.”

you couldn’t help it. the giggles burst out of you, a helpless, unstoppable stream. you laughed at the insanity of it all—caught by maysilee, of all people, while being kissed senseless by the boy you weren’t supposed to want

maysilee looked from your laughing face to haymitch’s smirking one, her own expression shifting from disgust to something akin to furious bafflement. her perfect plan to shame you had backfired spectacularly.

“you’re both disgusting,” she spat, but the edge was gone, replaced by frustration. “and you,” she pointed a finger at you, “have caramel on your collar. and your hair is a mess. fix it. now.” with a final, flouncing turn, she stormed back towards the sweet shop, the sound of her heels clicking a furious retreat.

the alley was quiet again, save for your subsiding giggles. haymitch turned fully to face you, his hands coming up to frame your face. his thumbs gently wiped at the smudged caramel and coal dust on your cheek.

“itchy itchy haymitchy?” he repeated, one eyebrow arched, the ghost of that rare laugh still in his eyes.

“she’s an idiot,” you breathed, leaning into his touch.

“yeah,” he agreed softly, his gaze dropping to your lips. “but she’s your idiot. and she’s right about one thing.” he leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you, a secret within a secret. “you are a mess, donner.”

and then he kissed you again, right there in the alley where you’d just been caught. this kiss wasn’t desperate or hungry. it was slow, sweet it tasted like stolen caramel, coal dust, and the thrilling, secret truth that not even maysilee donner’s perfect disdain could ruin this. he adored you, spoiled bits and all. after all, you were his sweetheart.

♡ taglist: @pinkdoeweirdo @whimsywritez

Nonetheless, it was not your problem. Your hands clasp together, fingers interlinking tightly. Then you redirect your gaze forward, towards the altar where the fire burns bright. Your eyes linger for a moment, watching the flames dance in the wind, then you bow your head while raising your hands to meet it halfway.

You try to refocus, to allow your mind to focus on praying. Life. You’re asking R’hllor for life; for the soil to be fertile. Because that will lead to a good harvest. A good harvest means better bread and crackers, as well as thicker livestock. Thicker livestock means the citizens of Myr will be well fed. If the citizens are well fed then they become more fertile, and coupling results in more human life being brought forth.

This is normal. The prayers are ones that any followers of R’hllor know. Yet your thoughts keep being drawn towards the body resting on the shore. 

On its dark curled hair.

On the darkness of its doublet and trousers.

On the glinting pommel of the sword at its side.

Did you see sticks protruding from his body? That was nonsensical. It would need to be a sharp stick, and the barbarians who used weapons like that were not near Myr. 

Perhaps they were arrows. Arrows would make sense because those had a sharp end. But that would mean he was attacked; or that he attacked someone else who was provoked to protect themself. 

You were not getting back to your prayers, this boy has thoroughly distracted you and he has not moved an inch since appearing. Perhaps the boy would be wearing a sigil, something, anything that would define where he came from. You rise, the silks of your dress cascade around your legs as you walk your way to the shore. 

Where could he be from? Whom in the region had problems with one another; and at that, problems enough to draw fire? You rack your brain for any answers on the short walk. Very few come, but it does not matter.

You will look upon the boy's right chest and see the sigil of his house and you will know. And if he does not have a sigil, then he is simply not important enough to worry about; one of many who lost their lives over something trivial. 

He is lying on his back, but it is jagged–his left shoulder somehow higher than his right. You kneel next to him. It gives your eyes a better angle to assess him. He is wearing a cloak, and it is attached to the front of his doublet. But there is no sigil where it is clasped. Your eyes move lower, perhaps he is haughty and has it on his belt buckle. 

Again no sigil. Lower again, this time to his boot clasps. It is an odd place to have a house mark but it is nothing you have not seen before. Your brows furrow when there is once again no sigil in sight. There is one last place, one last hope to know who this boy is. 

You look at his sword. Eyes rove over the pommel, up one side and down the other. You unsheath it, it’s heavy in your palms. You assume this to be because you do not wield swords, it seems too slim and too small to truly be something of great weight. The thought almost brings you to laughter because how could a boy who looks so strong and so worthy wield a light sword?

The only thing that stops the laugh from bubbling through your chest was the fact that you once again didn’t see a damned sigil. So this boy was truly no one. Simply a casualty of unknown grievances. 

Why then, did you feel as if you could not leave him? 

You willed your legs to move, for your feet to fold under themselves and push you to stand, but they did not. Willed your hands to press against the sand as leverage, but they simply fisted the grains until they fell from your palms. Your eyes tried to move back towards the temple, back to the fire that you can barely see from the shore, but they stay locked on this boy. 

They rove over his body, briefly locking onto bits of him. The broken arrows you can see in the back of his left shoulder – the ones that are making him lean a little off kilter. The blood on the right side of his face and the bruises that accompany it. 

However, they stick on his neck. On the Myrish bolt, that is deeply lodged into it. Is that what is drawing you to him? The fact that a bolt made by your people is the one that likely ended his life?

Instinctively, your fingers move towards it. You don’t think anything of it; you just want to touch the metal, to confirm it's something you’ve felt before, that your people crafted this. Your fingers burn when you touch the metal.

A full body jerk takes over you. First recoiling at the fingers, then everything else falls after. A hiss leaves your lips and your fingers stroke against your palm as a primal attempt to assess the damage. 

You can still feel everything though, and the skin between your brow gains a crease. Your eyes dart to the tips of your fingers, expecting to see them flushed and pulsing from the burn. There is no visible damage however; you turn them every which way, and nothing changes. But, a  tingle has settled in them.

At first you try pressure, squeezing your fingers to your palm to cease the sensation. When that doesn’t work you put the tip of each finger between your teeth and gnaw at them. It’s primitive and very much below your station, but you cannot think of anything else that may help. You drop your hand when that does not work either, it’s then that the tingling fades a bit. 

It goes from fireworks in your capillaries, to simple twinkles. You have an idea, a thought that seems very otherworldly and stupid. But, perhaps, it is linked to this boy.

So your fingers drift back to him, back to the bolt in his neck. The twinkles fade into a slight hum. When your fingers slide off the bolt and to the thick, clammy skin of the boy's neck the sensation finally stops. 

At least it stops in you. You can still feel it faintly. Thrumming under the boy’s skin like war drums. It must be magic!

Magic that is calling you to him. Magic that is demanding the presence of R’hllor in this boy's blood. Magic that is demanding you to perform the kiss of life. 

You've never done this before. Never seen it successfully completed in front of you either. But it feels like R’hllor himself is calling to you; commanding you to reignite the fire in this boy's blood.

You know the idea. The concepts run through your mind manyatimes since you’ve learned of its existence. You still take care to remove the arrows. One from his back, one from his chest. Then a Myrish bolt from his neck. 

What if he wakes and the wounds are still open? You cannot think of any words in the ancient scrolls that speak of it. So you tear the silks of your dress and wrap them around the wounds to stem any bleeding.

Your right hand places on his chest, where his heart should be beating. The skin is cold and clammy, devoid of any signs of life. Well, at least you can rest assured he cannot be harmed more from your experimenting, cannot be more dead.

Ancient hymns and prayers leave your lips. They're spoken softly at first – because you truly cannot believe you're trying to bring back someone from the dead. But how can you expect R’hllor to bring him back if you do not have faith? So it becomes louder, more confident in the fact that it will work, that this boy will live again.

You take some oil into your mouth from a vial at your waist, just enough to coat it before taking one of the sticks that was supplying the fire into your hand. 

R’hllor, what were you doing? You were going to get yourself killed – mangled at the very least – for some boy you did not even know.

You think about it for a moment, but ultimately the urge to prove you could do it outweighs your fear. The fire is brought to your lips igniting the oil, then as quickly as you can you press your lips to his. Breathing the fire into his lungs and urging his blood to warm once again. 

When you pull back you realize you are not burnt. It seems that the fire has extinguished itself in the process. Your inner cheeks and lips are simply warmer than usual but no harm has befallen you. But what of the boy?

His chest is not rising. His eyes are not open. You must be mistaken, your eyes deceiving you, so you lean closer. Your ear is pressed closely to his lips, your head angled to allow your eyes to wait for a rise and fall of his chest, and your hand rests on his chest.

It is warm, still clammy, but warm. That is good, it must be good. You’ve done it correctly–you’re sure of it. But why is he not breathing? Why have his eyes not snapped open? 

Maybe R’hllor didn’t want to resurrect this boy. Maybe you misinterpreted the pull in your chest. Maybe it was for the steel that rested on the boy's waist instead of the boy himself. 

He must have simply gotten warm because he was out of the sea and his sopping clothes. A sigh of disappointment sneaks past your lips. Your hand moves off his chest to the ground, preparing to be used as leverage to stand. Before you can, a rough, garbled breath is inhaled.

Your eyes snap to the boy's chest, watching the rapid and deep inhale. Watching it heave as he coughs up water. After a minute or two the heaving slows, returns to what you will accept as a normal rate, and your eyes snap to his face. 

His eyes open – he’s already been watching you. They’re wide, his pupils dilated to take in as much information as possible. There's a quivering in them, an unsteadiness that makes you feel worse for him than you already had. 

“Who are you?”

You try to keep your voice soft. Light. Untensed. The boy's eyebrows furrow ever so slightly but he does not respond. Maybe he was highborn and too full of himself to learn the language of commonfolk.

“Qilōni issi ao?”

His face morphs at that. Brows raise on his forehead, mouth drops open just a fraction. He is shocked? Surprised? That you know Valyrian? Sure, you look common, but he does as well, who is he to judge?

His mouth moves, and he finally speaks. You’re stuck on the sound of it. How rough it is, how distorted it sounds, how painful it seems. After a moment you see his eyes narrow a bit, brows creasing in confusion once again, it’s then that his words register.

“Qilōni issi ao?”

You would think that he is repeating your sentence in confusion of the language. That he is curious to know what you meant. But he speaks it so well. His vocal chords, tongue, and lips, all accustomed to speaking Valyrian already. He also has such an emphasis on the last word, there's a mix of emotion in it. Confusion, anger, distaste. 

“Aōha kaerīnio,” (Your savior) You will not give him your name, if he hadn’t been so audacious in his asking you might. You try again, “sir qilōni issi ao?” 

“Jace.” He mumbles, lips barely opening to form the syllables. 

You save him, give him live again, and he refuses to be amicable. You’re beginning to get irritated. It’s evident in your voice, losing your softness you speak again, “Ȳdragon bē.” (speak up.)

“Brōzio ñuha iksis Jace.”(My name is Jace.) It is spoken louder now. 

You break eye contact, gaze drifting as your thoughts have. “How uncommon,” You say it dismissively. The words slip out and do not require a response.

The boy says something about how it's not uncommon, but you cannot bring yourself to care. Jace. Jace. Jace. Where have you heard that name before?

Was it a highborn son you had considered marriage with? The son of a magister in the south perhaps?

No. You would have married him if that was his truth. 

Was he a blacksmith you commissioned a dagger from? One that had amethyst embedded into the handle because you thought it was beautiful. 

No. His hands weren’t calloused enough for that.

“Who are you?”

“I ought be a Priestess.”

“Ought be? So you are not a Priestess. What is your name?”

“Yes, ought be, R’hllor does not simply grant this ability to anyone.” 

A silence settles over the two of you. The boy, Jace, is probably still stunned that he is breathing again. You, similarly, are stunned that you performed such a miracle. You’re too pleased to notice Jace shifting-thinking about how you’re going to inform the Head Priest of your feat, and how by the end of the week you’ll be named as a Priestess. 

“You are from Essos.”

Your eyes blink back in his direction. “I am.”

You watch the way he swallows. Assess how his pupils have dilated again in fear. How his fingers now seem to tense a bit.

“Which part?”

“You are in Myr.”

Jace’s face falls. It falls so quickly that it seems inhuman. A deep frown settles on his face, his brows crease and you think you can see a tear or two brought to his eyes. He seems like a man who has accepted his fate. You don’t get to ask what fate that is.

Once again his face changes. A stone mask hiding his true thoughts and feelings on the current situation. You watch as the gears turn in his head. Watch as his hand tries to subtly inch towards his sword. Watch as his eyes harden with what he believes he must do. 

“Why do you wish to harm me when I have saved you?”

He blinks at you.  “I do not wish to harm you.”

“You reach for your sword,” Your eyes flick to where his hand is resting on the hilt, pointedly raising your eyebrows, “Do you not?”

“I simply wish to…” His gaze flicks around. To your eyes, to the sand, to his boots, to the arrows that still rest beside the two of you, then finally back to you. “To protect myself.”

You run your tongue along your teeth. Before smiling and rising to a stand. “You needn’t worry about that.” Your palm extends towards him, “Come, you may recover in my fathers manse.”

You do not parade Jace around the temples as you wish.

The first day he claimed exhaustion. That his body was sore from the time at sea being pushed and pulled by the current. How it must have been twisted uncomfortably while his soul was with the stranger.

The second day it was nausea. You assumed it was something spoiled or raw that the cooks had served. Before you could go ream them for their incompetence, Jace told you that he simply ate too much. That his eyes sampled everything and his stomach got jealous so he consumed much more than he should have. 

The third day Jace finally became plain with you. You had followed the same routine as the first two days; waking, directing your handmaids as to how you’d like your hair, dabbing your oils behind your ears, then sauntered your way to Jace’s chambers. 

Your knock was a light rap of your knuckles, barely enough pressure behind it to be heard. He always answered promptly – as if he had been waiting on the other side just for you. 

“Come, we must go to the temples today. Just briefly–the Priests and Priestess’ will lose their belief in me if I do not show you off soon.”

You watch as Jace steels himself. It’s a subtle shift in his demeanor, but you’ve been watching him since you brought him back to this world, so of course you notice it. His eyes harden and the bright brown of his eyes darken to a deeper hue. 

“I do not wish to be paraded around like a trophy,” His eyes have fallen to your feet–or to the floor, you cannot be certain. But you know this is a way of showing submission, that he does not want to seem ungrateful for the hospitality you’ve shown him thus far.

You probably could force him, call for your guards to grab him by his arms and drag him forth to the temples. But you believed everyone deserved some sense of autonomy. You suppose you don’t need to show anyone that you’ve successfully performed the last kiss. A sigh leaves your lips.

“Alright.” You extend a hand towards his arm, prepared to loop it through and grasp his bicep should he allow you to do so, “Will you meander through the gardens with me?”

Jace steps out of his room and allows you to hold onto him. As you walk through the lavish gardens of your fathers manse you notice a curiosity gleaming in Jace’s eyes. He does not ask you what any plant is, but you take to explaining them anyway, pointing with the hand that is not secured on his arm.

His intrigue in the information you gave never stopped. Not on the tiny miniscule vines that climbed their way up the manse walls. Not on the lilies, or the bougainvillea, or the oleander bushes. 

You have believed him to be from Essos. From somewhere you have not had the privilege of traveling to. Perhaps a wealthy son from a smaller village up north. His status was clear by the pristine leathers he was wearing when you had found him – yet you could not get a family name out of Jace no matter how much you questioned. 

It had been fine. Privacy and secrecy were allowed in some senses. You couldn’t understand why he would not want to have word sent to his father and mother of his livelihood though. Surely they would have sent for him, at the very least demanded that he return home so they could confirm his safety themselves. 

Two days you spend thinking of this. Trying to create scenarios in which he would not want to return home. But you cannot think of any strong enough to justify not returning home–at least not when someone is highborn as he clearly is. 

A wide array of different delicacies to choose from are set in front of the two of you. A servant is cutting a large juicy piece of roast duck for you when you ask, “What of your parentage?"

Jace looks up from the plate of stuffed squash he was assessing. He blinks deep enough that his eyelashes brush the apples of his cheeks. 

“What of it?”

“Who are they? What house do you hail from?”

His posture goes straight. Muscles rigid and he sets his utensils back onto the table. His gaze floating around the room at all the extra eyes. If he wishes for privacy then he will receive privacy. “That will be all, leave us.” Your voice does not hold much weight, but the command is clear. The servants try to disagree, mumbles of still having plates to divide and serve at their lips, but you raise your hand dismissively and shoo them away. 

“I will not judge you, I am only curious.” Your voice is even softer now.

Jace clears his throat. His eyes stubbornly on your plate instead of your face when he finally speaks, “I am a bastard.”

If he thinks that would shock you, he would be wrong. Many in Essos are bastards–it only matters if you make it so. “So it is your mother who is highborn?”

“No, no. None of me is highborn.”

A hum leaves your throat, a whores son perhaps?

“Where did your fine leathers come from then?”

“My father gifted them to me. I believe he is trying to gain my favor as the older I get the more I look like him.”

Ah. So his father is highborn. Or at least someone with enough coin to commission fine clothes. You try to imagine the man, imagine Jace a bit older, and think of if you have seen a similar man walking through the streets before.

No recognition comes to mind, so you continue with your questions. “And your mother?”

“She is of Valyrian descent.” 

You laugh at that, “Everyone here is, be a bit more specific.”

Jace has fallen back into comfort, now slicing into a piece of boar on his plate as he speaks. “She has long silver gold hair, it is straight in nature, but curls easily after being braided.” You nod in acknowledgement so Jace continues, “Her eyes are purple, but not one of the dark purples that may be mistaken for blue. A lighter purple, akin to the lilacs that you have in the garden.”

You could think him to be lying, for he has just described nearly every woman of Valyrian descent in the entirety of Essos. You let the thought bounce around your head as you chew, it was not uncommon for someone to be born with plain features even if they had Valyrian ancestors. But he is so guarded and gives you so little that it almost brings a pain to your chest. You’ve brought him back to life and it seems that he cannot trust you. 

Then again, you suppose if she is a whore, then mayhaps he does not know much more than what he has told you. Mayhaps he left and became a servant for his father. 

“What of your parentage, My Lady?”

You glare at him from under your lashes, “I have told you not to refer to me as such, we are friends enough that you may call me plainly by name.”

He should know of your parentage. Paintings of your mother reside over many of the halls in the manse. Her plain–but beautiful–features on display for any and all visitors to see. Her dresses are silks and satins, never any heavy fabrics for it is too warm here. And she always had some bit of Myrish lace upon her; it could be embroidered on the bodice and neckline of her dresses, a shawl made of it, or sometimes even a cardigan. 

“I am sure you have seen the paintings of my late mother. Her mother was also of Valyrian descent, but she got all of the plain features of her father. I imagine you could have bonded over that.”

You inspect a sugar filled date as you speak, trying to assess if it is too early into the meal to indulge in sweeter tastes.

“Your late mother?”

“Yes, late. She passed many years ago.”

“I am sorry –”

“Do not be. My father is a Magister. You have not met him because he is occupied in Tyrosh.”

Jace’s fork stops an inch from his plate, nearly impaling a charred sprout, “He has business in Tyrosh?”

Your lips closed around the date, humming as you bite into it. You chew for a moment before shoving it into the side of your cheek so you can speak, “I suppose you could call it that. He is aiding in devising plans for the Triarchy.” You sigh, “One of the lucky eleven–at least that is what everyone says.”

The atmosphere shifts. 

From outside the room it would be unnoticeable. You and Jace are still positioned the same, still slicing through meats, and spearing vegetables. Servants who have reappeared are still attentively pouring more wine into your goblets and offering to serve another portion onto your plates. The flames of the candles still flicker in the slight gusts of wind.

But inside you can feel the tension explode. It did not grow; stemming from a small comment and engorging based on a continuation. It erupted the moment you mentioned the Triarchy. The air grew thick, swallowing felt like a chore, eyes darted back and forth attempting to understand where the displacement came from. 

When Jace sliced through his boar softer than before. Barely enough pressure in his forefinger to push the knife into the protein. His wrist shifting in the slightest of motions, sawing at the meat instead of cleanly slicing through it. 

He had not graced you with even a semblance of a laugh. Not a huff of air. Or a charming smile. 

Taking a look at his posture you could see the change. His shoulders hunched inwards and he almost slouched forwards, his chest rose and fell shallowly, his knee began to jerk a rhythm. But most importantly he had scooted to the far side of his chair.

Away from you.

Why was he trying to make himself small?

“Does my fathers position offend you?”

His head snaps at that. Eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. “No. No of course not,” His voice is not the same timber that it usually is. It’s a pitch higher, just enough off that you notice it. 

“I must have then, for you have gone stiff and sparse in your chair.”

Jace is silent for a moment longer. His eyes lift from his plate to your face when your cutlery is set down with a soft clang. “I simply do not… favor, speaking of Magisters.” The words are small when they come out of Jace's throat. Spoken in nearly a whisper, as if he is ashamed of the fact.

Oh!

His father must be a Magister. Perhaps even one of the ten others with your father. That's why he's so uncomfortable. His father does not claim him, yet he is able to do such great things in raising the Triarchy. Embarrassment clouds your memory, but you vaguely recall apologizing.

Despite your swift change of conversational topics and insistence to speak of anything else, Jace stays closed off for the remainder of dinner. He also disregards your request for a late night stroll in the gardens. You must have truly upset him.

Since that night, you refuse to ask about parentage again. You like hearing Jace’s voice–the timber, tone, and cadence of it–and he tends to speak less when you bring up parentage. So if he does not wish to speak of it then you have no desire to speak of it either.

Instead you ask other things.

His favorite color? Purple; specifically the lilac hue, like his mothers eyes. He says he likes blues as well, but he prefers wearing reds and blacks over anything. 

The next morn servants bring him doublets made of various shades of red silks and satins, and trousers made with deep black linens. When Jace thanks you, you wave him off dismissively. 

His favorite meal? Salted and seared cod, with spinach and onions in a dragon pepper sauce served on a bed of rice. 

The dragon peppers run you a heavy cost at the market, but you think it worthwhile when you see the smile on Jace’s face. Not the respectable smile from you simply trying to recreate his favorite. But the true, elated one that overtakes him like a wave when the flavors dance along his tongue. 

His favorite book? One of Westerosi history. Of Aegon the Conqueror. But Jace says he does not care for Aegon, that he truly fancies the story of Visenya. That her passion was such an inspiration and he could only hope to be the slightest bit like her one day.

Westerosi history is not a common book to keep in libraries in Essos, so you doubt that your father has it among his rows of books. You check anyways; late when even the servants have gone to sleep and only the guards remain awake. You stand atop chairs and raise your chamberstick to every book on the high shelves. Sink to your knees to check the lowest shelves as well.

The book is not there. 

Most would have ceased searching. They would have been too anxious to allow the swords of the city see them interested in Westeros. But you were the only child of one of the richest Magisters of Myr–your wish was everyone else's command. 

You go to the market again for this find. Cloaked and protected by one of your guards, you head to the darker parts of it. To the alleys that don’t have torches lining them. You find a man there, one known to deal in contraband.

You give him the coin on a promise he will retrieve the book. It’s too much for a single book; you know this, your guard knows this, the man knows this. But you still drop the pouch into his hand without much concern over the price. For Jace’s delight, you believe it to be worth it.

Three nights later your guard delivers the book to your chambers. You wrap it delicately in a light purple silk and tie a knot with ribbon.

You keep it tucked behind your back as you stalk towards Jace. He is in the gardens, in an alcove with a bench and table fit for gossiping. The table has been fitted with breads, cheeses, grapes, baked sweets, a pot of tea and two cups. When he sees you approaching he begins to pour the tea; yours first so it may cool and you can drink as soon as you sit. 

He looks up, brown eyes finding yours before falling to the downturned smirk that adorns your lips. Some heat rises to your cheeks when you notice where his gaze has fallen. You wonder if he thinks them plump, if he wonders how plush they'd be against his own.

Jace calls your name softly, “What are you hiding?” 

Your smirk widens to a full blown smile and you bring the wrapped book forward.

“What is this?” 

You press the book into his palms, “Open it.”

Jace does as you instruct. He unties the ribbon by its curled edges, then carefully unwraps the silk.

The cover of the book is plain. A simple brown leather that has not been oiled in many moons if you had to guess. The edges are frayed and lightened with age. Jace lets his fingers glide over it for a moment before looking at you with confusion in his eyes.

You jut your chin at him gently, encouraging him to continue with his present.

He opens the cover and flips to a random page–why he does not start from the beginning, you do not know. His eyes rove over the words, scanning the page like a hawk, then the flick up to you. 

“This is the book–the history of the Six Kingdoms.”

You nod, a pleased grin on your face.

Jace continues, “Where did you procure this?”

A small, mischievous laugh leaves you, “A woman must keep some secrets.” Your fingers twist together in anticipation, “Do you like it?”

“Yes. Yes, I like it.” Jace swallows deeply and you can see his adams apple bobb before he sniffs a bit, “I may even love it.”

“Will you read it to me then?”

It is Jace's turn to laugh, “Can you not read, My Lady?”

“Of course I can read,” you scoff in mock annoyance. Jace has seen you read–perhaps he's flirting with you and disguising it as a joke. “I simply wish to hear your voice.”

If that was too bold Jace does not tell you. He simply opens the book and begins the recount of Aegon the Conqueror. He continues for a long while, until one of the maids comes to alert you to the midday meal being ready.

It becomes routine; you eat breakfast together before separating for a few hours, then you reconvene in the gardens. Jace begins reading where he left off the day before and you grow more bold everyday.

At first sitting an appropriate distance. Then inching closer, and closer until your shoulder brushes his. And it's just oh so wide, surely he could allow you to rest your head. For a time that's enough to satiate you.

Unfortunately the closeness only makes your hunger grow.  You know then that you are infatuated with him. 

With his brown curls that somehow perfectly framed his face. His matching brown eyes that had just the slightest hits of amber and gold flicking about in them. The bridge of his nose, the natural pout that his plush lips seemed to fall into.

Over the days your head shifts lower and lower down his frame. At first just small distances down his arm, where it’s more muscle and less bone; where you can claim comfort from the shifts. You continue with this until one day, you simply forgo the theatrics and place your head in his lap. 

A slight raise of Jace’s brow is all the reaction you receive. No formal comment is made from either of you. No acknowledgement of the shift in atmosphere or change in course of whatever relationship you’ve been curating. 

Some days you’re flat on your back, gaze flicking from the sky to Jace's face. Others you’re curled on your side with his large palm and fingers stroking your head and scratching at your scalp. Occasionally on those days, you fall asleep to the timber of Jace’s voice and the repetitive motions.

Every once in a while, the conversation drifts. Back to things you originally cared about. Things that help you learn about his person–what musics he likes, what toys he used to play with, what other hobbies he had besides reading. And Jace, in turn, asked you similar questions–what your lessons were like as a child, if you stole sweets from the kitchens, if you embroidered and what the subjects were.

Intimacy grows between the two of you like a cluster of zinnia; quickly, resulting from the continuous attention and time spent in the sun. Seemingly endless hours spent on that same bench either reading from a book of histories that you frankly could not care less about or learning about a man you could not get enough of.

You shouldn’t have to tell him of your fondness; it ought to be obvious. Your maids have noticed a constant sparkle in your eyes and how the apples of your cheeks are always raised in smile. The guards have noticed from your constant meandering in the training grounds. The chefs have noticed from the increased gold you’ve rationed them so that they can easily purchase the strange western cuisine your guest prefers. 

At dinner you had invited Jace back to the gardens. He believes it to be so that you may finish the chapter you were in the middle of. You want to take the opportunity to see if he is as entranced with you as you are him. 

Your thoughts had drifted from the story being told. Away from the conquest and back to the man whose thigh your head rested on. The firm muscle under your cheekbone doing less to bring you back to reality, and more in dragging you deeper into the vast ocean your mind has created. 

Despite the moon of whatever this was, Jace himself has yet to make a move. Has yet to do anything more than you’ve instigated. He does not place a hand on the small of your back as you pass him. He does not lean in, as to create a bubble for only the two of you when you speak to him at dinner. He does not ask for your hand to dance when you have the musicians play his favorite tunes. 

Besides opening himself to you, he does not give you anything. You do not need a grand gesture, only a simple sign. It feels foolish to believe that him simply speaking to you is one. But you delude yourself anyhow. 

He does not speak so willingly about himself to anyone else. He does not allow others to rest on his lap. He does for you and that must–must–account for something.

There are very few things you have not gotten in your life. Not enough that you could count on your hand, and honestly, none of them of importance enough where you truly remember what they were. Jace was a person however. He was not something to be bought or won, and even if he was, you would not want him if his affections were not real. 

Jace’s voice catches in your brain. You work over the words before they truly begin to make sense. Something about Aegon and his wives. Not wife. Wives. Plural. That’s right. Aegon, despite typical Westerosi traditions, took two wives. Mayhaps this was your opening.

“What do you think of it?” 

Your head turns the slightest bit so that you may catch Jace’s gaze. He’s already looking at you of course, eyes snapped in your direction the second you cut him off. 

“Think of what?”

“Aegon having two wives.”

“Well, he took one for duty and the other for love.”

“Do you think it was honorable?” You shift once more, up onto your knees. Close enough that they press into Jace’s thigh. “That the people did not shame him in the streets?”

Jace’s lips purse, thoughtfully considering your remark towards this story he loves so dearly. “The smallfolk have found reason to dislike anyone who has come to power. But I think the unity between all three was equally as visible, and it aided in the smallfolks acceptance.”

“Would you have–if you lived all those years ago and across the narrow sea–would you have accepted him?”

“Yes, I would have.” Jace nods along as he speaks, doubling down on his statement. 

You had inched forward when he had finished his declaration. Miscalculating the way his head was moving and only catching his top lip in your kiss. It was awkward, but he did not move away. 

You lingered for a moment, allowing the realization to settle in before attempting to move back. Once you backed up you could assess how Jace took it. If he was blushed in excitement, or ruddy with rage. If he finally understood how badly you wanted for him, and if he accepted or declined.

But you never got that far. You could still feel Jace’s exhales on your upper lip when he rushed forward. His lips met yours in a proper kiss. One that he was able to put pressure behind and add motion to. 

Something wet slides across your lips, and they part by instinct. Allow Jace’s tongue to snake into your mouth and map the area. Over your teeth at first, because your lips aren’t parted enough. A bit of the cheeky flesh behind your lip. Then finally, it glides across your own tongue. 

You can feel the bridge of his nose pressing into your cheek. It feels like he’s trying to nudge you back. To inch you until your back rests against the armrest of the bench and he can situate himself between your hips. But you initiated this kiss, so dominance should be yours.

Without parting, you begin to shift. A hand on the nape of his neck, tilting his head back in fragments only millimeters wide. Rising on your knees to a high kneel so you can swing a leg across Jace’s lap. 

His hands fly to your hips, fingers flexing and caressing at whatever bits of you he can grab. The new angle allows you to fully steal control. For your tongue to slide into his mouth. For you to learn the taste of him straight from the source. 

Your lungs begin to tighten. Lack of airflow causing them to strain and search for more. You have to part from his lips. Oxygen rushes into them like a tide returning to the ocean. Rough and unstoppable. 

Your eyes flutter open, blinking rapidly to try and clear the fog from your head. Instead of looking at his face, your eyes fall to Jace’s chest; it's rising and falling rapidly, greedily attempting to take as much oxygen as possible from the atmosphere. Up and down. Up and down. Up, down.

Through your transfixation you hear Jace clear his throat and your eyes rise to his lips. Watch as his tongue tries to clean some of the spare slick saliva from them. Watch as a flush comes into them, and as a slow quirk accompanies the color. “We cannot do this.”

“Why not?” 

A pout has found your lips, and a furrow in your brow. Why would he be smiling if he was against allowing this to progress?

Jace’s hands have begun caressing your body; one moving up and down your spine while the other caresses your hipbone. Trying to soothe you as one would an angered housecat. “I cannot debauch you. It would be uncouth to do so in the open.”

“No one would come near, they are well trained.” You think him foolish for believing your servants would willingly interrupt you during such an intimate time. 

“Still. I will not risk having your honor sullied.”

A huff leaves your lips.

Stubborn, stubborn man.

You begin to rise from your position, moving to dismount from Jace’s lap. But his hands trap you in place, their grip suddenly going iron at the idea of you leaving him. Now his brow is furrowed in confusion.

Before Jace can actually voice his displeasure at your sudden movements, you move again. Hands grasping at his wrists, squeezing them just enough for him to release his grip on you. Once standing, you slide your fingers down his wrist, across his palm, and lace them through his fingers.

He simply said he would not debauch you here, not that he would avoid it entirely. You lead him back through the maze of your gardens. Through the long marbled hallways of your fathers manse. All the way back to your apartments. You drag him through the entryway, and nearly fling him upon the bed.

Perhaps fling was an overstatement. For Jace simply sits at the edge of your bed, awaiting for you to mount his lap again so he can restart his prior ministrations. 

“Is this the proper place to partake in debauchery?” You’re standing in front of him, just out of reach. Tapping your pointer finger to your chin in faux thought. Bottom lip jutting out as you begin to seemingly mull over perfect spots for improper things to take place.

Jace’s hands once again find your hips, hauling you back to your proper place on his lap. “Yes, a perfectly proper place, My Lady.”

His lips are back on yours before you can retort. Once again encouraging you to open your mouth and allow him to lick into it. 

You’re hot. Abnormally so. And your skin feels like it's tingling. Little sparks going off under the surface whenever Jace does…well, when he does anything. 

His fingers scratching at the base of your neck? Sparks. His tongue gliding across yours and nudging it to remind you that you can be an active participant? Sparks. His other hand roaming your hips and thighs, squeezing and groping the fat? Sparks. The muscles of his thighs tensing against the insides of yours in what you can only believe to be restraint? Sparks.

It's overwhelming. Too many sensations that are all causing something warm to begin to pool low in your belly. Perhaps it was simply strain–you had been nearly levitating on his lap. Not even allowing the slightest bit of your bottom to rest since you reached your apartments. 

You sit, rest your full body weight on the boy below you, as you did in the gardens. This time, however, something hard meets you. Jace groans into your mouth, and you don’t have to guess what you’ve just sat upon. 

Halfway through a courtesy apology, Jace speaks again. “Are you tired?” He’s barely pulled away and you can feel his lips move against yours with every word.

All it takes is a nod from you, and then the whole world has shifted. Your back now resting on the plush of your mattress. His hands are still on you, one on your neck and the other on your hip, positioned to stabilize you from the flip.

Jace’s hand slides to your mid thigh, dragging the appendage up to wrap around his hip, inadvertently hunching your dress around your hips. He kisses you again, his tongue slicking against yours out of pure instinct. Then he presses against you, grinding himself into your smallclothes. 

The sparks turn into full blown explosions. Starting from your core and causing a chain reaction up through your chest until it bursts out of you in the expression of a moan.

You'd be embarrassed at how it came up on you, leaving you with no other option but to voice your pleasure. But Jace wasn't in a better state, groans and whimpers falling into your mouth as well.

He breaks away, one of his hands leaving you so he can grasp at the buckle of his belt. “You're sure?” He asks softly, like requesting such a thing may break the fragile orb the two of you are consumed in.

You’ve never gotten this far. Never had the desire to with any of the other Magisters' sons, nor the Lyseni courtesans or local boys of pleasure houses. None of them ever ignited such a fire inside your blood.

Never made it feel like you were burning from the inside out. 

You nod, a soft mhm, coming from your throat before you reseal your lips to his. Surely he could unbuckle himself without looking upon the clasp. 

You've never had a real prospect like this: one that you reciprocate the desire for. A childish, girly, glee fills your chest along with the growing fire. The joy slithers around the fire and serves to further fuel it. 

Skin is scorched anywhere Jace touches and you break from his lips to whine something insignificant about taking your dress off. He obliges with little reluctance, splitting from your lips only to lift the silks over your head.

The night blurs a bit from there. Your only hope is that the promiscuous noises don't drift too far down the hallway. That they fall flat before any curious ears of servants or guards can hear them. You wish to bask in whatever this is that you’re cultivating with Jace–not to have your father hear of it because of a raven sent from a scullery maid.

Fifteen days later your dressmaker comes to you with a finished piece.

It is one that you’ve highly anticipated. One you’ve spent weeks fleshing out the details of. One that you wanted to be perfect, more than any of your other commissioned pieces.

The dress was made from silks dyed with lilacs to give them a nice purple hue. You had it fashioned like many of your other dresses; in only the most flattering ways for your body. It accentuated on the parts you found desirable, and drew attention away from whatever you did not.

By itself, it was something simple. You did not have it embroidered, or embossed. Simple, soft, swaying silk would encase your body. However that would not be befitting of your station, so you accessorized with golds and jewelry made of opal. 

The white stone to symbolize the white of Jace’s mother’s hair–if he would notice such a fact, you did not know. You hoped, because he had been nothing but attentive since you met him, but men have a tendency to disappoint. Golds because they were expensive and complemented the purple color much better than a silver could.

Your lady in waiting, Eliana, dressed you with much excitement. She murmured on and on about all the different small details she noticed. Layered your jewelry to make sure each piece perfectly complemented the next. Pulled back your hair just slightly so that every feature on your face could be properly looked upon. 

And then you were on your own. To face a storm of your own creation. Hopefully, Jace would see this as a declaration of your affection. Understand that you made certain decisions based solely on stories you’ve heard him speak fondly of. 

You meet Jace in the foyer of the house, prepared to leave for the street of sales. Your breath stalls in your chest when his eyes first land on you. His eyes rove over you for a good few moments, taking in the dress for every detail that it has, before finally lifting to your own.

“This is…” Jace speaks slowly, because he is processing. He does not want to assume and be embarrassed if he is wrong. “For me?”

“No, I had it made because I favor the colors.” You sass, “Of course it is for you.”

It was possible that even with the night the two of you had spent, and the others after it, Jace would see this as moving too fast. That you having a dress made from scratch specifically to his preferences was something only a betrothed woman would do, or perhaps something you’d only do once fully wed. It is very possible that Jace was simply biding his time, returning to full health while devising a way to return home, wherever that was. 

Equally as possible that he had a lover there, someone to go home to, someone to call his own. That he was just warming himself in your bed because he had missed whomever he had before his unfortunate event. 

Despite your typhoon of thoughts and corresponding emotions, you decide to commit. Twisting into a delicate spin that shows off the faint shimmer in the silk of the dress. You would at least have Jace accept your beauty before he turned you down.

“It is beautiful–you are beautiful.” His flattery brings a flush to your cheeks. 

“You really think so?”

“Yes,” Jace seals his admission with a light peck to your lips. A sweet lovers kiss to seal the truth he is admitting. 

You begin tugging him towards the entrance of the manse, “Come, I wish to shop before the day is gone.”

Biarves hen vēzos was in a few days time. 

The Celebration of the Sun, as the non Valyrian speakers knew it.

Merchants have made their way in from all regions to try and sell goods in preparation. Dyed silks and satins–made to be orange, yellow, reds, and pinks. Gemstones, some in casings to make necklaces, others just the stone themselves so you may fashion it how you please–rubies, topaz, garnet, and opals. Wines–sweet reds from Volantis, pale ambers from Pentos, sours from Andalos, pear tastings from Tyrosh, and whites from Lys. 

Anything you could possibly need for a celebration could be found. Threads for tapestries, spices for meals, beads for embroidery. You would be attending a celebration instead of hosting, so Jace was thoroughly confused when you insisted on coming today.

While some may have only wanted to indulge in the colors of the sun during the festivities, you would wear them any day. This was the perfect time to collect any and everything you desired for the upcoming year.

Your hand is ghosting over a deep blush colored satin. The cobalt beads you picked up a few stalls ago would contrast it perfectly. Now what pattern would fit? Ah. It did not matter, your dressmaker would figure it all out. 

Absently you hand the merchant a few gold coins. When you see the fabric in your handmaids grasp, your mind drifts. You’re finally nearing the end of that damned book. Despite how much you feigned interest, the story lingered in your mind even when you didn't want it to. Only a few mere chapters to wrap up the conquest of Aegon and his sisters. 

“I am excited to hear about how they conquered the North. I've heard stories of how the Northerners are savages–beasts that cannot be tamed.”

Jace's bicep flexes a bit in your hold. A short, small tense and untense of the muscle.  “I believe you may be disappointed in the battle.”

“Why is that?” 

You pull Jace to a halt in front of a jewelers stand. An intricate garnet piece has drawn your attention. 

“There is considerably less dragonfire than you’d prefer.” As if sensing your bubbling curiosity Jace speaks again before you can open your mouth, “But you will have to wait.”

Your fingers trace the necklace. Feeling the dips and curves, the way the silver curls around the gem, before you ultimately decide to pass on it. “I do not know why. If I had a dragon, everything would be burned in my path.” Anyone would think the same if they had a dragon, a beast with unstoppable capabilities.

“They are magnificent creatures.” 

When you look up at him Jace has this far off stare in his eye that you cannot understand. Like he’s transported himself from the street of sales to an entirely different realm. His imagination must be vivid after reading and rereading this history so many times.

“Are they?” Your voice lilts gently in question. “Tell me how so.”

“Well, for starters, they are temperamental. Usually only allowing their rider to close any sort of distance between them.”

You hum, encouraging him to continue.

“Dragonfire is hot, hotter than any forge could ever be. Some legends say that it had melted stone before.”

You laugh, “Stone, truly?”

“Yes. And the riders tend to smell of cinders after a ride because the dragons use the fires to form their nests and the scent lingers. Cinders and scorched leather oils if their dragon has breathed fire on the ride.”

Where would Jace have heard of such a thing? Surely history books don’t indulge in all these little details. But they must, for your boy still seems to have more to say. You continue to egg him on, “Mm, anything else?” 

“Their scales are rough–almost like tree bark. If you manage to retrieve one it's sharp as well, enough to where it could be repurposed into a blade.”

Jace speaks of Dragons as if he knows them. As if he has physically run his fingertips along their scales, as if he has slid down them on his way back to the ground. As if he has felt the flames produced from them on his very skin, and smelt like cinders after a long flight.

There's only one remaining family with Dragons though. And they do not reside anywhere in Essos. In fact–they've personally terrorized your people in the stepstones. Daemon Targaryen did, upon his mount Caraxes. 

Was this.. Prince Jacaerys? You suppose you could shorten it to Jace, but the commonfolk would never risk disrespecting a child of the crown in such a way. And his hair was different from a Targaryen’s. 

Then again, you'd heard the stories of how Rhaenyra Targaryen birthed bastards. Of how her three oldest children all had brown hair despite both her and her husband's silvery gold strands.

Nonetheless Prince Jacaerys died in the battle of the Gullet. His dragon shot down into the sea and the Prince assaulted with Triarchy arrows. 

That was how you found him, was it not? Two arrows lodged deep into his shoulder and a bolt of your own people's creation secured in the muscles of his neck.

The realization does not hit you like a wall. Not like a slap, or a tidal wave. It reaches you with a primal sense of dread; one that sends ice through your veins and makes it difficult to breathe. As if he was a predator, simply biding his time with the prey.

Your hand tightens around Jace's–Prince Jacaerys’–arm before realizing your mistake. This is not a friend, a companion, someone you could be besotted with. 

This was the enemy.

One that you wrapped in your silks. 

One that slept in your walls. Who has slept in your very own bed.

One that you revived because you could not quench your own curiosity. 

Your hand slips from its perch at the acceptance of these facts. Your face falls into a carefully crafted picture of indifference as your steps falter.

Jace–Prince Jacaerys, not Jace, Jace would not have deceived you in such a way–notices the second that your hand begins to move. His eyes dart to yours, and he's able to watch with startling attention as you school your expression.

“What is it?” Jace's voice is tight and low, reserved only for you. His eyes are frantic, searching the area for what could have possibly caused you such distress.

You don't respond automatically and your eyes aren't fixed on someone or something in the distance. So Jace raises a palm to your cheek, tilting your head so you're forced to gaze upon him.

“What is wrong?”

“You–you are a Targaryen.” The words tear through your vocal chords. They bring you a physical pain from the center of your lungs all the way to the tip of your tongue. Despite that, they're quiet – well aware of what would befall Jace if anyone were to find out.

Time seems to freeze for a bit. 

A few moments that may seem sweet to outsiders. A young couple so lost in each other that they cannot be bothered to move from the center of the market. Trying to avoid public indecency, but too entranced with another to step away.

You know you should kill him, or more likely, have him killed. Should return him to his previous state. Bolt through his neck and all. His family has caused your people much distress. Your own father fights against his parents and grandsire.

The thought is pushed aside, just barely as it fights for the stage that is the forefront of your brain; R’hllor would not have called you to him if he wanted you to simply kill him again. He would not have let the boy be revived no matter how hard you tried if he did not wish it to happen. But why? This boy was from Westeros. He did not worship R’hllor, nearly no one in that region did. 

Jace's face falls in complete dejection. As if he is accepting his fate, accepting that either you will attempt to kill him or you will hand him over to someone who will. Your heart squeezes at the realization.

“I will not have you killed,” Now you watch as he falters. As his hand stutters in its descent from your face. How his eyes constrict again and allow you to see the brown of his irises once more. 

Jace remains skittish. Eyes darting between you, your guards, and handmaids–attempting to assess how much they’ve heard and if they’re already conspiring against him. Then back to you. A seeming calm in the middle of whatever storm is coming for him. Then to the citizens surrounding you, and the merchants, trying to determine if any of them had overheard your realization.

“Why?” One simple word is all Jacaerys can muster. 

You’ve moved back a few more inches. To give both him and yourself personal space. You wish to say it is because of your traitorous heart, but, you are unsure if that is the reason anymore. You inhale a deep, shaky breath before continuing, “R’hllor wanted you alive for a reason, I will not see you killed while under my care.”

You can see a thousand thoughts swirling in his mocha eyes. Watch as his lips twitch, attempting to speak before his mind has found the words. But whatever he has to say, you have no desire to hear.

“We should retire.” You command, turning your attention to those who serve you. “The sun has exhausted my energy for the day.”

At your words your small group retreats from the street of sales. The entire way back to your fathers manse you can practically feel the energy radiating off of Jacaerys. By the time you push the doors to the foyer open you can only assume that his skin must be buzzing with the urge to speak.

His fingers ghost over your palm–attempting to ground you for a second. You do not give him the opportunity though, rushing past and ignoring his faint ‘wait’. You need a moment.

A moment to process.

A moment to breathe.

Hell, a moment to grieve.

Just a moment with your thoughts, by yourself.

Jacaerys avoids you the next day. Well, not particularly you, but he avoids the gardens, the library, even the kitchens. He takes detours through the halls to prevent even catching a glimpse of your silks.

He does not know if it was for your sake or his. If he is so fearful that you would call the guards on him at the first sighting. Or if the carefully placed mask you wore yesterday struck him so deeply with the urge for solitude.

The second day continues similarly. He avoids the gardens and the library. Only heading to the training grounds to practice his swordwork. Even taking supper in his rooms so that you may have the hall to yourself.

But the whole day is filled with a pit in his stomach, one weighted by dread. 

At night, tucked into the soft linens of his bed, Jacaerys allows himself to truly elaborate on his inner thoughts. Head on his pillow and fingers fisting the sheets. 

He feels pathetic. Ashamed even. Him a Prince of the realm, heir to the Iron Throne. Smitten with an opposer's daughter. 

So far gone in his emotions that he let his guard slip. That he truly allowed himself to believe that she felt as deeply for him. That once she knew of his real parentage, she would still care for him. That after four moons you would have imagined a future together that you could not bear to part from. 

Stupid. Naive. Childish.

Of course you would care more for your people, for your fathers cause. It was only right. He probably would do the same if he was stuck in your position. 

He tries to ignore the tears stinging on his lash-line. Tries to ignore the stinging that rests there even when he closes his lids. Bites his bottom lip until he's sure he can taste the metallic of blood on his tongue to prevent a sob from ripping through his vocal chords.

When he wakes on the third morning Jacaerys chooses to ignore the salt that has crusted from his tears the night before. He reasoned before he fell asleep that this avoidance was on purpose. 

That you were carefully crafting your schedule so that you did not run into him. Or simply avoiding places you knew he knew you enjoyed. Hiding in alcoves you've never shown him and slipping around corners at the tiniest sound of his boots.

Perhaps you were trying to tell him of your disgust without actually having to speak to him. Keeping true that you would not see him killed, but you would not help him anymore. 

If that were true, he would have to find a way home. A way out of Essos. A way out of Myr at the very least.

But Jacaerys had little of his own. The silks, satins and linens he wore? Supplied by you. The jewels that adorned his hair, neck or wrists? Supplied by you. 

His eyes drift to his sword, resting near the balcony in its holster.

It was the only thing he had that was his anymore. No dragon. No family. Not even a spare bag of coin on his person when he had been found.

He supposes he could try to work. Head into the city and offer his strength in exchange for passage. Make use of himself as a sellsword and make his way back to Westeros on a ship for hire. It wouldn't constitute as ‘safe passage’ but it would still put him in the general location of home.

Or, Gods, he could sell the sword itself. 

It had to be worth something. Definitely enough to get him a space on a ship back to Westeros. Possibly with enough extra to pay for a new set of clothes to hide himself behind. 

But it was a gift from his mother. The only thing remaining from his life before–from the life he was trying to return to. He could always get another one, have the blacksmiths curate him a new piece, something more beautiful, or more merciless, whatever his heart desired.

It would not hurt to simply have it appraised. To see how much coin he could procure, and while he was already out of the manse, assess how much passage to Westeros costed.

He dons a simple black cloak to at least slightly obscure his person on his endeavors. He leaves the hood down as he leaves the manse–it'd be stupid to act as if the servants and guards didn't know him. As if they didn't know his posture and his particular saunter.

He gets through the foyer fine. Out into the forecourt and through the front gates before a guard begins to flank him.

Someone less on edge most likely would not have noticed. Not have heard the shifting of the metal armor plates, missed the added set of steps behind them. But Jacaerys has been nearly ready to pounce since the moment you went cold with him four days ago on the street of sales.

He turns back to look upon the guard. It is Thane, a man who he has sparred with many times. He knew every one of Jacaerys’ moves, knew better than anyone in this city how he fought, surely he was preparing to strike Jace down.

Jace tries to wave him off, “I do not need chaperoning today Thane,” his tone dismissive.

“Apologies Jace. Orders from the Lady.” Thane rests his hand on the hilt of his sword casually. Nearly as relaxed as Jace is tense. If he notices the tautness in Jace’s muscles, he chooses not to mention.

Why though, would you not simply have him killed in the manse if you wanted him gone? Did you simply not want to deal with the blood staining your marbled floors? Did you send Thane to murder him if he tried to leave? Were you going to hand him over to your father, to the Triarchy?

Too many possibilities. The variables that he had previously written off all came back tenfold. He needed to get out of here, out of Myr.

So with a shadow, a man matching his steps prepared to slay him whenever the moment arose, Jace charges to the market. He whispers with merchants, assessing who would help him, who was overcharging and who was worth the coin. He needed to know who exactly he was going to run to when night fell.

After he had established a decent enough understanding, Jace made his way to the first blacksmith he saw. 

“You can wait here Thane, I will only be a mere moment.” Jace tries once again to dismiss the guard you've imposed upon him. 

“No can do.”

Jace steps up the stairs, retching the door open, still trying, “I want to commission a surprise piece for the lady.”

“My lips are sealed.”

Fine. Jace could speak quietly. Bring his head in close and whisper to the blacksmith about his proposal. He knows it won't matter when he unsheaths the sword to have it appraised, but some semblance of privacy is nice.

Jace speaks for a few moments of the details of the sword. The gold on the pommel, the type of steel it was crafted from. Anything to try and increase the value before the blacksmith demands to actually lay his eyes on the piece. It's only when Jace reaches for the hilt that Thane steps in. 

“Don't think you need'ta be doin’ that.” His hand pressing Jace's back into the sheath, “Bout time we be gettin’ back anyhow.”

Well. He supposes going back to the manse was not the worst thing ever. He could be slain, but he is not. His lungs still inhale, pressing oxygen into his muscles. His head could be rolling on the wooden floors, but it still rests upon his shoulders. His heart still beats a steady, fast but steady, rhythm in his chest. 

Jace was clever; he could figure an escape plan out as soon as he was alone. Six hells, he could cultivate one now as long as he stayed silent. 

On the fourth day Jace voices his concerns. To him it is as if you have implemented a self imposed exile to the four walls of your apartments. Certainly his presence was not daunting enough for you to ignore him so?

Where might the Lady of the manse be?

Would she like to go out to the market?

He tries to keep his voice light and curious. To seem as if he simply missed your presence. 

Yet he does not get a response from the servants sent to help him dress. Does not receive a response from the guards who are dispersed throughout the manse, nor the ones in the training yard. Eventually, though, around midday, your handmaid comes to find him.

He’s sweaty, face and forearms caked with dust, panting from the exertion when Eliana approaches. “The Lady wishes for you to join her for dinner.” 

Jace knows it must be the truth–you wouldn’t send your handmaid otherwise. So was this it? Would tonight be where he met his cruel end?

He supposes he should look nice at least. If it was the last time you would lay your eyes upon him, the smallest, most selfish bit of him hopes to haunt you with his image. That the browns of his hair and eyes, along with the bridge of his nose and plush bowed lips will linger in your mind long after his flesh rots from the bones.

Jace washes his face, scrubbing until there are no signs of obvious stress visible. He combs and styles his hair, and dresses in his house colors. A fine deep red satin shirt, paired with trousers so dark they look like a void.

Before he knows it, it's time for the show. He can only hope that it is a quick, merciful end.

You're already seated when Jace makes his way into the dining hall. You're sitting at the far head of the table–a little unusual, because you'd normally be sitting to the right of the head, but it does not make Jace waver. His step does falter for a split second when he notices his seat far from yours. He'd prefer it to be next to you, no matter how improper; he'd settle for adjacent, so he could at least gaze upon your features.

Instead it is directly across. At the end nearest the entrance. As far away as possible. This is most definitely what he believed it to be. You’re final goodbye before you have him slain somewhere in the streets of Myr. 

“How are you, My Lady?”

He can see the faintest bit of a smile on your face. From this distance it seems like a polite, political smile; one that you’ve learned and practiced since you were a young girl. 

“Well, I hope you are too. Please,” You make a faint gesture towards his seat, “Sit.”

Jace sits as you ask. It is a bit janky however. His leg catches on the arm of the chair before he finally slips into a seated position. Truthfully, you hoped Jace was distracted. Distracted by you–but you were not going to ask. Instead you motioned for the meal to be served.

Tonight, your dress is made in Westerosi fashion. A deep red velvet for the fabrics, along with a corset back to tie you deeply into the fabrics. The sleeves just barely hold onto your shoulders, but they're tight enough on your upper arms to secure them into place. At the elbow the fabric opens into nearly a cape along your forearm of black Myrish lace.

Rubies are sewn into the center of your chest, helping accentuate the fatty tissue there. The jewels trail down your torso and ends just above your belly button. Another singular rubie rests above your navel amongst intricate stitching. 

You purchased the velvet for cheap because the merchants usually cannot sell such heavy fabrics in the warm regions of Essos. It leaves you feeling suffocated from the inside out, but you know that velvet is proof of nobility in Westeros and you're hoping to give Jace a taste of what could have been.

You’ve felt his eyes on you since he walked into the dining hall. Felt them rove over your face, your hair, your bust, and the dress. 

“Do you like it?” You ask, far too immersed in your plates for Jace to be sure what you’re speaking of.

Jace chews and swallows the remaining venison in his mouth, “Like what?”

“My dress.”

You take a deep sip of Dornish wine, swishing it around your cheeks as you wonder if he understands. If he grasps the implication, or if he forms it to be what he wants in his mind.

This is acceptance of his heritage. You saying in a different language that you see him as he is, a Westerosi man, and that you welcome him anyway. Maybe he sees it as proof that you’d cross the narrow sea with him–proof that you would adapt to the ways of his people; dress how they dress, eat how they eat, read what they read, sleep how they sleep.

Is he thinking of the future? Of you wearing similarly fashioned dresses as you walked the halls of the Red Keep or Dragonstone?

Were you round with child? Was there one running around your legs and clinging to your skirts? Perhaps he saw both at the same time. Or maybe a few years flashed in his mind, he saw the progress of your life together in bits until it settled on a favored image of your could be family. 

Unfortunately for him, this was not that.

This was your, unintentionally, cruel way of sneaking deep into his brain. 

If he thought of you–when he thought of you– he would see this. What could have been. You in his house colors, in the finest fabrics that his homeland had to offer. Slicing into meats spiced to his liking even if it wasn’t traditional here. The fruitage of your love clear and abundant.

“Yes, I think I favor it. Though you did look delightful in the other piece.”

Good. At least you knew he would look happily upon the memory. It meant you too, could look back on this day without regret. You also could imagine a future of what could have been without feeling guilty.

The two of you make small talk as you eat. You speak of new blooms you’re planning on adding to the gardens, Jace mentions practicing his swordwork with some of the guards. Typical, boring, mundane conversations. Simply had to fill the space.

Your mind drifts throughout them all. Back to the idea of being with Jace. Marrying him. Living in a place unknown to yourself just for him. 

In the moons since you've rescued him, you've become undeniably close. You think you love Jacaerys Velaryon. Cannot be sure because you’ve never been in love before, but you’re nearly sure this is it. When you think back on your parents, when your mother was alive, you see parallels. Thinking of the love you’ve read about in fictional novels, you see parallels. 

It wouldn’t happen, couldn’t happen, even if you both desired it. 

“I have found you safe passage back to Westeros.” You reveal with a carefully blank expression on your face. Would Jace revel in this information, barely able to hide his excitement? It would hurt, but you imagine he has been wishing for an opportunity like this to arise.

“How?”

“I am very persuasive, My Prince.”

“Don’t-don’t do that.” Jace stammers, clearly taken aback at your use of his title.

He has stopped pretending that he is enjoying his meal, stopped pretending to eat at all actually. Clearly thinking the idea over. You can see a flurry of emotions fly across his face. But mainly confusion that eventually fades to elation.

You speak to him of the logistics. Whom he will be sailing with, how long the journey will be, what alias he must hold until they arrive in King’s Landing. Answering any questions he might have had along the way as well. 

“You could come with me.”

Blinking up at him, you squint trying to assess if Jace was being serious or not. Surely he did not interrupt your ramblings to present such a foolish idea. “What?” The word leaves you breathlessly.

“Come with me. To Westeros.”

There is this frenzied look in his eyes. Wide enough so that you can see all the whites of them, You can see the blacks of his pupils wider than they should be, and they certainly should not be visible from this distance. They’re moving erratically, fixing on certain points of your face for a mere second before moving to the next feature. 

“I cannot.”

“You can. You’ve already found safe passage!”

You stand, making your way towards Jace before sitting yourself atop the table next to his plates. Your hand rises to cup his face and he leans into your palm. Calmly you begin to explain, “I cannot go with you Jacaerys. We both have our roles in this life–Yours in Westeros and mine here.”

“But–”

“However, I can give you one last night before your voyage.” Your fingers begin to stroke simple patterns into the curve of his jaw. “Something to remember me by if you will.”

Jacaerys was a strong man. A good man. A thoughtful man. So he knows he would be stupid to deny himself this. Knows that he will be heading home to Westeros, to wed Baela, and to be Lord of Dragonstone with her as his Lady wife. But with this, he could at the very least have fresher memories of your love.

Jace stands, grabbing your other hand to bring it to clutch at the other side of his face. He situates himself between your legs before slotting his lips to yours. 

He kisses you slow. Relishing in the pressure of your lips and the smoothness of them before even thinking of trying to part the seam with his tongue.

He tastes you slow too. Sliding his tongue against and across yours in miniscule movements, like he wants to lave over every individual tastebud. Like he wants to steal the taste of dinner off of them until there's only you, you, you.

He would not ravish you on the table, it was improper, so instead he hoists you up. Hands stopping their constant meandering over the planes of your dress to secure on the underside of your thighs while Jace rushes through the hallways to your apartments.

Jace thinks of all the ways he will bed you as he unties your corsets. He does not believe that he will rest tonight; there are too many things he wishes to try. Too many sounds and pleasures he wants, no needs, to tear from you before he is stripped of your presence forever.

You return his fervor tenfold, of course. Eagerly tearing at his trousers and doublet, preparing to memorise the planes of muscle that were usually obscured. Something to think about when you eventually married some Magister’s son that you could only barely care for because you were stuck with him all day.

You allow yourself to be as loud as possible, moaning and whimpering Jace’s true name into the night air. The servants could send all the ravens they wanted, Jacaerys would still be gone before anything could be done. 

The next morn you wake to a rhythmic beating below your ear and a warm palm caressing your arm. You shift, digging your cheek deeper into the lean place of muscle beneath it, you can feel Jacaerys inhale in a slight laugh.

“You know, I meant what I said.”

Blearily, you blink up at him. Trying to get your eyes to focus on him through the slight crusts at the edges. As you wipe them away you hum in confusion, egging him to explain his statement.

“You can come with me. Back to Westeros.” His eyes have lost that crazed look from the night before. Instead swimming with hope, “I will not see you harmed for your parentage, and you would live as lavishly as you do here.”

You know he's telling the truth, earnestly holding eye contact for as long as you'd allow him before you blink away. His breathing never changed, nor his repetitive motions. If he were lying something would have changed.

“You know I cannot.” You break your statement with a press to his lips before continuing, “I would love nothing more, but I cannot.”

Your last moments together are spent tenderly. You help Jacaerys dress, attach the hilt of his sword to his waist, and sweep some of his crazed curls back behind his ear. All gentle touches and soft words. 

A perfect bubble that’s only bursted when you see him off in the forecourt. 

Tears brim at your lashline and you have to swallow back a sob more than once. This was Jace’s last vision of you and you would not have it sullied because of some emotion that you could not reign in. 

Perhaps you would meet again. Perhaps R’hllor would reunite you in whatever came after death as a thank you for saving his life. 

Or perhaps not. Perhaps you had simply completed a thankless miracle, and your paths would never cross again.

You’d simply have to wait and see. 

epilogue

Nearly a full year has passed since you saw Jacaerys off from the gates of your forecourt. Eleven moons spent twisting and turning at every boy around his height with curly hair, presuming them to be him. Foolishly believing that he has come back to you.

His mother, Rhaenyra, had spent the time fully establishing herself as Queen. Jacaerys was by her side, of course, learning the proper ways of court and preparing for his future. 

You still ask of him, from traveling merchants and storytellers. What is he doing? Are the smallfolk taking to him nicely? Do they believe him fit to be King or do rumors mull about?

You try your best to ignore thoughts of him when with your father.

Yet even now, as you sit poking at salted cod, your mind drifts to him. The meal was one of his favorites and instead of desiring to devour it you wish to save it. As if the meal alone will draw him back into your arms.

Your father clears his throat, taking a deep gulp of wine before speaking.

“A raven came today.” An unpeculiar thing, and your brow creases in confusion as he continues, “With no house seal, simply a piece of twine to hold it together.”

He extends his hand to give you the letter, and you take it from him as if it may burn you. Why is he not revealing more information? Unease sets in your stomach as you unroll the parchment.

The war for the Iron Throne is long won. Rhaenyra Targaryen sits upon it as the God's intended.

I am sure this is tragic news for you, as tragic as losing much of your fleet in the Battle of the Gullet. However I write with the hope of peace. 

My betrothed has found someone, someone she loves, and cherishes. In a true way, not one forged out of political necessity. So I have had our betrothal renounced, I could never prevent one from being with the person they truly love. 

I am sure you question what this has to do with you. I am told you have a daughter, and that she remains unwed. The crown suggests offering me her hand–as a show of good faith. Showing the Triarchy’s submission in their losses, and their willingness to cooperate with nearby lands.

Know that she will be treated well. Future Queen is the second best position a woman can hold in Westeros after all. 

Take a few days to mull over your options. But do make haste, these peaceful terms will not be available forever.

- Jacaerys Velaryon

A grin has overtaken your features while reading the short letter. Before meeting your fathers gaze you school it back to indifference.

“I am to be Queen of Westeros?” You ask, as if not believing the writing before you.

“Only if you desire, I am sure that we can discuss other appeasable terms.”

You don an assured smile, trying to hide the glimmer of excitement in your eyes, “It is all right Father. We all have our parts to play.” 

Dividers by @cafekitsune