Ghost

“I was looking for you at the feast,” Valarr says as he enters your chambers. You can hear the frown in his voice as he shrugs off his cloak and tosses it on the chair on the opposite side of the room. “Why is it that I had to hear from my cousin that my wife left early because she was feeling unwell?”

You press your lips together, not answering him as you stare out the window—east, to the Blackwater, the Narrow Sea, and beyond. Far, far beyond. Your jaw is tight, and your throat is tight, and your chest is tight, and your eyes already sting—you have been here for two hours already, and he has only just returned. Did he only just realize you were missing?

The irritation drains from his voice as he pauses, looking in your direction and catching the tension in your shoulders. He says quietly, “You are upset with me.”

You stiffen when you hear him make his way over to you, raising your chin when you feel the cushions dip behind you. You exhale hard through your nose as his fingers ghost the nape of your neck, brushing your hair over one shoulder so that he can press his lips there. 

You bristle instantly.

“Oh my,” Valarr murmurs—he has the nerve to sound amused, you can picture the boyish grin curling at his lips, and it enrages you. The nerve. “You are very upset with me.”

“Unhand me, you lecherous cur,” you snap, shifting further away. “I shall catch the pox if your touch lingers too long.”

You hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “And what have I done to deserve such a vicious accusation, ñuha jorrāelagon?”

My love.

His High Valyrian is honeyed as ever, soft and sweet to your ears, the endearment enough to make lesser women melt, but you are not lesser women, so you only toss him a furious look, because how dare he play the fool as though he doesn’t know what he’s done? How dare he try to abate your anger with sweet nothings?

“What have you done?” you echo furiously, gaze cutting as you whirl around to face him. Loathsome man—you hate that he is beautiful, and you hate that even in the face of your rage, his eyes are soft and adoring. “You shame me, that is what you have done.”

Valarr tilts his head to the side slightly, a glimmer of calculation and confusion in his mismatched eyes as he searches your face—as though he does not know what he has done, how he has shamed you. You detest him. 

“Tell me how I have shamed you,” he says softly, shifting closer still. Loathsome, loathsome, loathsome—he lifts his hand to brush the pads of his fingers against your cheekbone, and when you try to pull away, he holds your chin lightly, keeping you in place, forcing you to look at him. “Tell me, so that I may fix it.”

You almost bite him for that—for the softness in his voice and the fondness in the eyes, the way he looks at you as though you are something precious to him when he has spent the better part of the evening making a spectacle of you before half of the court, letting that Lannister woman parade around on his arm.

“You should know already,” you hiss.

“I do not,” he says, and he sounds earnest. You despise him. Loathsome man. His thumb glides over your lower lip, free hand coming up so that he can cradle your face between them both. “If I have wronged you, I would hear it from your lips.”

You think to spurn him some more, to press your hands to his chest and shove him away, to leave your chambers and go seek out—seek out who? You have no one in this wretched keep. Your brothers are all back home, six thousand miles away, because your wretched father sold you to the Targaryens for trade. And your wretched friends—who were never truly your friends, clearly—abandoned you the moment they realized you would no longer be able to bolster their standing when you are three seas away. 

You are alone. All you have is a wretched husband—a man you were promised would be gallant and charming and respectful, only for him to spend the evening smiling at another woman while the court watched to see how his foreign bride would react. 

They hate you—they have hated you since the moment you arrived on your father’s gilded ships, smiling to your face and scorning you the second your back is turned. They pray for illness and poor health, that an accident would befall you, so that Valarr might take one of their Andal daughters to wife instead, and—

—and the cruelest part of it all is that, in this wretched court with these wretched people, the only person who has ever made you feel wanted is your wretched husband. 

Valarr leans in to press his lips against yours when you do not immediately respond, soft and gentle as he always is, trying to ease the answer out of you.

A wavering sigh escapes you before you can stop it, and you melt into him far too easily, because Valarr is loathsome and wretched. You detest him, and you despise him, but he is—he is insufferably good to you. Has been since the moment the two of you were introduced, in spite of the fact that he was as forced into this marriage as you. He is as gallant and charming as you were promised, much as you wish him to be otherwise, and he treats you as though you are not some foreign prize ferried across three seas to warm his bed and strengthen alliances, but someone he chooses and wants.

It is the worst part of it, because if he were cruel and disrespectful, you think you could hate him properly.

“You are wretched,” you whisper against his mouth, voice unsteady with the remnants of your anger. “You stand there all evening with that woman draped upon your arm, smiling at her as though she were the Sun Maiden herself, and then you come here and kiss me as though I am meant to simply forgive you.”

Valarr draws back only enough to look at you, brows knitting together slightly.

“The Lannister girl?”

You glare at him. “Yes, the Lannister girl, you witless dragon.”

To your mounting fury, understanding finally flashes across his face, and then amusement follows close behind it.

You shove at his chest immediately. “Do not laugh at me.”

Valarr catches your wrists before you can shove him too far, laughter warm and breathless as he presses a quick kiss to the inside of your palm. He pulls you closer to him, one hand sliding around your lower back to drag you into his lap, and you hate that your arms instinctively slink around his shoulders. You hate that your anger dissipates, and you hate that the fury on your face drains into a pout, that you have to chew the inside of your cheek to stop the tears from building in your eyes.

You hate everything about this. You are not so weak, but weeks of suffering through this snake pit have taken their toll on you.

The amusement fades from his expression when he sees yours, one hand lifting to caress your cheek gently. 

“I was alone,” you say, grateful that your voice doesn’t break. “I am always alone in this awful place. You are the only person I have, and you abandoned me to let that girl cling to you. If you wish to take a proper Westerosi wife, you are free to do so, but divorce me and let me return home. Do not force me to endure such humiliation.”

“Now, that is a bit drastic,” Valarr murmurs, and your lashes flutter as his fingers drag lightly along the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair to pull your head down so that he might ghost his lips against your forehead. “Why ever would I divorce you when I have only just managed to convince you to tolerate me?”

You make a soft, offended sound that he swallows with another lingering kiss to your lips. He tastes of honey and wine; you let out a breath that is far too shaky as his arms tighten around you, one hand soothing up and down your back.

“I am serious,” you mutter. “You make light of everything.”

“Only because you speak as though I have cast you aside for a girl I scarcely noticed.” His thumb rubs small circles into the small of your back. “Look at me, wife.”

You do not wish to. You fear if you do, he will see the tears that have started to gather in your eyes, and your pride has suffered enough tonight. You meant to stay angry and silent, but it is hard to do so when Valarr is—well, Valarr.

He waits anyway, because he always does, and when you still refuse to do as he says, he hooks two fingers beneath your chin, and tilts your face upward so gently that you barely bite back a whine. There’s a softness in his face, an undeniable fondness that makes your heart ache. 

“I did not abandon you,” he tells you quietly. “I left your side because Lord Lannister cornered me to speak of the new trade agreements with Qarth and his daughter decided to preen while doing so.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a tear before it can fall. “Had I known you were miserable, I would have returned immediately. I thought my cousins were taking care to ensure you were not alone.”

“You should have known,” you say, spiteful, voice sullen.

“Yes,” he agrees easily, without argument. “I should have. Forgive me.”

You falter, because you prepared yourself for his infuriating charm and smooth talk, not for an apology—especially not one so genuine.

Valarr exhales softly through his nose, gaze roaming over your face before he rests his forehead down on your shoulder, arms curling a bit tighter around your waist until your bodies are flush. You let out a shaky breath before burying your face in his soft hair, eyes sliding shut. 

“The Lannister girl is not what really upset you,” Valarr says quietly after a moment—it is a question, but it is not phrased as one, and you stiffen. You do not respond, but you do not need to. He knows the answer already. He admits reluctantly, as though the realization pains him to speak aloud, “I do not know how to make you happy here.”

“I am happy,” you say immediately, an instinctive, courtly answer, a lie that tastes like poison on your tongue.

“Do not lie to me,” he tells you, and then he lets out another heavy breath. You see his jaw tighten slightly before he speaks again. “I…” He hesitates, trying to find the words. “I thought if I loved you enough, the rest would matter less.”

You inhale at his words, watching as he pulls back to look at you again. The grief in his eyes makes your stomach turn. 

“It is not you who makes me unhappy,” you say, because guilt eats at you. Valarr is the only person trying to make you feel comfortable in this wretched place—he goes out of his way to ensure you are included, to make you feel wanted and welcome, and you—you what? You turn on him the moment he glances away? As though none of the rest matters? You feel embarrassed suddenly, mortification rolling waves in your stomach and chest, because Valarr has tried. He has tried so hard, so desperately, and here you are making a mess of everything, because of a tantrum over something beyond his control. “Valarr, I—”

“Hush,” he chides, leaning in to swallow your words with another kiss. “I understand. You do not need to explain yourself to me.”

The tears fall in earnest at that, rolling over your cheeks silently as you stare at him. You are the wretched one—wretched and miserable, you have been blessed with a marriage to a man most women would kill for, and you ruin it with your gloom. Love from Valarr should be enough to outweigh the rest, so why isn’t it?

Valarr clicks his tongue lightly, lifting his hands so his thumbs can wipe your tears as they fall. 

“None of that,” he murmurs. “I do not know what is running through that beautiful mind of yours right now, but enough of it. I know this is not an easy transition for you—you are six thousand miles away from your home and family, in a strange place with stranger people. I do not begrudge you for struggling to find your place here, nor for being upset when alone. I should not have left you.”

“I want you to be enough,” you say, and you mean it. You mean it so desperately—you need him to understand. This is not—it is not of your choosing; if you had it your way, this would be enough. “I want to be happy here.”

“I know,” he says gently, holding the weight of your head in the palm of his hand as you lean into him. “I know, ñuha jorrāelagon.”

“They all hate me,” you tell him. When his brows furrow and lips part to deny it, you continue before he can, “I can tell. Do not deny it.”

Valarr doesn’t respond for a long time, and then he says quietly, “You are beautiful, and you are my wife, and their daughters are not. You arrived on gilded ships with enough wealth to shame the majority of lords in Westeros, and then had the audacity to capture the affection of a prince they had long hoped to claim for themselves. They would have hated you even if I did not adore you so openly. They hate men for much, much less.”

“It is not fair,” you say, voice weak and childish. “I have given up so much for their favor. I dress how they expect. I speak how they expect. I act how they expect. I celebrate their holy days with them, and I go to the temples of their gods, and—”

“I know,” Valarr cuts in gently again, stroking your hair. 

“Then why? What more must I do for them to accept me?”

Valarr doesn’t reply for a long while, an unreadable expression on his face. “Do not give up anything more for them,” he says. Your face twists, but before you can rebuke his words, he continues, “I mean it. The only thing that will help is time—I do not want you to cut away parts of yourself to satisfy the likes of vultures who would strip you of everything if given the chance.”

“It is easy for you to say,” you scoff bitterly. “You do not have half of the lords in this keep praying for your ill health and accidents to befall you. It is only a matter of time before their prayers turn to action.”

Valarr goes very still and very quiet. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fireplace, and you realize you have made a terrible mistake.

His hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holding you close as something cold flickers briefly through his eyes—your husband is gallant and charming, and he loves you despite the circumstances. Your husband is also a Targaryen, and the blood of the dragon runs hot through his veins; madness and greatness are always one flip away from the other. It is tamer in Valarr compared to his cousins, but it is there nonetheless.

“Who?” he asks softly. The quietness of it chills you more than shouting would have.

You shake your head immediately, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He lets you, but his fingers remain stiff in your hair, body tense and coiled against yours. 

“It does not matter.”

“It does to me,” he says. “You think someone in this keep means you harm. You think they pray for your death so openly that you have come to expect attempts on your life—and you would have me ignore it?”

You shouldn’t have said anything. You know this court better now than you did when you first arrived; you know how quickly whispers become accusations, and how quickly accusations become bloodshed when dragons are involved. Valarr has always seemed gentler than the rest of his kin—arrogant, maybe, but what prince is not? He is easy laughter and soft smiles, and it lulls you into a false sense of security, because you forget he is still a prince of House Targaryen. Still fire and blood. 

“It was only a figure of speech,” you murmur, another lie.

“You do not speak carelessly, wife.”

You fall silent at that, because he is right—you do not. 

Valarr exhales hard through his nose. “Who has threatened you?”

“No one.”

“Who has frightened you, then?”

You do not answer, looking away. “I do not want to talk about this anymore.”

Valarr’s jaw tightens, frustration flashing across his face briefly. For a moment, he looks as though he wants to fight, but then he concedes, “Very well. But this will not be the last we speak on this.” 

His hands slide under your thighs, and your eyes slide shut, arms tightening around his shoulders as he rises to his feet with your body wrapped around his, carrying you over to the bed and laying you back gently on it. He slips out of his tunic and leathers before joining you beneath the covers.

You immediately curl into his side, pressing your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, sliding one leg between his to be as close to him as possible. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you impossibly closer.

“You are wrong,” he says after a moment, and your brows furrow. “Not everyone dislikes you in this keep. My family adores you, and that, I fear, is one of the greatest accomplishments a person can claim, considering most of them can barely tolerate each other.”

“That is not true,” you say immediately, lips pursed.

“It is,” Valarr insists. “My father and brother love you. They cherish the mornings you join them in the library. They like hearing your stories of Qartheen culture and the Far East. My father wishes to broach the subject of you joining them more often, but he does not want you to feel obligated to come.”

“Oh,” you say, voice wobbly again, eyes suddenly very wet.

“And the twins adore you,” he continues. “Aelora gave quite the verbal lashing to a Marcher lord who spoke poorly of our union—” Of you, he means, because no one in this keep would speak poorly of Valarr, the perfect prince. “—and Aelor threatened to have him whipped if he ever repeated such a thing again. They do not forget the day you found Uncle Rhaegel teetering on the edge of a balcony in the west tower and looked after him until they were able to come and retrieve him.”

“I did not know that,” you whisper.

“And gods know how you managed to gain the affection of Uncle Maekar’s sons—”

“Affection is a stretch,” you disagree.

“You do not know my cousins like I do, wife,” Valarr says with a wry smile. “It is affection, I must insist. I have never seen Aerion so captivated when someone speaks the way he is when you do.”

Your face feels hot. “It is only because he is interested in Qartheen magic and our warlocks. He wants to visit the House of the Undying.”

“I digress, both Aunt Shiera and Uncle Brynden are well-versed in magic, and Aerion is hardly so starry-eyed when he badgers them for information,” Valarr counters dryly, though there is something pinched in his voice that piques your curiosity. “And even you cannot deny that Daeron is enamored by you—I have caught him reciting poetry for you in his drunken ramblings. You have thoroughly charmed him, that is clear.”

This time, there is no denying the bitterness in his voice. You smile against his skin.

“Are you jealous, husband?” you ask, peeking up from his shoulder to look at the way his jaw is tight.

“In truth, I have contemplated tossing them both into the Blackwater a concerning number of times this past week,” he admits flatly.

A laugh startles out of you before you can stop it, and the flat line of his mouth softens at the sound. He leans down to press his lips to your forehead, long and lingering.

“Daeron cornered me for an hour last week to ask whether you prefer sweet wines or dry ones,” he continues after a moment, bitter. “Claimed he wished to ‘better understand Qartheen tastes’ as though I am foolish enough to not realize what he is really doing.”

Your eyes crinkle. “That explains the odd assortment of wines he brought to the gardens when I was there reading, then.”

Valarr lets out an exasperated sigh. “To think my own cousin is trying to woo my wife away from me,” he mutters, “and so shamelessly at that. To think he has the nerve to ask my advice on how to go about it.”

You find yourself giggling despite yourself. “He is sweet,” you say at last. “Harmless.”

“He is a Targaryen prince,” Valarr says dryly. “We are very rarely harmless.”

You are smiling openly now, warmth spreading through your chest as the void of loneliness is filled little by little. You had thought yourself so isolated here, so painfully unwanted, that you never considered anyone beyond Valarr might genuinely care for you.

The realization leaves your throat terribly tight.

Valarr notices at once, expression softening as he tilts your face up toward him to brush his lips against yours gently. Once. Twice. Three times. You think you could lose yourself in the taste and feel of him.

“My brother is to be married soon,” Valarr says after a moment, fingers stroking your hair absently. “To the daughter of the Tyroshi Archon—my father finalized the betrothal this morning. I hope, perhaps, the two of you will get along, since she will also be far from home. It may make court easier for you, to have someone who understands what it is to arrive here alone in a foreign land—a companion.”

You peek up at him again, blinking once. Tyrosh. He presses his lips to your forehead. You say, voice small, “The Tyroshi like dyes and hats. I am not versed in them. What if we cannot find common ground?” 

Valarr pauses, and then says, far too amused, “I think you will have enough common ground that you need not be familiar with dyes and hats.”

“Do not mock me,” you mutter.

“I am trying very hard not to.”

“You are failing.”

“Terribly,” he admits.

You make a wounded sound and attempt to bury your face back against his shoulder, but Valarr catches your chin before you can escape, smiling as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.

“Wife,” he says gently, “I promise you the Tyroshi girl will not arrive here expecting expertise in dyes and hats.”

“Perhaps I should read up on them just in case,” you say, gaze flitting away briefly. “Qarth is—it is a far cry from any of the Free Cities. Very different… very far. She might think me strange, and if I am strange, then everyone here will be strange to her. It would be good to have common ground in interests, so that she can keep some of home with her at least with me. I think it would make her more comfortable, don’t you?”

Valarr’s expression changes at once, and there is something devastating in the way he looks at you now—so warm and tender, so sickeningly fond that it makes heat creep up the back of your neck. Valarr loves you; he loves you so deeply and so openly that it is impossible for anyone to deny, not with the way he looks at you as though you are the most precious thing in the world. You gnaw at your bottom lip, unable to hold his gaze when he looks at you like this. He kisses your temple again, long and lingering, and then sighs against your skin.

“You are worried about making her comfortable,” he realizes quietly.

You blink. “Well, yes.”

You remember too vividly what it felt like to arrive here alone, standing in a hall full of people smiling at you with teeth instead of warmth. If the Tyroshi girl is lonely, if she looks around this court and feels swallowed whole by it, you do not want her to feel the way you did.

“You are extraordinary,” he murmurs. “I do not know how I got so lucky.”

Heat floods your face immediately. “I am speaking about dyes and hats, Valarr. Do not be ridiculous.”

“You are speaking about a girl you have never met and worrying over how to make her feel welcomed in a foreign court despite the fact that you yourself are still struggling here.” His mouth curves softly. “You do not even realize how lovely you are, do you?”

You scowl weakly. “You are biased.”

“Hopelessly,” he agrees, so sincerely that it makes you embarrassed. He adds after a moment, “You know what I think will happen?” 

You eye him warily. “What?”

“I think the Tyroshi girl will arrive terrified.”

Your brows knit slightly. You know this. That is exactly what you are trying to prepare for.

“I think she will spend the voyage rehearsing how she ought to speak and smile,” Valarr continues, voice soft. Yes, she will, you agree, because that is what you did, too. “I think she will step into court and immediately realize she is being examined like a prized horse at market.” His thumb strokes slowly along your cheekbone. “And then I think she will meet you.” 

Something in your chest twists painfully.

“She will see another woman who crossed the world alone,” he says. “Another woman who survived it, and learned this court well enough to navigate it gracefully despite how cruel it can be.” His lips curve faintly. “And then she will cling to you desperately for guidance while you panic over whether or not you understand hats sufficiently.”

You let out a startled laugh despite yourself. Valarr smiles at the sound instantly, gaze unbearably warm.

“There she is,” he murmurs quietly. “You look less like you wish to flee back across the seas now.”

“You make it very difficult to remain angry with you.”

“That is because I am devastatingly charming,” he says, ghosting his lips against your nose, over your eyelids, your forehead, settling on the top of your head. “Ask anyone.” 

“You are insufferable, is what you are.”

He hums in agreement. “And yet, you cling to me still. I cannot be so insufferable then, can I?”

“I told you not to mock me, husband. My homeland is fond of its poisons—you might find sweet death laced in your wine should you push too far,” you threaten, but there is a smile in your voice, hidden against his shoulder, and his chest rumbles as he huffs out a laugh.

“I will endure the risk if it means I get to have you curled in my arms like this, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he murmurs, all warmth and devotion as he tucks you closer into his chest.

You lay like that with him for a long while, basking in his warmth and the comfort of his arms, eyes sliding shut as the drowsiness finally hits you, all of the day's stress and excitement sinking in.

You murmur at last, “You smiled at her too much,” before you can stop yourself. Then you add for clarification, “The Lannister woman.”

He vows, “I shall never smile at anyone besides you again.”

“I will poison you if you do.” 

His fingers trail up and down your side, gentle and adoring, lulling you to sleep. “A just punishment, certainly. I should expect nothing less from my fearsome wife.”

You make a soft, sleepy sound at that, too exhausted to muster another threat, and Valarr smiles faintly against your hair.

Valarr’s fingers continue their slow path along your side, absent and affectionate. You think he believes you are half asleep already by the way he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment too long.

“You frightened me tonight,” Valarr admits quietly after a while.

Your lashes flutter slightly, but your eyes do not open. Your words are half slurred together as you ask sleepily, “I frightened you?”

“You spoke as though you truly believed I would cast you aside,” he murmurs. “That you were unwanted by me.”

You do not know how to reply to that, because a part of you had believed it, for a moment. You were forced upon him through politics and trade, and the rest of the court has made its opinions clear on you. You had let the insecurities get the best of you, with people around you whispering poison so sweetly it began to sound like truth.

“I choose you,” he says when you do not respond, fingers stroking your side again. “Not for your father’s ship and your family’s wealth. Not for trade with Qarth and access to the Jade Gates. You—because you do not look down on my brother for not taking to the sword the way everyone else expects him to, because my father’s eyes light up every time the two of you speak, because you ease the burden that weighs on my shoulder just by being in the same room as me. Because you are good and kind and worry about making sure another girl is comfortable here, when you still struggle yourself. Given the chance and opportunity to pick any woman in Westeros or Essos, I will always pick you—and anyone in this court who is bold enough to try to harm you will find themselves begging the gods for mercy before I am through with them.”

“You are very foolish,” you whisper weakly, barely awake.

Valarr’s lips curve. “Desperately so.”

“There are easier women,” you say quietly. “Women who your court would accept, who—”

“I do not want easier women,” he cuts in immediately. “I want you, and only you. I try very hard to be a good man—to follow in my father’s footsteps—but I would do terrible things to anyone who dared try to take you from me.”

Your chest aches. Loathsome man.

“I love you,” you say quietly, eyes heavy and voice slow, the steady beat of his heart and strokes of his fingers still doing quick work at ensuring you are half to sleep already. 

He had made it clear to you on your wedding night that he had no intention of bedding you. It was a statement of fact, delivered not out of cruelty but out of a misguided sense of honesty. He had seen the flash of hurt in your eyes, quickly masked by a composed, brittle acceptance. So, naturally, he reasoned, after some time spent in the company of the charming Ser Elyas, you would come to love him. It was a natural, tragic story. A handsome knight and a neglected princess. He had practically gift-wrapped a discreet, passionate affair for you. It was the least he could give it to you, a substitute for the husband you had probably imagined, a way to satisfy that aching, youthful urge for romance that he, a man carved from stone, could never fulfill.

Yet, from what he observed over the following weeks, the plan had failed with spectacular precision. He would watch from a high balcony as Ser Elyas, in his gleaming plate, offered you his hand to help you over a damp patch of grass. You took it with polite, distant courtesy. You would exchange a few words, an occasional jest that made the knight chuckle, but your expression remained serene, unmoved. Maekar, a veteran of countless campaigns, knew the look of a soldier performing a duty. And your nights, as the quiet reports from your maids confirmed, were spent solely in your rooms. No secret knocks, no furtive shadows slipping from your door at dawn.

He was at his wits’ end. What did you want then? He had given you everything your station and age could desire. What would wipe off that pretty, unconscious pout off your face? Perhaps, he had finally conceded, if he talked to you. A novel concept for a marriage, he knew. He would go to you, and perhaps, in a moment of unguarded frustration, you would let your grievances slip.

The previous night, he had gone to your chamber. Your maid, a timid wisp of a girl, nearly dropped her mending box when she saw him at the threshold. "Leave us," he had commanded, and she fled. You had been seated by the fire, a book open on your lap, and you looked like a startled doe at his unexpected presence, your body going rigid, your eyes wide.

"My prince," you had said, your voice a breathless question.

He had felt like an intruder in his own wife's space. "I…I came to see how you were faring," he had managed, the words feeling foreign and clumsy on his tongue.

You recovered quickly, your innate grace taking over. You poured his wine yourself, and offered him a plate of fruit and honey cake. "I am well, my prince. Truly. The book you sent is fascinating. The accounts of the Rhoynish are almost unbelievable." You were making conversation. You were making it easy for him. And so you spoke for a while. It was surprisingly pleasant.

He found himself relaxing into a chair, debating the tactical blunders of the Valyrian conquest of the Rhoyne, and you had listened with rapt attention, asking pointed, intelligent questions that surprised him. You had a mind, he realized with a start. A sharp, curious mind hidden beneath the pout and the big eyes.

But he didn’t catch any clues. No lamenting a lack of knights, no forlorn sighs about the gardens, no veiled complaints about his absence. Just you, being…pleasant. So, eventually, he rose to leave. "It is late. You should rest."

The change was instantaneous. The spark of animation in your eyes died, replaced by a stricken, hollow look, as if you were wondering what you had done wrong. Your fingers tightened imperceptibly on the spine of your book. "Of course, my prince. Thank you for your company."

He hesitated. He was a man of military precision, and the sudden, palpable drop in your mood was a tactical variable he hadn't accounted for. He was already in your bed chambers. What kind of husband left his wife's bed chamber right before going to bed himself? A churlish one. A neglectful one. The servants would talk, of that he was certain. The walls of Summerhall had ears and mouths. But he did not care what servants would see or say. Their gossip was the chaff of court life. The thought that stopped him cold, that made his feet feel nailed to the floor, was simpler. He owed you basic courtesy, did he not? He had denied you everything else. He could not deny you the simple, public dignity of a husband who shared your bed for a night.

Before he could overthink himself out of it, he gestured to the bed. "Move over, then."

Your eyes, if possible, grew even wider. "My prince?"

"I will not sleep in my boots," he said gruffly, sitting on the edge of a chaise and beginning to unlace them. "I will stay. Just to sleep." He made a promise to himself then, a sacred oath. He would lie down with you, and he would speak to you until you fell asleep, so you would not be insulted by a silent, rigid vigil. Then, he would leave. He had been insulting you for months by refusing to do his duties as a husband, and this small act of presence would at least be a temporary salve on a wound he had no intention of healing.

He lay down atop the covers, fully clothed in his tunic and breeches, a stiff, awkward pillar of a man. You slipped under the furs with a rustle of linen, lying rigidly on your back. The silence was deafening. Maekar cast about for something, anything, to say. "Tell me more about the Rhoynar," he commanded, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room.

And so you did, your voice soft and hesitant at first, then gaining strength. You spoke of the legends, the songs of the Mother Rhoyne, the giant turtles that were said to be gods. He listened, inserting a dry comment now and again that made you giggle, that beautiful, rippling sound he was growing dangerously accustomed to. He stayed, and continued speaking to you about the defensive layout of river cities, the logistical challenges of moving a legion through marshland, until your words began to slur, your breathing deepened, and your face went slack with peace. He had done it. He thought he would leave when he was sure you were deep in sleep. He would just wait one more minute. Just to be certain. The fire had burned down to embers. The room was warm. The scent of lavender was soporific. And that was the last thing he remembered.

Now, it was morning. The maid’s insistent knocking on the door was a relentless, chipper assault on his senses. He was still fully clothed, his tunic creased. And you were curled up next to him, clutching his arm as if it were the most natural, obvious thing in the world. The knocking roused you. You stirred, a small hum of contentment escaping your lips before your eyes fluttered open. Your gaze, hazy with sleep, traveled up his arm, over his chest, and settled on his face. The reaction was not one of surprise, or at least not the kind he expected. It was pleasure. A deep, luminous, bone-deep pleasure that transformed your features. You were smiling. A shy, pleased smile, as if you had just woken from a beautiful dream and found it still real.

"Good morning, my prince," you murmured, your voice thick and honeyed with sleep. There was a newfound confidence in it, a possessiveness that hadn't been there before. "Are you to have a busy day? I thought I might join you, if it were permitted. Perhaps I could assist you with your letters?"

Maekar found himself staring. The words were simple, but the meaning behind them was not. His plan, the handsome guard, the neglected lady, the grand affair, it all crashed down around his ears in a shower of broken, idiotic pottery. He realized his mistake with the force of a warhammer to the chest. You thought your husband was finally coming around. The gift, the miraculous, improbable gift you had wanted all along, was not a surrogate. It was him.

You wanted this. Him. His presence. His attention. His dry, sarcastic remarks. His tactical critiques of ancient river warfare. His grumpy, unyielding, solid self.

All this time, you had wanted him.

He felt a strange, tight sensation in his chest, a feeling he hadn't allowed himself to entertain for many, many years. It was a seed of warmth, cracking through the cold, hard stone he had meticulously built around his heart. He cleared his throat, his voice emerging as a low, rusty rumble.

"You can join me," he said, the words a surrender. "If you wish."

The pout was completely gone now. The smile that remained in its place was brilliant, a sun emerging from behind a lifetime of clouds. It was a smile just for him. And for the first time since he had been forced to take a new wife, Maekar Targaryen didn't feel saddled. He felt, with a terrifying, exhilarating certainty, that he was about to be completely, irrevocably unhorsed.

The days that followed that first, accidental night established a new rhythm in Summerhall, one Maekar found himself falling into with a disquieting ease he refused to examine too closely.

You had asked to assist him, and Maekar, a man who had never refused a direct request from a lady in his life out of sheer, blunt propriety, could find no reasonable grounds to deny you. You appeared in his solar the next morning, freshly dressed in a gown of pale yellow that made you look like a spring daffodil, and settled yourself in the chair across from his great oaken desk. He expected you to be a distraction. Instead, you proved infuriatingly useful. Your handwriting was elegant where his was a cramped, soldierly scrawl.

You sorted his correspondence into neat piles: urgent, routine, and the one you tactfully labeled "probably insincere flattery from lords who want something." He had let out a surprised bark of laughter at that, and you had beamed at him as if he'd just crowned you Queen of Love and Beauty.

This became your habit. Mornings in his solar, you with your neat piles and your quiet, intelligent questions about the running of the lands. Afternoons, you would walk with him along the battlements, your hand resting lightly on his arm as he pointed out the defensive improvements he was making to the eastern wall. You listened with genuine interest, asking about murder holes and arrow slits with a curiosity that was wholly unfeigned. Evenings, you dined together, and your sweet inquiries about his wellbeing were no longer met with grunts. He found himself actually answering you, describing the frustrations of a dispute between two minor landed knights or the irritating news from court. You would nod, your brow furrowed in thought, and offer observations that were often startlingly perceptive.

And every night, the same delicate, unspoken negotiation occurred.

The first time it happened outside of your own chambers, you had been in his rooms. It was late, the fire burning low, and you had been reading aloud to him from a treatise on dragonlore while he sharpened his dagger. Your voice had grown hoarse, and he noticed the way you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand. He could not, in good conscience, send you shuffling down cold corridors to your own chambers. The very idea was absurd. What kind of husband kicked his own wife out into the night like a stray cat?

"The hour is late," he had said, sheathing his dagger with a decisive click. "You will stay here."

You had looked at him with that expression again, the one that was half hope and half caution, as if you were afraid of misinterpreting his words. "Here, my prince?"

"In my bed," he clarified, the words coming out more gruffly than he intended. "I will take the chaise."

But you had looked so stricken at that suggestion, your face falling in that way he was growing to dread, that he had found himself amending the plan. "Or I will join you. The bed is large enough. It is not seemly for a prince to sleep on a chaise in his own chambers."

It was a flimsy justification, and he knew it. But the way your expression brightened, the shy, pleased smile that curved your lips, was worth the internal grumbling. He lay beside you that night, a careful distance between your bodies, and spoke to you about the properties of Valyrian steel until your breathing evened out into the soft rhythm of sleep. He awoke to find you pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder, one of your hands resting over his heart as if counting the beats.

This, too, became your habit. You clinging to him in sleep like a limpet to a rock, and Maekar waking each morning to the scent of your hair and the warm, trusting weight of your body against his. He told himself it was for your dignity. He told himself it was a small kindness, a basic courtesy. He told himself many things, and believed none of them.

Then there was the incident with the lamprey pie.

A lord from the coastal holdings had sent a gift of lampreys, and the kitchens had prepared them in a rich, heavily spiced pie. You had eaten only a small portion, politely complimenting the flavor, but within hours you were taken ill. Maekar was in the yard overseeing a drill when your maid came running, her face pale as milk.

"My prince, it is the princess. She is unwell. The maester says it is the lamprey, that it has irritated her stomach something fierce."

He did not remember crossing the castle. He only remembered the cold spike of fear that had lanced through him, the way his heart had hammered against his ribs with a violence that had nothing to do with exertion. He found you in your chambers, curled on your side in the great bed, your face waxen and beaded with sweat. The maester was there, a fussy old man who was doing far too much hand-wringing for Maekar's liking.

"She will recover, my prince. It is a mere gastric disturbance. But she must eat to keep her strength up, and she refuses. The princess will not touch the porridge."

Maekar looked at the tray on the bedside table. A bowl of plain, unappetizing porridge sat there, cooling and congealing. You were facing away from it, your eyes closed, your pout firmly in place.

"Leave us," Maekar commanded. The maester and the maids scurried out like mice before a dragon.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked at him with such a mix of misery and embarrassment that it made something twist painfully in his chest.

"I am sorry," you whispered, your voice thin and reedy. "I am being foolish. It will pass."

"You will eat," he said, reaching for the bowl.

"My prince, I cannot. The very thought..."

"You will eat," he repeated, and this time his voice was gentler, an unfamiliar softness creeping in despite his best efforts. He scooped a small portion of the porridge onto the spoon. "Open your mouth."

You stared at him, those big eyes glassy with discomfort, and for a moment he thought you would refuse him. But then you parted your lips, a tiny, obedient gesture, and he carefully slid the spoon into your mouth. You swallowed with visible effort, your face scrunching up, and he immediately had another spoonful ready.

"Good," he said, the praise awkward on his tongue. "Again."

He fed you the entire bowl that way, spoonful by painstaking spoonful, his large, calloused hands surprisingly steady. He did not rush you. He waited between each bite, murmuring gruff words of encouragement that felt foreign and strange, like a language he had never been taught. When the bowl was empty, he set it aside and reached for a cloth, dabbing gently at the corner of your mouth.

Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that made him feel like a hero from a song, when all he had done was feed you porridge.

"Thank you, Maekar," you breathed, using his name without his title for the first time. It hit him somewhere deep, a blow he had no armor for.

"Rest now," he ordered, his voice rougher than he intended. "I will stay."

He stayed. He lay beside you, fully clothed, and let you curl into his side. He stayed until your breathing steadied and the color slowly returned to your cheeks. He stayed even after that, watching the firelight play across the ceiling, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest against his, and wondered what in the seven hells he was doing.

But still, still, he put off the matter of bedding you.

It was not that he did not want to. The realization had crept up on him with the slow, inevitable force of a rising tide. He wanted to. Gods help him, he wanted to. The sight of you in your thin nightdress, the way your hair spilled across the pillows, the warmth of your body pressed against his each morning, it was testing the limits of his resolve, which had never been particularly strong where matters of the heart were concerned. He had simply never had his heart involved before.

But to bed you would be to open a door he was not certain he could close again. He had built his life around duty, around the cold, hard certainties of obligation and honor. He had loved once, and loss had carved a hollow in him that he had believed was permanent. You were filling that hollow, day by day, smile by smile, and the sensation was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.

He was a coward. Maekar Targaryen, who had faced down rebel lords and laughed at the prospect of single combat, was a coward when it came to his own wife.

Then came the night of the kiss.

It was an evening like any other. You had spent the day in his solar, helping him draft responses to a particularly tedious batch of petitions. Dinner had been a quiet affair, just the two of you, and you had made him laugh, actually laugh, a deep, surprised rumble of sound, with a wicked impression of a pompous lord who had visited the previous week. You had retired to his chambers, as had become your custom, and he had told you about the Dragonknight's campaigns in Dorne until your eyes grew heavy.

"Goodnight, Maekar," you said, your voice soft and drowsy.

And then you kissed him.

It was not a forceful kiss, not a demand or an invitation. It was a brief, gentle press of your lips against his, as natural and unthinking as a breath. A goodbye. An act of simple, uncomplicated affection. You pulled back, your eyes already closing, and nestled into your pillow with a contented sigh, as if you had done nothing of any particular note.

Maekar lay frozen, staring at the canopy above him, his heart thundering in his ears.

You had kissed him.

This was his fault. The thought careened through his skull like a loose cannon on a ship's deck. This was entirely, unequivocally his fault. He had done this. He had planted this notion in your head, watered it with his attentions, and now it had bloomed into something he could no longer ignore.

A fortnight ago, you had been helping him remove his heavy outer tunic after a long day of inspections, your small fingers working deftly at the clasps. It had been such a wifely gesture, so intimate and so natural, that before he had known what he was doing, he had leaned down and pressed his lips to your brow. A brief, chaste kiss. A thank you. He had not even realized he had done it until he saw the way you had frozen, your eyes wide. He had cleared his throat and muttered something about the fire needing more wood, and the moment had passed.

But you had taken that kiss, that single, thoughtless gesture, and drawn a conclusion from it. You had decided, in your sweet, hopeful way, that your husband wanted you to initiate affection as well. That he was too reserved, too gruff, too locked within his own silences to ask for what he wanted. And so, with that gentle, trusting kiss, you had reached across the chasm he had placed between you and offered him a bridge.

Did he want you to? The question burned in his mind, insistent and demanding. Did he want you to kiss him goodnight, as if it were the most normal thing in the world? As if you were truly husband and wife in every sense?

He certainly was not complaining. The ghost of your lips still tingled on his, and his body was reacting in ways that were entirely inappropriate for a man who was supposed to be letting his wife sleep. He was not complaining at all. That was the problem.

He should be complaining. He should be panicking. Because this, this sweetness, this trust, this quiet, domestic intimacy, led inexorably to one conclusion. You would expect children now. The thought hit him like a splash of ice water. Of course you would expect children. A princess, a wife, a woman who had been raised to understand that the bearing of heirs was a fundamental part of her duty. And you would want them, he realized with a jolt. You would want his children. Not out of duty, but out of genuine desire. You would want a babe with his silver-gold hair and your eyes, a child you could hold and nurture and love.

Gods be good.

He turned his head on the pillow to look at you. You were already asleep, your face peaceful, your lips still curved in that small, contented smile. You had no idea of the earthquake you had just set off in his chest. You had kissed him and promptly fallen asleep, trusting him completely, utterly unaware of the crisis you had left in your wake.

Maekar stared at you for a long time, watching the steady rise and fall of your breath, the way your lashes cast delicate shadows on your cheeks. His mind was a whirlwind of duty and desire, fear and longing, the cold echoes of past grief and the warm, insistent pulse of something new.

He could not keep putting this off. He could not keep lying beside you, night after night, pretending that this was a mere courtesy. He could not keep telling himself that he was doing this for your dignity, when in truth, your dignity was the last thing on his mind when he felt the press of your body against his in the dark.

But not tonight. Tonight, you were asleep, and he was a coward still. Tonight, he would lie here and listen to you breathe and feel the warmth of your kiss still burning on his lips.

Tomorrow, perhaps, he would be braver.

Or perhaps, he thought grimly, you would kiss him again, and the choice would be taken out of his hands entirely. The thought was not as unwelcome as it should have been.

The kisses continued.

Every night, without fail, you would bid him goodnight with that same gentle, fleeting press of your lips against his. It was never demanding, never lingering. It was a question posed in the softest possible terms, a door left slightly ajar, an invitation he could accept or decline as he saw fit. And every night, for the first several nights, Maekar accepted it the same way: by remaining perfectly, rigidly still, a statue of a man enduring a pleasant but bewildering assault.

He felt you withdraw each time, felt the tiny, almost imperceptible slump of your shoulders as you settled back onto your pillow. You never said anything. You never complained. But he knew. He was a dull rock, an unresponsive lump of granite, and he was hurting you with his passivity. The knowledge gnawed at him, a persistent, guilty ache that followed him through his days and haunted his waking hours.

The fifth night, something in him snapped. Simply, as you leaned in to press your customary kiss to his lips, he found himself moving. His hand came up, rough and calloused, to cup the back of your head. And he kissed you back.

It was not a passionate kiss. It was not the kiss of a man swept away by desire. It was a careful response, a returning of pressure, a silent acknowledgment. He felt your startled inhale against his mouth, the way your body went taut with surprise. When he pulled back, your eyes were wide, your lips parted, and there was a look on your face that made his chest constrict.

Expectation. Hope. A question that had been waiting, patient and trembling, for an answer.

Maekar looked at you, at your big eyes shining in the firelight, at your kiss-swollen mouth, at the delicate line of your collarbone visible above the lace of your nightdress. He thought of all the nights he had lain beside you, rigid with restraint. He thought of the way you smiled at him, the way you laughed at his dry remarks, the way you clung to his arm in sleep as if he were the only safe harbor in a storm.

He resigned himself. The decision came not with a sense of defeat, but with a strange, liberating clarity. He did not want to become the object of your resentment. He could not bear the thought of those eyes looking at him with bitterness, with the slow, corrosive realization that your husband was a man who denied you not only his affection but the most basic experiences of womanhood. You were young and full of life, and he had been keeping you in a gilded cage, feeding you porridge and kissing your forehead as if you were a child rather than a wife.

"You deserve pleasure," he said, his voice low and rough, the words feeling as if they were being dragged from some deep, hidden place within him. "I have been remiss in my duties."

Your breath caught. "Maekar..."

He moved before he could lose his nerve. His hands found your waist, and he lifted you as if you weighed nothing, settling you onto his lap with a decisive, careful motion. You were warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress, your body soft and pliant against the hard planes of his chest. He could feel the rapid flutter of your heart.

"I will not take what I have no right to claim," he said, the words a rough murmur against your temple. "But I can give you this. Let me give you this."

His fingers found the hem of your nightdress, and he pushed it up slowly, giving you time to object. You did not object. You only watched him with those enormous eyes, your hands resting on his shoulders as if you did not quite know what to do with them. He touched you gently, so gently, his battle-roughened hands moving with a delicacy that surprised even himself. He explored the soft skin of your thighs, the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist. He learned the shape of you by touch alone, his gaze fixed on your face, cataloguing every flicker of expression.

When his fingers found the center of your heat, you gasped, your head falling back, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He moved with slow, patient circles, learning what made you sigh, what made you shudder, what made your hips buck involuntarily against his hand. He was methodical in his attentions, as he was in all things, and he brought you to the peak with the same focused determination he might apply to a siege.

You shattered against him with a cry that was half surprise and half relief, your body arching, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic. He held you through it, his free arm wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you against the storm of sensation. When the tremors subsided, you slumped against his chest, breathing hard, your face buried in the crook of his neck.

He gave you a moment. Then, with the same gentle efficiency, he rearranged your nightdress, lifted you from his lap, and placed you back onto the bed. He drew the furs up to your chin and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Sleep now," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.

You blinked up at him, your expression dazed and soft and so full of something that looked terrifyingly like adoration. "But you..."

"This was for you," he said, cutting you off with a firmness that brooked no argument. "Rest."

You slept. He did not. He lay beside you in the darkness, his body aching with unfulfilled need, and told himself that this was enough. He had done his duty. He had given you pleasure without complicating matters with his own involvement. It was a tidy solution, a clean, surgical strike. You were satisfied. There was no need to get himself fully involved.

This, too, became a habit.

Every few nights, when the expectant look in your eyes grew too pronounced to ignore, he would pull you onto his lap and touch you until you came apart in his arms. He learned the rhythms of your body. He knew the spot just below your ear that made you whimper when he pressed his lips to it. He knew the pace that made you clutch at him desperately, the slower, teasing touches that made you gasp his name like a prayer. He gave you pleasure as a general might distribute supplies to a besieged city: regularly, efficiently, and with a steadfast refusal to partake himself.

He thought you accepted this. He thought you understood the unspoken terms of this arrangement. He was a fool.

It was a quiet evening, the fire burning low in the hearth, the castle settling into the deep hush of night. He had just returned from a grueling inspection of the eastern watchtowers, his muscles aching, his mood as dark as the storm clouds gathering over the mountains. You were waiting for him in his chambers, a book open on your lap, a cup of warmed wine already poured and waiting on his desk.

You were always waiting for him now. The thought should not have warmed him as it did.

The night's ritual had been completed. You were nestled against him, your body still humming with the aftermath of pleasure, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was preparing to settle you back onto your pillow, to pull up the furs and press his customary kiss to your forehead, when you spoke.

"Maekar." Your voice was soft, hesitant, but there was a thread of steel beneath it that he had learned to recognize. "May I ask you something?"

"You may," he said, his guard instinctively rising.

You were silent for a moment, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of his tunic. Then, you lifted your head to look at him, and the expression in your eyes made his heart stutter.

"Why do you not want anything for yourself?"

The question hung in the air between them, simple and devastating. He opened his mouth to deflect, to offer some gruff platitude about duty and obligation, but you did not give him the chance.

"Every night," you continued, your voice still soft but gaining strength, "you give me such pleasure. You are so gentle, so careful, so attentive. But you never…" You hesitated, a flush creeping up your cheeks, but you pressed on with the same determined courage you had shown since the day you arrived at Summerhall. "You never let me touch you. You never seek your own release. It is as if you believe you do not deserve it, or as if you think I am not capable of giving it."

"You are capable," he said, the words escaping before he could cage them.

"Then why?" Your pout was there, that unconscious, pretty pout that he had come to know so well. But it was accompanied by a look so loving, so open and earnest and full of desperate hope, that it struck him like a blow. "I could learn. I could learn how to please you, if you are willing to teach me. I am not afraid. I want to be a true wife to you, in every sense."

He felt something cracking inside him, the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart beginning to crumble. "It is not a matter of teaching," he said, his voice strained. "There are…consequences. You are young. You should not be burdened with..."

"Children," you finished for him, and he was stunned into silence. "You are worried about children."

It was not the only thing, but it was the easiest to admit. He nodded stiffly.

You took a deep breath, and he watched as you gathered your courage, your hands clasping together in your lap. "If you do not wish for children," you said, your voice steady despite the tremor he could see in your fingers, "I can drink moon tea. We can postpone the idea. I have spoken to the maester, and he has assured me it is safe when used sparingly."

Maekar stared at you. You had spoken to the maester. You, his sweet wife, had gone to the old man and asked about moon tea. The image was so absurd, so unexpectedly bold, that he almost laughed.

But you were not finished. "I would like to have a child someday," you continued, and now your voice grew softer, more wistful. "One child of my own. No matter a boy or a girl. And I would raise it with the best of my ability, with all the love I have to give. But…" You reached out, your small hand coming to rest on his cheek, your thumb brushing the line of his jaw. "I would like to have a life first. A marriage. A husband who does not treat me like a delicate piece of glass that might shatter at his touch."

Your eyes were wet, but you were smiling. That smile. The one that had undone him from the very beginning.

"I want you, Maekar," you whispered. "I want my husband."

The walls crumbled. The last defenses fell. Maekar Targaryen, prince of Summerhall, breaker of rebellions and terror of his enemies, looked at his young wife and realized he was only a man. A man who had been fighting a losing battle against his own heart for longer than he cared to admit. A man who loved his wife.

He loved you. The truth of it was a physical thing, a weight in his chest, a fire in his blood. He loved your laugh, your pout, your clever mind and your gentle hands and your infuriating, wonderful habit of clinging to him in sleep. He loved your courage, standing before him now and baring your soul with nothing but hope to shield you. He loved you.

"Gods be good," he breathed, and then he was moving.

His hands found your waist, and this time there was nothing careful or clinical about the touch. He pulled you against him, crushing you to his chest, and his mouth descended on yours in a kiss that was nothing like the chaste, hesitant presses of lips you had shared before. This was a surrender. A desperate, hungry admission of everything he had been too stubborn to say.

You gasped against his mouth, and then your arms were around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair, and you were kissing him back with an enthusiasm that made his head spin. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your faces inches apart.

"You foolish, stubborn man," you whispered, but your voice was thick with tears and joy. "I have been waiting for you to understand."

"I understand now," he said, his voice a low, wrecked rasp. "Forgive me. For all of it. For the neglect, for the distance, for the guard I foisted upon you like a fool..."

"You gave me Ser Elyas?" Your eyes widened, and then a surprised laugh bubbled up from your throat. "Oh, Maekar. I thought he was just a very attentive guard. I wondered why he kept trying to recite poetry at me."

Maekar groaned, dropping his forehead to yours. "I am an idiot."

"You are my idiot," you corrected, and the possessive warmth in your voice was his final undoing. "My husband. And I believe you owe me a proper wedding night."

He looked at you, at the mischievous glint in your eyes, at the loving curve of your smile, and he felt something he had not felt in many, many years. Hope. Joy. A future unfolding before him that was not merely duty and endurance, but something bright and warm and achingly beautiful.

"I owe you much more than that," he murmured, and he lowered his mouth to yours once more.

It started, as things with Baelor often did, with something entirely innocent.

He had texted you a photo of a page from a book — a passage he had found and thought you would find interesting, which he did occasionally now, with the easy frequency of someone who had stopped managing the impulse to share things with you — and you had responded and a conversation had started and it had been a perfectly normal Tuesday evening exchange about the historiography of late Byzantine administrative structures until—

Until you had not been able to help yourself.

I keep thinking about last week, you sent. Specifically the kitchen counter.

A pause.

Longer than his usual response time.

I think about it also, he sent back. Frequently.

You smiled at your phone.

How frequently, you sent.

Another pause.

More than is probably productive, he sent. I was in a meeting this afternoon and spent approximately ten minutes thinking about the sound you made when I— and then it stopped and you could see the three dots and then they disappeared and then appeared again and then: that was not a sentence I intended to finish in a text message.

Finish it, you sent.

That seems inadvisable, he sent.

Baelor, you sent.

A pause.

The sound you made, he sent, when I put my mouth on your throat. I have been thinking about that specifically.

You stared at your phone.

Just that? you sent.

No, he sent back, and the single word had a quality to it even in text. Not just that.

Tell me, you sent.

The three dots appeared and stayed for longer than usual this time, which meant he was writing something and reconsidering and rewriting, which was so Baelor that you smiled at the ceiling of your flat while you waited.

I think about the way you felt, he sent finally. Specifically the way you felt when I was inside you. The sounds you made. The way you said my name. A pause and then another message immediately after: I think about what you look like when you come. I have replayed that in considerable detail.

Your mouth had gone slightly dry.

Considerable detail, you sent.

I have a good memory, he sent. It is currently working against me.

How so, you sent.

I am sitting in my study, he sent, trying to read, and instead I am thinking about putting you on this desk.

You put your phone down and screeched.

Picked it up again.

Tell me what you'd do, you sent.

The three dots.

I would start, he sent, with your throat. Specifically the place where your neck meets your shoulder. I have been thinking about that place with a frequency that I find somewhat consuming. Another message: Then lower. I would take my time. I was not thorough enough last week and I intend to correct that.

Not thorough enough, you sent. Baelor you made me come twice.

I'm aware, he sent. I have specific intentions regarding three.

You made a sound in the privacy of your flat that you were glad no one could hear.

You can't just say that, you sent.

I just did, he sent, with a composure that translated remarkably well into text. You feel extraordinary, he sent, and the shift in tense — present, immediate — made something clench low in your stomach. I think about how you feel around me and I lose significant portions of whatever I was doing. This afternoon it was a budget meeting. I cannot tell you what was decided.

What were you thinking specifically, you sent.

Specifically, he sent, how tight you are. How wet you were. The sounds you make when I go deep. A pause. I think about your hands in my hair. I think about the marks you left on my throat. I think about the way you said my name when you came the second time. Another pause, shorter. I think about it and I am hard and I am sitting in my study trying to read Procopius and it is not going well.

Touch yourself, you sent.

A longer pause than any of the others.

That is, he sent, not something I have done while texting someone before.

First time for everything, you sent.

You are a terrible influence, he sent. And then, after a brief pause: I am touching myself. I want you to know that I find this situation faintly absurd and also that I cannot currently bring myself to stop.

You laughed and then immediately stopped laughing because the image of Baelor in his study with Procopius open on his desk and his hand in his lap because of your text messages was doing things to you that you needed to address.

Tell me what you're thinking, you sent.

You, he sent. Specifically you on this desk. Specifically the sounds you would make. A longer pause — you figured how difficult it'd be for him to reply while he was pumping his cock in his hand. Specifically what your face looks like when you come. Another long pause: I think about that most. Your face. The way you look at me. A longer pause and then: I think about the way you said my name. I think about it constantly. You have no idea what your voice does to me.

Baelor, you sent.

There, he sent immediately. Exactly that. God.

Are you close, you sent.

Yes, he sent. Tell me something.

I think about your hands, you sent. I think about how large they are. I think about the tattoo on your ribs. I think about the sounds you make and the fact that nobody else has ever heard them.

A pause.

Nobody else, he sent back, rough even in text, something stripped in it.

Nobody, you sent. They're mine.

The pause that followed was brief.

Yes, he sent. And then nothing for two minutes and then: that was somewhat more intense than I anticipated for a Tuesday evening.

You laughed properly this time while looking at your phone like an idiot.

Good? you sent.

Come over, he sent. Please.

Baelor it's eleven pm, you sent.

I'm aware, he sent. Come over anyway. A pause. I have specific intentions and a desk and considerably more patience than I demonstrated last week.

You were already looking for your keys.

I'll be there in twenty, you sent.

I'll make tea, he sent, and you could feel the composure returning in real time and found you did not mind because the composure was never really the point, the point was what was underneath it, and you had standing access to that now.

Baelor, you sent, at the door.

Yes, he sent.

The desk, you sent. Don't change your mind about the desk.

A pause.

I have a very good memory, he sent. I don't change my mind about things I've thought about in considerable detail.

You jumped in the place you stood a few times and locked your door behind you.

It started with a photo.

Not an explicit one. Just — you, at a friend's birthday, in a dress that you had purchased with complete innocence and had worn with complete innocence and had sent to Maekar because he had asked what you were doing that evening and you had said out, here's proof and attached the photo without thinking about it.

His response took four minutes.

When are you home

You stared at the message with the incipient smile of someone who had got exactly what they were looking for.

Why???, you decided to play oblivious.

When are you home, he sent again.

That's not an answer to my question, you sent.

Couple of hours tops, he sent. And keep that dress.

You looked at your phone with a full smile now.

What about the dress???, you sent.

Don't, he sent.

Don't what, you sent.

You know what, he sent.

You did know what. You smiled at your phone in the middle of your friend's birthday party and sent back: I genuinely don't know what you mean.

A pause that felt pointed even through a screen.

The dress, he sent, is a problem.

How so, you sent.

I've been looking at that photo, he sent, for four minutes.

And? you sent.

And I'm going to be thinking about taking it off you, he sent, for the next couple of hours.

You excused yourself from the conversation you had been having and went to find somewhere slightly more private. Daeron looked at you somewhat confused, but when he noticed the way you were biting your lip, he just rolled his eyes and laughed.

Just thinking about it? you sent.

For now, he sent.

Tell me more, you sent.

A pause.

You first, he sent.

You looked at that for a moment.

I think about your hands, you sent. Specifically how they feel on my hips.

The response came fast: yeah

I think about your mouth, you sent.

Where, he sent.

Everywhere, you sent. Specifically my throat.

I left a mark last time, he sent.

I know, you sent. I liked it.

A pause that felt like him recalibrating.

How much, he sent.

Enough that I wore my hair up the next day so people could see it, you sent.

The pause was longer this time.

Christ, he sent.

Your turn, you sent.

The dress, he sent. Specifically what's under it.

What do you think is under it, you sent.

Not my mouth, he sent, and the three words landed with the flat certainty of everything he said and did things to you that three words had no business doing.

Maekar, you sent.

Come home, he sent.

I'm at a party, you sent.

I know, he sent. Come home anyway.

That's very demanding, you sent.

Yes, he sent.

You laughed.

Tell me what you're going to do when I get there, you sent.

A pause.

The dress comes off first, he sent. Slowly. I'm going to take my time. And then immediately: Last time I didn't take enough time. Another message: I've been thinking about that.

What specifically, you sent.

Tasting you, he sent, four words, blunt and direct and landing like a physical thing. Properly. Without the wall and the edging. A pause. Just you on my bed and my mouth on your pussy and nowhere to be.

You were gripping your phone considerably harder than the situation strictly required.

That's very specific, you sent.

I think specifically, he sent.

What else, you sent.

You on top, he sent. Like last time. I keep thinking about that. A pause that felt like him deciding something. The way you looked. The sounds you made. I think about that when I'm trying to sleep.

Does it work? you sent. For sleeping?

No, he sent. The opposite.

Are you hard, you sent.

Yes, he sent, as if it were an obvious question. Have been since the photo.

Touch yourself, you sent.

A pause.

I'm not doing that over text, he sent.

Why not, you sent.

Because, he sent, when I come I want to feel your pussy around me. I'm not settling for my own hand when I can have you.

You stopped, put your phone down for a second, looked at the sky above you, took a deep breath and tried not to scream in public.

Maekar, you sent.

Come home, he sent. I'll be here.

I have to say goodbye to a few people, you sent.

Fine, he sent. And then: wear the dress.

You being you, decided to rile Maekar a bit more just because he hadn't comply with your request of touching himself. Also because it was terribly fun to imagine him fuming at home, hard and not able to reprimand you for now.

You attached another photograph, one that a friend had taken that same day of Daeron and you laughing together earlier that afternoon, his arm around your waist in a friendly manner.

Maekar didn't answer for a whole minute. Then:

Tell Daeron to move his hand, he sent.

You laughed. Why??? He's your son.

I know who the fuck he is, he sent. Tell him to move his hand.

We were just— you did not get time to finish the message.

You're mine. He knows that. Get your coat and come here.

You would have screamed if you remembered how to breathe, which you did not.

Already getting my coat, you sent.

Good, he sent. I am having some words with Daeron tomorrow.

A pause.

And then one more message, sent with the flat directness of a man who said what he meant and meant what he said:

I'm going to make you forget your own name.

You said goodbye to approximately four people simultaneously, Daeron included, and left.

Yeah, so maybe there's a bit of personal projection here. Can you blame me tho?

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You chuckled, “It is when you are on top of me.” Your arm clutched around his, somehow still impossibly close despite his complaint.

“No it is this southern sun at an ungodly fucking hour.”

“You should have gotten used to it by now husband,” You turned to face him, twisting in his hold where the fabric of your nightgown bunched around your legs. “I do believe it runs in your blood too.” He only hummed back, pursing his lips in a way where your hand planted across his cheek. He knew better than to protest you, even if he had wanted to, and he didn’t.

After all, you were right.

Dorne.. your homeland. Starfall to be exact. The secluded and mountainous region to the west of your husband’s own motherland of Sunspear, and its ruling house Martell. The castle had stood proud and poignant just as you’d remembered it, the pearlescent rock striking in the sunlight as you’d arrived in carriage over the river Torrentine.

And such many days worth of travelling had proven worthwhile for more than just memory.

Nights burned brighter with the moon clear over the horizon upon the Summer Sea. Spices and incense filled the breeze, and dancers and roamed freely amid court spreading their wears from overseas. You were welcomed by your cousins eagerly, surrounded by none other than your uncle, who ruled the castle after your own grandsire.

It was a custom that both you and Maekar had grown used to, and more than most, comfortable. There was something different there, something softer, warmer. And you had decided you had wanted to share it with your children since their birth. Though court duties and responsibility had proven you unable to depart as often as you’d liked from Summerhall. The last visit being only when you were withchild with your fourth and first girl, Daella.

And so you had taken the chance, ordered respite for a week or two at least, and for Summerhall to be housed by Prince Aerys and his wife Lady Aelinor in your absence.

For the time being, your own family could spent time together, differently.

No court or duty, just peace.

And it had gifted you just that.. for the most part. The youngest children had played from the solar to the riverbank, basking in the sunshine and splashing in the trickling stream alcoved by orange blossoms. The very place you had spent playing as a girl.

It was supposed to be peaceful, gentle and welcoming. It was one of those things. You embraced it in your stride, welcoming as such, the sun gleaming across your skin as you felt the warmth seep in as it once did, basking in the joy around you. Your dress was much different from usual, the soft thin silk of violet gracing your body and hugging at your waist, slinking at your shoulders. The girls wore something similar, dresses of rose and lilac flowing to their ankles as they twirled in awe. Something the courts of home would look unkindly on, but now you found it in you not to care.

Your sons wore their usual tunics, though lighter, in shades of blue and purple and orange replacing the usual crimson and black. And by some grace they had done it without fuss, exploring the grounds from their own respective interests. Aerion had found himself taken with the training yard, watching closely as the master at arms sharpened his sword. A much different one than he had ever seen, the hilt was twisted in gold, the blade rounded with its far point curved inwards.

Aemon had mapped out every corner of the castle, shading himself inside with tapestries and paintings. Daeron had sat himself at the edge of the gardens near a group of gossiping ladies, sipping on a light summer wine with a smirk placed on his lips.

And your Egg, ever the adventurer that he was, had watched over you and the girls as you waded in the waters, scouting the perimeter of the mouth of the river as it fled out into the sea. Your own sworn sword.

There was a shared contentment surrounding you, and you breathed easily for the first time in a long time. Though it seemed such peace could not last for long, as most of your children insisted they take after their father.

“Mother must it be so hot.”

Rhae whined aloud, tugging onto the small of your skirts as you walked with them.

“You sound much like your father.”

The glass ceiling of the conservatory opened up into the courtyard up the stairs from you, where your eyes wandered. Maekar stood in the archway, seemingly enthralled at whatever your uncle had said, loosening the fabric of his collar. His face was already a beat red, nodding along carefully with a gritted tight lipped smile.

The gardens were lush and in bloom, and the girls had already plucked small flowers from their beds and tucked them into their delicately braided hair. But even that did little to cure the one problem they all seemed to have.

Your eyes fell downward when you heard the whine again, this time more tired. Small violet eyes blinked up at you with a reddened flush that matched her father’s. Your hand graced smoothed over her cheek, moving the pair of you into the shade under the tree.

“We haven’t been out for long my love, have you been in the shade yet..?”

She only stared, huffing, “No.”

You had warned them of this, that it was not like it was at home. That the sun could burn just as easily as rainfall in the South. But still they did not listen. And to make matters worse, you found she was not the only one affected.

Egg had slowed down from running, swinging his legs over a rock where he had placed himself just beside Daella, who instead of plucking flowers she only fumbled with the grass, sweat beading her brow.

From where you were crouched you could see the rest of them. Daeron doing what he could to fan himself and wipe away the sweat from his forehead. Aerion pretended not to care as such, but even he had perched himself panting against the balustrade.

Aemon strolled out that very moment, and a smile came across your face as you shook your head. Certainly he was your smartest child, and had already minded himself from the sun since your arrival. But still the glare hit the pale of his skin as soon as he had walked into it.

“Gods be good.”

You swept the silver strands from Rhae’s face, sitting her down where the bank dipped into a little poo, “You must take breaks from the sun sweetling.. here.” Blue water sloshed against the sand and the tree root, and somehow for a moment it felt cooler.

“Better?” You raised an eyebrow at her.

“Better, mother.” She smiled then, urging the other two to join her, and they did so without fuss, soon all lazing happily by the stream with their feet dangling in the water.

“Perhaps a drink will be best hm?”

They all mumbled out a string of pleases as you took off, ordering them to stay put and where you could see them. You stepped up to the higher courtyard, smiling softly at the ladies who were just as unaffected as you, placing yourself at your husband’s side.

“Niece? lovely of you to join us.. I was telling your husband about the tourneys soon to be held here.” Your uncle spoke proudly, resting an arm out where you stood between them.

“Well, no doubt Aerion should be entering upon the lists, uncle.”

“In this heat? If you insist to kill the boy.” Maekar spoke as he leaned toward you, wrapping an arm at your waist instinctively.

“That was what I was here to mention. Might we pass water to the children they seem rather.. exhausted from this heat.”

“I forget you Targaryen’s are not as used sun as us.. of course..” He signalled then, calling a young squire over to hand the children, rather everyone, cups of wine and water. His dark ringlets mussed his head as he nodded, circling back into the castle.

“Perhaps you could use it too, my Prince.” Your uncle gestured to your husband with a teasing smile, still pulling on the seam of his collar to let air in, or the lack thereof.

“I’am fine.” He gritted as the pair of you laughed, placing a hand into his chest gently.

He soon departed as he was called away by yet another lord, leaving you both with a smile and a gentle command to find shade. You took his arm as you both made for the terraced table and chairs looking out over the gardens.

Aemon stood with a glass, and as soon as you looked, so did each one of them, taking gulp after gulp from the cups the squire had handed them.

“Well it seems one of our children listens at least.” You eyed Aemon and then to Maekar, tapping the metal of the table with a smirk.

“I’m surprised there is one at all.” He rolled his eyes, but they did not move from you, instead he took you in. For such chaos you all seemed to bring, you looked so peaceful, so at home. And he’d have shirked all duty then and there if he could just to see you in such a state.

As beautiful, as always.

A part of him seemed to relax at the sight, sighing as his back pressed deep into the chair with a creak, watching over the sights and account for every one of your children.

And much like your uncle’s request and your own, Maekar had done the very same. He drank the glass down in front of him instantly when you were not looking, pouring another not long after.

Stubborn.

—

The day continued on, and before long, after helpings of jugs of water, and a steady order to mind themselves in the sun, the children were rejuvenated once more. Egg splashed about in the water, catching his sisters where they fought back and hid with a mischievous expertise.

And beside you and your husband, your three eldest boys decided to sit with you. Aemon with his book, Daeron sipping from light summer wine, and Aerion with a down turned scowl that was the very image of his father’s, but from the pull in his brow you knew. He too, was content.

Though it didn’t help where you all had ended up, with supper concluded and bellies full, the evening brought different problems. Ones you had managed to account for just in time.

“I think it is burnt..” Daella whined.

“Me too.” Rhae flopped herself across the bed, trying not to pick at the skin.

“It itches.” Egg cried at last, studying the burnt skin on his legs.

“Do not itch it.” You called at last, thanking the maester from the doorway and stepping in a tour skirts fluttered behind you.

The ointment slid cool between your hands, smelling of aloe and mint, dipped from the jar one of the maesters had given you. The old man had offered to do it himself, but with the state of your children, you rathered your hand be torn off than someone else’s.

“I trust you can do it on your own..” Daeron sagged his shoulders and nodded, dipping his hand into the pit to take it into his hands with an eagerness. Surprisingly he hadn’t been so awful, not the fairest of your children, only his shoulders and nose had been burnt red by the sun, and he spread it onto the skin generously.

The girls had a rash from their legs, as well as Egg, who has it on his neck and arms and his chest from the low crease of his tunic. Your hands were gentle, as soothing as they could have been across broken skin, but yet all three of them eased at once.

“It feels nice and cool.”

“It should do, it is meant to help heal the skin. Just do not cover it.”

They nodded tiredly, resting back onto cushions and think blankets just to ease the pain. Aemon had fanned himself in the corner, scrunching his nose when you made a swipe to dot some of the ointment onto the redness there.

Aerion once more insisted he did not need it, laying back into the armchair with his chin tilted high.

“Suit yourself. Come later and you will wish you had..”

He passed you by with a hmph, a small sound, and not a dismissing one, but one that a young man’s pride would not let him lower himself to defeat. Though, he would make up for that later.

The final opponent was one you had saved specially for last. Your husband. He lay out on the bed, fanned by the faint, cool breeze, and opening of his linen shirt.

“If you are to put that on me, I will throw it form the window.”

“Now husband.. I believe you want this to heal do you not?” You smirked, clambering up onto the bed beside him, kneeing just where his legs spread out.

You fought the want to laugh. He had been bunt nearly everywhere, his face a beat red, his neck and chest sore to the touch, even his legs and lower waist through the thin of his doublet. The children watched on in silence, but amused all the while, at the sight of their own father attempting to fend you, their mother off of him.

“I will be gentle..” You dipped your fingers back into the pot, feeling the many eyes burning into the back of your head, no matter how tired.

“Mhm.” Maekar managed out, his eyes screwed shut with his head placed delicately onto the pillow. You’d opened his shirt a little way, just to spread some on, across his collarbones and down to his chest, then to his arms and back up to his cheeks. He winced at nearly every application, though he’d deny it.

“There.. all done. Almost a new man, my Prince.” Your lips placed to his nose carefully, pulling away just before he could tug you back down, groaning as you rolled into his side with a sharp sting. And once more, even through the pain, and the hushed giggled across the room, he did not move either of you, enclosing an arm around you tenderly.

---

Rhae stayed sleeping in your arms as you scooped her to your chest, standing at the open balcony, looking out into the dusk sky. Shades of orange and gold had spurned themselves into violets and blues over the distant horizon. Every tree and flower from the garden had been silhouetted, lit only by the few lamps that passed the place.

And for a time, it was still.

In such a large chamber, and the inability to move near enough at all, every one had fallen asleep in yours and Maekar’s. Daeron strewn out across the armchair, Aemon and Aerion in the others, with sly dottings of ointment on his chest, Daella on one end of the daybed and Aegon on the other. You too had fallen asleep on one of the benches after laying with Maekar, soothing your youngest to sleep where it was too uncomfortable. Where she only found the comfort in your arms.

“Are you going to stay up all night, or are you coming to bed?”

You smiled at the gruff voice calling out through the dark. Fingers balled in a fist at the curve of your neck, soft snores rumbling into your chest as you turned, the moonlight casting shadows across your face.

Maekar took in the sight for a moment, propped up into his elbows with sleep still thick in his eyes, but he still felt it, the familiar skip of his heart. He had seen you hold every one of them like that, and now even in the moment, all of you exhausted, boiling hot and nearly cooked from the Dornish sun, the lines of his face eased, pulling into a small smile.

“If I can get this one to lay down, then yes..”

“Come, bring her here…” His arm raised through the dark, beckoning you forwards. You had barely made it the few paces across the stone floor to the bed before he took her in his arms, her small body fussing with a little wince before settling. The familiar comfort between yours and Maekar’s arms where she had laid many a restless night.

He paused, turning back with an eyebrow raised. He'd already opened your refrigerator and was leaning down to examine its contents, which meant his shirt rode up even further, which meant you could see more of his lower back now too, and...

"You little slut," you said.

His eyebrow climbed higher.

"Sorry?" But he wasn't sorry. He was grinning.

"Who are you showing this much skin for?" You gestured vaguely at his entire midsection. "It's June second. The heat index is ninety-seven. You look like you're about to film a music video."

Aerion straightened up slowly on purpose, and closed the refrigerator without taking anything out. He turned to face you fully, and then, with the casual grace of someone who had never once felt self-conscious in his entire life, he stretched his arms over his head.

The shirt rode up. Way up.

The hem pulled past his navel, past the trail of hair, past the sharp lines of his hip bones. You could see the bottom of his rib cage. You could see the way his abdominal muscles tensed with the stretch. You could see...

"It's just a T-shirt," he said, dropping his arms and letting the fabric fall back into place. His voice was innocent. His eyes were not. "It's hot outside." He paused, tilting his head. "Just like you're wearing shorts. What's the difference?"

"The difference," you said, proud of how steady your voice came out, "is that my shorts cover my entire ass and go to my thighs."

"Debatable."

"Aerion."

He crossed the room and dropped onto the couch beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. The heat of him, already running warm, always running warm, seeped through the thin fabric of your shorts.

"Baby," he said, and his voice had dropped an octave, gone velvety in that way that made your stomach flip. "If you keep staring at me there like that, I'll think a miracle has happened."

"What miracle?"

"That you want to blow me."

You swatted his chest, and he caught your wrist before you could pull away, laughing low in his throat. His grip was loose, easy, his thumb rubbing circles against your pulse point.

"I'm serious," he said. "You've been looking at my stomach for approximately four straight minutes. You haven't blinked. I was starting to get concerned for your ocular health."

"I was thinking."

"About my stomach."

"About how you're a slut."

"Mm." He released your wrist and leaned back against the couch cushions, and you thought that would be the end of it, that he'd tease you for a few more minutes and then suggest ordering food or watching something or doing any of the normal things couples did on sweltering June afternoons.

Instead, he lay down.

Right there on your couch, on his back, one arm tucked behind his head. His shirt exposing his stomach completely, the pale expanse of skin, the faint lines of muscle, that trail of hair you couldn't stop thinking about. And then, as if that wasn't enough, he jutted his hips upward slightly. Like a dog awaiting a belly rub.

You stared at him.

He stared back, his expression somewhere between smug and hopeful.

"You're ridiculous," you said.

"You love it."

"I love you. There's a difference."

His face softened at that, just for a moment, just a flicker, before the smugness returned. "Then prove it. Come here."

You should have resisted. You should have made him work for it, made him beg a little, made him regret wearing that godsforsaken shirt that had been designed specifically to destroy your sanity.

Instead, you leaned down.

Your lips brushed the spot just below his navel, the beginning of his happy trail, and you felt his stomach muscles jump beneath your mouth. His skin was warm, slightly salty. You pressed a second kiss there, softer this time, and then a third, trailing down just a fraction of an inch.

You didn't unzip his shorts.

Above you, Aerion made a sound, something between a groan and a laugh, and his hands came up to grip your thighs. His fingers were warm through your cotton shorts, squeezing, kneading, inching upward.

"Come here," he said again, but this time it wasn't a request.

He pulled you down on top of him with enough force that you had to catch yourself with your hands on either side of his head. One of his hands stayed on your thigh. The other slinked down, past the hem of your shorts, past the elastic of your underwear, and his fingers found wetness. Not a little, not just damp. Wet.

Aerion's eyebrows rose. His lips curved. He didn't pull his hand away; instead, he pressed slightly, just enough to feel you through the fabric of your underwear.

"What's this?" he murmured. His thumb brushed against you, light as a whisper. "Playing hard to get when you're this wet already? That's not very nice, princess."

You should have let him believe it. You should have let him think he'd done this to you, that his stupid shirt and his stupid stomach and his stupid smug face had turned you into this: aching, wanting, slick with need.

But you were also honest to a fault, and Aerion knew you too well for lies anyway.

"No," you said, and your voice came out breathier than you wanted it to. "No, babe, it's...that's not..."

"Not what?"

"It's just discharge." You felt your face heat. "From ovulating. It's not...It's just what happens everyday when ovulating."

For a moment, Aerion just looked at you. Then he laughed with genuine, delighted amusement. His hand stayed where it was, fingers still pressed against your damp underwear, and his hips shifted beneath you in a way that you felt everywhere.

"Doesn't ovulation phase mean increased horniness?" he asked, tilting his head. "I read that somewhere. Heightened libido, increased attraction?"

"That's not..." you started.

"I'm just saying. Seems like convenient timing."

You snorted. "That's not how it works. While libido could spike around ovulation due to hormonal shifts, it's not a guarantee, and discharge is not the same thing as arousal. I would know because this week my body..."

"Baby." He cut you off with a gentle squeeze of his fingers. "I love when you talk biology to me. Truly. It's one of my favorite things about you." His hips rolled upward again, and you could feel him now, half-hard beneath his shorts, pressing against your core through layers of fabric. "But I don't care why you're wet. I care that you are."

"Aerion..."

"Sit down." His voice was soft but certain. "Ride me."

"We're on the couch."

"The couch is fine." He pulled at your hips, guiding you more firmly against him. His eyes were bright, almost playful.

"There's no...we don't have any..."

He reached into the back pocket of his shorts and pulled out a condom. Held it up between two fingers like a winning lottery ticket.

"You carry those with you?"

"I carry one with me." He tucked it back into his pocket. "For emergencies."

"You're such a..."

"Ride me," he said again, and his hand slipped out of your shorts just long enough to undo the button, to pull down the zipper, to push the denim down his thighs. "Come on. I'll let you punish me for the slutty top you pretend to hate."

"I don't pretend to..."

"You've been staring at my stomach for five minutes."

"Four."

"Six, now." He grabbed your hips and guided you, shifted you until you were straddling him properly. His cock pressed against the damp cotton of your underwear, hot and heavy, and you couldn't help the way your hips rolled forward.

"There she is," he murmured. "There's my girl."

His hand slipped back into your shorts, into your underwear this time, no fabric barrier between his fingers and your skin. He found you slick and ready and wanting, despite everything you'd said about biology and discharge.

"You feel that?" he asked, and his fingers circled your clit once, twice, watching your face as your breath caught. "You can call it whatever you want. Discharge. Ovulation. Biological imperative." He pressed deeper, one finger sliding inside you with embarrassing ease. "But this? The way you're gripping my fingers? That's not biology. That's me."

You couldn't argue. You couldn't speak. His finger curled inside you and his thumb pressed against your clit and his other hand was unzipping his shorts the rest of the way, pushing them down, kicking them off entirely.

He pulled his fingers out of you, you made a sound of protest that you'd deny later, his fingers were slick, and he brought them to his mouth without thinking, or maybe with too much thinking, and sucked them clean. He reached for the condom in his pocket. Ripped it open with his teeth, which should have been ridiculous but wasn't, wasn't at all.

"Come here," he said for the third time.

You leaned down, and he kissed you, deep and hungry, licking into your mouth like he was trying to taste every part of you at once. His tongue swept against yours, and his hands guided your hips, and beneath you, he nudged the head of his cock against your entrance.

"Atta girl," he breathed against your lips.

And then he pushed inside.

You both groaned, you from the stretch, him from the heat. Your fingers curled into his shoulders.

His shirt had ridden up even further, pressed between your bodies, and you could feel his stomach against yours, warm skin on warm skin, that trail of hair brushing your navel. You looked down at him, at the flush spreading across his cheekbones, at the way his lips had parted, at the blond hair spread across your couch cushions.

"There's my baby," he said again, softer this time.

You started to move.

His hands guided you, showing you the rhythm, the pace, and you let him, because you trusted him, because you wanted this, because despite all your protests about slutty tops and biology and the sweltering June heat, there was nowhere else you'd rather be.

The couch creaked beneath you. The fan whirred uselessly.

"That's it. Just like that. You feel so good. So good, baby."

Your thighs burned. Sweat slicked the back of your neck. His hands moved from your hips to your waist to your breasts, pushing up your shirt, palming your skin.

"You're so beautiful," he said, and he sounded almost surprised by it, even now, even after all this time. "Riding me on your cheap couch in your cheap apartment, and you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Aerion..."

"I mean it." His hips snapped upward, driving deeper, and you gasped. "I'm going to marry you someday."

"Don't...ah...don't propose to me while you're inside me."

"Fine." He grinned, sharp and lovely. "I'll wait until I'm outside you."

You kissed him to shut him up, or maybe just because you wanted to, because his mouth was warm and familiar and his tongue tasted like coffee and forever. He groaned into the kiss and his hands slid down to grip your ass, helping you move, setting a rhythm that made your vision blur at the edges.

The couch springs protested. The afternoon light slanted through the blinds, painting stripes across his pale skin. His hips snapped up to meet yours, over and over, and his breath came hot against your cheek.

"Close," he muttered. "Baby, I'm close."

You nodded, couldn't speak, could barely think. Your fingers dug into his shoulders and your head fell back and you chased your own release.

He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, pressing hard, that was all it took.

You came with a sound you'd be embarrassed about later, your body clenching around him, your vision blacking out. He followed a moment after, hips stuttering, a low groan torn from his throat.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Aerion laughed breathlessly and pulled you down against his chest. His heart pounded beneath your ear, slowly evening out. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back.

"That was," he said, "a very productive ovulatory phase."

"Shut up."

"The egg didn't go to waste after all."

"I said shut up."

He laughed again, and you hid your smile against his skin, his stomach, where your cheek rested now.

"You're staring again," he said.

"I'm laying."

"You're staring at my stomach while laying on it. I can feel your eyes."

"You can't feel eyes, Aerion."

"I can feel your eyes." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Lucky for you, I wore the slutty top."

"Lucky for you," you mumbled into his skin, "I was ovulating."

His laugh was worth the embarrassment. It always was. He held you against his chest, his too-short shirt rucked up around his ribs, looking at you like he'd won something. Maybe he had. You certainly weren't complaining.

The raven arrived on a Tuesday, and Valarr's world collapsed. Not really. It was just two days. Forty eight hours. Less time than he had spent apart from you a hundred times before. But somehow, with Aelias now three years old and capable of expressing his feelings with words instead of just screams, the parting felt infinitely worse.

Your brother's wife had given birth again. Another girl. Healthy, screaming, perfect. And your brother, the fool, had written to say that he needed you there because his wife was "unwell" and he was "overwhelmed" and you were "the only person who could help."

You had read the letter aloud to Valarr at breakfast. Aelias had been sitting between you, smearing porridge across his face and the table and his father's sleeve.

"I have to go," you had said.

Valarr had opened his mouth to argue. Aelias had beaten him to it.

"No." It was a clear, firm, three year old no. The kind of no that came with crossed arms and a jutted chin and eyes that looked exactly like Valarr's own.

"Mama has to go help Uncle," you had said, wiping porridge off Aelias's nose. "Auntie is sick. The new baby needs her."

"I need you," Aelias had said, which was a devastating argument that Valarr wished he had thought of first.

"I will be back in two days."

"Two days is forever."

"It is two sleeps. You can count them. One sleep, then another sleep, then Mama is home."

Aelias had considered this. His little face had scrunched up in concentration. Then he had looked at Valarr, looked back at you, and sighed the sigh of a child who knew he was beaten.

"Fine," he had said. "But Papa has to do the voices for the dragon story."

"The dragon story is a Mama story," Valarr had said.

"Then you have to learn it." And that had been that. You had left that afternoon, and Valarr had spent the evening trying to memorize a story about a dragon and a knight and a princess who rescued herself, because Aelias had made it very clear that he would accept no substitutes.

Now it was the next morning. You had been gone for eighteen hours. Aelias had woken up three times during the night asking for you. Valarr had not slept at all. He had lain in your empty side of the bed, holding your pillow, staring at the ceiling, and missing you with a physical ache that made him feel like he was drowning.

The small council meeting started at nine. Valarr arrived on time, which was unusual. He arrived holding a locket, which was not unusual when his wife was missing. He sat down in his usual seat, opened the locket, and stared at your painted face with the expression of a man who had just received terrible news about his favorite horse.

Baelor watched him for a full minute before speaking. "Valarr."

"Yes, Father?"

"The locket."

"What about it?"

"You are looking at it."

"I am looking at my wife. There is a difference."

"You have been looking at it for the entire meeting. We have not started yet, but you have been looking at it for the entire time we have been sitting here."

Valarr tore his gaze away from your painted smile. He looked at his father. He looked at the Master of Coin, who was pretending to read a report. He looked at the Lord Commander, who was not pretending to be amused.

"My wife is gone," Valarr said. "She has been gone for eighteen hours. That is eighteen hours without her smile, without her voice, without the way she hums when she brushes her hair. I am allowed to miss her."

"No one said you are not allowed to miss her. But you are sighing."

"I am not sighing."

"You sighed three times since I started speaking. You sighed when I mentioned the grain shipments. You sighed when the Master of Laws asked about the roads. You sighed when the Lord Commander cleared his throat."

Valarr had not realized he was sighing. He tried to stop. He lasted approximately thirty seconds before his chest heaved and another sigh escaped him.

"There," Baelor said. "That is the fourth one."

"I cannot help it. My wife is gone."

"Your wife has been gone for less than a day. She has visited her family before. You have survived. You will survive again."

"This is different."

"How is this different?"

Valarr looked down at the locket. Your eyes looked back at him. Your soft smile. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to hold you. He wanted to bury his face in your neck and breathe in your scent and feel your arms wrap around him.

"Aelias is three now," he said quietly. "He understands that she is gone. He keeps asking for her. He cried three times last night. He cried when I tucked him in. He cried when I gave him water. He cried when I tried to do the dragon story voices because I am not as good at them as she is."

Baelor's expression softened. Just a little. Just enough. "That is hard," he said. "But you are his father. You can comfort him."

"I do not know how to comfort him when I cannot comfort myself."

There was a pause. The Master of Coin shifted in his seat. The Lord Commander looked at the ceiling. Baelor rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed in a way that had nothing to do with missing his wife.

"Let us begin," Baelor said. "We have matters to discuss. Grain shipments. Roads. The situation in the Riverlands. Valarr, if you can manage to contribute without sighing, I would appreciate it."

Valarr nodded. He closed the locket. He set it on the table in front of him. He took a breath.

The door burst open. A small maid, no older than four and ten, stood in the doorway with her cheeks flushed and her hands twisted in her apron. "Your Grace," she said to Baelor, then turned to Valarr. "My prince. The little prince is asking for his mother."

Valarr was on his feet before she finished speaking. "Is he alright? Is he crying? Did he eat breakfast?"

"He ate his porridge. But he keeps asking. Every few minutes. He wants to know if she is back yet."

"Tell him two days. Tell him she will be back after two sleeps."

"I told him. He said two days is forever and he wants his mama."

Valarr looked at his father. Baelor looked back. The Master of Coin cleared his throat.

"Go," Baelor said. "Take him. Bring him here if you have to. We will manage."

Valarr did not need to be told twice. He found Aelias in the nursery, sitting on the floor with his dragon toy in his lap and his lower lip pushed out in a pout so dramatic that Valarr almost laughed. Valarr saw you. He saw you in the way Aelias wrinkled his nose when he was thinking. He saw you in the way he tilted his head when he was listening. He saw you in the shape of his hands and the sound of his laugh and the fierce protective love that burned in his chest whenever he looked at his mother.

"My baby," Valarr said, crossing the room and scooping Aelias into his arms. "My sweet boy. My little prince."

"I want Mama."

"I know. I know. I want her too."

"When is she coming back?"

"After two sleeps. You remember. We talked about this."

Aelias buried his face in Valarr's neck. His small body was warm and solid, his arms wrapping around Valarr's shoulders with a grip that would have been impressive in a child twice his age.

"I miss her," Aelias said, his voice muffled.

"I miss her too."

"I miss her more."

Valarr smiled against his son's hair. "You definitely miss her more. No one has ever missed anyone as much as you miss Mama."

"Not even you?"

"Not even me. You win. You are the champion of missing." Aelias pulled back to look at him. His eyes were red rimmed, his cheeks wet, but he was not crying anymore. He was studying Valarr's face with that serious expression that always made Valarr feel like he was being evaluated.

"You look sad too," Aelias said.

"I am sad. I miss her."

"Are you crying?"

"No."

"You look like you want to cry."

"I am being brave. For you."

Aelias considered this. Then he patted Valarr's cheek with his small hand, the way you did when you were comforting him, and said, "You do not have to be brave. You can cry. I will not tell anyone."

Valarr's throat tightened. He pulled his son close again and held him there, breathing in the smell of him, porridge and soap and something that was just Aelias.

"I love you," Valarr said. "You know that, right? I love you more than all the dragons in all the stories."

"I know. I love you too. But I love Mama more."

"That is fair. I love Mama more too. We have that in common."

Aelias nodded against his shoulder. "Can we go find her now?"

"She is far away. We cannot find her. But we can wait for her together. Would you like to come to the council meeting with me?"

"The boring meeting?"

"The very boring meeting. But you can sit on my lap and I will let you hold the locket."

Aelias perked up. "The locket with Mama's face?"

"The same one."

"Okay. But only if I can open it myself."

"You can open it yourself."

"And close it."

"You can close it too."

"Okay. Let us go."

Valarr carried him through the corridors of the Red Keep. Aelias was getting heavy, too heavy to carry for long, but Valarr did not put him down. He held his son against his chest and walked past the guards and the servants and the painted tapestries, and he thought about you, about the way you looked when you held Aelias, about the way your whole body softened around him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

He walked into the council chamber with his son in his arms. Everyone looked up. The Master of Coin stopped mid sentence. The Lord Commander raised an eyebrow. Baelor looked at Valarr, looked at Aelias, and sighed.

"Valarr," Baelor said.

"Father."

"You brought your son."

"I brought my son. He is missing his mother. I am missing his mother. We are going to sit here together and miss her while you discuss grain shipments. Is that a problem?"

Baelor looked at the ceiling. He looked at the other men around the table. He looked back at Valarr and Aelias, who was now staring at his grandfather with the same stubborn expression that Valarr had worn at every council meeting since he was old enough to attend.

"No," Baelor said. "No problem. Sit down. Try not to sigh."

Valarr sat down. He settled Aelias on his lap and pulled out the locket. He opened it. Your face looked back at him, painted and golden and perfect.

"That is Mama," Aelias said, touching the portrait with his finger.

"That is Mama."

"She is so pretty."

"She is the prettiest. The prettiest in all the Seven Kingdoms."

"Prettier than the queen?"

"Much prettier. Do not tell the queen I said that."

Aelias nodded seriously. He took the locket from Valarr's hands and held it himself, studying your face with the same intensity that Valarr had seen in his own reflection a hundred times.

"Mama," he said softly. "Come home soon."

Valarr's chest ached. He wrapped his arms around his son and rested his chin on top of Aelias's head and stared at the locket over his shoulder.

The Master of Coin began speaking about grain shipments. Valarr did not hear a word. He was too busy watching his son trace the outline of your painted smile with his tiny finger, too busy feeling the weight of Aelias against his chest, too busy missing you with every breath he took.

Ten minutes passed.

Aelias looked up at Valarr. "Is Mama back yet?"

"No, sweet boy. Not yet."

"Oh."

He went back to studying the locket. The Master of Coin droned on. The Lord Commander asked a question about roads. Baelor answered. Valarr sighed.

"There," Baelor said. "That is the fifth one."

"I cannot help it."

"You are not even trying."

Valarr sighed again. Aelias looked up at him with concern.

"Papa is sad," Aelias announced to the council.

"We know," the Master of Coin muttered.

"His wife is gone," Aelias continued. "He misses her. I miss her too. We are both sad. That is why he is sighing."

"Thank you for the explanation," Baelor said.

"You are welcome, Grandfather."

Aelias turned back to the locket. He held it up to the light, watching the gold catch the sun, watching your painted face glow. He kissed it, right on your painted lips, and Valarr felt something crack open in his chest.

"I love you, Mama," Aelias whispered. "I will see you after two sleeps."

The meeting continued. The Master of Coin finished his report. The Master of Laws started talking about the roads. The Lord Commander added his thoughts about the Riverlands. Valarr sat in his chair with his son in his arms and his locket in his son's hands and his heart somewhere far away, wherever you were.

Fifteen more minutes passed.

Aelias tugged on Valarr's sleeve. "Papa."

"Yes?"

"Is Mama back yet?"

"No. Still two sleeps."

"I do not like two sleeps. I want zero sleeps."

"I know. I want zero sleeps too."

"Can we make her come back faster?"

"No. But we can wait together. That makes the waiting easier."

Aelias considered this. Then he nodded, leaned back against Valarr's chest, and resumed his study of the locket.

He asked again after twenty minutes. And again after thirty. And again when the Master of Laws started talking about the roads for the second time, which Valarr suspected was because he was bored rather than because he had forgotten.

Each time, Valarr answered the same way. Not yet. Two sleeps. She will be home soon.

Each time, Aelias nodded and went back to the locket.

And each time, Valarr held him a little tighter, kissed the top of his head a little softer, and sighed a little deeper.

By the end of the meeting, Baelor looked like he had aged ten years.

"Valarr," he said, as the other council members filed out.

"Yes, Father?"

"Take your son. Go do something. Play with him. Read to him. Anything. Just stop coming to council meetings with that locket and those sighs. I cannot take another day of it."

"Tomorrow is another day. She will still be gone tomorrow."

Baelor closed his eyes. "I know. That is what I am afraid of."

Valarr stood up. Aelias was asleep in his arms, finally worn out by the morning of missing, his cheek pressed against Valarr's chest, the locket still clutched in his small hand.

"Look at him," Valarr said softly, looking down at his son. "He looks so much like her."

Baelor opened his eyes. He looked at Aelias. The dark hair. The silver gold streak. The eyes, closed now in sleep. The narrow face and the long limbs and the stubborn jaw.

"He looks exactly like you," Baelor said.

"He does not. He has her nose."

"He has your nose. He has your whole face. He is a copy of you. Everyone says so. Your mother would have wept to see it."

Valarr shook his head. "You are wrong. He has her spirit. Her kindness. Her stubbornness."

"His stubbornness comes from you. You are the most stubborn person I have ever met."

"I am not stubborn. I am determined."

"Valarr."

"Fine. I am stubborn. But so is she. So is he. We are a family of stubborn people."

Baelor stood up and crossed the room. He looked down at his grandson, at the sleeping child in his son's arms, and his weathered face softened into something almost tender.

"He is a good boy," Baelor said. "You are doing well. Both of you. She will be proud when she comes home."

Valarr's throat tightened. "Thank you, Father."

"Now go. Take him to the gardens or something. Let him run around. Stop sighing in my council chambers."

Valarr carried Aelias out of the room. The baby woke up as they walked through the corridor, blinking and confused, still clutching the locket.

"Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Is Mama back yet?"

"Not yet. But soon. Come. Let us go to the gardens. We can look for flowers to show her when she comes home."

Aelias perked up. "Pink ones?"

"All the pink ones we can find."

"And yellow ones?"

"And yellow ones too."

Aelias wrapped his arms around Valarr's neck and held on. Valarr held him back. They walked through the Red Keep together, father and son, missing the same woman, waiting for the same homecoming.

And somewhere on the road between your brother's keep and King's Landing, you were already on your way back. You did not know that your husband was sighing in council meetings. You did not know that your son was asking every ten minutes if you were home yet.

But you would. Soon and when you walked through the door, Aelias would run to you with pink and yellow flowers clutched in his small hands. Valarr would stand behind him, watching, smiling, crying a little. And you would hold them both, and the waiting would be over.

Two sleeps. That was all.

Peace did not seem to last long where you were concerned.

It started as a small, niggling sort of feeling; a distinct feeling of wrongness that sat stubbornly in your chest.

The children — whom you'd spent almost a fortnight entertaining in secret, across cyvasse boards and naturalist tomes and (terribly poor) embroidery — slowly, surely, began to withdraw. You wondered whether it was somehow a fault of yours, but all you'd truly done was send for sweets and listened as they spoke themselves into a stupor… Admittedly, you still stumbled over certain interactions, acclimating slowly to the motherly role you would soon take; and thus, your table was soon empty, the gardens home only to the tweeting birds, the library as quiet as death.

It wasn't a worry you could bring to Maekar, for obvious reason; as Daeron had said, he was very particular about these things, and you had no desire to get the children in trouble with their father. Not only would it shatter the trust that you'd built with them, but besides that, Maekar had grown to be a problem of his own.

In truth, he'd done nothing of grand offence.

Of course, there was the matter of the missing proposal, which you gave some grace — it was to be, perhaps, the most politically pertinent alliance between Westeros and Essos of a generation, and thus there was much to prepare: correspondence to send across the Narrow Sea, dowries and settlements and resources to partition. It was not the proposal (or lack thereof) which vexed you most — it grated on you incessantly, but this you could forgive — no, it was the distinct feeling of distance which had descended on each and every interaction with him.

Slowly, surely, his mind had closed itself to you. The progress you'd made over many moons — prying his thoughts from him with a gentle hand and open ear and, yes, more than a little insubordination — seemed to be lost, fading with an imperceptible gradualness. There was no physical evasion, and for that you were glad at least: you could find him easily in his solar, or his apartments, or in the training grounds, and he had no qualms with spending time with you — but his mind had carried itself to a place you could not follow, and you were ignorant of how to bring it back. How to bring him back.

But no matter. It was clear there was some problem which you weren't privy to, but nonetheless you were determined to remain positive — when this odd period of retreat passed, you would be waiting. In the meantime, you did all those things a lady should do; read the appropriate books, wore the appropriate dresses, danced the appropriate dances to the appropriate music. You'd even begun hosting some of the courtiers in your apartments, having mixed properly with some at the tourney. There, of course, sprouted new problems.

Syrah was officially betrothed to Lord Yronwood. It was a development worth celebrating; you gifted her a fine spool of Braavosi silk with which to make her wedding dress, and took great pleasure in listening to her gush over her husband-to-be. The fact that Syrah was so quickly engaged, though, had become a point of some conversation in court — namely, in comparison to your own status of scandal and sin. It was no secret that you and Syrah were fond of each other; you imagined there was some spiteful humour in the fact that one of you — the less inflammatory one — was to be married without delay, while the other had nothing to show, apparently, for entertaining royalty.

(Though you allowed a litany of snide comments to roll off your back, you were able to concede that you were near green with envy. You'd waited a year. Never before had you exhibited such patience.)

Then, of course, there was the matter of—

"He wishes to marry me," Thoma said, hands wringing together. "Tyel, I mean."

The news sat between you for a moment.

Thoma had, apparently, struck up a romance with one of your guards.

This came as a great surprise to you — a great surprise, and a fair amount of hurt, no matter how much you pretended otherwise. It seemed you were missing more and more these days. Your sharp eyes and sharper tongue evaded you completely — it was all you could do to realise your mouth was agape, and close it.

Tyel and Thoma. You tried to imagine it. Thoma, who had never once insinuated her desire to marry, or anything more than a passing fancy; who turned her nose up at any who came close, and complained as easily as she breathed. Tyel, with his dark, curling hair, and bright green eyes, and mischievous smile. Thoma had, of course, spent more time with him than you ever would, and had obviously found something desirable; you knew very little about him, apart from his fighting prowess and talent with a flute. Sometimes you'd hear him on sunny days, playing when he was supposed to be guarding.

It was not an… unfavourable match. You were sure they'd be happy. It was only that there was a time where you would be the first to know such things. A time where Thoma trusted you to know. How much longer before you were a stranger to the woman you'd been a girl with? Before she disappeared into the ether to keep his home and have his babies, never to see or speak to you again?

"Only," Thoma said quietly, "he cannot afford to buy out my contract."

"Oh," you said smartly. "I… see."

Would she have told you about it, you wondered, if she had no need of your coin? It was a terrible thought, and you perished it.

"Well, of course it shall be dealt with — that should go without saying," you said. "I… congratulations, Thoma. Truly. Anything you might need, of course, I'll—"

Her mouth lengthened with a smile, a beaming thing, and she surged forward to take you in her arms. You had only just remembered to return the embrace — still shocked, really, at the news — when she pulled away, turning on her heel. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you!"

The door shut behind her. You blinked.

It seemed everything was intent on changing, and you were powerless to stop it. The thought infuriated you as much as it saddened you. You were to be married! You should be rosy with the light of love, glowing with youth, elated to begin a new chapter — instead, you were plagued by courtiers, hounded by your own loneliness, and grappling with your ineptitude.

Yes. Peace was an elusive mistress, it seemed. She did not come to you at breakfast, nor luncheon, nor in the gardens, or in dreams; you sat and waited for her to join you at your dinner table, idly prodding at your meal with a fork.

Maekar. Rhae, Daella, and Aegon. Syrah. The court. Thoma. A weary sigh left you — and as if called to action, a throat cleared.

"My lady," Zelma began, shuffling to stand before you. "If I may…"

"Yes?"

"I — well. I wonder if I might show you something. To raise your spirits."

"Oh?" It was comical in a way. Your spirits were not terribly low, but then you supposed they weren't at all high either. Clearly, your staff could tell. You wondered if it unsettled them, your uncharacteristic silence. The past few weeks had been spent in ignorant elation, after all, anticipating a proposal that hadn't yet come; then, a high-strung sort of annoyance as you realised the fickleness of the world around you. "Yes, of course."

Amused, you watched as she scampered from your solar and disappeared. She returned within a minute, something bundled in her arms — without realising it, you'd held out your hands, and she placed the item gently down.

It was a mask.

Made to cover the entire face, constructed entirely of cloth-of-gold; beaded from top to bottom in a swirl of cascading flowers, with loops of golden embroidery framing it, and tassels hanging from the sides as if to mimic earrings. It was familiar — and you'd never held it before, never seen this particular mask, but it was familiar in that way that certain things are, like the sea or sky.

Your throat suddenly tightened, and you cursed yourself.

In your hands was a piece of home, and it was small, and you knew the warp and weft of it as if it were the surface of your own skin.

The Unmasking of Uthero was a yearly celebration commemorating the revelation of Braavos to the world — a ten day masked soiree of revelry and food and dance. For those ten days, the city was awash with excitement; all petty squabbles and grudges could be set aside to drink and make merry. On the final day, at midnight, the Titan would sound his fearsome roar, and all masks would be removed. It was a unity you hadn't experienced since you'd left home.

Swallowing, you attempted a smile, though a pang of sadness soured your stomach. "You thought to bring masks? I… I didn't even realise what time it was."

"You've been otherwise preoccupied," said Zelma, not unkindly. "I thought, when we left, that it might make us feel more at home — though the first day came and passed, and I thought better of it. These westerners already think us strange."

Your mask last year had been a dark, bloody red, bejewelled with emeralds and sapphires. You wondered if it was still where you left it, in the trunk at the end of your childhood bed, beneath cloaks and dresses you'd long outgrown.

"It used to be my favourite festival." Your sisters had tried to trick you once by wearing identical masks, but you'd always been able to tell them apart, no matter how similar they looked or spoke. How long has it been since you'd received a letter from them? A few moons, no doubt. They were young girls steadily coming into their own, too busy to think of you. And you, in turn — disgracefully — had done the very same. Their eldest sister. "And I did not remember."

You seized your bottom lip between your teeth to keep it from trembling.

"'Tis no fault of your own, my lady," Zelma rushed to say. "Though, er… it is the eighth day, today — we shan't have the full ten, but surely we could celebrate?"

You hesitated. She was right. It would unnerve the court to see you walking around, face shrouded, and so you'd have to sequester yourself away — but it would be nice to partake, even if the celebration would be short-lived and poorly-planned and not at all like it should be.

'Tis only two days, a part of you said. You can afford to disappear for two single, measly days, can you not?

You looked up at Zelma — eyes hopeful, hands clasped before her. She was waiting for your permission, and your guilt only worsened. Admittedly, you tended to forget that your staff had left their homes much like you had — that you weren't the only one yearning for a time and place that had surely changed in your absence.

"I… suppose so," you said finally. "But Zelma, we must stay between our quarters—"

"Oh, you shan't regret it!" she exclaimed. "I'll run to the kitchens and ask them to prepare a feast, my lady, and we'll have dancing—!"

Her excitement was infectious, and she began clearing away your plates with great zeal. You found yourself laughing, blinking away the beginnings of tears. "Was I the only one who didn't prepare?"

"Yes," she admitted. "But you've had more than enough to worry about, my lady. Sit tight! I shall be back, and with sweets and music and company."

Your smile lasted even when she left. You held the mask up, watching it shimmer even in the low, dreary light.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

To say it was the first day that you felt most yourself would be false. You had felt very much yourself in Maekar's champion's tent, hands upon his armour; in his solar, drinking tea and reading aloud; playing cyvasse and listening to his hissed curses when you stole a particularly important piece. Or walking with Syrah through the gardens. Looking after Rhae's birds, and following Daella's deft movements as she embroidered. Watching Aegon's brow furrow as he regarded his pieces upon the cyvasse board.

It wasn't that you had never felt yourself in the Red Keep — rather, it was that you'd left a certain version of yourself in Braavos, and hadn't worn her in many moons. She was even more carefree than you; she danced in circles with her handmaidens until fatigue forced her to stop; woke late the next day, and ate sweets for breakfast, and danced again. Beneath her mask, she smiled and pouted and grimaced and didn't bother to dim them. She danced herself into a tizzy and collapsed into a chair on her balcony, soaking up the sun.

The mask removed most of your periphery. It could be suffocating, at times — the hotness of your breath, and the incessant press of it against your skin, and the obstruction of your vision. But it also seemed to make everything brighter, too; you had a much greater appreciation for that which you could see, and the sun that heated your arms, and the freshness of wind through your hair.

The King held court as he always did, and you did not rush to join. Instead you opened all the windows and doors to your apartments and listened to the sounds of the city from your balcony. The rain had stopped through the night, a passed sadness, and the sky was clear and crystalline once more. You could hear everything: yelling from the harbour, smallfolk calling to each other in the street. Music from somewhere, light and lilting in the gentle breeze, carried in from a little street you'd likely never visit. A world far outside your purview.

You were reminded of Braavos in such a sudden jolt that a sickness twisted your stomach. You wished you could walk from this place like you would back home, traipse through the lanes and over the canals. You'd buy sweets from the first vendor you saw and sit with your handmaidens, eating with mannerless fervour. You'd pull Thoma into a dance with the performers on the street, and watch the young bravos peacock about with their swords with Zelma. For a few hours, you would be completely and utterly free — until you returned home, of course, and faced the tongue lashings of your mother. It was often easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

You perked up suddenly.

"Zelma," you called. "Where is Neema?"

Zelma snickered, stretching her hands out like a cat. "Tucked away with a bottle of summer wine, I reckon."

"Hm."

"A curious hm if I've ever heard one."

"Yes. Say, if we were to go into town—"

She sat up suddenly. "Was it not by your own decree that we should stay inside?"

"Yes," you said smartly. "Inside my apartments. But if we go out — out there, where not a soul knows us—"

A snort. "Yes, and you can be stolen away for ransom."

"We shall take guards, of course. And masked and cloaked, who will recognise us?"

"I… suppose. Whatever's so important that it must be now?"

You thought of the night prior, blurred and muddled by wine and laughter. Now that you knew the nature of Thoma and Tyel's relationship, you couldn't miss it. Tyel had played his flute, and watched closely as she twirled and danced. He took every one of her requests with no complaint — The Fall of Racallio Ryndoon, which he'd played twice; The Maid Who Bathed in the Rhoyne; A Thousand Brides for the Father of Waters… And they had been playing dice together that morning, huddled together over two cups of tea.

You'd gifted them a necklace of rubies and garnets the size of your fist. It was enough to buy out their contracts, book passage across the sea, even build a house wherever they so desired. You hadn't asked what they planned to do. You supposed it really was none of your business, no matter how much the need to know niggled at you.

You shrugged, then. What could you say, really? Perhaps it was to satisfy a curiosity, or to experience life fully outside the court for the first time in moons — or to feel, for one moment, that you weren't being predated upon by an endless slew of treacherous families. Perhaps you wanted to experience something new, something novel, something that would take your mind off of Maekar and his brood and Thoma leaving and—

"King's Landing must have more to offer," you said eventually. A flock of gulls convened overhead, cawing as they descended towards the harbour, and you followed them until they disappeared from sight. "And when I marry, I will be carted away to Summerhall, only to return here upon matters of great importance. When will I have another chance to be as free here as I am now?"

If I marry, you thought dourly.

Your companion gave a hum of agreement, albeit a hesitant one, and within the hour you were bundled into a wheelhouse. Dressed in your mask and your most unassuming cloak, you painted a timid picture; Thoma and Zelma looked almost identical, chattering excitedly between themselves opposite you. The topic of conversation was, of course, Thoma's betrothal.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, staring out the window. It was a horrid thing, you knew; you should share in her excitement, but all their talks of marriage only turned your mind to Maekar. You wondered whether he missed you any, if he wondered where you were. It had only been two days since you'd last seen him, but your mood still worsened at the fact that he hadn't called on you since.

Sighing, you shook away such thoughts. Instead, you elected to focus on the land around you — this was why you were here, wasn't it? You'd traversed King's Landing twice before, and neither had satisfied.

The first came after almost a moon at sea, and you'd been in dire need of a solid bed to sleep on, conscious only through sheer power of will and nervousness. You remembered it the way one remembers bad dreams: in strange, blurred flashes. You'd entered through the River Gate, its opening like the maw of a great beast; beyond it was the never-ending clamour of King's Landing, beginning with Fishmonger's Square — and oh, you remembered that well. The stench of decaying, rotting fish. The incessant din of yelling and heckling. The streets had been chock-full; for at least an hour, your wheelhouse remained stagnant as Gold Cloaks attempted to clear the way of smallfolk and horses and carts and mules. It all seemed a bizarre apparition, a figment of your imagination.

Then there had been your short trip to the tourney. For the King's name-day a special route had been prepared, cleared of all any and all obstructions; the streets had been lined with pennons of black and red, muck shovelled from the road. A neat and pretty performance.

This time, you made a great effort to take notice of the city. The coachman took the wheelhouse down Shadowblack Lane. It was a quieter passage out of the Keep, twisting and steep, and soon left you at the foot of Aegon's High Hill; from there, the wheelhouse trundled onto a narrow street, pushing its way through little lanes and tight passages, splitting the sea of smallfolk like a hot knife through butter.

Even as your nose wrinkled, offended by the mud and dirt and ever-present stench, you found your excitement slowly mounting. How had you been here nigh on a year, and never thought to explore further than the Keep?

Well, it wasn't as if the thought had never struck you — it had, more than once, but you were easily dissuaded by the smell, and the danger, and a grimace from a certain pockmarked man with opinions that simply must be heard. Then there'd been the tourney, of course, and your curiosity had been momentarily sated — but this was a world away from the tourney grounds, the stalls and crates erected in the field. The streets were less manicured, the buildings tall and teetering; it seemed, in its vastness, a sprawling beast not even the King could hope to contain.

Eventually, as the shadow of the Keep grew more distant, the congestion worsened. The wheelhouse slowed and slowed until it stopped altogether, and there was a sharp knock on the door.

"Apologies, m'lady," said a Gold Cloak, peeking his head in. "The streets prove difficult to clear."

"That's alright," you said. "We can continue on foot from here, can we not?"

"On foot, m'lady?" he echoed.

You blinked. "Well, how close are we to our destination, good sir?"

"Er—" He cast a doubtful look at your handmaidens— "No more than ten minutes, I reckon, but—"

"Ten minutes by wheelhouse," Thoma interjected. "By foot, we'll be almost half an hour — it's dangerous."

"If it please you, m'lady," said the guard, "between your own guard and those of the City Watch, we number five. Two can stay to keep the wheelhouse, three can accompany you."

"Then it is settled." You glanced over at Thoma and Zelma — you could sense their hesitance, even behind their masks. "Oh, come now. We were to peruse the markets anyways. What difference does it make if we walk a little longer?"

"At least we're away from Flea Bottom," Zelma said. "And… not too far from the market, I suppose."

With a victorious grin, you took the Gold Cloak's proffered hand and ducked beneath the doorway — instantly, you're thrown into streams of smallfolk, moved back and forth as if pulled by the tide. Your shoulder was jostled, and you're pressed uncomfortably forward, side jutting into the sharp edge of his couter — but you reached out and seized Thoma's hand in yours, and she Zelma's, and the guards closed ranks around you.

"I don't believe your beloved will be very happy," somebody muttered behind you. You didn't deign to give them a response.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

The markets served their purpose. Of course, you garnered a fair number of stares (masked as you were), but between your guards' formidable stature and the relentless movement between stalls and shopfronts, the smallfolk left you alone. They had better things to do, it seemed, than ogle your strange group; hauling baskets, carts, and sacks, the world bustled past you in a blur of noise and colour.

It was refreshingly loud. You enjoyed the gentle sounds of the Keep, the music played in the ladies' solar, and water trickling from fountains, and the distant clang of sword-fight, but there was great liberty in knowing you could speak as loud as you wanted, and nobody would blink an eye. You wouldn't be heard over the woman crowing an unmissable deal on her Dornish lemons, which you believed were actually yellow-painted apples, or the man announcing the sale of his odds and ends.

Of course, it was dirtier than you were accustomed to. You were used to brick and tile and pavement, and canal-boats; mud and filth had soaked through the hem of your cloak and dress, and you knew it would have to be scrubbed in boiling water to save it. The streets did not smell of gold or roses, but the mask obscured enough to make it bearable, and if you ducked into a shoppe or two, you'd avoid it completely.

It was in one such shoppe that Thoma suddenly confronted you, standing between two bolts of velvet. Zelma was using her time to flirt with the Gold Cloak that had accompanied you — you could see her through the window, grinning and staring like the cat who got the cream.

"Are you very upset with me?"

You glanced over at her, brows furrowed. "Upset?"

She was quiet for a moment.

"I know my… involvement with Tyel came as a surprise... This colour dulls your complexion, my lady. This one will suit better."

She brought you instead to a bolt of fabric the colour of dark, red wine, and you regarded it curiously.

"Yes, it did," you said, sniffing. "In fact, I… was quite upset."

Thoma shot you a look. "No longer?"

"… Perhaps, in a way. I admit, I… I couldn't imagine a time where you might've fallen in love and not told me. It was this that came most as a shock."

"I am sorry," she said quietly. "I only wanted something for myself for a while. My life is yours, my lady — it has always been yours, since I joined your staff. It can wear, at times."

The fabric was as smooth as silk; when you lifted it towards the light, its sheen was a bright, burned orange, almost unnatural in its brilliance. You waved a hand, and the attendant scurried over; at your request, he carried the fabric away to cut a length from it, and you were left alone. You pretended to not be hurt by her words — in truth, there was nothing hurtful in them. She had every right to act as she had. It was you who craved more than most could give — you who expected full, unyielding loyalty, you whose gluttony could be surpassed by none.

"Should you wish to leave," you said, "I shan't stop you."

"I know." Whether it was pity or joy in her voice, you did not know; you imagined a sad sort of smile upon her pretty face, and dug in your cloak for your coin pouch. From this, you obtained a single silver stag.

"I would never force you to stay by my side."

"Yes, my lady. I know."

The stag sat upon the table. You could feel her eyes boring into the side of your face, and sighed.

"I've lived more than ten years by your side," you said quietly. "I have not learned, yet, how to be without you."

You did not imagine the shake in her voice, then; the tremble in her hand as she reached out and clasped it around your wrist. "You will learn, my lady."

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

Upon waking that morning, you had felt that things were coming to a head.

'Twas not a particular sense of doom that sat heavy on your chest; it was something different, a sick sort of anticipation, a foreboding that had you burrowing deeper into your blankets. Your head ached, but it was not the familiar dullness of wine-sickness.

The world had swollen with rainwater. You woke to the sound of it pitter-pattering through your open window, roaring and rushing with such power that you believed, for a moment, you were right beside the sea. Yes — you could see it. Rolling, navy waves crested by foaming white; a sky like blackened charcoal as far as the eye could see.

You opened your eyes and found your quarters dark, as if the sun hadn't bothered to rise. The curtains were drawn open, as you'd left them the night before after drinking yourself to sleep, and through the window you saw your imagination hadn't been too distant: the world was grey. The heavens had split open, and their fruits obscured all of King's Landing — the bright roofs, and the shadow of the Blackwater, and the spires and towers. It was all grey. All blurred. Yesterday, the sun had been scorching.

Yes, you thought, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Something is amiss. Unsettled.

They said the Bloodstone Emperor ushered in the Long Night upon usurping his sister. A terrible darkness fell across the earth, bathing everything in blackness; his betrayal laid waste to entire generations, spreading famine and war and terror across the known world. You looked to your ceiling and wondered if you were being punished for something.

The door to your inner chambers creaked as it opened.

"Good morning," came Neema's familiar husk. A lit match in hand, she rounded the room, setting each sconce afire and casting the room in warmth. Her mask was missing. "Your breakfast has been set out, my lady. Up you come, now."

You sat up — pushed away the lethargy that desperately clung to you, wiping at your eyes. She had extinguished the match, but made no move to gather your garments for the day; instead, she stood at the foot of your bed, looking for all the world as if she had more to say.

Your stomach turned. Something was afoot.

"What is it?" you asked. You thought the worst. Had there been word from your father, displeased with the fourth prince's offer of marriage? Or was it Maekar? He'd discovered your clandestine meetings with his brood, and the disrespect was too much for him to accept— "Why… why are you looking at me like that? Where is your mask?"

Neema shuffled, the action so at odds with her usual confidence that you felt your throat tighten. "I… thought it important you know," she said carefully, "that this day is a sombre one. The anniversary of Lady Dyanna Dane — the day of her passing, that is."

Oh.

Your back was suddenly straight as a blade, the sheets clutched tight between your fingers. The weight of the Keep itself had pinned you to your bed, tossing you abruptly into awareness. You saw yourself, for a moment, as if peering down from the ceiling; sitting in the large expanse of your bed, wide-eyed and undone, hair still pulled back for sleeping. Ignorant that the man she would marry — that she expected to marry — was saddled with such mourning. Sleeping late on a day where she should be showing the courtiers that she, too, was mourning a woman she'd never known.

In the back of your mind, you'd known the day would inevitably come — that it existed — but it had always presented itself as a distant, intangible thing. The death of his wife. It happened, and it had happened before you, and it was brushed over in that way that one brushes over uncomfortable things, like bruised and tender skin.

Maekar hadn't said anything, you thought with a strange and sudden sense of shame. Neither had Rhae, nor Daella, nor Aegon.

It dawned on you, then, that this was the source of their strange behaviour, their withdrawal. You couldn't imagine what they might feel approaching the day they lost their mother, and preparing for a new one all the while — they were young, yes, and did not remember her as well as Daeron or Aerion or even Aemon, but they had known her enough to love her. Why would you expect them to have told you? To speak the words, as if they would not tear the throat from them?

But Maekar? Were you so untrustworthy? Too shallow or callous? Perhaps he thought you wouldn't care — or perhaps, worst of all, the idea simply hadn't struck him: you weren't significant enough to tell such things. Who were you? A young woman not yet betrothed. A foreigner in a foreign land. A conveniently ignorant confidant.

You released the sheets. Your palms were sore, your knuckles aching from the force with which you'd tensed them. You suddenly felt very tired, though you'd slept through the night like a milk-warmed babe.

No. No, don't be a fool. You pinched the bridge of your nose between your fingers, screwing your eyes shut.

Their mother was dead. His wife was dead, and you couldn't be so selfish as to overstate your importance in it all, as much as it pained you. You'd forgotten his reservation in the privilege of his company; it had taken many moons before he'd divulged more than surface-level pleasantries and indignation — memories of his mother, and Dyanna, and his fondness for his brothers, especially Rhaegel. The Blackfyre Rebellion and its bloody battlefield. Scars that marred his skin, pockmarks on his cheeks.

You'd forgotten, in the midst of your knowing him, how difficult it was for him to allow it. It was often — when faced with matters of particular sentimentality — that his tongue and countenance stilled, froze themselves into impenetrable barricades; he would rather swing a sword than speak to vulnerability, and of this you held no illusions.

Still. You thought you allowed him the space for it. You thought…

The shame deepened. You pressed your palms to your eyes, and sighed wearily. You'd expected Syrah would tell you, at least, but then she was all aflutter over Lord Yronwood. It wasn't her fault.

"Breakfast," you mumbled. "Breakfast, and then… we should pray."

"At the alter?" A note of surprise lifted her voice.

"No," you said. "Or, yes. I… I must be in the royal sept, with the rest of them, where they can see me. But later… later, I shall light candles..."

It was ironic in an infuriating sort of way. The courtiers held no love for their Dornish peers, and you can't imagine much was changed when Lady Dane was alive; but she was dead, and so they venerated her while scorning her compatriots all the while. Were she still living, they'd be the same vipers they were now, and nothing would change.

But if you dared to hide away today, to seek privacy and meditation, your reputation — which was already sullied, for obvious reasons — would be completely and utterly beyond repair.

"Modest clothing," you said finally. "Modest, and humble."

Your mask was left upon your nightstand.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

After breaking your fast, you dressed in a gown of dark, green silk. The collar fastened where your shoulders began, and it covered almost every inch of skin except your hands, face, and a sliver of neck. There was no grand ornamentation or jewellery, nothing that could be misconstrued as haughty or boastful. Even your hair was tied back simply.

You had been to the royal sept only thrice before — each time accompanied by Syrah, who was not particularly devout, but took the sept to be yet another meeting place where one could engage in courtly politics. This was, of course, her favourite pastime.

It was not as large as the Great Sept of Baelor, the grand domes and spires of which you could spy from a great distance, but it could quite comfortably seat hundreds in its rows of benches if needed; the ceiling was impossibly tall and pointed, and the walls impregnated by high crystalline windows. Had it been sunny today, they would cast rays of rainbow through the space, illuminating the pale marble in colour — but it was decidedly not, and the interior remained colourless, save for candlelight. It seemed fitting.

It was a pleasant place, familiar in that way that places of worship tended to be. A comforting stillness blanketed the interior, and the air was fragrant with incense and candle-wax. The only sounds to be heard were quiet, whispered prayers from the clusters of courtiers who came and went, and the constant hum of rain. You were glad for it. You were in no mood to talk, though you often felt the press of eyes against your spine.

Remembering what little you knew of the Seven, you lit candles before the Stranger and the Maiden, praying for Dyanna and yourself alike. You took a seat on a bench, and hoped your own gods wouldn't be too offended by your offerings.

In truth, you hadn't planned to stay long; you would light the candles, be seen with your head bowed in supplication, and leave to mull over your thoughts in your quarters. But your mind had been at war with itself since that morning, and the sept offered a certain breed of silence that tempered it.

You had wondered — from the very moment you'd discovered the importance of the day, really — whether you should seek to comfort Maekar. You were no stranger to his usual haunts, and could most likely find him with ease; whether he would appreciate it, though, was another conversation entirely. Maekar's feelings around Dyanna's death were not a topic you commonly stumbled into; he had shared some memories of her, you remembered, but both of you tended to give the reality of your relationship a wide berth, in that way one avoids uncomfortable truths.

(But was it not your right to offer such solace?

Had he need of it, he would have told you, said a distinctly petulant part of you. Instead, he left you to realise the importance of the day from your servants.)

He was most likely spending the day with his children. It wouldn't do to intervene where you weren't wanted. You were already praying for the woman he loved — praying to gods you didn't believe in for a woman who'd had everything you wanted. That terrible, no-good, jealous part of you shuddered at the thought of seeing him bereft over another woman. It was a terrible thought — it made you sick to your stomach. And yet, it was you.

Hunger, greed, spoiled as curdled milk. The worst of you. You wanted in a way that was unsavoury — and quite frankly, you'd been reminded of it far too many times in the past moons. You'd never given it deep thought before, but every time your limits were tested — by Lenila Lannister, by Thoma, by the ghost of a dead woman, or by Maekar himself— it presented itself, maw bared and bloody. Selfish.

You wished you'd been born twenty years earlier, been given the opportunity to meet him before he'd been given to anyone else, before he'd even laid his eyes upon another woman — that you could have stolen him away in his youth and seized his heart as Dyanna had, and claimed the same unfaltering ownership that she had. You wished he had never known any woman as wife, for the very thought of it soured something rotten in your stomach. You wished he only thought of you, that his mind was plagued by it, that it sickened and satiated him in the same breath — you screwed your eyes shut and imagined scrubbing his mind of all traces of her, of her touch, so that he only knew you and your skin and your scent and your voice and—

Your breath came trembling. Your disgust was a palpable thing, curling and churning in your stomach; it was the same sickening twist of shame that had grasped you early that morning, only you couldn't blame your weariness any longer. You were awake, wide-eyed and watchful; terrible in your jealousy, and your selfishness, and your envy. You didn't think it would ever leave you — it was sewn into your very being, entwined with your very sense of self.

In truth, you'd never given much weight to goodness or badness — on account, mostly, of never truly having to. But you remembered the storybooks of your youth, the tales of heroes and princesses, the black and white of it all. You had wanted to be those princesses, once. Your father had told you it'd never happen if you kept being so mean, the terror of a child that you were, and you had ignored him as you often did. Whether you or he was right remained to be seen — your aforementioned meanness had never left you penniless, only lonely.

The blank, knowing visage of the Maiden stared back at you. These gods could hear your thoughts sullying their land, their place of worship, spilling like brackish water across their pristine tile and marble. Perhaps it was they who sought to punish you.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

It was a strange mood that you found yourself in: somehow, despite yourself, you left the sept both lighter and heavier than you were when you first arrived. The rain had not eased — in fact, it seemed to have gotten worse — but it did not carry the same trepidation; you regarded it not as an omen of ill-will, but a simple, dreary day. Water for the crops.

You had missed luncheon and hardly noticed it, and the time for dinner was soon upon you. It had been a long time that you'd sat in the sept, silent, suspended in an odd sort of trance. There was some comfort in confronting that which plagued you, and that which you held great shame for; you sat in the malaise of it, stewed in your shortcomings, and the sky had not shattered upon you. The gods did not strike you down. You were covetous and invidious, and the world had not ended in darkness or flame or ice; apparently, your personal complications were to be the height of your penalty. You almost preferred the sky-shattering.

Upon returning to your quarters, you donned your mask again, hoping, absurdly, to salvage the last day of celebration; you ate a paltry meal, and then resigned yourself to your alter. It was a tiny thing shoved into a mostly-forgotten nook in a corner of your apartments. You never were very devout; the alter was mostly for your staff, who'd added their own pendants and figures.

It was cluttered. Your father and mother worshipped two different gods of the same pantheon, and thus you'd grown up somewhere betwixt the two. There was the Maiden-Made-of-Light, carved from pale, pearlescent stone — your mother's patron, who, upon witnessing the cruelty of man, turned her back upon the world; there was the Lion of Night in dark obsidian, then, favoured by your father. He who came forth to punish man's wickedness during the Long Night. Whether you favoured either more, you did not know.

You sat before that alter and stared. At the statues, the incense, and the offerings — jewels and precious things, from you; food and scraps of pretty fabric from your staff. It was a pity that you'd never been more pious; perhaps it could have made you a more graceful girl. But even with your gracelessness, you lit a candle for Dyanna Dane, and shut your eyes and prayed for her, even though your jealousy burned something fierce.

She had been his first wife. The mother of his children. A woman with hopes and likes and dislikes, much like you, and a stranger in King's Landing. You wondered whether she felt the Keep's walls tightening around her at times, as you did. Whether the sense of alienation ever fully went away.

You hated her. And yet you were her, in many ways.

A throat cleared. You looked up from the Maiden-Made-of-Light, and met Neema's gaze. How long had you spent on your knees? Your ankles ached, and from the window you could see the sky had become inky. Deeper in your apartments, you could hear the distant sound of music and merrymaking, cheers as rounds of dice were thrown.

"Oh. Hello."

"It has been a long time since I've seen you pray," she said, kneeling at your side. She bowed her head for a moment, and you imagined her lips moving beneath the mask in silent prayer. "It reminds me of when you were a girl."

"I did say I would."

"Saying and doing are often two very different things."

You hummed. You could feel the heat of her beside you, shoulder to shoulder, and you thought of a time before — before, when your mother would send you to pray after you'd been particularly horrid. You'd huff and puff the whole way, but sometimes, when Neema took pity on you, she'd sit by your side, silent and reverent as she completed her own worship. Back then, you were smaller. Kneeling together, the top of your head would barely reach her shoulders.

"To think," Neema mused, "there was once a time where you could only be dragged here."

A snort-like laugh left you. "It seems I've grown in more than height."

"So you have," she agreed. You felt her eyes upon your cheek, then, and turned your gaze to meet them. "I know there was some difficulty in today. And that Thoma's betrothal was… unanticipated."

"Yes, that goes without saying."

"I imagine you have a lot in that mind of yours," Neema said. "Speak, and I will listen."

She gently nudged her shoulder against yours, and you shook your head.

"I have made peace with Thoma. I was saddened, at first, of course, but there is more to life than I.

"The prince… at first, I didn't know what was worse," you admitted. "That he hadn't thought to inform me of the day, or that he had planned to, and thought better of it. Both ideas infuriate me."

You worried your skirt between your fingers. But there was nothing to fear, not from Neema. She knew you the way a mother knew her child.

"You know, I pitied myself this morning. Told myself that I wouldn't be wanted by his side. And then there was the thought of it, of seeing such sadness upon his face, pining for a woman long passed — I know myself. I know I couldn't handle it." You swallowed. "Even so, I… I wanted him to call on me, to seek comfort in me. And he hasn't, and so he has proven me right."

"Your pride has been wounded."

"'Tis not a matter of pride, but of… of…" You shook your head. You didn't know. Perhaps it was pride — but you knew pride, had walked alongside her your entire life. You'd felt her thorns and needles those weeks after you'd promenaded with Valarr, and had overcome it. This feeling, now, was edged with melancholy. Doubt. "And then I thought — how selfish of me! A woman has passed, and I pity myself. I covet her husband, and her children, and her life. I was disgusted by my own cruelty."

"Cruelty," Neema mused. "Is that what you call it?"

"What would you?"

"Fear, I think."

For a moment you stared at your hands in your lap, bunched up together and clutching each other; then you eyed the flickering flames of Dyanna's candle, the long shadows it cast over the cluttered table. The rain had eased to a gentle trickle, the night humid and muggy, tempered only by a light breeze. It stirred the curtains, and you listened to the whisper of wool against the ground. The music continued; Tyel was at the flute again, but somebody had brought a lute, and together they played a jaunty tune.

Neema groaned as she pushed herself to her feet, rubbing at her hips as she did. "I am not as young as I once was, my lady, and neither are you."

The soft scuff of her slippers against the floor neared the doorway, but—

"I do not know how to be unafraid," you blurted. "Not yet."

(I have not learned, yet, how to be without you.)

There was a pause, and she returned to you. A hand planted itself upon your head. You were seven again, pouting at the alter, refusing to pray out of spite. "It comes with time, and time alone."

(You will learn, my lady.)

Somehow, despite the ambiguity of it, you felt a sense of relief. As if, with those simple words and simple gesture, she'd given you permission: live, and you will learn along the way, and it is neither a shame nor a hindrance.

"Now, do hurry," she said warmly. "It won't be long until the unmasking, and wine to go with it."

You couldn't help the smile that overcame you. "Yes, of course. I shall."

With a final smile of her own, she left you to your devices, and you were alone once more.

For the first time that day, you felt oddly at ease. The tension you'd been holding simply seeped from you; you found yourself slumping, resting your weight upon a single arm. Your eyes fell shut, and you listened to the pleasant sounds of living around you.

It had been a long day. A heavy one. You'd be glad to put it behind you; you'd be glad to see your bed, in fact, but it wouldn't do to miss the celebrations. Yes, once you'd drank and danced yourself to sleep — and fastened your head correctly upon your shoulders — you would go to Maekar, and you would tell him quite plainly how much you appreciated being left in the dark.

You wondered how often Dyanna had to wrangle him into sense, like diverting a charging boar. It seemed a never-ending task, separating the man from the warrior. It wasn't that he was totally unpractised in the ways of sociability, either — only that, more often than not, he simply didn't care to engage in them. Who cared for niceties on the battlefield?

His was a blunt sort of love, fitting a blunt sort of man. You'd never trade it for anything, as unhappy as you presently were with him.

The door creaked behind you.

"Yes, yes," you called. "I'll be there in a moment. Surely you haven't drank all the wine already?"

"…That explains the behaviour of your staff, then," came a familiarly miffed voice.

Your head snapped to the doorway.

There, in his regular ebony-and-red, stood the very man of whom you'd been thinking. Maekar's hands were clasped behind his back, and he regarded you with his usual frown — one not borne of any particular grievance, but simple habit. There was darkness beneath his eyes, though; a certain limpness to his hair, and a pallid sort of colour to his already pale cheeks.

He was standing there, as if it were a day as customary as any.

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

The girl stared at him — he could see those eyes of hers, even beneath the mask, even in the candlelit room. He could find them in a crowd, he thought. She often had the habit of widening them — batting her eyelashes and rounding her gaze into something innocent and girlish, but now they were narrowed, like those of a cat. Fixed upon him with a similar sort of intensity.

Clasped in his hands was a letter. It had arrived that morning — miraculously dry, for the weather, baring a seal of emerald green. It had come at breakfast, and the arrival of it had pierced the tension at the table like a hot knife through butter. There was no mistaking the emblem: a golden key and coin. Daella's sharp eyes had followed its path through the room to Maekar's hands.

The courier had ridden and sailed non-stop through the rain, and was sopping with water, completely ragged. Maekar would have felt some modicum of pity for the man if he hadn't been awaiting him the past fortnight.

Of course, he thought, it would come to me today, of all days.

He did not look forward to Dyanna's anniversary. Sun or rain, wind or humidity — he dreaded the day like he dreaded the point of a sword, and the apprehension of it begun long before the day itself.

He disliked remembering her loss; he disliked the sullenness that overcame his children, the sadness that seeped all joy from living. He disliked the constant, unremitting introspection the day forced him into, the kind that would have his mind wandering without his permission. He disliked saying the words aloud — the my wife is dead words — and he disliked, especially, the idea of saying them to you.

Dyanna was no longer his wife. She hadn't been for a long time, and his heart had bloomed anew, softened into something he didn't think possible. But habit was habit was habit, and Maekar was a decidedly old dog. He hadn't said the words to you.

It was a selfish decision. An easier decision. Courting you had been maddening, yes — infuriating, rife with little squabbles and tiffs punctuated by the sharpness of your smile. Every disagreement could be ended by a simple wave of your pretty hand and a murmur of his name — damn him, it was true. But no matter how vexing, nothing yet had cut as deeply as this.

It was easier to not look you in your eyes — narrowed, widened, batting eyelashes or not — and tell you that Dyanna was dead, and the day was approaching, and there was no stopping it. And there would be no stopping it. For as long as he lived, the day would cut, and he didn't love you any less.

You would be angry with him. He anticipated this.

"The winds," the courier had wheezed, holding the letter out, "they were most unfavourable, my lord."

Fuck the winds. He knew you to be as impatient as he was, and his own tolerance was wearing thin. He'd rolled his neck to dislodge some of his tension.

He'd tore the letter from the man's hand and sliced the seal away with a bread knife — pretending quite well to not feel the weight of his children's eyes on him. His eyes traced the lines of Lord Manwoody's hand, and not for the first time, he was glad of the man's presence in Braavos; your father was incredibly vigilant where you were concerned — you, and his coffers. Had Lord Manwoody not returned to Braavos to mediate your betrothal, Maekar feared it would've taken thrice as long as it already did.

He read the words. Agreeable. More to discuss followed, but it mattered not. He'd seen all he needed to see. He held a future in his hands — a future he'd coveted, and wished for, and desired for the better part of a year.

The letter was placed down, and he leaned back in his chair, abandoning the plate he'd been idly picking from. It felt as if a great weight had been taken from him — and yet he couldn't move, couldn't make use of the nervous energy gathering in his legs. He had to remember what day it was — what was expected of him, and what was deserved.

He visited the sept — not the royal sept, but the Sept of Baelor, which he only found himself in once every decade, it seemed. It was where he had gotten married, and now it was where he mourned. Aegon couldn't stop squirming in his seat during prayer, and Rhae barely prayed at all — just stared at the candles and dipped her fingers into the wax when she thought he wasn't looking.

He dined with his father and brothers, then; a quiet affair, mostly, though Rhaegel had insisted on a song to brighten spirits. Maekar hadn't the energy nor heart to stop him. He stared into his wine and thought about the letter in his pocket.

He sent away the septas and maids and put the children to bed; extinguished the candles, read a story (Ten Thousand Ships, an account of Queen Nymeria's battles during the Rhoynish Wars — Aegon's favourite, it seemed) and tucked them in amongst their furs and blankets.

It felt like an apology of sorts; he wondered if they knew where he'd go, now that they were sleeping. If they had felt the warmth of the letter burning a hole in his pocket as they prayed and ate. If it felt as much a betrayal as it had to Aerion.

Unconsciously he took the letter from his doublet held it in his hands as he made his way to your quarters. His thumb traced the folds in the parchment, the wax of the seal. He could see the words in his mind's eye. Agreeable. Finally. He'd sent the first letter just after the tourney — that same night he made his choice clear to his father — and two more had followed since, each more pedantic than the last.

(Annoyance aside, he supposed he could admire your father's solicitude. He often felt the same.)

He held that letter in his hands now, clutched behind his back. Your stare had not abated.

"The Unmasking of Uthero," you said finally. "A celebration from home."

"That explains the masks," he said, on account of not knowing how to broach the obvious. Your frown deepened. "Your lady-servant said you've had them on since yesterday."

"They are to be removed at midnight," you said.

"You went to the markets," he added. He couldn't help the note of disapproval that made itself known. "King's Landing is dangerous."

There was a pause -- a scoff, and you shook your head. "You have no right to indignation, my lord."

Unconsciously, a scowl pulled at his face. My lord. You turned from him, then, lifting a matchstick to a candle. "How fare the children?"

"They... it is a difficult day."

A slow inhale. "Yes. I… thought it best to give you space today. I had no desire to intrude."

"You've never cared much for intrusion before. And I have always welcomed it."

"This is different." Your voice had sharpened. He despised it, he realised, not being able to see your face. Your eyes were most expressive, but there was much to know in the curve of your mouth, the tension of your brow. "You know it to be."

Silence reigned. Neither moved.

Then: "I am displeased, Maekar."

His jaw set. He deserved it, he knew, but it didn't make accepting it any easier. "Yes, I… know."

"Many times I have been angry with you, in fact, and I have held my tongue."

At this, he took pause — shifted in place, and replied with a sharp, disbelieving laugh. Today, he could admit. But others? He was not prepared for others. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Do tell."

Your glare was piercing. "I recall your punishment for my entertaining other men, though it was by your own suggestion—" He winced— "Or when you took Lenila Lannister's favour; or, perhaps, when you became distant and impenetrable over the past few weeks—!"

"Excuse me—" he tried.

"—but no anger I have felt thus far has matched that of today," you said. You had bunched up your skirt in your hands — grabbed the wool between your fingers as if to ground yourself. "To wake up and be informed of the day by my lady servant. To be completely and utterly clueless in the savagery of the court, as if they haven't enough reason to hate me already!"

His mouth snapped shut. A great well of pity rose within him.

He had assumed, admittedly, that you were much like him — open in your dislike of the court and its politics, its two-faced fellows and its cut-throat diplomacy, but willing to ignore it in the end. You often complained to him of ladies' luncheons and snide comments, and he, in turn, made clear his strained relationship with almost everyone; it was one of those inescapable things, the reason why he missed Summerhall more than anything.

He was not Baelor, who excelled in such places despite his own hatred for it; Maekar was not learned in the art of communication, and had never had to be. He had no need for charm or soft words on the battlefield, in the lists.

"I have been in this place for nigh on a year. You have known of my hatred for it, and you still — you still leave me to fend for myself at every turn."

Something like guilt sat in his stomach. He was not accustomed to the feeling. It was greatly uncomfortable — stuck his feet to the floor, and his frown to his face, and his hands tight around the letter.

"I have never given thought to what the court says or thinks. They're cunts," he said. He didn't know whether these words were the right ones — wincing, he continued: "And I — apologise, for that. For all I've angered you."

The discomfort remained, but he moved around it regardless; left the doorway and neared you with, perhaps, less caution than he should. He paused a moment at your side — waited for you to swipe out and push him away, forbid him from your quarters — but there was nothing to fear. You only watched, quiet. Maekar eased into the space beside you, huffing as he dropped. His old bones creaked.

He was face to face now with what he realised was an alter. He had paid little attention to it — his focus had gone straight to you. The table was awash with figurines and statues, bundles of colourful cloth, strings of jewels and beads. He imagined your head bowed in deference and felt inclined to raise it. He couldn't imagine your submission to anyone who was not him; he did not want to imagine it.

(He knew, in reality, that you were more likely to command him than the other way around.)

It was quiet again. Upon his entrance, your staff had quietened down some, but he could still hear the gentle strumming of the lute, the low thrum of chatter. The letter sat in his lap.

He grit his teeth.

"I have no talent with words. Forgive me," Maekar spoke. "I… had every intention of returning to the Stormlands within a moon of my coming here. I have little love for the Keep — if it were not my father's seat, I would be happy to never return."

"And yet, you stayed."

He nodded. "And yet."

Your fingers had released your dress. He watched as they slowly, surely made their way from your lap to his — hesitating over the letter, before moving to take his hands in them. Your skin was soft as satin, free of calluses and roughness. He couldn't imagine his hands were very pleasant to hold — large and unwieldy, callused and brutish. Made to hold a mace, not a lady. You cupped them gently regardless.

"You know that I care for you," he said quietly. "If I had not come across you that night, I would have returned to Summerhall. You have been infuriating, and maddening, and I have been ailed by the very thought of you, and I have stayed here for you."

A laugh erupted from you — and his eyes shot to your face, because the laugh was a warbling thing, thick with tears. Your eyes were glassy. "Infuriating. How romantic!"

He almost snorted. It would be the first time in years someone had called him that. Things were like that with you, he found; the first in years to touch him gently; to temper his vexation; to look at him not as the realm's prickly, impatient prince, but with a fondness he craved like air.

"Saying such things aloud — it has never been where I excel." His voice had taken on a note of pleading, but he couldn't bring himself to care. "You know this."

You hummed, thumb smoothing over a tensed tendon along the back of his hand. Your eyes were downcast. He wanted to rip that infernal mask off and see your face — your cheeks, your nose, your lips, your chin. "I thought, perhaps, that you thought me unimportant, or shallow. Unworthy of knowing."

The idea was almost offensive. Unimportant. He grimaced. Perish the thought. "Don't be a fool."

"Do not make a habit of it," you returned. Your eyes met again — and there they were. Widened and round, the picture of girlish innocence. "Do not close yourself to me again, Maekar. I couldn't bare it."

He swallowed. Traitorously, his hands twitched in yours, closing over your fingers. "I shan't."

"I will hold you to it. Now — what is it you've brought me?"

─── ༻⋅☼⋅༺ ───

"The winds were unfavourable," Maekar said, peering down at the parchment. The seal — a sparkling, emerald green, emblazoned with the golden key and coin of your family — had been split from the parchment messily, as if he'd opened it with great impatience. "And your father has the fastidiousness of his daughter. The response took longer than anticipated."

You felt distinctly as if you were looking at your very own future — there, in his grasp, scrawled in dark ink in your father's hand. You knew what the letter would say. There would be no reason to deny that which you asked for, and yet fear persisted in that way it usually does: illogically, and foolishly.

"I can be patient," you heard yourself say, "when it suits me. Though I should scorn you, Maekar. You did make me wait terribly long."

A noise left him. "You have scorned me enough, girl."

The hush returned. You gathered your hands in your lap again — mourned the loss of his heat, and the feeling of his skin against you — and watched as his thumb worried the folded edge of the letter. A lump had formed in your throat.

"In truth," you said, before he could speak, "I spent the day in the sept, praying for a woman I did not know, unsure of my standing with you. I lit candles for her. Spoke to your foreign gods for her -- and for me, too."

You could feel his eyes on you. Yours remained resolutely on the letter.

"In those moments, I realised something terrible about myself; a gnawing, persistent desire I carry. I have tried to temper it — Neema says these things take time, but I fear it will never fully leave me. I've been this way since young."

"Are you trying to dissuade me? I shan't be."

You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. "I wouldn't allow you to be dissuaded -- you are mine to keep. But you know not of what I speak, Maekar. The thoughts I have."

"Desire," he echoed — and it was back again, you remarked fondly to yourself, that edge of annoyance he carried in his voice, as if wholly unimpressed by your lamentations. "Whatever desires plague you, they plague me thrice over—"

"I thought of devious things," you said quietly. "Graceless, unkind, selfish things, in that place of gods. I cursed them for placing me along your path so late, and I thought of all the ways I could keep you, as if you were a dog to be kept. I wanted you to… to… be tortured by the very thought of me, to ache as I have."

Air shuddered in your lungs. Whatever words you thought to say next died in your throat, and you could not bring yourself to look at him again. Instead you watched him twist the ring upon his thumb, the ruby catching candlelight.

"Do you think me a septon or eunuch?" he demanded. Your head shot up, and his gaze was already fixed on you. You were reminded, quite suddenly, of the proximity between you — shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. He eclipsed you almost completely, the King's Anvil, and he was bowed towards you now, shoulders hunched. If you hadn't had the mask, you might almost be nose to nose. His stare was intense. Desperate. Your heart thudded in your chest. "I am a man."

Your voice came as a whisper. "I know."

"You do not know the ways of men," Maekar said. "I promise you. You do not know the ways I have… have hungered."

Your mouth was dry. "What would you have me do? To… to ease it?" Quiet. Anything louder would shatter the space between you, delicate as spun sugar.

He stared at you for a second. "I—"

A raucous, piercing volley of cheers suddenly erupted — you jolted in place, head snapping to the doorway. There was nobody there, of course. The festivities had not reached you.

When you turned, Maekar hadn't moved. His eyes were still fixed on you, narrowed as if in annoyance. His mouth was screwed up, pursed. With a tilted head, you opened your mouth to ask what he was thinking — but his hands were coming up, and you didn't shrink from them. You watched them disappear from your view, but you could feel the heat of them as they neared your body — and then his fingers were on you, warm and thick, hooked beneath the chin of your mask. Your heart was rabbiting, now, breath stuck in your throat. You couldn't breathe — wouldn't breathe, rather, caught in the anticipation of his touch.

Suddenly your cheeks were being cooled by as he pulled the mask up and over your head, unfalteringly gentle. Strands of hair clung to your forehead and cheeks, damp with sweat, but you felt no embarrassment. His fingers were still splayed across your jaw — just as they had been, back in his tent at the tourney. You'd dreamed of them ever since — but in all those dreams, he had never looked at you like this. It was frightfully vulnerable, even with his jaw clenched as it was, and his eyes glaring as they were — there was something in his that had softened, had bared itself to you. How had you thought yourself second-fiddle? How could you, for one moment, see what he felt as anything less than what it was?

"Your father has given his permission," he said, and his voice was softer than you thought possible. Maekar Targaryen, the Anvil, was whispering to you with such fragility. Holding your face like something precious, his nose nudging against yours. "Marry me."

Oh, gods. You were not being punished. This could not be punishment, divine or otherwise. Your hands shook, and you squeezed them between your thighs — a grin so bright and satisfied pulling at your lips, and you hadn't the strength to dim it. They were the words you'd longed to hear. The affirmation your heart had long desired. To hear them spill from his lips -- to see his face contort in abashment, as if to say the words were a weakness that struck the very heart of him...

"I — I will, of course," you said, embarrassingly breathless. If you just leaned forward, you could… "I've -- only been waiting a year, you foolish man."

His laugh came in a sharp burst. "Yes, and you've been ever so patient."

"Only as much as you have," you said. "Though I shall warn you — I am horrendously jealous, and scornful, and spiteful, and I have tried terribly to shield you from it. If you marry me, I shan't be any better."

A pale eyebrow quirked. "Oh?"

"I may be worse, even," you added. "A wife must covet her husband, after all."

"You'll find no argument with me," he said — and, as if noticing for the first time how close he'd pulled you, released your jaw like it burned him. Maekar cleared his throat, sitting straight once more, though you didn't miss his eyes' traitorous path back to your mouth.

"Come," you said, shaking your head fondly. A giddiness took you over — you were tired no more, springing to your feet with zeal. "There is wine to celebrate, and we simply must inform everyone, of course, and — are you quite alright?"

With a pained groan, Maekar pushed himself to standing. He stretched tall, and you winced as you heard something pop.

Nor had she met any adult princesses who might be able to teach her how to bear this burden as of yet. Both King Daeron and Prince Baelor had been widowers for a long time, therefore leaving the realm without a queen for many years to come. She knew two of Valarr's uncles still roamed the castle, and that they were both wed, but she had not yet met either of them. Their carefully hidden absence at both the wedding and the feast had not escaped her notice, though she had not dared to ask Valarr for the reason. Servants and nobles alike often whispered harsh words about both of the princes in the halls, so she knew better than to address such a sensitive topic on a night like tonight.

She was pulled from her thoughts when Valarr stopped in front of the doors to his bedchambers. He had a timid smile on his face, though it did not seem to reach his eyes. She briefly wondered why, before realizing he must be nervous as well. He had admitted as much to her, though she had presumed that had more to do with the prospect of the marriage as a whole, and not necessarily the bedding. Perhaps he was inexperienced as well, though surely he knew more than her about their marital duties. She still had no clue about what exactly it was that was awaiting her in his bedchambers. She understood it was not likely to be a pleasant experience, going off of her sisters' overly vague stories, but she doubted Valarr would ever be cruel to her. Whatever was going to happen, he would surely do it with as much kindness and compassion as possible.

He briefly glanced at her face, his expression unreadable, before he opened the doors. He gestured with his hand for her to enter before him, and she walked in with awe clear on her face.

Where her old chambers had been filled with her house colors, these were covered in her own favorite color instead. Tapestries filled the walls here as well, though these were less in the Targaryen style and more in the style of her own home. They had entered into the solar first, though she could see the bedroom through a large door to her right. A large fireplace, already lit, bathed the the comfortable-looking sofa and chairs in front of it in soft yellow light. Bookcases that nearly reached the ceiling stood on the opposite side of the room, as well as a large desk that was already decorated with the keepsakes she had brought with her from home. To her left she saw a peek of the bath and dressing room. She took a couple steps to see into the bedroom, where a large canopied bed stood against the opposite side of the room. Valarr followed closely behind her, a soft smile on his face at her wonder. A sizeable vanity stood near the large windows on the other side of the room, and the mirror above it softly reflected the moonlight, bathing the room in silver light.

"These chambers used to be my late mother's. I took the liberty to fill the shelves with some books I thought you might enjoy. I also asked your father to bring some of his own tapestries, to make you feel at home. I hope you like it."

She took a moment to take in the sight before her, and what it meant. It was stunning, and a tender act of love that she did not feel she deserved. And yet, were they not supposed to go to his chambers on this night? Why was he showing her this now?

"T-thank you. It's absolutely perfect," she stuttered out. She quickly turned to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. He seemed shocked by it at first, but he recovered quickly, wrapping his strong arms around her waist, keeping her close.

"You're very welcome, my love," he murmured into her hair.

Her face was buried into his chest now, and she never wanted him to let her go. He smelled of everything she loved: the smell of fresh ink on paper, old books, a lit fireplace, the gardens in the spring. She did not think she could ever get enough of it. She closed her eyes as she took his presence in.

All too quickly, however, he gently untangled his arms from her. He took a careful step back, his warm gaze returning to the unreadable expression from earlier. He quickly cleared his throat, his eyes avoided her gaze. He took a couple steps out of the bedroom, to her confusion, and towards the exit of her chambers.

"Well, I shall leave you here. My chambers are just across the hall, and one of the Kingsguards shall guard your rooms at all times. Should you need anything, you need only ask them. Have a good night, my love."

It took her a second to process his words, not understanding them in the least. He had already turned his back on her and approached the door before she found the words to respond, quickly following after him.

"W-what? I-, I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand. So you shall spend the night in your own chambers?"

He reluctantly turned back to her, and she could see on his face that he had hoped, in vain, that she would not argue with him.

"Yes," he simply replied. His tone was painfully neutral, lacking all the warmth he had shown her before.

"It is our wedding night. Are we not meant to spend this night together?" She asked, her face clearly showing how puzzled she was by his sudden change in behavior. "My septa said that is what happens on a wedding night."

"Gevie, please, it is late. I think we should both get some sleep."

Dread was starting to pool in her stomach. Did he no longer want her? Perhaps he was starting to regret his decision to marry her. While she did not know exactly what was supposed to happen during the bedding, she knew one was not truly married if it had not been performed. She was suddenly reminded of a rumor she had heard around the Keep this last week. Valarr's uncle, Prince Aerys, had supposedly never consummated his marriage with his wife, the lady Aelinor Penrose. This failure to perform their duty would allow him to cast her aside one day, if he had cause to do so. Tears formed in her eyes at the thought. Is that what he intended to do with her? Wait until the excitement of the wedding had calmed down, only to then cast her aside?

"No, Valarr. We are supposed… We are married. Are we not supposed to do what married people do?" She could hear the desperation in her own voice as she felt a tear slip down her cheek. Gods, she had never wished to know what the bedding entailed as much as now.

Valarr clenched his jaw at her words. His stance had turned rigid and his expression was still unreadable. He had never once seemed eager to leave her presence until now.

"Have I done something wrong?" Her voice cracked, but she could not get herself to care. "If I have, please, please tell me. Whatever it is, I am truly sorry."

Those words made his nonchalant facade crack. She could see the hurt in his eyes, before he cast his eyes to the floor as he quietly spoke.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, my love. I just… I…"

"Then what is it?" She bowed her head in an attempt to make him meet her gaze. "Whatever it is, you know you can tell me, right?"

He clenched his jaw again, and he finally met her eyes, though he seemed almost angry now.

"Are you demanding I perform my marital duty to you?" He said harshly.

"What? No!" She replied quickly, another tear falling down her face as she took a step towards him in desperation. He did not let her approach, however, and quickly took another step back. "I-I am not demanding anything. I just…" She was truly lost for words now, and he took that as his opportunity to turn his back on her again, his face a blank canvas.

"I am truly sorry if I have hurt your feelings, but I promise you that this is for the best. I do not wish to hurt you further. We shall speak of this another time. Have a good night."

He took another step towards the door. Her anguish turned to exasperation now, and she quickly walked towards him, not allowing him to reach the door. She stood in his way, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"Valarr… Is this how our marriage is to be? Both of us living in separate chambers, never…"

Doing our duty, like your uncle Aerys, she thought, though she did not say it.

He took a deep breath, his mismatched eyes gazing at her tear-stained face with a painful expression on his face. His eyes had become damp as well, eyebrows knit as he looked at the pain he had caused his beloved.

"For now, yes," he said gently.

"Why?" She whispered, her gaze pleading. She did not wish anything of him except to understand. Why is this what he wanted, and why did he claim it was 'for the best'? She had felt out of her depth her entire time at court, but this was the thing that had confused her the most. Is this truly how their married life was going to start?

"I thought it… it would be easier." He muttered, anguish visible on his face now.

"For whom?" She quickly resorted. It would certainly not make her life at court easier, she knew that much. Nothing could hurt the precious Young Prince's reputation, of course, but she did not wish to end up as all the other ladies who had been easily disregarded by their husbands. Nobody would ever respect or forgive her if she failed at her duties in this manner. Even the eternal scorn she would have faced, had she actually successfully fled the Red Keep would have likely been better.

"What?" He said, confused.

"Easier for whom? You or me?"

The annoyance became visible on his face again, and he turned his face away from her.

"I will not be debating this with you tonight," he said, his tone final.

"This is not a debate, Valarr, I merely want to understand. You need to tell me–" She replied, exasperation evident in her voice.

"I do not need to do anything. I have decided! I am your prince!" He suddenly shouted out, his face turning red in anger.

She had never heard him raise his voice to anybody, let alone her. It immediately silenced her. She looked at him in disbelief, before she quickly managed to put a guarded look on her face. She took several steps back, folding her hands in front of her, as if to shield herself from his hurtful words.

It was evident that he immediately regretted his words, but she no longer cared. He put his hands up as if in surrender, trying to take a step towards her. This time, she was the one to take a step back from him. She put one hand up, a gesture for him to remain silent.

"My mistake. I thought you were 'just Valarr'. Pray forgive me, Your Grace."

His face crumbled at her cold words, a silent tear streaming down his face.

"Gevie–."

"I think it is best you retire to your bedchambers now, Your Grace, as you said."

He attempted to step towards her again, but she continued the cruel dance, stepping further back. His eyes begged for her to stop, but her face had gone carefully blank, her stare distant.

"My love… I promise you, this is what is best for both of us."

"Of course, Your Grace. Whatever you wish," She turned her back to him as she said, "Now, I kindly ask you to leave my chambers."

Her voice and eyes had lost all of its warmth. Where she had once thought him to be different from all of her previous suitors, he had quickly proven that his kindness was nothing more than a pretense to trick her into marrying him. For what purpose, if he did not intend to bed her, she did not know yet, but she supposed she never truly knew him at all.

Valarr seemed lost for words. He looked at her for a while, realizing she was being sincere. She no longer wanted him near her, as she always had before. He swallowed the lump in his throat before abruptly turning away from her, towards the door.

He did not look back before he softly closed the door behind him, but he did not have the courage to move from his spot for quite a while, either. He could feel the inquisitive gaze of Ser Roland Crakehall as he stood there, but he did not care to explain himself to the knight. When he suddenly heard her quiet cries come through the solid wooden door, however, he made haste across the hall and quickly entered his own chambers.

Gods, he was such an fool. He had only ever wanted to make sure she was safe, that she would never feel any pain, and yet he had been the only one to cause it. He hadn't expected her to react so strongly, as he would expect most women to be relieved that they were spared a bedding. Instead, his beloved had only seen it as an insult.

He had let his anger, his fears and his own insecurities get the best of him, and now he had hurt the very person he was meant to protect from harm.

He had watched his own mother perish in the birthing bed, and he had no intention of inflicting that on his love. He knew it was inevitable for him to eventually need heirs, but he could not bear to put her at risk. Not when he just got her. He wished to enjoy her presence for many more years to come. Now, he might have lost her now regardless, just in a different way.

He had believed she would understand that risk and the fear that came with pregnancy, but it seemed to him she hadn't considered it in that way. Perhaps she thought it was her duty and she did not believe she had a choice in the matter, simply facing her fate with her head held high. Well, he did have a choice, and he was not going to lose her.

He only wished he had not hurt her in the process. He had yelled at his wife, something he swore he would never do. If he had failed to be a good husband after less than a day, what does that say of his prospects as king? How could he be a just ruler if he could not even do right by his own wife? A true dragon for the first time, he mused to himself bitterly, burning down everything in its path.

In an attempt to distract himself, Valarr decided to busy himself with making his bed seem like it had witnessed a true bedding. He cut his own arm to bloody his sheets, watching the crimson stains spread out on the sheets. The blade hurt much less than seeing the heartbroken look on his beloved's face, he thought bitterly.

That night, the newlyweds both cried themselves to sleep, each wanting nothing more than to be by the other's side.

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Tywin inclined his head, already satisfied, his fingers brushing the fabric of his crimson sleeve as though dusting off the matter entirely. Jaime, however, remained frozen, his golden brows drawn tight, his shoulders rigid.

“You’ll take your new oath after the wedding,” Robert added with a smirk, lifting a goblet of wine to his lips. “And keep the armor, boy. Suits you. Might even distract the girl from your sour temper.”

“When does she arrive?” Robert asked, glancing over at Tywin once more.

“She’ll be here soon,” Tywin replied coolly. “And she’ll be yours to present at court.”

Cersei stormed down the corridor, the silk of her gown hissing like a serpent with every furious step. Servants scattered at the sight of her, heads bowed low, skirts gathered quickly out of her path. When she reached Jaime’s chamber door, she didn’t knock. She shoved it open with enough force to rattle the hinges.

“I found out through Tyrion—Tyrion, of all people!” she spat, her voice sharp with betrayal. Her golden hair was unbound, wild about her shoulders, and her eyes burned with fury.

Jaime turned from where he stood near the hearth, already tense, his jaw tight. “Don’t look at me like that, Cersei,” he said quickly, raising his hands in something like surrender. “Please—it wasn’t my choice.”

“Then why didn’t you fight harder?” she snapped, advancing on him like a lioness with blood in her mouth. “You’re Tywin’s heir, his golden son. You could’ve refused—should’ve refused!”

He shook his head, stepping back just enough to keep distance between them. “You know how he is. It was already done before I was even told. The match was signed, sealed, and ridden for Riverrun before I could speak a word.”

“You’re marrying her,” Cersei snarled. “A Tully. One of Catelyn’s sisters. Do you know what they’ll say? What they’ll think?”

“I know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you think I haven’t already thought of that a thousand times?”

She turned away from him then, as if disgusted by the sight of him, hands curling at her sides. “You’re mine,” she said, voice trembling—not with weakness, but with rage. “You’ve always been mine. And now you’re just—giving yourself away?”

“I didn’t give anything,” he bit back. “He took it from me.”

Cersei rounded on him once more, eyes glassy with unshed fury. “Then take it back.”

Cersei’s breath caught as the silence thickened between them, heavy as smoke. Her fists trembled at her sides, but she didn’t move away. Not when Jaime stepped closer. Not when his voice lowered.

“I didn’t want this,” he murmured, gaze pinned to hers, the firelight flickering gold across his face. “I swear it, Cersei. I tried—I tried to make him see, but he wouldn’t bend. He never bends.”

Her lip curled, but the anger faltered just slightly. “You’re stronger than him,” she whispered. “You’re better.”

“I’m yours,” he said, voice raw.

His hands came to her waist—hesitant, almost reverent. She let him. Her body was taut with tension, but she didn’t resist when he drew her in. Her hands found his chest, fingers curled in the fabric of his tunic. He ducked his head, their foreheads brushing. His voice was a breath against her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know how to face you.”

And then she kissed him.

Her kiss wasn’t tender—it was a punishment. Her mouth crashed into his with the heat of a wildfire, angry and possessive, like she meant to devour the apology right out of his throat. Jaime grunted against her, stumbling backward as she pushed him, lips bruising, hands clutching fistfuls of his tunic like she wanted to tear it apart.

He didn’t stop her.

His hands gripped her waist, hard, dragging her against him as if he needed to feel her anger to believe she still wanted him. Her teeth caught his lip, and he hissed. She smiled into the kiss, wicked and breathless.

“You let him chain you,” she snarled, lips brushing his jaw as she bit at the skin there. “You said you were mine, Jaime—mine.”

“I am,” he gasped, kissing her again, sloppier this time—off-center, raw, all tongue and desperation. “I didn’t ask for her—I didn’t ask for any of it.”

Her hand tangled in his hair, tugging his head back so she could look at him—lips red, eyes shining, chest heaving like she’d just fought a war.

“Then prove it,” she whispered.

He kissed her again before the words finished falling, hands moving rough under her skirts, pressing her back toward the table, knocking over a goblet and not caring for a single heartbeat. Her thighs hit wood. His mouth never left hers.

“Say you still love me,” she said, half a breath, half a challenge.

“I do,” he said, panting, forehead against hers. “Gods, Cersei—always. Only you.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

You arrived without fanfare, just as you preferred—no banners, no trumpets, no company beyond a modest escort of Tully men who said little and kept their heads down. The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, and the courtyard of the Red Keep was cloaked in shadow. A few lanterns flickered near the gates, their flames swaying in the wind. You dismounted with practiced ease, your cloak fluttering behind you in the night breeze, your blue silks catching only the faintest kiss of firelight.

Tywin Lannister was waiting at the top of the steps. Regal as ever, stone-faced and imposing even in silence. But when you smiled—softly, without pretense—it startled him. You were younger than he remembered. More beautiful than he’d expected. And far, far softer. There was no hard edge to you, no sharp tongue. Just river-steady grace and that keen, unbothered composure that made men underestimate you far too easily.

“Lord Tywin,” you said lightly, lifting a hand in greeting, fingers curled in a gentle wave. “It’s been far too long.”

“It has,” he replied with a nod, his voice unreadable. But his eyes did not leave your face.

You stepped forward, skirts whispering against the stone. “My brother didn’t come. He trusts me in your care,” you said, tilting your head just slightly. “For the wedding, I mean. I’ve not told my sisters yet either—though I suppose I’ll have to now, won’t I?”

Your smile widened, sweet as spring rain. “I trust everything is in order—your hands are known for order, after all. Robert, in his drunken ramblings, speaks of you often. Not all bad, mind you. He said the feasts would come after the ceremony. Then we ride north.” You paused, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. “All very well planned. Very… Lannister.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment. And though he said nothing, there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—something between respect and concern.

Because you were not what he expected. You were worse. You were gentle. And that made you dangerous.

“Come,” Tywin said, turning with the authority of a man who expected obedience. “You shall meet Jaime.”

You froze. Hands clutched together before you, the lace at your wrists trembling faintly in the night breeze.

“Oh, gods—no, I can’t!” you said quickly, cheeks flushing as you shook your head. “It’s… against Riverrun tradition. I’m not to see him until the wedding. Bad luck and all that.”

Your voice was light, teasing, but your eyes flicked nervously toward the great doors of the Keep, as if the Kingslayer himself might come strolling out to catch you mid-sentence.

“Hopefully,” you went on with a breathless laugh, “he’ll find me beautiful. And not just another old, sour-faced Tully.” You scrunched your nose slightly. “You Lannisters have such strong features. I always worried the Riverlands bred girls a little too plain.”

Tywin paused at that, glancing back at you. His lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost. But not quite.

“He’ll find you pleasing enough,” he said. “You are young. You are lovely. And, more importantly, you are useful. That is more than most women can claim.”

You smiled, but the weight of his words pressed behind your ribs.

“I’ll have my steward take you to your chambers,” he added. “You’ll be presented properly before the court at the feast.”

You dipped into a polite, practiced curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”

He watched you one last time before turning, the click of his boots fading into stone. And as you followed the steward through the quiet halls of the Red Keep, you touched your cheeks and whispered to yourself—

“Please let him have kind eyes.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

Jaime paced the length of his chamber like a caged lion, his golden armor half-undone, the clasps at his shoulders hanging loose where he’d started to tear it off in frustration. His breath came short, sharp, like every step might somehow undo what had already been set in stone.

“She’s here,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “She’s actually here. Gods, why—why did Father have to find her so soon?”

Tyrion lounged in a carved chair by the hearth, a goblet in one hand and a smirk on his lips, watching the dramatics unfold with barely veiled amusement.

“You knew this day was coming,” Tyrion said mildly. “Father made it quite clear you’d be married off the moment Robert gave permission. You should be thanking him—he could’ve saddled you with a Frey.”

Jaime spun around, eyes wild. “Lysa Arryn was a Tully. She was supposed to be beautiful too.”

“She was, once,” Tyrion said, swirling the wine in his cup. “Many say this one favors her—delicate, they claim. Polite. She has the hair. The eyes. That Riverlands charm.”

“If she looks anything like that sickly hag of the Eyrie I swear to the gods, I’ll—” he choked on the thought. “Her eyes! They were like a fish pulled too long from water. That awful limp hair. Pale as bone, and her voice—”

He shuddered dramatically, one hand pressed to his chest like he’d been stabbed.

“I’ll surely die.”

“You won’t,” Tyrion said with a sigh, setting down his cup. “She’s young. That much I know. And she’s no fool. She knows what this marriage means. You’ll get through tomorrow, and then you can return to pretending to hate politics.”

“I was fine,” Jaime snapped. “Content with life. My white cloak, my sword. Her. I didn’t ask for this.”

Tyrion raised a brow. “You mean Cersei?”

Jaime didn’t answer. He looked away, jaw clenching, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“She’ll be at the feast tomorrow,” Tyrion added quietly. “And by the look of things, she’s not what Father expected.”

Jaime’s eyes snapped to him. “What do you mean?”

Tyrion’s smile was slow, knowing. “You’ll see.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

Morning came too quickly.

The halls of the Red Keep were transformed, the stone corridors draped in sweeping banners of Tully blue and burgundy, braided together with Lannister red and gold. The colors twisted in perfect harmony—rivers and lions bound in silk—a symbol of alliance, though few would dare call it love. It was beautiful, undeniably so, and that alone was enough to sour Cersei’s mood. She watched from her place near the dais, her jaw clenched behind a forced smile, envy roiling beneath the surface. You were all anyone spoke of. No one had seen the youngest Tully since girlhood, and now here you were—grown, radiant, untouched by time or scandal. Some whispered that your beauty rivaled hers. Others said it surpassed it.

Your hair was a striking Tully red—brighter than Catelyn’s, longer than Lysa’s—and it shimmered like copper fire in the sunlight spilling through the stained glass. Your eyes, soft sea-blue with a ring of storm grey, carried the hush of deep water. You looked like a memory come to life. And gods, you were perfect.

Jaime stood at the end of the hall, stiff and irritable beneath layers of polished gold. He looked like a knight carved from sunlight—handsome, proud, and visibly annoyed by the fanfare. But when the horns sounded and the guests rose, when the great oak doors creaked open, and you stepped into the light of the throne room—

Even he went still.

You walked slowly, unbothered by the weight of every eye in the hall. Your gown was a vibrant blue, soft but rich in color, stitched with fine silver thread. It hugged your form, dipping low across your chest where a silver trout gleamed at the center of your bodice. You moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew they were beautiful, but carried it like a secret rather than a weapon.

You paused when you saw him—your betrothed.

Your eyes met his across the distance. He was taller than you remembered. Sharper. Golden. He looked nothing like the boy you once glimpsed from afar.

“His eyes are… sorta kind,” you murmured to the maiden at your side.

“He’s the Kingslayer,” she whispered with a smirk. “And more handsome than I imagined.”

“He looks… bright,” you said softly, as if the word surprised you.

“Well, he’s your husband now,” she teased.

Jaime stepped forward as you neared, every movement rehearsed, mechanical. He reached for your hand, but before his fingers could graze yours, you laughed—low and warm, barely above a whisper, and yet it echoed in his ears.

“No need to be so formal, Ser Jaime,” you said, your voice sweet as summer wine. “You don’t need to kiss my hand.”

He faltered, blinking at you like you’d struck him. Something in your softness stunned him. You weren’t cold. You weren’t haughty. You weren’t what he feared.

You smiled at him—genuine and quiet.

And for the first time that morning, he didn’t know what to say.

“You grew,” Jaime said, eyes trailing over you with quiet disbelief, like he still expected the child from long ago to emerge beneath the silk and ceremony.

You tilted your head, grinning. “Well, I’m not the sniveling girl you saw clinging to Edmure’s leg at your sister’s wedding.”

You giggled then, the sound light and sweet. “Cersei looked beautiful that day.”

He smiled at the memory, despite himself. He remembered you now—the way you’d peeked out from behind your brother’s cloak, wide-eyed and wary, flinching every time the crowd roared too loud. A little thing in pale blue, red hair in tangled ribbons, constantly twisting your fingers. Barely old enough to speak in full sentences.

“And what were you so afraid of?” Jaime asked, amusement tugging at his lips.

You leaned closer, your breath brushing his shoulder, smiling too brightly—too kindly—for a girl about to marry a man the realm called Kingslayer.

“In truth?” you whispered. “Your steed. That damned horse of yours.”

He blinked. “My horse?”

A bark of laughter escaped him, far louder than he meant. Heads turned. The hall fell quiet. Cersei’s eyes narrowed from the dais. But you only beamed up at him, utterly unbothered.

“Gods, yes,” you said with a playful grimace. “A creature that large, able to kill me simply by twitching wrong? That is no friend of mine. I’ve never learned to ride. I don’t wish to. I’m quite sure they hate me as much as I hate them.”

“You hate horses,” Jaime said, still grinning, voice lowered now. “You’re marrying a knight and you hate horses.”

You laughed again, musical and unbothered. “I adore fish. Small, harmless, until they’re not. I grew up beside the river, not in a stable. A trout is a far nobler beast, in my opinion.”

He looked at you—really looked—and something in his chest shifted.

Because this wasn’t the marriage he expected.

You weren’t trembling. You weren’t bitter. You were soft and bright and quietly strange in a way that unsettled him and gods help him, he was starting to like it.

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Jaime said with a short nod, offering his arm.

You placed your hand there softly, your fingers light against the hard muscle beneath his crimson sleeve. He began walking, slow and measured, the two of you moving through the corridor toward the sept, steps echoing beneath vaulted stone.

“The wedding,” he murmured after a moment, his voice quieter than before, “as you so adamantly requested, has now become a documented contract—signed, sealed, and quite literally paraded before the realm.”

You turned your face slightly toward him, your smile warm, but edged with mischief. “Well yes, I assumed your disdain at being plucked from the Kingsguard would sour any desire to celebrate being tethered to the trout girl.”

You said it lightly, teasing, but your voice never lost its softness. “Edmure told me—very firmly—not to mention cloaks, kings, or guards. I fear if I so much as say the word ‘oath,’ he’ll emerge from the stone itself to strangle me.”

That pulled the smallest laugh from Jaime, short and genuine.

“I’m a big boy,” he said. “I don’t need you to temper my mood.”

You smiled gently, eyes forward now. “I know. But still… it’s alright to grieve. To mourn what you’ve lost. I don’t fault you for that. I wouldn’t even blame you if you chose to walk away—if you rejected all of this. I wouldn’t be angry.”

The words hung between you for a moment, too tender, too real.

Jaime’s jaw shifted. He looked down at you, not with pity or coldness, but something quieter. Something harder to name.

“I would never dishonor you,” he said simply.

And in that vow, however soft, was the first crack in the armor he wore far beneath his gold.

“Ahhh! My little trout girl!” Robert’s voice boomed across the hall, slurred and far too loud for the closeness of the space. He barreled forward, flushed from drink and grinning like a man half his age, and before Jaime could so much as blink, the king had snatched you from his side.

You squealed with laughter, caught off guard by the sheer force of the man’s affection. “Robbie!” you gasped, eyes bright, arms barely catching around his barrel chest.

He hugged you tight, swaying slightly, then leaned back to grin at you as if you were some long-lost treasure he’d only just remembered. “Beautiful trout! Gods, look at you. Go on—go! Jon’s been begging to see you. Poor lad’s near chewed my ear off. You know how he gets.”

You looked past the king’s shoulder and saw Jon Arryn seated in the corner of the hall, watching you with a warm, expectant gaze. You nodded quickly, touched by the thought. As you moved to pull away, your eyes found Jaime’s again across the crowd—his smile small, real, and caught half behind his hand.

Robert clapped Jaime hard on the back—twice. The kind of blow that rattled armor.

“You married a good one,” Robert said, voice thick with wine and sentiment. “I thought for certain she’d be a Stark, you know. Madly in love with Benjen. Gods, he loved her too. Quiet boy, but fierce where it counted. I remember her first kiss to him—”

“I rather don’t care,” Jaime cut in, tone cool but even. “She’s my wife now. Whatever came before me is her own. Just as I had a life before her.”

Robert blinked, then let out a loud, wheezing chuckle. “Aye. Fair enough, fair enough.” He smacked Jaime’s back again, even harder this time, before staggering off toward another cask.

Jaime stood still for a moment, watching you slip through the crowd toward Jon Arryn. Your laughter trailed behind you, soft and clear.

And yet… Robert’s words lingered like smoke in Jaime’s chest. “The North has a way of bringing up old feelings.”

Now you both stood in the center of the hall, the contract signed, the rites spoken, the knots tied. A simple union, formalized before the realm with only the faintest brush of ceremony—no silken bedding speeches, no wild fanfare, no drunken debauchery. Just you and Jaime, side by side beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Red Keep, the air heavy with roses and smoke, the murmurs of lords and ladies still echoing along the stone.

You were now Lady Lannister.

A soft tune played from the minstrels’ corner, delicate and low, and he led you into the first dance with hesitant fingers resting at your waist. You moved like water—effortless, light. You smelled of wildflowers and river reeds warmed by sunlight, of quiet summer mornings along the banks of the Trident. You didn’t cling to him or press too close. Your hand at the nape of his neck was soft, steady—nothing like Cersei’s sharpened claws and possessive touch. It unsettled him, that gentleness. How it made him ache.

“You’d make a fine Lord Tully,” you said, eyes sparkling. “A golden-haired fisherman. A beard would suit you, I think. And longer hair to shield you from the summer sun.”

He snorted—an inelegant, surprised sound. “A Tully?” he repeated with a smirk.

You grinned up at him, spinning just slightly beneath his arm. “A quiet life. Far from court. Far from lions and crowns and whispered plots. It’s what most girls dream of when they marry, you know. Not power. Peace.”

Your words were sweet, light—but they landed heavy.

He looked down at you, your face tilted toward his, your smile still resting there like it belonged. You weren’t scheming. You weren’t pretending. You meant it.

And for one strange moment, Jaime found himself picturing it. A river keep. A slower life. Your hand still in his.

“And what do you dream of?” he asked, his voice low.

Your smile turned wistful, eyes drifting past his shoulder. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”

The music lingered soft around you, the low hum of harp strings wrapping gently through the air as you turned beneath Jaime’s hand, laughing quietly at something only the two of you could hear. He was smiling—truly smiling—for the first time that night, the corners of his mouth soft and unguarded, as if, for once, he had stopped bracing for the weight of expectation.

Then she came.

Cersei moved through the hall like a storm cloaked in silk—green velvet clinging to every curve, golden hair piled high, eyes glittering with something colder than envy. She stopped just beside you, her hand gliding over Jaime’s arm with practiced familiarity.

“May I steal my brother for a moment?” she asked sweetly, her smile anything but.

You didn’t flinch. You turned to her, your face open and kind, too kind for someone so clearly being challenged.

“Of course, my Queen,” you said gently, bowing your head with grace honed from years at Riverrun. Before stepping back, you gave Jaime’s hand the smallest squeeze—a silent farewell, and perhaps, a warning.

You disappeared into the crowd, and the space between them collapsed like a trap sprung shut.

“Only one day,” Cersei hissed, stepping in close, her breath hot against his cheek, “and you’ve already forgotten you were in my cunt.”

Jaime stiffened, color rising to his face. “Stop,” he said low. “No one’s forgotten.”

Her hand slid across his chest, possessive, venomous. “Your hand was on her back, lower and lower. Her fingers at your neck like she already knows what makes you weak. And tonight, you’ll bed her, won’t you?”

Her voice cracked with restrained fury.

“Will you think of me?” she asked, voice quieter now. “When she breathes your name? When her legs wrap around you? When she gasps and you have to pretend she feels like home?”

Jaime closed his eyes for just a moment. And in the smallest, most broken whisper, he said “Of course. Of course I will.”

But even as he spoke it, he turned to look back through the crowd, trying to find the river girl in blue.

And he hated himself for how much he already missed your hand.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The fire burned low in the hearth, its golden light casting soft shadows across the stone walls of the wedding chamber. The room smelled of sandalwood and rose oil, and the silence that stretched between you both was fragile—heavy with unspoken thoughts, sharpened by expectation.

Jaime moved first.

His lips found yours with no warning, mouth hot and desperate, hands framing your face as if he feared you might vanish. It wasn’t graceful—wasn’t elegant. It was hungry, wild with need. He kissed you like a man drowning, like he needed your mouth to breathe.

“Jaime—Jaime,” you gasped between kisses, your palms pressing gently against his chest, breath caught somewhere between surprise and laughter.

He stilled, forehead brushing yours, panting.

“Wait,” you said softly, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go slow. We have all our lives to be quick and hungry.”

Your fingers moved with care, tugging at the laces of his shirt, easing the fabric back from his shoulders until his skin was bare beneath the firelight. “Unless,” you said with a crooked smile, “you’re ready to get this over with?”

“No,” he said at once, voice rough. “No—gods, no.” He looked away, jaw flexing like he didn’t trust himself to say more.

You stepped back, wordless, and let your gown fall from your shoulders.

The silk pooled at your feet with a whisper, and the chill of the chamber kissed your skin. You stood bare before him, chest rising slowly, heart thudding, but you did not hide. There was something reverent in your stillness. Something brave.

“I am a maiden,” you said, voice soft as dusk. “And I wish my first time to be slow. Gentle. And full of love.” You paused, meeting his eyes. “Even if it is only for one night, Ser Jaime.”

Your smile was the kind that wrecked men—gentle, sure, and aching. Jaime stared at you like he’d never seen something so painfully real. And then, with trembling hands, he reached for you—not as a conqueror, but as a man humbled.

“Then slow,” he whispered, brushing your hair back. “And gentle. And like love.”

He kissed you slow, the back of your legs meet the bed. Teasingly, you crawled back, your eyes low full of want. He grabbed your ankle, yanking towards him. “Let me taste you, River girl.” You bit your lip, nodding too eagerly.

His mouth was hot, reverent, and far too patient.

He kissed the inside of your thigh first—once, then again, slower the second time, his stubble scraping softly against your skin. His hands kept you open, gentle but firm, and he watched you with something unreadable in his eyes. Like awe. Like hunger smothered beneath restraint. When he lowered himself fully, breath ghosting over your most delicate place, you barely had time to brace before his mouth found you.

He kissed your clit like it was his, like he’d done it before in dreams and now meant to do it right—slowly. His tongue dragged across you, lazy and deliberate, not searching for the peak but drawing it out, warming you with long, wet strokes that made your thighs tremble around his head.

You gasped, spine arching off the mattress.

“Gods—” the word spilled from your lips in a breathless cry, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting tight in those golden strands. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

That made him groan—deeply—the sound sending a pulse through your whole body. He pressed his mouth harder against you, tongue flattening, circling, teasing the sensitive pearl with slow, worshipful flicks that had your hips lifting, grinding softly, needing more.

He didn’t give you more. Not yet.

He licked you through every twitch and gasp, lips dragging over the slick heat of you, soft and wet and sloppy, so soaked from his tongue alone that he had to drag his hand down and part you again, groaning when he felt how much you gave him.

“You taste like summer,” he murmured against you, voice thick, drunk on you. “Sweet river girl.”

Then he went back to it—louder now, messier. His mouth moved with open hunger, tongue pressing, sucking, flicking faster, then easing back just enough to hear you whine. You were soaked down your thighs, clenching at nothing, thighs quivering, head tossing back on the pillow.

You felt wild beneath him—shaking, panting, begging—but he just held you still, thumbs stroking circles into your hips like he had all night to ruin you slowly.

“Jaime—Jaime, please,” you whispered, your voice cracking, your hand reaching for anything, for him, dragging his name from your throat like a prayer.

And still—he didn’t stop.

His mouth was soaked with you—chin glistening, lips slick, breath ragged as he buried his face deeper between your thighs like he couldn’t get close enough. His tongue moved in filthy, wet strokes now, no longer gentle, no longer teasing. He was feasting on you, devouring every whimper, every twitch, every cry of his name like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

When he sucked hard—right on the clit—you cried out, body jerking like he’d struck some hidden nerve. Your thighs tried to close, to squirm away, but his arms locked you in place. His grip was tight now, possessive, dragging your hips closer to his mouth, forcing you to stay open for every soft, wet suck and every obscene lick he gave you. He was messy with it—his tongue flicking fast and eager, his nose pressed against the soft heat of you, and gods, he was moaning into you now, low and rough and wrecked.

“This your first time coming?” he groaned, voice muffled, lips dragging over your swollen pearl. “On my tongue?”

You nodded frantically, hands pulling at his hair, back arched off the bed, desperate and close and wild.

“Yes! Gods—yes,” you whimpered, your voice barely human.

That did something to him—broke something. He growled low in his throat and sucked again, harder this time, his tongue working you over like he wanted to brand the feeling of him into your body forever. Sloppy, filthy, perfect—his mouth sliding against your soaked folds, his tongue curling up to catch every drop of you like he was starving.

Your body locked up—legs trembling, belly tightening, breath catching in your chest—and when your release hit, it hit like a wave crashing over stone.

You screamed.

Your thighs clamped around his head, hands fisting tight in his hair as your hips bucked, and he didn’t stop. Not for a second. He moaned as you came, mouth still moving, still kissing you through it, drinking you down with feverish, worshipful hunger. He let you ride it, every spasm, every broken cry, until you were limp beneath him—shaking, gasping, soaked and ruined.

He pulled back slowly, face wet, chest heaving.

“Sweet gods,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “I could die with that taste on my tongue.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, your body still trembling from the force of it.

Jaime hovered over you, his body taut with restraint, golden hair tousled, lips still wet with your release. His tunic was discarded long ago, leaving him bare to the waist, muscles flexed as he braced himself on either side of you. But it was your movement—slow and sinfully deliberate—that shattered what control he had left.

Your legs curled around his hips, and your body arched, grinding up against the hot, heavy length of him—bare now, pressed against your soaked entrance but not yet inside. The heat of you dragged along him with every slow roll of your hips, and the friction made his breath stutter, made his arms shake.

“Gods,” he hissed through clenched teeth, dropping his head against your shoulder. “What are you doing to me…already ruining me with those sweet whines”

Your hands threaded into his hair, your lips brushing his ear as you rocked again, the tip of him dragging through the slick mess between your thighs. Not quite entering—teasing. Coating him. Driving him mad.

“I want it to feel real,” you whispered, voice trembling. “All of you. All of this.”

He grunted—deep, guttural—the sound scraping from somewhere low in his chest. You rolled again, slower this time, your clit catching just beneath the ridge of him, and his hips jerked like he couldn’t help it.

“Seven hells,” he groaned, breath shuddering against your neck. “I’ve never—”

He cut himself off, teeth gritting.

“Never had someone like this. Needy for me. Wanting me like this.”

Your mouth kissed along his jaw, soft and slow. “I need you, Jaime,” you whispered. “Please.”

He pulled back to look at you then, eyes burning, his hands moving to grip your hips like he was anchoring himself. The tip of him nudged against you, almost there, his breath ragged.

“Say it again,” he said hoarsely. “Say you need me.”

“I need you.”

“Then gods forgive me,” he whispered, and he pushed in—slow, every inch of him pressing through slick heat, stretching you open until he was fully seated inside, thick and deep and shaking above you.

Your gasp tore into his mouth as he kissed you—desperate, messy, teeth catching on lips, both of you groaning as your hips adjusted to each other.

He started to move—long, slow thrusts that dragged against every inch of your trembling walls. His forehead rested against yours, his hands everywhere—cupping your cheek, gripping your waist, brushing your breast, like he couldn’t decide where to worship first.

“You feel like godsdamned heaven,” he groaned. “You were made for me.” He lost himself the moment he sank into you.

There was no grace left in him—not with how warm and soaked you were, how your body welcomed him like it had been waiting for him all along. His first thrust was deep, sloppy, too rough for the tenderness he’d promised, and your gasp shattered between his lips as his hips slammed flush to yours, the sound of it loud and filthy in the quiet of the chamber.

He moaned—loudly—his head dropping to your shoulder, golden hair clinging to his brow as he fought to breathe.

“Fuck—gods, you feel—you feel like sin,” he groaned, grinding deep into your soaked cunt, hips jerking as your walls fluttered around him, wet and eager.

You cried out beneath him, your nails digging into his back, your legs locked high around his waist as you pulled him back in.

He fucked you hard—messy and fast, every thrust sloppy with wet sounds, your slick dripping down onto the sheets beneath you. Your skin slapped together again and again as he pounded into you like he couldn’t stand the thought of ever leaving your body. Sweat slicked between you. His mouth found your throat, your jaw, your breast—kissing, biting, claiming.

“You’ll only have me,” you whispered, voice trembling, your hands cupping his face as he fucked you through another wave of pleasure.

His hand slammed against the headboard, gripping it like a man trying to hold on to reason, while the other arm wrapped tight beneath your thigh, lifting your leg higher against his hip, spreading you wider, deeper. His strokes were brutal now—filthy and fast, wet and relentless, your slick coating his cock, his thighs, the bed beneath you both. The sound of him inside you—flesh slapping flesh, the obscene squelch of every thrust—filled the chamber louder than the fire crackling at your side.

He groaned—loudly—his head dropping low as he watched himself disappear into you again and again, jaw clenched so tight it looked like pain.

He groaned like you’d struck him in the gut, his head snapping up, gold hair sticking to his sweat-drenched brow.

“It’s just you,” he growled. “Only you—gods, my wife—my sweet river girl.”

He bent low, lips finding yours, kissing you hard as he fucked you harder. One hand still braced on the headboard, the other still locked tight around your thigh, holding you in place as he drilled into you with fevered, soaking thrusts. You could hear how wet you were for him—hear it every time his cock slammed back in, thick and heavy, stretching you until your toes curled.

He was trembling now, breath stuttering, voice broken with need.

“So close—so fucking close—gods, tell me you want it—tell me you want me to fill you.”

You nodded fast, clutching at him, gasping against his lips. “I want it—I want you. Give it to me, Jaime—please—please.”

Jaime was shaking above you now—truly shaking, his muscles flexed and locked as he thrust into you with desperate, brutal rhythm, like every inch inside you dragged him closer to the edge of sanity. His hand stayed clenched around the headboard, the wood creaking with each slam of his hips, while the other hand gripped your thigh so tightly your skin ached. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, even as sweat dripped from his temples, even as his jaw tensed like he was in pain from holding back.

“Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” he groaned, his voice breaking into something feral.

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered, back arching, your hands clawing at his waist, at his arms, at anything. “Jaime—please—please give it to me.”

That ruined him.

“Gods,” he gasped, voice raw, wrecked. “You want it? My wife—my sweet, wet little thing—beg me.”

“I’m begging,” you sobbed, your thighs trembling, your body soaked and aching from how deep he was buried. “I want you—I want all of it—please, inside—inside me, Jaime—please—please—”

He slammed into you hard, once, twice, then froze.

And then he broke.

His whole body locked above you, his abs tightening, his teeth bared as the first hot, violent spurt of his release spilled into you. He growled—the sound harsh and stunned—like it hurt to finally let go. His cock jerked inside you, pulse after pulse, pumping you full, soaking you from the inside out as your walls clenched and fluttered around him, milking every last drop of him.

“Fuck—oh fuck—” he choked, trembling through it, voice high, nearly frantic. “So good—so good—I’ve never—never—gods, I can feel it.”

You moaned beneath him, body curling into his, your cunt so sensitive, so wet from everything he gave you that you could feel his seed leak out before he’d even stopped moving.

But he wasn’t done.

He kept thrusting—slow, now—shallow and filthy, pushing his cum deeper inside you, hips still twitching as his body rode the last waves of his climax.

“You wanted this,” he panted, pressing his forehead to yours. “You took it so well—so greedy for it—gods, I don’t want to pull out.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered, your voice soft and ruined. “Stay in me. Fill me again.”

He kissed you—open-mouthed, messy, desperate—and nodded.

“I’ll give you everything,” he whispered against your lips. “Everything.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The night crept in slow and heavy, the fire in the hearth reduced to a bed of glowing coals. Shadows danced faintly across the walls of the wedding chamber, long and soft, curling like tendrils across the stone. The air smelled of sweat and sex and sweet rose oil—the scent of a marriage not only sealed, but consumed.

You lay sprawled atop him, your cheek against his chest, his arm draped around your waist with the lazy weight of a man too exhausted to pretend anymore. His hand rested just above the curve of your hip, fingers twitching now and then, as if even in sleep he refused to let go of you. His other hand was tangled in your hair, thumb stroking absently over your scalp. Jaime’s breath was slow. Deep. Peaceful.

Neither of you stirred when the chamber door cracked open.

Cersei moved like a ghost. Silent. Cloaked in black. She had waited for hours. Waited until the moon was high, until the maester had finished his whispers and returned to the Keep, until the guards had yawned and shifted, their attention dulled by late hour and too much wine. She’d spoken to the maidens, all of them. Each said the same thing.

He never left.

She had demanded truth from the steward. From the servants who passed the chamber door. One claimed she’d heard laughter—low and warm—and then quiet murmurs, like lovers breathing each other in.

Now, here she stood. At the edge of the bed.

Watching.

Your red hair spilled like wine across Jaime’s bare chest, one of your legs curled possessively over his. The covers had fallen to his hips, revealing the flush of his skin, the shine of dried sweat still lingering across his abdomen. The mark of you.

Cersei didn’t blink. Her jaw clenched.

You looked soft in sleep. Disarmed. Not like the clever, smiling thing that had teased him in the hall or bowed so sweetly when she asked to cut in. No. Now you looked his. And worse still—he looked yours.

His arm was wrapped around you like instinct. Not habit. Not performance.

“You fool,” she whispered, so quiet it barely left her lips. “You gave yourself away.”

She didn’t cry. Not yet. She only stared.

Because for all the things she’d feared… nothing had prepared her for this. For the way Jaime held you in his sleep. Like you were peace. Like you were home.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

You quickened faster than anyone expected.

The court had only just settled into the comfort of your union when whispers began to spread like ivy between pillars. At first, it was idle talk—sidelong glances at your fuller face, murmurs about how often Ser Jaime’s hand rested at the small of your back, the way his eyes trailed you when you left the room. But by the end of the second moon, the whispers grew teeth. By the third, your gowns—once effortlessly elegant—had begun to shift, your corsets laced looser, your silhouette softening in ways no feast could explain. By the fourth moon, it was undeniable: Lady Lannister was with child.

And Cersei Lannister hated you for it.

She hated you with a venom that festered behind her smile, behind every forced curtsy and every cordial greeting. She watched you across the great hall with wine in her hand and acid in her throat. Watched the way Jaime drifted toward you like gravity itself bent for your comfort. Watched how your hands found his without needing to search. How you smiled up at him, and he smiled down. Always down—softly, privately, like no one else was in the room.

She saw the way his hand slipped around your waist as you walked, how his thumb sometimes brushed over the small swell of your belly like he was trying to remember it, trying to feel the child even before it moved. She watched the way he kissed your temple, your cheek, your hair, in moments no one else seemed to notice—but she did. She always noticed.

It wasn’t just the touch. It wasn’t just the tenderness.

It was the quiet. She could live with passion. She knew how to match fire with fire. But what you and Jaime shared was worse—it was peaceful. It was domestic. It was real.

And then came the moment that undid her.

You were seated together, not even touching—just speaking in low voices, Jaime’s golden head bowed slightly toward yours. You laughed gently, tilting your head with that same unbearable grace you carried everywhere.

“Fisherman Tully,” you teased, a whisper she heard clear as bells. “Still no beard. Still no boat. I suppose I’ll have to keep you.”

Jaime’s smile bloomed slow and warm. He reached for you, fingers cupping your face like it was made of something delicate and rare. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, and he leaned forward until your brows nearly touched.

“Gods help me,” he said, “but I would fish for you.” You flushed, glowing like hearthlight.

Cersei flinched. Physically. She felt it—sharp and hot in her chest, like a brand pressed beneath her ribs.

She turned away quickly, biting down on her wine cup so hard her lip bled. The worst part? You weren’t trying. You weren’t flaunting anything. You were simply… loved. Gently, openly, and without need for performance. She had been everything to him once. And now she was nothing more than his sister.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

It was eight moons into your marriage, and you were round with child—visibly, proudly, undeniably his. Your walk had slowed, your steps heavy with life, but none of that stopped him. Not when you looked at him the way you did. Not when your voice dipped low and teasing, when your fingers brushed his wrist at supper, when you whispered something sweet behind your cup and he smiled like a man undone.

That night, you didn’t make it to the wedding chambers. You barely made it past the corridor.

Cersei had turned a corner in time to see it all—the two of you tangled against the stone wall, just past the curve of the gallery arch, torchlight flickering against golden armor and sapphire silk. Jaime’s hands were on you already—everywhere—gripping beneath your thighs, lifting you as if your swollen belly weighed nothing at all. Your skirts were bunched up around your hips, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, his mouth crushed to yours in a kiss so hungry it bordered on violence.

She froze.

You moaned into his mouth, breathless and soft, and his groan followed—low, guttural, wrecked.

“I couldn’t wait—fuck, I couldn’t wait,” he gasped, pinning you harder against the wall, grinding into you, still fully clothed but undone just enough to thrust deep inside you with wet, obscene sounds that echoed off the stone.

“Jaime—gods, Jaime,” you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders, head thrown back as he buried himself again. “You shouldn’t—someone could see—”

“Let them,” he grunted. “Let them see you like this. Round with my child, moaning for me, taking me like you were made for it.”

Cersei couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Her heart slammed in her chest as she stood in the shadows—watching.

You gasped when he shifted, lifting you higher, your hands flying to his hair as he thrust up into you, messy and deep, the wet sounds between your bodies so lewd, so filthy, it felt like a spell had been cast in the corridor.

“When you have this one,” he groaned against your neck, “my firstborn—you’ll give me another. Gods, I don’t care what it is. Boy, girl—doesn’t matter. Just as long as it’s ours.”

You sobbed softly, legs trembling around his hips.

“You’ll give me three,” he growled. “Four. Fill this keep with little lions that look like you.”

His hand slid to your belly as he fucked you against the stone, reverent and obsessed, his moans growing louder with every thrust, every squeeze of your soaked walls around him. And Cersei—Cersei—stood there hearing it all.

Her fingers shook at her sides. Her mouth opened, but nothing came. Because he already had three children—her children. A son with her jaw. Another with her smile. A daughter named for a dead woman he never even loved.

And he had never said those words to her. Not once.

Not when Joffrey was born. Not when Myrcella wrapped her tiny fingers around his. Not even when Tommen cried in his arms.

“My wife,” he moaned into your mouth. “My sweet river girl.”

Cersei turned away, tears burning, rage swallowing her whole. She needs control, she needed him back.

The next morning came slow and gray, with a hush over the Keep as though the stones themselves were holding their breath.

Cersei waited in the covered walk outside the training yard, where the sun barely touched the stone. She wore no crown, no paint on her lips—only fur draped over her shoulders and her golden hair braided back from her face the way she wore it when she wanted to be disarming. A picture of softness. The illusion of warmth. But there was cold behind her eyes.

She had sent for him before breakfast, a single note with no seal. Jaime had hesitated, standing at the window with the parchment still open in his hand, your body asleep in the bed behind him, belly round beneath furs and sunlight. He didn’t want to leave. But old habits—old loyalties—dragged him from the room.

He found her as she always was when she meant to twist him—silent, poised, patient.

“You look tired,” Cersei said quietly as he approached. Her voice was gentle, too much so. “Is the little trout keeping you up?”

He said nothing at first, just clenched his jaw and stepped into the shadowed arch with her.

“She stirs often,” he said at last. “The child moves a great deal.”

“Hmm,” Cersei hummed, her eyes trailing to his chest, where the collar of his tunic was still crooked from your hands. “That happens in the late moons. They grow restless. Kicking. Turning. Demanding.”

She stepped closer. He didn’t move.

“Has she ever tended a newborn?” she asked, voice light. “Has she seen one gasp for breath with blood still wet between its legs? Or does she think it will arrive sweet and silent, cooing like the doves in her window?”

He glanced at her, a flicker of warning in his eyes. “Why are you saying this?”

Cersei smiled, slow and tired. “Because I remember what it cost to be a mother. You forget. You weren’t there.”

“I wanted to be,” he said.

“And yet you weren’t.”

That silence stretched between them like a blade. She circled him slowly, fingers brushing his arm, his shoulder—touches she used to command him with. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean in.

“You were never made for this, Jaime,” she murmured. “Not for quiet. Not for softness. You are steel. You were born with a sword in your hand and a war in your name.”

He looked away.

“She’ll find out what you are,” Cersei continued, voice like honey and ash. “Not a father. Not a husband. Just a lion with his claws clipped, trying to play house with a girl who dreams of rivers and names her belly love.”

Jaime said nothing. He stared past her. Until her voice lowered, sharper now, closer.

“Will she still smile when she sees what you’ve done? Will she call you Fisherman Tully when the blood runs dry in her sheets and the babe’s cries don’t stop for nights on end? Will she laugh when your patience fails?”

He turned then, something shifting in his face, but before he could speak— A voice echoed down the corridor.

“Oh! My fish!”

Jaime froze. His body turned instinctively toward the sound, and Cersei’s hand slipped from his arm like it had never belonged there at all.

You stood at the far end of the hall, wrapped in a simple cloak, your hair half-braided, loose strands curling around your cheeks. You moved slowly, carefully, but your smile—your smile was bright enough to chase away the fog of her voice.

“I thought you were at Robert’s door,” you said, breathless from the walk. “I missed you, I hate waking up without you.”

You waddled forward with one hand cradling your belly, the other reaching for him. Jaime met you halfway. Without thinking. Without hesitation. His hand slid around your waist, his lips brushed your temple, and his other hand instinctively covered the swell of your stomach like it belonged there.

Cersei watched it all, silent. Stone.

“What’s wrong?” you whispered up at him, your palm resting over his heart.

He exhaled slowly, then smiled—small and broken and true.

“Nothing, my river girl,” he murmured. “Just spoke with my sister. She always knows how to damper a mood.”

You tilted your head and chuckled gently. “That is what siblings are for. Edmure would purposely ruin my mood before my favorite meal.” You giggled.

You pressed your face against his chest, and he kissed the top of your head like he couldn’t bear to let go. Cersei turned then, the hem of her cloak snapping as she walked away—not fast, but hollow.

She had three children by him. She had given him a dynasty in secret. But you? You had his peace.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The moons passed faster than anyone could hold them.

Your daughter—Elia Lannister—was born just after dawn on a morning soaked in gold. The air had been warm that day, and the bells had rung not for death, but for life. A bright, shining life. The halls of the Red Keep had swelled with laughter, the scent of lavender still clinging to your skin, Jaime’s joy so radiant that even the oldest servants said they hadn’t seen him smile like that since he was a boy.

She was beautiful from the moment she was placed on your chest. Dark strawberry-blonde hair, soft as down, skin warm and flushed, her little eyes squinting up at the light as if even the world dared not blind her. She was loud, too—cried fiercely when she didn’t like the cold water or the way her father took too long to bundle her. But in your arms, she softened. And in Jaime’s arms, she shined.

He named her himself.

“Elia,” he whispered, holding her so carefully, his hand cradling her entire back. “Elia Lannister.”

You had blinked in surprise, but when you looked at his face—at the guilt and softness and something mournful buried beneath the pride—you said nothing. You only kissed his cheek and said,

“Then Elia she is.”

The first moon after her birth passed in warmth and quiet joy. You healed slowly, the maester pleased with your progress, your appetite returning, your sleep only interrupted by Elia’s whimpers in the night. Jaime was often there, even when he had duties. He’d return to find her in your arms, asleep against your breast, and he’d kneel beside the bed just to press his lips to her hair.

“You’ve made me into something else,” he whispered to you once, late at night, when the fire had burned low. “Something I never thought I could be.”

But peace in the Red Keep never lasted long.

In the second moon, the winds shifted.

Whispers crept through the corridors—nothing certain, nothing official. Then came the messenger ravens from the Vale, then the locked doors, the urgent meetings. Then came the silence.

Jaime was called away more frequently. He never told you much when he returned, only that the King was restless, that Cersei had taken to pacing the halls again at night, that something was coming. And still, you tried to keep your world small. Focused. Your child. Your husband. The sound of Elia’s breathing as she napped on your chest. The smell of pine oil and old wood in the nursery.

Then, near the end of the second moon—

The bells rang again.

But not for life this time.

Not for joy.

They rang for death.

Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, Warden of the East, was dead.

The announcement echoed through the Keep with a force that made the tapestries tremble. You had just laid Elia down in her crib when the thunderous chime struck, and you felt it in your chest before you even heard the words.

Jaime came to you that night with his jaw tight, his eyes unreadable.

He looked older than he had the day before.

“He’s dead,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your nightdress, your hair braided loosely down your back. Elia stirred in the cradle, but did not cry.

“So it begins,” you whispered. And it did.

Everything moved quickly after that. Too quickly. Faster than a new mother could bear. Faster than a husband could stand.

Robert demanded a feast. He demanded new banners be sewn. He demanded Ned Stark. The North was to send its wolf to court.

And Jaime? Jaime didn’t leave your side that night. Not once. “The world is spinning,” he said, lying beside you, his hand on your belly where Elia once rested.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The corridor outside your chambers had barely gone silent when Jaime threw the door open without knocking. He was seething, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides from the moment Robert left the council room. His words echoing,

“Congratulations on your babe,” Robert had said, voice booming with false warmth, “even though our congratulations are short-lived. I need you to travel north with me. We leave at the turn of the first moon.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command. And Jaime had no say in the matter.

By the time he reached your chambers, the wet nurse had taken Elia for her night feeding. You hated the arrangement, loathed the distance, but Jaime had begged you to rest. Promised it would only be for a few nights. Promised he’d be near.

Now, he was.

The door shut hard behind him. Jaime kicked off his boots like a man starved of gentleness and made his way to your bed, where you’d just begun to drift into the first real sleep you’d had in days.

“Jaime?” you stirred softly.

He didn’t answer—not with words. He climbed into bed and reached for you with a need that bordered on desperation, mouth already pressing against yours, hard and fast.

“My fish—” you tried to speak, but he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands were warm and trembling slightly as they cupped your face.

“I’ve been deprived,” he groaned against your mouth, every word drenched in want. “The maester said you’ve healed. Tell me. Tell me you want me. Tell me I have permission to enter you…to feel you.”

His forehead rested against yours, breaths tangled, golden hair brushing your cheek. There was something unsteady in his voice, like he was trying not to fall apart.

“Of course you do,” you whispered, fingers threading into his hair.

But before the sentence could finish, he kissed you again—hungrier now. Mouth slanted over yours, swallowing every word, every breath. His hands roamed slowly, reverently, like he was rediscovering you inch by inch.

“I need you,” he murmured, voice breaking as his lips traced along your jaw. “Before they take me from this. From you. From the only thing that’s ever felt like home.”

You felt the weight of it then—not just lust, not just need. It was grief for the time you wouldn’t have. Fury that Robert was stealing him away, that duty still dragged him by the throat. And love. Gods, so much love it hurt to breathe through it. “What’s going on Jamie?” You whispered

Your legs tangled beneath the sheets as you pulled him closer.

The breath he let out—gutted, raw—hitched in his throat like it hurt to hold it. Jaime buried his face in your neck, his weight sinking down over you, one hand braced above your head on the carved wood of the bed, the other sliding beneath your thigh to hitch it up around his hip.

He wasn’t patient tonight.

His movements were frantic, but reverent. The kind of aching that only came from nights spent watching, waiting, too afraid to touch you while you healed, while your body ached from the beauty you brought into the world. Now, he had you—cleared by the maester, no longer fragile in the ways that had terrified him.

“Mine,” he whispered into your skin, dragging his mouth down your neck like a man who’d been parched for moons. “You’re mine—gods, tell me—say it.”

Your hand twisted in his hair, pulling gently. “Yours. Always yours.”

That broke something in him.

He groaned so softly it sounded like prayer, hips rolling as he found you again for the first time in weeks. The stretch drew a gasp from your throat, your spine arching under him. He cursed under his breath, forehead pressing to yours as he held still, just for a moment, trembling.

“Gods, you’re still so—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, only whimpered against your lips as your name fell from him like a sin.

You kissed him through it. Softly. Desperately. He tasted like longing, like a man running out of time.

He moved with aching tenderness at first—hips rocking, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing you. Then faster. Messier. His grip on your thigh tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he pushed deeper, overwhelmed by the sounds you made, the way your hand slid down to feel where your bodies joined.

“Don’t—don’t do that,” he breathed, jaw clenched, voice shaking. “I’ll—gods, I’ll lose it.”

You smiled, breathless. “Then lose it. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

He kissed you again, but this time he broke apart mid-kiss, the rhythm of his hips faltering.

“Say it again,” he gasped, panting into your mouth. “That I’m not going anywhere. That I can stay here. With you. That you love me.”

“I love you,” you said between the thrusts, each one deeper than the last. “I love you, Jaime. I love you—I’ll wait for you, but gods, I wish they didn’t have to take you.”

He moaned so loudly at that, shameless and desperate, his fingers curling into the headboard as he held himself above you. “I’ll give you another,” he gasped, mouth at your ear. “Another child, I swear it—Elia won’t be the only one—”

Fucking gods—” he groaned into your mouth, voice hoarse and broken. “Missed you—missed this—missed you, my sweet girl, my fish—”

You whimpered into him, nails dragging down his back as he pressed you into the mattress, pace already desperate. He couldn’t hold still. Couldn’t think. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your breast, your thigh slung high around his hip as he ground deep, chasing that ache that had haunted him every night he lay alone in his chambers.

“Say it,” he gasped. “Say you missed me. Say you’re mine.”

“I missed you,” you whispered between moans, lips swollen, eyes wet. “I’m yours, Jaime—I’ve always been yours.”

His groan cracked in his throat. He kissed you too hard, too fast, teeth knocking together before he dragged his mouth down to your jaw, your neck, sucking until you gasped and clung to him tighter. Every thrust was sloppy, hungry, his forehead pressed against yours as he rutted into you like a man starving.

“Come with me,” he begged, voice shaking. “To the North—fuck—I’ll take you with me, Elia too, we’ll ride behind Robert—I’ll get a carriage, I’ll—gods, please.”

“Jaime—” you tried, but he didn’t let you finish.

“You hate the wet nurse,” he groaned, dragging his hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit. “And I can’t sleep without you, I—need you.”

You were pulsing around him now, your walls fluttering tight. He felt it, nearly collapsed from it.

“Say yes,” he moaned, losing all rhythm. “Say yes, fuck, please—I’ll keep you warm, I’ll build you a bath from snow and rocks if I have to, just—just don’t stay behind.”

Your lips trembled. “I’m scared to travel with her so young.”

“Then let me carry her. I’ll do it all—fuck, I’ll wear her on my chest like a milkmaid if it means you’ll come. Just don’t—don’t leave me here like this.”

He was close, so close, fucking into you like he could drag the answer from your body. You clung to him, kissed him, moaned his name with every breath.

“Please come,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his mouth crushed to your cheek. “I can’t leave without you.”

That was when you tightened, crying out his name as the pleasure crashed over you—hot and helpless, thighs trembling around his hips as he pushed as deep as he could and spilled into you with a moan that nearly broke you in two.

He didn’t move after. Just held you there, buried inside, shaking from the force of it.

“I’ll ask Robert,” he whispered, breathless. “I’ll beg him if I have to.”

Your hands brushed his hair back. Your legs were around his waist, ankles crossed behind him as he drove into you with rough, trembling thrusts. He was everywhere—breath on your neck, hand fisting the headboard, the other holding your thigh so tight it’d bruise. The bed creaked loud, rhythm uneven, like he’d been denied for years not weeks.

“Say yes,” he groaned again, panting into your shoulder. “Say you’ll come north with me—say it—please gods say it—”

Your fingers threaded through his hair, dragging him closer as your hips tilted up to meet every thrust.

“I—Jaime—” you gasped, words caught on a moan as his cock hit deep, too deep, just the way you liked.

“Say it,” he begged again, voice cracking. “You—you’re mine, not Robert’s court, not this castle—me. Come with me. Let me keep you close—fuck—I can’t breathe without you.”

He was shaking. Desperate. The wet sounds of your bodies filled the room, your slick soaking his cock as he rutted harder, rougher, hips slapping into you with no grace left. Just need.

“I’ll build a tent,” he whispered wildly, biting your jaw. “A whole fucking tower of snow if I have to, just—say you’ll come. I’ll take Elia. I’ll guard you both with my fucking life, I swear it—”

“Yes,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes, I’ll go—Jaime—I’ll go with you—gods, don’t stop—” He groaned like a wounded animal. Everything in him buckled.

“Fuck, fuck, my girl,” he choked, kissing you like he was drowning, thrusts suddenly frantic, pace ruined. “You’ll come with me—you’ll stay with me—say it again—”

“Yes—yes—I said yes!” you sobbed against his lips, legs shaking as he drove you toward the edge.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck—my wife, my fucking wife—” You fell apart with a cry, pulsing so hard around him he nearly collapsed, fucking through your high with curses and whimpers. He didn’t last another second. “Mine—mine—mine,” he moaned, voice low and broken as he spilled into you with a sob, burying himself as deep as he could go. “You’re coming with me, sweet girl—you’re mine.”

When it was done, he didn’t move. Just lay there shaking, still inside you, whispering your name over and over.

“I’ll tell Robert tomorrow,” he said against your neck. “You’re coming with me. Our daughter too. We ride north… as a family.”

Your thighs still trembled as you curled against him, breath hot against his chest, one hand draped lazily over his heart. His seed still inside you, sticky and warm, a mess neither of you cared to clean yet. His body hadn’t moved far, still draped half over yours like he was afraid you might disappear if he gave you space.

“When do we leave?” you murmured, voice hoarse and soft, edged with the ache of being stretched for the first time in moons.

He sighed, almost guiltily, as he brushed sweat-slick hair from your cheek.

“A moon. Maybe two.” His voice was low, gentle now that the desperation had passed. “Preparing to ride north is no easy feat. Horses, wagons, guards—it’ll take five weeks just to reach Winterfell.”

You shifted under him, heart skipping, and he saw it in your eyes. The flicker of doubt, the ache of new motherhood, the fear of leaving the only home you’ve known—of dragging a baby through snow and dirt and gods-know-what. Your face faltered, just a little.

And he panicked.

“No—my girl,” he said quickly, voice breaking as he cupped your face again, kissed your lips like a promise. “Don’t take it back. Don’t let fear ruin what we just—don’t, please—”

You blinked, but he kept going, nose brushing yours, thumb dragging across your bottom lip.

“It’ll be comfortable. I swear it. I’ll make it so. You won’t lift a finger. I’ll get a nurse for Elia, extra cloaks, furs, a litter if I have to carry you both like queens.” He kissed you again. “You’ll have your own tent, with a fire. With blankets. With me. I’ll keep you warm. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Jaime—”

“No more courts. No more hiding. I want to fall asleep with you every night and wake up to Elia’s cry. I want to sit by a fire and brush your hair. I want to be a father in front of the world and call you mine without shame.”

Your fingers curled against his jaw.

“You’ll hate the cold,” you whispered, smiling faintly.

“I’d eat snow if it meant I could have you beside me.” He kissed your forehead, a different kind of reverent now. “Just… don’t leave me there. Don’t let them take you from me.”

You leaned up, kissing him slow and certain.

“I already said yes, didn’t I?” His eyes shut like that yes was a prayer.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The morning air clung soft and cool against the stone corridors, the hush of a castle slowly waking. You stood in the sun-drenched gallery near the window alcove, swaying gently with your babe in your arms—little Elia curled against your chest, drowsy from her morning feed, her fingers clutching your gown with milky satisfaction. You hummed under your breath, a river song your father used to sing on storm-heavy nights.

Your other hand rested low on your belly, already heavy with your second child.

A moon ago, you’d begun to swell again. Three moons after birthing Elia, and the gods had quickened you once more—much to the shock of the midwives and the rage that roiled behind Cersei’s perfect smile. You’d hardly left the birthing bed before Jaime had put another child in you. And it showed.

Your cheeks glowed, your skin dewed with that soft fullness that came with being wanted, kept, loved. Every corner of you was bloomed and softened. Jaime hadn’t stopped touching you since.

Tyrion, leaning on the edge of a carved table, raised his goblet with a smirk. “You know, you’re becoming quite the legend in court. Some say you’re carrying the fourth lion already. Others say you’re a witch who’s bewitched my brother.”

You smiled over Elia’s curls. “Only a fool would believe it took witchcraft. I simply loved him. That was enough.”

Tyrion hummed and toasted your honesty. “And he worships you for it. That’s rarer than magic in this place.”

From the far end of the gallery, Jaime stood listening—half-shadowed, arms crossed, his eyes not on Tyrion but you. The way you leaned into the light. The way your smile bloomed just for his brother. He trusted you, but still, something curled hot and green in his gut.

“Talking to our brother again?” Cersei’s voice cut like a blade. She’d come from the other hall, her steps soft as a snake. “You’ll see her old lover soon enough.”

Jaime didn’t look at her.

“She loved him to death,” Cersei continued, soft, serpentine. “Benjen Stark. The one who took the Black. She cried when he took the oath. I remember—gods, the way she wept.”

He finally turned. “Stop.”

She smiled, too wide. “What? You’ve knocked her up again—twice in one year, Jaime. Shouldn’t you know who you’re breeding with? Or would you rather be surprised if the next one’s born with Northern eyes?”

His jaw clenched. Across the room, your laugh floated up at something Tyrion had said, and Elia cooed.

“You’re vile,” Jaime said low.

“She’s a Tully,” Cersei hissed. “They drown in emotion. You think she’s forgotten him?”

But her words melted away when you looked over your shoulder, catching Jaime’s eye. Your smile was soft, tired, glowing. You mouthed something to him.

“Come”

He was already moving before Cersei even blinked.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

You hadn't meant to discover the hole in the wall—a gap where the stone had crumbled between your chambers and his. It was small, barely the width of your  index and middle fingers, hidden behind the carved wooden screen that stood in the corner of your room. You'd only found it when you'd moved the screen aside to retrieve a dropped pearl earring, and there it was, a sliver of forbidden sight directly into the heir's private quarters.

You stared at it for a moment longer, crouched onto the floor with the pearl still in your palm.

Rotted mortar, you thought. Old stone. The Red Keep is falling apart in places no one bothers to look.

The right thing would have been to call for the servants, have it sealed with fresh mortar. To forget you'd ever seen it, like a proper lady would. 

That first night, however, curiosity won. Just a glance, you kept telling yourself. Just to see if it truly looked into Jacaerys's room or if your eyes had deceived you in the dim candlelight.

They hadn't, and your breath caught in your throat as soon as your eye found the gap. His bed was perfectly visible—the heavy posts of dark wood, the deep crimson coverlet embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. And there, tangled in those sheets, was your cousin.

Worst of all, he wasn't alone.

Turn away. The thought flickered through your mind even as you stayed perfectly still, silver hair spilling over your shoulder and onto the floor in waves as you leaned closer. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew what the right choice was. You simply weren't making it.

The woman beneath him was dark-haired, flushed, with her mouth open as Jacaerys pounded into her from behind, and you realized with a strange twist in your stomach that this was far from his first time. The rumors that swirled through the Red Keep were true, then. The Crown Prince, for all his duties and noble bearing in the daylight hours, was as much a creature of appetite as any Targaryen before him.

You, on the other hand, had never even been kissed. Never been touched. Good noble ladies waited for their wedding night, and common fucking was for the common whores—thank you for that wisdom, cousin Aemond.

His hand fisted in her dark hair, pulling her head back as he drove into her cunt with a rhythm that was almost borderline brutal. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed off the stone walls, punctuated by her breathy moans and his low groans of pleasure. You could see the sheen of sweat on his shoulders, the flex of muscle beneath his skin as he gripped her hips hard enough to leave bruises.

"Fuck," he growled, and the vulgarity of it—hearing such words from the lips of the Crown Prince—sent a forbidden thrill down your spine. "You take me so well."

The woman whimpered something you couldn't quite hear, and Jacaerys laughed—dark and satisfied. He leaned forward, pressing her face into the pillows as he changed his angle, and her muffled cry of pleasure made heat pool low in your belly.

Your hand had somehow found its way to your throat, fingers pressed against your racing pulse. This was wrong, so utterly wrong. You sat here, watching your cousin rut like a beast in heat, and worse—far worse—your body was responding to it. Your thighs pressed together on their own accord, seeking friction you had no right to want.

Leave. Now.

You started to pull back from the gap, but then Jacaerys pulled out suddenly, flipping the girl onto her back with easy strength, and you caught a glimpse of him fully—his flushed cock, hard and completely shameless. He spread her thighs wide and thrusted back into her cunt in with one smooth stroke, and a gasp tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Your hand flew to your mouth, palm clamping hard over your lips. The pearl earring—forgotten, still clutched in your other hand—slipped from your fingers and hit the stone floor with a soft clink that sounded deafening in the quiet of your chamber.

You froze, heart hammering, terrified the sound had somehow carried through the wall.

But Jacaerys didn't pause, didn't look toward the gap. He was too focused on the woman beneath him, and you—gods help you—you couldn't look away.

"Look at me," he commanded, and something in his voice—the authority, the certainty, the  want—made your breath catch. The woman's eyes snapped to his face. "Good girl," he murmured, and thrust deeper.

The words sent heat flooding through you, pooling low into your belly. You felt it between your thighs—a pulse, an ache, something you had no name for. Your hand was still clamped over your mouth, but you couldn't move, couldn't think, could barely breathe—

The sharp knock at your chamber door made you jerk back from the wall as though it burned you.

"My lady?" came Lysa's voice, muffled through the heavy oak. "We've come to prepare you for supper."

You stumbled back from the screen. Your hand pressed against your cheek—Seven Hells, you were boiling. "A moment," you called out, breathless, hating how your voice wavered in the otherwise silent room.

You smoothed your skirts with trembling hands and tried to compose yourself before crossing to open the door. Your three ladies-in-waiting filed in—Lysa, Maryse, and young Elaena, their arms full of silks and jewelry boxes. They were good girls, all of them. You'd chosen them yourself—daughters of minor houses who actually seemed to like you rather than seeing you as a political opportunity. The last thing you needed were the usual vultures, daughters of great lords who'd spend more time reporting back to their mothers than actually being useful.

"You look flushed, my lady," Maryse observed you with immediate concern, setting down the silks onto the dressing table. "Are you well?"

"Quite well," you lied, settling into the chair before your mirror. Your reflection was damning, your silver hair mussed, falling loose from where you'd been pressed against the wall. Your cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide and dark, emphasizing the violet haze. You looked exactly like what you were, a woman who'd been watching something she had no business seeing. "The fire was burning too hot. I've only just opened the window."

Lysa moved to begin unpinning your hair, her fingers gentle, yet ever so clever, as they worked. "I see my lady. The cook's boy told me the funniest story today," she began, and you felt yourself relax into the familiar rhythm of their chatter.

This was safe. This was normal. Unlike whatever madness had possessed you just moments ago.

Elaena brought forward the gown, it was a beautiful collection of pale red silk that caught the candlelight like dawn breaking over the Narrow Sea. The bodice was fitted, the neckline modest but elegant, with delicate embroidery along the sleeves that fell into drapes. It was a gown befitting a princess of dragon blood, though you sometimes forgot that's what you were.

As your ladies worked, Lysa plaiting your hair into an intricate crown of braids, Maryse threading deep crimson rubies on fine silver chains to weave through the silver, Elaena carefully lacing you into your gown—your mind wandered despite your best efforts.

You could still see it. The flex of Jacaerys's shoulders, the way his head had fallen back in pleasure. The sound of his voice, rough with need and desire. 

Seven hells. 

"Tilt your head, my lady," Lysa murmured, and you obeyed, watching in the mirror as she secured the final braid with a dragon brooch of white gold and rubies, its eyes tiny chips of garnet that seemed to glow due to the candlelight.

Your hair fell in a waterfall of silver down your back, nearly to your calves, the braids creating an ornate crown that framed your face. The rubies caught the light like drops of blood, and for a moment you understood why men wrote songs about Targaryen women. More specifically, why their chantee’s were filled with tales of you.

"Beautiful," Maryse breathed, stepping back to admire their work.

You were beautiful. You knew this, had always known it—it was simply a fact, like knowing the sky was blue or fire was hot. But beauty felt like a strange, useless disease when your mind was still full of images it shouldn't hold.

When your thoughts were consumed by your cousin, the heir to the Iron Throne, and the way he'd looked lost in pleasure with a woman who wasn't you.

The private dining hall was already warm and loud when you arrived, filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of serving plates. This was your favorite meal of the week. no courtiers to impress, no performers to sit through, no need to smile politely while some lord droned on about his son and why he’s worthy of your hand. Just family. The table could have seated fifty people easily, but tonight it was just the twelve of you, which somehow made the hall feel bigger and emptier at the same time.

Rhaenyra sat at the head in a gown of black and red, her crown set aside for the evening, silver hair braided simply. Daemon lounged beside her, looking more like a dangerous cat than a prince consort. Down the table, Alicent sat with her children scattered among Rhaenyra's, Aegon laughing at something Jace had said, Helaena showing Baela her embroidery. A year ago, they'd been on the brink of war. Now they broke bread together like it had never happened.

"There she is," Aegon called out as you entered, already half in his cups despite the early hour. "Our lovely cousin, late as always."

"I'm not late," you replied, taking your usual seat between Helaena and Baela. "You're simply too eager for the wine, Aegon."

Aegon clutched his chest in mock offense while Helaena reached for your hand beneath the table, giving it a gentle squeeze. She said nothing—she rarely did in company—but her smile was soft and genuine. You squeezed back, wishing she'd been born your sister instead of your cousin. She understood silence, understood that sometimes you just needed to exist quietly in a world that never managed to simply shut the fuck up.

"You look beautiful tonight," Helaena murmured, so quietly only you could hear. Her green eyes—so unlike the rest of the Targaryens—studied your face with an intensity that only she had. "Red suits you. Like fire. Like blood."

Before you could respond, the servants began bringing out the first course, and your attention was pulled elsewhere. You reached for your wine, grateful for something to do with your hands, and that's when you saw Jacaerys sat across the table and down two seats, between Luke and Joffrey. He was dressed formally in a black doublet with red embroidery, his dark hair still damp as though he'd bathed recently. He looked every inch the Crown Prince—composed, attentive, laughing at something Luke said.

He looked nothing like the man you'd seen less than an hour ago, flushed and shameless, fucking a woman whose name he probably didn't know. Or didn't care to remember. 

Your cheeks heated at the memory, and you quickly looked down at your plate.

Gods, were you that much of a prude?

"How was your afternoon, my dear?" Rhaenyra suddenly asked you, her voice carrying easily down the table. She'd always been kind to you, treating you more as a daughter than a niece. Your father's sister, mourning the brother she'd lost, had perhaps seen something of him in you.

"Quiet, Your Grace," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "I spent most of it reading in my chambers."

"Always with your books," Daemon observed with amusement. "You're worse than the damn Maesters."

The conversation flowed easily after that—talk of the day's small council meeting, Aegon's latest exploit (falling asleep during a petitioner's complaint), Helaena's new collection of butterflies. You participated when required, but part of your attention kept sliding back to Jacaerys despite your best efforts.

He caught you looking, which was more embarrassing than usual. His eyes narrowed, and for one horrible second you were certain he knew. Knew what you'd seen. Knew you'd watched. Your stomach dropped and you bit your lip hard enough to taste copper and looked away. When you risked another glance, he was already talking to Luke again, the moment forgotten.

It wasn't until the second course that Rhaenyra cleared her throat in that way that meant an announcement was coming. The table quieted immediately, all eyes turning to their queen.

"I've been thinking," she began, glancing at Jacaerys with obvious affection, "that our heir is now two and twenty. More than old enough to take a wife."

Across the table, Jacaerys kept his expression perfectly neutral and composed. But you saw his jaw tighten, saw the way his hand clenched briefly around his fork before he forced himself to relax.

"It's time we began seeking suitable matches," Rhaenyra continued. "I've already received inquiries from several great houses—the Arryns, the Starks, even a letter from the Triarchy expressing interest in an alliance."

"The Triarchy?" Daemon barked a laugh. "What would they offer, a wife who smells of spices, counts coins and wouldn't know what to do with a cock if you handed it to her with instructions?"

"They offered three ships of gold and exclusive trading rights," Rhaenyra replied dryly. "Which is more than most houses can promise."

"I won't marry for ships," Jacaerys said quietly, and something in his tone made you look at him once more. His expression was still composed, but there was a hardness around his eyes. 

"You'll marry where it serves the realm," Rhaenyra said, though not unkindly. "As I did. As all rulers must."

"You married for love the second time," Jace pointed out.

"The second time, yes." Rhaenyra smiled at Daemon. "But first I did my duty. And you will do yours."

The tension at the table was palpable. Alicent looked uncomfortable, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Aegon was watching the exchange with barely concealed glee—always happy when someone else was being pressed into marriage talk instead of him.

"We'll host a series of feasts," Rhaenyra continued, her tone allowing no argument. "Let the eligible ladies of the realm come to court. Let Jacaerys meet them, dance with them. Surely among them there will be someone suitable."

"How many feasts?" Luke asked, grimacing. "I hate feasts."

"As many as it takes," Rhaenyra replied. "We'll begin preparations the following morrow."

Your stomach dropped. Feast after feast, watching Jacaerys dance with simpering ladies who would fall over themselves for the chance to be queen. Watching him smile that charming smile, knowing what you now knew—that he was skilled at pleasing women, that he knew exactly how to make them fall at his feet.

"How exciting," Baela said beside you, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. "More opportunities to wear uncomfortable gowns and make pleasant conversation with people who hate us."

"They don't all hate us," you murmured, though your heart wasn't in the defense.

Across the table, Jacaerys stared at his wine cup like it might provide him with answers. You almost felt bad for him. If anyone at this table had no chance of marrying for love, it was him. Not that he seemed particularly interested in finding one person to settle down with, but still, your point stood.

"Well then," Aegon raised his cup. "To Jace's upcoming nuptials. May his future wife have the patience of a saint and the deafness of a stone."

Despite the tension, several people laughed, and Rhaenyra shook her head with exasperated fondness. "Perhaps we should have music," she suggested, gesturing to the musicians who always waited in the shadows during these intimate suppers. "Clear some space. Let us remember we're still young enough to enjoy ourselves."

"An excellent idea," Daemon agreed, already rising. He offered his hand to Rhaenyra with a theatrical bow that made her laugh.

The servants quickly moved the table back, creating a space for dancing as the musicians struck up a lively tune. It was informal, nothing like the rigid court dances you'd endure at the upcoming feasts—this was just family, moving together without judgment or ceremony.

Luke grabbed Rhaena's hand first, spinning her into the space with more enthusiasm than grace. She laughed, steadying him when he nearly tripped over his own feet. Joffrey tried to convince Helaena to dance, but she demurred with a gentle shake of her head, content to watch from her seat.

"Dance with me," Baela demanded, pulling you up before you could protest. "Before one of the boys asks and proceeds to step on our feet."

You let yourself be drawn into the movement, falling into the familiar pattern. Baela was a good dancer—all the Targaryen children were taught from youth that grace in the ballroom was as important as grace on dragonback. You switched partners as the song changed, first with Aegon, who was surprisingly light on his feet despite the wine, then with Luke, who apologized three times for nearly stepping on your hem, which you found adorable.

"You're doing fine," you assured him with a smile, and he grinned back, boyish and sweet.

When that dance ended, you found yourself passed to Jacaerys.

Your breath caught as his hand found yours, the other settling at your waist. His palm was large and warm against your back, steadying you. You could smell him now, clean linen and spice. Could see his eyes up close, brown with flecks of amber in the firelight. Could see, really see, how stupidly beautiful he was.

"Having fun?" he asked as he led you through the steps, his tone pleasantly neutral and polite. The exact same way he'd speak to any cousin at a family gathering.

"Yes," you managed, hoping your voice sounded normal. "It's nice, having everyone together like this."

"Mm," he agreed, spinning you smoothly. "Rarer than it should be. Though I suppose it'll be even rarer once I'm shackled to some lord's daughter who'll expect me to sit through needlepoint demonstrations."

He was trying to make it sound like a joke, but it came out flat. Like he'd already accepted this was happening and hated every second of it.

"Maybe you'll find someone you actually like," you offered, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue.

A laugh, short and bitter. "Maybe. Though I doubt the great houses are sending their daughters for love matches. They want a crown, not a husband."

"Then perhaps you should look for someone who wants neither," you said before you could stop yourself.

Jacaerys raised an eyebrow, something that might have been interest flickering across his face. "And where would I find such a creature? They seem to be in short supply."

Before you could respond—before you could make an even greater fool of yourself—the song ended. Jace released you with a small bow, perfectly proper, and turned to offer his hand to Rhaena for the next dance.

You stepped back, your heart still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the exertion of dancing. He'd been so normal. So completely indifferent. There was no awareness in his eyes, no sign that he saw you as anything other than his cousin, someone to dance with at family gatherings and exchange pleasantries with at supper. Which was as it should be. You should be relieved and instead, you felt something uncomfortably close to disappointment.

"You look troubled," Helaena's soft voice came from beside you. She'd moved so quietly you hadn't noticed her approach. "Like a bird that's flown into a window."

You turned to her, finding those strange green eyes studying you. "I'm fine," you said automatically.

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured, her gaze distant in that way it sometimes got after one of her vision spells. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

"Helaena—"

But she'd already drifted away, drawn by something only she could see, leaving you standing at the edge of the dancing with her cryptic words echoing in your mind.

The spider watches from the corner. Seven hells, your poor, dear, earnest cousin knows you’re a pervert. 

You watched Jacaerys spin Rhaena through the steps, laughing at something she said. Watched him dance with Baela next, then with his mother, the perfect dutiful son. He never once looked your way again and you told yourself that was exactly what you wanted.

The dancing continued for another hour before Rhaenyra finally called an end to the evening. "Early council meeting tomorrow," she announced with apologetic warmth. "And I need at least some sleep if I'm to endure Tyland Lannister's complaints about the damned grain tariffs."

The group began to disperse—Aegon stumbling slightly as Aemond steadied him with the patience only a brother could have, Luke and Joffrey arguing about something as they headed toward their chambers. You walked back to your chambers with Helaena and Baela, their soft conversation a comfortable buffer against your own churning thoughts. When you finally reached your door, you bid them goodnight and slipped inside, leaning back against the heavy oak with a shaky exhale.

Your ladies had been by earlier, the room was tidy, the fire banked low, your nightgown laid out across the bed. Everything was peaceful and ordinary. Your gaze immediately drifted, unbidden, to the corner where the carved screen stood.

You shouldn't. You absolutely shouldn't. But your feet carried you forward anyway, your hands moving the screen aside with trembling, eager, perverted fingers.

Empty. Fuck. 

His room was dark save for a single candle burning on the bedside table. The crimson coverlet was smooth and undisturbed. The heavy curtains drawn back from the windows to let in the moonlight. No Jacaerys. No woman writhing beneath him. Nothing but silence and shadows.

You sat back on your heels, a strange mix of relief and something else—something you refused to name as disappointment—settling in your chest.

Where was he? 

It was late, well past the hour when most of the castle had retired. Perhaps he'd gone to the Street of Silk, unwilling to bring his entertainment into the Red Keep on a night when the family had gathered. Perhaps he was in someone else's bed entirely, some lady's maid or kitchen girl who'd caught his eye.

Perhaps he was being discreet, something he clearly hadn't bothered earlier today. The thought dissipated as quickly as it came, no, maybe he was being discreet. Thoughtful, even. Of course, he'd been perfectly discreet earlier too, it was your fault for being a creep. 

You pressed your palm against the cold stone, staring at that empty bed as though it might offer answers. The image from earlier was still burned into your mind—the flex of his shoulders, the sound of his voice rough with pleasure, the casual way he'd commanded that woman's body like he owned it.

Your cousin. The heir to the Iron Throne. The boy you'd grown up with, who used to let you win at cyvasse when you were children, who'd shown you how to skip stones across the fountain and laughed when you both got yelled at for it.

When the fuck had he turned into that? When had he learned to move like that, to take someone apart with his hands like it was easy?

And why, by all the Seven, couldn't you stop fucking thinking about it?

You pushed away from the wall, suddenly furious with yourself. This was madness. Dangerous, stupid madness that could only end in humiliation or worse. You needed to forget what you'd seen. Needed to seal that hole in the wall and pretend it had never existed.

Starting tomorrow. You'd call the servants first thing in the morning and have it filled with mortar. Tonight, tonight, though,  you would sleep, and you would not dream of your cousin's hands, or his voice, or the way he'd looked so beautiful while lost in pleasure.

You climbed into bed still wearing your red silk gown, too tired to call your ladies back to unlace you. The rubies in your hair pressed uncomfortably against the pillow until you pulled them free with impatient fingers, letting your silver hair spill loose around you.

Sleep was slow to come. When it finally did, you dreamed of dragons and fire, of flying on Cannibal's back while something nameless chased you through the clouds. And in the dream, when you finally turned to face it, it had Jacaerys's eyes.

You did not look through the hole the following morning.

The temptation was there—gods, it was there, a constant itch beneath your skin as your ladies dressed you. But you kept your eyes firmly away from that corner, focusing instead on the monotonous task of standing still while they laced you into your gown.

It was white today, or perhaps the palest blue, the color seemed to shift in the light like a sort of moonstone. The bodice was scaled like dragon armor, each piece of fabric layered and stitched to create the illusion of protection. Gold chains draped across your shoulders and down your bare arms, cold against your skin. More chains hung from your waist, swaying gently when you moved. The sleeves were sheer and flowing, doing little to ward off the morning chill.

"You look like a goddess," Elaena breathed as she stepped back to admire their work.

"I look like I'm about to freeze to death, thank you very much," you replied, though without any real complaint. 

Your hair was left mostly loose today, falling in silver waves down your back, with only two small braids pulled back from your face and secured with a dragon clasp of white gold. It was simple and appropriate for a small council meeting where you needed to be taken seriously.

The walk to the council chamber was embedded into your brain, your slippered feet silent on the cold stone floors. Guards nodded as you passed, servants stepped aside with murmured greetings. You were known throughout the Red Keep as kind, perhaps too kind for a Targaryen. You stopped to ask the head cook about her daughter's fever, remembered the name of the stable boy's new puppy hound, listened when the washerwomen complained about the state of the linens.

Your father had been like that, or so Rhaenyra told you. Loved by the smallfolk, remembered fondly even years after his death. You hoped it was true. You hoped you carried something of him beyond just his silver hair and violet eyes.

The council chamber was already half-full when you arrived. Lord Corlys sat at Rhaenyra's right hand, his age showing more each moon but his mind still sharp as any of the younger council members. Daemon lounged in his seat with typical irreverence, picking at his nails with a dagger. Grand Maester Gerardys shuffled through papers, and several other lords whose names you'd long since memorized filled out the remaining seats.

Rhaenys was there too, your mentor in all things draconic and strategic. She caught your eye as you entered and gave you a subtle nod of approval. She'd been instrumental in convincing Rhaenyra to let you train, to let you learn the ways of war despite your aunt's maternal protests.

"Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat. "I trust you slept well?"

"Well enough, Your Grace," you replied, ignoring the knowing look Daemon shot you. He always seemed to know when someone was lying, the bastard.

You'd earned your place at this table through years of study—history, law, trade routes, military strategy. While other noble daughters learned needlework and song, you'd buried yourself in the library, devouring every tome you could find. Knowledge was power, and you'd wanted to be useful. Wanted to matter beyond being another pretty Targaryen to marry off for alliances.

And then there was Cannibal. Your sweet baby boy, Cannibal. 

You'd claimed him at two and ten, a feat that had shocked the entire realm. The wild dragon, the one who'd killed and eaten other dragons, who'd never been ridden—you'd walked up to him on Dragonstone's smoking beaches and simply asked. And he'd lowered his massive black head and let you climb onto his back.

The bond between you was unlike anything the Dragonkeepers had seen. You could feel him, always, a presence at the back of your mind, dark and fierce and free. Sometimes you knew his thoughts, or at least his intentions. When he wanted to hunt. When he wanted to fly far from the castle and its confining walls. When he missed you, though he'd never admit it, that damned proud creature.

He was out there now, somewhere over the Bay of Blackwater or perhaps the Kingswood. You could feel him, distantly, content in his solitude.

Vhagar was different—ancient, massive, slow with age but no less deadly. Aemond insisted he had full control of her, but you'd seen the truth when you flew near them. Vhagar tolerated Aemond. She hadn't fully accepted him, not the way Cannibal had accepted you. It would take years, perhaps decades, before that bond truly solidified.

If Aemond lived that long. Vhagar was known for her temper.

And Cannibal—Cannibal was larger still. Nearly the size of Balerion the Black Dread himself, or so the Dragonkeepers whispered when they thought you couldn't hear. Black as a night sky with none of the stars, with eyes like green flame and teeth as long as swords. He'd never accept the Dragonpit even if he could fit, which he couldn't. He roosted where he pleased, in sea caves along the coast, in the ruins of old Valyrian outposts, anywhere that gave him space and freedom and solitude.

"Shall we begin?" Rhaenyra's voice pulled you from your thoughts. She waited until everyone had settled, then gestured for Grand Maester Gerardys to start with the day's business.

The first hour was tedious, grain shipments from the Reach, trade disputes with the Free Cities, a complaint from House Royce about border incursions from mountain clans. You paid attention, offered your thoughts when asked, but your mind kept drifting.

Don't think about it. Don't think about him.

"There is one more matter," Rhaenyra said as the meeting drew toward its close. She looked around the table, her gaze lingering on you for a moment before moving on. "I've decided that Jacaerys should begin attending these meetings regularly. Starting the following morrow, he'll be joining us."

A few eyebrows raised, but no one protested. It made sense, he was two and twenty, the acknowledged heir, soon to be married. He needed to understand the workings of the realm he would one day rule. 

"Will he be given a formal position?" Lord Corlys asked, ever practical, ever scheming. 

"Not immediately," Rhaenyra replied. "Let him observe first. Learn our ways, then we'll see where his talents might be best utilized."

Daemon snorted. "His talents are best utilized in the training yard and the—"

"Daemon," Rhaenyra cut him off with a warning look, though her lips twitched with suppressed amusement.

You felt your cheeks heat and kept your eyes fixed firmly on the table. In a week’s time Jacaerys would be here, sitting in one of these chairs, probably directly across from you. You'd have to see him regularly, maintain professional courtesy, pretend you hadn't watched him fuck a woman senseless.

Gods have mercy.

"Any objections?" Rhaenyra asked, looking around the table.

Silence. What could anyone say? He was the heir and none of you were about to tell the Queen that her son wasn't allowed in the Small Council. That seemed like a great way to lose your head.

"Good. Then we're finished for today." She stood, and everyone else rose with her. "Same time in three days. Try not to let the realm burn down before then."

The council members began to file out, but Rhaenys caught your arm as you moved to leave.

"Walk with me," she said, and it wasn't really a request.

You followed her out into the corridor, down a side passage that led into the city and the Dragonpit. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never quite lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem distracted," she finally said.

"I'm fine."

"You're lying." She stopped, turning to face you with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. "What's wrong?"

For a wild moment, you considered telling her. I accidentally discovered a hole in my wall that looks into Jacaerys's chambers, and now I can't stop thinking about what I saw, and I think I'm losing my mind.

Instead, you said, "I'm just tired. The dancing went rather late last night."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced, but eventually she nodded. "Very well. But if something is bothering you—truly bothering you—you know you can come to me."

"I know," you said softly. "Thank you."

She squeezed your shoulder once, then continued down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the distant sound of dragons roaring in their pit.

You stood there for a moment, staring at nothing, and wondered how in seven hells you were going to survive sitting across from Jacaerys in council meetings. Wondered if he'd look at you the same way he'd looked at you while dancing—politely indifferent, completely unaware of the effect he had.

Wondered if that was better or worse than the alternative.

You found yourself wandering toward the kitchens, drawn by the familiar sounds of clattering pots and raised voices. The rest of the castle felt too quiet after council meetings, too full of people watching their words. The kitchens were honest, they were steaming hot, loud and smelling like fresh bread and meat.

"My lady!" Jessamyn looked up from the massive hearth, her round face flushed from the heat. She'd been head cook for as long as you could remember, ruling her domain with an iron ladle and a sharp tongue. "What brings you down here? Shouldn't you be off doing princess things?"

"Princess things are dreadfully boring," you replied, stealing a piece of candied lemon from a nearby tray. "I'd much rather be here."

"Oi, those are for tonight's supper!" But Jessamyn was smiling, swatting at you halfheartedly with her wooden spoon.

The kitchen staff had long since grown accustomed to your presence. You'd been sneaking down here since you were a child, preferring the warmth and chatter to the formality of the upper floors. Here, no one cared that you were a Targaryen. Here, you were just the girl who always burned her tongue on the stew and asked too many questions about how to make proper gravy.

"How's Mara's fever?" you asked, hopping up onto a cleared section of the work table.

"Broke this morning, thank the gods." Jessamyn's expression softened. "That tea you brought from the Maester helped, I think."

"Good. I'm glad." You watched as two scullery maids argued over the proper way to pluck a chicken, their debate growing increasingly heated. "Should you be concerned about that?"

"They'll sort it out," Jessamyn said dismissively. "Or they'll stab each other with the bloody kitchen knives, and I'll have two fewer girls making my life a misery. Either way."

"You staying for midday meal?" one of the kitchen boys asked hopefully. "We're making that venison stew you like."

"Can't today. I'm going to the Dragonpit."

"Your beast finally coming back?" Jessamyn asked, pulling a tray of bread from the oven. "Haven't seen him in what, near a fortnight?"

"Twelve days," you confirmed. Cannibal preferred his freedom, and you'd never been one to cage him. He came when he wanted, and you would not have it  any other way. "He's out past Blackwater Bay somewhere. I can feel him."

"Feel him," one of the maids muttered. "Still sounds like madness to me, my lady."

"It is madness," you agreed cheerfully. "But it's a very useful madness."

You stayed a while longer, listening to the kitchen gossip, who was bedding whom, which lordling had insulted which servant, the general consensus that the upcoming feasts were going to be a right fucking nightmare to prepare for. Apparently, Rhaenyra had requested swan for one of them, and Jessamyn was already composing angry speeches about the impracticality of cooking swan.

"Tough as old leather and mean as sin," she complained, gesturing violently with her ladle. "But does Her Grace care? No. She wants swan because it's elegant. I'll give her elegant—I'll serve it so tough she'll break a tooth on it."

"I'll speak to her," you offered. "Suggest something else."

"You're a good girl," Jessamyn said, patting your cheek with a flour-dusted hand. "Too good for this lot of pompous cunts, if you ask me."

Eventually, you took your leave, stealing one more piece of candied lemon on your way out just to hear Jessamyn's exasperated shout behind you.

The walk to the Dragonpit took you through the city streets, and you pulled your cloak up to hide your distinctive hair. The smallfolk knew you by sight anyway—you came this way often enough—but it was easier not to draw any attention. A few people nodded as you passed, and you nodded back, trying not to think about how different you were from most nobles who never set foot outside the Red Keep's walls without a full escort of gold cloaks.

The Dragonpit loomed ahead, ancient and crumbling in places despite the best efforts to maintain it. The Dragonkeepers bowed as you approached, their respect tinged with something like awe. They still spoke in hushed tones about the day you'd claimed Cannibal, about the wild dragon who'd finally accepted a rider.

You came here even though your dragon never would. Cannibal was too large. He'd never fit through the Dragonpit's entrance even if he wanted to, which he decidedly did not.  But you came anyway, to see the other dragons, to speak with the Dragonkeepers who understood what it meant to be bonded to such creatures.

"My lady," the eldest keeper greeted you. "Still no sign of your beast?"

"He's hunting in the Kingswood," you replied, moving past them into the cavernous space. 

Some of the other dragons were here, Vermax in his usual corner, Arrax further back, Syrax sunning herself near the entrance where the light streamed in. They all shifted as you entered, great scaled heads turning, sensing you the way dragons always sensed Targaryen blood.

But none of them called to you the way Cannibal did. None of them were yours.

You could feel him now, distant but present in your mind. He was flying over the Kingswood, hunting deer or perhaps wild boar. Satisfied. He sent you an impression—not words, but feeling—of wind and height and the joy of the chase.

Umbās lenton, ñuha riña, you thought at him in High Valyrian, not knowing if he could truly hear your thoughts the way you felt his intentions. Māzigon lo jorrāelagon. 

Stay free, my boy. Come if needed.

You stood there in the Dragonpit for a while, watching the other dragons, feeling the heat of their breath and the weight of their ancient eyes. Vhagar wasn't here either—she was too massive, kept in the fields outside the city where she had room to spread her wings without crushing half the buildings in King's Landing. But even Vhagar was smaller than Cannibal. 

"He burns green, doesn't he?" one of the younger keepers asked, approaching cautiously. "Your Cannibal. Green flame."

"Yes," you confirmed. "Like poison made fire."

The keeper shuddered slightly. "I've never seen anything like it. Most dragons burn orange or red, sometimes gold. But green and his size. Seven hells, my lady, he's near as big as Balerion was."

"Bigger, perhaps," you said softly. "He's still growing."

The thought should have terrified you. Instead, it filled you with something like pride.

Supper that evening was a grander affair than the intimate family meal from the night before. The great hall was filled with lords and ladies of the court, the high table crowded with Targaryens and their most favored bannermen. Musicians played from the gallery, servants moved between the tables with platters of roasted boar and honeyed duck, and the wine flowed freely.

You sat between Baela and one of the Velaryon cousins whose name you could never quite remember, making polite conversation and trying not to let your gaze wander too obviously across the hall.

Jacaerys, much to your surprise, wasn't there.

His seat at the high table sat empty, and when you'd asked Rhaenyra about it as casually as you could manage, she'd simply said he was indisposed. Daemon had smirked into his wine cup at that, and you'd felt your cheeks burn.

Indisposed. Right, your arse.

The meal dragged on, course after course, toast after toast, Lord Whoever droning on about trade agreements until you wanted to scream. You smiled and nodded and said the right things, all while your mind churned with thoughts you had no business thinking.

Where was he? Out in the city again, finding another willing woman to warm his bed? Or perhaps he'd brought someone here, to his chambers, and simply hadn't wanted to risk being seen at supper with the smell of sex still clinging to him.

Gods, you needed to stop. This needed to stop, permanently, and immediately. 

By the time Rhaenyra finally dismissed the court for the evening, you were wound tight as a crossbow string. You said your goodnights to Baela and Helaena, declined Aegon's slurred offer to continue drinking in his chambers, and practically fled back to your own rooms.

Your ladies had already been by, the fire was lit, your sleeping shift laid out. You should call them back to help you out of your gown. Should prepare for bed like a sensible person and get some actual sleep before tomorrow's duties.

Instead, you found yourself moving toward the corner where the carved screen stood.

Don't, you told yourself firmly. Don't be a fool.

But your hands were already pushing the screen aside, your knees hitting the cold stone floor as you pressed your eye to the gap.

Empty. Again. Damn, damn, damn.

The room was dark save for moonlight streaming through the windows. The bed undisturbed, the coverlet smooth. No candles lit, no sign of life. You sat back, frustration coiling in your chest. Where in the seven hells was he?

You should go to bed. Should stop this madness before it consumed you entirely. But instead, you paced. Back and forth across your chamber like a caged animal, your silk skirts swishing against the floor. Every few minutes you'd stop, kneel down, check the hole again.

Still empty.

This was pathetic. You were pathetic. Waiting like some lovesick girl for a glimpse of a man who didn't even know you existed beyond being his cousin at family suppers.

He danced with you, a small voice whispered in your mind. He smiled at you.

He smiled at everyone. That was what princes did. And once again, you checked.

Empty.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath, pressing your forehead against the cool stone. This was going to drive you mad. You needed to seal this hole, needed to forget you'd ever found it, needed to—

The door to his chamber opened and you froze, eye pressed to the gap, heart suddenly hammering.

Jacaerys entered first, and he wasn't alone. Your throat tightened, and for a split second, you told yourself to look away, to be decent for once. Instead, you pressed harder against the gap, like that might somehow get you closer.

The woman who followed him through the door was decidedly not a servant or a whore from the Street of Silk. Her gown was fine silk, deep green with gold embroidery at the sleeves. This was expensive, well-made, the kind only highborn ladies wore. Her dark hair was pinned up elaborately, though a few strands had come loose, and when she laughed at something Jace said, the sound was refined. 

You recognized her after a moment—Lady Cassandra Baratheon, one of Lord Borros's daughters. She'd been at court for the past month, ostensibly to foster closer ties between Storm's End and the crown.

Apparently, she'd been fostering ties of a different sort.

"Wine?" Jace asked, moving to the table where a pitcher sat waiting.

"Please," Cassandra replied, and there was an ease between them that spoke of familiarity. This wasn't their first time together. Not even close.

Something hot and ugly twisted in your chest. Jealousy, perhaps, though you had no right to it.

Jace poured two cups, handed her one, and they stood there for a moment just talking. You couldn't hear the words through the stone, but you could see the way Cassandra touched his arm, fingers trailing down from shoulder to elbow with the intimacy of someone who'd done it before. The way Jace leaned in closer, his head tilted as he listened to whatever she was saying, a small smile playing at his lips.

And then he kissed her, and you inhaled sharply, pulse suddenly pounding everywhere, your throat, your wrists, between your legs.

It started slow—almost tender, really. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb stroking along the line of her jaw as their mouths moved together in a way that suggested they'd learned each other's rhythms. Cassandra made a soft sound, stepping into him, and her fingers tangled in his dark hair, tugging slightly.

Pervert, pervert, pervert.  

Your eye stayed pressed to the gap in the stone. Your hand, seemingly of its own accord, had drifted to press against your stomach, just above where heat was beginning to pool low and insistent. 

Jace backed her toward the bed, still kissing her, his hands starting to work at the laces of her gown. She helped him, both of them fumbling slightly in their eagerness despite clearly having done this dance before. You watched as layer after layer of silk fell away and onto the floor, first was the overdress, then the underdress, then the stays—until she stood in just her shift, the thin fabric clinging to curves that made your throat go dry.

"Gods, you're beautiful," Jace murmured and you could read the words on his lips even if you couldn't quite hear them through the stone.

Cassandra smiled, reaching for the fastenings of his doublet. "You say that to all of them, my grace."

Your jaw clenched. So you were right. There were others. Many others, probably.

"I mean it with you," Jace said, and you wanted to scream at Cassandra not to believe him, that those were just pretty words he knew how to wield. 

But Cassandra seemed to believe him, or at least didn't care if it was true. She pushed his doublet off his shoulders, her hands running over his chest, fingernails scraping lightly over skin, and Jace groaned—a sound you felt echo between your own thighs. He pulled her shift over her head in one smooth motion, and then she was naked before him.

She was beautiful, that you could admit that even through the haze of jealousy burning in your chest. Full breasts, a narrow waist flaring into hips that Jace's hands immediately claimed, skin like cream in the candlelight. Dark hair spilled down her back as Jace turned her around, pressing kisses down her spine, and you watched his mouth trace the path of her vertebrae one by one.

"Jace," she breathed, arching back against him, pressing her bare arse against where you could see he was already hard beneath his breeches.

Your own breathing had gone shallow. Your hand pressed harder against your stomach, wanting to move lower but not quite daring. Not yet.

Jace took his time with her. His hands mapped every curve, every dip and swell of her body. He cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked and she gasped. Kissed the side of her neck, teeth scraping against the tendon there in a way that made her shiver. Slid one hand down her stomach, between her thighs, and even from here you could see how she bucked against his touch.

"Please," Cassandra whimpered, and the desperate edge to her voice made your breath catch.

"Patience," Jace murmured against her skin, but there was dark amusement in his tone. He was enjoying this—enjoying making her wait, making her beg.

When he finally guided her onto the bed, she went willingly, eagerly, spreading herself out on the crimson coverlet like an offering. Her thighs fell open without prompting, shameless in her want, and you could see the glistening evidence of her arousal even from your hidden vantage point.

Jace shed the rest of his clothes—unlacing his breeches with quick movements—and your mouth went dry at the sight of him. You'd seen him before, that first night, but somehow this felt different. More intimate. You could see every line of muscle in his stomach, the dark hair trailing down from his navel, the thick length of his cock jutting proudly from his hips as he climbed onto the bed.

Your hand finally, finally, slipped beneath the waistband of your smallclothes.

Jace settled between Cassandra's thighs, bracing himself above her on his forearms, and for a moment they just looked at each other. Then he pushed his cock deep inside her—slow, so agonizingly slow—and Cassandra's head fell back with a moan that you felt echo through your own body.

“Your grace—-hhhhh,” she moaned.

Your fingers found the wet heat between your legs, already slick and aching. You bit your lip hard to keep from making a sound.

"Fuck," Jace groaned, his hips rolling in a steady, measured rhythm. "You feel perfect. So tight and wet for me."

"Harder," Cassandra gasped, her nails raking down his back hard enough to leave red marks. "Please, your grace, I need—"

He gave her exactly what she wanted.

The gentleness evaporated like morning mist, replaced by something raw and almost brutal. Jace pulled nearly all the way out before slamming his cock back into her, and Cassandra cried out—pleasure and pain mixing in her voice in a way that made your fingers circle faster over your clit. His hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the long line of her throat, and his teeth found the skin there, biting down just hard enough to make her gasp.

"Is this what you wanted?" Jace growled, his voice low and dangerous in a way you'd never heard before. Not gentle, princely Jace. This was something darker. "This what you've been thinking about all through supper? Sitting there with your father, making polite conversation, while all you could think about was having my cock inside you?"

"Yes," Cassandra sobbed, her body arching to meet each brutal thrust. The obscenity of the words, the rawness of it, sent liquid heat flooding through you. "Gods, yes, don't stop—please don't stop—"

Your fingers worked faster, your other hand coming up to muffle any sounds threatening to escape your throat. You could feel your own wetness coating your fingers, could feel the tension building low in your belly as you watched Jace fuck Cassandra with single-minded intensity.

"Greedy little thing," Jace muttered, but there was dark satisfaction in his tone. His free hand moved between their bodies, and you knew exactly what he was doing when Cassandra suddenly cried out sharply, her whole body going rigid. He was circling her clit with his thumb while he pounded into her, giving her pleasure from two directions at once, and the thought of it—the thought of him doing that to you—made your legs tremble.

"Jace, I'm going to—oh gods, I'm going to come—"

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice rough and strained. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you, sweetling."

She shattered. Her whole body convulsed, back arching off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream before the sound finally tore from her throat—his name, over and over, like a prayer. You could see the way her cunt clenched around him, could see the exact moment the pleasure crested and broke over her.

Your own fingers moved desperately, chasing the same release, imagining it was Jace's hand between your thighs, Jace's cock filling you, Jace's voice in your ear telling you how good you felt. But Jace didn't stop. He kept fucking Cassandra through her peak, relentless, using her body to chase his own pleasure as she whimpered and clutched at the sheets beneath her. Her sensitivity must have been overwhelming, but he showed no mercy, just kept driving into her with brutalness. 

He was so undeniably good at this, at fucking whores, noble ladies, at driving his cock into their cunts and making them squeal beneath him from the pleasure.

"Too much," she gasped, but her hips were still rising to meet his, her body betraying her words. "Y-your grace, it's—fuck—it's too much—"

"You can take it," he said, and there was something almost cruel in his certainty. "You always take it so well for me."

His rhythm grew erratic, desperate. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched, the muscles in his arse flexing with each thrust. He was close—so close—

Your own pleasure was building, that familiar tightening, that pressure mounting—

Jace pulled out suddenly, wrapping his hand around himself and stroking once, twice, before he came with a groan that sounded almost pained. His seed spilled across Cassandra's stomach in thick ropes, marking her, claiming her, and the sight of it—the raw, animalistic possession of it—sent you tumbling over the edge.

You bit down on your palm hard enough to taste blood, muffling the sound threatening to tear from your throat as pleasure crashed through you in waves. Your fingers didn't stop, working you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive and barely able to see through the haze.

When you finally came back to yourself, gasping and trembling, Jace was cleaning Cassandra with gentle touches that seemed almost absurd after the brutality of moments before. She was boneless against the pillows, looking thoroughly debauched, her hair a tangled mess and her skin flushed pink.

"Stay," Jace said quietly, pulling her against his chest.

"I shouldn't," Cassandra murmured, but she was already nestling into him, her head tucked beneath his chin. "If someone finds out—"

"Let them find out. I don't care."

You wanted to laugh at the lie of it. Of course he cared. He just didn't care enough not to fuck her. Within minutes, Cassandra's breathing had evened out into sleep, her body going lax in his arms. Jace stared at the ceiling for a long while, his expression unreadable in the dim light. One hand stroked absently through her hair, gentle in a way that made your chest ache.

Then he turned his head slightly—and for one heart-stopping moment, his gaze seemed to land exactly where you knelt. Directly at the wall. Directly at your hiding place.

But that was impossible. He couldn't see you through solid stone. Couldn't know you were there, hand still between your thighs, lips swollen from biting back your moans, watching him like some desperate, pathetic creature.

You jerked back from the hole anyway, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. Your whole body was trembling—from the release, from the fear of discovery, from shame so acute it felt like it might choke you. You'd just brought yourself to peak while watching your cousin fuck another woman. While imagining it was you in that bed, you he was whispering filth to, you he was making come apart on his cock.

This was sick. Wrong. You were sick and wrong and yet, deep down, you knew, with terrible certainty, that you'd be back tomorrow night. And the night after that. Until this madness either consumed you or destroyed you entirely.

You barely slept that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him, his shoulders, his body, his thick cock, the way his hand had fisted in Cassandra's hair, the rough timber of his voice as he'd commanded her to come. And beneath it all, the shameful memory of your own hand between your thighs, chasing pleasure you had no right to feel.

When dawn finally broke, you were grateful for it.

Your ladies dressed you in silence, perhaps sensing your foul mood. The gown today was the palest blush pink. The bodice was fitted with embroidered silver thread in delicate patterns that caught the morning sun. The neckline dipped low, modest enough for court but still flattering, drawing the eye. Long flowing sleeves of sheer silk hung from your shoulders, gossamer-thin, moving like water with each gesture. The skirts were layers upon layers of the same pale silk, creating an almost dreamlike effect as you walked, the fabric seeming to float around you.

The walk to the council chamber felt longer than usual. You nodded to the guards, smiled at passing servants, and tried not to think about the fact that Jacaerys would be here today. His first small council meeting. Sitting across from you for hours while you pretended you hadn't watched him fuck Lady Baratheon into the mattress last night.

Gods give you strength.

The council chamber was already filling when you arrived. "Good morrow, niece," Rhaenyra greeted you warmly as you took your seat.

"Your Grace." You settled into your chair, arranging your skirts, trying not to look at the empty seat that would soon be occupied.

Others filtered in quick waves, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, Master of Coin; Ser Steffon Darklyn, Commander of the City Watch; a handful of other lords whose presence was required. The table filled, voices murmuring in low conversation.

Then the door opened again, and Jacaerys entered.

He looked... gods, he looked perfect. Rested and put-together in a way that seemed deeply unfair given what you knew he'd been doing until late into the night. His doublet was his usual black with red embroidery, his dark hair neatly combed, and when he smiled at his mother, it was warm and genuine and completely utterly unbothered.

"Apologies for my lateness," he said, taking the empty seat directly across from you.

Of course. Of course he'd be directly in your line of sight.

His eyes met yours for a brief moment—polite, pleasant, utterly indifferent—before moving on. No recognition. No awareness that anything was amiss. He had no idea what you'd witnessed. No idea that you'd spent the night with your hand between your thighs, imagining it was you in Cassandra Baratheon's place.

"Let us begin," Rhaenyra said once everyone had settled. She gestured to Grand Maester Gerardys. "The reports from the North, if you would."

Gerardys cleared his throat and began reading, something about increased wildling activity beyond the Wall, requests from the Night's Watch for additional men and supplies. You forced yourself to pay attention, to nod at the appropriate moments, to look anywhere except at Jacaerys.

It was going to be a very long meeting. The discussion moved from the North to the Stepstones, where Daemon's efforts to hold the islands remained precarious at best. Then to trade disputes with Pentos, grain shortages in the Reach, and a particularly tedious debate about tax collection methods that made you want to throw yourself from the nearest window.

Jacaerys contributed thoughtfully when asked, his observations intelligent and well-reasoned. He'd been well-trained for this, you realized. Rhaenyra had made sure her heir would be ready to rule, ready to navigate the complexities of statecraft. Of the Realm. 

Ready to be the perfect prince while fucking half the women in King's Landing in his spare time.

"There is another matter," Rhaenys said, her voice cutting through your spiraling thoughts. She was looking at you, and there was something in her expression that made your stomach clench. "The matter of our dragons and their war-readiness."

The table went quiet.

"The realm is at peace," Lord Corlys pointed out carefully.

"For now," Rhaenys replied. "But peace is a fragile thing, as we all learned during the—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "—recent troubles. We cannot afford to be complacent."

"What are you suggesting?" Rhaenyra asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.

"That we ensure our dragons are battle-ready. That we train them for war, even if we pray that war never comes." Rhaenys turned her sharp gaze fully on you. "Cannibal, in particular, has never been tested in true combat. He's large, powerful, but wild and untested."

Your jaw tightened. "Cannibal doesn't need testing. He's—"

"A wild dragon who's only known freedom," Rhaenys interrupted, not unkindly. "I'm not questioning your bond with him, child. I'm suggesting that bond needs to be forged stronger and that will only come through discipline."

"You want me to train him for war," you said flatly.

"I want you to prepare him for the possibility of war." Rhaenys leaned forward slightly. "With drills and formation flying with the other dragons. Learning to respond to commands in the chaos of battle. These things take time and practice."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to say that Cannibal would never tolerate such constraints, that he'd sooner eat the other dragons than fly in formation with them. That forcing him into drills and formations would break something fundamental in the bond between you, the trust that came from respecting his need for freedom.

"I don't think it's a good idea," you said carefully. "Cannibal isn't like the other dragons. He's larger, older in his ways. Trying to force him into formations could be potentially dangerous."

"Dangerous for whom?" Daemon asked, sounding genuinely curious rather than mocking. "For you, or for the other dragons?"

"Both," you admitted. "Cannibal doesn't play well with others. He never has. That's why he lived alone on Dragonstone for so long, why he—" you stopped yourself before saying ate the other dragons, because that seemed impolitic in the moment. "Why he prefers solitude."

"All the more reason to socialize him now," Rhaenys countered. "Before we're in the middle of a battle and he decides another dragon looks appetizing."

A few uncomfortable chuckles around the table. It wasn't really a joke, not one you found particularly funny. 

"What about Vhagar?" you asked, grasping for any argument. "She's larger, older. Is Aemond expected to fly formation drills with her?"

"Vhagar is already battle-tested," Rhaenys replied. "She fought in Aegon's Conquest, in the wars since. She knows what's expected. Cannibal has only ever known hunting sheep and being left alone."

It stung because it was true. For all his size and power, Cannibal had never been to war. Had never been asked to do anything more demanding than fly when you called and let you sit astride him while he soared through the clouds.

"What does Her Grace think?" you asked, turning to Rhaenyra. Let the Queen make this decision, let it not be your choice to potentially damage the one pure thing in your life.

Rhaenyra studied you for a long moment, her expression deep in thought. "I think Rhaenys makes valid points. But I also trust your judgment when it comes to your dragon. If you truly believe this would be harmful rather than helpful, I'll take that into consideration."

It was a careful, political answer. She was giving you an out, but also making it clear that refusing would require solid justification, not just childish objection. 

"I'll think about it," you said finally. "Perhaps we could start small. Test his tolerance before committing to full formation drills."

"A reasonable compromise," Rhaenys agreed, though she didn't look entirely satisfied. "We'll begin in a week's time. Simple exercises first."

The knot in your stomach tightened, but you nodded anyway.

"What about Vermax?" Daemon asked, his gaze sliding to Jacaerys with lazy interest. "The heir's dragon should certainly be included in this training."

"Vermax and I train regularly," Jace said, and there was the slightest edge of defensiveness in his tone.

"In the training yard, yes," Rhaenys replied. "But have you ever taken him into simulated combat? Flown him through fire and smoke? Tested his response time when startled?"

Jace's jaw tightened. "No."

"Then you'll join us as well," Rhaenys said, brooking no argument. "All dragonriders of fighting age. Baela, Rhaena, Aegon if we can pry him away from his cups long enough."

"Then it's settled," Rhaenyra said, her tone making it clear the discussion was closed. "Rhaenys will oversee the training regimen. All dragonriders are expected to participate." Her eyes found yours. "Including you, niece. I know Cannibal prefers his solitude, but this is necessary."

You bit back a dozen more arguments and simply nodded. "As you command, Your Grace."

The meeting dragged on for another hour, more reports, more discussions, more decisions that needed to be made. Through it all, you were acutely aware of Jacaerys sitting across from you. The way he listened intently when others spoke. The way his fingers drummed absently against the table when he was thinking. The way he looked so effortlessly princely while you sat there trying not to remember the sound of his voice, rough with pleasure, commanding Cassandra to come for him.

Finally, finally, Rhaenyra called an end to it. "Same time in three days. Try not to let anything catch fire before then."

You stood quickly, eager to escape before—

"Walk with me?" Rhaenys said, appearing at your elbow.

Of course because the gods clearly thought you hadn't suffered enough today. You fell into step beside her, following her out of the council chamber and down a side corridor. She said nothing for a long moment, just walked with that regal bearing she'd never lost, even after being passed over for the throne.

"You seem troubled," she finally said.

"I don't think Cannibal will take well to this training. I'm worried it will damage our bond."

Rhaenys studied you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced that was the whole truth. "He'll adjust. The bond between you is strong enough to weather some discomfort."

"It's not just discomfort. He's not like the other dragons. He's—"

"Wild. Yes, I know. But wildness can be channeled, shaped, without breaking it entirely." She squeezed your shoulder gently. "Trust me, and more importantly, trust him. Trust that your bond is stronger than a few training exercises. He did choose you, at the end of the day."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

"Now," Rhaenys said, her tone shifting to something lighter, "I believe Helaena was looking for you earlier. Something about her insects?"

Right. Helaena. Safe, sweet Helaena who wouldn't ask probing questions about why you looked like you hadn't slept properly in days.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "For everything, Aunt."

Rhaenys smiled, though there was something sad in it. "Go. Spend time with your cousin. The gods know there are precious few people in this world who'll love us without wanting something in return."

You found Helaena in her chambers, which were somehow both cluttered and organized in a way only she could manage. Jars and terrariums covered every surface, each containing some specimen or another, there were butterflies, beetles, spiders, things you couldn't even name. It was entirely Helaena. 

"You came," Helaena said, looking up from where she was carefully transferring a large iridescent beetle from one container to another. Her silver-gold hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wore a simple gown of pale green that brought out the unusual color of her eyes. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Of course I came." You settled onto the cushioned bench beside her workspace, careful not to disturb anything. The layers of your pink gown pooled around you like flower petals. "What have you found, dear cousin?"

Helaena's face lit up in that rare, genuine smile she reserved for the things she truly loved. "A stag beetle. Look at his mandibles, aren't they magnificent?"

You looked. The beetle was indeed impressive, its horn-like mandibles nearly as long as its body, gleaming black with hints of deep purple when the light hit them right. "Beautiful," you agreed, and meant it.

For the next hour, Helaena showed you her collection, explaining in her soft, sometimes disjointed way about each specimen's habits and characteristics. You listened, grateful for the distraction, for the simplicity of her enthusiasm. Here, there were no council meetings or dragon training or inappropriate thoughts about cousins. 

"Lord Cregan Stark sent me a letter," Helaena said suddenly, interrupting her own explanation about moth wing patterns.

You blinked. "Did he?"

"Yes. He's coming to court for the feasts. The ones for Jace." She was studying a moth wing with intense focus, not meeting your eyes. "He asked if he might call on me. To discuss insects."

Something in her tone made you pause. "Ah, I see, insects."

"He's interested in the wildlife of the North. The creatures that survive the cold. The ice spiders." Helaena finally looked up, and there was something almost vulnerable in her green eyes. "Do you think that's really why he wants to call on me?"

Oh. Oh.

Cregan Stark was young, newly Lord of Winterfell after his father's passing two years past. By all accounts he was honorable, strong, kind, everything a northern lord should be. And if he was expressing interest in Helaena...

"I think," you said carefully, "that Lord Cregan would be very fortunate if you agreed to speak with him. About insects or anything else, dear cousin."

Helaena's cheeks flushed pink. "He's very kind in his letters. Patient and he doesn't mind when I ramble about things most people find boring. He even sent me a preserved ice spider specimen from beyond the Wall. Said he thought I might like to study it."

Your heart softened. A man who would hunt down rare specimens for Helaena's collection was a man worth considering. "That's incredibly thoughtful, Hel."

"Mother says I should consider marriage eventually. That I can't hide in my chambers with my insects forever." Helaena's voice was quiet, tinged with something like resignation. "But most lords look at me like I'm mad. Like I'm something to be pitied or fixed."

"Then they're fools," you said firmly. "You're brilliant, Helaena. Anyone with half a brain can see that."

"Lord Cregan doesn't look at me like that. At least, not in his letters." She turned back to her moths, a small smile playing at her lips. "He asks questions. Real questions about my observations and theories. He doesn't just humor me."

"Will you see him when he arrives?"

"I... I believe I might." She looked back down at her specimens, fingers gentle as she adjusted a butterfly's position in its case. "It's strange. I never thought—I mean, I never imagined someone might actually want to court me. Not really."

"You're a princess of the blood," you pointed out. "Half the lords in Westeros would trip over themselves for the chance."

"They'd trip over themselves for the crown and the alliance," Helaena corrected softly. "Not for me. But Lord Cregan, he talks to me like I'm a person. Not a prize to be won or a madwoman to be managed."

You reached over and squeezed her hand. "Then I hope he lives up to his letters. And if he doesn't, I'll feed him to Cannibal."

Helaena laughed, a rare, bright sound that made you smile despite everything. "The wolf meets the spider in the dark. The spider weaves while the wolf watches. But which one catches which?"

Another one of her strange pronouncements. You'd long since given up trying to decipher them.

"What about you?" Helaena asked, suddenly aware of her surroundings again. "Will you dance with any lords at the feasts?"

Your stomach dropped. You'd almost managed to forget about the upcoming feasts, the parade of eligible ladies who would be throwing themselves at Jacaerys while you watched from the sidelines.

"I doubt it," you said lightly. "You know I prefer the edges of the room to the center of attention."

"The spider watches from the corner," Helaena murmured again, and something in her tone made you look up sharply. "But the spider doesn't know it's caught in a web of its own making."

Helaena suddenly moved on, returning her attention to her beetles, humming softly to herself. Leaving you to wonder if she'd just made an innocent observation or if she somehow knew exactly what you'd been doing in the dark corners of your chambers.

You stayed with Helaena until the sun began to set, letting her soft voice and gentle presence soothe the jagged edges of your thoughts. Here, at least, things made sense. Here, you could almost forget the madness consuming you.

Almost.

When you finally took your leave, pressing a kiss to the top of her silver head, she caught your hand.

"Be careful," she said quietly. "Webs are sticky things. Hard to escape once you're caught."

You had no answer for that. The walk back to your chambers was quiet, most of the castle beginning to prepare for the evening meal. When you reached your door, you found your ladies already waiting.

"We've prepared a bath, my lady," Lysa said with a smile. "Thought you might want to wash before supper."

Gods, yes. Perhaps hot water and lavender oil could wash away the tension coiled tight in your shoulders, the restless energy that had plagued you all day.

"Thank you," you said, letting them usher you inside.

The tub had been set up near the fire, steam rising from the water in lazy curls. Your ladies helped you out of the elaborate pink gown, unlacing the bodice and lifting the layers of silk away until you stood in just your shift. Then that too was removed, and you stepped into the blessed heat of the bath with a sigh.

"We'll be just outside if you need anything, my lady," Maryse said. "Call when you're ready to dress for supper."

You nodded, already sinking deeper into the water, letting it cover you up to your shoulders. The heat seeped into your muscles, and for the first time all day, you felt some of the tension begin to ease.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the scent of lavender, trying to empty your mind of everything, council meetings, dragon training, Helaena's cryptic warnings, and most especially the memory of brown eyes and dark hair and hands that knew exactly how to make a woman fall apart.

Stop, you told yourself firmly. Just stop.

For a few blessed minutes, you succeeded. The water, the warmth, the quiet—it was almost peaceful.

Then something moved at the edge of your vision. You opened your eyes and looked toward the rim of the tub. A spider. But not just any spider, this thing was massive, easily the size of your palm, with thick hairy legs and a body that seemed to pulse as it crept along the wooden edge of the tub. Moving toward you.

The scream tore from your throat before you could stop it, pure, primal terror that echoed off the stone walls.

You shot to your feet, water sloshing over the sides of the tub, your whole body shaking as you tried to scramble away from the creature. But the tub was slippery, your feet finding no purchase, and you nearly fell before catching yourself on the edge.

"My lady!" You heard Lysa's voice, muffled through the door, and then—

The door burst open, but it wasn't your ladies who came through first.

It was Jacaerys. He must have been passing in the corridor, must have heard your scream and thought, what? That you were being murdered? Attacked? He rushed in with his hand on his sword hilt, eyes wild, clearly ready to face down whatever threat had made you scream like that.

And then he froze. Because you were standing there, in the middle of the tub, completely and utterly naked. Water streaming down your body, your silver hair plastered to your back and shoulders, every inch of you exposed in the firelight.

For one endless, horrifying moment, neither of you moved.

His eyes went wide, his mouth falling open slightly as his gaze traveled down and then snapped back up to your face. You could see the exact moment his brain caught up with what he was seeing, the way his cheeks flushed, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

"I—" he started, his voice rough. "I heard you scream, I thought—"

"SPIDER!" you shrieked, pointing at the creature that was still making its way around the rim of the tub, seemingly unconcerned with the chaos it had caused. "There's a massive fucking spider, Jace!"

Jace's gaze followed your pointing finger, and you watched him take in the admittedly impressive specimen currently terrorizing you.

"That's, yes, that's a spider," he said, somewhat stupidly.

"I KNOW IT'S A SPIDER!" you yelled, still frozen in place, acutely aware that you were naked and he was staring and your ladies were probably right behind him in the corridor and this was literally the worst thing that had ever happened to you.

Your ladies burst in then, Lysa and Maryse and Elaena, their faces panicked, clearly thinking you were dying. They took in the scene, you, naked in the tub. Jacaerys, standing there looking like he'd been struck by lightning. The spider, innocently crawling.

"My lady!" Lysa gasped, immediately grabbing a linen cloth and rushing forward to wrap it around you.

But the damage was done. Jacaerys had seen everything. Every curve, every inch of skin, every part of you that should have remained hidden beneath layers of silk and propriety. 

Damn the Gods. Damn you, this is your punishment for being a pervert. 

"I'll just—" Jace stammered, backing toward the door, his face now bright red. "I'll—the spider—sorry—I thought—"

He practically fled, the door slamming shut behind him. You stood there, wrapped in the linen cloth, shaking for entirely different reasons now.

"Oh gods," you breathed. "Oh gods, he saw me. He saw—"

"It's all right, my lady," Maryse said soothingly, though she looked rather scandalized herself. "It was an accident. He heard you scream and thought you were in danger."

"I AM in danger!" you gestured wildly at the spider, which had now made it halfway around the tub. "That thing is massive!"

"It's just a spider, my lady," Elaena said gently, moving toward it with a cloth. Within moments she'd captured it and was carrying it toward the window. "See? Harmless."

Harmless. Right. Unlike the memory now burned into both your and Jacaerys's minds of you standing bare-arsed naked in a bathtub while he stared at you like a man who'd forgotten how to breathe.

"We need to get you dressed," Lysa said firmly, already moving to pull out clothes. "Supper will be starting soon."

"I can't go to supper," you said, your voice rising. "I can't face him after—after he just saw me naked."

"You have to go to supper, my lady," Maryse said, not unkindly. "If you don't, everyone will wonder why. And rumors will start."

Worse rumors than "the princess screamed bloody murder over a spider and her cousin saw her naked"? You doubted it. But she was right. You had to go. Had to face him. Had to somehow sit through an entire meal pretending that nothing had happened while knowing that Jacaerys now knew exactly what you looked like without clothes. While knowing that you'd seen the look in his eyes—surprise, yes, but also something else. Something heated that had flashed across his face before embarrassment took over.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath.

"Language, my lady," Lysa chided gently, but she was already helping you out of the tub.

This was going to be the longest supper of your entire life.

The great hall was already filled with lords and ladies when you arrived, late enough that most people were already seated. The musicians were playing something lively from the gallery, servants moved between tables with wine and platters of food, and the general hum of conversation and laughter filled the space.

You wanted to sink through the floor and disappear.

Somehow you made it to your seat at the high table without tripping over your own feet, a minor miracle considering how unsteady you felt. You'd been dressed in a gown of deep purple silk, your ladies working quickly to make you presentable. Your hair was still slightly damp at the ends, but they'd managed to braid it back in a way that hid the worst of it.

Baela was already seated beside you, laughing at something Rhaena had said. On your other side, Helaena was staring at her plate with that distant expression she sometimes got. And across the table Jacaerys sat beside Lady Cassandra Baratheon.

He was leaning toward her, saying something that made her laugh, that refined, ladylike laugh you'd heard through the stone wall. His hand rested on the table close to hers, not quite touching but near enough to be intimate. He looked perfectly composed, perfectly at ease, like he hadn't just seen his cousin naked less than an hour ago.

You grabbed your wine cup and drank deeply.

"You have no idea," you muttered into your cup.

The meal began, course after course of roasted meats and honeyed vegetables and fresh bread. You pushed food around your plate, barely tasting anything, hyperaware of every movement Jace made across the table. The way he smiled at Cassandra. The way she touched his arm when she spoke. The easy familiarity between them that spoke of more than one night together. 

"All right, what's wrong?" Baela asked finally, setting down her fork and turning to face you properly. "You've been sulking since you sat down. Did something happen at council?"

"No," you said quickly. Too quickly.

Baela's eyes narrowed. "Then what?"

You glanced around, making sure no one else was listening. Then you leaned closer and whispered, "Jace saw me naked."

For a moment, Baela just stared at you. Then she burst out laughing—loud enough that several people turned to look.

"Shut up, this is not funny!" you hissed, your face burning with shame. 

"It's a little funny," Baela managed between gasps. "How in the seven hells did that happen?"

You covered your face with your hands, mortified beyond measure. "There was a spider. A huge one. He was in my bath and then I screamed and he must have been in the corridor and he came running in thinking I was being murdered or something and I was just—standing there—completely bare-arsed—hh"

Baela was practically crying with laughter now, her hand pressed to her stomach. "A spider," she wheezed. "You're telling me the mighty dragonrider who claimed Cannibal, who sits on the small council, screamed loud enough to bring the heir running because of a spider?"

"It was a very large spider," you said defensively, though your own lips were twitching despite your mortification.

“And, so, he saw everything?"  Her voice went low and suggestive, bringing a finger to her mouth and biting the tip of it as her lips curved into a smirk.

"Everything," you confirmed miserably. "Full frontal view. Nothing left to imagination."

"Oh gods," Baela wiped at her eyes. "And what did he do?"

"Stood there like a fish for about three seconds, went bright red, stammered something about the spider, and then fled like the castle was on fire."

"That's amazing," Baela said, still grinning. "That's the best thing I've heard all week."

"I'm glad my humiliation amuses you," you said sourly, but you couldn't quite hold onto your irritation. It was sort of funny, in a horrifying, want-to-die sort of way.

"Look at the bright side," Baela said, taking a sip of her wine. "Now you know he's definitely seen you naked. That's more than most ladies can say about the heir before marriage."

You kicked her under the table.

"Ow! I'm just saying—"

"Well don't," you muttered, risking a glance across the table.

Jace was still deep in conversation with Cassandra, his attention completely focused on her. He hadn't looked your way once since you'd sat down. Was probably trying very hard not to look at you, considering what he'd seen.

Your stomach twisted, he'd seen you naked—completely, utterly exposed—and less than an hour later he was here, flirting with the woman he'd been fucking just the night before. Like it meant nothing. Like you meant nothing. Which of course you didn't. You were his cousin, a political piece on the board, same as everyone else.

The fact that you'd watched him through a hole in the wall, that you'd brought yourself to come while imagining his hands on you instead of Cassandra—that was your problem. Your shame to carry, your degenerate shame.

"You're doing it again," Baela said quietly.

"Doing what?"

"Looking like you want to kill someone, dear cousin." She followed your gaze across the table. "Ah. Lady Cassandra."

"You know she's not the only one, right?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Jace." Baela kept her voice low, casual, as she cut into her meat. "He's got quite the appetite, from what I hear. Half the ladies at court have warmed his bed at some point or another."

Your stomach twisted even though you already knew this. Had seen it.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Baela shrugged, a wicked grin playing at her lips. "Just saying, if you ever wanted to... you know. Sample the goods before he's shackled to some boring highborn wife, now's your chance. He's not particularly discriminating."

You nearly choked on your wine. "Baela!"

"What? I'm just saying.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm told he's very talented, Lady Cassandra certainly seems satisfied."

"I am not having this conversation with you," you hissed, your face burning.

"Your loss." Baela sat back with a laugh. "Though honestly, I don't blame you for looking. He's annoyingly pretty for someone with such common blood. Those brown eyes, that hair, he’s very brooding hero of a song, isn't he?"

"You're drunk, Baela."

"I'm tipsy," she corrected, "and you're deflecting."

"I'm not interested in Jace," you said firmly. "Not like that anyways."

It wasn't entirely a lie. You weren't interested in romancing with Jace. You didn't want his love or his devotion or whatever pretty words he whispered to the hoards of women in his bed. You just wanted, gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. To stop thinking about him, probably, most likely. And certainly to stop seeing his fucking gorgeous face every time you closed your eyes.

"Whatever you say," Baela said breezily, clearly not believing you but willing to drop it. "I'm just saying, the man's going to be married off soon. If you wanted a taste, the window's closing."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. "You're impossible."

The conversation moved on, Rhaena leaned over to tell you both about some drama involving a lady-in-waiting and a stableboy, and you forced yourself to laugh, despite your gaze kept drifting across the table.

You didn't look through the hole that night.

It took every ounce of willpower you possessed, but you left that carved screen exactly where it was and climbed into bed fully clothed, too exhausted to even call your ladies back to help you undress properly. Sleep came fitfully, plagued by dreams of brown eyes and smirks and the memory of standing naked in a bathtub while your cousin stared.

When you woke, sunlight was streaming through your windows and someone was pounding on your door.

"My lady!" Lysa's voice, urgent and harried. "You need to wake! The lords are arriving and you're expected in the courtyard within the hour!"

Right. The festivities. The celebration of Jacaerys coming of age, of finding him a suitable bride. A full day of feasting and tournaments and watching eligible ladies parade themselves in front of the heir to the throne. Wonderful, just wonderful. Despite yourself, you managed to drag yourself out of bed and let your ladies descend upon you like a flock of determined birds. They stripped away yesterday's rumpled gown, scrubbed you with rose-scented soap, and set about the elaborate process of making you presentable as they did every morning. 

The gown they'd chosen was magnificent, it was a midnight blue silk that seemed to shimmer between black and deepest sapphire depending on how the light hit it. But you shook your head.

"No. The white one with the gold and red."

Your ladies exchanged glances but didn't argue. They brought out the dress you'd requested, white as fresh snow, with gold embroidery that traced patterns of dragons and flames across the bodice and down the flowing sleeves. Red accents caught the light like drops of blood, rubies sewn into the neckline and waist. The skirts were layers upon layers of silk and gossamer that moved like water, the train long enough to pool behind you like a bride. 

It was a statement, really, like Alicent’s green gowns. A reminder of who you were, a Targaryen, a dragon rider, not someone to be overlooked even as every other woman at court tried to catch the heir's eye. Your hair was left mostly down, falling in silver waves to your calves, with elaborate braids woven through and secured with gold and ruby pins shaped like dragon claws. By the time they finished, you looked like something out of a song. 

You barely heard the compliments ringing from your ladies tongues. You were already moving toward the door, trying to steel yourself for whatever fresh hell today would bring.

The courtyard was flooded when you arrived. Banners from a dozen different houses snapped in the morning breeze, there was Stark, Tully, Arryn, Lannister, more. Lords and their retinues filing in through the gates, their daughters dressed in their finest, all of them here for the same purpose.

To win the favor of the Crown Prince.

You spotted Cregan Stark immediately—he was hard to miss, tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and grey eyes that seemed to take in everything. He was a gorgeous man, and currently  he was speaking with Rhaenyra, his manner respectful but not obsequious. A good sign, if Helaena was genuinely considering him. But it wasn't Cregan who made you pause. It was the way every male head in the courtyard seemed to turn as you descended the steps.

Lords, knights, visiting dignitaries, they all looked. Some with open admiration, others with more subtle interest, but they looked. You were used to attention, had grown up beautiful and aware of it, but this felt different. Or perhaps you were just more aware of it now, after everything.

"Seven hells," you heard someone mutter—one of the Tully boys, you thought. "Is that—"

You kept your chin high and your expression serene as you made your way through the crowd. Lords bowed as you passed, their sons stared, and you pretended not to notice any of it. Rhaenyra stood on the dais with Daemon beside her, already holding court. Jacaerys was there too, looking infuriatingly well-rested in black and red, his attention on whatever Lord Corlys was saying to him.

"Cousin," Aegon appeared at your elbow. "You're causing quite the stir. I think Lord Tyrell's son just walked into a pillar because he was too busy staring at you."

"Good," you said flatly.

Aegon laughed. "That's the spirit. Make them all suffer, my dear cousin. "

"Come," Aegon said, tugging at your elbow. "We're expected to stand there and look pretty while Father's old bannermen parade their daughters like prize mares. Should be entertaining enough."

You let him guide you to where the rest of the family was gathering. Rhaenyra sat in the place of honor with Daemon beside her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Helaena was tucked between Baela and Rhaena, already looking overwhelmed by the crowd. And Jacaerys stood at the center of it all, the sun around which this entire day revolved.

"How many do you think there are?" Aegon asked, settling in beside you with his cup. "I'm counting at least fifteen eligible ladies, and those are just the ones I can see from here."

"Shouldn't you be paying attention?" you asked. "You're supposed to be looking for a wife too."

"Gods, don't remind me." He took a long drink. "Mother's been at me for months about it. Apparently being six and twenty and unmarried is some sort of tragedy."

"Is it not?"

"It's called having standards," Aegon replied airily. "Low ones, admittedly, but standards nonetheless."

Rhaenyra stood, and the courtyard quieted. "Lords and ladies," she began, her voice carrying across the space. "We are honored by your presence here today as we celebrate my son and heir, Prince Jacaerys, and his coming of age. Many of you have traveled far to be here, and we welcome you all to King's Landing."

Polite applause. Jace smiled that princely smile, gracious and warm.

"Today marks the beginning of festivities that will last the fortnight," Rhaenyra continued. "Tournaments, feasts, and celebrations in honor of the Crown Prince. And perhaps, by the end, we will have even more to celebrate."

Meaning a betrothal. 

"But first," Rhaenyra gestured to where several young ladies stood with their fathers, all of them dressed in their finest, "we have been honored by requests from several noble houses to present their daughters to the Prince. We welcome them now."

"Here we go," Aegon muttered. "The parade of the desperate."

"Aegon," you hissed.

"What? I'm not wrong."

The first girl stepped forward, a Lannister, judging by her crimson gown and golden hair. She was beautiful in that polished, perfect way. You’re certain her Father, and all the other lords of Casterly Rock  told her she was destined for greatness. She curtsied deeply before Jace, her father presenting her with all the pomp and circumstance House Lannister could muster.

"Lady Cerelle Lannister," the herald announced. "Daughter of Lord Jason Lannister of Casterly Rock."

Jace took her hand and kissed it, saying something that made her blush and smile. You watched him be charming, watched him perform the role of interested suitor with practiced ease.

"She's pretty," Aegon observed. "Bit too much like looking in a mirror for my taste, all that gold hair and self-rightesnous."

"She seems nice enough."

"Nice and boring are often companions," Aegon replied. "Trust me, I know from experience."

The next girl was from House Tyrell, tall and willowy with dark curls and a nervous smile. Then a Tully girl with auburn hair and freckles. Then another, and another. Each one more beautiful than the last, each one curtsying and smiling and trying desperately to be memorable.

"This is torture," Aegon said after the sixth introduction. "How is Jace keeping that smile on his face? I'd have run screaming by now."

"It's called duty, you idiot."

"It's called martyrdom." He drained his cup and gestured for a servant to refill it. "You know what the problem is? They're all the same. Pretty, accomplished, perfectly trained to be queens. Where's the personality? The fire?"

"You want fire, marry a dragon rider," you said absently, watching as yet another lady—this one from the Stormlands—was presented to Jace.

"Excellent idea. Marry me."

You turned to look at him, startled. "What?"

"Marry me," Aegon repeated, gesturing expansively with his cup. "You're a dragon rider, you're beautiful, you already know all my worst qualities so there'd be no nasty surprises. We could get drunk together and ignore all our duties. It'd be perfect."

"You're not serious."

"I'm never serious. But the offer stands." He took another drink. "If all else fails, if the realm goes to shit and we're all desperate—you and me. We could do much worse."

You studied him for a moment. Aegon was handsome, you could admit that. Pretty in the way Targaryens often were, with his silver hair and sharp features. The drinking was a problem, and the complete lack of ambition, but he was kind in his way. Honest, at least, which was more than most lords could claim.

"If all goes to hell," you said slowly, "and we're both desperate and alone. I suppose I could do worse than you."

"High praise," Aegon said with a grin. "I'm touched. Truly."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. I'm already planning our wedding. We'll serve nothing but wine, scandalize the Faith, and let our dragons eat anyone who complains."

Despite everything, you laughed. It felt good, like releasing some of the pressure that had been building in your chest since yesterday. Then, another lady was presented, a Manderly girl from White Harbor, plump and pink-cheeked and clearly terrified. Jace was gentle with her, you noticed. He was patient and kind.

"He's good at this," you said quietly.

"He's had practice," Aegon replied, and there was something almost bitter in his tone. "Perfect Jace. Perfect heir. Does everything right, fucks everything that moves, and somehow still manages to look like a hero from a song."

"Jealous?"

"Absoloutely." Aegon studied his cousin across the courtyard. "I love Jace, don't get me wrong. But he's playing a game he doesn't even realize he's in. All these ladies throwing themselves at him, and he thinks it's because he's charming. Because they like him."

"That's not why?"

"They like his crown," Aegon said flatly. "They like the idea of being queen. Jace himself? He's just the pretty vessel holding the thing they actually want."

You said nothing, watching as Jace smiled at the Manderly girl, made her laugh despite her nervousness. Was Aegon right? Did all these women only want the crown?  Did you? No. You wanted—gods, you didn't even know what you wanted. But it wasn't his crown. It was him. The way he moved, the way he sounded, the way he looked when he was lost in pleasure. That had nothing to do with thrones or politics.

Which somehow made it worse.

"Lady Floris Baratheon," the herald announced, and your attention snapped back to the courtyard.

Another Baratheon girl, younger than Cassandra but with the same dark hair and sharp features. She curtsied beautifully, and Jace took her hand with the same courteous attention he'd given all the others.

"How many fucking Baratheon daughters are there?" Aegon muttered. "Lord Borros must spend half his time just keeping track of them all."

"Four, I think."

"Four. And they're all here trying to land the heir. Ambitious bastard, isn't he?"

You watched Floris smile up at Jace, watched him be charming and attentive. Was Cassandra here somewhere, watching this? Did she care that the man who'd been in her bed two nights ago was now entertaining her younger sister?

Did Jace care?

"This is going to be a very long fortnight," you said.

"Agreed." Aegon raised his cup in a mock toast. "To surviving it with our dignity intact."

"I'll drink to that."

He grinned and passed you his cup. You took it and drank deeply, letting the wine burn down your throat. It was going to be a very, very long fortnight indeed.

Several torturous hours later, you and Aegon were both well into your cups and had devolved into something resembling badly behaved children.

"I'm sorry," Aegon wheezed, barely containing his laughter, "but did that last one actually curtsy to his horse first before approaching Jace?"

"She did," you confirmed, your own shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles. "She absolutely did. I saw it, cousin."

"Maybe she thought the horse was the heir. Can't blame her—Vermax has better hair than Jace does."

You snorted wine through your nose, which only made Aegon laugh harder.

"You two are being disgraceful," Baela hissed from your other side, though her lips were twitching. "Show some decorum."

"Decorum is for people who aren't dying of boredom," Aegon replied, reaching for another cup from a passing servant. "We're performing a public service, really. Someone has to make this bearable."

"By getting drunk before noon?"

"Exactly. See? She understands."

You were about to respond when movement at the courtyard entrance caught your eye. Another arrival, late enough that most of the formal presentations had concluded. But this wasn't some minor lord with a daughter to parade. This was someone who commanded attention simply by existing.

He was tall—taller even than Cregan Stark—with broad shoulders and the kind of build that came from actually using a sword rather than just wearing one for decoration. Dark hair, though not as dark as Jace's, fell to his shoulders in waves that somehow looked artfully disheveled rather than unkempt. And his face—

"Oh no," Aegon said, following your gaze. "Oh, that's not fair."

"Who is that?" you asked, unable to look away.

"Trouble," Aegon replied. "That's Lord Dalton Greyjoy. The Red Kraken himself."

The Red Kraken. You'd heard stories, of course. The young Lord of the Iron Islands, who'd claimed his seat at six and ten after his father's death and had spent the years since becoming a legend. A reaver, a warrior, and by all accounts, devastatingly effective at both. He was dressed simply compared to the other lords—dark leather and salt-stained cloth rather than silk and velvet—but he wore it like armor. Like he had nothing to prove. Salt-and-pepper scruff covered his jaw, and when he smiled at something Daemon said, you caught a glimpse of white teeth.

"He's supposed to be in the Iron Islands," Aegon muttered. "What's he doing here?"

"The same thing everyone else is doing here," Baela said dryly. "Paying homage to the Crown Prince."

But Dalton Greyjoy wasn't looking at Jacaerys.

He was looking at you. His eyes—grey-green like storm-tossed seas—found yours across the crowded courtyard, and he didn't look away. Didn't pretend he hadn't been staring. Just held your gaze with the kind of bold confidence that should have been offensive but somehow wasn't.

Then he smiled. Slow and deliberate and knowing, like you'd shared some private joke.

"Oh, dear cousin, he's definitely trouble," Aegon said. "Look at him. Looking at you like—well, like Jace looks at literally every woman who crosses his path."

"Shut up," you muttered, but you didn't look away from Dalton.

"The Red Kraken," Baela mused. "Now that's interesting. He doesn't usually come to court. Prefers his islands and his ships from what I hear."

"And his salt wives," Aegon added. "Rumor has it he's got three. Or is it four now? I lose count."

"Salt wives aren't real wives," you said absently, still holding Dalton's gaze.

"Try telling him that."

Dalton was moving through the crowd now, making his way toward the dais where Rhaenyra sat. Lords parted for him—whether out of respect or wariness, you couldn't tell. Maybe both. There was something dangerous about him, something wild that expensive clothes and courtly manners couldn't quite hide. He knelt before Rhaenyra with surprising grace for someone so large. You couldn't hear what he said, but whatever it was made Daemon laugh, actually laugh, which was rare enough to be noteworthy.

Then Dalton stood, turned, and those storm-grey eyes found yours again. And the huge bastard, well, he started walking toward you.

"Oh shit," Aegon said gleefully. "Oh this is going to be good."

"If you say one embarrassing thing—" you started.

"Would I do that?"

"Yes. Regularly, you arse."

Dalton Greyjoy stopped in front of you, and up close he was even more imposing. Taller, broader, with the kind of presence that made the air feel heavier. 

"My lady," he said, and his voice was rough, like he'd spent too many years shouting orders over storm winds. "Lord Dalton Greyjoy, at your service."

He didn't kneel. Didn't bow. Just stood there looking at you like you were the only person in the entire courtyard.

"Lord Greyjoy," you managed, trying to remember how to be polite while several cups of wine deep. "Welcome to King's Landing."

"Is it?" He glanced around at the crowd, at the elaborate decorations, at the general excess of it all. "Seems like a lot of trouble for a party."

"It's a celebration, my lord," you corrected.

"Of the Crown Prince coming of age. Yes, I heard." His lips quirked. "Eight and ten years to grow up. We do it much faster in the Iron Islands."

"Everything's faster in the Iron Islands," Aegon interjected cheerfully. "Living, dying, marrying your cousin, certainly fucking your cousin."

"Aegon," you hissed.

But Dalton just laughed. "Your cousin speaks truth, if not tact. We're a practical people."

"Practical," Aegon repeated. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Among other things." Dalton's attention returned to you, and the intensity of it made your breath catch. "I've heard stories about you, Princess. The girl who claimed Cannibal."

"They're just stories."

"Are they?" He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "I heard you walked up to him and asked him nicely. That he bowed his head and let you climb on his back like a trained horse."

"More or less," you admitted.

"Terrifying or impressive. I haven't decided which, my lady."

"Can't it be both?"

That smile again, sharp and interested, like a predator seeking its prey. "I suppose it can. I like that."

There was something in the way he looked at you—direct and unashamed—that felt different from the courtiers with their careful glances and veiled intentions. Dalton Greyjoy looked at you like he knew exactly what he wanted and saw no reason to pretend otherwise.

"Are you here for the tournaments, my lord?" you asked, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

"Among other things." He straightened, hands clasped behind his back in a posture that should have looked casual but somehow seemed coiled, ready. "I'm here to see what all the fuss is about. The perfect prince, the eligible ladies, the great game of marriage and alliance." His eyes glinted. "And to see if the Dragon Princess lives up to her reputation."

"And does she?"

"I'll let you know," he said, and it sounded like a promise. "May I have the honor of your company at the feast tonight, my lady?"

Before you could answer, Aegon cut in. "She'd be delighted. Wouldn't you, cousin?"

You shot him a look that promised murder, but Dalton was already bowing, actually bowing this time, though it looked faintly mocking. "Until tonight, then."

He walked away, and you could feel his absence like a physical weight. You were certainly going to kill Aegon, kill him and feed him to Cannibal. 

"Well," Aegon said into the silence. "That was something."

"I hate you."

"No you don't. I just got you a dinner companion who isn't boring. You should be thanking me."

You should probably be worried, you thought. Dalton Greyjoy had a reputation that made even Daemon look respectable by comparison. But, nonetheless, instead you felt intrigued.

Which was probably dangerous. Definitely dangerous. But after days of watching Jace parade around with other women, of feeling invisible and foolish and consumed by wanting something you couldn't have. Maybe dangerous was exactly what you needed.

The remainder of the day had been a blur of increasingly bold lords and their sons trying to catch your attention. You'd smiled politely through it all, deflected propositions both subtle and explicit, and tried not to drink so much that you'd embarrass yourself at tonight's feast.

You'd failed at that last part.

The great hall had been transformed for the evening, there were now thousands of candles which casted everything in warm golden light, musicians played from the gallery, and long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats and exotic fruits and wine from across the known world. The air smelled of smoke and spices and the musk of too many sweaty bodies pressed close together. You'd kept the white gown from earlier, the gold and red embroidery catching the candlelight as you moved. Your ladies had refreshed your hair, re-pinning the braids and adding fresh ruby clips, but otherwise you looked much the same as you had that morning.

Which apparently was more than enough, judging by the way heads turned as you entered. Dalton Greyjoy was already there, lounging at one of the lower tables with a cup in his hand and that same confidence he'd worn earlier. He saw you immediately—like he'd been watching the door—and stood.

"Princess," he said as you approached. "Come, sit. I've claimed the best seat in the hall."

"Have you?"

"Good view of the wine." He gestured to the seat beside him. "And now a better one."

You sat, aware of how he took up space without apology, all broad shoulders and long limbs sprawled in a way that suggested he'd never learned courtly posture and didn't particularly care to either. A servant poured wine, and Dalton took his cup, drinking deeply before setting it down with more force than necessary. "Seven hells, that's good. Better than the piss we brew on Pyke."

"I'm sure."

"You've never been to the Iron Islands." It wasn't a question.

"No."

"Good. It's a miserable place. Cold, wet, smells like dead fish and shit." He grinned. "But it's mine."

There was something about the way he said it, simple pride, no need to justify or explain. Just fact that sprung a buzz in your chest. 

"You're far from home," you observed.

"Aye. Your aunt summoned, so I came." He reached for a piece of bread, tearing it apart with his hands. "Hadn't planned on it, but then I heard about the festivities. The Crown Prince coming of age, all the pretty ladies competing for him." His eyes slid to you as he brought the bread to his mouth, tongue darting out to catch a crumb at the corner of his lips. He raised an eyebrow. "Thought it might be entertaining."

"And is it?"

"Getting better." He popped the bread in his mouth, still watching you while he chewed. "Tell me something. That dragon of yours—Cannibal. Is it true he ate three dragons on Dragonstone before you claimed him?"

You reached for your wine. "Two that I know of for certain. Possibly three."

"Fuck me." But he sounded impressed rather than horrified. "And you just walked up to him?"

"More or less." You took a sip, watching him over the rim of your cup.

"You're either the bravest woman in the Seven Kingdoms or the maddest." He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he studied you."Probably both."

"Most people say it was foolish."

"Most people are cowards."  He picked up his wine again, draining half the cup in one go. "I respect it. Taking what you want, consequences be damned. That's how you survive in this world."

The food kept coming—course after course. Servants appeared with platters of roasted duck, honeyed figs, spiced lamb. Dalton ate like a man who wasn't sure when his next meal would be, unbothered by the elaborate presentation. You picked at your own plate, more interested in the conversation than the food.

"You fight in the tournaments tomorrow?" you asked.

"Planning on it. Need to work off some of this." He gestured at the feast. "Can't spend all day drinking and eating without swinging a sword eventually. I'll go soft."

You doubted that. There was nothing soft about Dalton Greyjoy. You let your eyes drag over him, shoulders, arms, the way he took up space.

"Who do you think will win?" you asked. "The tourney, I mean."

"Not me," he said with a shrug. "I'm a better sailor than jouster. Give me a deck that's moving under my feet and I'm deadly. Put me on a horse in full plate and I'm just another idiot hoping not to fall off." He paused. "Your cousin, probably. The pretty one. Jacaerys."

Your jaw tightened slightly. "Jace is skilled."

"Aye, I've heard. Trained by the best, naturally." There was something in his tone—not quite mocking, but close. "Born with every advantage. Dragon, crown, looks that make ladies go weak. Must be nice."

"It has its challenges."

"I'm sure." He didn't sound particularly sympathetic. "Still. I'd take his challenges over mine any day."

A commotion near the high table drew your attention. Jace was standing, Lady Cassandra Baratheon beside him, her hand on his arm as they moved toward the dancing. You watched them go, watched her lean in to say something that made him smile, and your stomach dropped. Your hands curled into fists in your lap. 

"There's a look I know," Dalton said quietly.

You turned back to find him studying you, those storm-grey eyes too sharp. He was leaning back in his chair now, one arm draped over the back of it, completely relaxed.

"What look?"

"The one that says you want to set something on fire but you're too well-bred to do it." He tilted his head, watching you like a hawk. "What's he done to earn that?"

"Nothing. I don't—"

"Right." He drained his cup in one swallow and stood, extending his hand across the table. "Come on then."

"Where?"

"To dance. You're sitting here stewing and it's making me uncomfortable." He wiggled his fingers impatiently.

"I'm not—"

"You are." He stepped closer, hand still out. "And if I have to watch you watch him dance with that Baratheon girl for one more second, I'm going to start breaking things." His fingers curled slightly, beckoning. "Dance with me, Princess. Give the court something else to gossip about."

You shouldn't. You really, truly shouldn't.

You took his hand.

He pulled you up—quick enough that you stumbled slightly—and steadied you with a hand at your elbow before leading you onto the floor. Other couples were already moving, swirling past in a blur of silk and jewels. His hand settled at your waist, lower than was strictly proper, fingers spread wide against your back and he pulled you into the rhythm without missing a beat.

He moved with surprising grace for someone who'd just claimed to be better on a ship than a dance floor.

"You lied," you said, looking up at him. "You're good at this."

"I said I'm better on a ship. Didn't say I was shit at dancing." He spun you, sudden enough that you stumbled into his chest. His hand tightened on your waist, steadying you. "My mother made sure all her sons could dance. Said it was the one civilized thing we'd learn."

"Was she right?"

"Aye. Rest of it's all fighting and fucking and sailing." He said it casually, leading you back into the steps. "Not much call for poetry and courtly manners on Pyke."

You shouldn't have laughed, but you did, it was sharp and genuine, the sound surprising you. Something about his bluntness cut through all the careful political bullshit you'd been drowning in for days.

"That scandalize you?" he asked, grinning down at you. His teeth were very white against his tanned skin.

"No."

"Good. I'd hate to waste time pretending to be something I'm not." His thumb pressed against your waist, and you felt it through the silk. "Life's too fucking short for that."

The music swelled around you, violins rising. He pulled you closer, definitely too close now, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through your dress, definitely crossing into improper territory. But you didn't pull away. Just let him guide you through the steps, let yourself focus on the pressure of his hand, the solid weight of his shoulder under your palm. Anything other than Jace and Cassandra somewhere else on this floor.

"Better?" Dalton asked, voice low enough that only you could hear it over the music.

"What?"

"You stopped looking like you wanted to commit murder.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I'm taking that as progress."

"I never—"

"You did." He spun you again, pulled you back in. The smile on his face had an edge to it now. "Whatever he did, whoever he is, he's not worth it, Princess."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to defend something you couldn't even name, couldn't admit to yourself. But Dalton's hand was warm and steady against your waist, his grey eyes fixed on yours like you were the only person in the room, and for just a moment, just this one dance, you let yourself pretend. That you weren't obsessed with your cousin. That you hadn't spent the last three nights watching him fuck other women through a crack in the wall. That you were just a woman dancing with a man who looked at her like she mattered.

The song ended far too soon.

Dalton stepped back, but his hand stayed at your waist, lingering, his fingers flexing once against your ribs before he let go. "Thank you for the dance, Princess."

"Thank you for asking." Your skin felt cold where his hand had been.

"I'll be fighting tomorrow. In the melee, not the joust, I told you, I'm shit on horseback." That grin again, cocky and so sure of himself.  "Come watch me get my ass kicked by men in fancy armor."

"I might."

"You will." He said it like it was already decided, so much so, that you almost believed him. Then he bowed, properly this time, deep and formal, and walked away, disappearing back into the crowd.

You stood there for a moment, heart still racing from the dance, or maybe from the way Dalton had looked at you, all that damned confidence and heat and completely unbothered by the surrounding propriety. Your skin still tingled where his hand had been, that deliberate pressure at your waist.

He was handsome. You could admit that, at least to yourself. Rough around the edges in a way that was completely unlike the polished princes and lords you'd grown up around. Dangerous-looking. The kind of man your mother would warn you about. The kind you apparently couldn't stop thinking about for entirely different reasons than you should.

You pressed your fingers to your waist briefly, then dropped your hand. This was stupid. You were being stupid about two different men now, which seemed like an achievement in poor judgment.

When you finally turned to head back to your seat, you found Aegon waiting, leaning against a pillar with that knowing smirk plastered across his face.

"Well," he drawled, pushing off the pillar to stand beside you. "That was something."

"It was a dance."

"That wasn't just a dance." Aegon took a long drink from his cup, eyes gleaming with amusement. "That was him fucking you with your clothes on."

Heat flooded your face. "You're drunk."

"I'm always drunk. Doesn't make me wrong." He gestured with his cup, sloshing wine dangerously close to the rim, toward where Dalton had disappeared into the crowd. "Be careful with that one. He's not like these simpering southern lords. He takes what he wants."

"I'm not."

"I know. I'm just saying." Aegon leaned in closer, lowering his voice even though no one was near enough to hear. "The Red Kraken's got a reputation, and certainly not the fun kind like mine."

You looked back toward where Jace was still dancing with Cassandra, her head thrown back laughing at something he'd said.

"Maybe I need a reputation," you muttered.

Aegon raised his cup. "Now that's the spirit."

"Come on," Aegon said, tugging at your sleeve like a child. "Let's get out of here before someone tries to make us be social again."

"Where are we going?"

"Does it matter?" He was already pulling you toward the edge of the hall.

It didn't, not really. The hall was too hot, too crowded, the air thick with wine and perfume and the cloying smell of too many bodies pressed together. Too many people pretending to be things they weren't. You let Aegon pull you through a side door, the sudden quiet of the corridor making your ears ring.

Down one hallway, then another. Your footsteps echoed off stone. Up a winding staircase, too narrow and steep, the kind that hadn't been used in years. You recognized it dimly as leading to one of the old watchtowers, the ones that overlooked the bay.

"Aegon, we're going to break our necks," you said as he stumbled on a step, catching himself against the wall.

"Good." He kept climbing. "Better than dying of boredom down there."

The tower room at the top was small and forgotten. Dust motes floated in the moonlight streaming through narrow windows. There were  a few old weapons which hung on the walls, all rusted, decorative, and completely useless. The windows looked out over King's Landing, the city spread below like a carpet of flickering lights.

The sounds of the feast were distant here, muffled by layers of stone and height. You could barely hear the music anymore. Just the wind, and the sound of your own breathing still coming fast from the climb.

Aegon collapsed onto a bench beneath one of the windows, wine cup still in hand, sprawling back against the stone. You leaned against the opposite wall, pressing your shoulders into the cool stone. The breeze coming through the window felt good against your flushed skin, cutting through the wine-warm haze in your head.

"This is better," Aegon declared, gesturing broadly with his cup. "Much better. No one up here but us and the ghosts."

"Are there ghosts?"

"Probably." He took another drink, throat working. "Old tower like this? Someone definitely died here. Hopefully doing something more interesting than attending a feast."

You laughed, the sound strange and too loud in the small space, bouncing off stone. Your head was spinning pleasantly, everything soft and blurred at the edges. The wine had settled warm in your stomach, making your limbs feel loose and heavy. You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, your dress pooling around you. The stone was cold against your back even through the silk.

"You danced well with the Kraken," Aegon said after a moment.  His eyes were on you now, sharper than they should be considering how much he'd drunk. "He looked like he wanted to eat you."

"He looked like he wanted to dance."

"Same thing, with that one." Aegon tilted his head, studying you. His usual smirk had faded into something more serious. Almost sober. "Do you like him?"

"I barely know him." You picked at a loose thread on your dress.

"That's not what I asked."

You considered it, head tilted back against the stone. Did you like Dalton Greyjoy? He was attractive, certainly. Bold. Honest in a way that cut through all the bullshit.

"I don't know," you said finally. "Maybe. Does it matter?"

"Suppose not." Aegon was quiet for a moment, swirling the wine in his cup, watching the liquid catch the moonlight in wave-like ripples. Then, without looking at you: "Can I kiss you?"

You blinked, certain you'd misheard. "What?"

"Can I kiss you?" He did look at you now, and there was something almost vulnerable in his expression beneath the wine-flush. "I want to kiss someone. And you're here. And you're pretty. And you won't make it mean something it doesn't."

You should say no. Should laugh it off, make a joke, change the subject. This was Aegon—your cousin, your friend, the perpetually drunk prince who took nothing seriously.

But your head was spinning and your chest still ached from watching Jace with Cassandra, and Dalton's words kept echoing in your mind—life's too fucking short.

"Fuck it," you said, the words coming out steadier than you felt.

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a fuck it." You pushed yourself up slightly, meeting his eyes.

Aegon set his cup down on the bench and stood. He wasn't quite steady on his feet, swaying slightly as he crossed the small space to where you sat against the wall.

You had to tilt your head back to look up at him as he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the wine on his breath, the faint scent of whatever oil he used in his hair. Up close like this, you could see everything. The wine-flush high on his cheekbones, the slightly glazed look in his purple eyes—Targaryen eyes, the same shade as your own. The way his chest rose and fell, breathing faster than the short walk across the room warranted.

He was handsome. The thought came to you clearly, like you were seeing him for the first time. When he wasn't making an ass of himself, when he wasn't performing for the court or drowning in his cups, when you actually looked at him, Aegon was undeniably, unfairly handsome.

"You're sure?" he asked, and his voice had gone quieter. Careful. Like he was giving you one last chance to back out, to laugh this off and pretend it never happened.

Your heart was pounding. "Stop asking and just—"

He dropped to his knees in front of you.

The movement brought him to your level, purple eyes locked on yours. His hand came up, hesitant at first, then surer, cupping your jaw. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, and you realized you were holding your breath.

Then he kissed you.

It was nothing like you'd imagined kissing would be. Not that you'd spent much time imagining it, or maybe you had, late at night, alone in your bed, but those fantasies had been vague and shapeless. This was real. This was Aegon's mouth on yours, warm and wine-sweet and surprisingly gentle. His other hand found your waist, steadying himself, or maybe steadying you.

For a moment, you froze. Didn't know what to do with your hands, with your mouth, with any of it. Then something in you gave way. Your hands came up to grip his shoulders, solid, real, there and you kissed him back.

Aegon kissed like he did everything else, without any restraint, without second thoughts, just pure unfiltered fucking want. His mouth was hot against yours, tasting like wine and something hungrier, and his hands cupped your face like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. He pressed closer, and you made a sound, and his tongue swept into your mouth.

Oh.

Your hands gripped shoulders because you needed something to hold onto, needed to ground yourself before you floated away entirely. He was solid under your grip, all lean muscle and warmth, so much warmer than you'd expected. When he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, to take more, something low in your belly clenched hard enough to hurt. 

This was wrong. This was Aegon. Your cousin. Your friend who you'd watched get drunk at a hundred feasts, who you'd laughed with and plotted with and shared secrets with. Who you'd never, not once, not ever, thought of like this.

But his mouth was moving against yours with a desperate kind of hunger, and his hands had slid from your face down to your waist, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, pulled you against him. And your body was a traitor. Heat was pooling between your thighs, your breath coming in short gasps, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his doublet like you needed him closer, needed more.

One of his hands moved lower, gripping your hip, and you gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, kissed you harder, like he wanted to crawl inside you.

When he finally pulled back, breaking the kiss to breathe, forehead pressed against yours, you were both panting. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his lips were red and swollen.

"Well," Aegon said, his voice rougher than usual. "That was—"

You blinked at him, trying to catch your breath. His breath warm against your lips. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing along your jaw in a way that made your knees weak. 

"I'd like to do that again," he murmured, and there was something in his voice, something hungry and real beneath the usual bravado.

Your heart was pounding. His thumb was still moving against your skin, slow and deliberate, and you could feel the heat of him everywhere he touched. He was everywhere at once, and for the first time in your life you weren't looking at your cousin Aegon, you were staring at someone with pure, unfiltered want.

"Yes," you breathed.

He kissed you again—harder this time, more certain. His hand tightened on your waist, yanking you fully against him, and you could feel everything. The hard planes of his chest, the lean muscle of his thighs, and—gods—the unmistakable ridge of his cock pressed against your hip through layers of silk and leather.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding hot and slick against yours. His hips rolled forward, slow, deliberate and the pressure of him grinding against you sent heat shooting straight between your legs.

Your knees actually went weak. If he wasn't holding you up, you'd have collapsed.

Your hands found his hair—silver silk between your fingers—and you pulled. Hard. He groaned, deep and guttural, and ground against you harder in response. You could feel yourself getting wet, the slick heat gathering between your thighs, soaking through your smallclothes. The knowledge that he was hard, that you'd made him hard, made you clench around nothing.

"Fuck," Aegon panted against your mouth before his lips dragged to your jaw, your throat. His hand slid down from your waist to your ass, gripping hard, pulling you tighter against him. "Fuck, you taste so good. Smell good. Feel so fucking good."

He thrust his hips forward again, the thick length of him dragging against your belly, and you both made sounds that were almost pained. 

You should stop this. Should push him away before this went too far. This was Aegon, your cousin, your friend who you'd grown up with—

His teeth scraped the sensitive spot below your ear and you whimpered. Actually whimpered like something desperate and needy, your hips rolling forward to meet his next thrust without your permission.

"That's it," he breathed against your skin, doing it again, sucking a mark into your throat that you'd have to hide tomorrow. His hand on your ass squeezed, angling you so when he ground forward again, the pressure hit directly against your aching cunt. "Gods, feel what you do to me? Feel how hard I am for you?"

"Aegon," you started, voice breaking, but you couldn't finish because he was kissing you again, deeper, filthier, his tongue fucking into your mouth while one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat and the other kept your hips pinned against his.

He found a rhythm now, rolling his hips against yours in steady, deliberate thrusts that had you panting into his mouth. Each movement dragged the hard length of his cock against you, the friction even through all the layers making you want to scream, want to hike up your skirts and feel him properly, skin to skin, want things you'd never let yourself want before.

You rolled your hips back, meeting him, matching his rhythm, and he groaned like you'd hurt him.

"Fuck, yes," he panted. "Just like that. Gods, you're so, I can feel how wet you are even through—"

He thrust harder, and you felt it, the heat of him, the thick ridge of his cock grinding directly against your clit through the soaked silk between your legs. The sensation made white spots burst behind your eyelids.

This wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet or romantic or any of the things you'd imagined in your naive fantasies. This was pure animal want, raw and desperate and hungry. Fueled by too much wine and too many things neither of you wanted to think about. His body moving against yours like he wanted to crawl inside you, like he couldn't get close enough even though you were pressed together so tightly you could barely breathe.

Your hand slid down from his hair to his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath your palm, then lower, reaching between your bodies toward the hard heat of him—

He caught your wrist. Held it. Both of you froze, breathing hard, hips still pressed flush together.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, flushed, his hair completely destroyed from your hands and your lips kiss-swollen and red, Aegon let out a shaky laugh against your neck.

"Gods," he breathed, forehead pressed to your shoulder. You could still feel him hard against your hip, could feel the answering wetness between your own legs. "We're idiots."

"Probably," you managed, your voice coming out hoarse. Wrecked.

"Definitely." But he wasn't pulling away. His hands were still on you, his body still pressed close, and you could feel him, still hard, maybe harder, against your hip. The evidence of what you'd just done. What you'd almost done. "This is a terrible idea."

"The worst."

"We should stop."

"We should." But your fingers were still twisted in his doublet.

His hand flexed on your hip, thumb pressing into the bone. "One more?"

You pulled him down by his hair and kissed him again. This time there was no hesitation. There was no pretense of this being innocent or simple. Just heat and hunger and his hands sliding down to grip your ass through your skirts, hauling you against him so hard you felt the breath leave your lungs.

You could feel the thick, insistent pressure of his cock grinding against your belly. He rolled his hips, slow and filthy, and you whimpered into his mouth. You wanted release.

"Fuck," he groaned against your lips. "You're going to kill me."

Your back hit the wall—you didn't even remember moving—and suddenly he had leverage. His thigh pushed between yours, spreading your legs, and when he ground forward this time the friction was devastating. The hard muscle of his thigh pressed directly against your cunt through the layers of silk, and you were so wet you knew he could feel it, knew the fabric had to be soaked through.

"Oh gods," you gasped, head falling back against the stone.

Aegon's mouth was on your neck immediately, sucking hard enough to mark, teeth scraping. His hands gripped your ass, pulling you down harder onto his thigh, helping you grind against him.

"That's it," he panted against your throat, moving his leg in rhythm with your desperate rolling hips. "Fuck, you're so wet. I can feel you through everything. Can feel how much you want this."

You should care about the bruises he was leaving. Should worry about questions and propriety and what this meant. You didn't care at all. You just needed more, more, and more.

"Aegon," you gasped, and his name coming out of your mouth broken and desperate seemed to undo something in him.

He kissed you again, dirty and deep and filthy, all tongue and teeth, while his hips pressed forward, grinding his cock against your hip in time with how you were riding his thigh. One hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back so he could kiss you deeper, the other still gripping your arse and guiding your movements.

"Could fuck you right here," he groaned into your mouth, hips thrusting harder. "Pull up these skirts, sink into you against this wall. You'd let me, wouldn't you? You're so fucking wet you'd take me easy."

The image, Aegon inside you, filling you, fucking you against cold, dirty stone, made you moan and grind down harder. You were drowning in sensation, the taste of wine on his tongue, the heat of his body burning through the fabric, the devastating pressure between your legs, the thick hardness of him grinding against your hip.

"Yes," you heard yourself gasp. "Yes, Seven Hells."

Reality as sudden as a wave crashing against rock, rippled back through you.

What the fuck were you two doing? What were you saying?

You must have tensed because Aegon pulled back, really pulled back this time, stepping away and putting actual space between your bodies. The loss of contact left you cold and aching. You were both wrecked. His lips were swollen and red, his hair completely destroyed, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black. There was a wet spot on his thigh from you. You could see the obvious bulge straining against his breeches.

You probably looked worse. Your lips tender and kiss-bitten, your smallclothes absolutely ruined.

"Yes. Back. To the feast." He ran both hands through his hair, dragging it back from his face, somehow making it look even more fucked. "Where we've been having perfectly appropriate cousin conversations."

"Very appropriate."

"The most appropriate." But he was looking at you like he wanted to shove you back against that wall and finish what you'd started. His eyes dragged down your body, lingering on your swollen lips, the marks on your neck, the wrinkled silk of your dress, before snapping back up. "Fuck, your hair's a complete disaster."

"So is yours."

"I'm always a mess. You're supposed to be the put-together one." He reached out, fingers trembling slightly as he tried to tuck a few loose strands back into place. The touch was gentle now, almost tender, so different from five minutes ago when he'd been fisting his hand in it and pulling. "There. Almost presentable."

You caught his wrist, held it. His pulse was still racing under your fingers. "Aegon, please."

"Don't." He pulled away, stepped back entirely, hands dropping to his sides and curling into fists like he didn't trust himself not to reach for you again. "Don't make it something. It was just—we're drunk. That's all."

"Right. Drunk."

"Very drunk." He looked around, spotted his abandoned wine cup on the bench, picked it up and stared at it like he'd forgotten what it was for. Then set it back down. "We should go. Before I do something even stupider."

"Like what?"

His eyes met yours, and they were still dark. Still wanting. His gaze dropped to your mouth. "Don't ask questions you don't want answered, cousin."

Your breath caught. Heat pooled low in your belly again, that ache between your legs flaring back to life.

He saw it on your face—saw the want there—and made a pained sound. "Gods, don't look at me like that. We need to leave. Now."

"Okay," you managed.

"Okay." But he didn't move. Just stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, hands still clenched at his sides.

Finally, with visible effort, he offered you his arm, the gesture exaggerated and courtly in a way that didn't quite hide how badly his hand was shaking. "Come on. Let's go back before someone sends a search party and finds us looking like we've been—" He stopped and swallowed hard. "Just. Let's go."

You took his arm, fingers wrapping around his forearm, and you could feel the tension in him. The muscles were tight, coiled, like he was holding himself back. Together you made your way back down the winding stairs. The descent was precarious,  both of you still drunk, still unsteady, but now for different reasons. Your legs felt weak. You could feel the slickness between your thighs with every step, a constant reminder of how close you'd come to, god, fucking your cousin. The cousin that was right there, is still right there. 

You stumbled on a step and Aegon caught you, arm wrapping around your waist to steady you. The touch lasted a second too long. His fingers pressed into your hip,  right where he'd gripped you before and you both froze.

"Careful," he said roughly, then let go like you'd burned him.

"Are we going to be weird about this?" you asked as you reached the bottom, voices from the feast growing louder.

"Are you?"

"No."

"Then neither am I." He squeezed your hand where it rested on his arm, the pressure firm and grounding. "It was just kissing. Doesn't have to mean anything."

"Doesn't have to mean anything," you repeated.

Liar, something whispered in the back of your mind. You could still feel him hard against you. Could still hear him saying he wanted to fuck you against the wall. Could still taste wine on your tongue. But when you made it back through the side door, slipping into the edges of the feast and immediately caught sight of Jace across the hall, still with Cassandra, his head bent close to hers as she whispered something in his ear, and you felt that familiar twist of want and jealousy knife through your chest.

And beneath it, something new. Something confusing.

The memory of Aegon's mouth on yours. His hands on your body, gripping and pulling and claiming. The way he'd made you forget everything else, forget Jace, forget propriety, forget your own name, for those few desperate moments.

And worse of all, the way you'd liked it.

You slipped away from Aegon as soon as you entered the hall, murmuring something about needing the privy. In truth, you needed a moment. Needed to look at yourself, assess the damage. Your chambers weren't far. You practically ran there, heart still pounding, skin still flushed.

Your ladies were waiting, they'd been dismissed earlier but Lysa had stayed, dozing in a chair by the fire. She jolted awake when you burst in.

"My lady! Are you—" Her eyes went wide, taking in your disheveled hair, your swollen lips, the very obvious marks blooming purple on your throat. "Oh."

"I need—" You gestured helplessly at your neck. "Can you please?"

"Of course." But she was grinning as she hurried to mix a paste, calling for Maryse and Elaena.

They appeared quickly, and the moment they saw you, the reaction was immediate.

"Ohhhhh," Maryse breathed, eyes sparkling with delight.

"My lady!" Elaena giggled, pressing her hands to her mouth.

"Don't," you warned, but you could feel yourself flushing deeper.

"Was he handsome?" Lysa asked, dabbing the paste carefully on your neck to lighten the marks. It wouldn't hide them completely, but it would help.

"I'm not discussing this."

"Ohhhhh, he was," Maryse decided, starting to fix your hair with deft fingers. "Look how red she is."

"Was it romantic?" Elaena asked dreamily, adjusting your dress, smoothing the wrinkles.

"It was—" You stopped. What could you even say? "It was nothing. Too much wine."

All three of them made knowing sounds, soft "mmhmms" and "of courses" that said they didn't believe you for a second.

The rest of the night blurred together in a haze of wine and music and laughter. You danced with Aemond, too stiff and proper, unlike his brother, but surprisingly skilled. He didn't speak much, just guided you through the steps like an ever-so-graceful swan, his one good eye tracking everything in the hall like he was cataloging threats.

"You're drunk," he observed.

"Very."

"Good. You're less insufferable when you're drunk.”

"You're a delight as always, cousin."

His lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile you'd ever seen from him. "Enjoy your evening, Princess."

Then Daemon cut in, stealing you mid-step with the kind of casual arrogance only he could manage.

"Having fun?" he asked, spinning you perhaps a bit too fast.

"Trying to."

"That Greyjoy boy's been watching you all night." Daemon's grin was sharp. "Wondering if he's going to do something stupid."

"Aren't we all doing something stupid tonight?"

"Fair point." He laughed, and for a moment you could see why Rhaenyra loved him despite everything. "Don't get yourself killed, niece. Your aunt would be very put out."

"I'll do my best."

Even Rhaenyra danced with you—a slower song, her hands gentle as she guided you through it.

"You look happy," she said softly. "That's good. I worry about you sometimes."

"I'm fine, Your Grace."

"Rhaenyra," she corrected. "When it's just us, I'm Rhaenyra. Your aunt who loves you."

The wine made your eyes sting. "I love you too."

She pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Go enjoy yourself. You're young. These nights don't come often enough."

So you did. You drank more wine, letting the warmth of it blur the edges of everything. Danced with lords whose names you didn't remember and didn't care to learn. Laughed at Aegon's increasingly ridiculous jokes, though you were careful not to stand too close to him, careful not to let your eyes linger.

Every time you saw him across the hall, you remembered. His mouth on yours. His hands gripping your ass. The way he'd ground against you like he couldn't help himself. The things he'd said, could fuck you right here, that still made heat pool between your legs when you thought about them.

And every time you saw Jace, still orbiting Cassandra Baratheon like she was the sun and he was caught in her gravity, you felt that sick twist of jealousy. But now it was complicated by guilt. By confusion. You'd dry-humped Aegon in a tower. You'd been ready to let him fuck you against a wall. And part of you had liked it. Had liked the way he looked at you like you were something he desperately wanted. Had liked feeling wanted, period.

But you still couldn't stop watching Jace. Couldn't stop wondering what his hands would feel like instead of Aegon's. Couldn't stop thinking about the hole in your wall and the things you'd seen through it.

You were a mess. A complete disaster of a person. So you drank more. Let yourself forget, just for a few hours, about holes in walls and wanting things you couldn't have and the fact that you'd apparently developed an extremely inconvenient attraction to not one but two of your cousins.

By the time you decided to retire, the hall was spinning pleasantly and your feet ached from dancing. You waved off your ladies, they were enjoying themselves too, giggling with guards and flirting with servants and made your way through the corridors alone.

The castle was a maze at the best of times. Drunk, it was nearly impossible.

You climbed stairs, turned down hallways, all of it familiar but also somehow wrong. Your chambers should be here? No, maybe down this corridor. Or was it the other way?

Finally, you found a door that looked right. The wood was the same, the handle in the same place. Close enough. You pushed it open, stumbled inside, and didn't bother with candles. The room was dark and quiet. Just kicked off your slippers, fumbled with the laces of your gown until they loosened enough to breathe, and collapsed onto the bed.

The sheets smelled clean. Felt soft. Maybe a bit different than usual but your wine-soaked brain didn't care enough to question it. Good enough, you didn’t give a god’s damn.

You were asleep before your head fully hit the pillow.

Jacaerys was tired, wine-warm, and ready for bed when he finally escaped the feast.

Cassandra had wanted him to stay longer, had made that very clear with the way her hand kept finding his arm, the lingering touches, the invitations in her eyes that he'd politely ignored. He'd begged off with excuses about an early morning. The tournaments started tomorrow, and he needed at least a few hours of sleep before climbing into armor and trying not to get killed in front of the entire court.

He climbed the stairs to his chambers, his thoughts already on collapsing into bed. Maybe he'd been too indulgent tonight. Too much wine, too much dancing, too much of Cassandra's cloying perfume that now clung to his clothes and made his head ache.

He pushed open his door, stepped inside, and froze.

Someone was in his bed.

His hand went to the dagger at his belt, pure instinct, trained response, his body tensing as his eyes fought to adjust to the darkness. The figure was small, curled on their side facing away from him. Too small to be a real threat. Too still.

Then he saw the hair. Silver. Spilling across his pillows, catching what little light came through the window. Long and unbound, the way he'd never seen it during the day when it was always properly pinned and braided.

His heart stopped. Started again, too fast.

It was you.

"What the—" The words died in his throat. He stood there, hand still on his dagger, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

You were in his bed. His bed. Fast asleep from the look of it, your breathing deep and even, completely unaware of his presence. Jace's eyes adjusted further, and he could make out more details now. Your slippers discarded on the floor near the foot of the bed. Your gown was unlaced and loose around your body.

Very loose. His breath caught as his gaze traced the line of your form. You'd clearly tried to unlace the gown yourself, drunk fingers fumbling with the ties, getting it open enough to breathe easier before collapsing into bed. But you'd only managed to loosen it, not remove it, and now the fabric had shifted in your sleep.

The neckline had slipped down your shoulder. Lower. Low enough that he could see—

Jace's mouth went dry. Your breast. Half of it bare, skin luminous in the moonlight, the curve of it visible where the silk had fallen away. If you shifted even slightly, if the fabric slipped just a bit more… stop, stop right fucking  now. 

He looked away quickly, heat flooding his face, his chest, lower. His heart was hammering now.

Don't look. Don't be that person. She's asleep. She's drunk. She doesn't even know where she is.

But his eyes were drawn back like a lodestone to true north.

Your leg had escaped the tangle of silk too. One bare leg stretched out across his sheets, the gown rucked up to mid-thigh, higher on the side where you'd rolled slightly forward in sleep. Smooth skin, the elegant line of your calf, the curve of your knee. If he looked, and gods help him, he was looking, he could see almost to your hip where the fabric had bunched.

He could see the shadow between your thighs. Jace's cock stirred in his breeches, and he felt shame burn through him immediately after.

Stop. Stop looking at her like this.

But he couldn't move. Couldn't look away. You were sprawled across his bed like some kind of vision, your lips were parted slightly, your breathing deep and peaceful. You looked nothing like the proper, put-together princess he saw every day. Nothing like his cousin who barely spoke to him, who avoided his eyes at dinner, who seemed to go out of her way not to be alone with him.

You looked undone and vulnerable. Beautiful in a way that made his chest ache and his blood run hot.

He took a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Until he was standing beside the bed, looking down at you.

This close, he could see more. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, your bare chest, your nipple was just barely hidden by a fold of silk, the fabric draped across it so precariously that each breath threatened to expose you completely.

Jace's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His breathing had gone shallow.

What was wrong with him? This was you. His cousin. A princess. A woman who clearly had no idea where she was or what she looked like right now. And he was standing here staring at you like some kind of pervert, getting hard while you slept completely unaware.

He needed to—he should—

Wake you. Get you back to your chambers. Cover you with a blanket at the very least. Do something other than stand here like an idiot with his cock half-hard and his mind conjuring images of what it would be like to slip into that bed beside you, to pull you against him, to—

No.

He forced himself to step back. To look away. To think like a rational person instead of a man who'd drunk too much wine and found a beautiful woman in his bed. You shifted in your sleep, making a small sound and rolled slightly onto your back.

The movement made everything worse. The gown slipped further. Your breast was fully exposed now, pale and perfect in the moonlight. He could see your nipple, could see the way it had hardened slightly in the cool air of the room. The silk had ridden up higher on your leg too, and now he could see the dark shadow at the apex of your thighs. Gods.

Were you even wearing anything under that gown?

Jace turned away sharply, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes like he could scrub the image from his mind. His cock was fully hard now, straining against his breeches, and he felt like the worst kind of person. You were drunk. Asleep. Completely vulnerable. And here he was getting hard looking at you, thinking thoughts he had absolutely no right to think.

He needed to cover you. That was the first thing. Before he did anything else—before he even tried to figure out what to do about this situation—he needed to make you decent.

Jace grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, hands shaking slightly, and carefully, so carefully, draped it over you. He tried not to look. Tried not to let his eyes linger on all that bare skin before the fabric covered it.

He failed. The image was burned into his mind now. Your breast. Your leg. The shadow between your thighs. The way you looked spread out in his bed like some kind of offering.

Stop it. She's your cousin. She's drunk. This is wrong.

But his body didn't care about wrong. His body only knew that you were here, barely clothed, looking like every fantasy he'd never let himself have. And you had been a fantasy. He could admit that now, alone in the dark with you unconscious and unaware. He'd noticed you. Had tried not to, had told himself it was inappropriate, but he'd noticed. The way you moved. The rare times you smiled. The intelligence in your eyes during council meetings when you thought no one was watching you listen.

He'd just never let himself think about it. About you. Not like that. Now he couldn't think about anything else.

Jace ran both hands through his hair, gripping it hard enough to hurt, trying to ground himself. Trying to think. Okay, good. You were covered now. That was good. Next step was to figure out what the fuck to do.

He should wake you. Should get you back to your own chambers before anyone found out you'd spent the night here. Before servants came in the morning and saw you in his bed. The scandal alone would destroy you. Would destroy any chance you had at a good marriage, would ruin your reputation entirely.

He couldn't let that happen. But waking you meant... what exactly? Touching you? Shaking your shoulder? Explaining that you'd drunkenly stumbled into the wrong room and passed out half-naked in your cousin's bed?

Gods, you'd be mortified.

Maybe it was better to just let you sleep. You were clearly exhausted, clearly drunk enough that you'd mistaken his chambers for yours. In the morning, when you woke, he could pretend he'd just arrived. Could act surprised to find you there. Give you a chance to slip out quietly, save you the embarrassment of a confrontation.

Yes. That was better. Kinder. It had nothing to do with wanting to keep you here a little longer. Nothing to do with the selfish, possessive part of him that liked seeing you in his bed, wrapped in his blankets, surrounded by his scent.

Liar, something whispered in the back of his mind.

Jace ignored it. He'd sleep somewhere else. The chairs by the fire, maybe. Or, there, is eyes landed on the small couch in the corner near the window. It looked deeply uncomfortable, probably meant for sitting and reading rather than sleeping, but it would have to do. He couldn't exactly climb into bed next to you. That would be, well, he didn't let himself finish that thought.

Decision made, he moved quietly toward the corner, trying not to make any noise that might wake you. He'd need to grab a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed, maybe a pillow. 

Something caught his eye. A small gap in the wall near the floor in the corner. He'd never noticed it before, why would he? It was just a shadow among shadows, easy to miss. But now, looking directly at it, he could see it clearly.

A hole. Small, where the mortar had crumbled away between the stones. Jace frowned, crouching down to examine it. Old damage. The kind of thing that happened in castles this ancient, centuries of settling stone.

He should probably mention it to someone. Get it sealed up. Curious, he leaned closer, peering through the narrow gap to see where it led.

His breath caught. It was a room. Your room.

He could see the edge of a bed with a distinctive purple coverlet—the same one he'd seen when he'd accidentally walked in on you in your bath. A dressing table with jewelry scattered across its surface, glinting in the moonlight. Books stacked on a side table. A carved wooden screen positioned in the corner, partially obscuring his view but not completely.

The hole looked directly into your private chambers.

Jace sat back slowly, his heart starting to pound for entirely different reasons now.

This gap in the wall—it went straight through to your room. A perfect line of sight from his corner to yours. Which meant theoretically, someone could look through it. Could see into your private space. Watch you dress, sleep, bathe, lord knows what else.

His jaw clenched hard, a surge of protective anger rising in his chest. Had some servant discovered this? Some guard with ill intentions? The thought of someone watching you while you were vulnerable, unaware, made his blood run hot.

But then again you'd never mentioned it. Never complained about feeling watched or unsafe. Never called for anyone to repair the wall. Which meant either you didn't know about it.

Or you did know, and you'd chosen not to say anything.

Jace turned slowly to look at you, sleeping peacefully in his bed, utterly unaware of his racing thoughts.

The hole was low in his corner. Easy to miss unless you were looking for it, unless you happened to be right here in this spot. But on your side you'd have that screen. Would have moved it at some point, maybe looking for something, and found the gap.

Would have realized where it led. His heart was pounding now, thoughts spiraling.

No. That was insane. You wouldn't. You barely looked at him most days, avoided him at meals, seemed to go out of your way not to be alone with him. But you'd also been acting strange lately. He'd noticed it, couldn't help but notice. The way you flushed when he was near. How you avoided his eyes, like looking at him directly was too much.

And this morning. Gods, this morning when he'd walked in on you in your bath. You'd screamed, yes, but there had been something else in your expression. Something beyond just shock. You'd looked almost guilty, almost. At the time he'd thought he was imagining it. Had assumed you were just mortified at being seen naked. But what if it was more than that?

What if you'd been watching him through this hole, and suddenly he'd burst into your room, and you'd realized how close he was to discovering your secret?

Jace's breath came faster. He thought back over the past few days. The way you'd been flushed at dinner after he'd brought that woman back to his chambers. The way you couldn't meet his eyes the next morning. How you'd seemed distracted, distant, like your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Had you been watching him fuck her? The thought should have made him angry. Should have felt like a violation, an invasion of his privacy.

Instead, heat shot straight to his groin.

His cock, which had softened slightly while he'd been trying to figure out the logistics of where to sleep, was suddenly achingly hard again. He pressed the heel of his hand against his cock through his breeches, trying to will it down, but it was useless. The image was in his head now and wouldn't leave.

You. On the other side of that wall. Eye pressed to the gap. Watching him with some nameless woman, watching him fuck her, watching every thrust and hearing every sound.

Getting wet while you watched.

Fuck. Because you would have, wouldn't you? If you'd been watching—and gods, everything pointed to you watching—you wouldn't have kept coming back to that hole unless it was doing something for you. Unless seeing him like that, uninhibited and raw, was turning you on.

His proper, untouchable cousin. Getting yourself off while spying on him through a crack in the wall. Jace's hand tightened involuntarily on his cock and he had to bite back a groan.

He looked at you again, sleeping peacefully in his bed, completely unaware that he'd figured it out. That he knew. How many times? How many times had you watched him?

That first woman, the dark-haired serving girl. Had you seen that? Seen him bend her over the bed, seen the way he'd made her moan? And the one after. The minor lady whose name he'd already forgotten. Had you watched him spread her legs and bury his face between her thighs?

Gods, had you touched yourself while you watched? Slipped your hand beneath your nightgown, fingers finding your clit while you watched him make other women come? His cock throbbed and he had to close his eyes, had to breathe through the wave of lust that crashed over him.

This was wrong. He shouldn't be thinking about you like this. Shouldn't be getting hard imagining you watching him, wanting him, touching yourself to the sight of him with other women.

But he couldn't stop. Because if you had been watching—and everything in him said you had been—what did that mean?

It meant you wanted him. Maybe didn't want to want him, maybe fought against it, but you did. Why else would you keep going back to that hole? Why else would you watch him fuck other women if not because you wished it was you?

The thought made him harder, made pre-cum leak from the tip of his cock, dampening his smallclothes. He tried to remember the past few nights, tried to think through the wine-haze of who he'd brought back and when.

 He'd also been with Cassandra. Right here in this room, in this bed where you were sleeping now.

Had you watched that? His breath came out shaky. He'd been showing off tonight, he could admit that now. Cassandra had been impressed by his title, his dragon, the crown he'd someday wear. She'd made that clear. And maybe he'd wanted to impress her in other ways too. Had made it last longer than usual, had made sure she came twice before he'd let himself finish.

Had you been on the other side of that wall, watching him with her? Watching him kiss her, touch her, spread her legs in this very bed? Watching while your heart twisted with jealousy?

The idea shouldn't thrill him as much as it did.

Jace pressed his palm hard against his cock, trying to calm down, trying to think past the lust fogging his brain. His hand came away damp, he was leaking badly now, his cock throbbing with need.

Stop. Get yourself under control.

He forced himself to breathe. Slow, deep breaths. Forced himself to look away from you sleeping in his bed, tangled in his sheets, still half-exposed despite the blanket he'd draped over you.

This was insane. He was standing here hard as iron, thinking about his cousin watching him fuck other women, getting off on the idea of you wanting him. He needed to calm down. Needed to think rationally about what this meant and what, if anything, he was going to do about it.

Jace forced himself to turn away from you entirely. Grabbed the blanket he'd originally intended to use and moved to the couch in the corner, as far from the bed as he could get in the confines of his own chambers. He stretched out on the too-small surface, the blanket pulled up to his chin, and willed his body to calm down. Willed his cock to soften. Tried to think about anything other than you watching him through that hole.

It didn't work.

Every time he closed his eyes, his mind conjured images. You with your eye pressed to the gap. Your hand sliding beneath your nightgown. Your lips parting as you watched him fuck someone else, wishing it was you. His cock throbbed, still achingly hard, and he shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

This was impossible. He couldn't sleep like this. Couldn't lie here all night with his cock straining against his breeches and you barely ten feet away, half-naked in his bed. He sat up, running both hands through his hair in frustration.

He needed to leave. Needed to get out of this room before he did something monumentally stupid. Like climb into that bed with you. Like wake you up and ask if you'd been watching. Like find out what sounds you'd make if he gave you something real to watch.

Fuck.

Jace stood, moving as quietly as possible, and grabbed his cloak from where it hung by the door. The Street of Silk would still be busy at this hour. He could find someone, anyone, to take the edge off. To fuck this desperate need out of his system so he could think clearly.

He paused at the door, looking back at you one more time. You'd shifted again in your sleep, the blanket slipping down to your waist. Your silver hair spilled across his pillows like you belonged there.

Tomorrow. He'd deal with all of this tomorrow. Would help you back to your chambers, act like the perfect gentleman. Would decide what, if anything, to do about that hole in the wall.

But tonight, he needed to leave before he lost what little control he had left. Jace slipped out into the corridor, closing the door softly behind him, and headed for the castle gates.