Moopia

How it happened is entirely and completely a blur; your mother had sent you away for your own safety after your brother Jacaerys had died and dangers began to rise in King's Landing. That's when it happened...your horse was ambushed by a slew of Hightower men.

"Dismount your horse." Ser Criston Cole says with such anger and malice, he'd be happy to see your insides if just to upset Rhaenyra. He holds his blade to your throat, pushing it just enough to cause a few dribbles of blood to pour down your neck and down between your breasts, dampening the fabric around your bust, but you need to get a smart ass word in, if only just to piss him off.

"How about you go right off just past those trees and promptly go fuck yourself?" Your eyes narrow at him, your mother always hated this arsehole, and there is no love for him in your heart either. At this point, you'd rather he just kill you, whatever would sate his very fragile masculinity, but he doesn't instead, he takes his blade and sticks it into your horse's neck. The beautiful creature falls, making a noise you'd never wish to hear again, so full of pain, so unexpected. In your shock, you don't have time to react, and the horse falls on your leg, twisting it in an unnatural position; the sound that leaves you mirrors that of the horse's.

"By the Gods!" Gwayne quickly moves between you and Ser Criston, helping get the horse off of you, and he attempts to help you up; any bit of pressure on your leg shoots pain through your body. His strong hands carefully wrap around your waist to help support your weight.

"Since you care for her so much, she's your problem, but if she does ANYTHING she shouldn't, she'll end up like her horse." Criston's eyebrow raises with an air of superiority as if he's better than everyone her; even all the other men are shocked by how he's conducting himself but he doesn't seem to care. He grabs your satchel that contains the little bit of good you have, some coins, and your canteen, it's clear he doesn't plan on giving it back.

As Ser Criston walks off, Gwayne carefully readjusts his grip on you. "Please, please, wait." You beg of him softly, wanting nothing but to close your dead companion's eyes so that she may rest. Gwayne carefully helps you kneel down just enough so you can close the horse's eyes and whisper a few prayers over her body. His hands never leave your sides; the last thing he would want is for you to fall.

As you whisper your prayers, he gets a good look at you, the almost velvet looking black robe you have pulled up to cover your face and your silver Targaryen hair, the only child your mother actually had with Laenor due to his disinterest in women. You're soft and beautiful, and somehow he knows you're just an unlucky pawn in this game.

After a few minutes, you carefully get up off of your knees, trying to get up without his help, but he's not the type to be so cruel as to make you get up on your own with or without injury. "He might be an arsehole, but I'm not. You might be the "enemy," but that doesn't mean you stop being a person in my eyes."

"Thank you actually; I feared you'd all treat the princess like some common whore." Holding onto his shoulder as you walk over to his horse, step by step, taking it slow but not so slow that Ser Criston will winge and bitch.

"Well, I am told I'm told I'm quite soft and much too nice." He makes no point to complain as he lifts you onto his own horse. His horse is beautiful and quite rather soft, all things considered.

"What the hell are you doing? She's a hostage, bind her hands!" Ser Criston speaks with annoyance, clenching his jaw as he keeps his eyes glued to you until Gwayne grabs a bit of rope, carefully but tightly binding your wrist so you can't run away.

"I am sorry, Princess. He's rather insistent; I wouldn't do this if there were any other way. I don't enjoy this a bit, you must know." He speaks quietly so no one can hear him but you, as he now gets behind you on his horse.

"It's alright, Ser Cole is a rather awful man with a disposition of a man who's rather small not only in the southern region but in his personality, so he makes it everyone else's problem rather than learning how to remove the stick that's so permanently stuck up his hindquarters."

"My Gods, you do not speak like a princess." Gwayne's face turns red; his expression and tone stuck between amusement and shock; in all his days, he'd never heard a woman speak in such a manner. His chest rumbles slightly behind you as he tries again not to laugh.

"I spent a lot of time with my Uncle Daemon, forgive me. I do not always have the grace of my parents."

"That I can see, but don't worry; no sticks are even remotely near my hindquarters. Shall keep this between us?" He smiles as you nod, keeping one hand on your hip to keep you steady on his horse, careful not to overwhelm you or cross any boundaries, a proper gentleman.

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝑻𝒘𝒐

The woods blur past as you cling to Silverwing's saddle, the thrill of the chase coursing through your veins. Baela and Moondancer had led the initial pursuit, their swift movements through the sky like arrows seeking their target. But now, it’s you and Silverwing against the fading light, and the dense canopy below.

"Go on, Baela! I’ll take it from here!" you shout, your voice mingling with the rush of wind.

Baela gives you a quick, sharp nod before veering off, her focus shifting elsewhere. You and Silverwing dive, the leaves slapping at you like an annoyed housemaid. 

"Alright, girl," you murmur to Silverwing, "let's show them what we’ve got."

Your dragon roars in agreement, her silvery scales glinting in the dying sunlight as you plummet into the forest. The branches are closer now, snapping past you, some grazing your armor, others too thick to avoid.

You laugh, the exhilaration of danger making your heart race. "Just a bit further!"

But Silverwing, despite her grace, is a creature of the sky, not the woods. A particularly thick branch catches you off guard, striking your side. You gasp, losing your grip. Silverwing tries to stabilize, but it’s too late.

"Y/N!" you hear someone shout, but the world spins as you tumble through the air, your body crashing through the foliage.

The ground rushes up to meet you, but instead of the hard earth, you find yourself landing against something softer and warmer. There’s a grunt, a thud, and then silence.

You blink, trying to regain your senses. Your eyes meet a pair of very familiar ones, wide with shock and framed by a mess of light auburn hair.

"Ser Gwayne?" you manage to say, your voice breathless. The realization hits you both at the same time – you’ve landed right in his arms, sending him off his horse. He’s on his back, staring up at you with a mix of surprise and amusement.

"Princess Y/N," he says, a slow grin spreading across his face despite the circumstances. "This is a rather unconventional way to reunite."

You quickly scramble off him, cheeks flushing. "I didn’t plan it this way, trust me."

Gwayne gets to his feet, offering you a hand. "I’d say you’re getting better at making dramatic entrances."

Before you can retort, the surrounding knights, led by Criston Cole, converge on you, their expressions a mix of shock and suspicion.

"Well, well," Criston says, eyeing you warily, "looks like we’ve caught ourselves a dragon princess."

You roll your eyes, dusting off your clothes. "Congratulations. Do I get a prize for being the most unexpected guest?"

Gwayne stifles a laugh, earning a sharp glance from Criston. "Secure her," Criston commands. "We can’t risk her getting away."

Gwayne steps closer, his eyes softening slightly. "I’ll take care of it."

You meet his gaze, something unspoken passing between you. He had been your suitor once, and now here you are, on opposite sides of a conflict neither of you had asked for.

"Try not to tie the ropes too tight, will you?" you quip, trying to lighten the mood. "I bruise easily."

He smirks, giving you a look that says he remembers more than he lets on. "I’ll do my best, Princess."

As the knights surround you, Silverwing roars above, finally breaking free from the canopy and circling protectively. The men look up nervously, but you know Silverwing won’t attack without your command.

"Easy, girl," you call up to her. "I’m fine."

Gwayne’s touch is gentle as he secures your hands, his fingers brushing against your skin longer than necessary. "We’ll keep you safe," he murmurs, so only you can hear. "I promise."

You nod, a mixture of gratitude and sadness filling your heart. "I know."

And so, surrounded by enemies and yet strangely comforted by an old friend, you find yourself a captive – but one who is far from defeated.

The knights form a loose circle around you as they lead you through the woods, heading in the direction of Duskendale. Silverwing continues to circle overhead, her shadow passing over the treetops, a constant reminder of the power you still wield, even as a captive.

"Call off your dragon, Princess," Criston Cole demands, his tone clipped with irritation. "We don’t need her burning the forest down around us."

You meet his gaze with a steady one of your own. "That’s not how it works, Ser Criston. Silverwing follows her own instincts. I can’t just call her off like a hunting hound."

Criston grunts, clearly dissatisfied with your answer, but he says nothing more, focusing on leading the group forward.

Gwayne stays close to your side, his presence a strange mix of comforting and disconcerting. You glance at him, catching the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Unfortunate, isn’t it?" he says after a moment, his voice low enough for only you to hear. "Your late father never approved of our match."

You give a dry laugh, shaking your head. "Probably for the better. I don’t fancy being locked up in a tower all my life."

Gwayne’s smile widens, genuine amusement in his eyes. "You think I’d lock you up in a tower? You clearly have no idea what kind of husband I would have been."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite yourself. "Oh? And what kind of husband would you have been, Ser Gwayne?"

"The kind who knows better than to try to change a dragon," he replies, a teasing glint in his eyes. "Besides, I value my life too much to cage something as fierce as you."

You chuckle softly, but the humor is short-lived as reality sinks in. "And yet, here we are. I’m chained, a captive to be killed or used as leverage against my sister."

Gwayne’s expression sobers, his eyes reflecting a mix of regret and resolve. "I wish it were different, Y/N. But these are the times we live in."

You sigh, looking up at Silverwing still soaring above. "Do you ever wonder, Gwayne, what might have been? If things had gone differently?"

He nods slowly, his gaze distant for a moment. "Every day. But wishing for the past won’t change the present. We can only deal with what’s in front of us."

"And what’s in front of us is a forest full of angry knights and a war that doesn’t seem to have an end," you say, a touch of bitterness in your voice.

Gwayne gives a soft laugh, the sound almost comforting. "At least you still have your sense of humor. It’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you."

You glance at him, surprised by his honesty. "And here I thought you only admired my dragon."

He smirks, shaking his head. "Silverwing is impressive, yes. But she’s nothing compared to you."

The compliment catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. The knights continue to lead you through the forest, their voices a distant hum as you walk beside Gwayne, the man who once might have been your husband.

The journey to Duskendale stretches ahead, uncertain and fraught with danger. But for now, at least, you have an ally by your side, even if he is also your captor. And in these uncertain times, that might be the closest thing to hope you have.

The sky darkens as Criston Cole’s men set up camp, the forest growing quieter as the night settles in. You’re confined to a tent, albeit a comfortable one, considering your status as a prisoner. The air inside is warm, lit by a single lantern casting flickering shadows on the canvas walls.

You sit on a makeshift bed, your thoughts drifting between your current predicament and the distant roar of Silverwing, a constant reminder of your connection to the skies above. The flap of the tent rustles, and Gwayne steps inside, his expression unreadable.

"Comfortable?" he asks, his tone casual but his eyes searching.

You give him a wry smile. "As comfortable as one can be in captivity."

He chuckles softly, stepping closer. "Could be worse. Criston wanted to keep you in chains outside, but I insisted on more... humane accommodations."

You raise an eyebrow. "And why is that, Ser Gwayne? Still holding a soft spot for me?"

He sits down beside you, his proximity sending a shiver down your spine. "Maybe I am. Or maybe I just know how to keep a dragon content without a fight."

You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth lift in a reluctant smile. "Still think you can tame me?"

Gwayne’s gaze locks onto yours, intense and unwavering. "I never wanted to tame you, Y/N. I wanted to be beside you, as equals."

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, the tension between you softens. You reach out, your fingers brushing against his. "And yet here we are, on opposite sides of a war."

"War or no war, some things don’t change," he murmurs, his hand wrapping around yours.

The air between you shifts, charged with unspoken words and lingering desires. Before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in, capturing his lips with yours. The kiss is urgent, fueled by the months of separation and the fear of an uncertain future.

Gwayne responds with equal fervor, his hands moving to release the binds on your wrists. As the ropes fall away, you bring your hands up to his chest, pulling him closer. His fingers fumble with the laces of your dragon riding attire, and you do the same with his armor, the urgency of your movements reflecting the intensity of your emotions.

"I missed this," he breathes against your lips, his hands sliding over your skin. "I missed you."

You shiver at his words, your own hands trembling as you help him undress. "I missed you too, Gwayne."

Clothing discarded, you pull him down onto the bed, your bodies pressed together in a desperate embrace. The warmth of his skin against yours is intoxicating, each touch sending sparks of desire through you.

Gwayne moves with practiced urgency, his hands guiding your hips as he enters you. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of relief and need that leaves you gasping. "Y/N," he groans, his forehead resting against yours. "I need you."

You wrap your legs around him, urging him deeper. "Then take me," you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

Your movements become frantic, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. The world outside the tent fades away, leaving only the two of you, lost in each other. Your breath mingles with his, your bodies moving in perfect sync.

As you reach your peak, Silverwing's roar echoes above, a wild and powerful sound that mirrors the intensity of your release. You cling to Gwayne, your nails digging into his back as you ride out the waves of pleasure together.

For a moment, time stands still, the only sound your ragged breathing and the distant rumble of your dragon. Gwayne collapses beside you, his arms still wrapped around you, holding you close.

"I love you," he murmurs against your hair, his voice raw with emotion. "No matter what happens, remember that."

You press a kiss to his chest, your own heart aching with the weight of your situation. "I love you too, Gwayne."

In the quiet aftermath, you find solace in each other's arms, knowing that whatever the future holds, this moment is yours and yours alone.

The next day dawns gray and heavy with tension. Criston Cole is restless, urging his men to pack up and prepare for the march to Duskendale. You watch from the confines of your tent, the memory of the previous night with Gwayne still fresh in your mind, a bittersweet ache in your chest.

Silverwing circles above, her presence a constant reminder of your strength and the bond you share. Gwayne catches your eye from across the camp, and you see a flicker of resolve in his gaze. He looks up at Silverwing and then back at you, subtly nodding—a signal.

Your heart races as you understand his unspoken message. It’s now or never.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. As Criston and his men begin to move, you seize the moment. "Now," you whisper to yourself, breaking into a run.

Chaos erupts around you as Gwayne shouts, "Stop her!" But instead of joining the chase, he tackles Criston Cole to the ground, his body crashing into the other knight with surprising force.

Criston snarls, struggling under Gwayne's weight. "Hightower! What are you doing?"

"Giving her a fighting chance," Gwayne growls, pinning Criston down. "Get out of here, Y/N!"

The soldiers around you hesitate, torn between their orders and the unexpected fight unfolding between their leaders. Their momentary confusion is all the opportunity you need. You sprint towards the edge of the camp, your eyes fixed on Silverwing above.

"Come on, girl!" you shout, waving your arms. Silverwing roars in response, descending swiftly and landing with a thunderous impact.

You reach her just as the soldiers begin to recover from their shock. Hands grab at you, but you twist away, your foot finding purchase on Silverwing’s saddle. With practiced ease, you haul yourself up, securing the straps around your legs.

Silverwing launches into the air, her powerful wings beating the ground, sending dust and leaves swirling. Below, Gwayne glances up, meeting your eyes one last time. In that fleeting moment, a promise passes between you—a promise of love, loyalty, and hope for a future that might still be yours.

"Go!" Gwayne shouts, struggling to his feet as Criston shoves him off. "Fly, Y/N!"

You nod, your throat tight with emotion. "Thank you, Gwayne."

With a final roar, Silverwing rises above the treetops, carrying you away from the camp and towards freedom. The wind whips through your hair as you steer her towards Dragonstone, the ache in your chest both a reminder of your captivity and the bond that now holds you and Gwayne together, despite the distance and the war.

As you fly, you cast one last look back, seeing Gwayne standing tall amidst the chaos, his eyes following you until you disappear into the horizon. It’s a silent vow that this isn’t the end—that you will find each other again.

For now, you focus on the path ahead, the promise of Dragonstone and the fight for your family fueling your determination. Silverwing’s powerful wings carry you onwards, each beat a testament to your resilience and the unbreakable devotion that ties you to those you love.

As Silverwing's silhouette fades into the distance, Gwayne braces himself for the inevitable confrontation. Criston Cole stands, brushing off the dirt from his armor, his eyes blazing with fury. The camp buzzes with confusion and tension, soldiers whispering and exchanging uneasy glances.

Cole's voice cuts through the murmurs like a knife. "What in the seven hells were you thinking, Hightower?"

Gwayne straightens, meeting Criston's glare with unwavering resolve. "I did what I thought was right."

Criston's nostrils flare, and he steps closer, his voice low and dangerous. "You let a valuable prisoner escape. Rhaenyra’s sister, no less. Do you have any idea what this means for us?"

"I do," Gwayne replies calmly. "But I also know what it means to treat people with honor. She wasn’t some bargaining chip to be used at will."

Cole’s eyes narrow, and he steps forward, closing the distance between them until they are almost nose to nose. "Honor? This is war, Gwayne. Honor gets you killed."

"Maybe," Gwayne retorts, his voice steady. "But it also makes you worth remembering. Y/N is no ordinary prisoner. She’s a dragon rider, a princess. Treating her like a common captive would only fuel more hatred and violence."

Criston shakes his head, incredulous. "You’re a fool if you think she’ll spare us any mercy. The moment she’s back with Rhaenyra, she’ll come for our heads."

Gwayne squares his shoulders, refusing to back down. "Perhaps. But at least I can live with myself knowing I didn’t betray everything we once stood for. We were knights of honor once, Criston. Have you forgotten that?"

Criston’s face contorts with rage, and for a moment, Gwayne thinks he might draw his sword. Instead, Criston takes a deep breath, visibly struggling to control his temper. "You’ve jeopardized our mission, and for what? Sentiment?"

Gwayne holds his ground, his voice unwavering. "For what’s right. You may not understand now, but one day, you might."

Criston’s eyes flash with a mix of anger and something else—perhaps a flicker of respect and understanding. "This isn't over, Gwayne. Not by a long shot. You’ll answer for this."

"I already have," Gwayne says quietly. "And I’m prepared to face the consequences."

Criston turns away, signaling for the camp to resume its activities. "Get ready to move out!" he barks to the soldiers. "We’ve wasted enough time here."

As the camp stirs back into motion, Gwayne watches, his mind replaying the look in Y/N’s eyes as she flew to freedom. Despite the threat of retribution hanging over him, he feels a strange sense of peace. He has made his choice, and he would make it again a hundred times over.

One of the soldiers approaches, hesitant. "Ser Gwayne, what should we do now?"

Gwayne sighs, feeling the weight of his decision settling on his shoulders. "We follow orders," he says, his voice firm. "We march to Duskendale and prepare for what comes next."

As the camp prepares to move, Gwayne allows himself a moment of reflection. He finds strength in the memory of Y/N’s freedom and the promise they silently shared.

The air is filled with the excitement and anticipation of the tournament, with the roar of the crowd echoing across the field. The day is bright, though the tension in the air hangs like a storm waiting to break. You sit in the royal box, your back straight as you watch the events unfold below. Beside you, your sister Rhaenyra leans forward, her gold and silver hair catching the sunlight, while Alicent, ever composed, keeps a more demure posture. Despite the noise around you, there's an undercurrent of unease, an undercurrent you can feel but cannot name.

You try to focus on the jousts, but your mind keeps drifting. Today is supposed to be a day of celebration, yet you cannot shake the feeling that something is amiss. It could be the knowledge that your mother, Queen Aemma, is in labor, or perhaps it's the weight of expectation that seems to press down on you from all sides. The youngest princess, soon to be the sister to an heir, the girl bonded to Silverwing, you feel the eyes of the realm upon you.

Your gaze shifts to Ser Gwayne Hightower, who sits on his horse at the end of the lists, resplendent in his armor. You can feel his eyes on you, and when you glance at him, he offers a small, shy smile. There's something earnest about him, something that makes your heart flutter just slightly. You return his smile, feeling a warmth spread through you despite the cool breeze.

Rhaenyra notices your exchange and leans closer, a teasing smile on her lips. "Ser Gwayne seems quite taken with you, sister."

You give her a playful nudge. "He is a noble knight. It would be unbecoming of him not to show favor to his princess."

Alicent, always the voice of reason, adds softly, "But it is clear my brother’s favor is more than just courtly manners. Perhaps you should acknowledge it."

You cast another glance at Gwayne, who has returned his attention to the field, but not before stealing one more look your way. There is a sincerity in his eyes that you find difficult to ignore. Your heart is conflicted, though you try to push the thoughts aside. After all, you are a princess of the realm, and such things are never simple.

But before you can ponder further, the crowd erupts into cheers and gasps. The herald's voice rings out, announcing the next joust. "Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, against Prince Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince."

The shift in atmosphere is palpable. You feel it immediately, the tension growing thick and heavy, like the humidity before a storm. Your heart skips a beat as you see Daemon enter the lists, his presence commanding, his dark violet eyes scanning the crowd before landing on you. He doesn't smile, but the look he gives you is intense, a mixture of challenge and something else you can't quite place.

"He’s chosen Ser Gwayne," Alicent whispers, her voice laced with concern for her brother.

"To spite Lord Otto, no doubt," Rhaenyra mutters, her brows furrowing.

But you know better. Daemon's choice is not just to slight his old nemesis, the Hand of the King. No, this is a message, one meant for you. Your heart pounds in your chest as you realize the implications. Daemon is many things—unpredictable, dangerous, and bold. He has never hidden his affection for you, though it is often veiled in the guise of familial care. But there’s always been more, something unspoken between you two, something that now rears its head in the most public of arenas.

As the joust begins, you watch with bated breath. The crowd roars as the two knights charge at each other, lances poised to strike. The clash is fierce, the sound of splintering wood echoing across the field. Gwayne holds his own against Daemon, and for a moment, you dare to hope. But Daemon is a seasoned warrior, and his determination today is fueled by more than just a desire to win.

They go for another round, and this time, Daemon’s lance strikes true. It shatters against Gwayne’s shield, the force of the blow unseating him. Gwayne crashes to the ground, the breath knocked out of him, and the crowd gasps. You instinctively rise from your seat, hands clutching the railing in front of you.

"Y/N," Rhaenyra says softly, reaching out to calm you, but you barely hear her.

Your eyes are locked on Gwayne as he struggles to rise, his pride wounded as much as his body. Daemon circles him like a predator, his horse prancing, as if waiting to see if Gwayne will stand again. When Gwayne finally manages to get to his feet, Daemon removes his helmet, letting his silver hair spill out, and then he dismounts.

He strides over to Gwayne, and the two exchange words you cannot hear from this distance. But you see the way Daemon’s eyes flick up to the royal box, to you, and then back to Gwayne. Whatever he says is enough to make Gwayne’s expression harden, though he does not retaliate. Gwayne simply bows his head slightly, acknowledging the defeat, and then steps back.

Daemon, satisfied, returns to his horse, but not before casting you another look. This time, there’s a smirk on his lips, one that makes your blood boil. He knows exactly what he’s done, and the worst part is that you do too. He’s made his statement, loud and clear, in front of all the lords and ladies of the realm. Daemon Targaryen does not intend to step aside, and anyone who seeks to win your favor will have to contend with him first.

As Daemon rides off, victorious, your eyes drift back to Gwayne. He stands tall, despite the defeat, and when he finally looks up at you, there is no shame in his expression. Only determination, and something else—hope, perhaps? A promise that he will not give up so easily.

You sink back into your seat, your heart a tangle of emotions. Rhaenyra gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, and Alicent offers you a small, understanding smile. But your mind is elsewhere, torn between the earnest affection of a young knight and the dangerous allure of a rogue prince.

As the dust settles from the tilt between Daemon and Gwayne, Otto Hightower watches with a deepening frown, his knuckles whitening as he grips the armrest of his chair. He had seen the intent in Daemon's eyes from the moment he chose Gwayne as his opponent. The tilt had been more than just a joust—it was a pointed act, an attempt to not only humiliate Otto but to endanger his son and, by extension, challenge Otto's influence in the court. Otto's gaze shifts from the field back to the royal box where you sit, and he notices the anxiety in your eyes as you watch Gwayne stand tall despite his defeat.

Otto's concern is not only for his son's welfare but also for the implications of Daemon's reckless actions. He can see how the prince's antics could destabilize everything he has worked for, and that thought is enough to push him into action. With a composed but determined stride, Otto makes his way to King Viserys, who sits at the center of the royal box, his expression a mixture of concern and detachment as he watches the aftermath of the joust.

"Your Grace," Otto begins, bowing slightly before taking his place at Viserys' side. His voice is calm, measured, but there’s an undercurrent of urgency in his tone. "I cannot help but express my concern over Prince Daemon’s conduct. Choosing my son as his opponent was not merely a matter of sport—it was a deliberate act of provocation."

Viserys sighs, his gaze still fixed on the field. "Daemon is... spirited," he replies, attempting to sound nonchalant, though there's a hint of weariness in his voice. "You know how he is, Otto. He has always had a flair for the dramatic."

"Spirited?" Otto repeats, unable to keep the sharpness out of his voice. "Your Grace, this was not mere dramatics. This was a calculated attempt to undermine the order of things. My son’s life was endangered, not out of competition, but out of spite."

Viserys finally turns to look at Otto, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You see threats where there are none, Lord Hightower. Daemon is my brother; he would not harm a fellow knight without reason. Gwayne is skilled, and I am sure Daemon respected that."

Otto suppresses a sigh, knowing that Viserys is, as always, reluctant to see the worst in his brother. "Your Grace, the prince's intentions were clear. He seeks to disrupt, to sow discord, and he has taken a particular interest in your youngest daughter, as you well know."

Viserys' expression hardens at the mention of you, but before he can respond, Otto seizes the opportunity to press his point. "I have proposed a match before, between Y/N and my son, Gwayne. He is a noble knight, honorable and devoted to the realm, and most importantly, he cares deeply for your daughter. Such a match would not only strengthen ties between our houses but also protect the princess from the whims of Prince Daemon."

Viserys shifts uncomfortably in his seat, clearly not pleased with the direction of the conversation. "I am aware of your proposal, Otto, but I do not see the need to rush into any such arrangement. Y/N is still young, and I would not have her feel pressured into a marriage, especially one so clearly driven by political concerns.

"Your Grace," Otto insists, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone, "this is not just about politics. It is about ensuring the stability of your realm, the safety of your daughter. Daemon is unpredictable, and his interest in Y/N is far from innocent. A match with Gwayne would provide her with the protection of an honorable man, a knight who would be devoted to her above all else."

Viserys' face tightens with frustration. "Daemon is my brother, Otto. He may be reckless, but he is no danger to Y/N. And as for Gwayne, I have no doubt of his virtues, but I will not be pushed into making decisions about my daughter's future based on fear and speculation."

Otto opens his mouth to argue further, but at that moment, a servant approaches the king, bowing deeply before leaning in to speak quietly into his ear. Whatever the servant says causes Viserys' expression to change instantly, the frustration and weariness replaced by a deep concern, and something close to dread.

"Your Grace," the servant says, just loud enough for Otto to catch the words, "I bring word from the Maester. The Queen's labor... it is not progressing well. The Maester has requested your presence."

Viserys pales, his attention immediately drawn away from the tournament and all other matters. The color drains from his face as the weight of the situation dawns on him. He rises from his seat, barely acknowledging Otto’s presence now.

"Excuse me, Otto," Viserys says, his voice strained, "I must attend to the Queen."

Otto watches as Viserys departs, a feeling of unease settling over him. The king’s concerns about Aemma are legitimate, of course, but Otto cannot help but feel that the danger Daemon represents is just as pressing. Yet, with Viserys now preoccupied, there is little more Otto can do at this moment. He watches the king hurry away, his thoughts a storm of worry and calculation.

As he returns his gaze to the field, where the tournament continues with all its noise and pageantry, Otto’s mind races. He knows that Daemon’s influence over his brother and his growing interest in you are threats that cannot be ignored. And while Viserys may not see the urgency, Otto knows that he must find a way to protect both his son and the realm. But for now, with the shadow of the Queen’s labor hanging over them all, any further plans will have to wait. 

Otto Hightower may be forced to wait, but he will not forget.

The gardens are quiet, bathed in the soft silver light of the moon. The air is cool, carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers, yet you find no comfort in their fragrance. Your heart is heavy, weighed down by grief that seems too vast to bear. The funeral had been a somber affair, the pyres of your mother and brother burning brightly against the darkening sky, and now, even the flames have died, leaving only ashes and silence.

You wander through the gardens, seeking solitude, though the emptiness only magnifies your sorrow. The night is still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze, and your thoughts are consumed by the images of your mother, Queen Aemma, and your brother, Baelon, who had lived but a single day. The grief presses down on you, almost suffocating in its intensity. You find yourself sinking onto a stone bench beneath a large, ancient tree, its branches reaching out like arms meant to offer comfort, but even nature seems distant tonight.

You barely notice the sound of footsteps on the gravel path until they draw close. When you finally look up, you see Gwayne Hightower approaching, his expression one of deep concern and sorrow. His presence, though unexpected, stirs something within you—an odd mixture of relief and anxiety. He slows as he nears, his armor glinting softly in the moonlight, but there’s nothing imposing about him now. His eyes, warm and kind, are fixed on you, offering a silent question.

With a quiet nod, you dismiss the Kingsguard who stands at a respectful distance, signaling that you wish for privacy. The knight bows and steps away, leaving you alone with Gwayne in the tranquil, shadowed gardens.

"Princess," Gwayne says softly as he reaches you, his voice gentle, laced with the same sorrow that you feel. "I hoped to find you… I thought you might need someone."

You look up at him, your eyes brimming with unshed tears, and for a moment, you struggle to find your voice. When you finally speak, your words are choked with emotion. "They’re gone, Gwayne. My mother… my brother…"

He kneels beside you, taking your hands in his. His touch is warm, grounding you in the here and now, even as your heart aches with the loss. "I am so sorry, Y/N," he murmurs, his thumbs gently brushing over your knuckles. "I cannot imagine the pain you’re feeling, but know that you do not have to bear it alone."

You blink, a tear escaping to trace down your cheek. "But I am alone, Gwayne. Everyone I love… they keep leaving me." Your voice breaks, and you lower your head, unable to hold back the tears any longer.

Gwayne’s hands tighten around yours, firm but tender, and he shifts to sit beside you on the bench. "You are not alone, not truly. I am here, Y/N. I will always be here for you, if you’ll let me."

There’s something in his voice, a quiet determination that draws your gaze back to him. You see the sincerity in his eyes, the deep, unwavering care he holds for you, and in that moment, a small part of your grief seems to lift, if only slightly. The loneliness that had seemed so overwhelming before begins to recede, replaced by a warmth that spreads through you, a connection that you hadn’t realized you needed so desperately.

You lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder, and he wraps an arm around you, holding you close. The silence between you is no longer heavy with sorrow but filled with something softer, more comforting. After a moment, Gwayne speaks again, his voice low and earnest. "I promise you, Y/N, I will do everything in my power to make sure you are never alone. One day, I will marry you, and I will protect you, cherish you, for as long as I live."

His words catch you off guard, and you pull back slightly to look at him. "Marry me?" you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper. There’s a vulnerability in your tone, a hope you hadn’t dared to acknowledge until now.

"Yes," Gwayne says, his gaze never wavering. "I’ve cared for you for so long, and I know in my heart that you are the one I wish to spend my life with. I want to be by your side, to give you the happiness and security you deserve. I swear it."

Something inside you shifts, the despair you’ve been drowning in easing as you absorb the depth of his feelings. Without thinking, you reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. "You are too kind, Gwayne," you murmur, your voice trembling. "I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you."

He leans into your touch, closing his eyes briefly as if savoring the moment. "You deserve everything, Y/N," he says softly, opening his eyes to meet yours once more. "And I want to be the one to give it to you."

The sincerity in his voice, the warmth in his eyes, it’s all too much. You close the distance between you, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that is tentative at first, testing the waters of this new intimacy. Gwayne responds immediately, his kiss gentle but insistent, as if he’s been waiting for this moment for as long as he can remember.

The kiss deepens, the grief and sorrow you’ve been carrying melding into a need for comfort, for connection. Gwayne’s hands move to your waist, pulling you closer as the heat between you grows. The world outside of this moment seems to fade away, leaving only the two of you, lost in each other.

He pulls back slightly, his breath ragged, his eyes searching yours. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice hushed, as if he fears breaking the spell between you.

In response, you nod, your heart racing. "Yes," you whisper, the word barely audible, but full of the longing and need that has been building within you. "I need you, Gwayne. Please."

With a tenderness that takes your breath away, Gwayne begins to undress you, his hands careful and reverent as if you are something precious, something to be cherished. You mirror his actions, your fingers working to remove his armor, his tunic, until there is nothing between you but the cool night air.

When he finally moves over you, his touch is gentle, mindful of your inexperience. There’s a brief moment of hesitation, of adjustment, as your bodies join, but the discomfort quickly gives way to something deeper, more profound. Gwayne pauses, his forehead resting against yours as he waits for you to relax, to adjust to the newness of this intimacy.

"Are you alright?" he asks softly, his voice tinged with concern.

You nod, your hands clutching at his shoulders as you pull him closer. "Yes, Gwayne… don’t stop," you murmur, your breath hitching as pleasure begins to build, slowly at first, then with increasing intensity.

He kisses you again, and as your bodies find a rhythm, the world narrows down to the sensation of his touch, the warmth of his skin against yours, the way he whispers your name like a prayer. The urgency between you grows, the need to escape the pain of the world in the solace of each other’s arms, until it all culminates in a rush of pleasure that leaves you both breathless.

In the aftermath, as you lie together in the cool grass, Gwayne holds you close, his hand gently stroking your hair. "I will marry you, Y/N," he whispers, his voice filled with a quiet, unshakable determination. "I swear it, on my honor as a knight. We will be together, always."

You smile softly against his chest, lulled by the sound of his heartbeat, by the warmth of his promise. "I believe you," you whisper back, your eyes fluttering shut as exhaustion finally begins to claim you.

But as the night deepens, as sleep takes hold, the cruel hand of fate begins to weave its own tapestry. Despite the promises made beneath the stars, despite the love you share in this stolen moment, you do not know that the future holds other plans, plans that will tear you from this place, from this man who has given you his heart.

For this promise of marriage, of a future together, will never come to be.

The days following the funeral passed in a haze of mourning, with the weight of loss still hanging heavily over the Red Keep. The atmosphere was somber, with everyone moving about with a quiet reverence, as though the very stones of the castle themselves had absorbed the grief of its inhabitants. Yet, amidst this solemnity, a tension was brewing, one that threatened to shatter the fragile peace.

Daemon Targaryen, ever restless and unpredictable, had spent those days watching, biding his time. He had seen the way Gwayne Hightower had looked at you during the funeral, the way his presence seemed to linger near yours. And while most would dismiss it as nothing more than the attentions of a knight to his princess, Daemon knew better. He could see through the thin veil of propriety to the emotions simmering just beneath the surface.

When he finally confronted Gwayne, it was in one of the shadowed courtyards of the Red Keep, a place where the light of day barely reached and where secrets were often exchanged in hushed tones. Gwayne was alone, having just finished sparring in the yard, his armor still gleaming with the sweat of exertion. He was unprepared for the sight of Daemon emerging from the shadows, a sly smile playing on his lips.

"Ser Gwayne," Daemon called out, his voice deceptively casual. "You seem to have made yourself quite at home here in King's Landing. But then again, Hightowers always know how to make themselves comfortable, don’t they?"

Gwayne stiffened at the sound of Daemon’s voice, his hand instinctively moving to rest on the hilt of his sword. He turned to face the prince, his expression wary but resolute. "Prince Daemon," he greeted, his tone respectful but with an edge. "What brings you to this part of the Keep?"

Daemon strolled closer, his every movement calculated, as if he were a cat toying with a mouse. "I couldn’t help but notice your... persistent presence near my niece. After our last encounter at the lists, I thought you would have taken the hint to back off. But it seems Otto's son is either very brave or very foolish."

Gwayne’s jaw tightened, but he did not back down. "My intentions towards Princess Y/N are honorable, Prince Daemon. My feelings for her are genuine, and they have nothing to do with my father’s ambitions."

Daemon’s eyes narrowed, the amusement in them fading to something colder, more dangerous. "Is that so? I find it hard to believe that anything a Hightower does is not meticulously planned. You expect me to believe that your affections are purely coincidental, that they have nothing to do with your father’s desire to bind your house to the blood of dragons?"

Gwayne took a step forward, his hand still on his sword, but he made no move to draw it. "My feelings for the princess are my own, born out of respect and admiration, not out of any scheme. I care for her deeply, and I would never use her as a pawn in some political game."

"Respect and admiration," Daemon repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. "How noble of you, Ser Gwayne. But tell me, what will you do when Viserys refuses to allow this match? When he sees your father’s hand behind it and denies your request? What then, noble knight?"

Gwayne’s resolve did not falter, though he could feel the weight of Daemon’s words pressing down on him. "If the king denies me, then so be it. But know this, Daemon—my feelings for Y/N will not change. I will still care for her, still protect her, with or without a marriage."

Daemon’s lips curled into a smirk, though his eyes were anything but amused. "You speak of protection, but what you fail to understand, Ser Gwayne, is that she doesn’t need protection from me. It is your interference that could bring her harm. Viserys may be blind to many things, but he is not blind to his brother’s intentions. You think you’re the better man, the safer choice, but you’re just as much a threat as any other suitor."

Gwayne’s grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles white, but he held his ground. "I would never harm her. And I will not be frightened away by your threats or your insinuations, Prince Daemon. If you truly care for her as you claim, you would understand that what matters most is her happiness. If I can give her that, then I will fight for it."

Daemon’s smile vanished, replaced by a hard, calculating look. "You think you can win against me, Ser Gwayne? You think your noble heart and chivalrous intentions will protect you from the realities of the court? You may have convinced yourself that your love is pure, but love in this world is rarely enough. Blood, power, and the will to seize it—that is what drives the fate of men."

The tension between them crackled in the air, a palpable thing that seemed to thrum with the promise of violence. Gwayne stared Daemon down, unflinching, his voice steady as he replied, "I may not have your power or your blood, Daemon, but I have something you don’t—a heart that beats for her, not for ambition. And that is something you will never understand."

For a moment, they stood in silence, two forces at an impasse, each unwilling to yield. Then, with a flicker of something akin to grudging respect in his eyes, Daemon broke the stare, stepping back. He let out a low, dark chuckle.

"Perhaps you’re right, Gwayne," he said, his tone lighter but still laced with danger. "Perhaps I don’t understand. But mark my words—the day will come when you’ll see that love alone is not enough. And when that day comes, I’ll be there, watching as your noble heart shatters."

With that, Daemon turned on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he walked away, leaving Gwayne standing in the shadows, his heart pounding in his chest. Gwayne’s hand slowly relaxed from his sword, but the tension remained, coiled tight in his muscles, in his mind.

He watched Daemon disappear into the darkness, his thoughts racing. Daemon’s words had been like barbs, digging into him, and though he had stood his ground, the doubts had been planted. Gwayne knew that his path would not be easy, that the forces arrayed against him were formidable. But his resolve had not wavered. If anything, the confrontation had only strengthened his determination.

As Gwayne turned to leave the courtyard, his thoughts returned to you—to the promise he had made, to the love he felt for you that had nothing to do with his father’s ambitions or the politics of the realm. No matter what Daemon or anyone else said, he would not give up. He would fight for you, for your happiness, no matter the cost.

“Have you seen the knight who had trouble mounting up his horse?” Alicent laughed as Rhaenyra mimicked the poor man’s earlier catastrophe, your gaze moving between the two of them as you listened, none of which had entirely caught your attention. 

The crowds and your surroundings seemed to quiet down as you peer over to the line up of knights right in front of the grand stands, you knew some of the contenders, you knew that Prince Daemon Targaryen was there, as well as Ser Criston Cole amongst the others you could not remember by name. 

Your grip on your token, a beautiful ribbon that had adorned your house’s colours, had tightened—you were anxious to say the least, you merely wished you had kept to yourself in your chambers. Alicent gives you a knowing look and you smile at her to ease her concern, you tear your gaze away from hers, coincidentally landing on the knight that galloped towards the tiltyard, a dark green cape and the Hightower sigil etched onto his breastplate. His auburn hair caught your attention and his composure pulled you in. 

“That is Gwayne, is it not?” Rhaenyra asked Alicent as she counted the candidates who lined up for introductions as the latter nodded to confirm her question.

Gwayne, what a lovely name, you thought to yourself.

The crowds had gathered and made noise, yells, and chants towards the knights who were their favorite. The nobles and royals alike were in their seats, eagerly awaiting for the tournament to begin. 

You were drowning in your sorrows as Gwayne sets his sights upon you and it … changes something in him. Over a short glance, you made him swoon over you without even uttering a word nor knowing your name. He was well aware of your friendship with his sister but he hadn’t had the time to get to know you more. 

Your eyes meet, it simply messes with your equilibrium as his striking blue eyes stare back at you in the same curiosity you hold yourself to, it inspires more courage in you. 

The Master of Revels began to announce the knights in attendance of the tourney, one by one, they had gallantly showed themselves off, pride oozing from their presence. 

Rhaenyra pulls you and Alicent toward the edge of the grand stand to peer over the knights asking for favors. Daemon Targaryen does not hesitate to poke and prod allegiances and patience and asks for Alicent’s favor, she hesitantly gives her laurel wreath to him—a normal gesture to the naked eye, an awkward exchange to the ones watching closely. Rhaenyra confidently gives her favor to Cole’s lance, smiling coyly at him as he rides away.

You hid your token in hopes of not getting much attention, you always preferred the peace and quiet, a stability that you have not been able to achieve in such a long time.

Gwayne notices. 

Cueing his horse, cantering as the mud of the tourney grounds clings to his horse’s hooves, but you only look at the silver of his armor and the stark focus in his blue eyes. You were mesmerised, that in itself was an understatement.

Gwayne steers his massive destrier away from the line of competitors and guides it directly toward the royal box. The crowd’s roar thins into a tense, expectant murmur as he stops right beneath your box.

You eyes meeting once more, Gwaybe does not look at your father, or the King, or the gossiping nobles surrounding you—he looks only at you.

With a deliberate, agonizingly slow movement, he raises his gauntleted hand and takes his helmet off, his eyes lock onto yours, dark and entirely unreadable. Then, he lowers the heavy tip of his jousting lance until it hovers just inches from your hands, resting on the wooden railing.

“My Lady,” his voice cuts through the ambient noise of the arena, deep and steady. 

“The field is fierce today, but your token would grant me the strength of ten men. Will you bless my lance?”

Every eye is suddenly burning into the side of your face, the expectation heavy and burdened. Your breath hitches, you could feel Alicent and Rhaenyra’s scrutinising gazes on you. Even out of your sight, you can feel your father’s posture stiffen, but the knight is waiting, Gwayne Hightower is waiting. Everyone is waiting.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach up to the silk ribbon tied around your sleeve, and carefully place it on his lance. Gwayne does not smile victoriously, like the usual arrogance a man has, no, he smiles softly and genuinely at you. The small act kindled a spark within you as you did the same, causing the same effect on him too.

“I will win, for you, I will make sure of it,” he says earnestly.

You nod slightly, inwardly cursing at yourself to have said at least something to him before he rode off towards the line up once more.

Your heart pounding, your eyes stuck to his figure, The Seven may he win.

As the crowds roared as the rounds began, Gwayne successfully unseated half of his opponents, mercifully putting an end to their participation with little to no succumbing injuries. He was careful, thoughtful even but it was a stretch, you noticed quite a lot of things, and wanting more—you immediately stopped yourself from delving further into this madness, you grew timid and anxious nevertheless, he will get your full attention soon. Soon.

He must earn it, you suppose, when he wins, if he wins. 

“For the final challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen of House Targaryen! Prince of the City and Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks! As well as Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King!” The Master of Revels announced firmly, they were the last two men at the tournament, the one last round to finally reveal the grand champion.

Daemon spurs his horse forward, his confidence gleaming from his dark armor, he takes one last glance at the royal box with a smug expression, looking at Rhaenyra and King Viserys. 

On the other side of the arena, Gwayne doesn’t boast, he composes himself instead and then promptly looks at your ribbon, a short prayer to the Gods that he wins. 

The herald’s horn sounds, a sharp, piercing blast. Daemon lowers his lance and Gwayne does the same, the charge. The sound of thundering hooves fills the arena—you wouldn’t be able to know the difference between the sound and the pounding of your heart at this point. Daemon leans in, aiming squarely for Gwayne’s shield, fully expecting the Hightower to flinch or even break under pressure. 

Gwayne sees right through him, staying perfectly levelled, swiftly adjusting his aim as the last possible second.

Before you know it, a loud crash was heard. Daemon’s lance strikes Gwayne’s shield, shattering into useless splinters but Gwayne’s lance catches Daemon squarely in the centre of his chest piece—the impact incredibly deafening. The Targaryen Prince is ripped clean out of his saddle, hitting the dirt hard, his armor clattering against the wet soil. For a second, everyone was dead silent, then, the Hightower bannermen and nobles alike erupt into the wildest of cheers. 

Gwayne had won the tourney, everyone around you cheered as he took out Prince Daemon from his horse, with a huge smile, you applauded as loud as you could.

That had been the most exciting moment of your life. 

But that had been years ago. 

Your father had uprooted you from that life in the capital. He hoped to get you betrothed to a respectable Lord with plenty of riches and land. A naive dream a noble could have.

You had missed accompanying Alicent and Rhaenyra around the royal gardens, even if you had only listened while they gossiped, but it was who you were and you were not ashamed of your differences from the ladies of your standing. The occasional ravens from the Keep had comforted you as you slowly rotted into the soils of your house, time had been unkind to you as it emphasised its ability to be completely still and useless as you spent more time attempting to serve your house. 

Instead you had been tending to the flowers of the castle grounds, it was your way of escaping the pressure of your family … reading in the library had gotten trite. You plucked and plucked the dead leaves of your favourite flower bush, wishing that the hot weather would be kinder to your gardens.

“Ah, there you are,” a voice sneaked behind you, which had surprised you as you turned around to find the owner of the voice.

A Hightower sigil almost bumped into your face, your body quick to react as you added a respectable distance towards the stranger.

You look at those eyes, his eyes, the same ones that were strikingly fierce and blue, the same ones you tried immensely to remember and resist so tenderly. He had matured over the years and he noticed the same to you but more beautiful as the day he met you. 

All of the sensations you had felt, old and new, were so sweet and gentle—you could see in his eyes that he shares the same sentiments as you do.

Gwayne remembers the shy lady he met at the tourney, grown to a perfect image of a woman, the vision of love, which had moulded a special place in his heart. 

This feeling. This feeling turned everything into a sweet ache in both your limbs and you both found expression at last … but most importantly, you both found each other once more.

Your feeble attempt at shying away had made you notice something: a dusty ribbon that was tied to the hilt of Gwayne’s sword. Your eyes widened at the familiar sight of it.

“I assume you’ve seen my lucky charm? I carried it ever since,” Gwayne teased.

“After all these years? You’ve kept it for what?” You asked in complete awe, your hand moving towards the ruined ribbon but his hand caught yours, pressing a soft kiss on your knuckle.

“I believe I have unfinished business, but …” he pauses, his free hand guiding your face to look up at him. Gwayne’s gaze is tender, his expression genuine—clear as day, you vividly remember the young knight who won the tourney all those years before. Memory dealt the blow, leaving a wound only nostalgia could soothe. 

“I came back for you.”

© 2026 𝙂𝙒𝘼𝙔𝙉𝙀𝙎-𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙂! i condemn plagiarism of any kind and feeding my work to ai, NO AI here! my writing may be shit but it is my shit.

The banners of House Hightower flapped lazily in the spring wind, ivory and green against the emerald sprawl of Highgarden. The sun had dipped behind a veil of pale clouds, casting a diffused amber light over the Reach, where every hill bloomed with wildflowers and the air hung heavy with the scent of rose and honeysuckle. You stood beneath the carved archway of the eastern courtyard, where the ivy curled up the old stone like a lover’s grasp, your fingers clasped before you as your small retinue murmured polite courtesies and idle guesses among themselves. Your gown was a soft green silk, embroidered at the sleeves with golden blooms—modest but elegant, befitting a lady of your stature and one who had long ago learned the subtle art of courtly restraint. The letter he had sent ahead lay folded and unread in your chamber; you did not need it. You had read enough of Otto Hightower to know the measure of the man even before you saw the shape of him again.

He came through the outer gates at a slow canter, the dust of the road clinging to the hem of his cloak and the edges of his gloves, but otherwise, he bore himself with the same stiff dignity as ever. He rode like a man who had never forgotten who he was, even if the crown had tried to forget it for him. The lines at his mouth were deeper, his beard a touch more silver than when last you saw him at court, but his eyes—the keen, assessing ones that had always made you feel both admired and studied—had not dimmed. You stepped forward as his horse slowed, and he dismounted without waiting for help, the reins handed off to a servant before he turned to face you fully.

"My lady Tyrell," he greeted, bowing his head with a formality that made your chest ache for reasons you would not name. "You’ve not changed a whit."

You smiled gently, as you had so many times in the Red Keep’s gardens, over a shared cup of wine or the corner of some forgotten document. "And you’ve not grown any better at lying, my lord."

A flicker of amusement passed over his features. He did not laugh—not Otto Hightower, not here, not now—but the warmth in his eyes was real. "I had forgotten how sharp your tongue could be."

You stepped closer, and he did not flinch when you took his gloved hand in yours. "And I had not forgotten how heavy your words could weigh upon a heart. Come inside. You must be tired. The road from King’s Landing is long, especially with pride tucked beside you in the saddle."

His gaze held yours for a moment longer, and you saw it there—pride, yes, but also something frayed beneath it. You turned, guiding him into the shade of the trellised walkway, where wisteria curled above your heads and petals drifted like silk on the breeze. Your ladies-in-waiting lingered at a polite distance, and the guards posted at the gate looked on with the idle eyes of men not expecting trouble.

"It was not my choice to leave," Otto said once you were within the quiet of the inner garden, away from ears and judgment. His voice had the worn edge of iron struck too many times, and his hands folded behind his back like a man standing before a council that had already made up its mind. "The boy dismissed me. In front of the whole court. Not even his mother was consulted."

You stopped beside the stone basin where white lilies floated over clear water and turned to him. "You’ve written to me of your doubts before. About what kind of king Aegon might be."

He exhaled slowly. "I had hoped that, in time, he might grow into the weight of the crown. I thought… with Alicent beside him, and my counsel steadying his path..." He shook his head, and for a moment, you saw the weariness seep through the mask of the statesman. "But he is reckless. Cruel, even, though I daresay he has not the spine for true tyranny. He rules by whim and temper, and I fear what will become of the realm if he leads us into war."

You reached out and gently touched his sleeve, the worn velvet soft under your fingers. "You fear for the realm, but I fear for my son. Ser Lyonel rides for the Riverlands within the week. He’s but twenty, and I can see in his eyes that he’s eager to win glory he does not yet understand. If there is to be war, he will not be safe."

Otto’s expression softened. He covered your hand with his, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. "He is a fine young man. I met him once at court, do you remember? He asked me if dragons were truly as large as the stories claimed. You said he wouldn’t rest until he saw one with his own eyes."

"He still won’t," you murmured, the ghost of a smile passing over your lips. "But now he hopes to see one from a battlefield."

"I would not have had you worry like this," Otto said quietly, as if the words cost him something. "If I had held my place, perhaps I could have tempered Aegon’s more… dangerous impulses. But it was slipping from my hands even before the boy took the throne. And now I am an old man with enemies in every corner of court and a grandson who thinks power is his by birthright alone."

You looked up at him, this man who had always written to you not as a lord to a lady but as a confidant to another soul caught in the web of power and legacy. "You are not just an old man, Otto. You are a Hightower, the Hand who held the realm together for longer than most dared hope. And you are tired. Come. Rest, speak plainly, and let me bear some of the weight for a while."

He looked at you then, not as the Hand of the King or as a man measured by the legacy of his name—but as Otto. A man you had once exchanged poems with beneath the blossoming trees of King’s Landing, who had written of your late husband with such grace it brought tears to your eyes. A man you had never quite allowed yourself to miss until now.

"Only for a while," he said at last. "And only because it is you."

You smiled faintly. "It was always me."

The nights in Highgarden were warmer now, thick with the perfume of rose blossoms and rich dew clinging to every leaf. A hush had settled over the castle, the kind of silence that came not from sleep but from something deeper—from expectation, from unspoken thoughts swirling like mist along the River Mander. In the days since Otto’s arrival, you had spent every afternoon in quiet conversation or long walks beneath the green canopies, neither of you mentioning when he would leave for Oldtown, only ever speaking in the shape of the moment. You’d grown used to his presence again, the way his voice rumbled low when speaking thoughtfully, how his hands—so often still, deliberate—would sometimes twitch when he was lost in thought, or how his eyes softened each time they landed on you. You had known Otto Hightower for many years, but not like this—not like something close and tangible, like breath warming the hollow of your throat.

That night, the candles flickered low against the stone walls of your solar, and the fire burned gentle in the hearth. You had not summoned him, and yet he came—silent but purposeful, his hand resting against the edge of the door as though asking permission with nothing more than presence. You were seated by the fire, the laces of your gown undone at the throat, a shawl drawn loosely about your shoulders. When you met his eyes, there was no need for words. You stood slowly and crossed the room, each step deliberate, your bare feet whispering against the rug. He didn’t move until you reached him.

“Have you come to say goodbye?” you asked quietly, the words steadier than you felt.

His eyes searched your face for a long moment, as though committing it to memory. “Not yet.”

You nodded, heart fluttering beneath your ribs like a trapped bird. Then, carefully, you reached up and touched his cheek, letting your fingers trace the edge of his beard, the warm skin beneath. He exhaled shakily, almost imperceptibly, and leaned into your touch as if starved for it.

When he kissed you, it was not the kiss of a younger man, wild and eager. It was deliberate, full of unspoken things—regret, longing, years of restraint that no longer held. His lips were warm, dry at first, then softer as they parted yours, tasting of red wine and solitude. You clutched his shoulders and felt the tension in them, how tightly he held himself together. You knew then that no one had touched him like this in years—not truly. You led him slowly to your bed, your fingers unfastening the buttons of his doublet one by one, not out of haste, but reverence. Each layer peeled away until he stood before you in nothing but his skin and the truth of what remained between you.

He was not young. His body bore the marks of time—scars, silver hair, the subtle tremor in his hands—but none of it repelled you. If anything, it made him more real, more dear. When your gown slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, he let his eyes take you in with a reverence that stole your breath. His fingers brushed along your waist, your spine, pausing at the curve of your hip as if memorizing every inch.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, as though it were a confession.

You leaned forward, resting your forehead to his. “And you are still a man worth loving.”

You lay with him as the fire crackled low, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the hush of his breath mingling with your own. He was slow, reverent, as if afraid to break the moment—each touch considered, each kiss lingering. He held you as he moved inside you, and you held him in return, neither of you rushing toward the end. There was no desperation in your union, only quiet understanding—a meeting of souls as much as flesh. His name slipped from your lips like a prayer, and he whispered yours back, low and raw in the dark.

Afterward, he did not retreat or rise as you feared he might. Instead, he gathered you into his arms and drew the coverlet over your bodies, his hand resting at the curve of your back, his mouth brushing your temple. You curled into him, your leg tangled with his, your heart beating in rhythm with his chest.

“I was afraid,” he said after a long stretch of silence.

You turned your face to him. “Of what?”

“That I would lose myself in this. In you.” He looked down at you then, his fingers brushing lightly along your arm. “But I’ve spent so long being the Hand, the father, the keeper of peace. I forgot what it was like to just be a man.”

You traced a line over his chest with your fingertip, watching his skin shiver beneath your touch. “Then let this be your remembering. Even if it’s only for a little while.”

He kissed your forehead, lingering there, his breath warm. “It won’t be just a little while. Not for me.”

It was preposterous! The Hand of the king? the crowned prince? your father participating in this unneeded risk?! He must have fever, this was maddening, everybody seemed to think it as well but there was nothing to be done now but watch the trial by seven play out.

And watch you did, with horror, every single stomp of horses feet, thrown lances, swinging swords and spit of blood or crack of teeth. The one blessing, you supposed, was that he fought for the side your mischievous cousin hoped to win and so the boys cheers and remarks did not wear on you as deeply. Had he been rooting against your father you’d of soured quickly. You could deal with plotting lords and envious ladies but you did not think you could suffer through hearing your own blood shout for your father’s ruin.

You had never been more tense then you were when Ser Duncan pulled beaten cousin Aerion up and ordered that he yield. This had to end, it needed to end now before something horrible happened. Egg, who had taken up squeezing your hand as you watched with wide eyes, heard his brothers words before you. He jumped and clapped at his brothers announcement and you felt your body relax for the first time since your father had ridden out.

There was no clapping on your part, it didn't feel right given the death and the fact that your family was looking quite rough, but a small relieved smile did settle on your face.

That smile did not last the hour.

It may now never return.

“Prince Baelor is dead.”

You overheard it from a maid in the hall while going to your chambers to freshen, wanting to rid yourself of the layer of anxious sweat that had built on your skin.

A entire new layer was produced from your sprint to the maesters chambers. Surly he was there, surely he was not dead and just very unwell. The maesters would be working on him.

There was work being done but it was on Prince Aerion. Your neck craned as you scanned the room. Where was he?

“Cousin,” Daeron was being held to a seat, a nursemaid holding a blood soaked cloth this his face. He’d been trampled, apparently at the very start of the event.

“I did not know it would be him-“ Daeron attempted but the women tending to him begged him to stop talking, it just produced more blood.

“where is he! Where is my father?” You tore into the hallway again unwilling to stop your search, mind empty and eyes blurred. You started crying so hard that you could not see clearly and ran right into the big hedge knight. The dumb, huge, unimportant man! Your father had told you he did not even think the oaf had truly been knighted! He had quite a bit of blood on him and you felt the warm crimson transfer to your dress and hands. The guards intercepting you before you could barrel into the room any more or the shocked victor could babble up something that likely would not be all the comforting to you. Their remarks were no better.

“it’s no sight for you princess,”

“best not to remember him like this.”

“let the sisters work”

“Prince Baelor would not want you to see this.”

Every sentence driving the reality of the situation into you more. Each one physically jarring you. When Ser Donnel made to take your arm and escort you away you stepped back quickly. Evading his grip.

“I’ll pray the seven spare you.” He’d supported the side that fought against him, they were culpable in your mind. The venom in your tone kept them all back and you fled to your room, to your maids and ladies.

You did not want them, you wanted your mother but she was all the way in kings landing, she and Mataerys likely would not know of the news until nightfall tomorrow and by then your father would likely be on the funeral pyre.

Valarr attempted to comfort you, but he was a ghost himself, still not completely comprehending the gravity of the situation. He needed your comfort as much aa you needed his and you simply had none to give. Eventually he left you alone too.

It was night when you finally stood again, shoulders sloped forward and hands still shaking. They couldn’t stop and you could not sleep. Even laying in bed felt suffocating now so you slipped from the chambers and walked aimlessly down the hall.

You considered for a moment seeking out wherever the silent sisters were working. You wanted to see him…maybe you could help? Bring useful might make you feel better-or at least more normal?

Instead though you found yourself stood before Daeron’s chambers. His remark earlier about not knowing it would be Baelor was still rattling around in your mind. What had he meant?

There was a grumbled decline of entry from inside the room when you knocked. Normally you would have turned around, obeyed the remark. But this incident had you feeling very unlike yourself. Emotions fluctuating and you felt a victim to them, unable to control your reactions. You did not enjoy feeling out sorts you just wanted your chest to stop racing and your mind to stop running.

With a clenched jaw you grabbed at the handle and pulled the door opened.

“who did you think it was?” You asked him right away when your wild and tired eyes located Daeron. He was sat right in front of the fireplace, flames so close there were beads of sweat on his under eyes.

You came forward to where he was and grabbed his shoulder to turn him away from the fire and towards you. He was so clammy that his tunic was damp under your hands.

“Daeron did you see this?” You begged.

He wouldn’t look at you, even the minor glance he made to almost meet your eyes seemed like it pained him. He did not think any of this would help you. It was done. Prince Baelor was already dead. He was taken back that you had even process what he said in the maesters rooms earlier. He supposed it was a testament to how intelligent you were, that your mind, even in the thickness of shock, could grab onto things and filter through them later

“Y-you knew and said nothing!” His eyes closed when your tone took a turn from inquisitive to bitter. He’d been bracing for that since you entered his chambers.

“Not clearly.” Daeron defended himself, weakly, but it was something. “I did not know plainly that it would be him.” He bit out.

Your forehead was a wrinkled mess, deep lines between your brows and your eyes, the whites were so red from tears in this moment that the color of the middle looked altered. You looked a fright and that was as before anybody’s eyes even traveled down to see your bloody, filthy, gown.

“worthless little nightmares that you grumble on about into your bloody cups.” There was the anger, the Targaryen blood you all shared peeking out now that you forgot about being liked and diplomatic.

Daeron had been at the red keep when he had his first vision…woke in the middle of feast where many of your young children were asleep on your chairs with cheeks squished against your mother’s laps. It had been terrifying for you, for the adults as well. You remembered how nobody could seem to console him. That was many years ago by this point and so you really only recalled your father telling you that the gods had given your cousin a gift. It did not seem like a gift to you, not when you had memories of Maekar dragging Daeron out of his mother’s arms because he wouldn’t stop grabbing into her tighter and tighter.

It was clearly a gift that he did not desire. the pressure and guilt and the unease. You knew all of that must surly be there in him and in another circumstance you would have been kinder but this was your father that was lost. Had he said something- you could taste the bitterness on your tongue and knew that he did not deserve whatever you would say next so you swallowed thickly and took a steadying breath.

“I….i know you are not specifically to blame.” You eventually got out. That was what you could offer him at this moment. That was as far as your kindness could extend.

Daeron hadn’t diverted his eyes from you during that whole verbal lashing. He’d suffered worse ones for issue far less painful than what you were experiencing. When you started to sit down, your skirts pooling around you as you joined him on the floor be sighed heavily and took a long swig from his cup.

“I might tell you it grows easier, mourning a parent.” Daeron knew it would be a kindness to say that and offerer some comfort. People had told him the same thing when his mother died.

He diverted his eyes from you back to his cup and gave a dry, exhausted laugh.

“But it would be a lie.”

Your lips twitched and hands wound into the side of your gown. Knuckles quickly going white from how fiercely you gripped at the fabric to try and remain in control of yourself.

This pain would just continue on until it consumed you completely? That was what he was telling you!

“forgive me, please.” Your cousin choked out after a long few minutes of your both processing what he had said. When you looked at him, face still locked in the flames you could see his eyes were glossy and red. Perhaps the color was from the firelight reflecting onto his light blue eyes or he’d been doing some crying if his own.

“he was your uncle too, i know you had no desire to join the list let alone a trial.”

“A uncle is not the same thing as a father, you’ve every right to your grief…however it might manifest.” He looked at you finally, really looked at you.

Clearly people had taken issue with how he nursed his shattered heart when he lost him mother.

“does it help that much?” You asked eyes dropping to the cup that was set beside him in the floor. The red stain on his bottom lip to your it was mostly likely an arbor red that he was enjoying tonight.

“To much for my own good.” He groans and lays back over the rug. Letting his mind spin about as his eyes regained a clear focus on the ceiling.

“it helps with the pain,” he turned his face to the side, showing of his maimed ear.

You grimaced slightly at the sight of it, the thick stitches he had going up the hallow of his cheek and to his ear.

“Poppy would be better suited for that issue.”

“Yes, well poppy makes every man think their dreams and nightmares are real….” He leaned up onto his elbow and pushed his cup over towards you. “I worry what it would make of mine.”

You sigh and glance between him and the cup.

“you won’t be a drunkard after one night of overindulgence.” He assured. He knew the pain in your eyes, the tension in every inch of your body and the way your mind was racing. He could pratically hear your thoughts. He’d had all the same ones years before.

How would the family go on? Would anybody live him as much as they had? Things would never be the same? Would you ever smile again Would people ever stop whispering around you? watching your every movement for signs for heartbreak?

He knew the wine wouldn’t actually fix any of this, but it would settle you some. Slow your brain down. He hoped it would let the shock leave you.

You picked up the glass, hand still shaking and Daeron frowned deeper at the tremor. He did not have the most stable hands himself but he did touch your elbow to help you as you drank the contents of the cup down.

Watching thin rivets of crimson liquid train die. Your chin to your neck and soak into the neckline of your gown. He made no attempt to keep the liquid from pooling there, the fabric was already ruined from the blood.

You coughed a bit after swallowing down the last gulp and groaned at the head rush it gave you. Your eyes instantly softer and forhead smooth.

“I’ll have another.” You decided and got your feet under you to go to the small table and fill up the cup again. Almost reaching the brim.

He wanted to warn you to slow down, but he’d also assumed you’d come here because he was the only one who had no room to judge how you grieved, how you got through this first horrible night.

At some point, between glass two and three he’d gotten up and urged you to sit on the edge of the bed.

“the last thing we need to you falling and hitting your head.” He explained when you gave him a disgruntled groan.

“no,” you stood back up, but had to sit right back down because he was to close to you for your body to have any room to stay upright.

“Come on, just sit down for now.” He sighed. Perhaps he shouldn’t have suggested the wine?

“No,” you pushed your hands against his stomach to urge him back a bit and he hissed a bit, because there was a lot of bruising there that you just hadn’t seen. “I want to talk to him!”

He backed up a bit, having no want to keep you somewhere against your will, he did not want to do anybting that would upset your further. Today has been upsetting enough.

“who?”

“Aerion-“ you snap. Voice giving away the fiery Targaryen nature that you had despite your more simple features. The wine had apparently stifled the sadness but that just mean the rage and anger could simmer to the surface. “It’s all his fault-all of this! Your bloody brother is-“

“my brother is both arrogant and insecure. Which makes for quite the troubling combination in a person.”

You paused, hand on his door. he is not wrong about Aerion and his nature but it also does not make you feel any better about this situation. Foolishly you thought yelling at him-hurting him would lesson your pain.

“and he currently lays in bed unconscious from poppy because of how throughly he’s been beaten. Save your torture of him for another day when he can feel it.”

Again, you suppose he is right.

“Has age made you wise?”

“I am not that old.” Daeron looked down at you.

“you are older than me.” You weren’t meeting his concerned eyes.

“fine-yes I am old and wise and your elder. Will that make you more inclined to listen to me?”

You crack the faintest smile and chuckle. It’s not joyful but it’s there, a expression of amusement and not just agony and fear.

“When my mother died,” he sighed it was still painful tk think about. “I didn’t sleep for five days.” You knew where he was going.

“I can’t sleep.” You whispered shaking your head. “Don’t make me-don’t suggest it Daeron!”

He pulled you into him when you started to panic. Tucking your face into his chest and he wrapped his other arm around your back rubbing soothing circles.

“going mad will not make any of this easier, i assure you that. Some rest will make this easier, make tommrow more bareable.” The pyre would be lit then. Baelor, the crowned prince and hand to the king would be put to rest.

“Tomorrow cannot come.” You grip the fabric of his tunic. “I never want it to be tomorrow. He won’t be here tomorrow. I had a father when I woke this morning, I broke my fast with him, I walked to the pavilions with him. If I go to sleep I’ll never wake in a world that he is still in.” Your voice broke, eyes wetting the cloth of his shirt and finally your wrapped your arms fully around him. Fingers digging into his back.

“I cannot wake for a day he does not breath in.”

Daeron closed his eyes letting you squeeze him as hard as you needed, lets you ramble all the words that were in your head. He’d thought them before, had felt exactly as you had.

“then at least lay down,” he pulled your head back a bit cupping your face. Nose red from crying and lips swollen from salty tears. “You do not have to sleep, or even close your eyes. But you need to lay down. Give your body a break.” You shook your head.

“I’m scared to be alone, Valarr left-“ you hiccuped and sniffled.

“Then you can lay here, cousin.” He motioned to his bed. “It’s plenty large, and I toss and turn all night…you wouldn’t be able to sleep even if you wished to!” He promised.

“I shouldn’t.” You whisper and he sighed, knowing what you meant. The propriety of it all.

“you are my cousin…you’ve lost something quite important to you. Whispering maids in some shack of a keep have no leg to stand on.” He promised.

“Really?” You stepped back, wiping your nose. You really did want to be next to somebody. It made you feel better. He specifically made you feel better.

“I swear to you, it is fine.” He stepped away and went to a trunk finishing out one of his long tunics and he held it out for you.

“Oh.” You looked down at yourself seeing the heavy gown, the blood and mud stains and then looked to him. “Father suggested I wear this one today.” You whispered.

“it’s just something to wear In bed, that’s all. You can put it back on in the morning and every day after if that is what you wish.” He was too considerate. Too thoughtful and sensitive. It made trusting him easy and so you took the tunic and stepped into the bathing chambers to get your gown the down, struggling slightly until the fell to a heap on the floor. You left it there and stepped back into his view wearing the grey tunic, tied tight against your collar and hung to just your knees.

“I’m not sleeping.”

“I know-just resting.” He was already laid in the bed. He didn’t want to sleep himself but he had a feeling you wouldn’t get in if he just sat in the chair by the fire and drank.

“yes…I’m not going to close my eyes.” You kneel on the other end and push the warm covers back enough that you can slip under them and lay flat on your back. Eyes blinking as you counted the nails in the ceiling.

Daeron did not speak, he just laid flat on his back, closing his eyes and staying like that until he hear your breathing change. Peeking a eye open then to sleep your head turned, relaxed to the side and your mouth open slightly.

Sleep took you and he knew that act was a mix of cruel and merciful. It was what you needed yet desperately did not want to occur.

He stayed up, watching you, fixing the blankets over you when you squirmed under them and when you turned towards the warmth he radiated he stilled, letting your arm lace over his chest and your head hide between his side and arm.

He did not dare more, and he did not even considerate trying to wake you to shake you off. If he could provide this comfort to you than he knew he should, it was the least he could do.

His eyes had deep bags by morning and when the door rattled open, and he sat his father large broad shoulders fill the entirety of the frame he had to stop himself from groaning. That would wake you.

Maekar had heard whispering of his niece not being in her chambers…and then he heard murmurings about Daeron having a guest in his rooms.

Perhaps he was the sick one for even considering those two things had any overlap. But his conclusions had not seem all that incorrect when he entered his eldest chambers. Seeing Daeron laid in the middle of his bed with you clutching to him, you leg tangled over one of his knees while you snored into his chest.

“Don’t-“ he warned through gritted teeth when it looked like his eldest was going to start making some long list of excuses. He doubted any of it would be believable, and knew none of them would change the situation that they’d been found in.

“Not today…” Maekar grumbled, shaking his head. He was going to watch his brother’s body be burned today, thinking about how his son had surly sullied his brother’s daughter. Ruined your pristine reputation. It was issue, a large one that weighed in his guilty conscience but also one that he could not address at this very moment.

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added): @imsonotweird, @xyahx, @starkleila, @winkymar, @uroborosvirus, @faelinda, @rporter19, @niceforcum22, @qardasngan, @galactict3a, @mylcvemineallmine, @megan-mars, @superfan02, @noone1233nobody, @pixel-pixie-xo, @nocturnalidolgrimoire

“We need to be quick.” You whisper back, not caring if you have to kill a few people to get your precious Helaena and her children out unharmed.

“Fine, let’s go.” He whispers grabbing your hand to sneak past the door that noises are coming from.

“Holy shit.” You whisper recognising the voices.“That’s Cole. With Alicent.”

“What?” Gwayne whisper hisses, not wanting to believe you.

“Listen.”

“Fuck no.” He whispers grabbing your hand to drag you along. “I thought we have to be quick.”

-

“Helaena.” You say quietly to the sleeping girl. You knowing she’s a grown woman now, but she will always be the little girl who would bet to play in the gardens with you in your mind. “darling it’s me.”

“Sister.” She asks in confusion slowly waking, before looking at you in shock when she realises you’re actually there. “Why are you here?”

“I’m here to get you and the twins.” You say gently, brushing some of her hair out of her face.

“Really?”

“Really, it’s not safe for you here.” You confirm, wishing she’d never been dragged into this stupid war.

“Where are we to go?” She asks anxiously, playing with her fingers.

“I’ll tell you when we’re safe but we need to get the children.”

“Ok.” She says agreeing surprisingly quickly, getting out of bed to give you a hug. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too darling.” You reply kissing the side of her head before passing her some slippers and leading her out of the room.

“Uncle gwayne.” She says excitedly, having missed her uncle who always listened when she spoke.

“Hello sweetheart, let’s get you and the children out safe then we can hug.” He says softly, wanting to cuddle the girl but knowing you don’t have long.

“They’re this way.”

-

“I’ll carry Jaehaera.” Helaena says picking up her sleeping daughter softly. Her loving her son but treasuring her daughter. The girl begins so much like her already.

“I’ve got Jaehaerys.” You say to Gwayne who’s keeping watch. Holding the sleeping boy close to you, making sure to pick up the little toy dragon he was sleeping with. “Is it clear?”

“Clear, let’s go.” He says softly ushering you and Helaena out. Telling you both to keep close while you make your way out. All going well when you reach Alicent apartments, you worrying Helaena might want her mother to join. Luckily she doesn’t, just wanting her children out and safe. You all hearing moans coming from behind the door. Gwayne looking traumatised when he hurries you both along.

-

“Where are we going?” Helaena asks stood next to dreamfrye and Stormfrye. Your dragons having missed each other. Luckily dreamfrye was known to take herself flying so her leaving wasn’t unusual.

“Dragonstone.” You say carefully, knowing she’ll be scared.

“No!” She protests, having heard repeatedly that if Rhaenyra even sees her children she’ll have them sentenced to death. “She’ll kill my babies.”

“No she won’t Helaena.” You say firmly, knowing you would never let anything happen to the children. Even if Rhaenyra went back on her words, you praying she never would. “I promise you.”

“Uncle Gwayne?”

“The children will be safe, we’ve made a deal with her to keep you and the children safe.” Gwayne reassures, mentally viewing Helaena as one of his children. “We won’t let any harm come to them we promise.”

“Ok.”

-

“Helaena.” Rhaenyra greets, smiling at the young woman, her holding her daughter close to her while Gwayne holds her son. “They must be the twins.”

“You won’t hurt them will you?” She asks, fear in her voice as she looks between the queen and Jaehraerys. “Even the boy?”

“No, I won’t hurt them.” Rhaenyra tells her youngest sister softly. “But I do offer you a deal.” She continues, knowing she wouldn’t let any harm come to the children anyway. “When they’re older your daughter marries my son Joffrey.”

“How old is he?”

“He’s not much older than the twins.” You reassure the girl, understanding her fears.

“What of the boy?”

“I have a daughter, Visenya.” Rhaenyra replies a sad smile in her face as she thinks of the daughter she can’t be with. “She’s a newborn but when she’s grown he shall wed her.”

“Ok.” Helaena agrees after looking at you and Gwayne for guidance.

“Good.” Rhaenyra smiles. “In the meantime you may join our sister and your uncle to the vale to live there while the war continues.”

“The vale?” She asks confused, not expecting you to go there.

“We’re going there with all the children to keep them safe.” Gwayne says, knowing it’s going to be a bit of a full house. But happy about it.

“And I get to go with you?” She asks, making sure she’s not a captive for Rhaenyra.

“You do.”

-

Bonus

“Nyra.” You call running over to her and Daemon as the two talk in the hallway. You having just put the children to bed. Helaena in your chambers talking to Gwayne and Daeron.

“Why do you look so smug?” She asks giving you a suspicious look. Recognising it from when you were children and you were up to something.

“Guess what Gwayne and I walked past on our way to get Helaena.” You say practically jumping on the spot in excitement, finding the whole with funny. Gwayne not finding it anywhere near as amusing.

“How am I meant to know? Is it something that will help in the war?” She asks, looking at you in intrigue.

“Alicent was fucking Cristian Cole!” You blurt out, knowing she’ll be shocked. Especially after all the grief she gave Rhaenyra for doing the same thing when she was young and drunk.

“Ha!” Daemon shouts out with a cackle finding the new hilarious.

"The Smith, he labours day and night,

to put the world of men to right.

With hammer, plow, and fire bright,

he builds for little children."

The song of the Seven

Ser Gwayne Hightower did not know exactly what, but his mind wasn’t at ease when he arrived at the Red Keep and met his sister for the first time in almost ten years. It was the most awkward reunion, he couldn’t tell what yet he knew something was wrong, odd about her. The Queen Dowager wasn’t the quiet but confident self she was when he left her so many years ago; sure the time ought to have changed her and they're facing a war, still ser Gwayne had a nagging feeling something was amiss.

He felt like he was talking to his own mother in the final weeks of her life, she was self-righteous and religious, faithful to the point of blindness. Alicent didn’t prove herself any more devout than she ought to show in such times, but he couldn't ignore the notion in his head. He decided to investigate.

It was his first night in the castle and after a brief and strange chat with his sister and nephews the uneasiness only grew. It was then decided to get acquainted with the knights and test the waters.

Ser Gwayne sat in the dining hall, along with his men and the Kingsguard, seated beside Ser Criston Cole. Now titled the Hand, the former knight whom he was now supposed to lead an army with. He didn’t like it a bit, though he reasoned it’d be clever to keep his mouth shut about such matters.

 The truth was this place made him apprehensive, King’s Landing had nothing on the clear air he was used to in Oldtown, here all reeked of piss and something unnatural. He couldn’t trust his own thoughts around these walls, not even the coming battle he was to face made him this agitated. The people were unrefined and tasteless, he never learned to like the town; for himself alone he felt allowed to acknowledge he was most fortunate to not be obliged to follow his father here. Yet it was not always so, he grew feeling quite resentful of his father for not being requested to come along — as it was asked of Alicent.  

It was of no consequence anymore, he knew. It is all in the past, he was forced to remember, and tried to focus on the here and now. 

The hall around him was filled with people and although it was expected of him to dine with his family in a more refined room, he denied the pleasant invitation. It was his wish to see what he was getting into. The food served was too spicy and rich for his taste and it was with great surprise he heard a dirty knight yell across the room a praise to ser Criston.

“My compliment to the cook, my Lord Hand!” was said with a most vulgar accent.

Yet ser Criston only nodded, not bothering to look up from his plate. Savouring the food.

What a strange man! That peaked Gwayne's interest. 

“I wasn’t aware you led a double life here, ser” Gwayne taunted, raising a brow. “Why only now am I hearing about your culinary skills?”

The knight hummed in acknowledgement of his attempt to strike up a conversation but kept on eating the green broth regardless. Such rude manners, thought Gwayne, but he was used to a more genteel society and ser Criston until short time ago was still simply a knight. For most of his life he was present in the society of lords and ladies but did not participate directly; he must not yet be accustomed to behave as such. He insisted.

“Come on now, I must insist, how do you manage to cook and be the Hand at the same time…?”

“I do not” Criston answered, short and annoyed, showing his true character. “My sister is the cook, they only jest.”

“And what an amazing cook she is,” said another knight. “I wonder if we’ll be graced by her presence before we part.”

“Mine, yes. Say, ser Criston, will she come to say her goodbyes to you?”

“No.”

Ser Gwayne observed as the knight grew increasingly irritated, he was certainly not a person to trifle with.

“And why is that? Won’t she want to pay her respects to you?”

“If she knows what is best for herself, she won’t come.” With that, he got up and left. Leaving behind a throughout clean plate.

Gwayne knew then the answer would lead him somewhere.

Ser Gwayne Hightower came to know about your existence in the most unexpected manner.

It was shocking how easily one could get a hold of information in the Red Keep when money was involved. Well, money and reputation — being the Dowager Queen’s brother helped, ser Gwayne supposed. Either way, the matter was settled and he was on his way to the kitchen.

Learning that ser Criston’s sister still worked as a cook when the knight himself was presently in a fairly more advanced position was most curious and so Gwayne decided to investigate the girl to see if he could understand why. He had a gut feeling the knight was onto something; he did not like it a bit, not when they were about to lead an army together into battle. So much could go wrong so fast, Gwayne needed to know what was going on. What was his sister’s secrecy about.

It was so unlike Gwayne to question other knight’s personal lives and doubt their honour that he was starting to doubt his own instincts. These instincts never failed him before and he didn’t particularly wish to turn his back on them now, not when they were the reason he survived so far as a knight. So he followed the instructions the servants gave and passed the last door to the kitchen.

Before he could ever see your face, he heard your laughter.

Loud. Happy. Unladylike.

That alone was enough to stop him in his tracks. 

Then, quickly so nobody could see him hesitate, he composed himself, fixed his posture and turned the last corner. And saw you.

You had your back to him and idle chatted with the other women in the room. You were occupied with mixing a pot with boiling broth and you didn’t realise he entered the room; the women around soon found each a task to do and shut their mouth. You did not. 

“So I told him I would prefer to be sent to clean King Aegon's chamber pot than…” you laughed again, turning around. Gasped, the wooden spoon falling from your hands.

“M'lord” you bowed, wide eyes, and gathered the spoon in a swift move. You left it in the sink. “My apologies.”

“I should be the one apologizing, my lady” he stepped forward. “It is all my fault, I should've introduced myself. I'm most sorry, it wasn't my intention to startle you.”

You only nodded, your expression wary like that of your brother. Gwayne could see your full eyebrow furrowed, even though you still didn't look at him.

“You're too kind, but I'm not a lady, ser. Only a servant.”

Gwayne shook his head, feeling warmth creeping up his neck. Finally understanding why the refusal to face him.

“Of course, I apologize again.”

“Can I be of service, ser? The food was almost ready, the maids were about to take it to the dining hall.”

Although your merry tone, your face didn't reveal anything at all, still guarded. Gwayne had the impression you wished him gone. How could you not? He was keeping you from your work and still didn’t say his name nor explained his motive for being there. And he was a stranger to this place as well, you must be wondering where he had come from. He decided to amend that by justifying himself. 

“Yes, actually. I was hoping you could help me with a particular matter.”

You huffed, astonished by his forwardness, and finally looked up at him. And what beautiful eyes did you have, large and glowing with emotion.

“Ser,” you said, serious. “You must be confused. This is the kitchen floor, I can only help with food, not with…”

Gwayne's neck and ears burned hotter.

 “My lady” he interrupted, forgetting once again your title, suddenly understanding her unwilling manner. Of course, I’m to her simply a stranger, he thought, bold enough as to importune her at her work. With the most wicked purpose! he realised, ashamed.  “I only mean help concerning your brother.”

“M'lord, I don't quite comprehend your meaning,” you stated, much more annoyed than curious now. “You mean to tell me ser Criston wished dearly to see me before parting? Whatever for?”

Ser Gwayne nodded, sipping the sweet tea you made him. He wasn't as tall or wide as some of the White Cloaks you knew, but still very elegantly tall, and was currently sitting cross legged at the kitchen table that proved to be too small for his statue.

His manners were giving you flashbacks of the time, not long ago, you served as a chambermaid and brought the food to the ladies and lords upstairs - although troubled, his reason made you curious. You truly wished he had left already and being alone with him didn't help your peace of mind either; however, it wasn't like you could send him away. He was the brother of the Queen Dowager and is to inherit the Hightower castle; you suspect he wouldn't accept a “no” as an answer. Especially not from a servant; so you complied.

“Exactly, my lady” said he, once again mocking you by giving a title that wasn't yours. It was infuriating, not that you could ever show how offending it was, lords like him fancied themselves charming whenever they made these goodhearted mistakes. Yet this one was clever enough to show some embarrassment whenever he mistitle you — he shook his head lightly and cleaned his throat. “The Lord Hand showed himself eager, hopeful even, to have a chance to see you before parting. I understand you came to King's Landing together when you were quite young, right?”

“Yes, m'lord. Ser Criston was but six and ten when we first arrived at Flea Bottom.”

“Six and ten! He was quite young indeed.”

“Yes, but he only became a knight much later.”

He nodded again.

“Yes, I remember the day,” ser Gwayne murmured thoughtfully. “Yet you are originally from Dorne. What brought the two of you here?”

“Criston always wished to be a knight. He was so very skilled, I believed he had a good chance to become one here in King's Landing.”

“So it was your idea, I presume, to come here instead of staying in Dorne.”

You hesitate. Why didn’t he question ser Criston about this particular matter? He would answer them gladly, the fact he had a humble background and still made it to become a white cloak along with so many lords and noblemen always made him very proud of himself.

There was a time you were proud of him too.

“Oh, no, ser. It was all ser Criston dear wish” you said cautiously, you didn't know what history your brother was telling people nowadays. You decided to go with the truth, more simple that way. “But we had very little to hold us back there. After our parents died, as the eldest daughter, I felt responsible to give him the future our parents couldn't. At least, the chance to make a name for himself. And prove himself worthy he did, as you see.”

“Yes, indeed,” Gwayne replied, pensive.

Ser Gwayne had much to say, but nothing he could ask without the risk of intruding your personal matters and seemingly too forward in his requests. His doubts were far from being clarified: why did ser Criston allow his sister to live in misery when he now held the power to help you? Did you do something so terrible as to now be out of Criston’s good grace? Or was he the one wrong? Could it simply be sibling rivalry? 

He doubted it; ser Gwayne couldn’t think of a single misconduct or error of judgment that could lead him to abandon Alicent. Surely it was so with every family, even with one that didn’t come from wealthy, right? Ser Criston came to become a knight out of his own ability and talent, he couldn’t be so unfeeling as to leave his only sister to fend for herself without a reason. And a good one it must be.

Gwayne just couldn’t fathom what happened, so far you've been honest in your approach and had such a fair face. He would have to look into it.

“May I be so bold to question you, ser?” you woke him from his thoughts.

Gwayne looked up at you. You had not made an attempt to converse the whole time he was in the kitchen, only answered his questions and stayed quiet otherwise. He couldn't help but smile.

“I hardly have a reason to deny you, my lady. You complied with my questionnaire without hesitation, ask what you please. I'll be glad to answer.”

You smiled back pleasantly.

“I thank you, ser," you said in a singsong tone. "I am only curious about one thing. If my brother is so anxious I say my goodbye to him, why didn't he come to me himself?”

Writing Gwayne was so much fun. He is a little shit and I love him very much. Like, yes, he is the knight in shinning armour and he's fair and just and genteel and wants to settle thing right with his sister. BUT!!! He is also a very pompous man that lives in a ivory tower (pun intended). And the Reader!!!! Ugh, love her. Her relationship with her brother isn't going so well (I wrote this last year when I had the biggest fight with my brother and took great inspiration) but she tries and loves him! Our girl DO NOT trust the loyalty for reasons I'll disclose latter on and having Gwayne around gives her major headache. Worry not, they'll work it out hehehe ALSO! the green broth mentioned is my fav dish EVER! I know that broths are a very popular dish everywhere and that almost every country has its own recipe, but our Caldo Verde is, in my humble opinion, the best. We eat it in the winter here, so I'm thinking I might cook some this week... For now, that's all I have to say. Hope you enjoyed it as much as i did. See ya!

"Cook" by Eduard Charlemont and a cut from "Kiss me and you'll kiss the 'lasses" by Lily Martin Spencer are the paintings used!

JACAERYS, 10; READER, 15; 120 AC

Two years have passed, but the ache in your chest has never quite subsided since you parted ways with your sister and her sons.

"How does it feel? That you get to see our sister anddearest nephews again? It has been what? Two years, has it? Are you excited, wife?"

You exhale hard through your nose, turning your face away from Aegon when you see him leaning over the rail trying to make eye contact with you, a shit-eating grin on his face. You do your best to ignore the way your heart sinks at the reminder of the silence you have faced from Dragonstone.

Aegon, naturally, is always quick to rub it in your face. You turn a half-hearted glare onto him when he pointedly shifts back into your field of vision, but you do not even have the energy to snap a snide comment back . Your chest is weak, and your fingers are trembling, nausea eats away at the back of your throat every time you open your mouth. Even just holding yourself upright is an effort—all you want to do is go sit in the captain's cabin, but your pride refuses.

"Leave her alone, Aegon," Aemond says, leaning on the rail of the ship next to you, looking up wistfully as Dreamfyre trills above the ship, spinning in the air before swooping down closer to the water. "Why do you always have something to say?"

Aegon scoffs, folding his arms over his chest as he looks away. "Mind your business, Aemond" he mutters. "I thought she would be pleased to see them again. It is not my fault she remains so sensitive."

Your eye twitches, and a familiar screech cuts through the sea air above.

Every head on deck turns skyward. High above the ship, Zūgaxes circles lazily through the clouds, always close enough to keep you in his line of sight, pale white scales gleaming beneath the afternoon sun as he follows the royal envoy to Driftmark for Lady Laena's funeral. Sunfyre dives after him, always keen on playing chase with the larger dragon, but Zūgaxes is in no mood for fun today, same as you—the moment Sunfyre comes within striking distance, Zūgaxes snaps viciously at his throat, forcing the young dragon to dive away with an indignant shirek, barely avoiding the bite.

"Your dragon is a vicious beast," Aegon mutters, downing another cup of wine, face a bit paler at the sight of his dragon nearly meeting an untimely end at the teeth of yours. "Keep him away from Sunfyre, would you?"

"You wouldn't have to worry about it if you would concern yourself less with your cups and more with my disposition," you reply wearily, rubbing at your temple. "Zūgaxes only takes issue with Sunfyre when I take issue with you."

Aegon looks up at the two dragons, then back at you. "… Right," he replies, clearing his throat and lowering his goblet. "Then I will take care not to bother you today, sister."

"Aegon the Sagacious," you murmur sarcastically, eyes sliding shut as a wave of dizziness hits you.

Beside you, Aegon grins boyishly and agrees, "Aegon the Sensible."

You find yourself smiling, despite how your hand drifts to your chest as your heart flutters weakly. Above you, Zūgaxes makes a noise closer to croon than roar, coming dangerously close to the ship, and Aemond hesitantly looks between the two of you, offering his arm for you to lean on.

You shake your head and say quietly, "I am fine, valonqar."

He stares at you for a moment, unconvinced, but returns his gaze to the sky as Zūgaxes swoops down lower, trying to remain as close to you as he can.

Over a year has passed since the twins' birth, but your body still behaves as though it had happened yesterday. You nearly died giving birth to them—fourteen years old, and the maesters had already begun speaking over your body as though you were no longer there, debating whether to save you or the children when the bleeding refused to stop, ignoring you when you begged them not to let you die. It was your father who stepped in when Aegon fled to the bottom of a flagon, trembling violently at the idea of having to choose between you and the children. The king ordered the maesters to save you first, voice carrying through the chamber with a fury you'd never seen from him before.

Somehow, all three of you had lived, though you reckon death may have been kinder if this is to be your fate. You tire too quickly now, and your hands shake when you hold the children for too long. Some mornings, merely fastening your gown leaves you breathless enough that your ladies insist you sit before attempting the stairs. The maesters tell you that you should be resting every time they catch you up and about, but there is only so much time you can stay abed before you would sooner collapse on the stairs than remain still.

In the beginning, they give you a general range for when they believed your body would return to what it was, but they stopped with that moons ago—you fear that this might be your life now. Even Aegon had stopped arguing with them, no longer laughing when they forbade you from flying or carrying both twins at once.

You hate it. You feel as though you've lost a part of yourself that you do not know how to live without. You have always been up with the sun, running about the castle long after the moon had risen. You were in the yard with Ser Steffon every morning until your hands blistered and your shoulders burned, and in the sky any other given moment, flying recklessly over King's Landing and the Blackwater with Zūgaxes every chance you got. You spent a year with your uncle, Daemon, perfecting your form and skill so that you could be the best—you were determined that one day you would beat him and claim the Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister for yourself.

When the court whispered that you should be gentler or softer, you would toss your hair over your shoulder and laugh, because you were neither gentle nor soft, and anyone who had a problem with it could face blade or dragon—you would be kind enough to give them a choice.

Now, you struggle to leave your bed in the morning and can scarcely make it to the dragonpit, much less climb atop Zūgaxes. There are days you look at yourself through a looking glass and do not recognize the girl staring back at you. Her face is thin, and dark circles linger beneath her eyes that no amount of sleep can erase—there is always a child in her arms and a shakiness to her limbs. She is a wife, a mother, a princess—all of the things the court had wanted her to become.

Yet, you are no longer entirely certain who you are. Somewhere between the wedding feast and the blood-soaked sheets, all of the endless, sleepless nights, you feel as though you lost the girl who spent entire days racing through clouds and challenging knights twice her size simply because she could. The girl once called hāedar and muña, whose greatest worry had been whether Rhaenyra would get upset with you for sneaking Jacaerys more snacks than he ought to have, had slipped through your fingers before you even knew you were losing her.

And no one cared to mourn her besides you. Rhaenyra had not come to your wedding, and Jacaerys had never come to visit. You sent ravens to Laenor asking if you could join him at sea and gifts to Lucerys from Pentoshi merchants who had arrived with the spring, and they had gone unanswered.

When your belly had begun to swell beneath your gowns, and you sent ravens with trembling fingers to tell Rhaenyra that you were scared, you would go to Maester Orwyle, eyes wide with anticipation only for him to give you a disparaging smile as he told you none had arrived for you. When the twins were born and the maestars whispered that the young princess might not survive the night, you cried every night because all you wanted was your sister.

Every morning for the better part of a year, you found yourself glancing toward the skies before you even realized you were doing it, looking for the familiar gold of Syrax or even Vermax's small green wings crossing the Blackwater, but they never came.

At first, you had made excuses for them. Rhaenyra has duties and children to tend to, and Jacaerys is too young to come on his own. But weeks turned to months and months turned to years, and there came a point where no excuse could rid you of the resentment. Because how could they leave you alone when you needed them most? You would never do that to them. Never.

And you had needed them. Not for the wedding—you endured standing beside Aegon in the sept without them after the two of you downed a flagon of wine together—but when the twins came too early, and the world narrowed to blood and pain and fear. You thought your final breath would be spent calling for people who you knew were not there, and the childish part of you had still waited for the doors to burst open anyway.

But every raven had gone unanswered, and every nameday passed without a visit. You wonder if something had happened on Dragonstone—maybe Rhaenyra had wanted to come and could not, maybe Jacaerys still asked after you. Or maybe they had learned to live without you—out of sight, out of mind.

"Driftmark!" the captain shouts from the quarterdeck.

You tense instantly. You do not know if you're ready to see them.

Aemond inches closer to you. "Do you want to come sit in the captain's cabin with Helaena and I, mandia? I become terribly seasick during docking."

You do not think Aemond has ever been seasick before, and concern is plain in his eyes when he glances down at how your fingers tremble on the wood rail. It is more for your sake than his, you realize, but he is courteous enough to allow you a sliver of pride, unlike his brother.

"Aemond the Chivalrous," you say with a small, teasing smile, causing the younger boy to flush when he holds his arm out for you to take.

"Aemond the Gallant," Aegon immediately echoes with a sharp laugh, mocking to your sincerity. "You will be a fine knight, if not dragonrider, dearest brother."

Aemond immediately scowls, gaze dropping to the ground, shoulders hunching slightly. You squeeze his arm lightly and say, "Do not listen to him. I fear a fish has more sense than he does. You will bond with a dragon one day, Aemond, that I have no doubt." He gives you a small smile as he looks up at you, but his violet eyes are still riddled with insecurity. You promptly change the subject and ask, "Did Helaena find the spiders she was looking for?"

"There are five," Aemond confirms. "She is trying to determine whether they might be a family."

Aegon makes a noise in the back of his throat, and you know he is rolling his eyes, but he follows the two of you as you make your way across the deck, hovering at your other arm in case you lose your balance.

Your teeth grind in frustration again. Once upon a time, you would have bounded across the deck three steps ahead of them, laughing when the ship lurched beneath your feet and Aegon lost his balance. Now, Aemond shortens his stride without comment, pretending not to notice when your hand tightens around his arm after a particularly rough swell, and Aegon tosses his cup to nearby servant so that he can catch you in case your legs give out.

Just as you reach the captain's cabin, the ship's bell sounds overhead. A voice calls, "Prepare for docking!"

Your step falters, gaze slipping to the side to settle on the pale stone of High Tide in the near distance. You see Syrax on the hill, golden head lifting when she notices Zūgaxes soaring above the royal envoy—she lets out a familiar trill, but he does not echo it the way he used to, the dread you feel undoubtedly weighing on him as heavily as it does you.

Somewhere on the island is Rhaenyra, Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey. You have spent two years imagining this moment. You have practiced what you would say in mirrors and anticipated every excuse you would be given for their absence, but somehow, none of it had prepared you for how much it would hurt.

————————————

You have always associated your sister's smile with warmth. Before she left for Dragonstone, seeing her smile could be the difference between a ruined day and a perfect one. It chased away every lingering stare from the court and soothed every anxiety faced. It reminded you that for all the loneliness of the Red Keep, you would always have her.

You're not sure what you expected, you think later, long after the services for Lady Laena had ended, and you are sitting in the chambers Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys had set up for you and Aegon as the sun sets across the sea. Your half-brother is nowhere to be found—likely drunk in a ditch or in some whore's bed—you do not care either way. You are happy to be alone, so that you may finally let yourself feel whatever it is you have been holding at bay all day.

Rhaenyra smiled at you when she saw you step off the ship beside Aegon, and you felt nothing.

You had imagined this reunion a thousand different ways over the past two years. You would throw yourself into Rhaenyra's arms, laughing as Jacaerys threw himself into yours, and you would shout at her until your voice gave out. You planned all of the angry questions: why did you never come, why did you never write, why did she let you face your wedding, pregnancy, and labor all alone? Why, why, why?

But you had only smiled faintly at her back and turned your gaze away.

You could feel her occasionally watching you throughout the services—gaze pinned on you, red and black in a sea of green and gold, the twins, the handmaidens that tend to you whenever your body weakens. The longer she stares, the more frustrated you become. Does she not even care to ask how you've been? To learn the twins' names? What had you done to make her so cold?

As difficult as it was ignoring her, ignoring Jacaerys was harder. You forced Aegon to run interference through use of threat of Zūgaxes to Sunfyre, but it was clear that the boy was angry with you. Every time you looked over at him, he was already glaring at you. His brows were drawn together in a furious scowl that you've only ever seen reserved for Ser Criston, and the moment your eyes met, he would raise his chin until you looked away. It was a far cry from the open adoration that you had become used to years ago.

You do not understand it. You had been the one abandoned and ignored. You were the one who had waited for people who never came.

There is a knock at your door, drawing you from your thoughts. You tense, glancing over to where the twins had only just fallen asleep after hours of wailing, but they do not stir.

"Come in," you call, uncertain of who it might be—Aemond or Helaena, you wager, because Aegon does not knock when he barges in.

Your gaze lifts to as the door creaks open, and you falter when you recognize Rhaenyra. You inhale deeply, shifting to sit up straight on the settee as you say quietly, "Sister."

Rhaenyra hesitates before she motions toward the cushions next to you. "May I?"

You almost tell her no. You stare at her so long that you see her visibly falter, looking uncertainly between you and the door as she considers taking her leave. Before she can, your gaze drops and you nod.

When she sits down next to you, she sits close enough that you can smell the faint scent of vanilla in her hair. Your heart aches—you have missed her. You have missed all of them—her and Laenor and Jacaerys and Lucerys—being near enough again to inhale the familiar scent of her hair oils only serves to make that longing worse.

She reaches for your hands, and you let her hold them.

"I…" Rhaenyra hesitates as she gathers her thoughts. "I confess, I have prepared many times what I would say to you when we met again, but I find myself at a loss anyway. I have missed you, sweet girl. I had… been under the impression that our father would wait to wed you and Aegon until your sixteenth nameday. I did not think—"

She cuts herself off abruptly, grimacing as she looks away.

You stare down at your joined hands, trying to push away the hope that rises, because how does this explain anything? A royal wedding is no trivial affair, and she expects you to believe that word did not reach Dragonstone that the King's secondborn daughter and firstborn son had wed? She expects you to believe that word did not reach Dragonstone when you gave Aegon a son and a daughter? That she did not receive any of your ravens?

It's nonsensical. She had to have known.

"I sent ravens," you say, voice clipped. "Dozens of them. More. I was alone, and I did not know what to do, and I—"

I needed you, you do not say—you do not need to say, because Rhaenyra's expression instantly drops as she shifts closer to you. She does not hesitate now when she moves to pull you into her arms, cradling the back of your head so that you can press your face into the crook of her neck.

You tell yourself that you want to remain strong—you want to question her, you want real answers, not excuses—but the next breath you take in breaks over a sob, fingers twisting into the red velvet of her dress as you sink into her familiar warmth.

"I did not receive them," Rhaenyra whispers, pressing her lips to the top of your head. "Hāedar, I would have come. I would have come in an instant, had I known."

You tremble in her arms—you have had your half-siblings over the last two years, but it is not the same. There is always a degree of distance between you and them because of Queen Alicent; they are not the woman who raised you, who snuck you snacks when you were sad and shielded you from the cruelty of the court. That was always Rhaenyra, and two years without Rhaenyra—

"I do not believe you," you rasp. "You had to have known. I do not believe you. I—"

"I knew you had wed," she admits, stroking your back and your hair. For the first time in two years, you feel as though all of the weight that has been bearing down on you lifts from your shoulders. You are hāedar, muña, the girl you thought dead in place of a mother and wife. "By the time word reached Dragonstone, weeks had already passed. I was furious with father. I wrote to you that very night. Then another raven after a week had passed. Then another." She shakes her head. "When none returned, I thought… I wondered if perhaps you blamed me. That you no longer wished to hear from me."

Your stomach turns, breath ragged as you press your face harder into her skin. What does she mean? What does she mean that she sent ravens? What does she mean that she only knew after the wedding took place? You sent ravens weeks before the wedding took place.

"I am a fool, sweet girl," Rhaenyra says softly, pulling back to look at you. There are tears spilling over her cheeks, though she does her best to wipe them away before you notice. You suck in a terrible, choked breath, because you know your sister well enough to know that she is not lying to you. "I should have known better. I should have flown to you the moment you did not respond. Someone must have been interfering with the ravens, I—" Her expression twists into one caught between fury and heartbreak. "—I will figure it out. I swear."

"I was so scared, mandia," you dare to say out loud for the first time now that you are back in your sister's arms, lifting your hand to wipe at your eyes messily. "I thought—"

I thought I was going to die, you cannot bring yourself to say, breath hitching as the fear you felt in that blood-soaked bed finally returns. You have pushed it down for months, pretended it did not exist every time your gaze fell upon a maester or septon who was in the room, and suddenly, you were back in that bed, fourteen and crying, drowning in your own blood while strangers tried to convince Aegon that the children's lives were worth more than yours.

"They stopped talking to me," you say, words tumbling out, because now that you have begun, there is no stopping the avalanche of fear you've held in for the last year. "The maesters and the septons—they were all talking over me like I wasn't there anymore. I kept telling them that I didn't want to die, that I wanted someone to send to you, but nobody listened. I thought—I thought maybe it was my fault. That the gods were punishing me."

Rhaenyra pulls back, appalled. "Punishing you? Hāedar—"

"For mother," you whisper. "They cut her open to save me, mandia. I thought perhaps this was the gods' way of making things right. That they had decided a life for a life was only fair. That they would cut me open and I would die the same way."

"Do not ever say that again," Rhaenyra hisses, eyes meeting yours as she holds your hands tight. "Our mother loved you, hāedar. She sang to you while you were a babe in her womb; she could only sleep when she could feel you kicking against her hand. Her death was not your fault. She died because men demanded too much of her—and they demanded too much of you. You were a child, hāedar."

A wail escapes your lips before you can catch it, hand flying to your mouth to smother it—it is an ugly thing, loud and helpless, far from the silent tears and grief you swallowed every morning when you looked at yourself in the mirror. You crumple against Rhaenyra as she gathers you into her lap, like you weigh no more than you did at eight years old. Your fingers twisting in her gown as months of fear, exhaustion, loneliness, and resentment pour out of you all at once.

"I didn't want to die, and I didn't want to get married, and I didn't want to have children. I thought of you every day. I wanted to go to you, I tried, but I couldn't—I can't—"

Your words dissolve into another cry. Rhaenyra holds you for a long, long time—until your eyes start drooping and the wails turn to sniffles and even the sniffles fade to silence. She holds you still after you've calmed, lips pressed to the top of your head, humming the old lullaby she used to sing when you were a babe plagued with nightmares.

Your eyes linger on the cradles across the room. You have never sung to them.

"I hate them sometimes," you whisper after a few moments of silence pass, voicing the wretched words aloud for the first time now that you are safe in your sister's arms. "It is not natural that a mother should hate her children, I should think."

You regret them as soon as they've left your mouth, heart pounding and fingers shaking as you stare at where they are lying in their cradles, fast asleep, ignorant to the words their own mother has just spoken.

"Hāedar…" you hear your sister start to murmur, and you rush to continue, filled with shame.

"I do," you insist, shaking your head violently. "Sometimes I do. When they cry and cry, and my chest hurts so much I cannot even lift them without my arms shaking… when I wake and my whole body aches before I have even opened my eyes. I look at them, and I hate them."

The words taste sour.

"I hate that they took everything from me," you continue, voice breaking. " I look at them, and all I can think is that I used to be someone else."

You do not dare to look at your sister. You rub your face hard, trying to rid yourself of your tears.

"And then they laugh or reach for me, and they are so tiny, and they never wanted me to suffer." You curl into yourself, voice barely audible. "They deserve a better mother. There is something wrong with me, I think."

You almost expect Rhaenyra recoil, but she only gathers you close, tucking your head under her chin as she strokes your hair.

"You are too hard on yourself, sweet girl," Rhaenyra asks quietly. "All I hear is a little girl who was made a wife before she understood what marriage was, and a mother before she had finished being a child herself. It is not your fault, hāedar."

"But I should not think those things."

"You should not have been put in a position where you could."

"I wanted to love them immediately," you whisper. "The way you loved Jacaerys, but I—"

There is a loud noise from right outside your room, startling the both of you. Rhaenyra immediately stiffens, rising to her feet to stand between you and whoever is there.

She demands, "Who is there? Show yourself?"

The door creaks open, and Jacaerys stands there, tears streaking his round cheeks. He is dressed in his nightgown—your heart sinks. How much did he hear? He must have followed Rhaenyra when he heard her leave their shared chambers to see you.

"I—" he starts to say, voice wobbly. "I wasn't trying to listen, I promise. I—"

He is lying. His nose bunches and he cannot hold your gaze, the same he has always acted every time he tried to get away with a lie. When neither of you reply, Rhaenyra's brows knit together in disappointment and your lips parted in anxiety, Jacaerys shifts uncomfortably on his feet, looking between the two of you desperately before his gaze lands on you, brown eyes big and pleading.

"Nobody told me," he whispers so quietly you barely hear him. "I didn't know. I—"

The anger that had clouded his face throughout the funeral is gone, and in its place is only fear. The same fear you had seen on his face when he was running to you through the Keep after Ser Criston had struck him, the fear from the day you left for Pentos, and the fear from the morning you were forced to remain in King's Landing while he left for Dragonstone. The anxiety drains from you with haste as you let out a soft breath,

"Mandianna," you murmur, holding your hand out for him.

Jacaerys immediately rushes to you. Before you can say anything else, he drops to his knees in front of you, arms tucked around your legs. Your hands settle on the top of his head, fingers absently toying with his dark curls as he buries his face into your lap.

"I'm sorry!" he sobs. "I thought—you didn't come say hi. I thought you hated me because I broke my promise, and that's why you never wrote me back." His shoulders tremble violently beneath your hands as you smooth circles on them. You look at Rhaenyra desperately for help, but she only gives you a small smile. "I wanted to go back for you. I asked mother all the time when we would come, I promise. I asked and asked, and she always said soon, and then—" He hiccups. "Then it was never soon."

"Jacaerys," you start to say.

"I thought you didn't love me anymore," he continues, looking up at you with watery eyes. "Then I heard you saying you almost died, and I—I wasn't there. I should have been there, muña.

You pull back just enough to cup his cheeks. He presses his nose into your hand, still sniffling as you smile at him. You say quietly, "There is nothing you could've done, mandianna."

"It doesn't matter. You don't know that!" Jacaerys disagrees, eyes welling up with tears again as he looks up at you from the floor. "I could have been there. I could have held your hand. I would have told them to save you—" Your eyes slide shut briefly when you realize he heard everything "—I would have made them listen. I knew Aegon wouldn't take care of you. I knew it."

"Jacaerys—"

"What if you'd died?" he blurts. "What if I'd never seen you again? I was angry with you all day. I didn't even come say hi because I wanted you to be sorry, and—but if you had died—what if you had died thinking I hated you? Or that I broke my promise? Muña, I'm sorry, please forgive me."

You lean down to grab him beneath the arms, ignoring the way your whole body aches and screams for you to put him down so that you lift him up to sit him on your lap before he can spiral any further. You wrap both arms tightly around him as he collapses into you. He clings to you desperately, fingers twisting into your gown, face pressed to the crook of your neck, the same way you were with Rhaenyra just moments before.

"I'm right here," you tell him. "It's okay. There's nothing to forgive."

Slowly, his breathing starts to even out. "I don't want you to die," he says at last, sniffling still. "Please don't die, muña."

You laugh lightly and say, "I do not intend to, Jacaerys. Not for a very long time, if I can help it."

Jacaerys sniffles one last time, the tension gradually leaving his small frame as he melts into you. For a long moment, the room is quiet save for the crackling and occasional hitch of his breath, your fingers combing through his hair automatically, just as they had done countless evening before the world ever came between you.

Then, there is a soft cry from the opposite side of the room, and all three of you look toward the far side of the chamber. Jacaerys startles, as though he has just remembered the twins are there at all, and Rhaenyra cannot help the curiosity that slips onto her face as she looks in the direction of the cradles.

"Would you want to… meet them?" you ask hesitantly after a moment, looking between Jacaerys and Rhaenyra.

Jacaerys wipes hastily at his eyes with the heel of his sleeve before nodding frantically. Rhaenyra gives you a soft smile, reaching out to cradle your face briefly as she says, "Of course, hāedar."

You rise to your feet a little unsteadily, feeling a little faint from lifting Jacaerys onto your lap. Before you can take a step, both Rhaenyra and Jacaerys reach for you at the same time.

You tell them with a strained smile, "I'm all right."

Jacaerys's brows furrow as he insists that you hold his arm anyway, so you indulge him, crossing the room carefully with the two of them. You stop beside the cradles and stare down—for the first time since giving birth to them, you are not immediately filled with that familiar knot of dread and guilt.

"This is Maegelle," you say, brushing your fingers against the girl's face, watching as she reaches for your hand on instinct. She is quiet, unlike her brother, who is always babbling one thing or another unless he is asleep, and even then, sometimes. "And this is—"

His name catches in your throat, and your smile falters. Rhaenyra notices, casting you a concerned look.

"Maegor," you say at last, quieter, not daring to look at their reactions to your chosen name for your son.

The name feels different now than it had a year ago. You insisted upon it while still confined to your bed, too weak to sit upright for more than a few moments. Aegon had gone missing after they demanded he choose between you and them, so the choice of name was left to you. The septons had balked immediately, muttering that it was an ill-omened name, cursed by history. Alicent and Otto had looked scandalized. Even your father was surprised, eyes widening in confusion.

But you had not cared—not then, at least. The decision had been born of pure, childish spite—a tiny act of rebellion from a girl who had been denied every greater one. At the time, it had felt like the only decision in your life that had truly belonged to you in a long time, because you had looked them in the eye and, for the first time since your wedding, felt something other than fear and anxiety.

But looking at your son now, asleep and blissfully unaware of the burden his name carried, you feel only regret. You have cursed him to the same fate you have spent your life suffering—the same fate you have tried to shield Jacaerys from—with a single, stupid decision.

Rhaenyra seems to understand, because she always does. She gives you a small smile, leaning down to ghost her lips against your head. She says softly, "It is a strong name. We need not let one man own it forever."

"They are very tiny still," Jacaerys declares. There is an odd expression on his face as he reaches out to touch Maegor's silvery hair—he gnaws at his bottom lip and looks away uncertainly, pulling his hand away. "They are not as fussy as Joff was."

You laugh. "Give it a few hours," you tell him. "When they decide they would rather scream than sleep, you may change your mind."

"Can I help tomorrow? If they're awake?" Jacaerys asks, brown eyes wide and searching as he looks up at you. "Please." When your lips part to tell him to ask you properly on instinct, he corrects hastily, "Kostilus. Kostilus, kostagon nyke dohaeragon?"

Please. Please can I help?

"You've been practicing," you praise, smiling when he preens at the acknowledgment. "I'd like that very much, mandianna."

Rhaenyra watches the two of you for a long moment before she brushes a kiss against your brow, then another atop Jacaerys's curls.

"It grows late," she murmurs. "Lucerys is undoubtedly searching every corridor for his brother by now… Though, I suspect he may not be finding him tonight, so I should go find him."

Jacaerys looks up hopefully.

"May I stay?" he pleads before turning to you. "I'll be quiet, I promise, and I'll help if the twins wake, and I won't steal all your blankets. Maybe some of them."

"Of course, you can stay, silly boy," you murmur.

Jacaerys's face lights up in delight as he turns a questioning look on his mother, who smiles and inclines her head in approval.

"Sleep well, both of you. In the morning, we shall settle this mystery of the missing ravens."

————————————

It is still night when you wake up, and Jacaerys is gone.

One of your ladies in waiting, Lady Melynda Darklyn, sits near the cradles of the twins. She has always been the most dutiful of your companions, checking in when the moon is high to see if the twins are comfortable so that you might get a full night's rest. You push yourself out of bed, ignoring the weakness in your chest, so that you can make your way over to her.

She catches the movement from the corner of her eye and rises to her feet. "Princess," she says, taking a step in your direction and holding out her arm to you, but you hold your hand up to signal for her to stay seated.

"Melynda, did you see Jacaerys?" you ask, an uncertain feeling weighing on you as you glance back at your bed. Jacaerys is a horribly heavy sleeper—you'd once joked to Rhaenyra that the boy could sleep through Doom if given the chance. He has always slept later than you, and you doubt that he has suddenly become a light sleeper after two years apart. "He was spending the night in here."

Melynda shakes her head. "No, princess. Would you like for me to send someone to go search for him?"

"No," you reply immediately, lips pressed together as your gaze sweeps over the large room one last time. "Would you stay with the twins, please?"

"Of course,," Melynda tells you, unable to push the concern from her face when she sees how your hand instinctively lifts your chest when you move toward the door, but she knows better than to push when you have your mind set on doing something yourself. "Be careful, princess. It sounded like there was a bit of a commotion coming from the Hall of Nine."

You glance at her over your shoulder, brows furrowed slightly, but then you nod in thanks before pushing the heavy door open to your chambers to step out into the cool hall. Ser Steffon, Melynda's brother and your sworn sword, is nowhere to be found.

You reach back into your room to grab your cloak, sliding it over the nightslip you wear to make yourself presentable before you make your way down the winding hall in the direction of the Hall of Nine. Your body is always weakest before dawn. The maesters say it is because you do not sleep enough—if you remained in bed more and gave your body more time to heal, the weakness would ease—but you have stopped believing them. You have given yourself moons of rest and nothing has changed. You cannot remain abed forever.

By the time you reach the first flight of stairs, your legs are already trembling. You pause long enough to steady yourself against the cold stone wall before continuing onward down to the main level of the castle.

As you round the final corner leading toward the Hall of Nine, you finally hear the commotion Melynda had mentioned.

"He attacked Baela!" / "He broke Luke's nose!" / "They attacked me!" / "He stole my mother's dragon!" / "Enough." / "He was going to kill Jace!" / "I didn't do anything!" / "Enough!" / "It should be my son telling the tale!" / "He called us—"

"Silence!"

"What happened?" you ask quietly when you see Daemon leaning against the door, looking into the Hall of Nine. He tilts his head to the side to look at you, gaze slipping over the cloak you tugged around yourself and the weakness plain on your face. He holds his arm out to you silently, beckoning for you to lean on it; you exhale through your nose as you do so gratefully. "Do you know?"

"It appears your nephews and my daughters have taken the eye of your dearest half-brother," Daemon says flippantly.

You shoot him a wide-eyed look, unsure if you heard him properly, but Daemon only nods in the direction of where Aemond is being tended to by a maester. Your stomach drops at the sight of the stitches running through his eye, and your gaze cuts over to where Jacaerys and Lucerys are standing with their mother, blood running down both of their faces—Baela and Rhaena, too, curled into the dress of Princess Rhaenys. What has happened?

"—legitimacy of my sons' birth was put loudly to question," you hear Rhaenyra say as you focus back on the conversation at hand instead of the blood spilled.

Beside you, Daemon straightens slightly, and your own eyes widen, breath catching as you look from Aemond to Rhaenyra to Jacaerys. Aemond raises his chin as he stares at Rhaenyra and her sons, and Rhaenyra—she looks cornered. Alone. She knows that by voicing this, she will be doing something irreversible, but what choice does she have when faced with a half-brother who has lost an eye and accusations of murder being cast toward Jacaerys and Lucerys? You make a move as though to step forward, but Daemon stops you, shaking his head slightly.

Your father is the first to speak up. "What?" he demands.

Suddenly, all of the fears that have been festering in your gut since you were a child and first realized the whispers of the court had turned on your nephews resurface with a vengeance.

This is what you have feared, this is what you have dreaded—the whispers are about to be given life, and once they are given life, there is no returning to how it had once been. The accusations will haunt Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey for as long as they live and more.

"He called us bastards," Jacaerys says at his mother's shoulder, voice small, expression twisted. He tries to stand tall under the eyes of everyone in the room, but he cannot help the way he shrinks back slightly when the tension in the room triples after the word is spoken.

And Aemond—Aemond, who has walked you back to your chambers every night since the twins were born because he worried you would grow faint on the stairs, who spends entire afternoons searching the gardens for strange spiders because Helaena smiles whenever he finds one, who has sat beside Maegor's cradle reading aloud from histories he knows the babe cannot possibly understand because you were too exhausted to keep your eyes open—smirks as it is said.

He does not know better, you tell yourself, swallowing thickly. He has consumed his mother's poison like milk. He is only reiterating the filth she spews.

You know that your half-siblings dislike Rhaenyra and her sons. You know that Alicent has spent years cultivating that resentment, just as Otto Hightower has spent years whispering in your father's ear. But this is not childish spite—to openly accuse the crown princess's son of bastardy is to accuse her of treason, it is to declare that the heirs to the Iron Throne are no heirs at all.

To speak such a thing before the king—you know your father has spent years turning a blind eye to what the rest of the court knew as truth, but if push came to shove and he was forced to choose between throwing the Realm into chaos by upholding the lie or condemning his grandchildren, you do not know what he would choose.

And if he should choose to protect the realm, Rhaenyra, Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey could all lose far more than just their names—they could lose their heads.

"My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, your grace," your sister says, stepping forward in the direction of your father. "This is the highest of treason. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders."

Your eyes widen, gaze flicking over to Aemond, who instantly shrinks at the order, looking wildly between his mother, his father, and Rhaenyra. You feel sick to your stomach, fingers tightening on Daemon's arm.

Alicent scoffs, staring at Rhaenyra in disbelief. "Over an insult?" Alicent breathes out. "My son has lost an eye."

The king turns on Aemond and says, "You tell me, boy, where did you hear this lie?"

You feel light in the head again, all of a sudden. It is always worst before dawn, and worse still when you are under stress. Your hand instinctively finds your chest, eyes sliding shut—not here, not now.

Not while Aemond is shrinking in his seat as his father's demands. Not while Jacaerys stands trembling beside his mother with blood dripping down the side of his face. Not while Lucerys cannot breathe properly with a broken nose and tears in his eyes. Not while Rhaenyra stands alone before the king and queen, forced to defend her sons against accusations that could have them all hanged.

You force yourself to breathe slowly, but the room sways. Daemon's gaze cuts back down toward you, hand settling more firmly beneath your elbow.

"Easy," he mutters. "Not now."

As though you do not already know that, you think viciously and shoot him a look in kind that only serves to amuse him. If you could control when your body was weak, you would never be weak at all.

Your eyes turn back to Jacaerys—he is almost as tall as Rhaenyra's shoulders now, but he still looks so small. Only hours ago, he had buried his face into your lap, crying because he thought he had lost you, and now he stands before his grandsire, the king, trying to hold himself strong because he knows what is at stake. Lucerys does not understand the way Jacaerys does, but he knocks his shoulder against Jacaerys's anyway.

"—Aegon!" Viserys shouts, and your gaze lifts again to your half-brother, your husband, the father of your children, as he flinches under your father's demands. "Tell me the truth of it!"

Aegon does not reply right away, staring ahead blankly as though he is not sure what to say. His gaze lifts, meeting yours briefly, and you shake your head slightly, warning him. Do not do it. Do not say what I know you are about to say.

Aegon swallows and looks away, and then he says exactly what you fear: "We know, father. Everyone knows. Just look at them."

Your heart sinks, eyes sliding shut. You hear Daemon let out a breath through his nose just as you let out a trembling one through your mouth. Ten years you have dreaded the day that these words were given voice and life, and it is Aegon who has condemned them.

Your father shouts, but it is terribly muffled—garbled words spoken beneath water. Your pulse pounds, deafening in your ear, and your head aches. The air that reaches your lungs is shallow, not nearly enough to give you what you need to breathe. Your hand creeps up to your chest again—not now, not now, not now.

"—but I cannot restore his eye."

"No, because it has been taken," Alicent says desperately, taking a step toward your father.

"What would you have me do?"

"There is a debt to be paid," she insists, and you find yourself stiffening before you even truly understand what she is saying. Beside you, Daemon straightens, hand dropping to the sword at his side. "I shall have one of her son's eyes in return."

"Is she mad?" you breathe out as the hall erupts into murmurs. You see Rhaenyra push Lucerys behind her, and Jacaerys presses into her shoulder, looking between her and the king and queen uncertainly. "Do something, kepa."

Uncle.

"Not yet," Daemon murmurs, watching the scene carefully, gaze much sharper now.

"Ser Criston," Alicent says, gaze lifting to the knight standing on the opposite side of the room—far too close to Rhaenyra and the boys. You brush Daemon's hand off your arm, alarm subsuming all weakness as you take half a step forward. "Bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon."

For a heartbeat, no one moves, because the words seem too monstrous to belong in the same room as children, and then Lucerys lets out a frightened noise in the back of her throat

"Mother," Lucerys cries, scrambling behind Rhaenyra so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet. His small hands fist desperately in the back of her gown as he peeks around her, face drained of all color. Fresh blood stains his doublet where it had run from his broken nose, and now his whole body is shaking.

Jacaerys's eyes are wide as he looks between his mother and Alicent, reaching out to grab Lucerys's hand despite the fear plain in his eyes, and Lord Corlys is there an instant later, pulling Lucerys further behind him, placing himself between the boys and Ser Criston.

"He can choose which eye to keep," Alicent continues, voice breaking with grief and fury alike, "a privilege he did not grant my son."

She cannot mean this, you think desperately. She cannot.

"You will do no such thing," Rhaenyra hisses, voice cold, one hand instinctively reaching for Lucerys until she realizes Corlys has him safely tucked behind him while the other shields Jacaerys.

"Stay your hand," Viserys orders.

"No! You are sworn to me," Alicent says desperately.

For one terrible moment, you cannot tell whether the man standing across the hall is weighing the Queen's command or the King's.

"He is sworn to the blood of the dragon," you say, finally making your presence known, grateful that your voice is louder and stronger than you thought yourself capable of in this state. You step closer to the center of the room, halfway between your sister and the queen. "To protect and serve. To obey the King before all others. It is curious, however, how readily you expect him to forget his oath in favor of your… whims. It does make one wonder whether there is some precedent in place that leads you to believe that a sworn brother of the Kingsguard would draw his blade on a prince of the blood in the presence of his king at your behest. Does Ser Criston often set aside his vows whenever Your Grace asks it of him?"

The hall silences at the implication of your question, but you stand unrepentant, raising your chin and staring at Alicent, who lets out a disbelieving scoff as she looks over you. Daemon makes a noise in the back of his throat—a laugh, you think—as he peels off the wall to pace closer to Rhaenyra, positioning himself in line of Ser Criston.

"Muña!" Jacaerys gasps, moving to take a step in your direction, but Rhaenyra stops him from leaving out from behind her.

"Take care with your tongue, daughter," Alicent says after a moment.

"Gladly," you reply evenly. "As soon as your grace takes care with her commands."

"Enough," your father snaps at you, looking thoroughly exhausted. You press your lips together and look away, trying desperately not to roll your eyes. "Do not make this worse than it already is."

How does he not see what is plain before his eyes? It is Alicent who poisoned the ears of your half-siblings. Alicent, who has caused this terrible divide. Alicent, Alicent, Alicent. But your father proves blind to her true nature every day that passes.

There is a long moment where you think that perhaps that will be the end of it. You have made your bold commentary, and maybe it is enough to pull the attention off of the boys for the time being—you will suffer for it, surely, when you return to King's Landing alone, because your place is with Aegon now, whether you like it or not, but you would suffer endlessly if it spared Rhaenyra's boys even a little more time.

Then, Alicent says, "Then I will do it myself."

Your eyes widen, turning too slow as Alicent darts forward, pulling the Valyrian steel dagger from Viserys's hip sheath and lunging in the direction of Rhaenyra and Lucerys. Lucerys's scream tears through the hall. Everything happens at once.

Before you even register what's happening, Rhaenyra darts forward to meet Alicent, eyes wide, moving on sheer instinct to protect her sons. Lord Corlys draws Lucerys back behind him and Princess Rhaenys with Daemon's girls, but Jacaerys tries to run after his mother, shouting for her as he reaches for her arm.

You grab him by the bicep hard, yanking him out of the line of danger and behind you, panic flaring hot and fast in your chest when you see Ser Criston running down from the steps. You force Jacaerys to stay behind you as you put yourself between him and Ser Criston, ignoring the way Jacaerys tries to break free to get to his mother, but Daemon steps forward before the kingsguard can involve himself in the conflict, a smirk on his face as he press his hand to Ser Criston's chest plate and shoves him backward, daring him to draw his sword and give him a reason to draw his own.

Jacaerys clings to your cloak now, adrenaline fading to fear, as he stares at his mother and Alicent, then looks up at you. Blood streams down his face, crusted over his temple and jaw, eyes wide with unshed tears. You lift your hand to wipe the blood from his skin, and he instinctively presses his face into the palm of your hand. You catch the tears that threaten to fall with your thumb before they can, turning his face away so he cannot see as the blade cuts through Rhaenyra's arm.

Jacaerys jerks in your hold as Rhaenyra gasps in pain, and the nobles around scramble away. He tries to move toward her again, but your grip on him tightens.

"Stay," you order, and he immediately stills, eyes wide and throat bobbing as he stares at you helplessly.

You want to tell him that everything will be okay, but there is a terrible look on Rhaenyra's face that you have never seen before as she stares at Alicent, holding her wounded arm, and you have a distinct feeling that things have only just begun.

————————————

"You should have woken me immediately," you tell Jacaerys firmly as you clean the blood from his face. He shrinks at your words. "I mean it, Jacaerys. I'm furious. How could you go out there on your own with your little brother and cousins? What were you thinking?"

"You were so tired, muña," Jacaerys whispers. "I didn't want to wake you. I wanted to take care of it so—"

"And look how that turned out," you say harshly, pinching his cheeks between your hands until he squirms and pouts. "You cannot be so reckless, do you understand? We are lucky that all that happened was—" You cut yourself off from saying what you were about to say, inhaling deeply. "You could have been killed. You, Lucerys, Baela, and Rhaena. You cannot be so reckless. Say you understand."

Jacaerys's throat bobs as his gaze drops down to your lap. He says quietly "I understand."

You let out a huff, hardly satisfied, but you busy yourself with wetting the warm rag and patting it lightly to his temple instead, grimacing at the blood still dripping from the shallow head wound.

"He's right, isn't he?" Jacaerys says after a few moments, shoulders hunched. "I'm a bastard. I'm Harwin Strong's son, not Laenor's."

You sigh, eyes sliding shut. Your head aches too much to have this conversation with him. The exhaustion of lack of sleep and the excitement in the Hall of Nine weigh your body down terribly. You say tiredly, "Jacaerys—"

"I know it is true," Jacaerys interrupts, voice small. "It is obvious, like Aegon said. I have known for a while, I think. Since we left King's Landing. Luke didn't know yet. I tried to keep it from him."

You do not answer for a long while, busying yourself with gently wiping away the blood crusted at his temple, because you do not know how to respond. Your heart hurts at the idea of Jacaerys knowing all along but trying to shield Lucerys from the truth—having no one to talk to about any of this because even just referencing it in passing could condemn his little brothers to a terrible fate. He has always tried to take more on his shoulders than he should, no matter how often you and Rhaenyra reminded him he was only just a child. His fingers are trembling in his lap, so you reach out with your free hand to hold his carefully; he immediately latches onto you, nails digging into your skin.

You finally tell him, "It does not matter."

Jacaerys whips toward you, brows pinched and lips pressed together. "How can you say that?" he demands. "You know that isn't true."

"What matters, Jacaerys, is that you are your mother's son. My nephew. You are fire and blood, and one day, the Iron Throne will be yours," you say, grabbing his chin to force him to look at you. "The Realm will whisper that Aegon deserves the throne more than you because his hair is silver and his eyes are purple, and you will prove them wrong just by being as you are."

"But what if being myself is not enough?" he asks quietly. "They will keep whispering, even after I am grown and am king. Even if I've done good. What if one day—"

He does not dare voice the question you know he wants to ask. What if one day steel is drawn? What if one day dragons fly against dragons? What if, what if, what if?

"Then, we will show them what we are," you tell him simply, stroking his jaw with your thumb. "They will learn swiftly that every man who rises against a dragon is burned by one."

"We cannot burn everyone who speaks out against us," Jacaerys says quietly, looking away, shoulders hunched slightly.

"Spoken like a true king," you tease lightly, and then lean in to brush your lips against his forehead. "You cannot, mandianna. A king must know mercy before he knows wrath. He must seek peace before war." A faint smile tugs at your lips. "That is why the gods, in all their wisdom, gave you me."

Jacaerys cannot help the giggle that spills from his lips as he rests his head against your shoulder. Your eyes slide shut as you lift a hand to cradle the side of his face, absently running your fingers through the ends of his hair.

You must get stronger again. The girl who once spent every waking hour in the training yard until her palms bled and fought her father, the king, because she sought to wield a sword like Visenya herself, the one who could remain astride Zūgaxes from dawn to dusk and dreamed of once taking Dark Sister from Daemon's hand, still lives somewhere beneath the exhaustion and aching in your bones. You know it. You felt her today in that hall, after two years of uncertainty.

There is no room for weakness anymore—not when steel has been drawn and you could not draw your own, not when Jacaerys looks to you with frightened eyes and Lucerys screams after being openly threatened and you can do nothing to ease their fear, not when your sister's blood has been shed on the pale floors of Hide Tide and you could not spill blood in kind.

"I will see anyone who should seek to raise hand or blade against you answer for it with their lives," you tell him quietly, pressing your lips to the crown of his head absently as you stare at where the twins lie in their cradles, ignorant of the conflict brewing around them. What would become of them, you wonder, if mother and father stood on opposite sides of a war? "Anyone who threatens my family, my queen, or my future king will learn exactly why our words are fire and blood."

————————————

JACAERYS, 18; READER, 23; 128 AC

When Jace was six years old, his mother knelt before him and told him that his muña is very lonely and sad far more often than she allowed anyone to see, even though she has become exceptionally good at pretending otherwise. She told Jace it takes a very skilled eye to see when you are pretending, and Jace insisted that he knows you well enough to tell. His mother had kissed the top of his head with a fond smile and asked Jace to keep you company and try to make you smile in her place, when she could not be there herself.

He had not fully understood what she meant back then. Now he does, he thinks, looking back on all of the times he had caught you staring out windows with dull expressions before you noticed him looking and forced a smile. But he knew that you needed him and his mother had entrusted him with the important task of making you smile when you are sad, and that was more than enough.

Jace had taken that responsibility very, very seriously. From that day forward, every frown became an enemy for him to vanquish and every tear a personal failure. If he caught you looking particularly solemn, he would crawl into your lap or tug insistently at your skirts until you paid attention to him, armed with some ridiculous story or childish joke he had spent all morning preparing solely because he knew it would make you laugh.

Then, two years later, his family left for Dragonstone, and you remained behind in King's Landing, and he was tortured with the knowledge that he had left you alone, surrounded by people who did not know how to make you smile the way he did—who might not even notice when you were sad in the first place.

Now, after a decade away, he has returned, and you are nowhere to be found.

Jace stands toward the back of the throne room, jaw tight, hands locked behind his back as Vaemond Velaryon makes his petition for Driftmark, content—for once—to remain unnoticed.

It suits him better this way today. No one pays much mind to him while others argue over inheritance. They are too busy paying attention to Vaemond's accusation and his mother's reaction to realize the dark-haired, dark-eyed man lingering in the shadows is the heir to Dragonstone, firstborn son of the crown princess. So he is well able to overhear conversations that would shift into syrupy smiles and false pleasantries around his mother and Daemon.

Strong. Bastard. Plain. Lord Fossoway. Lady Ambrose. Ser Roxton.

It is about what Jace expected from a court full of Reachmen. More than half the throne room dons green, Faith heraldry has replaced the three-headed dragon wherever he looks. Jace's memories of the Red Keep are hazy, so in truth, he could not tell whether or not it is truly different from what it had been nigh a decade ago, but he does know for certain one thing is missing—you.

Every memory he has of this place begins and ends with you, and it is jarring that you are nowhere to be seen. You reading to him in the gardens until he fell asleep against your shoulder. You carrying him back to his chambers after he had faked dozing off during his lessons, giggling with him as soon as the two of you were out of sight from Maester Geradys. You waiting at the edge of the yard whenever Ser Criston was leading training, because you knew Jace was uncomfortable around him and would step in if things took a wrong turn. You laughing as Jace tried and failed to get Vermax to listen to him, slinking your arms around him when he pouted and pretended to be angry just so you would give him more attention. He has been to every place he once stood with you, and has found you at none.

Without you, it feels—it feels wrong. Unfamiliar. And it is all he can think about, even though he needs to be paying attention to what is being said around him. He tries to remind himself that what is said today could change everything. Vaemond is not just asking for Driftmark—he is asking the court to declare Lucerys no true Velaryon, and in doing so, to admit what half the realm has whispered since Jace was born with dark hair instead of silver.

And if Lucerys can be stripped of his inheritance because he is not Laenor's son, then Jace can be stripped of his for the same reason. Worse, if the court is willing to question the succession before his grandsire lives, Jace fears what they may do once the Iron Throne stands empty. And yet—

His thoughts invariably return to you.

He thought you would be waiting for him.

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheeks as he fights the terrible mixture of frustration and disappointment that has been threatening to consume him since he stepped onto the docks and you were nowhere to be found. Maybe he was being foolish. It has been eight years since he had last seen you at Driftmark for Laena's funeral—ten since you were close enough for him to run to whenever you frowned.

Things had already changed in two—just in the time between Laena's funeral and when they had left for Dragonstone and you had stayed behind in King's Landing. Two years of unanswered ravens and sleepless nights had taught him that wanting someone did not mean they would come. More than once, his mother had let him cry into her skirts because he missed you so terribly his chest hurt. More than once, she had promised, soon, Jace, soon we will go to her.

But soon had become two years, and when Jace had finally seen you again at Driftmark, he had scarcely recognized you. Gone was the girl who had chased him through the Red Keep, laughing as he shrieked that she was cheating. Gone was the dragonrider who was more comfortable in the air than afoot and taught him the basics of swordplay so he would not embarrass himself in front of his father and Cole.

In her place was someone Jace could hardly stand to look at without being filled with rage. He thought, at the time, that he was angry at you. Angry at you for changing, angry at you for never answering his ravens, angry at you for abandoning him.

He knows better now—he had never been angry at you.

It had been he who promised to come back for you, he who promised to take care of you, to keep you safe, make you feel loved, devoted to you the same way you'd been to him for as long as he remembered. Instead, Aegon had married you. Aegon had stood beside you when you nearly died and left when you needed him most. Aegon had watched you become a shadow of the girl Jace had loved with every piece of his heart.

All Jace had done was arrive too little too late.

If so much had changed in two years, how much could have possibly changed in another eight? It has been a long time, he acknowledges. Long enough for people to become strangers. Long enough for memories to become distant. But he has never forgotten you, he thinks bitterly. How could you have forgotten him?

You couldn't have, he rationalizes. You exchanged ravens frequently enough that Maester Geradys grew irate every time Jace showed up with another to be sent. Several times a week, Jace had filled pages with every detail he could think to share, recounting the smallest happenings of his days simply because he wanted you to know them, because he wanted some part of himself always with you. And you had always written back with pages of your own, telling him of your days, your thoughts, the twins, all the little things that mattered only because they mattered to you. He had kept every one of them, read them until he knew whole passages by heart—surely you could not have written to him so often, given him so much of yourself and taken so much of him in kind, only to forget him now.

You could not have forgotten him, you are just—late. You are just late.

It does not quell the all-consuming disappointment. He has imagined his reunion with you so many times that he could recite what he wanted to say to you in his sleep. He had a whole plan that he envisioned, and it fell apart the moment he stepped off the ship and realized you were not there on the dock.

He imagined you would be waiting for him, smiling the moment you caught sight of him. He would cross the docks to you slowly, resisting every instinct that urged him to throw himself into your arms as he once had. Instead, he would take your hand in his and bow his head to press a kiss to your knuckles, watching for the moment you realized that the little boy you remembered had grown into a man in your absence.

He imagined that he would steal you away from everyone else after the feast celebrating their return to King's Landing, pressing his lips to your knuckles as his gaze spitefully met Aegon's. He would let you hold his arm, and he would guide you to the godswood, sitting with you as the sun set as you have countless times before, listening as you tell him about the twins and life over the past eight years. It would be different hearing it from your lips, in your voice, than it is reading it on parchment. He would let you rest your head in his lap, and he would absentmindedly comb his fingers through your hair the way you always had to him.

He imagined that he would stay there with you as the moon rose overhead, until the conversation dwindled into a comfortable silence. Then he would turn his head just enough to look at you, really look at you, and he would wonder if maybe you would look at him for him. Not as the little prince forever following at your heels, or the boy who climbed into your bed after every nightmare—but as a man.

One whose shoulder you could rest against without fear of being disappointed, one capable of taking care of you, one who could take your hand before the gods—one worthy of sharing your heart and your bed.

It is shameful, perhaps, to imagine such things with you, but he cannot help himself.

He imagined that he would be nervous as he reached up for your face the first time, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering against your cheek longer than it ought to, and then he imagined closing the distance between you, slowly enough that you could stop him if you wished. He never imagined you would.

He fights a heavy exhale through his nose as he shakes his head, eyes sliding shut. He would tell you that he has become a prince worthy of standing beside you. That he's no longer the frightened little boy who cried himself to sleep because you weren't near. That if you let him, he could finally be the husband he had promised you he could be.

The doors to the throne room reopen, and Jace has to force himself to be present. He can think of you later. He can wonder why you never came to the docks later. He can mourn the reunion that never was later. He can try to figure out a new plan later. He can tell you everything he has carried in his heart for the better part of a decade later.

If there is a later. Because Vaemond's words are not aimed at Luke alone, he reminds himself. They are aimed at his mother—at him. If Vaemond succeeds today and Luke loses Driftmark—if the court accepts the implication buried within his petition—then Jace's own birthright will be at risk. They will come for the Iron Throne, for him, next.

You had told him once that you would see anyone who sought to raise hand or blade to him pay for it with their lives—do you still mean it? Or have eight years of separation pushed you into the arms of Alicent Hightower and your half-siblings?

He cannot think of this now, skin crawling as soon as the question crosses his mind. He forces his mind away and lifts his gaze to see who had arrived. He expects another courtier draped in green, another enemy who will revel in his family's fall, but instead—

—instead it is you.

The throne room, the nobles, the whole petition—everything falls away. Jace forgets how to breathe momentarily as his gaze sweeps over you.

He remembers his mother weeping a few nights after Lady Laena's funeral, clinging to Laenor as she whispered that your hips had been too narrow, too slight, that you had still looked more child than woman when they forced you into a marriage bed to bear twins. But looking at you now, it is almost impossible to reconcile the woman before him with the frail girl who was leaning upon Aemond's arm eight years ago. Your figure has filled out where it once seemed painfully thin, your face has regained its color, and though there remains a weariness about your eyes, you no longer look so dull.

Somehow, impossibly, you are even more beautiful than he remembered. He has spent years trying to preserve your face in his mind, sketching you absently in his free time, terrified that time would blur it beyond recognition.

It had not done you justice.

Eight years have changed you. You are older now, certainly—the softness of girlhood has long surrendered to womanhood, just as the boyhood has left him. You are taller than he remembers, or perhaps he is simply no longer looking up at you from the height of a child. The gauntness left by illness has filled out with time, gown clinging to your body in all the right places as you sweep forward through the throne room, confident even as all eyes in the room turn to you.

You look… like a woman. Like the wife of another man.

Jace hates the thought viciously as soon as it crosses his mind.

You do not look his way, much as he tries to compel you to look at him without calling for you like a fool before the entire court. Your attention is fixed upon the throne—upon Otto Hightower seated where your father ought be and Vaemond Velaryon standing so boldly before the court as though the matter had already been decided—but Jace cannot drag his eyes from you. He watches as you make your way toward the front of the throne room at an even pace, the sea of green parting instinctively before black and red.

He does not remember deciding to move. One moment, he is standing among the gathered lords, hidden in the shadow of a marble pillar, content to remain unnoticed, and the next, he is following in your wake, eyes pinned on the back of your head.

He weaves through the crowd of gathered lords and ladies as you make your way down the center of the throne room, a few paces behind, never losing sight of you. He slips between Lord Caswell and Lady Fell, circles around a knot of Hightower retainers without so much as glancing at him. His feet seem to know where to go before his mind does.

He has spent half his life following you—through the winding halls of the Red Keep, trying to keep pace with your longer stride as you laughed over your shoulder, through the gardens, to the dragonpit, to the training yard, wherever your restless feet happened to lead, Jace was always a few steps behind. Eight years may have passed, but his body remembers the path before his mind even has a chance to question it.

For one horrifying second, it looks as though you're going to bear left—in the direction of Queen Alicent, your half-siblings, your husband—but then you lean in close enough to Vaemond that your lips must brush his ear, mouth tilted up in a lazy smile.

Jace cannot hear what you say to him, heart pounding at the idea of you standing amidst the sea of green instead of alongside black and red where you belong, but Vaemond Velaryon stiffens so suddenly that Jace knows he must have disliked whatever it was. You seem to let out a soft laugh, head hanging forward slightly, before you cross in front of Vaemond to stand next to Rhaenyra, on the opposite side Daemon already stands.

Jace does not think he's seen his mother so relieved in ages, and he can't even blame her because he's just as relieved to see you stand at her side instead of amidst green. For the first time in weeks, it seems, the tension that has been endlessly weighing on her disappears the moment you stand at her side again.

Jace watches you take her hand into yours before lifting it to your lips. You bow your head slightly as you ghost your mouth against his mother's knuckles, and his mother gives you a soft, fond smile—one usually reserved for Jace himself—as she turns her hand to cradle the side of your face briefly.

You tilt your face into her touch momentarily before you stand straight again, casting a look over your shoulder to where Alicent Hightower and your half-siblings are standing before you nod your head once, beckoning.

Jace's brows furrow slightly in confusion as he moves to stand beside Luke, two paces behind you, his mother, and Daemon, until he sees two children instantly dart across the throne room—Maegor and Maegelle, Jace realizes instantly. Maegor busies himself at your side, tucked beneath your arm, while Maegelle positions herself behind you, both of them clutching you as Otto Hightower commences the petition by addressing Vaemond again.

Jace should be paying attention now, but his gaze remains fixed on your children. The last time he'd seen them, they'd hardly been a year old. You have described them in your letters countless times over, but it is different seeing them in person again. Maegor is tall for his age, nearly ten years old and already reaching your shoulder, while Maegelle hardly reaches your chest, nose tucked beneath your arm.

They cannot be more than nine or ten now, all silver hair and violet eyes to Jace's brown on brown—every inch a Targaryen prince, no question about it. Maegor's hand is wrapped around yours, the other fisted tightly in the folds of your skirt as though it belongs there. The sight of it stirs an ugly feeling in his chest, one so irrational and shameful that it embarrasses him, because once, without thinking, he had reached for you the same way.

His jaw tightens before he can stop it. The feeling is petty, even for him. He is a grown man, his mother's heir, standing in the throne room as the fate of his family hangs in the balance, and the boy is your son. Yet all he can do is think the place at your side had once been his, and wonder when he had ceased belonging there.

A sharp elbow catches his side. Jace startles, finally tearing his eyes away to find Luke staring up at him with a look caught somewhere between confusion and outright disbelief, following his brother's line of sight before slowly turning back to him as if silently asking whether he has forgotten where they are and what is happening.

Jace flushes and looks away.

The rest of the petition is a blur. Vaguely, he remembers his grandsire entering the throne room, the argument escalating, the rage and dread he felt as bastard and whore rang through the hall, Daemon spilling blood before the whole court as soon as the words are spoken. He hears the collective gasp of the nobility and the sickening thud of Vaemond's body and severed head striking the floor, but his gaze finds you again and again, as though the rest of the room has dissolved into little more than noise around your silhouette, gaze incessantly dropping to where your hands rest on your children.

Protective. Shielding them. It is the same hand that once rested on the back of his neck whenever he was frightened, that pulled him behind you when Alicent drew steel on he and his family. The same absent touch that soothed nightmares and bruises before he had ever needed to learn how to hide them.

It belongs to someone else now, he thinks bitterly, and then feels ashamed for even letting such a thought cross his mind when it is your children on the receiving end of it.

Aegon's children, his mind traitorously reminds him—his eyes, his hair, his blood. Jace wonders, before he can stop himself, what they might have looked like had fate been kinder. Would a son of yours and his have inherited your hair or his dark curls? Would—

Luke elbows him again hard, and this time, Jace shoots him an irritated look, but Luke doesn't even acknowledge it, raising his eyebrows pointedly before flicking his eyes ahead. Jace follows his gaze, attention dragging ahead to where his grandsire descends from the Iron Throne, his mother and Daemon standing close beside him, speaking in hushed voices that Jace cannot make out over the murmurs still sweeping through the hall. And you—

You are looking at him, finally.

Jace's eyes meet yours, and for one long moment, he is eighteen and ten all at once—a prince standing in his grandsire's throne room and the little boy who used to search every corridor of the Red Keep until he found you.

He is not breathing, he realizes as he stares at you. His lungs are burning as he waits for you to say something—anything. He has imagined this moment a hundred, a thousand, a million times before. He has scripted what he would say to you—practiced it in his room as soon as his mother told him they would be returning to King's Landing at last—but now that he is finally in front of you again, his throat is dry and his heart is beating so loudly that he is certain you must hear it.

Then, you smile, and Jace can suddenly breathe again.

"Jurnegon rȳ ao, mandianna," you breathe out softly, taking two steps in his direction, hands lifting to cradle his face between your palms, "emā mazverdagon sīr olvie."

Look at you, nephew, you have grown so much.

Jace's breath leaves him, lashes fluttering shut. The warmth of your hands against his cheeks is achingly familiar, so familiar that his body responds before his mind has the chance to. He sinks into your touch, turning his face into your palm as though he had been starved for your touch. Your thumbs sweep slowly along his cheekbones, catching the dampness he hadn't realized was gathering on his lower lashes.

Then, you frown and say, "I hate it."

Jace stared at you for a moment, heart pounding, freezing between your hands—you hate it?

Luke snorts loudly somewhere behind Jace, and you tilt your head and give his brother an easy smile as you say, "Do not laugh, you know what I mean, Lucerys."

Jace does not know, but you pull him closer, hands sliding from his cheeks to the back of his head so that you can tuck his face into the crook of your neck, and all offense disappears in an instant.

He melts into you with the same ease he did ten years ago—as though no time has passed at all—and a ragged breath escapes him. His forehead presses against the warm skin of your neck, hiding his face there the same way he always had whenever he was frightened or overwhelmed as a little boy.

He inhales greedily, familiar lavender filling his lungs for the first time since you parted all those years ago—he had tried buying similar perfumes at the harbor market on Dragonstone, lingering over every vial the merchants swore carried notes of lavender, but none of them had ever healed the ache in his chest the way a single breath against your neck does now.

His arms find your waist, drawing you against him until there is scarcely any space between your bodies, and you thread your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck and press your lips to his temple.

He should be embarrassed, he thinks. He spent the entire voyage convincing himself that he would return to King's Landing as a man for you. He imagined standing proudly before you, kissing your hand, speaking with the confidence expected of the heir to Dragonstone. He would show you that he was no longer the frightened little prince forever trailing at your heels.

Instead, the first thing he has done is hide his face in your neck. He ought to pull away—loosen his grip on your waist, straighten his shoulders, meet your eyes and greet you with whatever slivers of dignity remained, but he cannot bring himself to when your fingers are carding so gently through his hair, lips lingering at his temple.

He wonders if you can feel the frantic beating of his heart through the layers of his tunic and your gown—if you notice how tightly he is holding you, how shamelessly he has folded himself into your embrace. But if you do and think less of him for it, you give no sign.

"You look well, niece," Daemon says as he approaches you, and irritation flares hot through Jace's chest at the interruption, jaw tightening when you pull away to look at Daemon. Your hand slides from the back of his head to his upper arm, and Jace feels electric beneath your touch, even as you turn to face your uncle. "Much better than you looked back on Driftmark, certainly."

Daemon takes your free hand to ghost a chaste kiss against your knuckles, gaze briefly landing on Jace. A curious expression crosses his face before he huffs out a laugh and takes a step back—Jace frowns at him, but Daemon's lips curve up into a knowing smile before he looks back at you again.

"I have you to thank for that, I suppose, kepa," you say with a ease smile. Jace cannot smother the sheer giddiness he feels when he realizes you have no intention of dropping your hand from his arm. You have missed him, he realizes, throat bobbing, you have missed him perhaps as much as he has missed you. "It was proper motivation, I'd say, threatening to send assassins after me to ensure I… ah, how did you phrase it? That I stopped feeling sorry for myself and climbed out of bed?"

Jace is immediately torn from his lingering thoughts, blinking once, unsure he heard you properly. He gives Daemon a furious look, but Daemon only laughs, tilting his head back. "Did it work?"

"Wonderfully," you say dryly. "I found the prospect of being assassinated while abed was an excellent cure for lingering weakness."

"Then all is well," Daemon says dismissively. "No need to stare at me so murderously, Jacaerys."

Jace flushes immediately when you glance up at him, embarrassed that Daemon called him out so plainly, but you only give him a fond smile, and Jace's heart flutters dangerously in his chest.

You have missed him, he thinks again, more desperately this time, because all of the time he has spent away from you, he had half convinced himself that you'd simply learned to live without him—out of sight, out of mind.

Have you ached for him the same way he has for you these last eight years? Have you thought about him? When you sat in the godswood to read, would you find yourself waiting for him? When you dined amidst the sea of green during feasts, did your gaze wander the crowd in search of him? When you lay abed with your husband, did you ever close your eyes and imagine it was him instead? He needs to know.

Before the thoughts can consume him entirely, your hand drops from his bicep, and Jace feels terribly cold again.

You reach your hands out to Maegor and Maegelle, and Jace realizes that they've been standing next to Baela and Rhaena, big violet eyes flicking between you and Jace curiously. They immediately rush over to you, each diving into your side.

Maegor looks up at Jace with a sharp, accusing look that he takes immediate offense to. Why is he staring at Jace as though he is the one who has wandered uninvited into someone else's home? Jace was here first. Long before anyone else had called you mother or wife, he had called you muña—he had known you first, he had loved you first, he had been the little prince forever tucked at your side. It was widely known throughout the keep that if someone sought him, they only needed to find you.

Jace is not the interloper here, because you were his first.

The childish part of him is bristling furiously, and shame follows it almost immediately. The boy is not even ten, and he has done nothing besides love his mother, and Jace is angry about it. He should be glad that someone in this keep cares about you enough to be wary of the strangers surrounding you.

Maegor's hand tightens around yours all the same, chin lifting ever so slightly, as though he's challenging Jace to say something, violet eyes fixed upon Jace with open suspicion. The prince edges a step closer, his shoulder pressing into you with unmistakable intent: it is territorial.

Jace almost scoffs. The little wretch is trying to stake a claim on you. Stake a claim from him. You finally notice it too, lips twitching up into a smile.

"Maegor," you say gently, resting a hand atop his silver hair, fingers threading through the silky locks absently. "There is no need to glare."

"I wasn't glaring," the young prince mutters, glaring.

"You were."

"I was looking."

"You were looking rather fiercely."

"I was making sure he wasn't upsetting you."

Jace blinks, but before he has the chance to become even more offended by the presumption that his presence might upset you, you laugh, and Jace is breathless. His lips part as his gaze fixes on your bright smile, the way your hair falls slightly in your face as you lean down to press a brief kiss to the top of Maegor's head.

You are beautiful, he thinks for the millionth time in his life—seeing your smile, hearing your laugh, it has always made the difference between a ruined day and a perfect one. Jace has always thought you were the most beautiful woman in the world—even when you were both children, he had thought no lady at court could ever compare to you, forever offended whenever singers insisted another lady was the fairest woman in the realm. They simply have never seen you laugh, he would tell them, full of righteous anger.

His gaze lingers on your smile too long—you look happy, he realizes, and it settles strangely in his chest.

For years, he had imagined your life here in King's Landing as… dark. Miserable. Lonely suppers eaten in silence, wandering the halls with no one to keep you company—a marriage endured rather than cherished. He was plagued by thoughts of you in Dragonstone, and they had always been riddled with guilt, because he had left you here alone, surrounded by enemies and—

—and it had comforted him, in some shameful way.

If you were unhappy, then perhaps you missed him as fiercely as he had missed you, perhaps you were waiting for him the same way he waited endlessly to return to you.

He had not imagined this. A daughter tucked beneath one arm and a son standing guard at your side as though protecting you were the most natural thing in the world. You love them, it is clear, and they love you the same.

Have you grown to love Aegon, too? Jace suddenly feels dizzy.

"Raqiarzy," you say fondly, smoothing an errant strand of silver hair away from Maegor's face before looking back up at Jace again. "This is Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. He is my nephew—your cousin. He will be our king one day after his mother."

Your words settle restlessly inside him. He will be our king one day after his mother. He has heard those words his entire life—from maesters, and lords, and his mother, and you. But it feels—it feels different now. He has fantasized standing beside you as your husband more times than he dares to admit, but—but as your king?

His throat bobs, breath catching, heart racing, mind shifting as his gaze slides up to the throne not a dozen feet away, then drifting to you, thoughts spinning and spiraling, enough to make him dizzy.

"Do you remember the plushes you two were gifted for your fourth nameday?" you ask the twins suddenly, drawing Jace from his mind, pulse hammering in his ears, shame crashing over him in devastating force.

—and what in the Seven Hells is he thinking?

He can see Luke giving him an odd look from the corner of his eye, and Jace desperately tries to compose himself, dragging in one slow breath through his nose as though it might somehow banish the treacherous images from his mind. His face feels unbearably hot.

Maegelle lights up beside Maegor. "Stuffed Hūraxes and stuffed Vēzarrion?" she asks, leaning into your arm and looking up at you with adoring eyes.

"Mhm," you confirm, running your fingers absently through her hair. "Do you remember who sent them?"

The twins exchange a thoughtful look, and then Maegor's eyes grow round as he looks at Jace, no longer accusing. "It was you!"

Jace clears his throat, grateful for something else to occupy his thoughts. He says faintly, "I hope they survived. I wish I could have been there for the celebrations."

"How did you know what they look like?" Maegor demands, leaning forward now. "You even knew about the little white patch on Vēzarrion's wing!"

"I keep stuffed Hūraxes in my room every day." Maegelle nods, excited. "He protects it!"

"We wanted to keep real Vēzarrion and real Hūraxes in our rooms, but mother wouldn't allow us," Maegor frowns. Then he asks again, "How did you know what they looked like? You've never seen them before."

Jace's eyes instinctively drift to you, but you only smile.

"Your mother writes to me often," he admits. "She is very thorough, as I'm sure you know."

You squint at him. "What does that mean?" you ask, but Jace only grins and holds his hands up in faux-surrender. You tilt your head and say, "Jacaerys."

Maegelle giggles, and Maegor immediately nods, brows knit together as he frowns, nodding in agreement.

"She knows everything," he complains. "I can never get away with anything. I try to skip lessons, and she knows. I try to sneak snacks, and she knows. I hid a frog in Maester Orwyle's desk, and somehow she knew that too."

Jace's smile widens a bit as he huffs out a laugh. He says, "Once I tried to hide beneath your mother's bed so I wouldn't have to attend sword training. I thought I was clever because certainly the last place she would look was right beneath her nose. She found me within ten minutes."

You laugh at the memory, and Jace's heart skips a beat when you lean slightly into him, head resting on his shoulder as you look down at Maegor and Maegelle, both of whom suddenly seem thoroughly delighted.

"You skipped lessons too?" Maegor asks excited.

"Frequently," you answer before Jace can.

Jace's lips part in mock offense. "I hardly think frequently is fair."

"Jacaerys," you say dryly, head tilted to the side as you give him a lazy smile. "You once convinced Luke that you had been kidnapped by pirates because you wished to avoid histories. He had the entire keep in a frenzy."

Luke snorts loudly behind him, finally taking a step forward to greet you. He leans in to ghost his lips against your cheek before he says, "I forgot about that."

"I was seven," Jace mutters, ears burning.

"You were a little menace," you correct.

Maegelle hides her face in your gown as she laughs, and Maegor stares at Jace with newfound admiration.

"Mother always said you were clever," he says, scrutinizing Jace carefully. Jace flushes slightly at the idea of you telling your children about him. "She did not mention you were also troublesome. You will have to share some of your tricks with me."

"He was dreadful," you confirm, "and if he knows what's good for him, he will share nothing."

"I protest," Jace says immediately, looking down at you. "You, too, were troublesome, muña. Do not cast the blame all on me."

Maegor and Maegelle gasp as though they were just handed gold.

"You used to adore me when you were little," you sigh wistfully. "You never used to talk back like this."

"I still adore you," he murmurs quietly, far more sincere than the teasing he aimed for.

You tilt your head up to look at him, and Jace cannot breathe again, because you are so close, so close that if he only leaned in a smidge then—Luke pinches his side hard, and Jace grimaces, shooting him an irritated look. Luke's expression is one of naked disbelief: what are you doing? it seems to say without a single word being spoken.

Heat crawls up Jace's neck, and he follows Luke's pointed glance across the Great Hall.

Aegon is watching him. Aemond, too.

The elder prince lounges against a pillar, but the amusement on his face is far too sharp to be entirely genuine. Beside him, Aemond stands with his hands behind his back, one violet eye fixed upon Jace with a type of scrutiny that makes him feel he's been caught doing something he ought not.

Jace's stomach drops, suddenly very aware that he is standing before half of the court and you, whether he likes it or not, are someone else's wife. It is one thing wanting you so desperately that it makes his heart ache—it is another entirely to put you in a position where your honor could be questioned.

He straightens immediately, subtly putting a bit of distance between the two of you. Your brows scrunch slightly, giving him a confused look, but luckily, Baela and Rhaena beckon you for a conversation, and you busy yourself with doting over them, pressing your lips to their hair as you fawn over how beautiful they've become.

He exhales, ears still burning as he chances another glance toward Aegon. The older prince tilts his head, the corner of his mouth curling upward ever so slightly. Jace's eye twitches in irritation. Then he looks down at Maegor as the boy grabs his hand, tugging insistently until Jace gives him his full attention.

"Will you tell us stories?" the boy asks hopefully. "About mother?"

Jace blinks, and his gaze flicks across the hall once more. Aegon is still watching. A curious, vindictive thought slips into Jace's mind, and a slow smile curls at the corners of his mouth. He intends to marry you one day—the thought comes as naturally as breathing, he has never doubted it once. One day, you will be his wife and his queen, and when that day comes—well, that would make your children his too, wouldn't it?

He kneels before Maegor and smiles as he agrees, "As many as you want."

Aegon can keep his goblet and his smug little smile. Jace will take everything else.

————————————

"What in the Seven Hells was that, Jace?"

Jace blinks as he looks at his brother, making his way across the outer edges of the training yard a few hours after the petition.

Soon, they will have to return to their mother's apartments to prepare for the supper the king wishes to host for his mother's family and Alicent's. Luke wanted to go down to the dragonpit and stay there until it was time, because he loathed to be around the vicious nobles of the court longer than he had to, but Jace thought it best that they show themselves a little longer. Prove to the court they are not afraid, that they are the rightful heirs—that they are Rhaenyra's sons and they will cower in the face of green schemes.

"What was what?" Jace asks, tilting his head to the side to look at Luke over his shoulder.

Luke stops walking altogether, and Jace stops with him. Luke says dryly, "You cannot be serious."

Jace squints at him questioningly.

"What?" he asks again, gaze flitting across the training yard. He sees Cole in the distance, and he frowns, trying to look over the crowd to see who else might be there—if you might be there—but he can't see over all of the heads. When Luke doesn't immediately reply, Jace glances at him again, raising his eyebrows, beckoning. "What was what?"

"Seriously,?" Luke hisses, grabbing his arm and forcing Jace to look at him. Jace frowns when he feels his brother's fingers digging into his upper arm, a pinched expression on his face. "You were practically climbing into her lap in front of the entire court."

Jace's face flushes, attention snapping fully to Luke once the mortifying accusation registers. "I was not."

"Yes, you were," Luke accuses. "In front of everyone."

"I was embracing my aunt," Jace denies, voice hushed as he pulls Luke to the side. "What are you talking about?"

"You were embracing her for an awfully long time," Luke whispers back, giving him an incredulous look. "What were you thinking? She's married, Jace. You do remember that, right?"

"Of course, I do," Jace snaps, bitter over the fact that his own brother is throwing it in his face. He does not need to be reminded that you are married. It has haunted him every day for the last eight years. "I was only acting as I always have. We have always been close. You know this."

Luke does not believe him. Jace can tell as much from the sidelong glance his younger brother gives him, but he does not care. He was acting as he always has—it is the truth. You have always welcomed him into your arms, and he has always gone willingly. He has always buried his face in your shoulder when he needed comfort, touch lingering a little longer than propriety perhaps allowed. He has always called you muña, has always reached for your hand without thinking, has always smiled whenever you smiled.

None of that has changed, only his intentions. That, Jace decides stubbornly, is not something anyone could have possibly seen.

"You're lucky Aegon found the whole thing amusing instead of making a fuss over it," Luke finally says, and Jace's expression hardens, jaw tightening as he inhales and stares ahead, fighting a shake of his head. "He won't be laughing forever."

"Perhaps she won't be his forever," Jace snips before he can stop himself, raising his chin and looking away. Luke's eyes bulge as he casts a disbelieving look toward him. Jace raises his hands in faux surrender. "I'm only saying."

"Jace," Luke hisses, "have you lost all sense?"

Jace shakes his head, staring ahead as he says simply, "No."

"I'm going to tell mother," Luke threatens.

Jace gives him a sharp, irritated look.

"What is there to tell?" he scoffs. Then, more aggravated, "Why must you tattle like a child? You are ten and seven now, act like it."

He does not need his mother knowing that he's infatuated with you—not that she would have much room to speak, all things considered.

"Bold coming from someone on the verge of throwing a fit for not getting his way."

"You—" Luke barely dodges as Jace tries to shove him hard, and Jace inhales sharply to calm himself down, shaking his head as he grabs Luke's bicep to pull him close. He says quietly, "I have loved her for as long as I can remember. I simply grew old enough to understand what that means. How do you propose I sit back and watch her be mistreated by Alicent's pig sons? What would you have me do, Luke?"

Luke sighs and looks away, chweing the inside of his cheek. "We are already under scrutiny, Jace. Look at what just happened—if grandsire hadn't shown, we would have been–" Luke cuts himself off, looking away. He does not need to finish the sentence for Jace to know what he was going to say: they would have been declared bastards before the whole court. "We need to tread carefully."

Jace knows this. He does. He knows he will be playing a dangerous game if he moves forward as he wishes—knows that it could backfire profusely, not just on him, but on you. But—but how is he not supposed to try?

"What do you even plan to do?" Luke continues, forcing Jace to look at him again. Jace rolls his eyes and turns away, but Luke steps in front of him again. "I'm serious. Do you plan to ask the High Septon to annul her marriage to Aegon? Approve of a divorce? They have two kids, Jace—it will not be so easy. And do you even know if she feels the same? Or does she still see you as the little boy who followed her everywhere?"

"I am a man grown," Jace scoffs. "I am not a little boy anymore."

"The last she saw of you, you were."

Jace rolls his eyes again, jaw tightening as he shakes his head. His chest aches as Luke's words settle over him—do you feel the same? Did you miss him? Ache for him how he ached for you? Or have you made a life for yourself that you are content with? His throat spasms as he swallows, uncertainty clawing at his chest.

"I liked you better when you couldn't speak," Jace snaps because he has nothing else to say. After a few moments pass, he says quietly, "I have to try. If she tells me that she—" He can hardly bring himself to push the words out. "—that she loves Aegon, if she tells me that she is happy and wants nothing more than the life she has, then I will leave it alone."

Luke squints as he searches his brother's face, as though he does not believe him. Jace presses his lips together, throat bobbing as he swallows.

Jace has wanted you for so long that he scarcely remembers what life felt like before the wanting began. It has become instinctive as breathing, woven so tightly into the foundations of who he is that he cannot imagine untangling himself from it. He has imagined futures with at his side, as his wife, his queen; he has imagined children, and children of children, and a long reign in his name and yours.

But he wants your happiness more. Preferably with him, of course. He wants to be the one who makes you laugh until tears sting your eyes. He wants to be the man whose children cling to your skirts, whose bed you crawl into after long days, whose name you breathe in throes of pleasure. He wants to grow old at your side and spend the rest of his life thanking the gods that they had finally been merciful.

But if that happiness belongs elsewhere—if, somehow, you have found it with Aegon… Then what right does he have to tear it away?

"I would never ask her to give up a happy life for me," he says quietly, gaze shifting to the ground, "but I need to hear it from her."

"Get him Maegelle! Hah!"

Your daughter? What is your daughter doing in the training yard?

Jace's gaze cuts to the side when he hears Aegon's obnoxious voice coming from the crowd on the opposite side of the training yard. He tilts his head to the side, sharing a look with Luke before he makes his way over. He grabs Luke's arm to keep him close as he pushes closer to the front of the people gathered, curious to see what has drawn so many knights and squires away from their drills.

Then he sees you.

You stand at the edge of the sparring ring, arms crossed over your chest, lips curved down as you watch the twins spar in the center with wooden practice swords and surprising enthusiasm. Your brows are knit together with the same concentration you always had whenever you were watching him and Luke train years ago.

Jace almost finds himself smiling, until he realizes Aegon is standing behind you, one arm slung comfortably around your shoulders, letting you rest your weight on him, a fresh goblet of wine dangling from his hand. The gesture is so effortless that it makes Jace's stomach turn, as though he's stood with you there a thousand times before.

Worse, you do not pull away.

Jace's jaw tightens. He can feel Luke looking at him to his side, and it's a distinct effort not to let the discomfort—the pain and uncertainty—show on his face. Could you be happy here? Without his mother? Without him? It has been eight years, he reminds himself. Eight years is a long time—long enough to build a life one can be content with, even when dealt a poor hand. Aemond, too, is on your opposite side, he realizes dully. He is leaning back against the wall, head tilted as he watches the twins spar with one another.

He says something to you that Jace cannot hear, and you snort and reply, giving Aemond an easy smile. He has to stop himself from physically shrinking from the sight of it.

He wonders, have you found in your half-siblings the home you once had in him, his mother, and Luke? When did Aegon's arm start resting there so casually? Do you seek him out at feasts the same way you once sought him? Do you instinctively drift toward his side after long days? Has that same hand, so casually resting upon your shoulder, held you through sleepless nights? Wiped away tears? Tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear? Every answer he imagines hurts.

He has always imagined Aegon to be a worthless cur undeserving of your hand, an absent husband who drowned himself in wine and whores while you tried to keep your family afloat—but he is here, a random evening watching as the twins spar with one another, one arm around your shoulders as though it belongs there. Like a husband. Like a father.

He had been pained for years at the thought of you being neglected, but—but it also brought him a semblance of comfort, because he would be able to swoop in and rescue you. He would show you love, he would take care of you, hold you, be with you.

Somehow, the idea of Aegon treating you properly feels infinitely worse, and he feels ashamed for it.

He watches a delighted expression cross your face at something Aegon says, and then you toss your head back and laugh. For the briefest instant, the prince grins—not the careless smirk he wears before the court, but something softer, almost boyish, that makes Jace nauseous.

"Jace," Luke says quietly.

Jace only shakes his head slightly, forcing a smile on his face as he glances over at his younger brother. His lips part to speak, but the smile freezes on his face when someone speaks somewhere to his left.

"I hear she entertains both of the brothers," an unfamiliar voice murmurs. "The princess."

Jace stares ahead blankly, the words taking a heartbeat too long to register. The blood beneath his skin simmers faintly. What did he just say? Is he talking about you?

"Aye," another answers with a snort. Jace tilts his head to the side, gaze focusing on the red-haired squire standing in the small crowd of onlookers—not much older than Jace himself. "The elder first. The younger whenever her husband is too deep in his cups. Makes you wonder whether those twins favor their father after all. Runs in the family, I'd say."

How dare they?

"What did you just say?" Jace asks coldly, turning to face the small group of men.

The red-haired one has the audacity to look annoyed at the interruption, gaze flicking up to meet Jace, and for a moment, his vision tints red—they wouldn't look at him like that if he looked like Aegon or Aemond. They would see his hair and eyes, and they would know who they were speaking to—instead, they look at him and see him as an equal.

"I asked you a question, you mongrel. What did you just say?" Jace repeats, taking a step forward, head tilting slightly. He can hardly think straight—he can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, drowning out everything else around him. "I dare you to repeat it."

For a second, it seems as though the squire is going to step forward, an indignant expression on his face, but before he could make a treacherous mistake, one of his thick-headed friends grabs his arm and bows deeply.

"My prince," he says quickly, stumbling over his words. The red-haired squire's face whitens, and the two behind him immediately follow suit, heads bowed so quickly they nearly collide with one another. "Forgive us. We meant no offense. We—we did not realize, truly—"

"I did not ask what you meant. I asked you what you said."

There's a long moment where all four of the squires remain silent, heads bowed—Jace can see that their hands are shaking, and his lip curls up in disgust.

"We said nothing, my prince."

Jace exhales through his nose—a laugh or a scoff, he's not sure. How dare they? He is furious in a way he has not been in a long, long time, nails digging so deep into his palms that he might draw blood.

"You had no difficulty finding your tongue when you believed no prince was listening," Jace says coolly. "Find it again."

They stand trembling now, heads bowed, hoping that if they pretend the words had never left their mouths, they might escape the consequences of speaking them. His fists curl tight at his sides—they do not know you. They have no right to speak your name or stain it with their filth.

He takes another step forward when they do not speak. "No?" he questions, and then huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "Then count yourselves fortunate that I do not take your heads for the insult. Get out of my sight."

Jace exhales shakily as the four squires stumble to their feet and rush away. His eyes slide shut as he wills himself to calm down, and just as he's about to turn to Luke, he feels a familiar hand brush against his lower back. He knows you are standing there before he even turns and opens his eyes.

"Is everything okay?" you ask quietly, and Jace lets out a wavering puff of air as he turns to look at you. Your brows are furrowed slightly in concern, eyes roving over him carefully as you try to figure out what's wrong. "Mandianna?"

Do you know what they say about you? Are these common whispers, the same as the topic of his birth had once been? Did they turn on you again once Jace and his brothers left? Is there any truth to them?

The more treacherous question makes his stomach turn. He does not want to know the answer to that. He has imagined you abed with Aegon too many times to count over the past few years, each time agonizing in a way he could never quite explain, a private form of torture he inflicted upon himself whenever his thoughts grew particularly cruel. He would picture Aegon's hands where he wanted his own to be, mouth wandering your skin, arms wrapped around you beneath the sheets, body pressed into you in way Jace has only ever been able to dream about. Your face buried into his neck, breath pitching every time his body moved against yours, fingers tangled in silver hair instead of dark curls.

Each imagination had been enough to leave him sick with jealousy. He does not need another uncle added to them.

"Everything is fine," he lies.

You know instantly he is not telling the truth—you have always been able to catch him in a lie before he's even spoken a word—but he presses on anyway. His hand drops to yours, fingers tingling as he lifts it enough so that he can bend his head down and ghost his lips against your knuckles. He wonders if he imagines the way your breath hitches.

"Luke and I should go," he tells you. "We need to prepare for supper."

Your lips part slightly, and Jace thinks you are going to press him—to give him that look you always did when he was a boy, the one that pulled every secret from him without you having to ask twice. Instead, your gaze drops to where his fingers remain curled around yours.

"Of course," you say softly.

Jace realizes he is still holding your hand. He should let go, he thinks distantly, but instead, his thumb glides along your knuckles once, lingering, before he finally forces his fingers to loosen. The loss of your warmth leaves his palm strangely cold.

"We'll see you there?" Luke asks from beside him.

You wink at him. "Of course."

You glance at Jace again, an unreadable expression on your face, Jace's lips part to question you, but then your hand comes up, fingers briefly smoothing one of his dark curls away from his forehead. Jace's breath hitches, smile freezing.

"Go," you tell him fondly. "Before your mother sends someone looking for you and blames me for your absence.

He swallows thickly and then inclines his head obediently, "Yes, muña."

Jace turns away before he can do something foolish. Luke has the decency to wait until they have crossed half the yard before speaking.

"You are hopeless."

"Shut up."

————————————

Jace has spent the better part of the last fifteen minutes pretending not to watch the doors, nodding along absently to whatever Baela is saying beside him while his attention strays toward the entrance every few breaths.

You are late.

Not late enough to warrant the growing impatience twisting inside his chest, but late nonetheless, and every moment that passes where you remain out of reach only serves to further agitate the restlessness that has plagued him since the moment he saw you again.

"Can you please stop tapping your foot?" Baela finally asks, letting out an exasperated puff of air as she glances at Jace.

He immediately gives frowns at her, confused, and then she looks down pointedly at Jace's left leg, rapidly bouncing against the floor. He stills it immediately, face flushing slightly.

"I have yet to eat today," Jace lies, because he does not want to admit that he's antsy waiting for your arrival. "I'm merely hungry."

Baela rolls her eyes as she takes a sip from her goblet, and Jace gives her an indignant look, because what is what supposed to mean?

"I'm sure," she agrees dryly, "because it is food you are waiting for to come through that door."

Jace blinks once, lips parting in offense, but he does not get the chance to question her before Luke snorts and agrees, "It is not food he is hungry for."

Jace gapes, face hot as he stares at Luke in sheer disbelief, but Baela and Rhaena burst into laughter as though they know exactly what Luke is talking about, and Jace feels the distinct urge to sink into his seat. Did he tell them? Did they already know? How obvious was he being about it?

He spares a glance over to the opposite side of the table where the Queen and the Hand sit with Aemond and Helaena. Alicent is looking directly at them—so is Otto—and neither appears particularly amused.

Jace's stomach drops. The Queen's brows are drawn together in suspicion, gaze moving slowly between Jace and the rest as though attempting to decipher what could possibly have been said that inspired such an outburst. Beside her, Otto raises his chin slightly, eyes narrowed in that calculating way Jace remembers all too well from Driftmark as he watched the accusations of Jace, Luke, and Joffrey's legitimacy finally be given life.

They could not have heard, surely. Luke had spoken quietly, and the distance between them was too great for his voice to carry over the conversation filling the room.

Still, Jace sits up straighter. "Stop laughing," he hisses through clenched teeth, but it only serves to make the three of them laugh harder. Jace exhales hard, shaking his head before he straightens in his seat and looks away, doing his best to ignore them.

He's about to drive his foot into Luke's shin when the doors finally open again, and Jace's heart thuds painfully in his chest as his gaze cuts toward them just as you enter the room. There is an unsettlingly dull expression on your face when you walk in, and Jace's brows furrow slightly in confusion until you seem to shake your head and the expression off of your face right with it.

Your lips curl up into a smile that is distinctly bland compared to the ones he's used to as his mother and Daemon rise to their feet to greet you.

Aegon is with you, Jace realizes bitterly—it does not hurt as much as it did to see you in the training yard with him. He expected him to walk in with you when he saw that Helaena and Aemond had already arrived with their mother and grandfather, but he still does not like it. Maegor and Maegelle trail closely behind the two of you, dressed in fine reds for supper, and the sight of them manages to soften some of the irritation tightening Jace's jaw, because Maegor immediately brightens at the sight of him, waving his hand in a quick greeting.

You exchange a few quiet words with his mother before ghosting your lips to her cheeks, and Jace finds himself watching your face closely, trying to catch another glimpse of that strange expression you had worn upon entering the room. What was that? Are you unhappy? Are you only pretending to be content? Jace cannot tell, and it is gone now, carefully tucked away beneath smiles and pleasantries.

Then your eyes find his, and the smile changes, warming and softening in that familiar way that makes his heart flutter. Jace is on his feet before he realizes that he has moved, taking one of your hands in his.

"Muña," he greets softly, pressing a kiss against your cheek, lingering perhaps a heartbeat longer than necessary before forcing himself to straighten. "Ao jurnegon gevie."

You look beautiful.

He is wistful as he looks over you, a tight feeling in his chest as he looks over the deep red gown you wear. The velvet fabric hugs your figure, spilling elegantly against the floor, and Jace cannot decide whether it is the gown that makes you radiant, or you simply are yourself—for he is fairly certain he would have found you the most beautiful woman in the room even had you arrived dressed in plain linen instead.

You smile at him lightly, a pleased expression on your face as your gaze roves over him once. Jace is giddy from it—he has always preened beneath your praise, seeking out that particular look of pride in your eyes. Even now, perhaps especially now, some part of him still desperately wants to impress you, to do something—anything—that might make you look at him as though he is everything you hoped he would become.

"Emā issare gūrēñare aōha Valyrio," you murmur. Jace loves the way High Valyrian sounds rolling off your tongue—it is musical and natural in a way he has never been able to make it sound on his, much as he tried. "Iksan biare."

You have been practicing your High Valyrian. I am glad.

"Hen rhinka," he replies easily. Of course.

He is still holding your hand, he realizes, pressing his luck and letting his fingers ghost up along the inside of your wrist just to feel the way your pulse flutters beneath his touch. Do you want him the way he wants you? Jace cannot tell, but the slight quickening beneath his fingertips sends a dangerous flicker of hope through him nonetheless.

"Mother!"

You both startle. Jace's hand falls away from yours as Maegor suddenly appears at your side, entirely oblivious to the moment he has interrupted. He does not have to look at Luke to see the disbelief plain on his face, and he does not dare glance over at Aegon or Aemond—or worse, the Queen or the Hand—to see their reactions to what just transpired.

It is fine, he tells himself. He was only greeting you.

The boy reaches for the back of your chair with both hands and pulls it out with such enthusiasm that the wooden legs scrape loudly against the stone floor. Once he's pulled out the chair, he stands beside it tall, gesturing proudly toward the seat.

"For you, mother."

Your lips curve up into fond smile. "How gallant of you, byka dārilaros. You are such a gentleman—your father could learn from your lead."

Maegor positively beams, and you reach down to smooth a hand over his silver hair before leaning forward to press a kiss to the crown of his head. The boy bounces on the balls of his feet beneath your affection, eyes wide and adoring as he looks up at you, and your lips curve up as you stroke his hair gently before nodding in the direction of the two empty chairs near Luke.

"Go on. You and your sister are sitting beside your cousin tonight. Be sure to torment him properly."

Luke gives you an alarmed look, but you only wink at him in response. Maegor grabs Maegelle's hand and drags her over to the empty seats, already reaching for Luke's arm and babbling about a story you read him last night. Jace snorts and looks over at you, breath catching slightly at the soft expression on your face as your gaze lingers on the two of them for a moment longer.

You finally begin to sit, and Jace moves without thinking, giving the servant waiting to push your chair in a sharp look to back off. His hand catches the back of your chair, gently pushing it forward beneath you so that you can sit properly at the table.

You turn your head to the side to look up at him, smiling lightly. "Thank you, mandianna."

"Of course," he murmurs, pleased with himself—until he feels someone staring at him, that is.

His gaze lifts to your opposite side, where Aegon has taken his seat. He is watching Jace with narrowed eyes—the amusement from earlier in the day long gone. For a long moment, neither prince looks away. Jace's hand remains on the back of your chair, and Aegon's gaze drops pointedly toward it, then back up at Jace.

Jace understands the message perfectly, but he tightens his fingers around the carved wood instead, stubborn, until Aegon tilts his head and straightens in his chair, irritated. Then Jace gives him a pleasant smile and releases your chair, moving to take his own seat beside you.

Maybe Luke was right—this is a dangerous game. But as he settles into the chair at your side, close enough that the sleeve of his tunic brushes lightly against your gown, he finds that he cannot bring himself to regret it in the slightest.

"I am a gentleman," Aegon finally complains, leaning his elbow on the table, head resting in his hand as he gives you a lazy smile.

"You are neither gentle nor man, valonqar," you drawl, leaning back in your seat to look at him. "I could not think of a word less fitting if I tried, and my vocabulary is vast."

Jace cannot even bring himself to feel pleased by your insult, because there is a casualness in the way you tease him that tells him this is familiar. The type of insult born from years in one another's company, where neither party has to wonder whether the other will take offense.

Aegon only grins. "How cruelly my own wife wounds me," he sighs. Then his smile sharpens, eyes meeting Jace's instead of yours—Jace is so focused on whatever Aegon is about to say that he almost forgets to stand as the kingsguard carries his grandsire through the door to sit at the center of the table. Aegon continues quietly, "Though you know better than most that I am very much a man, and as I recall, you rather prefer me when I am anything but gentle."

"Aegon the Crude," you roll your eyes and mutter.

Aegon winks at you and says in response, "Aegon the Generous. At least, that is what I have been told."

Jace flushes immediately, gaze averting to the side, trying to focus as Alicent leads a prayer and his grandsire begins a toasts to his brother and Rhaena's betrothal and failing miserably.

He hates the image that Aegon's words conjure almost as much as he hates the man for deliberately putting it there. You beneath him, back arched as Aegon's hands roam where Jace aches to place his own, his mouth tracing the bare skin of your throat while his body presses yours into the mattress, you panting his name as he stretches you open, silver instead of brown, pale, unblemished skin instead of sun-kissed freckled.

His stomach twists. The jealousy is vicious, burning through his veins with enough force to make him want to reach across the table and wipe that smug expression from Aegon's face. Under the jealousy is something far worse—hotter, more shameful, awakened by the very image he wants desperately to banish from mind. Because the thought of Aegon with you is unbearable, but the thought of you—

That is the problem. He cannot picture you in such a state without imagining himself taking Aegon's place. His hands, his mouth, his body, his name, his hair. Is that how you like it? he cannot help but wonder, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Whenever Jace has imagined being with you—far more often than he would ever confess, one hand wrapped around his cock, head tilted back against his bed frame—it had always been different. Slow and tender, he would take his time with you, kissing you as though he has eight lost years to make up for, touching you with a reverence bordering on worship. He has imagined your arms wrapped around him and your forehead pressed to his, breathy words exchanged in the darkness as the two of you lost yourselves in one another.

But maybe that is not what you want. Maybe you prefer something less tender.

He swallows thickly, warmth creeping higher beneath his collar as the question takes root. What would you want from him, then, if tenderness alone would not satisfy you? His imagination betrays him at once: his chest pressed firmly against your back, his mouth at your ear, one hand sliding up to curl around your throat as he holds you close to him. He imagines turning your face toward his, mouth finding yours messily, panting, gasping, soft moans and ragged cries of his name.

Would you like him that way? Is that what you would want from him? He has never pictured it happening like that, but he could do it, he thinks—he could do anything you want, be anything you want.

Jace shifts in his seat, exhaling hard through his nose as he tries to focus on what his grandsire is saying—he should be ashamed, having thoughts like this at supper while you are sat at his side, oblivious. What is wrong with him?

Once he is certain that his mind is clear of the disgraceful images circulating through his head, he dares to spare a glance back at you. You are leaning back in your seat, head tilted back slightly so you can look up at the ceiling, looking as though you would rather be anywhere else.

It is horribly rude, he thinks, fighting a smile, considering your father, the king, is across from you, attempting to address the entire table, and you have apparently decided that whatever intricacies decorate the ceiling are infinitely more deserving of your attention.

Then, his gaze traitorously slips down the slope of your neck. He catches himself before it can wander any farther, eyes snapping dutifully back to your face, but the damage is already done. His mind drifts back to where he had only just freed it from—to the weight of his hand there, palm curved against your throat, thumb resting beneath your jaw.

Jace swallows thickly, suddenly wondering whether you would still look so carelessly bored then. Whether that distant expression would finally disappear as he leaned close behind you, breath warm against your ear, and demanded your attention in full for himself. He catches himself before his mind can go down another spiral.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Then, your eyes slide sideways and meet his. Jace immediately realizes he has been caught staring and flushes. One of your brows arches. You ask silently, what?

Jace shakes his head quickly, jaw tightening. Your eyes narrow, and he looks away. He sees you tilt your head curiously from the corner of his eye, and then, he feels your foot brush against his ankle beneath the table.

His entire body goes rigid, gaze snapping toward you. You are still watching him, curiosity flickering in your eyes, and Jace knows that this was an innocent touch. You were only trying to get his attention after he so pointedly looked away from you—he should move his leg away and that should be the end of it, but… but instead, something reckless takes hold of him.

He inhales deeply before he shifts his leg beneath the table until his knee presses against yours. Your brows lifts, and his heart pounds as he waits for you to pull away. You do not.

Emboldened, Jace lets the contact remain, the length of his leg resting deliberately against yours beneath the cover of the tablecloth. It is such a small thing—hardly anything at all, really—but with the thoughts that had been consuming him only moments before, the warmth of you against him feels unbearably intimate.

He wonders, do you think anything of it? Is the reason you do not pull away because this is no different from the countless casual touches you shared when the two of you were young? Or is there some small part of you that is as aware of the contact as he is? That feels the warmth of his leg pressed against yours, that knows there is a distinct lack of innocence behind the touch, but you do not move away because, perhaps, you want him close too?

Jace turns his attention forward as though nothing has happened, and from the corner of his eye, he sees you glance down toward the tablecloth and then back at him.

"You know," Aegon suddenly murmurs, leaning over you to address Jace. Jace's heart skips a beat, wondering if he noticed the contact hidden beneath the table, but Aegon's gaze betrays nothing. "It's a shame your younger brother was betrothed before you. I'd rather hoped that marriage might finally afford you the opportunity to discover what it is like to share a woman's bed."

Jace scoffs under his breath, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. He glances at Aegon, and then his gaze drifts toward you—you are staring forward, face refusing to betray whatever thoughts are running through your mind with his leg pressed to yours the way it is.

Jace finally looks up at his uncle with a faint curve of his lips and asks easily, "What makes you think I haven't discovered it already?"

Your attention immediately snaps toward him, brows furrowed and gaze sharp, and Jace is thrown off momentarily by the intensity in it. There is something there, he realizes—surprise, certainly, but something that looks suspiciously like displeasure flickers across your face before you manage to smooth it away.

His pulse quickens. Are you jealous?

The thought is so hopeful and self-serving that he immediately tells himself he has imagined it. Why should you care whether he has shared another woman's bed? You are married—you have been married for eight years. Surely, you cannot expect him to have spent all that time—

Well, he has, but you do not know that.

Aegon catches a laugh before he can make a scene while the king is still speaking, grin sharpening as he looks at you pointedly and then tilts his head to the side to look at Jace more head on. "Oh? Have you now? Has our lovely little nephew wet his cock at last?"

Jace drags his attention from you with considerable effort and says, "I don't recall my private affairs being any concern of yours."

"They aren't," Aegon says easily, leaning back in his chair with a grin. "I am merely curious."

"Then remain curious, uncle."

"And let us toast to Prince Lucerys as well," his grandsire says, a tired smile on his face as he lifts his goblet to Jace's younger brother. Your gaze drifts over to Luke briefly, and he forces himself to follow, giving his brother a small smile when he sees how he stiffens beneath the attention of the full room. "The future Lord of the Tides."

Jace races his cup to his brother, ignoring as Aegon's grin widens when he leans in again. He can feel your gaze still fixed upon the side of his face, far more distracting than anything your husband could possibly say.

Then Aegon murmurs to you, "See, wife. It seems your perfect little prince may not be so perfect after all."

Aegon sounds openly bitter, and you make a noise in the back of your throat—a scoff or a laugh. Jace pauses. Your perfect little prince. The words warm some silly, childish part of his chest. Do you really talk about him, praise him, so much around Aegon that your husband is resentful over it?

Then he hesitates. Does the thought of him seeking pleasure in another woman's bed sit uneasy with you because, somewhere in your mind, Jace is still the sweet little boy you raised years ago? Or does it disturb you because you do not want him in another woman's bed at all? He finds himself deflating slightly, because one option is far more likely than the other. He needs to know.

Your eyes flick toward him, and he holds your gaze this time. There is an expression on your face that he cannot decipher. Something about it makes him feel strangely guilty, any delight he might have felt over the prospect of you being jealous trickling away.

It is absurd. He has done nothing. The entire insinuation is a lie of his own making, a careless remark offered only because he refused to let Aegon embarrass him. Yet suddenly, Jace feels as though he has disappointed you somehow—as though the perfect little boy you have apparently preserved in your memory all these years has returned to you a man, and, within the span of a single evening, revealed himself to be just as capable of vice as the brother you married.

Except he is not, he wants to tell you desperately. There have been no women. There has only ever been you.

His attention drifts to the side when the low murmur of conversation around the table begins to fade, the scrape of silverware against plates quieting as his grandsire struggles to his feet to speak. Jace reluctantly tears his gaze from you.

"It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table," Viserys begins, voice strained with exertion, breath shuddered. "The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other in the years past."

He hears you make a noise in the back of your throat, leaning back in your chair again as you share an unreadable look with Aegon. Jace hates it, fingers tightening in his lap as he wonders what passed between you in that single glance—what understanding eight years together has afforded the two of you that he cannot hope to decipher.

Then, your leg shifts against his. He thinks you might be pulling away, but you only press the side of your leg harder against his. Jace's breath catches, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales, gaze cutting to the side, but you are still looking at Aegon, talking to one another without speaking.

Was that an accident or intentional?

"My own face… is no longer a handsome one, if indeed it ever was," he distantly hears his grandsire continue, but his pulse is roaring in his ears again, throat bobbing as he tries to figure out if he should press his luck. Would it be too much to shift his leg beneath yours, to nudge your feet apart, spread your legs a little just to see how you react? The thought alone sends a wildly inappropriate rush of heat through him. "But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king… but your father, your brother, your husband… and your grandsire. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer among you."

Would you startle and pull away, finally realizing there is nothing innocent about the game he is playing beneath the table? Or would you let him? Would you glance at him with that same unreadable expression and leave your legs parted at his behest? How far will you let him go before you stop pretending not to understand what he's doing? Or have you already?

Gods, has he lost all sense? His grandsire is speaking of his death, of a house broken nearly beyond repair, and Jace is sitting at his table contemplating how far he might push the boundaries of your affection before you finally push back. Shame burns hot across his face, and he forces himself to remain perfectly still, ridding himself of all thoughts to slide his foot between your legs to nudge your knees apart.

"Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts," Viserys continues, his labored voice drawing Jace's attention forward again. "The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly."

Jace hears you inhale, looking away from Aegon at last, and his gaze drifts back to you. The boredom gone, along with whatever had passed between you and your husband, and you stare at your father with something far more complicated written across your face. Jace watches as your jaw tightens and brows furrow as you look down at the empty plate in front of you.

In Jace's defense, when his hand settles on your thigh beneath the tablecloth, he really, really does mean it only as comfort.

But your entire body stills and everything between the two of you changes. Jace feels it happen in the span of a single hitched breath—the moment the touch ceases to be innocent, when the warmth of his palm against your leg, fingertips pressing into the plush skin of your thigh, becomes something neither of you can reasonably mistake for the affection of a nephew comforting his aunt. His fingers remain perfectly still, but every nerve in his body is suddenly alive and tingling.

He does not dare to look at you now, attention pinned ahead as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, heart pounding in his chest, pulse roaring in his ears.

Somewhere beyond you, his mother rises to her feet. He distantly hears her speak of Queen Alicent, hears the scrape of a goblet being lifted, and the answering murmur as Alicent stands in return. The entire table seems to be listening as the two women raise their cups to one another after years of tension and resentment. Jace hears almost none of it.

His fingers tighten around your thigh slightly, accidentally, really, but when you still do not bat his touch away, his hand slides up slightly, thumb stroking over the fabric of your gown. Your breath catches again as you stare ahead, lashes fluttering slightly, and Jace's stomach clenches, heat rushing downward so quickly that he has to stop himself from shifting in his seat.

Then, Aegon rises. Jace watches warily as the prince steps out from his chair, subtly drawing his hand back into his lap. Aegon makes his way around you in Jace's direction, moving with the lazy confidence of someone already well into his cups. He stops behind Jace's chair and bends slightly, obnoxiously reaching across the table for the wine.

"I see it, you know," Aegon murmurs beneath the swell of conversation. Jace goes rigid. "The way you look at my wife."

Jace's jaw flexes as he forces himself not to react to Aegon's words. He stares ahead blankly. He cannot afford to lose grip of his temper—not here, not ever, but especially not here with the Queen and the Hand and both of his uncles watching him keenly for any and every mistake.

"Like a loyal hound, aren't you? Ten years is rather impressive," Aegon says quietly with a widening smile. "If you're so desperate to know what she's like, I'd be willing to give you a demonstration sometime. Save you all the trouble of wondering what pleases her."

Jace is on his feet in an instant, fist slamming so hard against the table that conversation silences and all eyes swivel to him.

"Jace," Baela hisses quietly, eyes wide.

"Don't," you say under your breath, quiet enough that only he can overhear.

On the far end of the table, Aemond rises to his feet slowly, head tilted to the side as though daring Jace to raise a hand to Aegon. For one terrible moment, Jace wants to. Damn the consequences—he'll put his fist into Aegon's jaw and knock the smug smirk right off of his face. He does not care that he'll walk right into the trap—angry and reckless, humiliated before the entire family—not if it means getting to watch him stumble back, bruised and bloodied.

Then, his gaze drops down to you, and he sees the severe expression on your face, expression hard and gaze sharp with warning. Jace exhales hard through his nose, glancing back slowly at Aegon.

The older prince grins shamelessly, leaning back again—the audacity to look amused as though he had not just spoken of you like some common whore whose intimacy could be displayed for another man's entertainment. He has never deserved you, Jace thinks furiously. Jace would never talk about you like this to another man, would never treat you with anything less than the devotion you deserve. It is infuriating that Aegon gets everything Jace has ever wanted and does not even have the decency to be appreciative of it.

Jace presses his tongue to the inside of his teeth, forcing the white-hot fury at bay as he smiles, strained. He says at last, "You should mind your cups, uncle. It is only the beginning of the evening, and you are already speaking in twisted tongues."

Irritation flashes across Aegon's face; he barely withholds a roll of his eyes, realizing that not only is he not going to get the reaction he wants, but Jace was able to get in a public dig at his drinking habits. Jace's smile is a little less forced and a little more mocking as Aegon makes his way back to his seat.

Then, his gaze shifts down to you. Your eyes meet his, and you tilt your head to the questioningly, wondering why he's still standing. He holds his hand out to you and murmurs, "Would you do me the honor of a dance, muña?"

"Yes, yes," his grandsire suddenly says, leaning forward and waving his hand. "The music."

You give him a small, indulgent smile before placing your hand in his and allowing him to help you to your feet. Your husband has settled back into his chair, sipping at his refilled goblet, but the careless amusement from moments before has vanished. His eyes follow Jace as he steps closer to you, releasing your hand only to settle his palm against the small of your back.

Jace hold's Aegon's gaze momentarily as he guides you away from the table, and he cannot help the faint satisfaction that curls in his chest—childish and vindictive and spiteful, but he does not care.

Behind him, another chair scrapes against the floor. Baela calls brightly, "Helaena—cousin. Dance with me?"

Jace glances back in time to see Helaena blink in surprise before a hesitant smile spreads across her face as she rises to her feet, lifting her skirts slightly as she shuffles over to Baela.

Maegor and Maegelle are quick to steal Rhaena, working in union to each grab a hand to drag her out of her seat, despite her vocal protests and pleas for her father and Rhaenyra and you to get them to release her. For the first time that evening, laughter begins to spread naturally around the table, and Jace turns his attention back on you, lips curled up into a small smile.

Your smile matches his as you say with a short laugh, "The last time we danced, you were half the height and I led."

"Well," Jace says, voice lower than he intends. "I am a man grown now. Perhaps it is time you let me take the lead."

Your brows lift, and Jace realizes what the words sound like only after they have already left his mouth. Heat creeps up the back of his neck—perhaps it is time you let me take the lead. After his lingering touch at your thigh and the thoughts that had plagued him at the table—wondering how you like to be touched, what you might want from him, what it would be like to take you in full—the words suddenly sound far less innocent than he intends for them to be.

Did you hear it too?

He cannot tell. The corners of your mouth curl upward, and Jace swears he sees something knowing flicker in your eyes before you question, "And what makes you so certain I would enjoy letting you do that?"

His pulse jumps. Surely that was intentional, wasn't it? You could have phrased that a hundred different ways that did not sound so—

Is he just reading too much into it? Jace cannot tell and it's driving him crazy. He swallows thickly. There is still time to retreat—to laugh it off and make some jest about how much his dancing has improved since he was a boy—but instead, he lifts his chin slightly.

He leans his head in slightly. "You should give me the opportunity to prove myself," he replies, finding himself growing bolder. "You might find I have learned a great deal since you last had me in your hands.

Your gaze searches his face for a moment before you tilt your head in acquiescence and step closer, allowing him to guide you into position.

"Very well, mandianna," you murmur at last. "Show me what you have learned."

Jace's heart pounds. He cannot tell whether the conversation is still about dancing.

The musicians start the opening of the song, and Jace takes your hand properly in his, his other settling at your waist as he leads you into the first steps. He remembers enough not to embarrass himself, thankfully, despite the fact that he has hardly danced at all over the last few years, but he is far too conscious of you to focus fully on the rhythm—your palm is warm against his, and you let him guide your body as he pleases.

"There," he says when you follow him through a turn without resistance. "This is not so difficult, is it?"

Your eyes narrow playfully. "Do not become arrogant, Jacaerys. You have only just begun. I'm hardly impressed yet."

Jace's mouth curves upward. Bolder, he says, "Then I suppose I shall have to pace myself, so that I may keep going until you're satisfied."

You inhale sharply through your nose, gaze more calculating now as you stare at him. His heart pounds as he waits for you to reply, because there is no ignorance to the twofold meaning to his words this time.

"Careful, mandianna," you murmur. "Someone might misunderstand you."

Jace's hands tightens at your waist as he pulls you closer for the next step of the dance. He lowers his voice as he says, "That depends entirely upon what you believe I meant."

You squint at him, and Jace slows with the music as the kingsguard prepares to return his grandsire to his chambers. He stands at your side, one hand still resting lightly on your mid back, as they gather around the king's chair and carefully lift it from the floor.

You both incline your heads dutifully as they carry him past, remaining silent until the guards disappear beyond the doors. Jace feels you draw a slow breath beside him, the playful tension between you momentarily forgotten as you stare to where your father had left.

You tell him quietly, "You are testing your luck, Jacaerys."

"Am I?" he questions, searching your face. Is this your way of warning him that his attention is unwanted, an attempt to draw a boundary he has been too blinded by hope to see? Or is it the opposite? The not knowing is enough to drive him mad. "Then let me know where my luck ends, muña. Speak with me tonight."

He hates that it comes out pleading when he was going for confidence.

You let out a soft puff of air, but before you get the chance to give him an answer, Aemond slams his fist against the dinner table and rises to his feet, cup in hand. Jace startles at the noise, glancing at Luke, who is still sitting at the table and looks closer to frightened fawn than man, and realizes he must have done something to set off Aemond. Jace stiffens, hand dropping from your back as he braces himself for whatever is about to be said.

"Final tribute," Aemond drawls,raising his cup to Luke and then to Jace. Baela and Helaena pause from where they were dancing around each other, laughter fading. Even the twins share a look with one another, slowing in their chaotic dance with Rhaena. "To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… Strong."

"Aemond," Alicent says carefully.

Jace exhales hard through his nose, fists tightening at his side as he tilts his head. He knows what Aemond wants—the knowledge should make it easier to ignore him, but somehow, it only makes the anger worse. Only hours ago, Vaemond had stood before the entire court and called his mother a whore, naming Jace and his brother bastards. His body has scarcely grown cold, and now Aemond stands beneath the same roof, moments after his dying father pleaded for unity, as he renews life to the accusation.

Aemond's lips curl up into a smug smile as he continues louder.

"Come," he announces, louder this time, ensuring that every person in the room hears him clearly, "let us drain our cups to these three Strong boys."

He should let it go. He should not give Aemond the reaction he wants.

"I dare you to say that again," Jace says before he can stop himself, raising his chin as he stares at Aemond.

Aemond raises his eyebrows with faux innocence.

"Why? It was only a compliment." Jace feels your fingers close around his wrist the moment he starts to move forward, and for a fleeting second, the touch stops him from doing something he cannot take back. Then Aemond meets his eyes directly and asks, "Do you not think yourself Strong?"

Jace tears his wrist from your grasp and drives his fist into Aemond's face before he can think better of it. Pain bursts across his knuckles, but the satisfaction Jace expects never comes. The moment his fist connects, the room erupts around him. Chairs scrape hard against stone as Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Alicent rise to their feet. Aegon slams Luke's face hard into the table when he rises to help Jace. Someone shouts Jace's name, telling him to stop. The twins scream in surprise. Jace hardly hears any of it, lunging forward again, only to be yanked backward.

"Enough, Jacaerys," you hiss, fingers digging hard into his bicep as you pull him back, shoving him hard when his gaze flits above your shoulder back to Aemond.

He turns toward you, chest heaving, because why is it he that you are telling enough? It is Aemond who started this, Aemond who all but called him and his brothers bastards for all to hear, Aemond who stands there smugly. Betrayed, he wonders, how could you take his side? Was he misreading everything after all? The shared look with Aegon, his arm around you in the training yard, entertains both brothers—

"Take Maegor and Maegelle back to their chambers," you say coolly, "before you make this worse than it already is."

For a moment, he can only stare at you in disbelief. He knows you are right to an extent—he is making a scene, and the last thing his family needs right now are more whispers circulating about them. Somewhere beneath the fury and betrayal, he knows it perfectly well, but the dismissal still burns with Aemond standing there watching, bloodied mouth curling into the start of another insufferable smile.

Then Daemon steps forward, gaze meeting his momentarily, as though daring him to defy you, before he steps between him and Aemond, his attention turning to the older prince instead.

Jace scoffs, looking away, and just as he is about to turn on his heel to leave, you reach out again, thumb pressing briefly against his pulse. You lean in this time as you speak, voice low enough that only he can overhear what you say: "You and I will talk later."

His anger falters, gaze searching yours before he finally nods, swallowing his pride and whatever protest is left lingering on his tongue as he obeys without argument.

————————————

Jace stands outside your door for nigh an hour trying to work up the courage to knock.

Ser Steffon Darklyn watches him with open curiosity from where he stands vigilant at your door. Every time Jace throws a vicious glare in his direction, the man averts his gaze back to the sprawling corridor leading to your chambers, and then he returns to observing Jace, not moments later, the next time he lifts his hand to knock and drops it back at his side.

Is it true? Do you favor Aegon and Aemond now? Have years away—

"My prince," Ser Steffon finally says, clearing his throat, and Jace's gaze lifts to the older man, cold. "Would you like me to announce your arrival to the princess?"

A sharp no is about to fly off his tongue when he hesitates, glancing at the door to your apartments one last time before he nods once, raising his chin and looking away.

He ignores the amused expression on Ser Steffon's face out of courtesy for you, because he knows that you have long favored the man for being the first to indulge your requests to learn the sword.

Ser Steffon knocks politely twice before he pushes the heavy door open and says, "Princess, the prince Jacaerys has been waiting outside your chambers for some time now. Would you see him?"

Jace flushes hot and fast, all courtesy for you disappearing as he glares wildly at the knight's back, because there was no reason for him to say he's been waiting for some time.

"Oh," he hears you say. The anger drains into nerves instantly as he raises his chin and stiffens slightly. "Let him in."

Jace exhales hard through his nose, gaze flicking up as Ser Steffon inclines his head before stepping to the side to allow Jace past. He gives the older man a serious side eye as he steps forward, but Ser Steffon ignores it, letting Jace into the room before shutting the door behind him.

Jace knows exactly what he's going to say: he's going to demand to know why it was him and not Aemond you told to back down earlier, he's going to ask if you are happy, he's going to tell you to let him know where his luck ends as you promised at supper.

Then, his gaze meets yours and you are wearing thin, silk night slip at your vanity, a platter of fruits before you, and every thought drifts away like dust in the wind. His lips part as he stares at you—the soft black fabric inching up your thigh, the strap threatening to slide down your shoulder, the way you tilt your head to the side curiously when you see how his pupils are suddenly blown wide as he stares at you.

Aggravation hits him just as swiftly as desire, because were you really dressed like this for that kingsguard of yours to see? Jace flushes hot as he looks around wildly before his gaze falls upon a robe draped over your dresser, he grabs it furiously and then tosses it at you.

"Put it on," he hisses. He hates the amused look you give him as you rise to your feet and slide the robe of your shoulders. It is hardly better, but Jace can actually bring himself to meet your eyes now. He demands, "You let your sworn shield see you dressed like that?"

You tilt your head. "It is not my fault you came to me when I was getting ready to sleep. I waited for you for three hours, mandianna—I resigned to bed because I figured you were upset and would not come."

Petulantly, Jace crosses his arms and raises his chin as he asks, "And why would I be so upset that I would not come?" simply because he wants to hear you say the answer.

You tilt your head with an amused smile. You say easily, "Because I sent you to your chambers after Aemond antagonized you."

Jace instantly points at you, vindicated. "And tell me, why should I be the one chastised when it was your half-brother who purposely reignited the rumors that were just put to question not hours before?"

"Because the realm expects more of you, Jacaerys," you say dryly without hesitation, taking a seat on the edge of your bed and motioning for him to join you. Jace falters at your words, shoulders slumping slightly, feet shuffling against the burgundy carpets as he makes his way over to you. "These rumors will be ignited and snuffed continuously throughout your life and reign. Do you plan to strike every courtier who dares reference your strength?"

Jace's eye twitches. "If they mean it as a slight concerning my—" His jaw tightens over the word parentage, unable to force it out. He finished simply, "Perhaps."

When you immediately give him a sidelong glance, he bristles in defense. He demands, "Do you think I forgot that you, yourself, said that we would meet such accusations with dragonfire, and you chastise me for striking?"

You raise your eyebrows, hand lifting to grab his chin firmly. Jace silences beneath your touch, breath catching when he feels how the blunt tips of your nail dig into his cheeks.

"No, you stupid boy," you say sharply. Jace thinks he should be offended by the insult, but he can hardly focus on anything besides the feeling your fingers hot against his skin and the fact that beneath the robe he handed you, you only wear a thin night slip. "I said that I would meet such accusations with dragonfire. You cannot afford such—”

You do not finish whatever you're about to say, hand dropping back to your side with an exhale, but Jace can imagine, swallowing thickly as he remembers your fury following the prank he, Aegon, and Luke played on Aemond. Shame coils low in his gut as he looks away.

"I should not have struck him," he finally says quietly, "but he deserved it."

You huff out a laugh through your nose. "He deserved far more than a strike," you say at last. "He is insolent. Alicent coddled him after what happened in Driftmark. He has become insufferable."

Jace hates the familiarity with which you speak of him. It makes his stomach turn, sourness building in the back of his throat. It is he and Luke and Joffrey you should be speaking of with such familiarity—not your half-brothers.

You do not even know Joffrey, Jace realizes, a lump in his throat. You do not know his favorite color or his favorite story, that he dislikes sweets and has taken to High Valyrian better than Jace ever did. You do not know Joffrey, or Aegon, or Viserys. It is not fair—none of this is fair.

"He is a prick," Jace mutters.

"That too," you agree, and Jace cannot help the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips as he looks down.

You rise to your feet. Jace's gaze shifts up questioningly, but you're making your way across the room to a table, you lift a flagon of wine and then look over your shoulder at him, lifting it and motioning toward him. Jace hesitates before he nods—you have never offered him wine before. The last time he remembers, Aegon had tried to slip him some as a joke at Lucerys's eighth nameday celebration, and you had slapped the back of his head so hard that his uncle had nearly cried.

"I have grown fond of it over the past few years," you say absently as you turn two goblets right side up and fill up both generously. "Wine, I mean. The gods know the twins drive me to it."

Jace is grateful for something to begin with, because he had struggling with how to approach the conversation he wants to have. He fixes his posture as you finish pouring the glasses and make your way back over to him.

He says, "They have grown." He winced at the observation—it has been eight years, obviously, they have grown. "You—" He cuts himself off abruptly, unsure how to phrase what he realizes he's about to say. Finally, he finishes, "You appear to have a good relationship with them."

I hate them sometimes, he remembers you crying to his mother nearly a decade before when Jace was not supposed to be listening. I wanted to love them the same way you loved Jacaerys—

You hum lightly as you pass him his goblet, and he fights a shiver when your fingers brush his. You do not respond right away, sitting back down carelessly at the top of the bed, relaxing back against the pillows.

Jace's throat spasms as he swallows a large gulp of the sweet Arbor Red. He has sat in bed with you hundreds of times before, but never with this type of intimacy—always two children curled up with one another, now you are both adults, sipping on wine, close enough to feel the heat on one another's skin. His chest is tight with nerves.

He could imagine this—life with you, life like this. Returning to his chambers after long days at court to you lounging in your robe against the pillows, smiling when you see him, a glass of wine in hand and another poured for him. He wants it desperately—more than he has ever wanted anything in his entire life.

"Children do tend to grow in eight years," you reply dryly as you take a long sip of your wine, not acknowledging the second half of his statement for a long moment. After what feels like an eternity, you finally smile wryly and tell him, "I struggled the first few years—to be a mother for them, that is."

"You were only a child yourself," Jace notes quietly. "You cannot be blamed."

Something softens in your face at his words—he wonders if anyone has ever acknowledged that beside his mother, or if they had simply placed two infants in your arms and expected you to be a mother for them, as though bringing two children into the world had somehow made you cease to be one yourself. Jace hates it—the idea of you being alone, struggling, drowning beneath expectations and exhaustion and no one around you willing to do everything Jace would have done without hesitation had he been allowed to be there.

"I was angry at them for a time," you admit after a long silence, staring into your wine. "I knew it wasn't their fault deep down, but I was—I was so weak after they were born, Jacaerys. I could barely walk without someone helping me. I could not climb stairs without feeling as though I might collapse. I could not ride. I could not fly. Zūgaxes would call for me, and I could not even get to him."

Jace knows this, but he doesn't dare interrupt you, gaze focused on the pinched corners of your mouth and the way your gaze lowers to your dark sheets.

He remembers seeing you at Driftmark during Lady Laena's funeral, remembers the way you could barely hold yourself up, the way your dresses were hanging from your shoulders, what you said to his mother when you thought the two of you were alone. He remembers the weariness in your eyes and the exhaustion plain on your face when you thought no one was looking, but he was always looking at you.

"Everyone kept telling me how fortunate I was," you continue, exhaling through your nose as you look away. "Two healthy babes. A son and daughter. They would place them in my arms and tell me how much I must love them, how happy I must be, and all I could think about was everything I could no longer do."

He wants to reach out for you. His fingers twitch in his lap as he holds his goblet carefully. Your free hand is not too far away—he could take it in his, entwine your fingers, squeeze it lightly.

I'm here, he wants to tell you, and if you want me to stay, I won't leave again.

"I tried to leave them behind and fly to Dragonstone once—after the birth," you tell him, drawing him from his thoughts. His hand settles back in his lap as his gaze lifts to the heavy expression on your face. "I did not even make it to the Blackwater before I fell unconscious upon Zuzu. I hadn't even been strapped in properly, because my fingers weren't strong enough to clip myself in. I would have fallen to my death had he not sensed when I lost conscious and turned around. I think I knew it was a risk when I was climbing atop him. I think a part of me would have preferred it."

He does not think you mean to say that last part aloud, because your expression immediately twists, and Jace feels sick. The wine he just sipped threatens to come up as he imagines you alone in the sky, barely conscious and too weak to properly secure yourself. What would have happened if Zūgaxes had not been able to get you back safely? Before he can stop himself, he imagines your hands slipping from his saddle, your body falling through open air. He imagines his mother receiving word on Dragonstone, and him—

"Do not say that," he whispers, jaw so tight that it is almost painful. "Do not say you would have preferred to die. I—I cannot—I do not want–"

Jace does not know a life without you. His first memories are of Vermax's green scales and the warmth of your arms around him. You have been the center of his life for as long as he can remember, and he has loved you just as long. You are as essential to him as air, water, food—there has never been a version of his world in which you did not exist somewhere within it, even during the two years of silence before Driftmark.

He would think of you every day, crying incessantly into his mother's skirts, demanding to know why you would not answer his ravens, what he had done to make you stop loving him. Rhaenyra would hold him while he sobbed himself sick, rubbing his back as he clung to her and begged her to bring you back. It had hurt, and not in the vague, aching way that people often spoke of missing someone, but in a way that manifested physically. His chest ached until it became difficult to breathe, and his stomach turned whenever he thought too long about the possibility that you had forgotten him. More than once, his mother had summoned Maester Geradys because she had been convinced Jace was falling ill. Those two years had nearly ruined him; he cannot imagine an eternity without you.

"Please," he finally says quietly, unable to even bring himself to meet your gaze. "Just—"

"Come here, mandianna," you murmur.

Jace comes without need for any more prompting, eyes sliding shut as you take the goblet from him and place it on your bedside table. Then your arms are around him, and Jace folds into you with a quickness that is more instinctual than anything else. For a fleeting second, he is ten years old again, small enough to bury himself against you and believe nothing terrible could happen as long as you held him tightly enough. His arms wind tightly around your waist, face pressing into the crook of your neck as you draw him closer, one hand settling against the back of his head.

He breathes you in—the familiar lavender and the faint trace of wine—his throat is painfully tight as he sinks into you.

"You have always been so sweet," you sigh into his hair, gently combing through the dark curls at the back of his neck, nails scratching his scalp lightly. Jace can hardly keep his eyes open as he presses his forehead to your warm skin. "So terribly sensitive."

Jace's eyes snap open as he pulls back just enough to frown at you, indignant. "You just spoke of—" He cannot finish the sentence, shaking his head as he protests, "I am not sensitive."

"Mm," you say, and you clearly do not believe him from the amused smile on your lips. "Of course not."

The amusement in your eyes is mortifying, suddenly painfully aware that he is still clinging to you with his face tucked to your neck. He releases you reluctantly, clearing his throat as he sits upright.

"You do not sound as though you believe me," Jace scowls, looking away.

This is not how this was supposed to go. He had come here determined to make you see him differently. He had spent the entire evening testing the boundaries between you, trying to prove that he was no longer the little boy who followed you everywhere and pretended to be asleep so you would carry him around. He wanted you to look at him and see a man—a man capable of protecting you, loving you, satisfying you, a man worthy of being called your husband.

Instead, within half an hour of entering your chambers, he has nearly cried in your arms. Wonderful.

"Pouting does not befit you, mandianna," you tease, leaning in to press your lips to his temple briefly before you reach for the goblet of wine you put to the side so that you could comfort him. He reaches for his own too, desperately in need of something to numb the embarrassment he feels. "Anyway, it has been a long time since then, Jacaerys. You do not need to worry; I do not feel that way anymore."

"What changed?" he asks you quietly, not daring to ask the question he really wants to know: are you happy now?

You stare at him inexplicably for a moment, as though you do not know how to answer, and then you smile lightly and turn your back to him, shuffling through the drawer near your bed to pull out two pieces of parchment.

The one you first show him is familiar—his cheeks heat up when he recognizes the drawing you set before him. He had forgotten it, or, rather, he had simply assumed it had been discarded years ago. The parchment is faded now, worn and yellowed with time, but the childish figures drawn across it remain unmistakable.

You stand at the center, a mess of scribbles and a big smile. Luke stands on one side of you and Jace stands at the other, both of them holding your hands with arms so long that it would be unsettling in reality. Rhaenyra and Laenor are squeezed into the remaining space, Rhaenyra little more than a head with an enormous crown and legs beneath her, and Laenor drawn absurdly tall, his smile taking up nearly half of his face. Above the five of you, several messily drawn dragons circle beneath a violently yellow sun.

Jace vaguely remembers making it. He and Luke had found you crying in one of the gardens after you thought everyone had gone to dinner. Neither of them had understood why, and you had wiped your face the moment you saw them, insisting nothing was wrong, but Jace had known better, so he and Luke had disappeared into his chambers armed with parchment and charcoal to make a gift for you.

Luke had drawn himself and Laenor, and Jace had drawn himself and Rhaenyra. They had argued terribly over who would draw you until Luke accidentally snapped his charcoal in half and solved the matter entirely. He remembers presenting it to you with Luke and telling you the same thing you had told them both dozens of times before: it is okay to be sad, so long as you are never sad alone.

"You kept this?" he asks with what he intends to be a laugh, but comes out too weak. "After all this time?"

"Of course," you say quietly, an unreadable expression on your face as you stare down at it. "Whenever I felt alone, I would take it out and remind myself that somewhere, there were people who loved me enough to draw me wildly disproportionate." Jace laughs, swallowing thickly as he looks up at you, heart fluttering at the soft expression on your face as you stare down at the picture. "It made me smile, even when I was sad."

He wants to reach out for you again, fingers twitching at his side. After a moment's hesitation, he does, slipping his hand into yours and entwining your fingers. His pulse pounds, half expecting you to pull away, but you do not, squeezing lightly as you finally show him the other piece of parchment.

"That's—" he begins, surprised, cutting himself off.

It's a replica of his and Luke's drawing, except a bit more sloppily drawn with two more tiny figures wedged on either side of you, each with a wild scribble of silver hair and big smiles.

"Maegelle said that I only smiled when I was looking at your drawing," you say quietly. "She and Maegor did not even know who any of you were then—I… I rarely spoke to them outside of when it was absolutely necessary. They only knew that these people made their mother happy, and they decided if they added themselves to the picture, perhaps they could make me happy too."

Jace does not know how to reply to that, staring down at the two little figures crudely squeezed into the new version of the drawing. He imagines the two children studying the first drawing, trying to understand why a bunch of scribbled strangers they had never met could make their mother smile when they could not, and rather than resent those strangers for possessing some piece of you that remained beyond their reach, they had simply decided to join them.

"I was awful to them, Jacaerys," you admit, voice breaking, and Jace hates seeing you like this. Hates seeing you sad. Hates the reminder that you have spent ten years alone, suffering, and he was stuck across the Blackwater, unable to do anything about it. He wants to wipe away your tears and hold you close the same way you did for him for years, but he doesn't know if you would let him. "When Maegelle cried, I would hand her off to Melynda and tell her to leave the room until she stopped crying. When Maegor reached for me, I would walk away. They didn't understand why I kept pushing them away, no matter how hard they tried to be near me, and they still only ever wanted me to be happy."

"Are you?" he finally dares to ask, voice little more than a breath. "Are you happy?"

You stare at him for a long moment, lips parting as though to answer, but no words leave them. Jace's heart is pounding again. What answer does he want to hear? Selfishly, he thought he wanted you to say no, so that he could be your knight in shining armor, your prince from a fairytale who would swoop you off your feet and carry you off to a brighter future.

Now, he isn't so sure, because the idea of you being unhappy for a decade, forced to content yourself with life so that you do not climb back onto Zūgaxes's back, knowing you might fall, makes him terribly sick.

"I love the twins," you finally say, thumb pressing over the little silver-haired figure that Jace assumes is Maegelle, if only because the hair is slightly longer than the other. "Even when they drive me mad. I have Zūgaxes. I can fly again. I can walk without someone hovering behind me—most days at least. Some days are still… difficult."

But are you happy? Jace wonders, a treacherous flicker of hope stirring inside him when he realizes you didn't mention Aegon.

"And Aegon?" he finally asks. His uncle's name tastes bitter in his mouth, and Jace feels your fingers tense between his. He watches you carefully, thumb stilling against your hand. He forces himself to press, "What of him? Does he make you happy?"

There it is again—that calculating expression you had worn earlier when his double-meaning words edged on too plainly spoken. Jace feels as though he has stepped onto dangerously thin ice, but instead of retreating, he finds himself leaning closer.

"Does he treat you right? Does he love you?" he murmurs, watching your face carefully. "Does he make you feel wanted?"

"Jacaerys," you start to say, voice low with warning.

Jace is undeterred. Perhaps it is the wine you gave him, the light buzz finally reaching his head, giving him all the confidence he needs to press the subject, or perhaps he is just desperate after having been plagued with uncertainty all day and all evening, but he cannot bring himself to back down.

"It is a simple question," he tells you quickly.

"No," you say quietly. "It is not."

His heart begins to pound. "Tell me," he insists. "Tell me that he loves you as he should. Tell me that he makes you happy. Tell me that you have never wanted for anything from him."

"This is none of your business," you tell him firmly, slipping your hand from his instead of answering. His skin tingles where yours had once been flush against his, and Jace's throat bobs as he tries to figure out what to do—should he press? Should he drop it? "You have no right to question me about my marriage."

"Why not?" he asks boldly, making his decision the moment he sees that dull expression from earlier in the night briefly cross your face again as your gaze flicks away.

"Why not?" you echo, giving him a disbelieving look.

"Yes," he says, agitated and unrepentant. "Why shouldn't I care whether or not you are happy?"

"That is not what I said," you sigh, shaking your head. "You are being deliberately obtuse."

"Then why don't you answer my question?"

"Because I do not owe you the details of my marriage, Jacaerys."

"I'm not asking for the details."

"Then what are you asking for?"

"I am asking for a simple answer," he tells you, reaching for your hands again, taking them both in his. He shifts onto his knees and leans in slightly, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Tell me. If he loves you, if he makes you happy, if he gives you everything you want, then it is an easy answer. I will never ask again."

It is a lie—he knows it the moment the words leave his mouth. He would ask himself every day for the rest of his life. He would lie awake wondering whether Aegon had touched you gently that evening, whether he had made you laugh, whether Jace might have had he been in his position instead. He would torture himself with knowledge that another man possessed everything Jace has wanted since he was old enough to understand wanting at all.

But he would leave you alone. If you told him that Aegon made you happy, Jace would bury whatever foolish hope had begun to take root inside of him today. He would accept that whatever he wanted from you could never be his and content himself with whatever place in your life you were willing to give him.

"What does it matter?" you finally ask him, shaking your head. He can see your defenses dropping in real time as you consider his question, a hopeless expression settling over your face as you look away from him again, but you do not pull your hands back. "What would it change, Jacaerys? If I told you that this marriage isn't what I'd wished, what would you do with that answer?"

Jace stares at you, and for one terrible moment, his mind goes completely blank of all of things he would do, everything that would change if you would just tell him what he needs to hear.

"Everything," he finally breathes out, pulse pounding, breath unsteady as his fingers tighten around yours. "I would do everything. Anything. I would—I could make you happy, muña."

"Jacaerys—" you start to say.

"I could," he insists. The words come louder this time, almost frantic, as though if he can only make you understand, everything will suddenly become simple. "I know I could. I know a part of you still looks at me and sees the boy I was when you left, but I'm not. I know I could be what you need."

"You do not know what you're saying," you say, shaking your head, but Jace's grip on your hands tightens. He shifts closer, desperate, knees pressing against yours as he tries to force you to hear him. "Jacaerys—"

"I do," he insists. His chest rising and falling too quickly, every shred of caution he possessed earlier in the evening abandoning him now. He has spent hours wondering how far you would let him go, months preparing for this moment, years fantasizing it. He cannot hide it anymore. He breathes, "I would be good to you. I would make you feel wanted. I would make certain you never have to wonder whether you are loved. I would never speak of you the way he did tonight. I would never treat loving you as though it were some burden I had been forced to carry."

Your lips part as you stare at him. He is so close to you that he can almost feel your breath on his lips, can see the way your pupils widen ever so slightly as you stare at him.

"I would choose you. Every day, I would choose you," he tells you softly, hands tightening around yours. "So tell me, what I am supposed to do, how I am meant to sit beside you and watch you be unhappy when I know—when I know that if you would only just let me—" He stops, swallowing hard. "I could make you happy."

You pull your hands away from his, and Jace feels cold, rejection spreading like ice through his veins as you shake your head and rise from the bed, stepping away from him.

"You do not know what you're saying," you say again, quieter.

Distantly, he recognizes that there is a distinct lack of conviction in your voice, that it seems more like you are trying to convince yourself than him, but it does not quell the rage that suddenly rises in his chest.

You still see him as a child.

"I am not a child anymore," he hisses, frustrated, rising to his feet, quick and angry.

"I did not say you were."

"You do not have to," he snaps, following you when you turn away from him. He grabs your wrist and forces you to face him again. He can feel your pulse hammering beneath his fingers when they circle your wrist. "You still look at me and see the boy who I was. I want you to look at me and see me."

"Jacaerys," you say, pleading for him to listen. "It would not change that I am married. It would not change that Aegon is my husband. What is it you want from me?"

"You," he answers before he can stop to think if maybe there is a better way of phrasing this. You stare at him, expression unsettlingly blank. "I want you. Gods, what do you think I have been trying to tell you?"

You swallow thickly, lips parting, but Jace barrels on before you can shut him down.

"I know that you are married." His voice rises with his frustration. "I know he is your husband. I know all of it, and I have spent years knowing it, and it has not made me want you any less."

"I do not know what you expect me to do."

"I don't know either!" The admission bursts from him, raw and almost angry. Jace drags a hand through his hair as he turns away for half a heartbeat to take in a shuddered breath before facing you again. A part of him had thought that once he confessed what he felt for you, everything would fall into place—that you would know what to do, as you always have."I don't know. I thought—I don't know." He laughs once, shaking his head, breathless and bitter. "I thought if I told you, perhaps I would know what came next. Or you would. Gods, I don’t know. But I cannot keep pretending that it does not ruin me to see you with someone who does not deserve you. To stand there and watch him take for granted what I have wanted for as long as I can remember and act as though it does not tear me apart. And then tonight—everything I felt before it was worse—stronger—because he was insufferable, and you kept looking at me like—" He stops himself, shaking his head. "You let me touch you. You knew what I meant when we danced. You knew what I was doing."

"I should have stopped you," you rasp, voice weak, catching over the words. "I—"

"But you didn't," Jace interrupts, taking a step closer, taking your hands in his again, "why didn't you?"

You stare at him so helplessly that Jace knows your answer without you even having to say anything.

"Muña," he breathes , trying to get you to listen to him. "Let me make you happy. Please. Kostilus."

Your eyes are wide, lips parted around a breath that never seems to come, and Jace waits, heart beating rapidly in his chest. He waits for you to tell him no, waits for you to order him from your chambers and finally draw the boundary he has spent the entire evening recklessly searching for.

You do none of those things. Instead, his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your gaze drops to his mouth. It is only for a heartbeat, perhaps less, but Jace sees it nonetheless, and whatever remains of his good sense abandons him entirely.

It all happens too quickly, all that desperate courage he has gathered over the course of the evening propels him forward before he has the slightest idea what he is doing. His nose bumps awkwardly against yours, and his mouth catches the corner of your lips instead of landing properly upon them.

Jace freezes, mortification washing over him. Neither of you moves for a horrible second, and he thinks, humiliated, that of all the ways he imagined this moment over the years, never once had he considered the possibility that he might fuck it up.

Then, you inhale sharply, turning your face toward his just enough that your lips brush his, and Jace stops breathing. His world narrows to that single point of contact between the two of you.

His hand rises to your cheek, trembling as his palm settles against your warm skin. This time, when he closes the distance, he does it slowly, eyes remaining fixed upon yours until his mouth presses to yours, your lips soft and sweet against his own. He braces himself for you to pull away, for you to tilt the lower half of your face out of reach. You do not.

Jace kisses you properly now. It is still too clumsy for his liking. He cannot figure out how to pace himself for the life of him. Too hesitant at first, then too eager when the realization finally crashes over him that this is you beneath his hands, your lips against his. He can taste the wine on your tongue, and the fruit from the platter you were picking at before he arrived.

Years of longing and an entire day of restraint unravel in the space of a heartbeat as he tilts your head back to kiss you deeper. His other hand finds your hip by instinct, drawing your body closer to his, and your breath hitches against his mouth. Jace kisses you until his lungs burn and his head feels light, and even then, he kisses you still, terrified that the moment he stops, you will send him away.

"I am sorry," he breathes when he is finally forced to part his lips from your, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged as he tries to catch it. He does not know what he's apologizing for. Kissing you? He is not sorry for that, and you certainly know it from the way he's holding you. His eyes are wide and searching as he tries to figure out where your mind is at. His thumb strokes helplessly along your cheek, gaze dropping back to your lips. "I should not have—I only thought you—"

His words dissolve into a low moan in the back of his throat when you press your lips against his this time. Jace's whole body feels hot and shaky. Your hands find his waist, and his lashes flutter when your lips move slowly against his, easing them open so that you might trace your tongue along the inside of his mouth.

Jace wonders if he is dreaming—a pleasant, wine-induced dream, and he would wake up in the morning hot and aching desperately for you, cursing himself for allowing his imagination to conjure something so terribly convincing.

But then your fingers tighten on his waist, and you pull him closer until his slim body is flush to yours, and Jace knows that it is real because no dream has ever felt like this before.

A shuddered breath escapes him against your lips, something between disbelief and relief, and whatever hesitation had seized him moments before disappears. You are kissing him. You are kissing him. He had stopped, apologized, given you every opportunity to push him away, and instead you closed the distance yourself.

He has imagined this dozens, hundreds of times before, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of having you like this, of having your lips on his, feeling your chest heaving and pulse pounding. Jace is dizzy with need—it is not enough, he has to have you in full.

His hands lift to your face, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head back as he kisses you again. A second time. A third. Needy and eager, you can hardly keep up with him, hands curled around his tunic, holding him close as he presses his mouth to yours like he wants to devour you. It is not enough.

"Muña," he breathes into your mouth, pulling your body closer so that he can feel you flush to him. He walks you backward until your back hits the cool stone wall of your chambers, and his lips slide messily from yours to your cheek, along the line of your jaw until he can kiss down your throat. "I just want you to be happy. I want to make you feel good."

The words aren't meant to come out as desperate as they do, pleading, begging you to just let him help you be happy, but you shiver against him all the same.

"Jacaerys," you gasp, breath hitching as he slides your robe off your shoulders, letting it drop to the ground at your feet. He lets out a low moan into the skin of your neck, fingers toying with the thin strap of your night slip. "I—"

"I will stay, if you'd let me," he continues, lashes fluttering as his teeth graze your collarbone. One hand lifts to entwine with your hair so he can tilt your head back gently, kissing back up the line of your throat until his lips hover above yours, eyes searching as he continues, "My mother plans to return to Dragonstone with the rest in the morning, but I will stay. With you. As I promised all those years ago. You only need say the word."

He does not know what the look in your eyes means as you stare at him. He hates that—hates there was once a time where he could look at you and know what you exactly what you were thinking, and hates that the privilege now seems to belong to Aegon.

He kisses you again, harder this time, deeper—if he cannot convey himself in words, he will do it through actions. He will kiss you hard enough that anytime you kiss another, you will only think of how perfectly his lips slotted against yours, deep enough so that you will taste him on your tongue when your husband tries to take your bed.

He lets out a low moan into your mouth as he drags his tongue along the roof of your mouth, the inside of your lips, gliding along your tongue. It is messier than he has imagined it in times past—when he would fist his cock pretending your lips were on his, he was kissing you slow and careful. Now, spit slicks around his lips and yours, and each breath of his is wet and ragged. He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth and rolls it between his teeth.

It is not enough, he thinks, kissing sloppily down your neck again, arms winding around your waist. He needs more.

"Jacaerys," you breathe his name again, and his gaze lifts to your face.

There is a haziness to your eyes that drives him crazy, a need that is only reflected in his own.

You want him, he thinks, inhaling shakily as his fingers bite into the skin at your waist. You want him as desperately as he wants you.

Before he can lose his courage, his hands slide up the curves of your body to shift the thin straps of your nightslip over your shoulders. His throat bobs, breath not reaching his lungs as he leans back just enough to watch as he lowers the slip from your body. The fabric catches briefly on your arms before sliding lower, and Jace's hands still, eyes sliding shut.

For all the times he has imagined this, he suddenly finds himself terrified to look.

It is ridiculous. He has conjured half a hundred different versions of you in the privacy of his chambers, pieced together by his traitorous imagination, but none of those fantasies had ever accounted for the sheer enormity of actually standing before you now. Of being allowed to see you. Of knowing that when he finally lowers his gaze, it will no longer be something imagined.

"Mandianna?"

His eyes reopen at last, and all the breath leaves his lungs in one fell swoop.

You are beautiful. The thought is almost painfully inadequate. He steps forward just enough to reach out for you again, fingers skimming along the bare skin of your waist, the curve of your hip. He has always known you were beautiful. He knew it when he was young and possessed no understanding of why he couldn't stop himself from giggling and hiding his face whenever you smiled at him. He knew it when he would have fits of irritation whenever a bard implied any noble lady other than you was the most beautiful woman in the room. He knew it in Driftmark, even when your eyes were tired and your body was weak and everyone around him said you looked closer to corpse than woman. He knew it when he saw you in the throne room earlier today, and for one humiliating moment, he had forgotten how to breathe. This is different.

"Gods," he whispers.

You tilt your head. "Is something wrong?"

"No." The answer comes so quickly that you laugh, and Jace flushes. "No, I—"

He fumbles for words. His hands continue their absent exploration, tracing the lines of your body with reverence. His gaze flicks up to your face, searching for the slightest sign you want him to stop, but you remain where you are.

"Iksā gevie," he breathes at last, and your expression softens.

You are beautiful.

Jace leans forward and kisses you again, gentler now. There is none of the frantic desperation from moments before, only the lingering wonder that you are really here, really allowing him to do this.

Then, the moment is ruined.

Aegon has seen you like this. The thought strikes him with enough force that his stomach twists, and he has to tilt the lower half of his face away from yours, parting from you as his jaw tightens. He cannot even relish in the fact that you find yourself chasing after his lips before he catches himself grimacing.

But now that the thought has crossed his mind, he cannot push it away. It sours inside him, curdling the sanctity of this moment.

Aegon has stood where he stands now. Aegon has known every part of you that Jace is only now discovering. Aegon's hands have been dozens, hundreds of times, where his only just touched for the first time. Eight years of marriage in which his uncle has been permitted an intimacy with you that Jace had only allowed himself to dream of.

"What is it?" you ask him, one hand coming up to his chin, tilting his face up so that he is looking at you.

"Nothing."

You tilt your head with an indulgent smile. "Jacaerys."

He exhales sharply through his nose, scowling as he looks away. It is foolish. He has you in front of him, bare and wanting, as he has dreamed, and instead of savoring in the moment, he is allowing your wretched husband to invade it.

"Does he tell you?" he asks you quietly. "That you're beautiful? Does he even know how fortunate he is to call you his wife?"

He would, Jace thinks darkly, if he knew the lengths Jace is willing to go to call you his.

Your lips part as you stare at him. Before you can dismiss the question with another shake of your head, he leans to ghost his lips against yours, relishing in the way you falter.

"Tell me," he murmurs against your lips. "Please, muña. I need to know."

"Enough of this, Jacaerys," you finally say roughly, turning your face away from his. Jace does not mind. He kisses you still, trailing his lips gently along your cheek, to your ear, down the length of your neck, easing the words from you. "He prefers whores. He only comes to me when he has indulged in a cup of wine."

Jace's mouth stills against your skin. He does not know why the words both anger and please him. He is glad that you do not lie with one another as frequently as he feared, you do not seek each other for pleasure as you do in his nightmares, but—but how dare he prefer whores to you? How dare he have the right to call you his wife, the right to your bed, arms, and cunt, and he still seeks out other women? If it were Jace—

If it were Jace, if it were Jace, if it were Jace.

"How often?"

"Jacaerys," you warn, voice low.

"Please, muña," he says again, glancing up at you. "I just want to know."

You relent when he looks up at you with beckoning eyes. You have always been weak for him when he looks at you like that, always struggled to deny him anything when he turns his eyes up to you, wide and pleading—he has taken advantage of it for as long as he could remember, and he takes advantage of it now.

You press your lips together and say, "Often enough."

Jace's blood runs hot. "And when he does?"

You sigh, tilting your head back against the stone, patience waning, and Jace quits while he's already behind, not wanting to risk an argument while you're bare and wanting in his arms for the first time. He busies himself at your neck again, kissing down the length of your throat slowly, fingers stroking the skin at your hip.

"It makes me angry," he admits, voice muffled slightly against your skin as he nips and licks at your neck. He continues lower, lashes fluttering as he trails open-mouthed kisses between the valley of your breasts. "Worse, really. There is no word that can articulate how it feels knowing that mongrel has everything I have ever wanted and treats you with such—" He cuts himself off abruptly, resting his forehead against your collarbone. "I only wish to see you treated as you deserve. I—"

I wish to be the one to treat you that way.

He does not give you the opportunity to respond again, lips finding your skin, mouth wandering lower. He presses lingering kisses along your skin—an apology for every careless touch you have endured because he was too young to do anything when your father handed you off to Aegon. He wants you to understand the difference without having to put it into words—that there is nowhere he would rather be, there is no woman in the world he would prefer to be abed with than you.

Your fingers slip uncertainly into his dark curls when he lowers himself to his knees before you.

"Jacaerys," you say hesitantly, and Jace glances up. The sight of you looking down at him with furrowed brows nearly steals what little courage he has managed to build up. "What are you doing?"

Jace does not fully know himself. The only experience he has comes from the poorly written romances he'd managed to sneak from Rhaena when she wasn't paying attention and the increasingly indecent conversations he had overheard from the men around him as he grew older, boasting crudely over cups of lovers beneath them, thighs closed tight around their ears—the pleasure a man can give with naught but his mouth—but he had always flushed and looked away, feigning disinterest. He wishes now that he had listened more.

Once or twice, he had considered visiting a pleasure house. He had even convinced himself it would be sensible—to learn what he was doing before he ever found himself in the position he is now. But every time he seriously entertained the idea, his stomach turned. The idea of touching another woman, of kissing her, of sinking inside her and pretending it was you beneath his hands, made his skin crawl.

So he has remained hopelessly inexperienced, despite what he might have implied at supper earlier.

"Trust me," is all he says, hoping you cannot hear the uncertainty behind the words. He press another soft kiss against your skin, a second to your inner thigh as he eases your legs apart. He cannot breathe at the sight of your cunt so close to his face, half-convinced this might be a dream. "I just want to make you feel good. Let me try, muña."

He does not wait for you to second guess him, dragging his lips from your skin to the apex of your thighs, warmth breath ghosting over you. Your breath hitches, entire body tensing, and before he can lose his nerves, Jace buries his face between your thighs. His breath hitches the moment his mouth is on you, savoring in the taste of you, the scent of you, the warmth of you. His fingers bite deep into the plush skin of your thighs to hold you still, and Jace's lashes flutter as he drags his tongue between your folds, lapping at you desperately before he presses the tip of his tongue to your hole.

"Oh," he hears you breathe, thighs tensing beneath his touch, hips jerking against his face. His eyes slide shut momentarily as he relishes in the sound of the soft noises spilling from your lips above him—gasps and moans and whines caught in the back of your throat. "I—What—what are you—"

Instead of answering, he shifts one of your thighs so that it rests on his shoulder so that he might bury his tongue deeper inside of you, and you choke on your words. His eyes flick upward, wide and searching, to watch the way your chest heaves, head tilted back against the stone, lips swollen and slick from Jace's own mouth, trying to figure out what you like.

Jace has spent years dreaming of this, he thinks for the dozenth that night. Years imagining the moment he could touch you, hold you, kiss you, lay with you; none compares to having you writhing against his mouth, cunt grinding on his tongue.

How could Aegon ever be with another after seeing you in the throes of pleasure like this? Jace would suffocate between your thighs if it meant he would die with the sound of your pretty moans in his ears.

Unless—unless Aegon has never seen you like this?

Heat rushes low—his trousers have been painfully tight from the moment his lips first touched yours, but he aches now, lungs burning as his hips jerk slightly, rutting against air as he seeks out friction. He parts his lips from your cunt just long enough to suck in a gulp of air to his lungs before latching back onto you, tongue sweeping between your soaked folds, lapping at your slick before he sucks the small little bud at the front of your cunt into his mouth.

The cry that spills from your lips is music to his ears, gaze flying up as your back arches against the wall, hips rocking against his face, your heel digging into his mid-back. The hand you buried in his hair twists at the dark locks painfully, your other scratching at the stone behind you, and his eyes half-roll back at the stinging to his scalp.

There is no way, he realizes, the image of you writhing on his tongue seared behind his eyelids as his eyes slide shut so that he can focus on eating you in earnest. He groans into you, one hand tight around your thigh, the other fisting your ass to pull you impossibly closer. There is no way Aegon has ever seen you like this, had you like this, because if he had, he would never go to another.

Jace is the only one who gets to see you like this.

Jace is the only one who gets to have you like this.

"Jacaerys," you gasp, voice breathy, hitching over his name, thighs trembling around his head. "Please."

Jace's gaze snaps back up toward you. He's panting as he pulls his mouth from your cunt, savoring the keening noise that spills from your lips.

Distantly, he knows that this is reckless. He knows that Ser Steffon is right outside your door, and he can likely hear everything happening behind your doors. He knows that you are married, and he knows the consequences for both of you would be dire if someone walked in while his face is buried in your cunt.

Still, he says hoarsely what you have told him dozens of times before, "Ivestragon ziry drējī."

Say it correctly.

You stare at him, eyes wide and lips parted in disbelief, and a thrill runs through him, grip tightening on your thighs, breath ghosting hot over your cunt. He wants so badly to drown himself in the taste of you again, tongue darting out to lap at the slickness on his lips and chin, but he refrains, waiting.

"Kostilus," you finally breathe out, voice shaky, fingers trembling in his hair. They slip down the slope of his nose, resting on his lips, and Jace's lips part instinctively, lashes fluttering as he takes your two fingers into his mouth. "Kostilus, Jacaerys."

Jace's vision flashes white as he moans around your fingers, hips rutting forward against air again. Your fingers slip from his mouth so he can dive forward again, sloppily dragging his tongue between your folds, fucking it deep into your hole before he kisses messily up your cunt to the sensitive bud that makes you writhe.

He's mortified when his abdomen tightens and his hips jerk one final time, and he recognizes the familiar, sticky warmth suddenly seeping through his trousers, but he's so lost in the taste and feel of you that all he can do is hold you tighter, panting as you grind your hips against his face and he desperately tries to kee up.

You're keening above him, pretty, pitched moans that make him dizzy—because he's making you feel like this. He is. Not your husband, not Aemond, not anyone—only him.

He wants to feel you fall apart on his tongue, wants you to grab his hair and rock your hips against his face, use him—he wants you to use him however you see fit. Take him for everything he has and more.

Jace knows that you are married. He knows he cannot ask you for what he wants yet because he does not know how to achieve it, cannot yet find the courage to tell you how desperately he needs to be the man you choose before all others. He wants to be your husband—he wants to be your husband so bad that it kills him sometimes to know that the path getting there will be a long, difficult one.

But Jace is patient. He has waited a decade to be reunited with you, he will wait a decade more to wed you, if need be.

If this is all you can give him for now, he will take it. He will accept being something can only exist in stolen moments behind closed doors, beneath sheets in the dead of night, in sweat slicked skin and breathy moans, if it means that one day he might have the right to love you openly and call you his wife.

"Hah—" you gasp, thighs trembling on either side of his head. Jace suddenly understands why men always sounded so proud of themselves when they spoke of having their women wanton and writhing on their tongue. He is so drunk off the taste of you, the sound of your pleasure, that he hardly cares that his lungs burn. "I'm—I think—I'm going—"

Jace's gaze cuts upward, jaw falling half slack as he watches you come undone above him. You cry his name, fisting his hair and grinding your cunt against his mouth, and Jace thinks he finishes a second time untouched, cock twitching in his trousers, seed dripping down his thighs.

His fingers loosen on your thighs, thumbs easing circles into your skin as he returns to lapping at your cunt, careful not to let a single drop of you go to waste. His lashes flutter as he dares to suck your bud into his mouth again, only for you to start squirming and tugging at his hair.

"Jacaerys," you gasp, trying to pull your hips away, but Jace follows, tongue swirling circles, dragging between your folds. He dips it back into your hole to feel the way it tightens around him, and his mind goes blank as he imagines his cock in its place. "J—mandianna, stop—hold on, it's too sensitive. Jacaerys!"

Jace only pulls back when your voice sharpens and your heel kicking hard into his back twice, eyes a bit hazy as he looks up at you. Your expression softens at the sight of him. He wonders how much of a mess he must look right now—on his knees before you, chest heaving with every breath, face flushed, lips swollen and chin slick, hair a tangled mess from where your fingers had been tugging it.

One of your hands, still trembling, drops to his face, cradling his cheek gently. You tilt his face up, and Jace leans helplessly into your palm, turning his face just enough to press a kiss to the center of it.

"I meant what I said," he tells you, voice hoarse, eyes searching your face. "I'll stay. You need only say the word, muña. You do not have to be alone anymore."

It would be a dangerous game, he realizes. One day with you—in the throne room, at the training yard, during supper—had been enough for him to nearly expose the two of you before there was even anything to expose.

What would become of the two of you after days of stolen glances and nights spent slipping unnoticed into one another's chambers? How long before his hand lingered where it should not, before someone noticed the way his eyes followed you through every room, before the whispers that already plagued the family found fresh fodder?

Jace watches the same realization cross your face and his heart sinks. Your expression turns distant and calculating as you consider every risk he has been too desperate to care about.

"Say something," he murmurs.

Your eyes meet his again at last. "We will talk in the morning."

His heart sinks. "Muña—"

"In the morning, Jacaerys," you repeat, softer this time, thumb brushing once across his cheek. "When neither of us has wine in our blood, and you have had time to consider what you are asking of me."

Jace wants to protest that he has had eight years to consider it. Instead, he presses his lips to your palm again and nods, rising to his feet so that he might guide you to the bed.

Perhaps it is for the best, he thinks, that despite everything that has transpired tonight, the two of you have not gone any further. His gaze drops briefly before returning to yours.

"We should be careful," he murmurs. "If this is to continue."

Your brows lift slightly. "You have only just discovered caution?"

Jace almost smiles. "I mean it. I will not make the same mistake my mother did." His expression sobers. "I will not put a child in you who bears my face and leave you to answer for it."

Your entire expression changes. "Jacaerys."

He mistakes the sharpness in your voice for offense—perhaps he was being too presumptuous, you could very well tell him this will never happen again come morning. The thought makes his stomach turn violently.

"I only meant—"

"You were not a mistake." Jace goes still, throat bobbing as he stares down at you. "Do not speak of yourself that way—or your mother, for that matter."

Jace makes a bitter noise in the back of his throat—a scoff, maybe a laugh, and then he speaks out loud the words that have haunted him for as long as he's known he does not look like his father. "You cannot tell me that no one thought it. That there was not some immediate disappointment—regret—when I came into the world with brown hair and brown eyes instead of silver and violet."

You have the nerve to laugh at him, and when he shoots you an accusing look, you only grab his hand so that you can ghost your lips to his knuckles.

"Mandianna," you say fondly. "Tomorrow morning, I want you to ask your mother what my reaction was when I saw you for the first time. She will tell you."

Jace falters, fingers tensing against yours as he gives you a questioning look, but you only raise your eyebrows, signaling you will say no more.

He sighs and looks away, "I only mean to say that I do not want my son to go through what I have. Nor do I want you to go through what my mother has."

"I know," you soothe, running your thumb over his knuckles before releasing his hand. "We will talk in the morning. I would ask you to stay, but the twins rise with the sun and enjoy waking their disgruntled father with them, so Aegon tends to appear at my door shortly after sunrise to deposit them here so that he might return to his own bed. I would rather not risk him finding you in mine."

Jace's jaw tightens at the reminder of your husband, hating the domestic image that comes to mind—Aegon with sleep trussed hair and tired eyes, two children at his heel, showing up to your door with a yawn so he might return to sleep.

It should be him, he thinks despondently. It should be him with your children, him who can be with you when the sun is high, him as your husband. Not Aegon.

"Of course," he finally says, voice strained. Then he swallows as his gaze lifts to yours, tone softening as he tells you, "I missed you a lot, muña."

"I missed you too, mandianna," you say quietly. "Go rest. We will figure everything out."

Jace does not think he's going to get a wink of sleep, but he nods anyway, inclining his head slightly before he makes his way to your door.

He takes one last lingering look at you, hesitating when he sees the distant expression on your face as soon as you think his back is turned, and then he inhales deeply before lowering his gaze and leaving your chambers, an ache in his chest that already feels unbearable.

If Ser Steffon heard anything from the other side of the door, he gives no indication of it beyond the faintly awkward look that crosses his face when Jace steps into the corridor, wiping at the lower half of his face.

Jace answers it with a vicious glare before hurrying away.

————————————

"Jacaerys," his mother demands when he finally makes his way to the courtyard, where she, Daemon, his brothers and cousins are all waiting. It is hours past dawn—they were supposed to leave for Dragonstone as soon as the sun breached the horizon. "Where have you been? We've been waiting for you."

Jace's jaw tightens as he walks past his mother without a word to the horse the stable boys readied for him. He has been trying to rationalize your absence for hours. He had waited in the godswood and the gardens, lingered near the training yard and the library; he was desperate to catch so much as a glimpse of your familiar smile. He did not dare go to your chambers.

You had promised. You had sworn to him that you would speak in the morning, and Jace had hardly slept because of it. He alternated between wild hope and sickening dread as he imagined every possible outcome of the conversation awaiting him. He paced the corridors of the keep and stared up at the moon above until his eyes were heavy and circled, but he could not bring himself to return to his chambers.

Finally, morning had come, but you were nowhere to be found. You are avoiding him.

The thought has been festering inside him for hours, growing uglier each time he searches another part of the keep for you. Perhaps sobreity had brought regret with it, he thinks with a lump in his throat. Perhaps you had wakened this morning and remembered his mouth upon yours, his hands against your skin, and realized with horror what you had allowed to happen.

What has he done? He had pushed all evening, testing every boundary you placed before him until eventually there had been none left to cross. He had kissed you. He had put his hands on you. He had—

His stomach twists so violently that he almost retches. What if he had mistakken hesitation for invitation simply because he had wanted you so desperately? What if you only kissed him because you have never been able to say no to him? What if—

"Jacaerys," his mother snaps, grabbing his wrist before he can sit astride his horse. Jace inhales sharply, raising his chin and straightening his shoulders, refusing to turn around until she forces him to. When she sees the expression on his face—the tears wetting his eyes, and the way his lips tremble faintly—fury drains into concern. Her voice softens immediately, hand rising to cradle his face as she asks quietly, "Jacaerys, what's wrong, sweet boy? What has happened?"

Jace swallows thickly, gaze averting up to the sky as he desperately tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He shakes his head once, but his mother is persistent, tilting her head, lips pursed as she waits for an answer.

"I cannot find her," he finally admits, and he hates how small his voice sounds. Rhaenyra's brows draw together, confused.

"Who?" she asks, and Jace gives her a look that makes the question unnecessary. Understanding flickers across her face. "I am sure she is just busy with the twins, Jacaerys. I—"

"She said she would speak with me in the morning," he continues, words coming faster. "She promised me, and I have looked everywhere, and she is nowhere, and I think–" His voice cracks. His lashes flutter as he forces himself to stop and swallow, clearing his throat. "I think I have done something terrible."

"Jace—"

"I should not have pushed her." His eyes squeeze shut. "I should have left things as they were. Everything was finally right between us again, and I ruined it."

His mother stares at him, concern deepening into confusion. "Jacaerys, what exactly did you do?"

Jace stares at his mother helplessly. He cannot very well stand in the middle of the courtyard and confess that he spent half the night with his mouth pressed to his married aunt's cunt while Daemon, his brothers, cousins, and half a dozen stable boys stand within earshot. Rhaenyra's brows furrow slowly, glancing at him once before her gaze draws back to the direction of the keep, a calculating expression on her face.

"It does not matter," he rushes out before she can put two and two together. "It does not matter. I just—I need to speak with her."

Rhaenyra studies him for another long moment, and Jace struggles not to squirm beneath her scrutiny, afraid she can see everything that he had done with you the night before. At last, she finally says, "Then come back with me."

Jace blinks. "What?"

"We will see the others safely to Dragonstone, and then you and I can return on dragonback. If you are so desperate to speak with her, I see no reason you cannot."

Relief loosens the tension in his shoulders. It is not ideal—he had wanted to speak with you this morning, had spent hours imagining exactly what he might say, loathes the idea of not knowing what terms the two of you are on for days on end—but at least he does not have to return to Dragonstone wondering when he might see you again.

"Yes, that—" he starts to say, voice catching. "I would like that."

Rhaenyra gives his cheek an affectionate pat before releasing him, turning to make her way toward the carriage.

"Mother," he calls after a moment, and she pauses. Jace hesitates, remembering what you had told him to ask in passing the night before. Jace shifts awkwardly on his feet, feeling strangely foolish now that he has to ask. "What did muña do when she first saw me?" His mother's eyes narrow, and Jace is flustered, feeling as though he needs to explain the sudden question. He defends, "She told me to ask."

Understanding dawns across Rhaenyra's face, and then she immediately starts to laugh, hand lifting to her mouth to stifle her giggles. Jace flushes the longer she laughs and does not answer, fighting a scowl.

"She wailed," his mother finally says through her a sigh as she calms her laughter. "Quite inconsolably, actually."

Jace stares at her, unsure how this was supposed to make him feel better. "She cried?"

Rhaenyra hums in agreement, and Jace's face falls. She notices immediately and gives him a small, fond smile, tucking a dark curl behind his ear.

"Sweet boy, not because she was disappointed. When I put you in her arms the first time, she refused to let you go. I, too, thought something was wrong at first, because she wept so hard that I could hardly get her to answer me when I asked her why she was crying. Finally, she told me that you were perfect—" Jace's throat bobs terribly, and Rhaenyra tilts her head slightly as she cradles his face again "—her exact words, mind you. Then she asked quite sweetly if she might keep you."

"Keep me?" Jace echoes.

"You must understand, she was very young." Rhaenyra laughs again, hand dropping from his face to adjust Viserys against her shoulder. "She seemed to believe that because I had made you, I could simply make another if I wished. I spent the better part of an afternoon explaining that you were my firstborn son and heir, and no, she could not keep you merely because she asked so sweetly."

Jace cannot help the smile slowly spreading across his face.

"That did not discourage her, of course, spoiled little thing. She does hate being told no. She asked for you again on her next nameday, and the one after that, if memory serves. Every year for quite some time." Jace's ears burn as he flushes and looks away. His mother reaches out to hold his hand gently. He wonders if she understands what prompted you to tell him to ask this, because she gives him a soft smile and says, "She loved everything about you, but your eyes were always her favorite. She used to hold you in the sunlight because she swore they looked like pools of honey when the sun caught them right. I had to tell her to stop more than once. She would have kept you there all afternoon if I let her, and I was afraid the sun would burn you if you were kept out there too long."

"Oh," Jace says quietly, swallowing thickly as he stares down at the ground.

Her expression softens, more serious now as she tells him, "You know, she was lonely before you were born, Jacaerys."

His smile fades slightly, gaze lifting to meet hers. His mother has mentioned this before in passing when he was younger, but never elaborated on it, simply sent him off to go spend time with you.

"I tried to be there for her. I loved her dearly, but I was fourteen years her elder. By the time she was old enough to want someone to play with, I had already grown beyond such things and had courtly duties to attend to." Rhaenyra looks toward the keep, something wistful passing over her face. "She tried to befriend Aegon when she was young—" Jace's expression twists at the mention of your husband. "—but Alicent—the Queen—kept her children away from me and mine, and your muña was always lumped in with us. Sometimes I would find her watching the other noble children in the garden and training yard. They would be running about together, playing their games, and she would simply stand at the edge and watch them."

Jace swallows thickly, voice hoarser than he intends as he asks quietly, "Why didn't she join them?"

"I do not know," Rhaenyra admits. "Perhaps she did not know how. Perhaps she was scared. She was always a little apart from everyone else. You know well that she had her own whispers following her. Many thought she was—" A bitter expression crosses his mother's face. "—thought she was cursed because of the manner she came into this world. The manner in which she claimed her dragon only made people believe it more."

Jace chews the inside of his cheek, chest aching at the thought of you younger, smaller, standing alone as you watched other children laugh together. He cannot imagine it.

For as long as he could remember, you have always been bright smiles and pretty laughter, the difference between a perfect day and a ruined one. He cannot stand the idea of you small and alone, desperate for friends but unable to make any. He thinks of the dulled look on your face as you entered the throne room, the emptiness in your eyes when you first arrived to supper—worst of all, the distant one you wore last night before he left.

He has ruined everything.

"So when you were born," Rhaenyra continues, looking back at him with a small smile. "I was happy for more reasons than one. I had my sweet son, and she finally had someone who belonged to her as much as she belonged to him. I knew that once you were old enough to toddle about after her, neither of you would ever truly be alone."

Jace swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat, head hanging forward slightly. Tears sting at the corner of his eyes again, and he blinks them away before his mother can notice.

"Jacaerys," his mother says quietly, beckoning him to look at her. He lifts his head reluctantly, eyes heavy. "Whatever happened between the two of you, she has loved you from the moment she first laid eyes upon you. There is nothing in this world that will change that."

Except she does not know that, Jace wants to say, fists curling at his side. What if last night had cost him the one thing he had spent eight years desperate to have back? What if, in his selfish desire to have more of you, he had destroyed the chance to simply have you at all? What if—

"She really asked you to give me to her?" he asks instead, voice rough as he tries to joke to change the subject, hoping that his mother does not see the doubt swirling in his eyes.

He thinks she does, because her smile is a bit sadder as she says, "Repeatedly."

"What did you tell her?"

"That she could borrow you." Rhaenyra laughs softly, reaching up to brush an errant curl from his forehead. "I'm afraid she never did learn to give you back. Come, sweet boy, it is time for us to bring your brothers and cousins home. We will return on dragonback soon after."

————————————

"What is the meaning of this?" you demand, slamming your fists against the doors to your chambers. "Ser Steffon—who is out there? Let me out this instant, you mongrels, I will feed you to my dragon if you do not unbar my chambers immediately."

You had woken late to find your doors barred from the outside and Ser Steffon conspicuously absent from his post. At first, you had assumed some drunken foolishness on Aegon's part—a poorly conceived jest that you would make your half-brother regret the moment you were free—but nearly an hour has passed, and no one will answer you.

You pace the length of your room, agitated, furious, terrified. Something is terribly wrong.

Had they figured out what you had done with Jacaerys? Were they locking you in your chambers so you might not flee before they bring you before the High Septon to humiliate you? You would not put it past them—Alicent has always held a particular disdain toward you, and you have been at odds with the Faith ever since the septons tried to convince thirteen-year-old Aegon to let the maesters cut you open to save the twins.

No, if they knew what happened, there would be much more noise. It is the silence that is unsettling. The Red Keep is never silent in the afternoon. You should hear servants rushing through the corridors, bringing meals to the lords who do not wish to leave their chambers, guards changing their watch, absent chatter and laughter. But there is nothing.

"Aegon," you call loudly, slamming your fist against the door, because he had not come by with the twins this morning either. He always comes by with the twins. "Who is out there? Answer me now!"

You press your ear to the door. For several heartbeats, you hear nothing. Then, there is the faint scrape of armor shifting beyond the door, and you tilt your head to the side, stilling as your focus narrows in on the sound.

"I can hear you," you say, voice dropping dangerously low. "Open the door immediately, and I might grant you the privilege of choosing how you are going to die."

"Forgive me, princess. I cannot open the door."

The voice is unfamiliar. Your stomach drops. What is happening? Fear curdles low in your stomach, skin itchy with anxiety. Your gaze flicks from the heavy door to the bars on your window—your apartments are too high to climb from, and there is no way for Zūgaxes to free you lest risking bringing the entire tower down with you in it.

"Where is Ser Steffon?" you demand. "Who are you? Where are my sister and my nephews? Where are my children?"

Where are Maegor and Maegelle? Where are Jacaerys and Lucerys? Rhaenyra, Daemon, everyone else? What is happening? Why are you locked in?

"Your children are safe, princess," the guard says simply.

"Where are they?"

"I have been instructed only to assure you that Prince Maegor and Princess Maegelle are unharmed."

What? Unharmed? Why would they be harmed?

"Instructed by whom?" you hiss, only to be met with more silence. You strike the door again, fury beginning to overwhelm your fear. "Where is my husband? Answer me, you worthless dog!"

"I cannot say."

"My sister?"

Your heart begins to hammer when the guard does not respond. Rhaenyra and the boys were supposed to leave for Dragonstone at dawn—Jacaerys was supposed to leave with her.

Jacaerys, who would be waiting for you. Jacaerys, who you had watched leave your chambers only with the assurance that when the sun rose, the two of you would speak about what had transpired between you and what in the Seven Hells you intended to do next. Jacaerys, who would undoubtedly assume the worst when you did not show.

Your stomach twists as you imagine him waiting somewhere for you, watching the hours pass with no sign of your arrival. You know exactly where his mind will go. He will convince himself that you regret everything that happened between you, that you had woken sober and ashamed and had broken your promise because you could not bear to face him after what you had allowed him to do.

He will think he had done something wrong. The thought makes panic claw at your throat. You slam your fist against the door again, and again, and again, tears of frustration pricking at your eyes.

He had been so uncertain when he left you. He had searched your face for reassurance, and his confidence crumbled the moment you told him the two of you must wait until morning to speak. You should not have sent him away. You do not even know why you sent him away. You had just been—you had been scared.

You had been scared for what you'd done, of what you'd allowed him to do, of how easily you'd forgotten everything else as soon as his mouth was on yours—your husband, children, his mother, the realm. Every consequence that should have been enough to make you push him away had disappeared the moment he touched you, and you'd been terrified of how desperately some part of you had wanted him to stay.

When he offered to remain in King's Landing with you, some reckless part of you had wanted to say yes before he even finished speaking. You'd wanted to pull him into your bed and keep him there until morning, consequences be damned. For one night, you had wanted to forget that you were Aegon's wife, that you have been alone, desperately trying not to drown for a decade, that war was most likely on the horizon and your children would be at the center of it.

So, you had sent him away and told yourself that morning would make everything clearer. Instead, morning has come and gone, and Jacaerys is somewhere far beyond these walls believing you had abandoned him again.

What is happening? Why are you locked in your rooms?

"Let me out," you demand, voice rising, furious, slamming your fists against your door again and again and again. "Let me out! Let me out, let me out, let me out!"

The tourney had grown boring, unbearable, and hot. It was a tourney for pleasantries and other obnoxious reasons for more chatter. 

Knights were swooning over you which in turn had caught the malicious attention of the other noblewomen who were in the bylines. You could not help but roll your eyes at the next Lord that would introduce themselves to you, but prim and poise was your vice, you were high on it, surely you must be. Gwayne is far more better than you in exchanging civilities, it is his strong suit and you? You were the complete opposite, which had confused the others of your marriage. The most righteous man in all of Westeros chose the egoistic sensualist of a wife he could ever find—it stunned you as well at the match, but it worked in your favour.

However, you had places to be, if not with your husband, then on your husband. 

You made your way in the sea of people who had been going through similar struggles as you in this heat. Thankfully, the wine makes everything somewhat bearable in the scorching heat, your silks clung onto your skin as you aggressively fanned yourself to cool down, it was hot and you were tired. 

Your servants did their best to alleviate the effects of the warm weather and the stuffy environment as you made your way through the many nobles that looked at you like you were a fresh piece of meat for the taking, for gossip, position, and whatever else they can gain from you. 

Finally, a cool breeze had brushed over your skin, soothing your strenuous toil but that was only for a short while. Your gaze landed on the ladies that were unashamedly doting on your husband, Gwayne. A blonde noblewoman had been faking her laughter to get his attention, only for her to finally gain it when she forcibly interlocks her arms with him. You took immediate notice of the recoil in his reaction, he knew better, good. Disgust was an understatement that painted his features.

The lesser blonde goads and toys with him as other ladies made this their chance to vie for his attention. It was an uncommon occurrence for some to slip past you but it is uncommon for a reason. Even so, it did not do any wonders to your ego, the skin you that you wore had shed and the dragon beneath it had finally revealed itself. 

“Ser Gwayne? Your thoughts on the lovely knights today?” 

“Have you tried the wine? Absolutely delicious!”

“You’ve great hair, is that lavender I smell?”

Their shrill voices rang in your ears as you made your way to them. Prim and poise. Which still rang true … but that was for occasions that it is appropriate, this was not.

“Princess! I did not realise you were here, you were gone for some period of time, but do not worry, your husband had better company to attend to,” the Lady exclaimed in such a fake manner that it heated your face to a flush of pink as the words landed like a strong blow. It only worsened the feeling as you see her holding Gwayne like she owned him, like he was her property. To your advantage, you knew how these played out, you were not idle and stuck with cross-stitching and other thugs, you were either on dragonback or training with your sword, an unbecoming image for a princess but you were no ordinary princess—you have the blood of old Valyria running through your veins and you have dragons.

You retaliate.

“You speak as though my presence requires your acknowledgment, rest assured, it does not.”

It deepened the disdain that took root in your bones, as it did not easily sway the Lady beside your poor husband who is caught in the crossfire. The look on your face was not quite subtle anymore, the disrespect you had experienced fueled the scorn on your face. 

You carefully designed the woman that stood right in front of her, through years and years of defiance and spite, you’ve learned to mask the arrogance with humility and the animosity with kindness. However, your arrogance took matters into her own hands, Gwayne knew upon entering your marriage that there would always be a third, your ego.

You ignored his innocent stare, reminding yourself to take care of him … later.

Much to your annoyance, another lady from yet another house spoke, “dragons tend to blend into the scenery until they choose to open their jaws.”

You gave her a small, pitying sigh, “how quaint. You speak of dragons as if they are beasts to be feared, rather than kin to be commanded. Do not mistake my silence for blending in, for I am merely deciding if you are worth the breath.”

The opponent had weakened, only then, you had struck the final blow. 

It was simple. Unnerving. Scorching. 

You held your gaze to their embarrassed ones, a sickly sweet smile you mimicked the first lady from earlier, your quaint fingers toying with the fabric of her dress, “although …you must pray I keep mine closed. Your silks are far too pretty to be reduced to ash.”

With a gentle grip, you pulled Gwayne’s arm from her grasp, walking away from the group of vipers and snakes. 

You could care less of the broken proper princess act in front of the noble men and women who were practically slithering from the sides just to take a piece of their gossip. The air as you walked right passed them grew cold and icy. They hold no worth to you, regardless of their miniscule jabs at you and your house.

The proud dragon princess. The defiant heir. The evil Hightower wife. The tyrant Targaryen.

At least they knew what the Gods have granted you before you even drew your first breath: the divine, unyielding right to rule, which left the rest of Westeros to pray the coin lands on the side that spares them from your fire. You hailed from the royal house that many feared … but most of all, you were in love. 

Gwayne had softened the rougher edges you wore when you met him, which had stunned you, you never bowed to anyone, no, not until he arrived into your life. He has earned the softness of your heart and you promised yourself that he will have it for the rest of your days together.

You endured to heat as you scurried towards your guest chambers, your husband following suit. He knew better than to defy you and your authority. 

“You are angry,” he pointed out, a pout could be seen from his lips. Gods, he was handsome.

“I am fine, I do not partake in such folly,” you said wryly.

“Are you mad at me?”

That question stopped you in your place, you turned back to him as if he went mad. 

“Absurd.”

He sighs, “you are tense.”

“They treat you as if you are a toy to play with, I simply reminded them of who warms your bed.”

That reply made Gwayne blush. The sight made your heart soften.

You circled him like a dragon ready to devour its prey, guiding him towards your bed unknowingly, again, he knew better than to defy you of all people. 

He sits at the edge of your bed, you rightfully took your place between his legs, your hand gentle as you grasped his chin to look up at you. Your eyes never left his, you were furious of course, no one deserved to touch him like you did, to love him like you did, to pleasure him like you did.

“You are pliant, husband.”

“Of course I am. Only to you,” his statement encouraged the uproar in your thinly veiled arrogance, the mix of pride and ego had egged on your arousal. It claws on your stomach as he submitted, caved into your touch alone, reminding you once more that he belonged to you. 

His hands slithered up to your waist, undoing your laces as he maintained eye contact with you, serving you. His grip possessive and needy, the heat you had complained about was erased from your memory as a fresh wave of fire began in your body. Your dress pools down to your feet as he strips the rest away, pulling you in, making you straddle his lap.

He kisses you earnestly and eagerly, his hands cupping your breasts as you press yourself closer to him, the erotic sensation of your nakedness that is opposite to his clothed body is vibrating between your bodies. 

He hums into the kiss as he deepened it, taking claim of you, his tongue sliding against yours in an indulgent dance that rendered him weak. There was no urgency in the act, it was just two people who willingly adored each other in secrecy and in public. You attempted, hard, to keep up your strong appearance, to stay mad but you were oh so soft for your husband. The feigned hatred in your face began to dissipate as he pathetically moaned into your lips, owning him, needing him. You submit. 

On the other hand, Gwayne felt almost unworthy of having you all to himself, the unashamed greed made him run hot to the touch. He holds your body against his, his kisses more insistent and that was all you needed to undo you. Gwayne feels the love that is radiating from you and he plans on using that to his advantage, to win you over, carefully, lovingly, intimately.

He pulls away to look at you and then to your pouted lips, a string of saliva connecting you both. He notices that you look … softer in the ambient light of the chambers, although he loves you just the same even when the fire in you sparks aflame. Your hair is a mess but it sat pretty on you, you have this effortless beauty and sensuality that you exuded and he envied almost anyone who will ever come across you—but he would never tell you that, it must be a safely kept secret but it would not matter if he considers you a god. The Seven truly took their time with you and he was grateful that you chose him, he could not bear spending a life without you by his side. 

Gwayne never indulges himself, he rarely does, not until he met you. His earnest gaze appreciated your features, he notices the smallest of things, the faint scar on your neck from your cousin’s dagger, that crooked smile you have whenever you are content, the pattern of your breathing is different when you turn supple and needy—these are some of the things he notices about you, because he listens and he knows. 

Your clingy sounds had urged Gwayne’s light kisses on both of your tits, which soon evolved into sloppier ones that made you sigh in relief as he grips the back of your thighs, pulling you closer to him, your puffy cunt brushing up against his clothed cock, a needy moan slips past between his lips. 

To him this was vulnerability but to you this was opportunity. 

You ground your hips against him, feeling your slick arousal spreading on the fabric of his breeches, the action sending waves of pleasure to your body. You pushed his body against the bed, your hands placed on his chest as you continued the rolling motion of your hips as you made him watch you take your pleasure from him.

“You only look at me,” you moaned, your gaze fixed on his face as you rode him, your movements provocative and needy, only for him. Only for Gwayne. 

If it was humanly possible, Gwayne could have peaked at the sight before him, his cock twitched needily under your wet cunt. His hands were snug at your waist, your movements were encouraged by him, his groans were like hymns of worship to you and you lived for it. The heat from earlier took a toll on your stamina but you were bound to endure it, lest your claim be proven hollow—you were stubborn.

Gwayne touched you everywhere as you rolled your hips against him, you threw your head back as you felt yourself closer to the edge, the friction between your sexes is delicious. It relaxed your complaining body and pleasured it further. Another wet spot had appeared on his breeches from his precum and tantalizingly mixed with your wetness. Your moans had increased and your nails scratched at his chest as you quickened your movements.

There was a fire that had awoken in your belly, it was only spurred when Gwayne moved against your hips, intensifying your pleasure, the action provoking your climax. Your hips stuttered as you came, your pants and mewls were of his name and that made Gwayne groan deeply.

It tamed you. Your body took comfort on top of his, Gwayne pulled you closer, his movements subtle yet noticeable, he partially slid his breeches off, his hard cock instantly meeting your sensitive sex.

He whispered praise to his sweet wife and that alone had lulled the fire in you, only a little bit before it gave out on you and gave more way to him. You were still sensitive from your high but the want is still etched into your body, Gwayne caressed your buzzing body, his fingers feeling every crevice you have. 

“My sweet dragon … I need to feel you around me, come home.”

That usual sweet tone of his stirred you out of your bliss, your consciousness coming back to you fully as he tapped the enraged  head of his cock to your hardened pearl, you reacted to the sensation as he collected more of your previous honeyed arousal to lubricate himself with.

He fixes your position, raising your hips a little for him to move properly beneath you, his cock nudging into your hole, the squeeze of it made Gwayne twitch beneath you.

His free hand guided your hips down his length, practically splitting you in half at the sheer size of him when he enters, it overwhelmed the both of you at this point. Your wetness emitted a sound so scandalous that Gwayne was livid for it, he tested his rhythm as he bounced you on his cock, the air left his lungs as he moved you up and down.

Your body was still pressed against his body, your hips met his, Gwayne controlled your movements, using your sensitive cunt for his pleasure. He made sure to revel in moments like these, taking charge of your shared pleasure when you were typically the one in control.

His hold on you was intimate, it weakened your defences and had your walls fluttering around him which earned a soft whine from your husband, he accentuated his movements, his tip nudging against the spot that made you spasm and shake, exactly where he belonged.

“Gods,” you mewled, the walls around you collapsed, there was no reason to shield yourself with your ego, you were snug in his arms and you were being ravaged in full force, what more could you ever need in this moment? 

You cried out as your cunt clamped down his twitching length, his orgasm following suit as you felt him coat your walls with his cum. He needed to stuff you full to the brim and to hope to the Gods that it takes root in your womb. He felt himself softening as you both came down from your highs, he could feel himself leaking out from your pretty hole, your essence running down from your thighs to his. 

Gwayne then kisses you silly, as egoistical as you are, you were ticklish and he used it to his advantage, you giggled softly and before you knew it, you were laying down on your bed. His unabashed gaze took you apart, like always, with care. 

You were not going to finish this day without a fight.

You slightly opened your legs, your cunt oozed what was left of your mixed arousals and that had fogged the goodness in your husband’s eyes, almost completely. Gwayne went weak when he saw you leaking more of him, puffy and pretty. 

His mouth was on you, his hands on both your thighs as he opened you up to him. To some, this endeavour was mechanical, to Gwayne, it was pure love, for you.

His tongue dipped right between your folds, lapping up the leaked evidence, the sweetness and the saltiness was almost like a drug to him. You moaned wantonly and called out to him in your pleasure, your hands on his hair and on your tits. Gwayne’s strong hands fought with your thighs that had threatened to close in on him, but he wanted to worship you first before indulging himself. The obscene wet noises fell from his lips, guttural grunts and groans as he tasted you both on you.

“Yes, Gwayne, yes!”

The words that came out of you was a plea instead of a command, your fingers tugging tightly at his hair. Gwayne sucked the last of his cum from your cunt and resurfaced with a pussy-drunk smile on his face. 

By the time you pull him on top of you, closer to you as your lips meet for another kiss, his length has hardened once more. Gwayne’s words of love and praise fell muffled to your lips, his cock heavy on his hand as he supported himself with the other. 

He pushed himself inside you once more, purely for the reason of belonging there, of completing you—making you full. His free hand plays with the pearl of your cunt, earning him scratches on his arms as you hold onto him.

“My sweet wife, you are perfect … you are all mine,” he grunts into your ear.

His demeanour softens at your blissful face, the cacophony of sounds emitting from the both of you across chamber walls which turned into intimate hymnals that billowed around your connected bodies and fine silks you lay on top of.

Gwayne was determined to push for another peak for you, to make sure that his sweet wife was satiated, to forget her woes, to remember that he belongs to her—Gwayne needed it like the air he breathed, like the uttered prayers under the Seven’s eyes, like his sustenance to live for you. Gwayne wanted it now more than ever, his thrusts became rough, your sounds more high-pitched, melodic even. You could feel his slicked up balls slap your ass, making a plapplapplap sound as he quickens his pace.

He could feel you swarm around him, like flames and he was unaffected by it, your cunt does the fluttering around his hammering length once more and it sends him to the Seven Heavens and Seven Hells and back. 

His movements erratic, panting as he holds your body closer to him as he finishes inside you once more, coating your tightening walls, your orgasm making his length even more slick.

Gwayne pulls out momentarily, patiently watching both your essences ooze out you again before collecting it with the tip of his cock and fucking it into you, you moaned lazily as he thrusts deeper, slower. He emphasises his movements, the belonging and need, his message was not lost on you. You were beyond saving from the very moment you submitted to him, from the moment you met him, leaving your ego no choice but to watch your carnal affair instead.

“That is it, my sweet dragon, you did good, so good.”

His voice a soft whisper to your ears as he peppered your face with kisses, his hips halting their movements, staying right there and inside you. 

Gwayne is not a man of pride but this time … he indulges for his egoistical wife, smugly.

“Are you still mad at me, wife?”

“Oh, shut it.”

© 2026 𝙂𝙒𝘼𝙔𝙉𝙀𝙎-𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙂! i condemn plagiarism of any kind and feeding my work to ai, NO AI here! my writing may be shit but it is my shit.