erin

Before the war the two of you could pretend. Believe that Jacaerys would ask his mother to take your hand, and she would say yes. Bask in the idea of being wed in the Sept. That the two of you could have children, legitimate children, and raise them to be the apples of the Seven Kingdoms eye. You would call him Jace – the name that feels most like him, not tacking on the traditional Targaryen name ending and allowing him to be free of the weight on his shoulders if only for a moment.

Now there was no room for childish dreams. People were dying; suffering at the hands of Aegon the Usurper, and you would be foolish to still wander the halls of Dragonstone as if the two of you were lovers instead of Prince and his shield. 

Jacaerys, however, seemed to not get the memo. 

Sure – in front of the council, he was brash and angered at the state of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, as soon as he stormed off with you hot on his tail he tried to revert back to old ways.

He attempted to slow his stride and fall into step with you. It never worked, you being so focused on him that every miniscule change was noticed before Jacaerys knew he was doing it.

He spoke to you as if you were his dear friend of nineteen rotations around the sun. You responded in polite, practiced answers.

He tried to take meals with you. Often asking to eat alone in his chambers, with a warm feeling of hope in his chest that you would walk in with two plates.

You only ever brought his plate.

There weren't many opportunities to ride on dragonback anymore, but Jacaerys would stalk his way out to the greener, mossier parts of Dragonstone – you would be in tow, of course. And like before the war, he would plop down in such an unprincely manner. Thumping a hand on the ground beside him as he waited for you to do the same. Instead of sitting you would scan the perimeter. A hand secured over the hilt of your sword, prepared to draw at any moment. Your eyes would never meet his, not once, for you knew seeing him silently begging you to sit would be enough to crumble your resolve. Because how can a shield block an attack if it is lying on the ground?

Sometimes, after a long day, he seeks physical comfort. A brush of the back of his hand against yours. Arms extending to wrap around your waist in a hug. You'd allow these; they were friendly gestures, he was simply seeking human warmth that he did not want to bother his mother with.

But on the really rough days, Jacaerys would grasp your hand in his. Then slowly, he'd caress up your arm, over your shoulder, up your neck, until his palm found the curve of your jaw and his thumb could caress your cheekbone. He'd whisper some plea,

just one, my heart, please

i only want to be close to you

it would be equivalent to the light at the end of this dreary, dim, cavern

And similar to the way the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, you would remind him of his betrothal. That Baela could quell the ache in his chest. It was Baela's responsibility to give him comfort now. 

You always said it softly, reminding him with a tenderness that he rarely felt anymore. But the words still only served as a chisel, adding another inch into the chasm between you.

The past few moons had been brutal for Rhaenyra’s claim. 

Houses pulled away from their sworn allegiance to her. Her allies in King’s Landing had been slain for upholding their loyalties. Daemon made moves that allowed the citizens of the realm to name her as cruel. 

All because some old, wrinkled, codgers could not stomach a woman sitting upon the Iron Throne. But it wasn’t simply Rhaenyra they were contesting. By attempting to uproot Rhaenyra, they also uproot Jacaerys. 

You would kill them if the opportunity arose. As his sworn sword it was in your rights to do so. Seven Hells any disrespect towards him allowed for you to rightfully draw your sword. 

But you cannot leave your prince for days to discreetly row your way to the mainland, it would leave an opportunity for an assasination attempt. Cannot quickly fly into Kings Landing on dragonback, because that means Jacaerys would be with you, putting him at risk. 

You are unwed though. A woman in very high standing. A Valyrian. The Crown Prince’s closest companion and his most trusted ally. 

Your hand could be used to turn the tides. All men need wives; someone to produce them an heir, to warm their bed, to run the inner workings of their house, or sometimes to simply complete the image of normalcy. 

But who?

Who had what Rhaenyra needed to win?

Who had land? Or money? Or men?

You’d leave Jacaerys as he began to change to his sleep cloths, bidding him a restful night and pleasant dreams. It was your job to retire too, change into comfortable garb and find as much of a break as you could. Instead you would be hunched over a desk, writing out who you knew that sided with the greens, what their standing was, how they could help Rhaenyra’s cause. 

Afterwards cross referencing with the books they had in the library. How did they operate in the past? Who would desire this type of uptick in status? 

It took a toll. A deep hue began to settle under your eyes. Steps that lagged for a fraction of a second. Yawns that were disguised as deep breaths. Eventually, you found it. A crack, something to exploit – a viable opening. 

Naturally, only one person's opinion mattered – unnaturally, it was not Jacaerys’.

You follow the normal routine; Wish Jacaerys pleasant dreams, move down the hall towards your chambers, sit at your desk and ponder. You let the castle quiet, allow the servants and maids to find their quarters, and the cooks to finish their preparations for tomorrow's meals. 

When you begin to hear the rats skittering and the sound of a sword falling would echo through the entire castle, you head to Rhaenyra’s chambers. Your fist is heavy when you knock. The sound could easily be mistaken as rageful, but you know that Rhaenyra will hear the certainty in it.

You walk in at her call with a confidence that most would not have. Most would consider that their idea may be thrown out, that the Queen will disregard it because she did not come up with it herself. But you are not most people, you were born and raised to be stronger, smarter, and just overall better than everyone else. You speak without a waver in your tone, not a quiver in your lips, or a glance away when the Queen keeps eye contact.

“We are losing support quicker than we can gain allies, My Queen.”

Rhaenyra sighs. You’ve stated the obvious as if it matters. Bringing up a problem while not producing a solution. “I suppose you have an idea to quell this issue?”

She watches you realize that she is listening; realize that they truly are desperate enough to listen to every idea. Watches you weighing the benefits against consequences. Then finally coming to terms with the words that are about to leave your mouth. 

“Marry me off.” You speak it so fast, as if speaking them hurts you and you want to suffer as little as possible, “To Jason Lannister.” 

The idea is preposterous. Vile in nature. He is nearly seventeen years your senior, a grown man before you were even a thought. They are not that desperate, and there are many routes they can journey across before even toeing across the threshold of this one.

The Lannisters are a green house at that. They fly the Hightower banner when needed. They have, and will, fight in the name of Aegon. 

“Tyland is more sworn to the greens than Jason.” While Rhaenyra’s eyes have strayed, losing herself in thought as you had moments ago, yours stay steady. A calm in them that brings a sense of unease to her. “As head of the house, what Jason says goes and Tyland will be forced to resign if he wishes to still be the next heir of Casterly Rock.”

“If he does not accept we will be seen as fools. Grasping at strands that are not there.”

“He will accept. A Valyrian wife, lavish apartments in the Red keep, someone to produce legitimate heirs with, and a chance at those heirs wedding someone in the royal family due to my status with the crown prince.”

The thought process was thorough. You must have spent hours scanning and searching for cracks in the greens numbers. And this was the most viable one. The Baratheons had been sealed over a betrothal – what’s to say the Lannisters cannot be switched over one?

A tight grimace rests on Rhaenyra’s features as she tells you she’ll bring the idea to the council. You request to be absent, for one of the King’s Guard to watch over Jacaerys while you ‘prepare for the inevitable’. She allows it because she knows you're lying; she’s watched you grow up along with her son and she knows you’re more worried about his reaction than you would be standing alone on the battlefield. 

The walk back to your chambers left you content. This was your purpose. You protected Jacaerys. Took a fatal blow simply so you could have the opportunity to see him succeed to the throne. But you would see it through – as his dedicated sword and shield you would ensure he would rule the Seven Kingdoms as King one day.  

If you were being honest, your day had been smooth. 

You woke early enough to dress and leave on horseback before breakfast was being served. Meaning you avoided Jacaerys.

Dragonstone had many small alcoves worn into the cliffside. They were too narrow for a dragon to even consider putting a claw into, but just wide enough for a human to comfortably lounge. So you rode out to one of those, allowed your horse to roam free while you climbed into one and attempted to rest despite the deep pit of concern that took root in your sternum. 

When you heard the familiar screech of a dragon, you had retreated as far back into the alcove as you could. The shadow passed over the space in front of you and a breath of relief entered your lungs because you had managed to avoid Jacaerys again. 

You came back late, when the castle would be in between periods and you could easily slip through the bustling help. Making haste directly back to your room where you could comfortably reside for the rest of the day. Most would still think you were out, resting somewhere in the wet grasses of the hills, leaving you to comfortably live out the rest of your day before dealing with the hellscape that the morrow would be. 

Thankfully, if Jacaerys was upset you hadn’t heard it. You don’t know why it concerned you, why you had believed that he would cause a riot over you wedding a Lannister. It was childish –  hope from the fizzled out flame the two of you used to have. 

Him being content makes you content. That is how it has always been; he has a way that he is supposed to act – calm, composed, and thoughtful – but you could be the opposite, the beast simply waiting to pounce as long as Jacaerys felt it fit. 

You’re tucked into bed when a knock resounds through your room. A maid. Stating something about knowing you were on leave for the day, but the Prince needed you.

As you approach there’s muffled voices that can be heard through the walls. 

‘My Prince, we can have Ser Roland –’

‘I do not want Ser Roland, I want my sword and shield.’

Whoever is in there has likely been suffering for a while. And you feel for them – your prince has been growing more fiery lately, and it isn’t fun to be on the receiving side of a Targaryen’s rage. So you push the door open, rougher than intended, and allow it to land against the wall to announce your presence.

Both heads whip in your direction. One face flashes relief. The other allows their eyes to narrow and lips to purse.

“What is wrong, My Prince?”

“You, are what is wrong! How dare you propose a betrothal to Jason Lannister of all people?”

The question was not one that required an answer. Jacaerys would only be more angered if you did respond. You allow his rant to continue. 

“Why would you ever think something so stupid would work? He is already sworn to the greens! We know where his loyalties lie!”

The knight who was in here before has quietly excused himself. Jacaerys paces as if his anger is charging with every step.

“You’re sworn to me! Sworn to defend me until my or your dying breath! And you wish to marry the head of Casterly rock? What am I to do? Vacation in Casterly Rock so you may see your in-laws, so his heirs will see what they are to inherit?”

You’ve assumed a position leaning against his desk. Eyes tracking his movement, and you wait for the turn. For him to pivot on his foot and before he can take the first stride in the opposite direction your voice softly drifts into the space. “It was to strengthen your chances of sitting on the Iron Throne.”

It halts his movements like you expected. He needs to process, needs to weigh the positives and the negatives. Seemingly doesn’t believe that you would offer yourself on a platter to a man you’d loathe, just to see him on the Iron Throne. Like it was not your life's purpose to help him achieve his dreams.

It’s all he’s ever wanted – the throne. And his heart hurts, it pulses and a deep ache settles. But it doesn’t ruminate, it begins to pull and tug, as if his heart is trying to climb out of his chest. He wants to give it to you, the only person who has treasured him as much as his mother. 

The physical impossibility of it is what stops him. Instead he resigns to reigning himself in. A simple, “Thank you.” It’s gruff, tearing from his throat as if it pains him to say. 

He can do this for you; chain up the dragon inside himself and allow you to have this. He can suffer this small injustice so long as you stay by his side. Lie to himself that he can handle it before it eventually morphs itself into truth.

Jacaerys was wrong. He could not lie to himself.

He tried, Gods did he try. But the claws that sunk themselves into his heart only dug deeper anytime he thought of you being with anyone but him. He could allow it if you were trying to wed someone you cared for. Or maybe even if you were trying to wed one of the unclaimed houses, not one already sworn to the greens. 

The two of you are sat in Dragonstones library, folded over books when the idea hits him. To wed two was not unseen in Westeros. Aegon the Conqueror took two wives. Maegor the Cruel took two wives. There was no reason he could not do the same. 

One out of duty, one for love.

The book he is holding is closed with a loud, resounding thud. Your head rises at the disturbance, one of your eyebrows raising in a silent question.

“When I am King I will change the law. So I am able to take two wives.”

The words are heavy. Spoken as if the Gods will move to place Jacaerys atop the Iron Throne tomorrow so that he can instill this law.

Your heart flutters. Warmth filling your chest, roving up your neck to bring a flush to your cheeks. The edges of your lips upturn; small, nearly imperceivable smile. Jacaerys is willing to write a new law into order, just for you. 

Willing to face scrutiny in the eyes of the commonfolk. To have his small council disagree, and still go through with the decision. 

But he wouldn't need to write the law into order if his mother had not betrothed him to Baela. Sweet Baela. Who did nothing wrong. Who would feel betrayed that Jacaerys felt her love was not enough, and he had to take another wife.

How would he navigate that? 

Allow both wives apartments and move between them each night? Allow you and Baela to switch sides at dinner every night so you both equally sit on his right side? Have the two of you in an unspoken competition to bear his heir first so your child could sit upon the Iron Throne?

The warmth that was sitting behind your ribs and on your face begins to boil. The blood no longer holds a pleasant, appeased form. It's changed, molded into something that cannot hold shape. The blood rushes, splashing against the vessels that hold it in increasing irateness. It leaves your skin buzzing, a new steady hum that only angers you more.

“Do tell, My Prince, you expected me to stay unwed, unloved, unseen for a few decades? Because unless you intend to usurp your mother or see to it that she is slain, it will be years before you sit upon the throne. And not to mention you've said it yourself, your ruler is your mother, and you do not wish to see it otherwise.”

Jacaerys stops, gnawing his bottom lip as he weighs his choices. He could lie, but that would only anger you more, “Well, yes. Everyone must endure their duties before they can indulge in what they've always wanted.”

“Indulging would be us wedding after both of our spouses have died – as your mother and Daemon have. This is just you being cruel. A dragon unwilling to see what he believes is his, even slightly removed from him.”

“You are mine.”

Tragic. In a sense you were his; sworn to him in an oath that you took by blood. But in reality, he was yours. Yours to defend, yours to kill for, yours to keep alive, yours to see prosper no matter the cost.

The selfishness. The audacity. It's a new face for Jacaerys, one you don't care for, “I am your sword and shield. I cut down your enemies and defend your honor, my relations are not for you to decide.”

Your brows are furrowed, prominent frown adorning your lips. Jacaerys is in a similar state, his bottom lip being gnawed raw by his teeth as he thinks of his next retort.

But you do not wish to hear it. If allowed, the two of you would go in circles about this topic for days and days. So you take the reins from him, swinging open the doors to the library and loudly huffing through the hall, “Ser Bywin will see to your safety for the rest of the night, My Prince.”

Before Jacaerys can react, can mutter a disbelieved ‘what?’, the door has been shut again. As is the argument. Tomorrow you would wake, and put your duty above all else. You'd forget the way that he spoke of you. Forget the insult of being a second wife, while his first was still alive. 

You could only hope he would do the same.

Two weeks pass with your ‘relationship' stuck in limbo. 

Despite the way your heart aches for how it once was, you do not try to mend it either. Jacaerys is finally accepting what is, and it's good for him. Healthy that he stops living in a delusion that will never be true.

Tonight had been another where he dismissed you early. At first you considered it to be because it hurt too much to be in your presence; that reality was tearing him apart as it was you. But the help is never quiet, and you were soon graced with murmurs and stammers that Princess Baela had been joining him in his chambers often. 

You want to cry, to allow your emotions to express themselves in a visual way. Instead you pray to the seven – a prayer of thanks, for Jacaerys’ ability to adapt. It's what you're supposed to do, and you can fool yourself into believing that prayer brings you a sense of comfort. 

Ever since the revelation came you've slept early. Not retired. Not laid in bed. But truly slept. 

Why would you lie awake if Jacaerys had someone to comfort him, and a protector right outside the door?

You fear the worst when a maid knocks on your door. Storming in before you can give her allowance, she pleads for you to see the Prince. That he's just not right and she feels so awfully for him because he won't call on you, but he needs you. 

Upon entering his chambers your gaze softens. He's simply drunk. A blush upon his cheeks, hazy glaze over his eyes, and a golden goblet in his hand.

“Mayhaps you've had enough for the night, My Prince.”

His face lifts with his eyes, and from this new position you can easily see his brows pinch. “You're not real.”

If the maid's words were to be expanded on, perhaps he's hallucinated you in his drunken stupor. Missed you so much his brain resorted to tricking himself for a moment of peace.

“I assure you I am real. How can I prove it to you?”

Jacaerys does not speak. Instead he rises and moves to the small table next to his window. He picks up a second goblet and fills it with a very hearty portion of wine.

The goblet is placed in front of you. A loud resounding thud echoes as its placed – Jacaerys is allowing some of his Strong qualities to slip through his carefully crafted Velaryon shell. “Drink.”

“I cannot, My Prince.” Your fingers move to push the goblet away from you. A few inches give way before Jacaerys' hand stops the goblet again. “You know it goes against my oath to become inebriated.”

He sighs, a loud nearly thunderous sound of all the air in his lungs expelling in complete and utter exhaustion. “It is one bit of wine. It is the sweet one at that, the one made with cherries?”

Of course he picked that wine. The only one you've ever succumbed to. One night when you were too young and innocent to realize the dangers that could have befallen your Prince had an attack taken place. The two of you had indulged, more than was reasonable, and there had been no one there to spectate – because who would? A Targaryen and their sword and shield were to be seen together at all times, even behind closed doors, even despite gender differences.

Your hesitation causes Jacaerys to speak up again, “Is it not in your oath to follow my commands?”

“If they do not put you at risk, My Prince.” 

His hand begins steadily adding more pressure against the goblet, millimeter by millimeter pushing it closer to you. “Then I command you to drink.”

A light laugh leaves your lips, some hair falling to frame your face as your head shakes in disbelief, “It would put your safety at risk, My Prince. How about we get you to bed instead?”

“Drink one goblet with me and I will sleep.” Petulant like a child, Jacaerys resorts to bargaining. “It is not nearly strong enough for you to become inebriated from one goblet.”

And you bend, because this is your prince, Jacaerys, the first of his name, a strong Targaryen name that many down the line would love to have; and even if you'd never call him it again, simple, and most like himself, Jace, the name that didn’t dishonor his mother and still let the weight of his family lift a little from his shoulders. 

You drink it slowly, hoping that there might be a moment where Jacaerys is distracted enough for you to escort him to bed without having to finish the whole thing. He doesn't, of course, too engrossed in watching you drink the wine he specifically had imported for you.

As you drain the last bit of wine from the goblet you can feel his eyes on you. Watching the hollowing of your cheek as you drink as deep as possible to finish it as quickly as possible. Watching your throat as you swallow the liquid. Watching your chest as you heave a breath afterwards.

Then you stare at him, divert your eyes pointedly towards his bed, then back at him. Jacaerys rises, turns his head towards his bed, then steps in your direction.

His left hand comes to cradle your face. Your own hand is on his wrist in a blink, tired of him delaying the inevitable. But before you can drag him to bed, his thumb traces your bottom lip. He pushes slightly at the seam where your lips meet – testing the limit, will you bend here too?

And you're stuck. Shocked at the turn that has occurred. But your lips are stuck shut, thank the seven. 

Jacaerys leans in when he gets nowhere with his thumb. His lips sealing over yours with a weight to them that you don't want to think about. They move despite your own remaining still, tongue poking out and licking your bottom lip periodically. 

You should kiss him back. You've missed him after all. It couldn't hurt more than the past few weeks have.

So you do. Part your lips and allow him to lick into your mouth like a man starved. He's remapping a place he's been to hundreds of times, acting like something has changed even though you have been in no fight that may have altered the shape of your mouth.

When his tongue slides against yours you taste it. The wine. Remnants of however much he had, how much did he have?

You let your eyes blink open, briefly. They scan the desk where the bottle rests and try to see how much of the bottle is missing. The light must be playing a trick on you though – there's nothing in the bottle. 

Had he poured you the last cup? Think. Think. It had dripped at the end of the pour but you had thought it to be because he was lifting the bottle from its pouring position.

Oh the seven help you.

He's drunk.

Drunk.

He doesn't know what he's doing and he'll regret it in the morning. Seven hells and you were really sitting here considering how bad one last night could be.

Your lips still and one of your hands raises to push him away. The other grabs his doublet and drags him to the bed. The coverlet is tossed back, Jacaerys is placed into his bed, and the coverlet is thrown back over him.

His reactions are slowed by the alcohol, but he still trashes out from under the covers, “Wait — wait! You cannot just leave after that!”

“We can discuss it when you are more yourself – not emboldened from cherry wine.”

“Tomorrow then?”

“Yes, yes tomorrow. Now back into bed.”

You usher him as you would a child, a hand between his shoulder blades, then atop his shoulder as you nudge him into a laying position. 

“Do you promise?” He's staring at you with wide eyes. A shimmer of uncertainty swimming in them. 

“Yes Jacaerys, I promise.”

The promise settles him. You watch as he shifts and begins to get comfortable before finally allowing his eyes to close. And yet, even after his breathing settles you don't leave. You watch. 

Some may label it odd, creepy even that you would stand watch when there was no threat. But you love him past your station, and you want to ensure he doesn't wake in a fit.

You do leave before the sun can begin to peek in through the silk curtains. If you were lucky, he would forget the entire previous night happened. He would forget the promise and you would be able to go on about your life as you had. With a stable ache in your sternum that clawed for attention only on long days.

The day could not have gone smoother.

Jacaerys’ opinions were taken into consideration at the small council. 

You'd accompanied him on a walk with Baela, which led to them flying their dragons together. 

He took his dinner from you with a smile, but forwent the playful ‘where's yours?’ that usually came along when the smile began to fade.

You thought yourself to be free. That all you needed to do was see Jacaerys off to bed. No risk of complicated conversation. No reason to deceive him for his own good. Just peace.

But as you turn to bid him goodnight, early as was usual of late, he grabs onto your wrist like a vice.

“But we have to talk.” His voice begins steady but wavers as he reaches the end of his sentence. It quivers, raising just a pitch, as if he’s questioning if you remembered instead of declaring it.

Panic swells your senses. He was supposed to forget. This conversation was never supposed to happen and you were going to serve out your oath in peace. You consider lying to him – feeding into the hallucinations you believe he's had. 

However, Jacaerys is stubborn. You know he will comb over every detail in his memory of last night. Replay every second searching for a crack, one that will prove it true or fake. It would be a waste of time to walk back to your chambers only to be summoned back mere minutes later.

“What do you wish to speak of, My Prince?” 

His hand loosens its grip a fraction, “Of our relations.”

“It is simple, we should not have them.” Your tone is firm, attempting to leave no room for further debate.

Jacaerys stands and lifts both of his hands to rest on your face. Thumbs resting upon your cheekbones. “You kissed me last night.”

“No, Jacaerys. You kissed me.”

A breathy laugh leaves his lips, “Well, you kissed me back. I felt it, and believe me, I’ve spent days attempting to recreate the feeling.”

“I am your sword and shield,” your tongue darts out to wet your lips, “My Prince. That does not mean I give in to your every whim.”

Jacareys’ hands stay firmly planted on either side of your face, thumbs beginning to caress your cheekbones.

“Before – before was a mistake,” you huff, eyes staying firmly locked on the chipped brick behind Jacaerys’ head, “a lapse in judgement, from us both, My Prince.”

You think he has given up. That your words struck whatever chord inside him that they were supposed to and he will finally drop what was and accept what is. 

“I declare that the air is attacking me. And you must save me by sharing your breath.”

He leans in, slow enough that you can dodge, pull away and reject him fully. But still fast enough that you don't have time to think about how this must go against your sworn oath; the few seconds only allow you to process that you want this, you have wanted this since Rhaenyra announced his betrothal to Baela, it would seem that Jacaerys has as well.

It’s not a pretty kiss. One that you would see young maidens reading about in their books. It begins rough; teeth clashing, saliva coating the corners of your mouths, noses shoved so deeply into the other's face that breathing becomes difficult. 

You believe it’s a fight for dominance. Your tongue pushes his out of your mouth, your lips glide against anothers for a moment before you force your tongue into his mouth. If he wanted a battle, you would win it. 

Despite the fact that he’s no longer in control, Jacaerys doesn’t pull away. His body presses into you – chest to chest, hips to hips, his legs are nearly bracketing yours. His hands are tilting your head up, into a position that would give him better access if he was the one leading. 

You pull away from him, chest heaving in search of oxygen. You bring your bottom lip into your mouth to gnaw on it, but Jacaerys is there – like he is everywhere else – his thumb pulling it out before his mouth seals over the flesh to suck and pull on it. 

Now you push him, hands on his shoulders. There’s just enough force in it to separate him from your lip but he still refuses to allow the rest of your body to separate. And you look at him, just look. He looks devastated; eyes glistening with unshed tears, lips slick with spit and swollen from the ‘fight’ for dominance. 

It’s undeniable that he wants this. That he’s willing to sacrifice the sanctity of his betrothal because his desire for you is too insatiable. And Gods do you want it too. The urge forces you to lean back in, to steal the breath Jace demanded you give him. 

He lets you walk him back, shuffling until the backs of his knees hit his bed. You think he’s going to stop you there – that the reality will finally sink into his bones. Instead he leans back into the cushion, dragging you with him. 

A laugh tumbles out of your lips and breaks the kiss. Jace has let his hands fall to your hips, slipping under your top to caress at your skin. You allow your gaze to fall to them, then rise back to his face. His pupils are dilated, swimming with an undeniable amount of adoration while his lips have broken into a wide grin.

You’ve already come to terms with the fact that you want this, and that Jacaerys wants this. Keeping eye contact, you move to remove your shirt from your chest. Halfway up Jacaerys moves his hands to halt your movement.

“You - you have to promise me.” 

Your eyebrows crease. Every physical sign led to Jacaerys wanting this, a very prominent one was between your legs at that. Why would he stop you now? After months of both of you wanting this. What promise could he possibly want?

“Promise you what?”

“Promise me that you’ll wait.” A huff of breath leaves him, “That you won't ever leave me, especially not for some green cunt.”

“Please Jace.” You hope your pleading, that you calling out to him plainly will make him change his mind. That it will shock him into compliance. Instead you get another unwavering command.

“Promise me.”

You ponder it for a moment. Sit atop him and gaze at the only man you’ve ever loved. The man who has owned you – body, mind, heart, and soul – since the day you were one and ten. The man you’d give up your life for. 

Seven forgive you.

You’d melt into his embrace tonight. Kiss his lips until they’d be imprinted in your memory forever. Feel the planes of his chest under your palms and memorize how the muscles beneath his skin felt. Rub the strands of his hair between your fingertips and vow to find something similar and have pillows made of it. 

So you agreed. Nodded before sealing your lips back to his. That you'd suffer in the background, in the shadows, until your time came.

Jace needn't know that Rhaenyra had told you of Jason Lannister's acceptance of the betrothal that morn. 

That your waiting would include warming another man's bed, and bearing his heir and back-up before you have heirs to uphold your own legacy. 

You'd see him on that throne. 

Even if he hated you for it.

︵‿︵‿♡

Dividers by @cafekitsune

See, the Prince was not the only one who was obsessive. From the first moment you had seen him, a foreign emotion flooded through your veins. Your heart quickening, your skin flushing, the thought of him unable to leave your mind.

You had never felt this way before.

Loathing; deep, ugly loathing.

This was more severe than hatred — you could ignore hatred. Hatred was simple, hatred was brief. Hatred did not compel you. This emotion interfered with your life; it was all-consuming, addictive.

Your Lady Mother often remarked that you were a gentle child, that despite the fact that you were raised with four brothers, despite your Lord Father raising you as a son also, ensuring that all his children were skilled in swordcraft and combat, you would never resort to violence the way they often would. Unless you were pushed too far.

And Aerion seemed determined to test your resolve.

"Tully." The Prince spat out, sparing a glance to your brothers as he approached your tent. He did not even bother looking at you, presuming that you were simply some fawning lady, and decided his efforts were better used for taunting your brothers.

"Your Grace." Delmar greeted, ever the conciliator. He was the second oldest, the Spare, and unlike your eldest brother, Melgar, he possessed patience and grace. Two components it seemed the Prince was sorely lacking also.

Your other two brothers, identical twins, Brynden and Mervyn, simply observed with apt interest, watching as their older brother dealt with the temperamental dragon. The twins were a few years younger than you, yet despite this they had already reached your height and were certain to surpass it soon.

Aerion continued, either wilfully ignorant of the tension that followed him like thick smoke, forcing everyone around him to choke on its intensity, or just plain stupid. "I will enjoy unhorsing you once the tourney commences, ensure the mare is not a favourite."

You scowled at his words, scoffing slightly as you turned away, trying to find something else to entertain you. You had heard of his brutish behaviour, of how ignobly he acted, harming animals in the pursuit of victory. It was embarrassing.

How pathetic must he be to have to go to such lengths just to secure a win? Either he is a poor jouster, or simply a weak man. You could not decide which was more appropriate.

If you were allowed to publicly engage in such tournaments, you would never resort to such cheap tricks and crookidness — it was behaviour beneath you. No, you were certain that your skill would be able to carry you; you were as accomplished as your older brothers, the only advantage they held over you pertaining to their height and strength. But you were quicker, in both body and mind, able to adapt, treating the sparring matched like a game of cyvasse, always thinking three steps ahead.

But despite the fact that your Father may have raised you as a son, you could never forget that you were still a daughter. You would never be allowed to join the lists of the tourneys, regardless of how skilled you were, regardless of how worthy you were.

His head snapped towards you, sourcing the soft sound, only to find you scowling as you sat so prettily. Sharp violet eyes narrowing, finally addressing you. "Do my words amuse you?"

"I am not so easily entertained, Your Grace." You drawled, your words dripping with vexation as your gaze languidly dragged back to the Prince, only to find him already glaring at you.

The corner of his lips twitched, jaw clenching as you refused to give him the reaction he had anticipated. He had expected swift apologies, stuttering words, fearful glances as many often reacted when he would address them. Instead he received you.

He mimicked your tone, ensuring to speak with equal vitriol. "Well you will certainly be entertained once your brother loses. I will have to dedicate my win to you, My Lady."

The honorific was purred in such a manner it sounded more like a threat rather than a courteous address. You offered a tight smile as a reply, glaring at the Prince who seemed to finally realise that you too were a person; certainly a shocking discovery.

He would hover for a moment, taunting your brothers with spiteful slights despite the fact that his eyes seemed to unknowingly drag back to you, trying to gauge your response. You were not generous however, and steeled your features, not providing him the gratification of your disdain any longer. However, you had done this far too late. Aerion had seen your true colours once, and desperately wished to witness them again.

You appeared like a docile creature at first glance, but you had mistakenly bared your teeth at him, and now he wanted to get bit.

—

There were many times you wished to strike the Prince, but you had more sense than that. You would rather keep all your limbs.

Instead you waited; you were patient. All you had to do is wait for the tourney to complete, and the chances of you interacting with the Prince again were slim.

You had to be patient.

You would not condescend yourself by acting so lowly, by allowing the Prince to cause you to become so volatile — it was not in your nature, you reminded yourself. You were a Lady, and you would act as such.

So even now, when you were in the middle of a cyvasse match with a Ser Knight of Some Small House you had not paid much attention to, you forced yourself not to notice the prowling dragon who watched the game with apt interest, instead claiming the knight's onyx rabble with one of your own ivory pieces.

The knight, whose name had escaped you the moment he had uttered it, responded quickly, far too quickly. A mistake. He claimed the rabble you had left vulnerable.

The knight's knee continued to bounce, impatience possessing him as he waited for your next move, his gaze flickering up to watch you. You appeared to just be analysing the board, fingers busy with twisting your golden rings, the garnet glinting each time it turned around the digit.

You suppressed the grin that threatened to unveil your glee, instead forcing it down. He did not realise he had fallen straight into your trap.

But Aerion noticed the shift that occurred within you. You may have looked as if you were carved from marble, the perfect statue of the Maiden reborn, yet there was a glimmer within your eyes.

"You have lost." Aerion proclaimed, his eyes travelling across the board to decipher how the knight had lost, yet he could not find it. What was the source of your eyes softening? Certainly not the knight… His eyes narrowed as he failed to see your victory. Surely not, it could not be the knight who had caused the smile in your eyes, for your irises to brighten. Yet the knight was not exactly ugly, and perhaps you were as simple as he had initially assumed.

He was so focused on discovering the reason for your sudden joy, he did not realise that it quickly diminished at the sound of his voice, shooting him a glare once he had exposed you.

"Pardon, Your Grace?" The knight managed out, his eyes widening once he realised the Prince was addressing him. Aerion did not bother answering him, only leaning over you to see the board from your perspective. It was beginning to irritate him, what could you see that he could not?

"I am afraid His Grace is correct, Ser." You finally spoke, your skin flushing as the Prince crowded you against your chair, seemingly not caring at the proximity he had forced upon you. You cleared your throat, your pulse racing unsteadily as his arm rested against the back of your chair, lithe fingers brushing against your shoulder causing you to sit up straight to avoid his touch. "Your king will be trapped, defeat in five moves."

Aerion smirked at your confirmation, glad to know that the only thing about the knight that caused you joy was his defeat, and not his stupid face.

"But how?" Aerion demanded, not allowing the knight to react to your words, continuing to lean forward until his head was beside yours. He stilled for a moment, eyes screwing shut as he inhaled from his nose, the subtle scent of lavender and chamomile hitting him.

The knight simply observed, riveted by the scene that was unfolding before him. Perhaps the princeling was drunk, he concluded. It was not strange to see members of the royal house of Targaryen to be publicly intoxicated, the Prince's brother Daeron had long ago normalised such behaviour, even earning the moniker 'The Drunken'. Intoxication was the only reasonable explanation for why Aerion was conducting himself in such a manner.

You stood up suddenly, becoming far too aware of how the knight was watching you, desperate to desert the situation. "My catapult would claim his dragon, leaving his king defenceless."

"But could I not—" The knight began, trying to get you to sit back down, to complete the game. You were leaving so soon, and the knight felt disappointed at losing the opportunity to speak to you longer.

"It is called laying a trap." You quickly interjected, jewelled hands smoothing your skirt as you tried to pardon yourself as smoothly as possible. Yet your pride — the disastrous, fragile thing it was — compelled you to explain how you had won, how you had bested the men before you. "I had baited you through a technique referred to as the 'Ruined Rabble', and through sacrificing one rabble, you were defeated. Now you must excuse me—"

Your voice was quickly interrupted by Aerion placing his hands roughly onto your shoulders, harshly guiding you to seat yourself once more.

"Move." He demanded. The knight quickly obeyed, abandoning you with such swift ease. What a knight he was, you thought bitterly. Leaving you with the dragon.

And the Dragon continued to watch you, scrutinising the prey that refused to flinch under his narrowed gaze. You did not utter a word, simply collecting your pieces with unnecessary detail, purposefully trying to waste his time.

And it worked. Like the knight minutes prior, Aerion could only watch you with a clenched jaw, getting irritated by the amount of time it took you to retrieve your pieces. For Seven's sake, they were all laying before you, it should not take that long!

His index finger drummed a frantic beat against the table, his own pieces already gathered in a cluttered pile (although you quickly noted that he had arranged his dragons in a neat line, as if they were cavalry awaiting for his next command).

"Will you hasten your movements?" He sharply interrogated, his tone mocking as if your actions were motivated by incapability rather than deliberation. You refused to look at him while he addressed you, keeping your attention captivated on your ivory pieces, only furthering his irritation. Why he wanted your sole focus, he was unsure, the sensation foreign as he tried digging it deep, hoping that if he ignored it long enough, it would not haunt him any longer.

"I will try." You replied, your tone light, laced with sincerity despite your movements slowing further. He simply huffed in response, slouching in his seat as his impatient nature demanded for something else to entertain him while he waited. His head swiveled, neck straining as violet eyes travelled along the perimeter of the tent, only to observe the knights that had gathered at another table, his dear cousin in the centre of them. He scowled, the sight of the flock that seemed to gather around Valarr served to irritate him further. They only trailed behind him because he was the Heir's Heir, nothing more. If he did not possess that title, they would flock around Aerion instead, because he was certainly far more interesting than his cousin. Or so he comforted himself.

A smirk threatened to break onto your face as you noticed his distracted demeanor, your hand reached across the board into his territory, selecting your ivory rabble. And while you were certain that he was not paying attention, you grabbed one of his dragons in one swift movement, concealing it in your palm as your hand retreated, allowing it to fall within your sleeve.

"Shall we arrange our boards, My Prince?" You questioned, drawing his attention back to you as you slid the opaque inklike screen into its place, obscuring your vision of his half of the board. Your hands were already moving before he could respond, routinely placing tiles in a sequence your older brother Malger would often use.

Malger was far more skilled in cyvasse than you were, and he was the most skilled jouster in your family; it was a shame he was not attending the tourney, you were certain he would put the temperamental princeling in his place. Your good sister was in the later stages of her pregnancy, and despite your fathers insistence, Malger refused to join the travelling party, meaning that your other brother Delmar would take his place in the tourneys.

Your Lord Father Medgar Tully, also a proficient jouster and swordman, skills hardened through the battlefield, would have participated in the tourney if it were not for the arm injury he had sustained during a hunt. As a result of his inability to participate, he commanded that one of his sons must. You did not bother requesting if you could join, already knowing the answer would be a resolute refusal.

At times you could not help but wonder why your Father had raised you in such a manner, why put a sword in the hand of a child and be surprised once they were accustomed to the weight, the blade becoming an extension of one's self.

Aerion grumbled a halfhearted reply, his attention continuously being drawn to the knights fawning over his cousin, haphazardly placing the tiles. What was so great about Valarr anyways? He hardly possessed the Valyrian features, and he was not that skilled in combat either.

He began to position his pieces, only to still. There was one missing. One of the most important pieces was missing.

His dragon was gone.

"Where is my dragon?" He demanded, his voice rising as he frantically looked around, finding one of his dragons missing from the position he had carefully placed it in.

"Pardon?" You questioned, feigning ignorance as you tilted your head at him, watching with great amusement as he quickly lost his remaining composure. You kept your hands on your lap, the inky dragon's wing digging into your forearm as it remained veiled from his sight. He swiftly stood up, looking over the board to find your pieces attentively placed into their correct positions. "My Prince, you cannot—"

"Do not inform me of what I can and cannot do." He hissed, leaning over the screen to search for his piece. Yet despite his meticulous search, he could not find it. "You have stolen my dragon, return it this instance."

"My Prince, I did no such thing." You lied blatantly, and it simply infuriated him further as he could tell. Your eyes were smiling once more, and they never did that when you were looking at him. Your movements were subtle, your arm dragging forward just an inch, the dragon tumbling onto the floor, released from your sleeve. Your foot found it quickly, gently kicking it forward. You quickly added another remark, unable to stop yourself. "Perhaps your dragon flew away?"

His hands clenched, teeth grinding as he desperately tried to not curse you. He was finally getting the attention of the knights, but not in the way he had wanted.

"Stand. Up." He demanded, his words slow as they gritted out of his mouth. You obeyed, once more moving languidly as you raised your palms in mock surrender. He was making a fool out of himself, and you had orchestrated it perfectly. However you had to admit that you did not expect it to happen so perfectly. And it simply got better, the scene being witnessed by multiple bystanders.

"Is that not your dragon by your feet, cousin?" Valarr called out, feeling an indescribable embarrassment for his cousin and the poor Lady he was harassing. He wished he could rescue the pretty Lady, but it appeared that you were able to handle the situation, offering Valarr a bashful smile.

Aerion looked down, the dragon pathetically laying on the floor. It was certainly not there before… right? His jaw clenched as he nodded, biting his tongue, a subtle metallic taste emerging as he refused to speak.

He grabbed it quickly, suppressing the urge to hurl it across the room, preferably hitting Valarr. Of course, out of every individual within the tent, it was his cousin who had found his dragon. Great Valarr, perfect Valarr. How utterly infuriating.

Aerion sunk back into his seat, huffing like a petulant child as he forcefully placed the dragon into its place. He shot a glare at you, gesturing for you to sit down. This was your fault, he decided. It had to be.

"Witch." He muttered under his breath, his tone accusing as he shot you a glare, and you could only roll your eyes at him.

You pulled the screen, placing it gently on the table, frowning as you took in his board. What in the Seven Hells did he do? There was no rhyme or reason to the position of his tiles and you struggled to decipher what technique he may have used. Another mistake you had made, assuming that he even knew cyvasse techniques.

And it quickly became apparent as you played with him — he barely moved his rabbles, used his catapults when it truly was not necessary, and allowed his dragon pieces to dominate the board. Which, unfortunately for him, led to the death of all his dragons. Truly a reenactment of the Dance of the Dragons, and how fitting that it simply led to the defeat of a Targaryen.

Yet despite how amusing it was to mess with the Prince, the game was a terrible bore. It felt as if you were playing with a child rather than a man grown. You were certain your younger brothers were more skilled than him, all his moves were seemingly motivated by an undeserving arrogance rather than an understanding of the game. He was truly unworthy of your time, you concluded — you had spent more time playing with your rings than actually playing the game, absentmindedly removing and rewearing them, twisting them as you felt your brain ache.

"Defeat in four." You stated, tone bored as your head rested against your fist, suppressing a yawn. You had expected more, but clearly your greatest mistake was just having expectations for the Prince. You had heard the whispers that followed him, of his cruelty and anger — such behaviour was surely sourced by a lack of intelligence, perhaps he would not act so rashly if he simply thought. Advice that was applicable to both the game before you and his life. But you had more sense than to voice such an opinion, so you would simply apply it yourself. It would be for your betterment to avoid the Prince, as each encounter with him only served to increase the urge to strike him.

And you were certain to oblige to such desires.

You could almost forgive the cruelty, it was a common fact that Targaryens were mad — his lineage cursed by the gods for their unnatural practices. But his arrogance, his self-conceited nature was unforgiveable. How blind must a man be to not understand that his birthright could only carry him so far? What did it matter that he were a Targaryen Prince if his character failed in every other aspect?

He remained silent, his hand pressed into his jaw as he leaned towards the board, his head inching closer to yours as he tried to see where his defeat laid. It took its time to register in his mind, but, eventually, defeat was processed. And you stood up as soon as it did, hands smoothing over your silk skirts, the opulent fabric whispering as you moved.

Aerion had never lost before. And he was not entirely sure of how he felt — bitter at the loss, yet it was the addictive sort. He would not mind experiencing it once more if it came from you.

"There are pieces other than the dragon, My Prince." Your tone mocking as you smiled at him sweetly, your eyelashes fluttering as you perfected the facade of innocence. He glared back at you, scowling at his loss.

"The dragon ought never lose." He seethed, his voice low as he leaned over the board, his forearms barracading the game that demonstrated his defeat. Then why are they all dead, you thought sardonically, forcing yourself not to utter your true thoughts. They would certainly get you executed, despite being the truth.

"Certainly, Your Grace." You responded, rolling your eyes deeply the moment your back was turned from him.

Your first victory against Aerion.

It was only afterwards in the silence of your own tent did you realise that your garnet ring was missing.

—

"Lady Tully." A voice called out, forcefully dragging your attention away from the ladies you had were seated amongst.

The tourney was being held in honour of the daughter of Lord Leo Tyrell, Aster Tyrell. It was clear that Leo Longthorn was trying to recreate the famed Tourney of the Field Roses, wanting the beginning of his daughter's marriage to be embroidered with success and greatness. She was to be wed to Karlon Stark, the only son of Lord Barthogan Stark. It was rumoured that Barthogan was not in favour of the tourney, believing it was a waste of time and resources, claiming that war was not a game, but his son managed to persuade his father, hoping that his Winter Rose would be pleased.

Yet Aster did not speak one word of her good father's dislike of the event, instead distracting the ladies around her with the Myrish silks her betrothed had commissioned for her. Not that she would have much use for such luxuries in the North, the Lady would have to sacrifice her low necklines and thin silks for furs and wools.

But you ignored that thought, instead fussing over the beauty of her gifts, fawning and cooing in all the right moments, until a silver-streaked Targaryen had distracted you.

Prince Valarr Targaryen, the very definition of beauty and grace, stood before you, directing a smile so gentle and charming that it had caught you off-guard. Your gaze flickered between his bi-coloured irises; warm amber and soft lavender. It was only until Aster nudged you slightly did you realise that the pleasantness of his smile was intended for you, the Tyrell Lady ushering you to follow the Targaryen Prince.

He shared pleasantries with the other ladies who were seated among you, congratulating Aster so sweetly that she blushed as if she was not to be wed within the moon.

"My Lady, I must apologise for my cousins behaviour earlier." He began, offering his arm as he began to guide you further through the famed courtyards of Highgarden, the ambrosial scent of roses and grapes wafting through the air. "Aerion is quick to temper at times, but he means well."

Valarr did not dare look you in the eyes as he spoke those words, as if recognising the lie he recited so often to excuse his cousin's behaviour. But you simply smiled, fingers curling around the soft velvet of his sleeve as you offered your appreciation, making liars of the two of you.

"There is no need to apologise, My Prince. I have many brothers and am accustomed to such behaviour. I was not offended." You responded, offering false sympathy with ease, watching as his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally, as if you had released a weight he was shouldering stoically.

But your heart dropped, unable to truly experience the satisfaction of getting away with such a small lie, as you noticed something strange.

From your peripheral you saw the glint of silver-gold — platinum glimmering under the harsh sunrays, motionless. A shiver travelled down your spine as you finally registered his unwavering attention, like a prey noticing a predator far too late. You were unable to escape, to return to the refuge of the ladies, to hide behind propriety and decorum. Your smile faltered slightly, yet Valarr did not notice, instead he continued to speak, his attention flittering between your enticing eyes and the flowers before you, finding it difficult to look at you for too long.

Valarr was uncertain as to why he felt this way, why his heart seemed to skip each time your attention was solely on him. So instead he forced his efforts back to his initial intentions — to apologise for Aerion. But why was he so determined to receive your forgiveness, to ensure that you would be pleased? He did not have an answer for that either, and imstead tried to silence the mocking voice in his head.

"You are very kind, My Lady." He responded, stopping briefly before a bed of golden roses, plucking one from its place. He withdrew a small dagger, allowing the blade to glide along the stem, removing the thorns, before returning the blade to its place. "Yet I still feel indebted to you, I should have intervened earlier—"

The silver-streaked Prince was interrupted by a curt voice.

"Cousin." Aerion addressed, hands behind his back as he pinned you beneath his scrutinising stare, not even sparing a glance at Valarr. He had already witnessed enough; how his cousin dared to apologise on his behalf, how you offered your enchanting smile and charming words, clinging onto Valarr's arm as if he were your saviour.

It was pathetic.

And it would stop this instant.

"Aerion." Valarr countered, offering a tight smile to his cousin.

"Lady Tully." You included, smiling slightly at the stupid joke, but it quickly diminished when you noticed the two men remained silent, with Valarr glaring at his nonreciprocating cousin. Instead Aerion seemed more interested in your eyes.

Alluring, beguiling eyes. His steadfast focus remained on them, even as his cousin continued to speak, even when you looked away from the silver-haired prince. His attention remained solely on you.

"As I was saying, My Lady…" Valarr began again, his smile slightly strained as his cousin remained unmoving, offering the rose to you. The blossom was quickly accepted, your fingers tracing the smooth stem, your gaze wandering back to the silver-streaked Targaryen. But once again Aerion disliked the scene unfolding before him, meaning that once again Valarr was interrupted.

"My Uncle has summoned you. He requests your presence immediately." Aerion declared, his nails biting half-moons into his palms as he noticed the glimmer in your eyes return. How dare you direct that look towards Valarr? How dare you deem him worthy of such a privilege?

Valarr shot a look at his cousin, half disbelief, half annoyance. He knew Aerion's nature, deception and bitterness coursing through his veins. And despite this universally acknowledged truth, Valarr could not ignore his words on the off-chance that his cousin was truly not lying.

Of course he was lying, but truly what more could you expect from Aerion? It was Valarr's fault for being gullible.

And so he turned towards you once more, the words he desperately wished to voice dying on his tongue, tasting like ash.

"You must excuse me, My Lady." He murmured, voice laced with regret and disappointment as he hesitantly pulled away from you, allowing his fingers to brush against the flow of your skirt for just a moment. "It appears that my Father requires me."

You responded gracefully, voice soft as you bid farewell to the Princes, grasping the opportunity to flee as soon as it appeared. But this was futile, a steady hand grasping your elbow, fingers digging into the skin as you were guided further into the verdent gardens, further from your refuge.

You inwardly cursed, heart dropping as you allowed Aerion to drag you to a remote corner of the courtyard, the only witnesses being the chirping cardinals and twisting ivy on the sun-bleached courtyard wall.

He did not bother asking what you were discussing with Valarr, did not bother asking why you were in the gardens — instead he simply stared, completely taking you in, searing the image into his memory.

You refused to meet his gaze, nails gently scratching against where the thorns had been removed, fingers travelling to caress the soft petals as they yielded to your touch, the gold parting. This was not supposed to occur. You were not meant to interact with the Prince this much, surely you were cursed.

"Why were you with him?" Aerion interrogated, taking the rose from your hands, scowling at the blossom as if it had caused him offence, throwing it to ground. Deep violet eyes settled on you once more, piercing you with chilling precision.

"Prince Valarr wished to converse—"

"I did not ask about what you were doing." He clarified, stepping towards you, his fingers tracing along the curve of your neck, catching onto the chain of your necklace, the golden links glimmering as he observed your pendant. He could smell chamomile and lavender once more, the addictive scent calming his mind. "Why were you with him?"

Your brows furrowed in confusion, suppressing the urge to flinch at his touch, wishing desperately to create some distance. But you could not, his grasp remaining on your pendant as he watched the garnet stone glint in the sunlight.

"I am not sure what you mean, My Prince." You confessed, your heart racing as he finally yielded your necklace, the cold metal of your pendant hitting the skin above your neckline. The question itself was some sort of trap, you decided. How could you answer as to why you were with the Heir's Heir? There was no option for you, the reason was simply because you could not deny the requests of the Blood of the Dragon.

"You will refuse him in the future." He murmured, closing the gap between you as he caught a lock of your hair, twisting the strand around his finger.

"That would be an insult." You responded, instinctively retreating from his warmth, creating the distance you yearned for. He was far too close, far too much — the scent of sandalwood and ash flooding your senses, perforating into your mind, burning your thoughts and self-control.

He scowled at the movement, before yanking the strand, pain flaring at the base of your scalp as you hissed sharply, your head snapping with the harsh movement. And you quickly responded before you could even think, digging the heel of your foot into his, smiling as he flinched, a curse rasping out his larynx.

But the gratification of satiating your desire was temporary, immediately vanishing as the severity of the situation dawned on you.

Seven fucking Hells.

What did you do?

Terror seized you as you backed away from the glaring Prince, watching as his breathing became unsteady, his lips curling with an emotion you truly could not identify. You turned on your heel, submitting to the fear that guided you as an instinct older than your lineage possessed you.

You had to run. You could not think, your mind haunted with the impending future, of the consequences that would occur. Even if you ran, you would not be able to get far. He would still chase you. He would find you, make you pay for daring to strike a Prince of the Blood.

There was simply no escape.

Yet despite this realisation you still tried, only to be dragged back, his fingers curling around your biceps, nails stabbing through the silk fibres of your sleeve, roughly pulling you into him. You stumbled, back hitting his chest, and you could swear that his nose brushed against your hair as he inhaled sharply.

You struggled against his grip, his hands turning you to face him as your mind racing with thoughts and possible solutions. But they all fell flat as you came to one conclusion.

He wished to strike you. To punish you for such impudence, for such disrespect.

But your mind was silenced as his lips crashed against yours, teeth clashing as he desperately kissed you, chasing the taste of honeyed wine. His hands had travelled, one carded through your hair pulling the strands while the other cradled your jaw, holding you in place.

You froze, your hands steadying yourself on his shoulders, not pushing him away.

What the fuck?

You had accounted for every possible outcome, crafting swift resolutions for the worst scenarios, but you could have never expected this. How in the Seven Hells could you escape this?

Instead of reciprocating his actions, instead of returning his kisses, you bit his bottom lip harshly, the flesh tearing against the sharp of your fang. The metallic taste infiltrated your mouth, blood staining your lips as he finally withdrew wincing at the sudden pain.

His fingers immediately raise to his lips, tracing the torn skin as blood weeped at the injury, a crimson drop trickling down his chin. Your own lips were stinging, swollen and bruised by his harsh kisses.

His pupils were blown, black darkening the deep violet as he watched you with a certain satisfaction. Yet the hungry look in his eyes remained, not completely satiated, gaze fixed on you like a dragon following its cornered prey.

He allowed you to run away this time, to flee from him. He did not bother chasing you.

He had won.

—

Aster had requested a favour from you.

A gift for her wedding, she had clarified, eyes pleading as she grasped your hands. She wished to attend the merriments occurring within the Baratheon tent, but could not conjure up the courage of going alone.

She did not dare ask her betrothed to take her, unsure of how that may have seemed. However she heard that Delmar was acquainted with the Laughing Storm, and it was certain that your brother would attend.

He would be your chaperone, and in turn hers as well. You had hesitated for a moment, your mind still reeling from your encounter with the silver-haired Targaryen. You did not want to risk another interaction.

But you could not deny her, pity striking you at the sight of her furrowed brows and doe eyes. You were weak, and so you joined her, Delmar many paces ahead of you as she whispered excitedly in your ear.

Lyonel Baratheon exceeded any expectation you had for the man; he was loud and boisterous and utterly charming in a way that commanded attention. He was impossible to ignore.

He was already a tall man, yet seemed insistent to tower above every person in the tent as he danced upon tables, his antler crown lopsided on his head of salt and pepper curls. You could not deny that he was handsome, and clearly neither could Aster, allowing the Baratheon Lord to spin her, viridescent silk skirts twirling to the discordant melody of unharmonious singing crashing against the sound of fiddles and flutes. She danced with him, and any other man she ran into, her cheeks flushed pink with exertion, breathless as she grinned so brightly.

Your smile could only mirror hers, watching her joy from the sidelines as you settled into a corner of the tent, sipping costly imported Myrish firewine, the spiced wine burning your throat. But you did not mind the subtle pain, quickly becoming accustomed to it as the feeling was more enticing than any that the offered Arbor gold could provide.

Delmar was also engrossed within the celebrations, stood upon a rickety table that swayed as he sung a bawdy tavern song with one of Baratheon's bannermen, Arbor gold spilling out of his goblet, the fruity wine dripping off his fingers. You wanted to laugh, to mock your brother while he was in a drunken stupor, to share Aster's glee, but you were unable to.

You could not even stomach the food offered during the feast, your stomach turning at the sight of the roasted duck, and instead just sipped your firewine. The thought of the Targaryen Prince haunted you; harming the Prince, kissing the Prince, harming him once more. Your heart was conflicted on how to feel, scandalised at your actions, scandalised at his, fearing what is to come.

But there was one emotion that did not waver. You truly hated him.

You almost wished you could have inflicted more damage. To make the crime worth the impending punishment.

You flinched, the sound of harsh laughter drawing you out of your suffocating thoughts. It soon faded however, but not due to distance. Cerulean eyes found you, the candle light faintly glinting against his irises as his gaze narrowed with a heavy intensity that interrogated you. You returned Lyonel's attention, watching him for a moment before allowing your focus to be drawn back to where Aster whirling, your mind pirouetting with her once more.

But Lyonel's gaze lingered, unwavering as he noticed your demeanour, as if noticing a flaw within the atmosphere he had carefully curated. You were not sharing the merriment.

"Lady Tully." He commented, your name sounding more like a fact rather than an address. "I did not know that Delmar's sister was a terrible bore."

"Perhaps I am, or perhaps I do not see the point of these festivities." You drawled back, your tone bitter despite allowing him to steal the goblet you were grasping like a lifeline. He took a quick swig of the wine, wincing as he ignored the urge to spit it back out. He would have insulted it if he did not quickly realise it was the very firewine he had brought with him from Myr. "No victories, yet you knights are celebrating as if you had won every competition."

He barked out a laugh at your response, not expecting you to cut back, the sound sharp and invasive as it pierced through the loud music of the tent. "How dull would life be if we only celebrated when there was cause to do so?

You remained silent, your focus drifting to your brother who seemed to detest his feet being on the ground, instead having them planted upon chairs as he travelled across the room, another knight placing them to aid his journey. The idiot was going to get injured, but you made no move to stop him, instead taking your goblet back from Lyonel, taking a long sip.

He noted your silence, and was unsatisfied with the response, his hand resting against the small of your back, palm firm against the smooth silks as he placed his antler crown upon your head. It hung loosely on your head, and you quickly stabilised it with a palm as you shot the Lord a questioning look.

"Do you like to dance?" He asked, eyes twinkling as he grinned at you, determined to change your mood. He decided that no one was more deserving of the happiness that was infecting the participants of the festivities, especially with how jaded you seemed. You rolled your eyes at his question, but he could tell he had won you over, your lips stretching into a grin as you began to respond.

But no response came.

The warmth of Lyonel's hand quickly disappeared, replaced by a familiar heat as you felt someone press against you, a hand wrapping around your bicep, laying a silent claim. Sandalwood and ash. Your eyes darted down to the offending hand, heart dropping at the sight of pale lithe fingers that curled around your arm.

And your garnet ring glinting from where a signet ring should lay.

"Baratheon." Aerion's voice called out, you could feel his voice vibrate against your back, his grip tightening as he greeted the Stromlander.

Lyonel responded curtly, his gaze hardening as it darted between you and the dragon that grasped you. He could not identify the emotion on your face, stuck between anger and regret as you glared onwards, not truly looking at anything. But you did not move, did not flinch, simply allowed the volatile Prince to hold you as if you were his possession.

"Leave us." Aerion demanded, dismissing the Lord as if this were not Lyonel's tent, as if Lyonel was the one causing the disruption. His free hand grabbed the crown by the antlers, gently removing it off your head before roughly shoving it against Lyonel's chest.

The Baratheon opened his mouth, mind fuzzy by the liqueur he had indulged in, the border between logic and stupidity blurred as he began to argue against the command. But he was quickly silenced by your glare, your head subtly shaking once to dissuade him. And so he pursed his lips shut, offering a tight smile as he obliged to your wishes, taking his crown and abandoning you to the dragon.

Aerion's hand travelled down the expanse of your arm, tracing the inside of your forearm, following the trail of the veins of your inner wrist, before settling around your wrist, fingers pressed against the skin as your pulse fluttered like trapped bird beneath his grip.

"My sweet Lady Rivers." Aerion murmured, warm breath hitting against the skin of your neck as you suppressed a shiver at the sensation, trying your best to ignore the mocking nickname he had decided to bestow upon you. He moved slightly, finally in front of you as he stole your goblet, unflinchingly drinking the firewine, gesturing for a knight to refill the cup. The knight quickly obliged, before disappearing into the refuge of the crowd, and you could only yearn to do the same. "You seem determined to ignore me."

You did not bother granting him the privilege of a response, instead your gaze was fixed on the fingers curled around your wrist, the garnet stone of your ring mocking you as it glimmered in the low candle light.

"Return my ring." You muttered, your voice drowned out by the intensity of the festivities, your mind clearing as the wine seemed to no longer course through your veins. He pulled you closer, his head lowering so his lips brushed against the shell of your ear.

"No."

Cunt.

Your gaze finally drifted up, head tilting slightly as his face was inches away from you. Violet irises dark and unwavering, restless as they flickered across your face, shimmering like the softness of twilight. The violet was swallowed by the darkness of his pupils, almost seeing your own reflection within the void that threatened to consume you. His lips curled with amusement as he noticed the glare that had settled into your features. You were truly beautiful when you were angry; divine and wicked, appearing like justice personified.

Your eyes dipped to his lips, lingering for a moment as you noticed the wound beginning to scab on his bottom lip, evidence of your bite. Your head spun at the sight, a strange delight coursing through your veins that was quickly extinguished once you remembered exactly why you had inflicted the injury.

He could only swallow harshly as he noticed where your gaze travelled, his mind flashing back to the very moment you were reminded of.

"Then perhaps you will release me, My Prince." The title dripped with thinly veiled vexation, the vowels dragging as if it were an insult. His smile twitched at your request, grip tightening slightly as if the very idea was a slight.

"So you can run off to that Lord?" Aerion accused, his voice low and heavy with a strange insecurity that you could only furrow your brows at. His behaviour was confusing you; perhaps you were more drunk than you had assumed. Why in the Seven Hells was he mentioning Lyonel? A Lord who you had never truly talked to before, finally sharing your first sentences devoid of any courtesy moments prior.

Despite your inhibitions being blurred by the firewine, your mind still functioned to the best of its capabilities. You quickly noticed the poorly concealed accusation, your anger flaring once more. Was he questioning your honour? There was no greater insult to a Tully, no greater insult to a woman. You were just thankful that you did not drink as much as you had truly wanted, as you would have certainly struck him if you had. The desire to do so coursed through your veins, the fingers of your free hand twitching slightly as you denied to fall into the temptation.

You twisted your wrist slightly, trying to release yourself from his grip as you responded. "I am not sure what you are suggesting, Your Grace, but I would like to be dismissed now."

Any trace of a smile vanished from his features, a cruel look brightening his eyes as he scowled at you, displeased by the reaction you provided. Why did you always flee from him? Did you enjoy withholding your presence from him? To make him yearn for your attention?

First his cousin, now some Baratheon lord — his patience was wearing thin, threadbare and fraying from your insistence to entertain the pursuits of lesser men.

His cruel, darling Lady Rivers.

The sound of heavy crashing tore through the charged moment, ripping your gaze away from him, your heart dropping at the sound of cursing and groans. The music stilled, a moment of tense silence washing over the tent.

Delmar, that damned fool.

You wrenched your arm from Aerion's grip, possessed by a newfound strength as you tried to push past him. But Aerion, like he often was, was disappointed by how your interaction was progressing, and grabbed at your skirts to interrupt your escape, vermillion silks bunched around his fist, spilling out between his fingers.

"Do not leave." He whispered, his voice going unheard as you tugged at your skirt, pulling the fabrics from his grasp as you shot him a glare, your eyes wild as you continued your pursuit of finding your brother. You did not hear his plea, soft and vulnerable and wanting, instead your mind was paralysed with a certain blankness as logic evaded you, the thought of your brother being injured anchoring your wits. And so you denied the request you did not witness.

Your heart thudded uncomfortably in your chest, certain to break your ribs as you pushed past the small crowd that was beginning to form, with your fool of a brother stemmed within the centre, unable to move. Your eyes darted around, taking the scene in completely as your mind began to race once more.

The wood had splintered at its leg, shards of mahogany exposing the wound as Delmar gritted his teeth at the pain throbbing through his ankle, desperately trying not to make any more noises. His foot was at a strange ankle, clearly a consequence of landing on it incorrectly.

Lyonel was beside him, grinning wolfishly at the stupidity of your brother while Aster gravitated to your side, her hands grasping yours as she tried to not look Delmar.

Any initial fear that you had experienced was replaced by an anger that you could not explain. Why in the Seven Hells would he act so stupidly? If he could not handle being so intoxicated, why would he indulge?

"You dimwitted wretch." You scolded, scowling at Delmar who certainly seemed more clearheaded, the fall sobering his mind as he offered a sheepish smile. The music began once more, the fiddler clearly dissatisfied by the lack of grievous injury as quick paced notes began to fill the air.

"Such kind words, sister." Delmar grumbled, hands grasping at the slant of the broken table as he attempted to become upright once more. He winced, a shallow gasp escaping him as pain sparked at the weak movement, and Lyonel quickly steadied him, grabbing at the injured man's forearms.

"And truthful." Lyonel added, quirking a brow at you as he struggled to suppress his own smirks, guiding the wounded Tully to lean against him. It would not be a celebration until someone had become injured. And unfortunately that individual just had to be your brother.

You abandoned Aster, your hand tracing against hers in apology as you went to Delmar's other side. A heavy arm draped over your shoulder, and you suppressed the urge to flinch at the smell of sweat and sickly Arbor gold.

"Idiot." You hissed out, the cool night air nipping at your face as you left the tent. "You will wish that the fall would have killed you, because Father certainly will now."

Delmar paled, either from the pain or fear, but you could not find it within you to care.

Instead your mind wandered back to garnets and ash.

—

Your mind felt as if it were splintering.

Cracked shards of incomplete thoughts as pain coursed through the wits that you tried to grasp onto.

"Damned fools." Medgar Tully cursed, face flushing with rage as a vein protuded on his forehead. His gaze dragged over his second eldest son, who was pathetically seated by the table, his ankle bandaged tightly with linens and silks, a wooden crutch beside him. "You have turned us into a laughing stock. House Tully fallen before the tourney has even begun, that is what everyone will be whispering."

You flinched at the sound of his voice, feeling it ricochet against the inner curves of your skull, piercing your thoughts. You groaned slightly, grasping your head as you allowed it to fall against the oak table, trying to block the sunlight that fell in slim ribbons through the ripples of the tent's fabrics. Your head hurts so much. Myrish firewine was clearly something not to be indulged in, yet despite the pain it caused you (during and afterwards), you still craved the numbing feeling it would cause. Perhaps you should seek out Lyonel, delay your hangover by drinking once more…

"Father—" Delmar attempted, unable to look the older Tully in the eyes.

"Silence. You have done enough." Medgar turned to look at you, concern briefly flickering in his eyes at the sight of his slumped daughter. But he steeled it swiftly, he will pity you later. He barked out your name, sharp and quick, the intrusive sound causing you to wince further as you begrudgingly lifted your head. "Your brothers are half-wits, but you should have known better. How could you allow him to become injured? I expected more from you, girl."

You lowered your gaze, the pain of your head throbbing fiercely as your heart began to ache at your father's words. You had disappointed him — you did nothing yet you still managed to disappoint him. It was unfair, it was unjust, yet your lip still quivered at the harshness of his disappointment even though you knew it was unwarranted. You let your head fall onto your arm, shielding your face as you screwed your eyes shut, trying to soothe the sting of tears.

"Brynden will take your place in the tourney."

Your head shot up, neck aching at the sudden movement as you began to protest. "Brynden is hardly even a man, and you expect him to fight? He is not a knight."

Your gaze flickered to the twins, who had simply been loitering around the perimeter of the tent, simply witnessing your father's anger, pleased to not be at the receiving end of it. But now the winds had shifted, and they were getting burnt. Brynden paled, eyes wide with horror as he gaped at your father, unable to utter a single word as his mind stalled.

"He is Delmar's squire, and the rules will permit it." Your father stated, voice stern, his words set in stone. You could not convince him to change his mind, his resolve was set.

But you could try. You began once more, trying to sweeten your tone to not anger him further. "Father, there is no need—"

"Do not speak to me of what our House needs. Brynden will fight, and he will bring us honour. I will go meet with the Master of the Games, to ensure that this change will be made." He hissed, turning to face Delmar, gesturing for him to rise. His voice softened slightly, his gaze travelling over your tired features; dulled skin and shadowed under-eyes. "And perhaps you should not attend the first events, your energy would be better spent resting and gathering some strength."

You did not need him to clarify why. You looked like shit. You could only offer a tight-lipped smile as he left, Delmar following suit with his clutch.

There was whispering in the corner of the tent, hushed and layered, voices arguing over each other.

"What are you whispering about?" You called out, slouching in your chair, feeling the wood dig uncomfortably into your back as you felt your whole body ache slightly. Either you needed to find more firewine, or never drink another drop of liquor for the rest of your life.

The whispering halted for a moment, the twins sharing glares at each other.

"He is saying that he cannot do it." Mervyn revealed, the words quickly tumbling out of his mouth, cursing when his twin punched him. "What? That is what you had said!"

"Well it does not matter anyways, I have to do it." Brynden mumbled, dragging his feet to sit beside you, frowning as he refused to meet your gaze. He was a man of ten and two, yet despite this, the pout on his face made him look even younger. Your heart tugged at the sight, pity striking you as he fidgeted in his seat. Mervyn quickly followed, shadowing his technically older brother (the difference was mere minutes, by Brynden would hold those minutes over his head for the rest of eternity).

"And Brightflame will beat you into the mud, so perhaps we should call the Maesters now." Mervyn taunted, seating himself on the table

"Do not call the Prince that." You scolded, scowling at the mention of the silver-haired Targaryen.

Mervyn rolled his eyes, muttering a response about how the aforementioned Targaryen bestowed that title upon himself.

"But it is true." Brynden complained, letting his head fall against the mahogany in an ungraceful thud. "He had mocked us yesterday, saying that he will be going fishing for trout during the first round."

You cringed at the poorly created threat, scowl deepening at Aerion's gall. How dare he threaten your brothers? First he taunted you, and now them also? You wish that you could beat the audacity out of him.

You could beat it out of him.

Mervyn watched how your features began to neutralise, brows furrowing as you seemed to be absorbed in a hidden conversation in your mind. You were thinking, certainly a dangerous thing.

"I will take your place." You suddenly stated, head snapping to look at Brynden, who only huffed at your relevation.

"She is still drunk." He mumbled to Mervyn, who began to laugh at your suggestion.

"How potent was the liquor Lord Baratheon was serving?" Mervyn questioned in a mocking tone, shooting you an amused glance.

"Potent enough to offer me enlightenment. It is brilliant."

"Brilliance or madness?"

"They are one and the same." You grinned at him, leaning forward, your tone almost conspiratorial. "And we all know that I am as skilled as Delmar, I will actually be able to win, unlike you."

"The man is ruthless, you will get injured."

"Fact." Mervyn interrupted, gaze flickering between his two siblings.

"Not as injured as you would have gotten." You deflected "And must I repeat that I can win?"

"Also a fact." Mervyn interjected once more, a slight downward smile on his face as he shrugged at a glaring Brynden. "She has a better chance than you, and Father would be furious if you lose."

"Are you seriously agreeing with her?" Brynden accused, jaw hanging as he glared at his twin. They were meant to have twin solidarity. Traitor.

"I believe that I have won." You grinned, watching as the squire slowly shut his mouth, his gaze flickering between you and his twin, trying to weigh the decision he would make. Consider the risks and potential issues. But it would be futile.

He would agree.

—

Cyvasse was a great game.

You had hated it initially when your older brother Malger would force you to play it, finding it boring and repetitive, each round ending in your loss. You had no idea how Malger was able to continuously win, as if the Fates had decided that he would be the ultimate Cyvasse champion. All your other siblings refused to play the board game with him, knowing what the outcome would be. But you were determined. You had to win at least one time before abandoning the game. You had studied books on the art of Cyvasse, learning about techniques and methodology foreign to you, even managing to convince your Septa to play with you when you should have been studying the Histories of Westeros.

After your fiftieth loss, he would finally reveal his secret.

There was no point being able to master the game if you were unable to dissect your opponent. Malger would disclose how it was not Cyvasse that you should be playing, but rather your opponent. To investigate their quirks and tells, see what would irritate them, make them impatient. And ultimately distracted. Because when your opponent was distracted, they were unable to think ahead. And this failure in planning their next moves would secure your victory.

You would later learn that this advice was not only applicable to Cyvasse, as Malger would win over his Lady Wife using these same methods. Your good sister was promised to another, but Malger dissected his character, learned his weaknesses and allowed his new opponent to expose his flaws to his betrothed. And she was not impressed, breaking their betrothal while Malger was able to win her over, already having planned this since he had met her. He would soon marry your good sister, the couple stupidly in love, and he would never confess that he had done this.

But regardless you knew, you recognised the very game techniques he had taught you. And you learnt that they were more valuable than you could ever expect.

You knew your opponent.

Aerion Targaryen, an arrogant and wicked man. Impatient and impulsive, all faults that you despised and yet that was exactly where your victory lay.

Aerion did not know that it was you beneath the visor. He did not know that the one upon the steed brandishing the tourney lance as if it were a lethal weapon was the woman he enjoyed to torment. He did not know that you had planned everything perfectly.

Your absence was easily explained, no one would be looking for you resting in your tent, for fear of disturbing you. Brynden was easily concealed amongst the congregation of smallfolk, his face blurring in with the masses. And Mervyn had easily distracted your father, ensuring he would be seated amongst the other nobles while you were steeling your nerves. All you had to do was don his armour, and everyone would be none the wiser.

Your heart rattled in its cage, a heavy anxiety pressing harshly against your lungs as you tried to steady your breathing, sweaty palms adjusting the grip you had on the lance. And despite this, you could not help the stupid grin on your face. No wonder men loved war — if this was simply a taste of the battlefield, you could find yourself becoming addicted to it. The thrill, the liveliness; blood rushing through your veins, your head clearer than it has ever been before.

You could only chase the feeling.

The horn blew, and you pressed your thighs firmly into the steed's sides, guiding the horse to charge. Hooves thundered against the dead grass of the listfield, and you gripped the tourney lance tightly, aiming it at your opponent's shield, the sigil of the tri-coloured Dragon glaring back at you — red, orange and gold. The only thing between you and Aerion was the wooden tilt barrier and space awaiting to be disturbed.

Your lance shattered, splintered through the center as he had deflected the blow with his own.

You scowled slightly — his lance did not break. He would be awarded points for being able to break yours. You returned to your side, gesturing for Mervyn to provide a new lance, biting your tongue so you would not speak. You could not speak, not now. You had to complete this and not be discovered.

Hands brushing against the steed's caparison, tracing over the Tully red and blue, following the embroidered leaping trouts, you took the lance from Mervyn's hand, guiding the horse to turn as you screwed your eyes shut. You could not hear anything. Just blood rushing and your racing heart.

You exhaled forcefully, and charged once more, gaze focused upon the dragonhead helm of your opponent, your lance aiming for his shield once more. At the last possible moment, you tilted the lance upwards, allowing it to crash against the protruding spikes. His own shattered against your shield.

You laughed sharply as the horse rounded the turn once more, the sound harsh and brittle, fueled by adrenaline while hearing Aerion bark out a curse behind you. You were ahead now; breaking a lance against your opponents helm was viewed more highly than anything he had done so far. You simply had to unhorse him now. Finish this before it could continue any further.

"Fucking Tully." You could hear him growl behind you, grabbing the replacement lance as you tried to silence your giggling, your shoulders trembling as you bit your lip, tasting copper as you struggled to suppress your giddiness. You already knew what the crowds were thinking, hearing chants of Tully.

He was losing to a squire. The Bright Prince, son of the Anvil, was losing to a mere squire — a boy who had never even participated in a joust, much less win one. The Dragon was losing to a Trout.

The truth however, was far more cruel and delectable.

He was losing to a Lady.

He was losing to you.

You could not suppress your grin, wild and unbridled, veiled by your helm, only your eyes shimmering through the gaps. There was a strange elation that flooded through you; the power of being able to see without being seen. To assume the identity of another and having the knowledge of your success, despite it being attributed to another. You were unlike the other knights, all fighting for honour and recognition. No, you were fighting to settle your heart. To finally quell the loathing that burned your mind.

To truly win against Aerion — receive the revenge that you had been yearning for.

And he would never know.

He would simply believe that he had lost to your younger brother, and perhaps that would be humiliation enough to deter him from ever interacting with you again. He would truly learn how brave a Tully of Riverrun could be. A pity that he would not know the truth, but it was for the best.

You would just have to be satisfied with besting him, despite no one else knowing.

Your chest heaved unheadily, greedily gasping in air as you readied yourself once more, your gaze skirting over the numerous faces of the smallfolk. Until you finally saw him. Brynden, his face mostly masked by the shadow of his hood, head low but he was watching you. You nodded twice at him, the movement quick as it was quickly disguised by the movement of the horse. But he had seen it and had understood the underlying message. You were to finish it, and Brynden would have to retreat to the tent and change into his twins armour so that he would be waiting for when his congratulations were to come.

Your attention returned to your opponent, violet glaring at you as you charged once more. You aimed your lance towards his shield, planning on shifting it at the last second like you had before.

But there was something strange.

His lance was aimed too low.

Too low to hit you, too low for a rightful victory. He was aiming for the neck of your horse. You snarled beneath your helm, fury biting its unyielding jaws into your psyche. Cruel, monstrous Aerion. How more ignoble could he be?

Was he so insulted by his own inadequacy that he intended to kill the horse? To perhaps injure your darling brother for life? He truly was pathetic.

The joy you had momentarily indulged in was torn away from you, dulled by an inexplicable sadness before being replaced by the ugly poltergeist of your loathing. He was no longer just a participant of the joust, no longer just an opponent — he evolved into something far more unforgettable. He was now a combatant, a hostile foe that you had to deal with.

The sound of hooves firmly planted against dry dirt filled your ears, exhaling sharply as you neared him once more, allowing him to believe that he was truly going to succeed. And perhaps if you were a knight, a lesser individual, he would have. But you kept your lance aimed towards his shield, shifting yourself upon the horse so that you were closer to the tilt barrier despite being slightly unstable, before striking it against his lance before it could touch the soft flesh of the horses neck. The wood splintered immediately upon impact, , and with the remaining lance you firmly gripped, you forcefully pushed at his chest plate.

The impact was unexpected, the edge of the exposed wood scraping against the panelled black steel of his armour, your full body weight pushing against it. He was unseated, his foot tangled amongst the saddling of the horse as it dragged him along the floor, his armour tearing at the dead grass beneath him as he struggled violently, his body writhing as he tried to release himself.

Despite the sight, you did not even smile. The glimmer in your eyes dying, just glaring at the pathetic Prince as a squire ran onto the arena, trying to calm the horse. You prayed the horse would kick its hind legs, let the Dragon suffer blows from both a horse and a Tully. But the gods were cruel, and your prayer went unanswered.

Instead the Dragon snarled at the squire to leave, struggling to his feet as he roared for his morningstar. Dark violet glinted at you beneath the visor of his helm, glaring as he watched you as you dismounted slowly, brushing a soft hand against your horse's neck as you steadied your breathing.

"Get me a trident." You whispered to Mervyn, his panicked eyes frantically flickering over you, his breathing shallow as he guided the horse away.

"This was not meant to happen." He hissed back once he returned, hands gripping the weapon you had requested. You did not bother giving him a response, just turning to face the Targaryen once more.

The cool metal seared against your sweaty palms, your mind racing as you weighed the possibilities. If you lost, all would be exposed — he would remove your helm and force you to yield. You would be punished for your deception, for attacking a Prince of the Blood while disguised. They would claim you had malintentions, that you were acting treasonously, And they would conclude that you were not acting alone, that your kin would have known of your plans, and that they would have aided. Not entirely false, but the truth would be manipulated into a grievous farce.

You could not afford to lose.

You would not lose.

You did not even flinch as the Master of the Games announced that the fight was to continue, now a contest of arms. Instead you steadied yourself, steeling your heart as you advanced towards Aerion, rolling your head slightly, the bones crackling under the motion.

He appeared larger now, the height no longer equalised by being seated upon horses. More menacing too, the dragon helm snarling at you as he prowled towards you, the spikes of his morningstar dragging across the ground, scraping at the dirt.

You whispered a prayer, a silent plea to any god that would listen, your heart clattering unsteadily as you gripped the trident with your dominant hand, twirling it to familiarise yourself with the weight.

Truth be told, you were more comfortable with a sword, the trident being Malger's preferred weapon.

The trident was not truly a weapon utilised in war — it posed too many risks. It was too specialised, its effectiveness relying upon the skill of its wielder. You would have to be fast; swift and agile while you tried to strike.

Your eldest brother would say that it was easier to defend with a trident, especially against weapons that you were not used to fighting with. You had never fought against a morningstar, the club-like weapon foreign to you. Your gaze remained stuck on its spikes, watching as Aerion swung it up, ready to strike you with it.

You gripped your shield tightly, raising it to meet Aerion's attack, the wood splintering slightly under the spikes, the weight of the shield trembling against your forearms. A grunt escaped you at the sudden impact, stumbling back as you tried to create distance as he swung once more, unrelenting in his attack.

You panted out harshly, eyes wild as you tried to look for a flaw amongst his defense, searching for somewhere to strike. Muscles straining, arms weak as you struggled to deflect him blows. You could hear a sharp laugh, the bitter sound mocking you as the situation dawned on you.

You were going to lose if you did nothing. You were going to lose because you were truly not thinking. Because you had forgotten who your opponent was.

He was not some fierce contender — he was simply a cruel, pathetic boy. The realisation repeated itself over and over in your head as you continued to raise your shield in defense, the mantra reminding you of what you had to do.

You had to beat the shit out of him.

Aerion continued to laugh, the sound choked through gasps of air as he raised the morningstar once more, intending to break your shield.

And you struck the trident at his wrist, the spears unceremoniously crashing against his gauntlets, his grip wavering, the weapon crumbling out of his hands as he hissed out a curse at the blooming pain. His arm had moved awkwardly, his shoulder snapping back under the sudden impact.

You did not allow him to recover, ensuring that he would remain distracted by the pain. You could not afford him gaining the opportunity to gather himself. Using your shield to roughly shoulder against him, the metal of his armour grinded against the splintered wood, pushing him away from his abandoned weapon.

He stumbled backwards, both hands gripping at his shield as he deflected at the jabs of your trident. You struck at his head, his chest, his arms, truly any part of him that entered your vision.

You twirled your weapon before swinging the hilt of your trident against his legs, his knees trembling at the blow. Yet he remained standing, trying to use his own shield to hit you as he retreated. The tri-prongs piercing against the wood of his shield, scratching at the painted dragon, defacing the gold.

Sweat trickled down your neck, catching onto the neckline of the linen tunic you wore beneath the armour. It was an uncomfortable sensation, but you ignored it, simply advancing your attack. You could not become distracted. You had to focus, think ahead.

Your head spun, dizzy with adrenaline and rushing blood as you dug your heels into the dirt, feigning left before dodging the way he tried to hit you with the edge of his shield. He stumbled slightly, expecting resistance only to find himself striking at emptiness. And you took this opportunity to pirouette, appearing behind him, trident and shield still in hand as you planted your foot firmly against the middle of his back, kicking strongly while he was still distracted.

Knees trembling, he fell face forward, helm crashing against the floor with a heavy thud, the impact disorienting him. You stabbed your trident at his arm, the prongs piercing into the dirt, barracading his arm between the space of the spikes. You knelt above him, one knee digging into his injured shoulder, smiling as he cried out in pain — the other knee remained planted against the floor, armour rattling as you adjusted your position, effectively trapping him. You discarded your shield; you had no more use for it.

He was unable to move, struggling against you as you grabbed at the spikes of his dragon helm, dragging it back, his neck snapping at the movement.

You did not utter a word, instead just lifted his visor so his face was exposed to the crowd of nobles. You could not see his face, could not see who he was looking at. But you could see them through the obstructed vision of your helm. Were his eyes even open? Could he see that they were all watching in awe as Brightflame was bested by a green squire?

You did not have to demand for him to yield, the words escaped his lips soon, a pathetic whimper as he realised that there was truly no escape.

"I yield."

You released a sigh at the declaration, knees weak as you rose clumsily, hand grasping at the trident that still held his arm hostage, wrenching it out of the ground.

Your heart had finally calmed.

A squire rushed onto the tiltyard, aiding the Prince as you retreated, relishing in the victory that vibrated through every fiber of your being. Your legs felt numb as they guided you swiftly through the tents, finally appearing before Brynden's.

"What took you so long?" He hissed out, watching as you collapsed onto a chair, filling a cup with cool water that you greedily drank. Poor Brynden was dressed in armour identical to yours, his twin's armour that did not witness a moment of fighting. He was practically vibrating with nerves, his heart thudding unsteadily as he feared being uncovered. You had discussed this before the joust; no matter what, he had to wear Mervyn's armour in case anyone else reached the tent before you. You would simply have to hide if that were the case, conceal the armour and retreat to the refuge of your own tent.

"You won." You grinned out, tone teasing, ripping the helm of your head as Mervyn rushed in, his head swivelling, darting between the entrance of the tent, and you, his darling sister that had bested the Dragon.

Mervyn began rattling on about everything that had occurred, his hands busy with untying you from the bindings of the armour he had secured before the joust as he spoke of how your victories, plural. Brynden copied his movements, removing your greave, and then the cuisse, and then moving onto the next leg to do the same. They had to be quick, it would only be a matter of time before your father and Delmar would be storming through the tent, sickened with joy as they would congratulate Brynden for his supposed victory.

All the armour was removed, revealing Mervyn's clothes that you had worn underneath, the linens baggy upon your figure. You grabbed at the cloak Brynden had worn amongst the smallfolk, the heavy fabric swallowing you whole, concealing your face as you snuck out of the tent.

The cool air nipped at your exposed face, shivering as you felt sweat trickle down your neck, the strands that had escaped your tight hairstyle slick against the moisture.

You would return to your tent, giddy at the silence as you removed your clothes, replacing them with a light cotton gown, feeling your body cool, the heat that coursed through your body subsiding as the truth finally settled in.

You had won.

And no one knew.

—

All anyone could talk about was Brynden's victory.

You would later learn that once the commotion of his victory subsided, he was dragged back out onto the tiltyard by your father. By this point, he was no longer wearing armour, he had managed to remove it before Medgar had entered the tent, being found holding the helm that had concealed your face.

The Lord of Riverrun clasped the shoulders of his young son, chortling with pride as he praised him for winning his first joust, against a Prince no less. Delmar beamed at his brother, unable to speak as he watched him with shock.

They would never know the truth, a mercy you forced the twins to oblige by.

Your father would guide Brynden back to the tiltyard as he was summoned by another Targaryen. The Hammer. And so Brynden would have knighthood bestowed upon him by the Heir Apparent, smiling sheepishly as guilt gnawed at his psyche.

He did not deserve the title, he would argue later with you. You would hiss at him, demand that he would be grateful for such an honour as the unsaid truth hung between you.

That should have been your knighthood.

But you would have never been able to receive it. The Realm would never be able to accept that a Lady could be as skilled as a man, that she could be as honourable as a man. Despite the fact that history sung stories of how time and time again women could also be skilled warriors, evidenced by Visenya the Conqueror (although that was a title seemingly reserved for her male counterpart), they would deny this fact. They would claim that the nature of women would never allow them to be worthy of the title of Knights.

It was why no woman sat upon the Iron Throne, despite there having been many opportunities — their claims were always refused in favour of a male's, despite it being weaker.

So now you sat in the main hall of Highgarden, sipping at the sickly saccharine Arbor gold offered, smiling as your father regaled about the way he had trained his children, trying to ignore a bruised Aerion that glared at you.

"From the moment they could walk." He emphasised, tongue loosened as he gushed to the men around him. Lord Tyrell had invited your family to dine with the royals, claiming that the new knighthood was cause to celebrate. "I would train them with wooden swords. Each of my children…"

His voice seemed to drone on, the two senior Targaryens nodding along, although you could tell that Prince Maekar had checked out of the conversation long ago, his eyes distant as he chewed on the roasted venison.

"You must be proud, My Lady." Valarr whispered lowly to you, seated right beside you as he cut through the red meat on his plate with ease. Your head instinctively tilted towards him, drawing closer so that you could hear him more clearly. "Your brother has brought your House honour."

Your smile widened slightly, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you responded. He did not even know the truth; no one did. It triggered a certain glee within you, to be able to get away with such a large lie.

"He truly has." You replied, your voice matching his, hushed as if it were a secret. "And I am certain that if you spoke to my Lord Father, he will tell you exactly how his victory came to be."

Your gaze flickered over to a flushing Brynden, who was being needled by the youngest of Maekar's children, Rhae and Aegon. They were investigating him, pestering him as they shot rapid questions about his supposed performance, how he had been trained, how he had managed to win against Aerion.

Your attention dragged to the other side of you, trying to involve yourself with the conversation Aster was having with Daella, but your replies were sparse, hesitant as your heart skipped as you became aware of being observed.

The eldest of the royal children, Daeron, was silent beside Aerion the entire time, his gaze fixed on you as if he were seeing something no one else could. And Aerion seemed to mirror his older brother, watching you unwaveringly, his glower mirroring the one upon his father's face. Except he was seething, fury flaring at the sight of you whispering with his cousin, sharing secrets and smiles.

Daeron interrupted his sister, who had been talking about Aster's exquisite embroidery, voice loud as he drew your attention back to him.

"A victory like that must truly feel like your own then, My Lady." Daeron commented, tone lazy, almost mocking. Despite that, there was something heavier unsaid, an insinuation that he should not have known the value of. You furrowed your brows slightly, forcing yourself to continue to smile as your mind raced, trying to think of an appropriate response. But he interrupted you before you could even say a word. "You must have been so excited witnessing such a scene."

"Unfortunately my daughter was ill." Medgar intervened, gaze hardening as he observed the three Princes that seemed to prowl around you. He was not blind, he could see how they were looking at you. How Daeron's words carried a strange tone, how Valarr whispered to you. The worst was how Aerion refused to look away from you, his gaze laying a claim on you, unwilling to speak. "But she will be able to witness the excitements of the next. Will you be joining the lists, My Prince?"

Daeron did not respond, scowling at how you were able to escape, sipping the wine. His father responded for him. Daeron was to fight. And there was no arguing against it.

But the Drunken continued to watch you, an unsettling feeling prickling along your skin as you refused to look at the sons of Maekar. The only truly normal one was Aegon, who was busy twittering to your brothers. No wonder the young Prince did not sit amongst his own, insisting to sit with yours instead. He was probably accustomed to their strangeness.

You sat up straight, your fork piercing into a boiled potato, watching as the prongs sank into the carbohydrate.

"Are you also a skilled fighter, My Prince?" You questioned, your gaze returning to challenge Daeron's. You forced your gaze not to waver, ensuring it to remain on the golden-haired Prince and not waver to his brother, who you could see was glaring at you from your peripheral. You smirked slightly, unable to look at Aerion as the sight of the purple bruise that bloomed against his high cheekbone elicited a surge of delight through you. Your own bruises had begun to deepen, littered across the body, mainly concentrated at your forearms when the vambrance had supported your shield to block his blows. You had favoured tight full-armed sleeves, ensuring that they would not be exposed. Aerion did not have the same privilege of hiding his bruises.

"Not as skilled as Aerion." He responded succinctly, offering you a tight-lipped smile as he gestured for his goblet to be refilled once more. This was his third goblet since you had seen him, the plate of food laying untouched as he indulged in the drink provided instead.

Not as skilled as you.

You hummed softly, offering your own smile in response as you bit into the potato you had speared. What excellent boiled potatoes, the flavour sweetened by your own joy. You would not allow these Targaryens to dim your glee, you would ignore their strange words and strange glances.

Valarr drew your attention once more, talking to you about the other jousts that had occurred, of a Lannister that challenged a Stark, and so on.

"I too will joust in the eve." He revealed, his fork sinking into a slice of venison. He hesitated for a moment, gaze flickering to yours, hopeful, almost reverent. "I hope that you will attend. If you no longer feel ill, of course."

"I do not." You replied, voice soft as the Prince nodded gently, your response encouraging him.

"Then…" He began, his throat suddenly dry as he met your unwavering gaze once more, flashing a shy smile as he continued. "Then would you allow me the honour of wearing your favour?"

Your smile dropped slightly, mind stalling as you did not expect those words to leave the silver-streaked Prince.

What in the Seven Hells?

You were unsure of what you had truly expected for him to say, but it had been anything but that. Perhaps you were more dull than you had believed. Your brows furrowed slightly, trying to think of a response (truly any response would do, anything to interrupt the sudden silence that fell on the table), gaze flickering between amber and lilac, trying to search for any hint of jest.

You found none.

"I would be honoured." You managed out, the words stumbling slightly, feeling blinded by the brilliance of his grin as he sighed softly, the fear of rejection finally evading him. Perhaps he is simply asking to be nice? Or as a friend?

But you were not that dimwitted to truly believe that that was the case. Favours were usually bestowed upon the victors of the competitions (something you had regretted not doing, but truly you had no time). You knew why men would ask for the favours of ladies before the joust.

It was an offer of courtship.

And you had accepted.

—

The silence of your tent threatened to consume you.

The only sound was your shallow breathing as you paced across the expanse of your tent, the base of your palms pressed firmly into the sockets of your eyes, small stars dancing along the darkness that obscured your vision.

Fuck.

You were meant to avoid the Targaryens, not court one. How in the Seven Hells did this even occur? What had you done to provide the illusion of even wanting to be courted?

You tried to calm your breathing, steady the sharp gasps that expelled out of your lungs — it was not the worst thing to occur to a person. Being sought after was a compliment, and by a Prince no less.

But you did not want this.

You were greedy and selfish and cruel, and what you wanted was something that you could never have. Something Valarr could never give you. You wanted more.

Perhaps you would have accepted it more willingly if you had never participated in the tourney, if you had never tasted the thrill of victory. But you had, and now the offer of courtship tasted bitter upon your tongue, an unrelenting reminder that you were just a Lady.

People would simply believe that you had one victory, that you had won over the Targaryen Prince with your pleasing smiles and shy words. But this was a victory that held no value to you. Not when you had truly bested a Prince that day, felt him submit beneath you, won on a field forbidden to you.

So you schemed. You could make this situation positive, you simply had to think ahead.

Princes courted ladies often, yet not all courtships ended in betrothals. You would simply have to ensure that neither would this one. You did not know what Valarr had liked about you, every time you had spoken to him, you had lied to the Prince. But you knew that once he saw you for what you truly was his adoration would vanish, disillusioned to all your flaws.

You could still win. No one cared over a failed courtship, rather this would simply increase the amount of betrothals you would receive, in turn allowing you to choose who you would wed. Your Lord Father would be disappointed when the courtship would fail, but perhaps he will be happy if you wed soon after.

Despite trying to dissect the situation for its advantages, your heart remained heavy, the joy you had been experiencing extinguished as you came to the realisation that this was the only was you could make your father proud. Your brothers brought him honour on the battlefield, sword in hand, while you could only bring him honour by wedding well, spilling blood in childbirth.

Was this your next battle? To convince yourself that you could be satisfied with the prospect of marriage?

And that was how Aerion found you, half agony, half hope, pacing in your tent.

He remained silent, prowling through the entrance, steps light as he remained unnoticed.

You did not notice the sudden gust of cold air, did not notice the heavy gaze that followed you, did not notice the presence of another.

Until you shivered. Your spine steeling as you halted, listening to the whispering of the wind that whipped against the side of your tent, the fabric rustling as you sighed out a curse, fingers brushing against your skirts. You smoothed the silks once, twice, a self-soothing act as you finally turned.

You gasped lightly, a sharp inhale of cold air burning your lungs as you grasped at your heart, feeling it jolt in its cage while you suppressed the urge to flinch, finally noticing the Bright Prince.

"Prince Aerion." You stumbled out, your gaze flickering to the entrance of the tent, wishing that he had simply entered the wrong tent. He had not. You finally allowed yourself to look at his face, to memorise the sharp lines, the bruises that marred his unblemished skin. He looked tired, like his mind was haunted by the events of the joust, continuously turning them over and over in his head.

He shuddered at the sound of his name, but did not respond to it. He did not return your greeting either, slowly advancing towards you. Sandolwood and ash, the familiar scent swirling around you as he crept closer.

"Ruined Rabble." Aerion suddenly stated, violet eyes baring into your soul as he gauged your reaction

"Pardon?" You questioned, despite having heard his words as clear as day. You swallowed harshly, forcing your breathing to slow, forcing yourself to show no sign of weakness. The last time you had interacted with Valarr, it had displeased the silver-haired prince greatly, resulting in impulsive strikes and stolen kisses.

What would he do now that you had not obeyed him? That you had not denied Valarr, but rather accepted his courtship?

Aerion continued swiftly, inching closer, his fingers twisting your garnet ring that laid upon his pinky finger. "That is the move you enjoy performing in cyvasse, is it not? A signature of sorts?"

"I suppose…" Your voice betraying a sense of nervousness as you backed away from the Prince, suddenly feeling trapped in your tent.

"I had questioned my uncle on the move, see he enjoys playing cyvasse, you must play with him one time."

"If that is what the Hand wishes"

He ignored your words. "He explained it very well. The art of laying a trap. Of decoys and deflections, setting bait."

You could not respond, your mind reeling as he closed the distance between you. You could not escape. There was no escape.

"The issue is, My Lady." The title laced with derision, leaning in as he grabbed your jaw. "You cannot trap a dragon."

"I am afraid I do not understand your meaning." You felt your jaw tremble slightly as you spoke, your words weak as it failed to carry the weight of your lie.

"Do not act dimwitted, My Lady Rivers, I enjoy your cleverness. It was you who I fought, not your brother." His words were casually cruel, hiding his adoration as he continued to interrogate you.

Your forced a laugh. "Surely you jest, My Prince. How could it have been me?"

He watched you quietly, unsure of how to answer, before pulling up your sleeve, revealing the early stages of a bruise, the skin darkening. "Explain your injury."

"I am terribly clumsy, My Prince. I had fallen." You lied, ripping your arm out of his grasp.

"A simple fall caused this great of an injury?"

"A bruise is not a great injury." You replied, forcing your features to remain neutral. You had to think, you had to escape. "Unless this farce is regarding the injury to your pride."

"My pride?" He hissed out, eyes narrowing, his breath hitting against your face as you forced yourself to glare back.

"Is that not what this is about? I did not deny your cousin, and I do not intend to do so either." You murmured, voice low and cutting as your blood rushed once more, your mind clearing as adrenaline guided you. "Is that why you accuse me of performing such deception?"

"You witch." He growled out, his hand snapping out to grasp at your forearm, his fingers digging into the bruises hidden by your sleeves. A soft pained moan escaped your lips as you struggled to conceal your wince. "This is deceit, your wicked tongue lying so easily? You truly believe that he is worthy of you?"

You glared at him, your irises darkening with detest and an emotion you were horrified by, chest heaving as you allowed your free hand to cradle his jaw. His eyes immediately screwed shut, his cheek pressing into your hand as if he were committing the touch to his memory.

"What does it matter?" You whispered, thumb caressing his silken skin, before pressing it firmly into the bruise upon his face. He flinched, sharply inhaling, yet he did not move.

"He does not see you." Aerion replied, his hands travelling to your waist, trembling fingers brushing against the silk, movements reverent as if worshipping at an altar. "He only views the beauty and grace, only what you allow him to see. But I see you. I know you better than you know yourself. Your soul is mine, and mine is yours. Do not delude yourself into believing that you could ever be his."

You frowned slightly, brows furrowing as you took him in. He was weaker than you had expected. You had to give him credit, you did not expect him to deduce that it was truly you at the joust, but he abandoned his accusation so quickly once you insulted his ego.

"You have known me less than sennight, you do not know me." You responded, tone disappointed as you withdrew your hand, prepared to retreat, to abandon him to remain with confessions that would linger unanswered.

His hand quickly covered yours, fingers curling around yours, the gold of your ring searing into your hand as he pressed it firmly to his face, ensuring it would not leave. He pressed a kiss to the palm, fingers brushing against where your pulse raced, the quick pace soothing him.

"I know that you are more like me than you would ever admit." He whispered, pulling you closer, the grip on your waist tightening infinitesimally. Your chest brushed against his, chaimail dragging across silk, the space between you disturbed. "And that you are my better."

The words hung in the small space between you, your gaze flickering between his darkened violet irises, trying to discern whether he was lying, whether he was trying to manipulate you. You did not find what you were looking for. Instead you found something that terrified you.

Complete, utter devotion. A gentleness that was uncharacteristic to the cruel prince (perhaps you had struck him too hard within the combat of arms, scrambling his wits, you tried to justify).

"And if I deny you?" You questioned, the words hesitant as you became aware of his touch, how close he was to you, sharing the air between your faces.

His lips curled slightly, stuck between amusement and fear, a wounded look flashing through his eyes, fingers flexing against the warmth of your waist as his head dipped low, his nose brushing against the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply. Chamomile and lavender. The familiar scent soothing him.

"Then I would simply have to follow you until you deemed me worthy." He finally answered, the words hesitant, unsure, as if he feared that you would push him away, reject his request.

Your thumb brushed against the softness of his lips, tracing over the healed skin, his breath stuttering at the gentle action. Your eyes were glimmering.

Guiding his head, you captured his lips, revelling in the hungry growl that escaped him as he gripped at you. You swallowed his muted whimpers, nipping at the softness of his lips as he sounded as if you soothed a pain that hauntedhim.

His lips continued to chase yours as you departed, gasping for air as they travelled along your neck, determined to place bruises not gained through combat. Your fingers tugged at the soft silver strands at his nape, grinning stupidly as he kissed you.

During Valarr's joust, Aerion would grin upon the stands, stealing glances at where you were seated. Aegon would be disturbed by his brother's happiness, unsure of what the root of such strange behaviour was.

But Daeron knew. He had dreamt it. He had seen you in his dreams defeating a golden dragon, had seen you with the sigil of fire smeared with blood upon your forehead, your lip and palm cut open with dragonglass.

But he allowed his brother to indulge in his happiness, glee at his victory.

But Aerion was wrong, as he often was.

You did trap a dragon.

♤♡◇♧

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