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