and they were roommates

WEEK ONE.

You noticed the intricacies of their dynamic almost immediately. It was not necessarily hard to miss, not even for the feeblest of minds. Anyone who had spent an hour in the presence of Cregan Stark knew he was a man of few words, with a disposition as icy as his homeland. There were very few things that brought him joy, and even fewer that brought him visible joy.

Jacaerys was one of those things. At his welcome feast, your husband had sat at the front of the room, you at his left, your guest of honor on his right. Feasts were only your strong suit in the planning stage. You ran the household in a highly organized manner and had mobilized the entire castle in preparing for Jacaerys’ welcome. Once the event came, however, you were happy to fade into the background. You were sure others would be happy too.

Tonight, all eyes would be on your visitor. To honor the occasion, you had worn one of your finer gowns for the affair—a warm, heavy silver gown with deep purple embroidery, displaying the joined colors of yours and your husband’s houses.

It was no surprise to you that the prince was happy to lap this attention up. He was heir to the Iron Throne, of course. He had been primed for all eyes pinned on him since birth. He radiated light—a light so bright it was contagious, transmittable only to your husband. 

In the two years of your marriage, you had learned one thing: smiling was rare. It was rare between the two of you, but the absence of a smile did not mean he was displeased with you–a trait you had struggled to cope with in the early days of your union. Cregan was naturally stoic and spent most of his time preoccupied with matters of state and the Wall. His brow and lip were always turned downwards. The weight of responsibility made it hard to do otherwise.

When he smiled, it was small, or it was the consequence of a gentle laugh. It happened most often when he was tired, when he had just woken up, when he was sated, or when he was full of love. They rarely lasted. He would fall asleep or get up, and you would be left trying hopelessly to render the moment immobile.

Smiling from Cregan was rarest in front of everyone. He was a master of composure, born from years of projecting security and worthiness of his claim to be Lord of Winterfell. Jokes did nothing. He did not sing songs with the rest of his men. Cups loosened his shoulders, but not his lips. Not until after he was back in your bedchamber.

And yet, when he stood to make a toast, he smiled graciously. A hush fell over the room as he loomed over the guests of the hall. An unexpected sight indeed.

Some would suspect flattery—but this was Winterfell, not Highgarden. Northerners were hardly men of lip service. Others would suspect graciousness—no, Cregan Stark did not need to flatter his guest, but he did need to show the Prince of Dragonstone that he was welcome in the North.

That would leave only honest, unabashed happiness. From Cregan Stark. Warden of the North. Something few expected. And while you knew the prince was one of your husband’s favorite people, you couldn’t have expected that he would be smiling at his welcome feast during his toast.

“To all gathered here tonight,” Cregan’s voice boomed across the hall, “Let us all raise a toast to our prince, and to his mother. Treat him as you would your fellow Northerner in these coming weeks. Drink, eat, rejoice. Long live the queen!”

“Long live the queen!”

Cups were raised to the future king and his mother. Ensuing cups were filled, and refilled. Once he sat down, Cregan seemed content to sit between his wife and his prince and let them lead the conversation. Jacaerys was incredibly easy to speak to. He regaled you with tales of his correspondence with Cregan, life on Dragonstone, his childhood in the Red Keep. Every now and then, Cregan would interject, with a comment, a rebuttal, or an inside joke, which would send Jace into fits of laughter, especially as the prince sank deeper and deeper into his cups.

Cregan and you continued drinking too, albeit Cregan handled his wine far better than you and Jace. Not that he was impossible to sink. You could see his eyelids growing heavy, his shoulders dropping the tension, his body settling into his chair as the night progressed. Your laughter grew higher in pitch and frequency. The hall was warm and welcoming, something rarely felt this intensely in your home. While you had grown to love Winterfell over the past few years, you knew that its doors opened this widely for a very precious few. This was a welcome that had to be earned.

The party remained lively. The singers took up a spot in a far corner of the room, and the men took women into their arms to prance about the open space.

“Do you indulge Lady Y/N in dance at these feasts often, Cregan?” Jacaerys asked, and you stifled a laugh. 

“He would sooner take the black,” You joked, “And besides, Cregan is a fine warrior, but a terrible dancer.”

Cregan raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “I’m glad you find this insufficiency of mine humorous, wife,” He conceded, before looking at Jacaerys, “I seem to recall you are fond of dancing.”

You smiled, looking at the prince gleefully. “You dance?”

He bobbed his head up and down, noncommittal in his answer. “I wouldn’t call myself a dancer, necessarily. I’ve learned the dances at court.” His expression turned smug. “I am certainly more capable than he is.”

Cregan scoffed, shaking his head. “I should have pledged for Aegon. Look at how you repay me.”

You stiffened at Cregan’s remark, only to relax when Jace burst out laughing. Cregan’s eyes were warm. Swallowing down your nervousness, your gaze flickered between them both. The Year of Tension—the final year of the late King Viserys’s life, and the two moons following his death where the realm teetered between peace and war—had been three years past now. Many still grew awkward when discussing the crisis of succession. Evidently, not Jace, who scoffed right back at your husband.

“And then what?” Jace quipped, “Vermax was right there. We would have made you the warmest Northerner in the history of the Seven Kingdoms.”

The prince moved his eyes back to you. “Come, my lady,” He said, standing and extending a hand, “If my friend will not indulge you in a dance before the night is over, then the pleasure shall be mine.”

You looked at his hand, and recognized a scar matching your husband’s. He led you to the dance floor, with no protests from Cregan. He seemed to watch you both with a deep interest. Jace faced you, and allowed you to come to him. One hand placed itself on his shoulder, and when you lifted your palm, he brought his to yours. A moment later, his hand landed on your waist, a gracious and polite distance between you both. A moment later, the music began.

“Are you happy to be back in the North?” You asked, beginning to move in tandem with him. Jace smiled.

“I am. It is an honor to be received in such a way, especially as an outsider.” 

He said outsider the way most Northerners said it. Like an insult. 

“You understand, yes?”

Shrugging as best as you could amidst the dance, you had to agree. “Many had their doubts when I wed Cregan. That the only woman suitable for Cregan Stark could be one bred by the North. Some were particularly vocal. To some, I’m a Northerner now. I’ve slowly started to think of myself as a Northerner. My children will be Northerners someday, and I will die in the North, most like.”

You paused, thinking about the friction you still came face to face with. “But some will always consider me to be an outsider. It can be admirable, I suppose. How united they are. Gods know they could use the unity down in the Riverlands.”

“Do you miss it?” He asked, breaking eye contact briefly to eye his feet. “Cregan told me you kept the Seven after your marriage. I imagine it must get lonely.”

“It can be.” You did the same, looking down at where your feet fit in between his as the dance continued. “But I am grateful. Many a husband would have demanded I take their gods instead. Not only did he welcome me to keep mine, but he has repurposed use a room in the southern wing of the castle as a room of worship. My own personal sept, if you will.”

“Do you keep a septon?”

“No,” You replied, almost sad, “There are few willing to make the long journey, only fewer wishing to preach to only one. Some visit, and stay for some moons. Not many.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Jace nodded affirmingly. “I can see to it personally that one be stationed here at Winterfell, if you would like.”

Immediately, you shook your head. “This is the North,” You said resolutely, “Ultimately, I must respect their customs. The servants in the castle are wary of the septons when they visit—they are wont to preach. I’m sure you know.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I do. My brother Lucerys and I were often on the receiving end of the preaching, when we were boys in the Red Keep.”

You smiled at the newfound warmth on his face, different from the happiness at being in Winterfell. A vicarious pride, happy to gush about his family. “How is your brother?”

Jace beamed, ever the proud eldest son. “Luke is well, thank you for asking. He’s soon to be seven and ten, and is likely a constant in the hearts of the young ladies at court. He spends most of his days out on the Velaryon fleet with our grandsire and has become adept at sailing.”

“A true Velaryon, indeed. You must be proud of the man he’s become.” You smiled, “I’m sure he will one day make a grand Lord of the Tides.”

“I agree, and I am proud, as any eldest brother can be. Extremely so,” Jace said wholeheartedly. 

The music swelled. He knew the steps of this dance well, it seemed, and suddenly you seemed inclined to believe he had downplayed his proficiency. He spun you with one hand and grabbed your other hand mid-spin. The two of you were now facing the same direction, Jace guiding you with his hands on yours. 

You looked up, focusing back on Cregan. He was watching you both lazily, one hand around the goblet. Gray eyes shifted ever so slightly, and you knew he was locking eyes with you. He clenched his jaw. Your breath hitched, fighting to maintain your composure and remember the steps to the dance. 

I adore you, you wanted to call from across the room, keep looking at me like that and it will kill me from want, and I will die the happiest woman in the world. 

Jace let go of your hand, finishing the spin, returning to the beginning of the sequence of steps. He had yet to stumble or hesitate. When he pulled you back in, it was closer now. He exhaled, and you felt it on your cheeks.

“You are exceedingly humble, my prince,” You sighed, looking up at him, “You are extremely graceful.”

He hummed, hand landing back on your waist. “You are too kind, Lady Y/N. Besides, someone has to dance with you, yes?”

A giggle fell from your lips. “You say that as if it is the ultimate tell of a marriage—whether a husband will dance with his wife.”

“Not necessarily.” Jace shook his head. He spun you around again, and when you saw his face next, he too was looking at Cregan. “As long as you are suited to each other’s company. As long as his character fits yours—which by the sound of his letters, they do.”

You blinked, watching him watch your husband. He seemed oddly transfixed. “We are quite happy. A-after two years…” 

You craned your neck, searching for your husband. Cregan was still watching. This time, however, his gray eyes held just above you, over you. 

He was watching Jace. And when you looked back at Jace, he was holding his gaze firm. Subtly, his hand tightened against your waist. You hardly noticed, until you began to slow as the music calmed.

“...I believe we understand each other quite well.”

The music ended moments later. The couples around you came to a stop, and when the applause began, Jace finally looked back at you. He smiled, but his eyes were unreadable. 

“It brings me much joy, that you and my friend have a happy marriage. You are very lucky.”

“Thank you, my prince.”

He led you back to the table, and the three of you retook your previous conversation. Cregan had drained another cup by then, a servant stopping by to refill it as you and Jace sat back down. When you sat, his neck craned to stare deeply at you. His gray eyes shone in the candlelight, pupils wide and dilated. You could feel your heart skip a beat, waiting for him to say something.

“Yes?” You asked. He shook his head, raking up and down your figure. 

“Nothing, pet.”

He did this often. Staring just to stare. The closest thing to adoration he would allow himself in front of others. Any man could look at his wife. None of them could look at you the way Cregan did. A profound longing, soliloquizing with a silvery stare all the things he could never bring himself to say out loud.

The conversation picked back up, at Jace’s insistence. You tried your best to continue, to remain active in the conversation, but it was the point of the night where Cregan’s intentions were beginning to bleed through, thanks to the drink.

The most telling of all was when Cregan’s hand moved past his plate, past his cup, beginning to inch towards yours, and by the gods—this tactic of his never failed to hit you like a young maiden. 

How ridiculous it seemed, that he could exert such power over you. His hands rarely ever touched yours on nights like these. He would make a game of drawing his hand near and pulling away before he could ever actually touch you. Coming close and inching away, like waves lapping at the side of a ship.

You’d never have taken Cregan for a tease, when you first married. And you supposed, in a way, he wasn’t truly. Not in the original sense of the word. You rarely had to tell him off, rarely had to shove sneaky hands away. He didn’t grab at you in front of his advisors, for which you were grateful. But small things like these, in a hallway or at supper… 

The unfairly tantalizing push and pull of something as miniscule as whether or not he would touch your hand. A side glance without actually turning his head, one with hooded eyes from either the drink or the suggestion of something more, once he had you all to himself. Anything more than touching was always relegated to the bedchamber.

No, Cregan’s teasing lied mostly in the negative, the promise of more without ever even giving anything in the first place. Not until the only eyes placed upon you were his own. He loved these things, how he could see your pupils dilate or your breath catch. And when the time finally came, when his hands found their way between your legs, he loved the evidence of just how much he affected you.

Where they found themselves inevitably, at the end of the night. Once the lords and ladies had sung their goodnights to the three of you and welcomed Jacaerys back to the North. Cregan had led you up the stairs with a hand at the small of your back and had pressed you up against the door of the bedchamber the second it closed behind you.

Nights with your husband tended to reveal his more brutish nature and true strength, hidden beneath layers of furs. He could be loving and tender every now and again. But often, Cregan seemed to need to prove himself worthy of the Stark name. A wolfish nature would emerge on nights like tonight. Bite marks on your shoulders, breasts, hips.

Even then, he was rougher than usual tonight. You never complained. Not when he drove himself into you with a force that pushed the air from your lungs, using rough hands to push your thighs up to your chest, and slot himself between them. Not when he took a thumb to your pearl and swirled it in circles until you sang so beautifully for him. Not when he bent down to press a bruising kiss to your mouth, giving you a moment to recover before he parted and asked for “just one more, my girl. Let your husband show you how much he loves you.”

When he spilled in you finally, and lay his head on your chest, you racked what was left of your mind to wonder what may have triggered an appearance from the wolf. Whenever he was challenged, he liked to take it out on you. Whether the challenge had been issued by one of his advisors during council gatherings, a lesser lord at an audience, or by you during an argument, Cregan seemed to revel in using your body as an outlet to release his frustrations.

But who had challenged him that night? Everyone had smiled at him all night long, especially with his guest of honor at his side. There were no attempts to provoke him, not in front of Jacaerys.

Which left Jacaerys himself. Jacaerys, who landed just outside of Winterfell atop a hulking bright green dragon, who had temporarily displaced your husband from his pedestal of most important man of the room. You furrowed your eyebrows as you stroked Cregan’s sweaty hair.

“I had not realized the prince triggered such envy in you,” You murmured, looking up at the canopy of your bed.

“Jealousy?” Cregan spoke against the skin of your breast. It briefly sounded as though he was a child caught doing something he should not have been doing. 

“Aye,” You said gently, “You don’t get like this often. Only when you get angry, or jealous. Or if I work you up, which I cannot imagine I did tonight.”

“No, you didn’t,” He hummed, “Very well behaved. And the feast was beautifully planned.”

“Do not coo at me like I were a pup,” You grumbled, pushing gently at his shoulder. “Besides, I was not about to provoke you in front of your friend and our future king. Or do you think so poorly of me?” 

Cregan rolled off of you gently, and you puffed out a sigh when you felt him leave you. He propped his head up on his hand, the other tracing the curve of your breast. 

“No, and I know you wouldn’t. You didn’t work me up, love.”

“Did it anger you when I danced with him?”

“Anger?” Cregan shook his head, frowning as if you had just spoken in tongues. “I was not angry at all. Nor was I jealous.”

You scoffed. “You were looking at each other like two horned deer about to spar. What a fight that would have been.”

Your husband tilted his head. It looked like he was holding back a smile. “Is that what you think it was?”

“Don’t deny it,” You huffed. Cregan smiled now, waving his hand.

“There is nothing to deny, because it is not true. You misunderstand, love. You’ll see.”

And see, you did. But it was not unsettling.

By the end of the first week, none of it seemed strange to you. You didn’t think it strange when Jace accompanied you both on a tour of the armory, and Cregan’s fingers brushed Jace’s when Cregan was showing him how to use a crossbow thought to have belonged to Torrhen Stark’s daughter. Nor when Jace passed by your husband in a small hallway, and instead of waiting for precedent, for Cregan to step to the side for a Prince of the Realm, Jace took it upon himself to brush past, gently nudging Cregan to the side by brushing his hands along Cregan’s waist. 

What befuddled you was that even through all of this, you never felt a drop of jealousy. Even when you noticed the nature of Cregan and Jace’s relationship: the long bouts of eye contact, the unspoken conversations, the laughter, the way they seemed to orbit too close to each other. If anything, it only spurred curiosity. Every movement was now artwork for you to repaint in your mind. Every conversation became a dead man to dissect, and you the maester.

You waited, admittedly, for the twist in your chest, the urge to cling to Cregan, the ugly bloom of green in your heart that would turn your impression of the Prince of Dragonstone ugly and unpleasant. It never came. Instead, you were left with the strangest desire to push them closer. Like when you played with your dolls as a girl, and made your princess kiss her knight. You almost wondered if there was something wrong with you. 

Because there was no knight or princess to be seen here. In their place stood your husband and a prince of the realm. 

You sat with the doubt, but not for very long. Mostly because you had a spectre of a thought, one that could never be put into writing or spoken into words. A hunch. An inkling.

That if you truly were to push them closer, they would not protest.

Your husband was, for all intents and purposes, an emotionless wall of a man. Until it came to you. You could read him like a sailor could the stars. You had lived and learned his tells over the course of your alliance. The twitch of his lips, the flexing of the joints in his fingers. Whenever Jace was in the room, you could feel it. Taste it.

Jace would crack a joke, smug and wry. Bring up an old memory, or something they had discussed in a letter. His head would tilt back with an air of pride expected from the heir to the Iron Throne, and in a moment anyone else would miss, a fraction of a second, Cregan’s eyes would glance down at the span of his neck. 

Every now and then, if Jace veered too close, you could make out the smallest dimpling of Cregan’s right cheek. Immediately you knew what from: gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Because he couldn’t bite down on what he really wanted to. You knew this look—you had been on the receiving end of it at feasts that dragged on for too long, or council meetings that grew too boring.

What you hadn’t anticipated was the prince turning his attention to you.

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

The end of the first week came to a close in Cregan’s private study. Cregan had sent you off to bed without him, and together with Jace, they had opened an old cask distilled in Karhold many years ago. The final day of the first week had been slower, and had left time for the old pair to finally have some time on their own. 

The conversation began as normal as ever. Debriefing the first few days here at Winterfell, rehashing memories, discussing politics and logistics. Until Jace decided to change the subject.

“Your wife is a wonderful woman,” He said genuinely, “Your match was well suited.”

Cregan smiled at his mentioning you. “It did not always feel that way.”

Jace swirled the liquor in his goblet. “Oh? No?”

Cregan sighed. “The arrangement was made before we ever met. We had no time to become familiar before—”

“Before you became familiar.”

“Not—Jacaerys.” Cregan flashed him a look, but it was not threatening in the slightest. Jace snickered, and Cregan felt his chest grow warm. 

How he had missed this. There were few in Winterfell with whom he could simply joke with, like this. He was always the most needed man in the room, here. Everyone wanted something from him, always. Not Jace.

Not in a way Cregan would have complained about, anyway. 

No, here in this room, he could simply be Cregan. No one to lord over or wrench power away from. He supposed all of that fell on his prince’s shoulders. He returned to the question he’d asked himself for years: who took all of that from Jacaerys?

“Lord Tully took it upon himself to arrange the match,” He continued, “I think Y/N’s father was positioning things to have her wed Lord Oscar.”

Jace raised his eyebrows. “He’s around Luke’s age, I’d wager. He was so young back then.”

“Aye,” Cregan agreed, “And not keen on taking a wife at that time, certainly not one several years older than he. No, Oscar Tully wrote to me instead, and one of my men who’d ridden to Riverrun once and held court with them all around that time told me she was beautiful, and I thought it time.”

“I take it Lord Mallister didn’t care which great lord got his eldest daughter, just that a great lord had her,” Jace quipped. Cregan shrugged, somewhat indifferent at the mention of his father in law.

“He seemed overjoyed at her match with the Warden of the North.” Cregan sat down opposite him, lost in thought. When he spoke again, his tone was downturned. Regretful. 

“We had a misunderstanding, the night of the wedding. I believe I’ve told you.”

“You thought you’d frightened her.” Jace crossed his arms, trying to recall the story. “And she thought you resented her.”

Cregan sighed, mournful of the entire affair. He pinched the bridge of his nose, recalling the distance he found in you back then. “Everything went… well enough that night. It was wonderful. Then in the morning I opened my big idiot mouth and said something I should not have. We did not lay together for another three moons after. She looked at me as if I had threatened to bite her head off.”

“You always were such a poet, Lord Stark.”

“And you have always loved to make fun,” Cregan bit back, straightening his posture. Jace finished his drink, and Cregan poured himself another one.

“She seems transfixed with you now,” Jace observed, “Always watching you. She is exceedingly… warm towards you. Though neither of you say it much.”

“Sometimes she is of fewer words than I,” Cregan conceded, “But there can be such joy in a shared silence when there is no pressure to fill it. We speak freely when we want.”

Jace was silent as he mulled over Cregan’s words. The prince looked over to where his friend was sitting, taking note of the fond expression on his face.  He opened his mouth. Hesitated. But pressed on nonetheless.

“I’ll admit, it’s not what I would have expected from you.”

Cregan tilted his head towards Jace, gaze turning firm. “This came because it was expected of me.”

Jace pursed his lips. “I would have expected someone more talkative than you. A bit more willing to push.”

They held each other’s eye, and the air turned tense. The topic was a seal that should have remained unbroken. Cregan took a deep breath. 

“Someone like you?” He asked, in that low gentle tone he took when he already knew the answer to the question he was asking. The seal gave way, peeling Cregan’s walls back until what was left was a man Jace had known much closer, once. Someone he remembered quite frequently, late at night. He lifted the goblet and drank, but did not look away. Cregan squared his shoulders.

“Have you considered that it may have been good for that moment in time,” He said, “But would not have suited me long term?”

“It was never suitable for either of us,” Jace countered, setting down the goblet, “And we did it anyway, Lord Stark.”

“Jacaerys,” Cregan mumbled, “You are being unfair.”

He had misstepped, he realized. “Do you take me for a spurned lover, Cregan?”  

Cregan stared back at him, wordless. Cold gray eyes that had been warm not five minutes ago caused Jace to reevaluate his words. At the realization, Jace shook his head. He held up his hands in truce, offering a small gentle smile to boot. “I do not mean to turn this into a grudge or an argument. Truly. I just wondered…”

He watched Cregan’s jaw clench when he trailed off, feeling something warm and familiar bloom in his chest.

“Wondered what, my prince?” His tone was gruffer, words clipped. This was dangerous territory. In another life, his teasing likely would have burst into something that would have had Jace’s toes curling, legs raised towards the sky.

His smile turned sly. “Your wife is beautiful,” He said, tracing his fingers up and down the intricate details of the goblet, “Any man can see that.”

“Jace.”

The prince licked his lips, watching Cregan’s nostrils flare. Already, he seemed to know what Jace would end up saying. How delightful, he thought. Another opportunity to tantalize him.

“Would you be willing,” He said slowly, “Would she be willing…?”

Cregan’s voice dropped a dangerous octave. “Jacaerys.”

He blinked once, twice. The subtlest fluttering of his lashes. “Yes, my lord?”

Cregan’s knuckles were white against the tip of the armchair. Jace had known those knuckles very well, once. He had committed the ridges of them to memory. He would commission sculptures of them for his own personal collection, if Cregan had allowed it.

A pity. If this was how Cregan reacted to Jace asking him to fuck his wife, he doubted he’d say yes to that.

Cregan drained his cup, standing. “I ask you to leave my lady wife out of this conversation. I would not leave her to the devices of other men in our own bedchamber. She would not allow it.”

Before he could move to leave, Jace stood, making quick work to block Cregan’s path to the door with his own body. Cregan froze, hovering dangerously close.

“Who said anything about our being alone?” Jace shook his head, grinning. “How unimaginative, Cregan. That I want simply to ravish your wife and make a cuckold of you in your own home.”

“Is that not what you’re asking of me?” Cregan said, voice dangerously close to a growl.

At this, Jace shook his head again. His smile widened, showing teeth that would strike if he had the chance, the permission. The permission could not be granted by either person in this room. They both seemed to understand this. It did not mean they wanted it any less.

“I was of the understanding that cuckolds do not participate. I would not want her without you there. I want both of you.”

If Cregan asked him to leave, he would leave. Leave the room, leave Winterfell. He would walk into the snow, climb atop Vermax, and return to Dragonstone at this very moment. If Cregan punched him, he would perhaps also welcome it. He was well aware of how out of turn it sounded, noble hierarchy be damned.

It seemed Cregan had not considered this a possibility. His mouth opened, then closed. He studied Jace’s gaze, seeming to look for any inclination that he may be joking. The entire time, Jace held firm.

When Cregan found none, his eyes travelled down to Jace’s heart-shaped lips. Jace’s heart hammered in his chest.

“One night,” Jace suggested, “The three of us. You and her, as the gods intended it. Her and I, you and me, as we intend it.”

Cregan took a deep breath, brows furrowing. His tone seemed to waver, simmering with apprehension. “Jace…” 

“One night, and I will never ask you anything of the sort again. I know you love your wife,” He insisted, “And ours is long past. But do you not also think back on how we once were? How good we could make each other feel, and wonder whether or not we could ever do it again?” 

“My duty is to my wife.” He looked away, but from here, Jace saw no denial. He craned his neck downwards.

“I would wager gold,” Jace murmured raspily, “That if I were to grab you right now, your cock would be hard.”

Jace didn’t move, but Cregan’s hand shot out to stop him before he could, wrapping against Jace’s slender wrist. Cregan was facing him again, and Jace lifted his head. How close they had drifted in the past few minutes. He could feel Cregan’s body heat radiating off of him. 

Cregan’s hand felt like a brand, heat starting at his skin and melting through his flesh until it burned at his bones. 

“Where has this greed come from, my prince?”

“Search your memories,” Jace answered, “I have always been like this. Only the last time, you bent me over in the middle of the Wolfswood to satisfy me.”

Cregan licked his lips. Jace watched the glide of his pink tongue with the rapt attention of a rabbit suddenly aware of a wolf. 

“Your… idea,” Cregan began, “It interests me. I must admit it.”

Jace smirked, but it was premature. Cregan let go of his wrist, and straightened his posture. He jutted his chin out, probably trying to feel even taller than he already was.

“I have never known my wife to look at another man, however,” He said, sounding rather proud at this. “Her eyes have never wandered, nor have mine. Our vows are resolute.”

Jace swallowed, starting to prepare to apologize, to patch his ego. He wondered how cold it was in the skies at this hour of night. 

“But we have never been issued a challenge of this sort,” Cregan finished, and Jace’s brows began to raise. 

“Challenge?”

Finally, Cregan smiled. It was small, lopsided. Jace felt his heart stutter, wondering how many times Cregan had given you this smile. What a privilege, to be on the receiving end of it for the rest of your days.

“If you can entice my wife,” Cregan murmured, “I will broach the subject with her.” 

“I’ll charm her. Just as I charmed you.”

Cregan shook his head. “You don’t know Y/N like I do. She has a will made of steel.”

“So did you, I recall.” Jace had done this once. He could do it again. He raised a hand slowly, placing it in the center of Cregan’s leather doublet. Jace pressed down, searching eagerly for a restless ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. He found it, feeling the beating of Cregan’s heart against a three-year old scar that spanned the middle of his palm. 

“All it took was some pouting and some wine. And you folded the moment I pressed my lips to yours.”

There it was, Jace realized a moment later. Looking at Cregan, however, he would not have guessed such an uneven pace.

“I will say again,” Cregan said, slowing down his cadence, “You—do—not—know—her.”

Gods, how familiar this felt. Jace loved to push. Years past, Jace would poke and prod at the sleeping wolf, hoping desperately to wake. His antagonizing would lead to a pay off in teeth-clacking kisses, a pleasing soreness in his lower abdomen, and bite marks on his nipples (and once, his left ass cheek).

“No, but I know you.” Jace leaned forward. Cregan smelled of pine and bittersweet liquor. “I know your methods. All I have to do is inspire. Create a fantasy worthy of making her thoughts stray.”

Cregan remained silent. This proximity was dangerous. Jace knew that Cregan could also feel the way the air moved differently at such a short distance. When he tried to meet his brown eyes with Cregan’s gray, he found them turned just below his nose. Jace swallowed.

The Lord of Winterfell watched as Jace’s lips pressed together to hum, then turned upward. 

“Besides,” Jace murmured, wanting so terribly to just lean forward and reunite. “I have already made your eyes wander. And it has not yet been a week since I’ve returned.”

Cregan bit his lower lip, and paused for a beat before stepping away. The sweet moment was gone, torn away, but deep down Jace knew that he had reached the end of this path. They could not pass this wall without crossing into the realm of dishonor. He wondered if Cregan’s heart was beating as hard as his own. 

And still, he grinned hungrily. Bracing. Willing. 

“What more can it be to make hers?”

WEEK TWO.

Whatever initial anxiety you’d had prior to the prince and his dragon touching down in Winterfell seemed to melt away as you became better acquainted with him. The first week had been largely focused on the North as a whole: Jace had met with representatives from the likes of the Dreadfort, White Harbor, and Bear Island. A small envoy had been sent from the Wall to discuss the needs of the Night’s Watch with the prince. One more grand banquet was held that week, the planning leaving you too preoccupied to join your husband and his guests. 

This second week, however, felt more focused on Winterfell. Thus, as the Lady of the household, Jace’s attention turned to you. You walked the grounds with him speaking of the logistics of granaries, food distribution, expectations for your servants.

Many men would scoff or roll their eyes at the womanly duties of running a household. Not Jace. He remained attentive, clearly listening, asking genuine questions. Others, when they made it this far, would take it upon themselves to saddle you with recommendations you did not need. You do not need this many servants to do the washing, they might say. 

And they would turn their lips if you answered genuinely: perhaps not, but I would rather have a few more servants than needed than to deprive these people of coin to feed their families. Winter is hard enough.

Instead, Jace would listen to you speak. He would mull it over, then ask. When you offered your rationale, he would consider it—actually consider it, not pretend that he valued your insight. 

“You are incredibly receptive, Your Grace,” You said, “Some men have very strong opinions on how I run my household.”

“What know I of running households?” He answered, tone tinged with offense on your behalf. “Much less Northern ones at the height of winter.”

“You would be surprised.” Your smile held no joy. “You’d think I was Dornish, the way they think I know nothing about a long winter.”

He tilted his head. “Have you ever challenged their notions?”

You sighed, tracing a piece of embroidery over your skirt. “The septons say grace is of utmost importance. I would rather turn the other cheek than argue.”

Jace frowned. “How heavy it must be, to carry all of it in silence.”

With resignation, you looked at him. The freckles across his cheeks, just below eyes tinged with empathy.

“It can be.”

Jace crossed his arms, rubbing them up and down slowly. Despite the furs draped across his shoulders, he still seemed cold. Or perhaps it was more for comfort. You couldn’t be sure.

“I held back like you, once,” He said after a moment of silent rumination. Brown eyes met yours. His dark, curly, rather un-Valyrian hair fluttered in the wind. 

“When the knife comes for you, holding it by the blade will only you more. There must come a time when you turn it on whoever you’re duelling with.”

You didn’t ask him what he meant by that. You didn’t think you needed to.

There was a refreshing frankness about him, one that was exceptionally rare around these parts. Many Northerners seemed to use honesty as an opportunity for jaggedness. Honest to a fault, particularly brutal at your lowest. Jace’s honesty was nestled in kindness. The intention behind it was entirely different. It was comforting and not reproachful. He did not seek to pick apart your every action and your sex was not immediately discrediting to him.

It was pleasing and surprising. He seemed to be molded by gentleness that you would not expect of a dragon prince, and seemed to genuinely like you as a friend. Not just as the wife of his friend and political ally.

They had to have spoken about you, you assumed. What man did not speak of his wife to his closest friend? What friend did not offer advice or insight in return?

Honesty was never lacking in your husband. He was not normally one to hide things from you, not unless he knew you’d delight in the surprise. That being said, there was a difference between honesty and openness. While Cregan was not lacking in the former, he certainly did the latter. Pulling truth from him was easy. Pulling the whole truth, however, and asking him to lay his emotions bare, was worse than removing an arrow from a wounded man.

So, whenever you wanted his truths laid bare, his heart on his sleeve, you waited until you both returned to the shared intimacy of the bedchamber. Right before it became too late, and Cregan blew out the candles so that you may both rest your heads together.

And so it came when he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Sitting behind him on your knees, brushing out his long, dark hair. His shoulders were slumped and his breathing was slow. 

Lax, your man. At rest from a world that demanded so much of him, with someone who demanded only his full self. Tonight, the latter was not the scarier option. 

“Does he like me?” The peace in the room was so resounding that your murmur felt like yelling into the void. “Do you know what he thinks of me?”

Cregan didn’t turn, seemingly content to let you brush through his hair. His low tone seemed weighed down with sleep. “Who? Jace?”   

“Hmm,” You confirmed, “He has been incredibly kind.”

“Has he, now?” He rumbled mirthfully. You frowned. He knew you had worried over the crown prince’s approval. Why did he seem to be teasing you all of a sudden?

“I… yes.” You worried at your lower lip, lowering the brush. The loss of sensation was what finally made him turn back to you. He had a smile to match his previous tone, but when he saw the unsteadiness in your brow, the nibbling at your mouth, his face changed. His eyes filled with warmth, and a hand came up to caress your cheek.

“Why would he not like you then, love? If he has been so kind, as you are telling me.” 

You looked downward, suddenly unsure. “I don’t know. I just… I want him to like me. I need him to like me, Cregan. He had a spot in your heart before I did. I cannot have us at odds.”

He shifted his position to fully face you now, pulling his legs onto the bed before pulling you into his lap.

“My anxious little wife,” He whispered, “So desperate for the approval she has already been given. One she never would have had to earn.”

“He likes me then?”

He shook his head, but not in denial. “He does. But I wish the opinions of others would not worry you so.”

“I care not for the opinions of others,” You huffed, “I care for the approval of our future king and your dear friend.”

Large hands caressed your sides, warming your skin through the fabric of your nightgown. You wrapped your arms around his neck, analyzing the details of his face. Ones you already knew but would be happy to stare at again and again. A small scar at the top of his cheekbone from sparring in his youth. The soft stubble on his chin. A mole near his jaw. 

“He’s quite taken with you, love,” Cregan whispered, tension in your chest releasing at his admission, “He says you are quite capable at running our home. He considers you gentle. Graceful.”

Your cheeks went warm. “Does he really?”

He nodded. “Beautiful, too.”

“Oh.”

He stifled a laugh. “Are you blushing?”

“I—no.”

“You’re blushing,” Cregan said, boyish and teasing, “I just told you Jacaerys Velaryon thinks you’re beautiful, and you’re blushing.”

You straightened your posture, trying to push yourself off of him. “Well, it is quite late. Let us sleep, husband—”

He finally laughed, and you wanted to smack him. He pulled you in closer, despite your squirming, and gave you a chaste kiss. “Worry not, Y/N. It does not offend me.”

“Enough of this foolishness, Cregan. It is time for bed.”

He laughed, reveling in your bashfulness. “You asked me—”

“Hush. Bed.”

Throughout the week, Jace’s attention remained fixated on you. Walking the grounds with you, engrossing you in conversation on a variety of topics, from history, to your taste in wines, to snickering about your husband’s habits. He seemed to slowly come closer as your bond grew. Standing at a respectful distance at the beginning of his visit. Closing the distance with every passing day.

It did not dawn on you until the end of your third banquet, halfway through the second week. The night grew rather late, again full of dancing, singing and well roasted meat. Drinking games accelerated the chaos of the night. Jace had even convinced Cregan to partake in one—a game of tongue twisters and limericks, which he had inevitably lost. 

By the end of the night, you were swaying on your feet. While Cregan was not, he was clearly not in possession of all his wits. You retired while there were still a few lords and ladies insistent on seeing the rest of the game through, Jace lingering with them.

His touch was innocent enough to the onlookers. Lingering on your hip, steering you up the stairs. A lord gently taking his lady wife to bed. How noble, how chivalrous. As you went up the stairs, yours and his steps seemed to echo a little louder than they usually did. 

And then, once the lull of the party was far away enough, you rounded a corner, and he pinned you up against an alcove in the wall. You froze, unsure what to do. You weren’t going to turn him down, but gods, you couldn’t think of the last time he tried to ravish you in an empty hallway where anyone could walk past. 

“You looked beautiful tonight,” He growled against your neck, “and I am the luckiest man in the world.”

“Cregan—what are you—” 

“What do you think, pet?” A hand slid down your side, finding your hip under your dress and hiking it around his waist. With a finesse you did not usually expect from him, he slipped past the hem of your dress. His touch trailed up your ankle, past your stockings and thigh, searching, searching, and oh, finding…

“Cregan,” You whimpered, trying to stay quiet as his fingers came to glide through your folds. Your hands clung to his back.

“Let me,” He pleaded, restrained and throaty that made you clench around nothing, “I could take you right now, if you let me.”

“They will hear—” He chose your protest to plunge a finger in, thick and teasing.

He brought his mouth up to your ear. “Let them.”

Your head tipped forward, back pressing into the cold stone of the wall. Your lips yearned for the skin of his shoulder, his collarbone, but he was still fully dressed. You chose instead to press your mouth against the fabric of his doublet, trying hard to stifle your keening as he explored your walls.

His fingers began to speed their pace, pleasure rolling up your body, starting at your core and travelling up your torso, down your legs. You let yourself imagine it, a deep shiver taking over your person

His lips took your earlobe into his mouth, suckling gently. You could feel him pressing against your thigh, and you furrowed your brow. Whatever madness had possessed your husband, it had spread to his fingers, and you gasped against the thick gray wool at his shoulder when he pushed another in. 

“Do you want me to?” He pulled you closer with his free hand, and you couldn’t hold back the cry that came with being impaled further on his digits. “To fuck you up against this wall, and let Lord Glover hear how good I make you feel?”

You couldn’t find your words, eyes screwing shut as you imagined what he was suggesting. 

And when you opened your eyes, you found you didn’t need to. Peeking from around the corner, in the dark, you saw him: dark curly hair, slightly dishevelled from a night of drinking. Dark eyes trained on your face. You could feel it, at the base of your spine, and it spiked when you realized who you were looking at.

“Fuck—”

“Tell them, Y/N,” He demanded, free hand digging into your side, as if he wanted to break past the dress and melt his skin into yours, “Tell them who’s going to make you cum like this.”

Jace stepped out from behind the corner, and when your eyes trailed downward, you could see how hard he was. He wanted you. You wanted him.

“I—”

Cregan bit down on your neck, and a cry wrenched from the back of your throat.

“Jace!”

You shot up in your bed, heart threatening to break out of your chest. Cregan stirred by your side, but did not wake. You clutched the blanket to your bare chest, remembering how the night had ended. The three of you had retired together after a third round of drinking games. You and Cregan had walked Jace back to the chamber he was staying in, and then when you returned to your own, Cregan had pinned you to the ground, hiked your skirts up and fucked you until the embers in the hearth burned low.

Your eyes drifted back to your husband, who looked so unbelievably peaceful at your side. He was naked under the covers, and you willed your breath to steady. A hand brushed your hair out of your face. Your voice was trembling as you whispered into the cold air of the bedchamber.

“Father, give me strength.”

You tried to ignore the dream. A figment of your imagination. All the time around your guest and his proximity to your husband had clearly caused a lapse in your subconscious. Yes. Yes, this is what you told yourself.

This was all happening in your mind. Jace was not really closing the distance. It could not be. 

At the end of the week, he took you to meet his dragon. Cregan had ridden to Wintertown that morning to settle a land dispute, and had left you alone in Jace’s company. The pair had joked with each other before your husband’s departure in such a manner that had you peeling your eyes to watch the twitch of gloved fingers against reins, the furling and unfurling of lips.

Gods, how they had crafted a work of art together. A mosaic of seemingly innocuous looks and turns of phrase. How you wondered what the grout that held it all together was made up of. The promises whispered into the tiles as they had dried. And whether there was still room in the center of it all, where you could carve perfectly sized shapes of your flesh and shove them in between.

“Mind your manners, my prince.” Sarcasm from Cregan was seldom heard, but Jace had unfolded corners of your husband you scarcely knew existed. His lips threatened to curl up as his men began to ride off ahead of him.

“Of course, Lord Stark,” Jace had answered, “I know how to share. Do you?” 

Cregan had said nothing. His fingers seemed to tighten their grip on the reins. A breath later, his eyes landed on you. You felt a ball of nerves grow in your chest.

“Take good care of our guest, wife. I’ll be back before dark.”

And then he left.

The guards had shown you where Vermax was resting—a large, empty barn meant to stack provisions tens of feet high into the air, emptied ahead of the prince’s visit to accommodate the large creature. Most days, the beast spent his time flying, stretching his wings, always returning to his rider and the attendants who had ridden up prior to Jace. A devotion you would never know. A blood oath Jace would rather die than live without. 

“Cold then, are you, old friend?” Jace asked Vermax, stroking his snout affectionately. The dragon leaned its head into Jace’s touch, letting loose a sound that sounded like a complaint. 

“Ever spoiled, my Vermax. I know, I know,” Jace cooed, speaking to him as if he were a pet cat and not one of the most powerful creatures in the world, “Only two more weeks, and then we can return to Dragonstone.”

He spoke to the dragon as if they drank together, or were hunting friends. Mouth tipped open in awe, you realized that that was what they were. Brothers spanning species. Metals forged together in the fire, into the ultimate weapon. Jace turned back to look at you, a smile spreading across his face as he took note of your expression.

“Come say hello, Lady Y/N,” Jace suggested, and you eyed the dragon warily. 

Women of the Riverlands knew how to hunt and how to respect the wild animals they hunted. You knew the likes of bears, deer, wolves. Quite literally, this was an entirely different beast. A being bred from blood magic and scales that glittered like emeralds. You had only seen dragons twice before this, and only ever from overhead. This was the closest you had ever come to one.

You took half a step before your body became too tense to move forth. “Y-your grace. Are you sure he’ll let me…”

“He can feel my trust in you,” Jace explained, nodding encouragingly, “We share an emotional bond. I trust anyone he trusts, and he the same.”

Vermax let loose an excited growl, and were your feet not glued to the ground, your bones would have jumped from your skin. Jace tipped his head back, laughing as if Vermax had told the greatest joke Jace had ever had the pleasure of hearing. 

“He can feel your apprehension, which he appreciates.”

Your brows furrowed, looking up at Vermax. His glowing, orange eyes peered back down of you, and you forced yourself to keep his gaze.

“He… appreciates it,” You said flatly, trying hard not to jump back “Well, I’d scarcely take joy in offending him.”

“Dragons consider gentle hesitation as a sign of respect,” Jace continued, still petting Vermax’s side, “Oftentimes those who have never so much as seen a dragon think they can tame them with their touch. It never ends well, I have seen it myself. They are not lap dogs, my lady.”

You wanted to laugh, looking back at Jace. “Are they not? I hadn’t realized.”

The Prince of Dragonstone seemed to be enjoying himself far too much for your comfort. He stepped away from the dragon, in your direction. “There is a fine line, funnily enough. Hubris aggravates them. Excessive displays of fear make them impatient.”

His smile faded, but his expression remained warm. Beckoning you closer. “Come. He won’t harm you while I’m here.”

Moving too suddenly around the dragon, in your opinion, Jace swept forward and closed the gap between you both. He stepped behind you, a hand coming up to the small of your back to guide you. The other traced your arm gently, starting from your elbow and ghosting down until his fingers wrapped themselves around your wrist. 

His touch was light. His palms were cold, calloused from years of dragonriding. He lowered his voice to a murmur, speaking from over your shoulder. 

“Here,” He offered, using his grip to raise your hand, “Let me help you.”

With Jace as your guide, Vermax lowered his head. You could feel the dragon’s hot breath warming the space, being pushed low with his exhales and moving up as the heat from within him expanded before rising up into the rafters of the barn. The smell of smoke filled your nose.

“Slowly.” Jace’s mouth was both too close and too far away from your ear. “Though he’s harmless, right now at least.”

“Is he as gentle as you, my prince?” You asked, and he exhaled–an almost laugh with such a specific sound you didn’t need to see him to know he was smiling again. He sounded closer now.

The emerald dragon was inches from you now, rumbling low. You could feel the sweat beginning to form in your hairline.

Jace’s lip pressed itself to your ear. Your eyes fluttered shut, and his voice lowered itself to a whisper. 

“Whoever said I was gentle, Lady Stark?”

Scales in your palm, pressing up into you. Fingertips at your knuckles, holding tightly. Your eyes opened, and it fell into place for you as you peered up at Vermax, now nuzzling into your palm.

“You are one,” You murmured, awestruck.

Jace nodded proudly, the movement vivid against the side of your head. “He is mine own brother in all but blood. Were one of us to die, the other would feel a hollow in our chest the rest of our days.”

“Does that scare you?”

This time, Jace doesn’t nod. You heard him swallow. He let loose a shaky breath, now too looking at his dragon. His hand prompted yours, and you began to scratch the tip of Vermax’s nose. Vermax let out a pleased huff, but it did little to assuage Jace.

“It is my worst fear,” The prince admitted, “One so strong I’ve lost count of the nightmares it has brought me.”

Your head turned to look at him then. Emotions danced in his eyes—pain, admiration, adoration, all for his dragon. He looked so young, still. Even if it was winter, and the sun was dull and dim, freckles still spanned his sharp cheekbones and angular nose. If you wanted to, you could probably count every single one. Gods, did you want to.

With a purse of your lips you realized just how close he was. Jace wasn’t looking at you, however. And Vermax, despite pressing into your palm, was looking at Jace. 

They have known each other for a thousand years, it would have seemed. There was some sort of conversation happening here you were not physically capable of being privy to. It was all too familiar, you thought, and your lips turned up before you could help it.

This drew Jace’s attention. He raised an eyebrow, smirking. Face to face now, still behind you. Pressing close. Too close. “What?”

“This is a talent of yours, Jace. Holding entire conversations with your eyes.”

He shook his head. “It is a bond between dragon and rider.”

Your eyes widened, gaze curious but not prying. “Oh? Since when is my lord husband your dragon, then?”

Jace looked surprised for a moment, before scanning your face. Dark eyes lingered on your lips a beat too long, causing your breath to hitch.

“Is that jealousy I hear, Lady Stark?”

Now you shook your head with a wry smile. “Not at all. I’m simply curious.”

Jace’s forehead tilted forward, ever playful. His breath fanned your face. “Ask away, then. I am an open book.”

“You may be an open book, Prince Jacaerys,” You murmured, blood roaring in your ears, “Yet my lord husband seals himself shut until you are at his side.”

“What can I say,” He whispered, nose ghosting across yours, “I’ve a gift for opening people up.”

If either of you moved half an inch closer, your lips would touch. This was an exquisite torture. Surely, this was crossing someone’s line. Yours, Jace’s, Cregan’s. At some point they merged. Stopped being lines and curved, woven into a circle. 

You exhaled steadily. Vermax, suddenly disinterested, stepped away. Jace didn’t let go of your hand as you lowered it. His other hand—when had it moved from the small of your back to your hip?

You were warm. The dragon was warm—surely, this was why. You should have stepped away. Jace should have stepped away. This was hardly proper.

“You and my husband share the strangest bond,” You pointed out, “One I’ve seldom seen between men.”

The statement was a question you didn’t need to pose. Jace hummed, raising his eyebrows. Goading. Expecting. The hand on his hip began to rise.

“Is this an accusation, my lady?” His low tone held no malice, hand tightened against your hip. The rise and fall of his chest pressed up against your back told you everything you needed to know. He wanted this as much as you did.

“Not in the slightest, my prince,” A third time, you shook your head, slower. More deliberate. Using the movement to brush the tip of your nose against his. A small smile graced his pretty lips, lips now so close to yours anyone from afar would think the worst of Lady Stark and The Prince of Dragonstone. 

His nose pressed harder into yours. Your mouth tipped open, nearly trembling with anticipation. Every second grew infinite.

“No?” Jace murmured, eyes trained on your parted lips, “What should I take it for, then?” 

He dragged a finger across your wedding band. You felt your mouth go dry.

An invitation, you wanted to say. A door I want you to open.

He would have kissed you. Or you would have kissed him. Someone would have stumbled in the next few seconds, you knew it to be true. Your blood was running too hot and the pupils of his dark eyes were too dilated. You were two objects in unstoppable movement in the direct line of each other’s fire. The collision would have been inevitable and ruinous and you would have welcomed it with open arms.

But then Vermax’s head snapped up, grunting at something behind you. Jace, feeling his dragon’s altered state, split from you. You jumped at both of their movements, perfectly in sync with each other. And when the pair of you turned, your eyes landed on one of your guards, who looked incredibly uncomfortable at the entire ordeal. 

“Y-your grace, Lady Stark,” He said, “Lord Cregan has returned.”

You cleared your throat, hands smoothing out your dress. At your side, the prince clasped his hands behind his back. He clenched his jaw, and any hint of his playfulness was gone. 

“Yes. Yes, of course,” You sighed, heart pounding, “Thank you, Ser Justin.”

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

The whole ordeal left you with an ever growing sense of anticipation and dread. At dinner—tonight a smaller affair between some of the higher ranking lords and ladies who had come to visit—you sat at Cregan’s side. He sat at one head of the table, Jace at the other. 

The table was long enough to where you could easily avoid conversation with him. You hardly spoke a word to him the entire evening. You could hardly speak a word to anyone. Somewhat naively, you hoped to make it through the evening without anyone noticing.

And then Lady Umber opened her mouth.

“You are rather quiet tonight, Lady Stark,” She pointed out, the table quieting to listen to her speak, “I hope you are not fatigued by the large number of guests.”

“Not in the slightest, Lady Umber,” You answered, painting on a smile, “The conversation flows so well amongst you all tonight I am happy to simply listen.”

“How glad I am that we are such a source of entertainment.” Her tone was dripping with knives disguised as niceties. “I take it after all these years we are still novel to you.”

You set your knife down, taking a deep breath. You glanced over at Cregan, who was eyeing Lord Umber with a silent urge to wrangle his lady wife. Lord Umber looked as though he was about to break into a sweat. You felt something take hold of you, starting in your chest and spreading through your shoulders.

Lord Umber stammered, “Wife—”

“Two years is a long time, Lady Miranda,” You said, trying hard not to stumble over your words, “Though I’m sure after all of yours, it feels quite short.”

Silence. Lady Umber’s eyes widened, and for half a moment, she looked like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing with no sound to accompany the movement. The rest of the table grew deathly still. The sound of silverware scraping against plates all but disappeared. 

Your eyes found Cregan’s again. Even he seemed surprised, but not angry. His stare held a subdued wonder, one brow raised in bewilderment. He looked across the table, and you didn’t need to follow his gaze to know who he was looking at. You swallowed, unsure of what to say or do. Everyone’s eyes were suddenly on you as the person who had taken control of the moment. And here you were, unsure of where to take it next. 

Thankfully, you weren’t the one to decide. 

Jace snorted so hard into his goblet of wine that it broke the tension entirely. He was bright red, having held back so hard from laughing. But now, he could no longer handle it, hastily setting the cup down and covering his spluttering with his other hand.

Your mouth fell open, face burning profusely. Then, at your side, the impossible happened. Cregan coughed, looking down at his plate. 

Everyone’s heads turned to look at him. 

He nodded once, clenching his jaw. When he looked back up, eyes trained in the prince’s direction, his mouth twitched. 

And then he laughed. Once, twice, and before you knew it, his shoulders were heaving. 

Awkward laughter erupted at the table. Some unsure, some genuine. Most in disbelief. The chain reaction of your challenge, Jace’s choking, and finally Cregan Stark laughing. Actually laughing. 

When you looked back at Lady Umber, she was clearly fuming. But she had lost.

And perhaps, for the first time, you had pushed back. Refused to turn the other cheek. 

You sat an inch higher for the rest of dinner. And when you finally looked in Jace’s direction, you stared at him until he was the one to break eye contact.

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

“I cannot believe you said that.” Cregan lifted his elbows out of the hot water, resting back on the dry stone not submerged in the hot spring. You shook your head, thinking back on your behavior. 

He didn’t sound upset at all. Rather, he still sounded surprised. In awe. His head craned, the candlelight bathing him in a soft light that stole your breath. 

“I’m proud of you, Y/N. It was about time you bit back. You’re a wolf now, after all.” 

You leaned into his side, giving him a gentle peck on his upper bicep, just below his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” You mumbled against his skin.

You kept your face there, feeling the warmth of the muscle against your cheek and forehead. When your eyes closed, all you could see were a pair of brown eyes and freckles you wanted to map out like the stars. You cleared your throat nervously.

“There is… something I must ask you. About the prince,” You said softly, not meeting his eyes. Rather, you remained buried against his arm. Cregan made a face, brow quizzical.

“Has something happened?” He asked. You didn’t know whether or not to answer his question. When you remained silent, his mouth turned upwards. He considered the possibilities, before making a curious observation.

“You could hardly look at him during dinner. He couldn’t stop looking at you.”

Sometimes you wished he’d remain incurious. A fundamental impossibility, a pipe dream never to come true, considering your husband’s disposition. Much like the wall, nothing got past Cregan. He may well be the end of you one day. 

His lips found the crown of your head. You continued looking at the steam rising up above the water. When he spoke, his voice was low, raspy.

“Ever the seducer, our crown prince.”

Your head snapped in his direction, surprised eyes meeting his knowing ones. He gave a small half-smile. No anger, no joy. If anything, he looked sympathetic. As if Jace had also once pinned Cregan between himself and Vermax and delighted in blurring lines. Chest hollow, you were slowly realizing that it was more likely than not. You swallowed. 

Pity. From Cregan Stark. A rare sight, indeed. Though tonight certainly seemed the occasion.

“Has he made you uncomfortable at all?” Cregan asked, searching your face for fear or discomfort. Half of you wanted to kiss him breathless. The other half was moments away from bursting into tears. Any other husband may well have accused you of temptation. Brazenness. Whorishness. Cregan’s first concern was your own wellbeing. 

“No, not at all,” You said immediately. “He’s very… persuasive.”

At this, his expression morphed from a somewhat-smile to a genuine one. “May I ask what happened between you both today?”

A peace banner. There was no threat of anger from him, you realized, and you relaxed. Your shoulders sagged, guardrails you hadn’t knowingly put in place. He just wanted to know.

“I… We almost kissed,” You admitted, “He was trying to get me to pet Vermax, and he grabbed my hand, and then…”

“Almost?” If you hadn’t known better, you might even think he sounded disappointed. “What stopped you?”

You bit your lip. “Ser Justin came in to announce your return.” 

Cregan reached for your hand under the water. The air was not tense. Awkward, more like. Cregan was never one to talk. You were always the one to coax it out of him. When it was your time to be silent, it rarely proved productive.

“Are you angry?” You asked, placing your free hand on top of his. When you looked up at him, his gaze was warm, and he shook his head.

“Not at all,” He answered, “Were it any other man, maybe. But our prince has always been very… what did you call it? Persuasive. So long as you did not feel coerced, I won’t fault you. He may be our prince, he may be my friend, but you are my wife.”

His reaction was as jarring as it was relieving. You needed to know. You could hold back no longer. “Did you ever…?”

Cregan licked his lips, and hesitated for a beat. Eventually, he replied. “Him and I? …Yes.”

“How many times?”

“Seven. At least.”

Your eyebrows shot up. Cregan looked like he wanted to laugh. 

“Have you ever known me to be sated easily?”

You couldn’t argue with that, even if you wanted to slap that smug look off of his face.

“I suppose I’m just… curious.” You swiped a damp strand of hair off of your neck. “Clearly, you care a great deal for each other. I didn’t realize just how much.”

“He is our future king,” Cregan remarked, “I am Warden of the North.”

He said it as if this was meant to explain all of it. You didn’t want to tell him that you doubted Jace behaved this way with Jason Lannister, Warden of the West. When your face didn’t change, he sighed. 

“When we first met,” Cregan began, “We were on the brink of civil war. You remember.”

You nodded. “I remember when my father received the raven notifying him of Vermax being spotted flying over the Twins.”

“I had become so preoccupied with matters of running everything. All that… all the loss, all the anger, all the fighting. It made me numb. I truly hadn’t realized how it had… hardened me. When he came to Winterfell, I accepted him as my guest, and I renewed my vow to his mother. My men and I invited him to hunt for three nights—it was summer still. How could we not? He was the prince. Impending war be damned.”

You said nothing, waiting for him to continue. “None of us expected any fun. The mood was bleak. We hardly knew him. But he put on his best spirits, and he charmed us all. He was smart, gracious. Humble, which none of us expected from a southern prince.”

Cregan’s mind was seemingly far away, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “And one night, we’d all had too much to drink. Everyone else had gone to bed. The fire was burning low, and he was sat right next to me. He looked so… pretty.”

At this, your eyes softened. “It just happened.”

“It was so easy to speak to him. That never happens—you know my character, love. It didn’t even occur to me that I wanted him until he kissed me. Like I hadn’t even considered it to be an option.”

You thought of Cregan when you’d first met him. He was gruff, closed off, easily the coldest man you’d ever met. You’d been convinced he didn’t even like you until a few months into your marriage, when he stumbled into your bedchamber drunk mumbling, “I missed you today. And I wish I could tell you that without the drink.”

You thought of your husband as a little boy, small and unsure and stifled by an uncle who would rather be rid of him entirely, all for the sake of control of the North. What that did to him, what retaking his birthright would have entailed for a young boy forced to become a man far too early. What all of that and the death of a little brother could do. You pressed a kiss to his hand, and he hummed at the gesture. 

“Do you love him?” The question left you before you could think twice. When it was out in the open, you decided to press. There was no taking it back now. “If he had been the princess of Dragonstone, would you have asked for his hand?”

Cregan looked down at the water, where your hands were joined. He squeezed, gentle but insistent. Affirming. “I suppose… I suppose there may have been a time where I thought myself to be in love with him. I care for him still. Deeply, in ways that I cannot say I’ve ever cared for any other man. But I would not have married him, even if it had been an option.”

You tilted your head, and Cregan acquiesced without you even needing to ask. “I married you out of duty, yes? We’d never met until you arrived at Winterfell.”

“Yes,” You said, “And I thought you hated me.”

He sighed regretfully. “And I’ll spend the rest of my days making it up to you. But Jacaerys and I had different duties at the end of it all. I am Warden of the North. He is our future king. Those two titles cannot merge, not without one of us giving something up—which neither of us would do. Regardless of the circumstances, it would not have worked.”

You swallowed, a lump beginning to grow in your throat. Under the water, his hand with the scarred palm began to burn. “So you married me out of duty. But you love Jacaerys.”

“What? No.” The rebuff was immediate, bitten out. He frowned, and you bit down on your tongue. This had taken a turn you hadn’t wanted it to.

Here it was, you realized. That awful shade of green in your chest you’d wondered so much about, turning your heart from deep red to brown to a bright, flaming green. Suddenly, the image of Cregan and Jace seemed much less enticing. You wished you hadn’t thought about the green so, wished so badly to yank it from the root and toss it into the fire. 

“Gods, I wish I were better at this,” Cregan muttered to himself, before opening his eyes to look at you again. “No, love. You are not a placeholder. You’re my wife, and I love you so differently than how I loved him.”

He moved to be in front of you now, grabbing you by the shoulders. Forcing you to look at him, though the determination in his eyes did little to assuage your confusion.

“I would never have asked Jacaerys to marry me, not if he weren’t heir to the throne, not if he were a woman,” He told you, “Fundamentally, it would not have worked. The only way it would have worked would have been if Jacaerys were a Northern woman born to a noble house, bound to no one but his father. And then he would not have been Jacaerys, would he?”

You blinked. “What?”

“What?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Officially declaring surrender, completely lost. You wondered if Cregan was more lost than you were—he seemed on the verge of distress. 

“So…” You shook your head, chest clenching. You took a shaky breath, hating the way your voice sounded on the verge of cracking. You started to pull away. “So then would you or would you not have—I… C-Cregan, do you not–?”

His grip tightened on your shoulders, head shaking furiously. “No,” He said with gritted teeth, “No. I love you, Y/N. My soul is yours.”

“But–”

He groaned, the top of his head leaning into your chest. “This isn’t… I don’t mean—fuck, I’m sorry.”

He pulled you into his lap, large hands cradling you gently. A position the two of you had taken a hundred times in this exact same spot. Instinctively, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, ignoring the low heat in your stomach that always pooled there. Your muscles knew what usually came next: joined bodies moving in such a way that caused water to spill onto the floor. Not now. It could wait.

When Cregan met your eyes, he looked pained. Like he wished he’d never spoken. Your husband, who never spoke much to begin with, who guarded his emotions the way a starved wolf guarded a kill. 

He grabbed your arm, then interlaced your fingers. His wedding band glittered in the light. The scar brushed against your palm. You didn’t want to think about how the ring could be taken off.

“I loved Jacaerys differently then, before I loved you. It’s different from the way I love him now,” He explained slowly, clearly searching and painstakingly choosing each word. “A-and both of those forms of love are vastly different from the way I love you, the way I’ve loved you since we married. I can’t quite put it into words. I don’t know that there are enough words in the Common Tongue for me to fully describe it, and I don’t know I’d be able to if there actually were.”

His face scrunched up, trying to articulate his thoughts clearest. Your heart was in your throat the entire time, but you dared not interrupt him.

Finally, his eyes opened, clarity interlaced with fear. He took a deep breath before he placed his final verdict. 

“My vow to him is my sword. My vow to you is my heart. And my heart will always come before my sword.”

Your lips parted, eyes brimming with tears. No longer from jealousy, or the fear that you were nothing to Cregan but a second choice. You brought a hand to his cheek and he pressed into it desperately, longingly. 

“Cregan,” You whispered, smiling, “I love you.”

His eyes closed at your touch, sighing when your forehead touched his. “I love you, and I’m sorry if candor escapes me. I do not mean to dishonor you, wife. It has never been my intention.”

“No,” You cooed, “No, thank you for telling me.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

Sighing, you gave him a gentle, chaste kiss. When you pulled away, you studied him. His gray eyes were darting frantically across your expression, searching for any leftover doubt or anger. A hand slid down his shoulder and landed just above his sternum, pressing into the skin, caressed by the hair on his chest. Underneath, where his heart lay, you could feel it hammering quickly. You almost wanted to laugh.

“Honesty is the only thing that scares you so,” You mumbled, “A wildling horde south of the wall would not cause your heart to falter this way.”

“I can slay a wildling horde,” He whispered, “Matters of my heart, decidedly not.”

Your hand lingered on his chest, the other beginning to scratch at the baby hairs at his nape. He hummed contentedly—this was one of his favorite forms of contact. Deeply soothing, comforting, one he had never known until you taught it to him.

“You needn’t answer if you wish not to tell me,” You began, “But can I ask how it’s different? Not the emotion. Rather…”

You cleared your throat, feeling an awkward heat crawl up your neck, reaching your cheeks and temples rather rapidly. You reached for his hand out of comfort, but grew even warmer when you saw the scar. “I know… how it works, between two men. Did he… did you…?”

It was his turn to watch you struggle for words now, and for all of his struggling earlier, he seemed quite amused to let you writhe like a fish. 

He bit back a grin. “Did I what?”

You scrunched your lips together, unsure of what to say. With every word, his smile grew and grew until he was holding back laughter. “Who… well. Cregan, I’ve no better way of putting it. Who was the scabbard, and who was the swo—?“

At last, he could no longer resist, and a laugh escaped him. He laughed and all the previously tense air evaporated from the room, and then he laughed some more.

“You’re wondering who stuck their cock in who,” He said once he’d settled, “Is that it?”

You gasped, swatting at his chest. He seized your hand, pressing it back into his chest, rubbing over your knuckles. “Vulgar man,” You chided affectionately, but then quickly added, “…Yes.”

“I had no preference. I think I would have enjoyed it.” He answered candidly, “But he seemed rather keen on being bent over. Not quite something you’d expect from a prince.”

“Oh,” You sighed, cheeks burning brightly, “Oh, I see.”

“He tried to kiss you.” Bringing the conversation full circle, his hands slid down to your hips. “And you liked it.”

Wordlessly, you nodded. Cregan huffed, looking as if suddenly everything made sense.

“What if I told you…” He eyed your lips, tongue darting out to wet his own, “The prince… propositioned me, shortly after his arrival?”

Your eyebrows shot up. “He attempted to seduce you?”

“Not exactly. I wouldn’t have allowed that to happen. No, he suggested the three of us share. That for one night, the three of us indulge in each other. You and I. Him and me. You and him.”

Oh. “A-and what did you say?”

“I wasn’t sure what to say. Ultimately, I told him I would make no attempt to force the idea on my wife unless you seemed interested. It would seem his grace has taken upon itself to lay his plan into motion, with or without me.”

“What a scheme,” You murmured. The heat in your lower stomach had returned now, spurred by the mental images Cregan had built you. Him sprawling Jace across the forest floor. The three of you, together, tangled in bedsheets. And Jacaerys Velaryon, beautiful Jacaerys Velaryon, lips swollen from kissing and covered in sweat.

“How unfairly he plays, and how he underestimates us, love. Do wolves not wander in a pack?”

You furrowed your eyebrows, thinking back to everything that had transpired over the past few weeks, now with the knowledge you’d just acquired. Jace’s history with your husband. His propositioning you and Cregan. 

If his attempt with Cregan had been anything like what he had done with you, you had to agree with Cregan’s choice of words. Unfair. But not necessarily cruel, or manipulative. No, this was a game to Jace, and he was eager for the two of you to play along.

“What say you now, husband?” You searched his face. “Now that his intentions are laid bare.”

He took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and looked at you for a good long while. Then, his hands, still on your hips, pressed down, water moving around you. 

Your breath hitched, feeling the hardness of his cock catch against your core.

“I believe it speaks for itself,” He replied. “But only if you wish for it, too. You are my wife, and you come first.”

“You like the idea of the three of us together,” You remarked, almost astonished.

“I cannot lie.” His hips shifted upwards, and you gasped at the pressure, of the sensation of him catching against your entrance. “How pretty the two of you would look on your knees, with both of your lips around my cock.”

Your hips responded in kind, hands scrambling to find purchase on his shoulders. “Cregan.”

“Don’t lie to me, Y/N. Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about it, whether I made him beg while pinning him to the bed, same as I have with you. Which I did. Grabbed him by his hair and made him plead to let him cum.” 

Your breath weighed heavily in your lungs. Out of nowhere, the air seemed to weigh a thousand stones. The heat radiating off of the water was certainly not helping.

“Answer me,” He said softly, firmly. Looking for your voice, you nodded.

“Can you blame me?” Gritted teeth, fluttering eyes—two more things you could pin on Cregan. “You look at each other so lecherously.”

He huffed, eyes locked on your breasts as your hips began grinding down onto him in earnest. “We do not.”

“Oh, you do. I’ve been watching.”

“That’s all you ever do,” He grunted, “Maybe you should do more than just watch.”

“Something—ah—something would need to happen in order for me to do that.”

He grinned, yanking you closer. Before his tongue forced itself into your mouth, he said against your lips, “That can be arranged.”

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

WEEK THREE.

This week was a tour of Wintertown and some other villages nearby, and decidedly more laid back. There were no tourneys to be had, hunts to embark on, or great festivals to curate. Winter was here, and threatened to come for you all if you decided to spend more time outside than remotely necessary. 

Jace and Cregan heard petitions coming from the smallfolk that had travelled in advance to see them both. To speak with the Warden of the North was one thing, to do it while the Prince of Dragonstone was sitting at his side was another thing. They heard petitions for hours, and even insisted on staying an additional two after seeing the amount of people who had yet to be heard.

The week was strangely absent of them, then. You were preoccupied with your daily work and overseeing the planning of Jace’s farewell banquet, the grandest of them all. You saw them in small glimpses. Cregan in the morning or Jace at meals. Glimpses of both of them in the courtyard.

You weren’t sure if Cregan had spoken to Jace. How unfairly he plays, he had said, how he underestimates us. Jace had expected to be playing two different one-on-one games. He didn’t know that he was actually only playing one, and was outnumbered on the turf. 

So when Jace passed you by, you allowed yourself to look. Really look at him, and to let him see that you were looking. And when he noticed you one morning in the middle of an empty hallway, he stopped, stepped forward and took your hand in his. 

“Lady Stark,” he said. He raised your hand to his lips, staring intensely as he pressed a kiss to your glove. “You look lovely today.”

“Thank you, my prince,” You answered, “You look well.”

“I’m beginning to grow accustomed to the cold.” He rolled his shoulders back, seemingly at ease.

“It can be jarring at first.” You thought back to your first few weeks at Winterfell after the wedding. You weren’t sure if you’d ever be warm again, and that was at the end of summer. “We’ll make a Northerner of you yet.”

He laughed, and looked like he wanted to reply. His opportunity was stolen by a maid of yours, who rounded the corner and smiled when she saw you. 

“Milady! Giselle has found the linen napkins you were asking for,” She called, “Shall we have them pressed?”

You gave Jace a regretful nod of your head, before replying, “Thank you, Greta! I’ll be right over to have a look at them.”

It was then that she seemed to realize who she was in the presence of. She noticed Jace, and immediately turned bright red before stumbling into a curtsy.

“My deepest apologies, your grace,” She stammered, “I-I didn’t see—”

“Worry not, my lady,” He said genuinely, “The work of a maid is a never-ending list. Carry on.”

Her eyes flickered nervously between you and Jace. You nodded in agreement. “All is well, Greta. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

She left, clearly still feeling awkward. When she was gone, the air felt lighter. “Thank you for not frightening my staff, Jace.”

“I could never. I’d rather they blush than tear up, and I’ve done the former twice already.” He studied your figure.

“Twice…” You took a steady breath. “Do you plan on teasing my staff any further?”

“Not necessarily. But if we drop the pretense, I might do more than tease you.”

“What pretense?” You gave him a coy smile, tracing the threadwork on your gloves. “Is there a game afoot?”

He stepped forward. You stepped back, eyes never breaking away from his. At this, Jace tilted his head.

“You are so brave, suddenly.”

“And you are so bold, Prince Jacaerys. You are a fountain of temptation.”

He licked his lips. “How pretty it sounds, my name falling from your lips.”

“I’d argue my husband’s name sounds even prettier.” Jace raised his eyebrows, taken aback at your sudden bite. You laced your fingers together, before gracing Jace with a curtsy of your own.

“I must go now, your grace.” You stepped past him, aiming to follow Greta’s direction. You landed a foot away from him, and stopped to lean in close. 

“But perhaps one night you might listen for it before you leave us.”

You did not look back when you walked away. But you could feel him watching.

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

He took you up on it that night. You shouldn’t have been surprised. You had issued a challenge, and Jace had simply taken you up on it.

You were in Cregan’s study, going over some documents regarding the household budget. The fire burning behind you, he had brought you onto his lap to look them over. 

A knock at the door, following the heavy wood swinging open. You scrambled to stand, but widened your eyes when one of Cregan’s hands tightened on your hip, holding you in place. Jace stepped into the room, and for half a moment you wondered if you had been double crossed.

Then you craned your neck to meet Cregan’s eyes, and he nodded. Then, he looked at Jace. You watched his brow twitch subtly as he raked his gaze over the prince, and the grip he had on your side did not loosen. You stiffened, anticipation tinging your senses.

“Your grace,” Cregan greeted, “The hour grows late.”

“I can see that.” Jace jutted his chin in the direction of where you were sitting, zeroing in on Cregan’s hand on your hip. “If you are preoccupied, we can reconvene on the m—”

“Not at all,” Cregan interrupted, shifting you in his lap until you were perched entirely on his right thigh. “We were just finishing our own conversation. Was there something troubling you?”

“Safety, along the Kingsroad.” Jace shook his head and shifted his posture back and forth. “Though it seems you have something different on your mind.”

“Speak freely, my prince,” You murmured, setting the ledger down on the desk in front of you. Jace moved forward, his gait cautious. Still, there appeared to be a silent excitement about him. You looked down at your fingers. Were you trembling or were you just cold?

Cregan studied Jace’s trajectory, and when the prince’s path began to trace around the desk, he shook his head. 

“Sit, Jacaerys.” Cregan took an authoritative tone. He refused to look away as he grabbed your hand and placed it upon his chest. The hand over yours squeezed gently, and you forced your shoulders to loosen. “What can be done about the Kingsroad?”

You attempted to pay attention to what Jace was saying—something about harsher sentences for those caught thieving. You tried to think of what would come next. Something was building, surely. What, you could not be sure. 

This was entirely uncharted territory for you. Cregan had mostly kept everything contained to your bedchamber, as you tended to prefer. You’d had sex in this room once, because Cregan had been very convincing. Up until two weeks ago, you had never considered any man other than your husband. Here the challenger stood in front of you, a dragon prince with a gaze that might as well set you on fire just as much as the beast that had carried him here.

You knew that if you wanted to, if you were to stand up right now, or to push Cregan away, he would understand. He would lay the game to rest and promise to never pick it back up again. There was no threat of coercion or pressure from him. And because you trusted your husband’s judgment so well, you knew that it had to have been the same for Jace. There was not a single hair on your body that doubted the notion.

You could say no. You had every freedom to do so. But did you want to?

You’re a wolf now, Cregan had told you a few nights ago. And that same night, he’d also said, do wolves not wander in a pack?

You were a wolf. You were his Lady Stark, a woman belonging to the North now. Not because you were given to the North or because it had taken you. You had welcomed the becoming of your own volition. 

Before that you had been Y/N Mallister, and while eagles were just as fierce as wolves. But they were solitary birds.

And you and Cregan were one pack. 

Your body relaxed. You leaned into Cregan, who understood immediately. The game moves forward.

Jace continued speaking, but Cregan leaned into you. His eyes closed, and he took a deep inhale against your jugular, taking in the smell of your skin and perfume oils. On instinct, you leaned your head back, letting him take it in. Jace’s voice faltered, trailing off in the middle of talking about a scourge of muggings near the Dreadfort. Cregan opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow.

“We’re listening.”

Jace interlaced his fingers, fixated on Cregan nosing along the expanse of your neck. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Cregan insisted, closing his eyes again, “There seems to be a network of bandits along the stretch of Kingsroad nearest to the Dreadfort. Go on.”

Jace licked his lips, before lifting his gaze, meeting yours. You wondered whether the look in his eyes was jealousy or impatience. Sliding your hand from Cregan’s chest to the shoulder closest to you, you held firm. Surprisingly, that sensation of jealousy you had felt the night in the hot springs had returned. But you did not shy away from it, did not let it stop you from having your fun. 

You were putting your hands on your husband, you were hoping to convey, and Jace would lay hands on him and on you because you allowed it.

He certainly didn’t seem offended by it. He shifted in the chair, legs parting slightly. Then, he cleared his throat and began speaking again.

“Yes. Lord Bolton had told me when he spoke to me last week…”

Cregan’s lips met the base of your throat, and you inhaled sharply. Another hand gripped his shoulder, and your eyes fell shut. You could hear the crackling of the fire behind you and the depth of Jace’s voice, but the only sensation at the forefront of your mind was Cregan’s gently chapped lips just above your collarbone. He pressed a few kisses around the area before deciding on which spot he preferred best and anchoring there by opening his mouth and biting down. You let out a hmph at this, loud enough to cause Jace to falter once more.

“Lord Cregan,” He glowered, breath growing heavier, “You are forgetting yourself.”

There was no threat in the statement. Bait, more like. 

“I remember myself plenty.” Cregan spoke against your skin before biting even harder. You gasped, reaching for the back of his head to push him closer. “I’m sure you remember me too, my prince.”

You heard Jace shift again in the chair, but did not open your eyes. He asked, “What good is memory when the experience is right in front of me, here in the present?”

Your eyes opened when you heard him get up in the chair. He took one step forward before Cregan sat up straight to look at him dead on.

“No.” You knew this tone. This was Cregan at his most domineering, typically reserved for nights he wished to prolong the most agonizing pleasure you’d ever felt in your life. “No, you watch tonight. You will sit there while I fuck my wife, and you will thank me for it. You will thank her for it.”

You never knew you could feel your cunt jump, but then, you also didn’t know forcing the future king of Westeros to watch you fuck your husband had been an available option to you until about five minutes prior. 

Jace’s mouth fell open. He blinked stupidly. And then he laughed, sitting down. It was just as Cregan said, the near immediacy of his submission to your husband. Not quite something you’d expect from the Prince of Dragonstone.

He let loose a heavy breath, eyes growing darker. “Yes, Cregan.”

Cregan maneuvered you, forcing you to stand, nudging you towards the desk. You placed both hands on the wood, a slight bend to your back. Less than five feet away, Jace sat in the chair, fingers laced back together. His mouth was slightly ajar, tongue darting out to swipe across his lower lips. They were so pink, you wanted to finally kiss him. 

But right now, that was not a call you were allowed to make. Cregan had made the command, and it would hold in stone until he changed his mind. If he changed his mind. 

Cregan pressed his chest to your back, draping his broad shoulders over your frame. A hand snaked up your front, landing in a place where calloused fingers spanned your neck and your chin. He placed a wet, worshipping kiss just below your ear, and his hips rocked against your backside. 

He was halfway to being hard already. His hand slid down your neck, other hand meeting at your chest to fondle your breasts over your dress. His body heat was radiating off of him so intensely you thought the fire would probably be cooler. 

“Did you know I used to bend him over like this, love?” He asked in your ear, loud enough for Jace to hear. “One of the last times I had him, I took him just like this in the Wolfswood.”

Gods, that mental image should not have ignited what it did in you, but it did, and you keened at the thought. Jace chuckled.

“That’s exactly how I felt,” He said, lingering his gaze on Cregan’s hands.

“What a memory,” You panted, pushing your chest into your husband’s hand, “Describe it to me.”

“Why tell you when I could just show you?” Cregan pulled up the back of your skirt, holding it in place with one hand. Your entire body felt like a furnace, dragging your eyes up and down Jace’s person, listening for Cregan’s movements. You tried to conjure up the idea. 

The end of summer. Cregan’s hair had been shorter when you met him. Had his hair been shorter then, when he took Jace up against a tree? Was he just as muscular then? What about Jace? 

You could vaguely imagine two young men exploring each other in the Wolfswood, after weeks of learning and mapping out each others’ bodies. Two young men who had grown into the lords of the realm. The crown prince submitting to the Warden of the North. And if Cregan was truly showing you what had happened between the two of them, you could hear Cregan shuffling onto his knees…

He parted your legs, and your eyes widened when you felt his tongue lick at your slit from behind. He tugged on your dress, and you understood what he wanted. You grabbed the hem of your skirts, clutching the fabric for purchase. His giant hands grabbed your ass cheeks, spreading them apart for better access. You gasped, other hand sliding papers around the desk in search of something to hold you to the earth. You would float out the window otherwise. 

“For someone so terrible with words, he certainly knows how to use his tongue, doesn’t he, Lady Stark?” Jace flashed a smug grin at you as your head fell. He spread his legs again, and you saw it then—the bulge in his pants, and the twitching of his hands on his thighs.

You just watch. You groaned, fully realizing the extent of Cregan’s dominion over Jace, his actions, his body. How quickly he had retaken it.

“Lady Stark?” Jace’s voice rose slightly. “Do you agree? Now that he’s showing you how he prepared me for his cock?”

You nodded, biting back a whimper as Cregan changed the movement of his tongue, delving into you. “S-so good,” You said.

“He licked me just like that. He had some stubble that time. A most pleasant ache.” 

“Oh gods.” The room filled with the sound of your frenzied panting and the wet, insistent sound of Cregan’s mouth against your mound. This was perhaps the most aroused you’d ever felt in your life.

Jace laid back in the chair, eyes hooded. From under your skirts and behind the desk, he probably couldn’t see what Cregan was doing. But your sounds and his own experience had to have been indication enough.

“I bet I’ll be able to hear when he puts a finger in.”

“I wonder if—” You bit back a keen, “–if it feels the same for me as it does for you.”

“Probably not,” Jace mused, “Gods, that I could get wet like you. Poor Cregan’s face was drenched in spit by the time he was done with me. He looked lovely like that. So messy.”

Cregan hummed from behind you at the same time he decided to brush his fingers against your clit. Your voice jumped in pitch, and Jace nodded. 

“I was right.” He sounded so excited about his theory being proven true. He licked his lips. “I always loved how thick his fingers were. Perfectly r–”

“Rough,” You finished for him, nodding in agreement. You pushed your hips back against Cregan’s face, teeth catching your lower lip in hopes of staying quiet. “Gods, Cregan…”

“And when he finally puts his cock in, it’s such a relief, isn’t it? Like an itch you can’t scratch on your own. I swore I could always feel him in my stomach—”

“Fuck!” Your head tossed itself back, feeling a few strands of hair beginning to stick to your forehead.

“What do you want?” Cregan asked, voice muffled from between your legs. He pressed down on your clit even more insistently. The paper under your hands crumpled as your fingers curled. You weren’t quite sure how you were still standing. 

“Tell him,” Jace jeered, almost singing, “Tell your husband what you want him to do to you.” 

You opened your eyes again to look at Jace once more, and your lower lip trembled from the pleasure. Your hips began to rock against Cregan’s face. His other hand squeezed your ass in a manner you knew would leave bruises. You would never shy away from this. 

He shook his head back and forth between your legs, trying his hardest to get in closer. Your knees buckled, crying out his name.

“Tell him.” Jace’s voice was dripping with desire. “Beg him for his cock. Just like I did.”

“Cregan… Cregan, please fuck me.”

He pulled away, giving you a moment to catch your breath. You yelped when he smacked your ass.

“Soon, pet,” He said, too gentle for someone who had just been fucking you with his tongue, “Come for me first.”

And then he stuck his face back into your pussy, beginning to flick your clit in tandem with the rhythm of his tongue. You jolted, unsure if you were moving away one movement from the sheer overwhelm or into the other from the pleasure. You could feel your lower stomach growing taut, a building pressure underneath the tight, tight heat. 

Now, you were fully fucking back onto Cregan’s tongue, whines spilling from your lips. You could feel his hot breath on you. 

Your eyes cracked open and you landed back on Jace. You couldn’t count how many times you had done it already, but every time felt like the first. You would revel in him looking you up and down every single time. How ready he looked to strike had he not been shackled by Cregan’s words alone. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat, eyes fluttering from the pleasure of Cregan lapping at you like a parched hound. Trying your damnedest to hold eye contact and keep them from rolling up into your skull. Your jaw hung slack, searching helplessly for words to string together.

Jace didn’t need to hear them. He seemed to recognize what you wanted to ask for. Perhaps he had struggled to ask for it himself, then, and was taking it upon himself now to be merciful.

“Cum.”

The ecstasy started at the crest of your head and dripped its way down your spine in such a way that it caused your back to curl in on itself. You held back a sob, body trembling at the sensation.

Cregan stroked you through all of it, prolonging your agony. He hummed too, clearly enjoying the tightening of your thighs against his head and your moaning into the hot, heavy air of his study. He kept at it until you were actively trying to run from him, too much to handle.

He squeezed your thighs in reassurance before he stood. When he reappeared behind you, he grabbed you by the chin, smearing your face with your own release. His lips found yours in a sticky sweet kiss, tasting your own musk on his tongue. You moaned into his mouth, pushing back in a redundant effort to bring him closer.

When Cregan parted from your mouth, he smiled triumphantly. His chin was still gleaming.

He nudged your cheek with his nose. “And to think that was only the beginning.”

You almost keeled over. Cregan gripped your chin again, repositioning your head in Jace’s direction.

“You really haven’t moved,” Cregan murmured, almost surprised, “You’ve settled down since then.”

“I had my reasons for restlessness back then,” Jace offered, very much an understatement. He shrugged. “Times have changed.”

The next moment, he tilted his head. “Are you really not going to let me touch her? Or you?”

“If you keep up the act, maybe,” Cregan answered, wrapping his arms around your middle. Palming again at your chest. “If I could get her out of this dress faster, I’d let you suck on her tits. They’re divine.”

Jace hummed imaginatively, and you had to hold yourself back from ripping at your bodice. You rather liked this dress. 

“I told you, she’s beautiful,” Jace eyed your cleavage. He ogled your chest, which was still heaving from Cregan’s mouth, and now his hands.

“Yes, well,” You huffed, growing impatient, “She is right here. Ready and waiting.”

Cregan chuckled against your cheek, kissing the flushed skin before pulling away. “‘M here, pet. I’ve got you.”

His palm met the small of your back to bend you back over the table. Trousers were unlaced, your skirts pulled back up. Your breath hitched. You realized, once more, that this was actually happening. 

His weight returned to your back, slotting himself where he had so many times before. He moved against you like it was a birthright, like he knew this was where he belonged. The main difference was sitting right in front of you, painfully hard. Jace groaned quietly, his hands tightening into fists on his thighs. 

Cregan reached a hand back, and then you felt him at your entrance. Teasing you by sliding his cock up and down your slit. You clenched around nothing, desperate to feel him fill you. 

“Don’t tease,” Jace grunted, taking a deep inhale through his nose. 

And for once, Cregan was the one inclined to obey. His head squeezed through your entrance, and the two of you groaned at the pressure, at your togetherness. Cregan gripped your hips, and your head rolled back onto his shoulder. His eyes found yours, noses bumping gently against each other.

The solace he allowed for this brief moment as he slid into you was an eternity in itself. One hand remained on your hip, the other slid between your stomach and your sternum. Whether it was to hold you up or if it was a subtle show of dominion, possession, you couldn’t be sure. Both. Could it not be both? Darkened gray eyes the same color of a turbulent storm raked over your face, flushed and burning. You mewled softly when he bottomed out, jutting your chin out in search of his lips. 

Here, in this small bubble, it was just him and you. It would always be him and you.

“Cregan,” You sighed, barely above a whisper. He groaned your name softly, seemingly in agreement. 

He jerked his head at the third in the room, and you were reminded of Jace. When he reentered your sight, he did not seem offended at the sudden exclusion. His eyes were full of admiration and reverence, breathing heavily at the erotic intimacy on full display in front of him. 

“You’re beautiful,” He whispered. He was talking about you both.

“Cregan.” Your voice was reedier, insistence dripping off of it.

Cregan grunted again. He placed his mouth by your ear. The warmth of his body was rolling off of him, even despite the fact that you were both still clothed. “You wanted to know how I fucked him, Y/N?”

“Yes.” Your brows scrunched together, nodding frantically. “Please move.”

Cregan drew his hips back, sliding out until only his tip was inside of you. Jace’s tongue slotted itself on the inside of his cheek, the skin stretching as it rested there.

“I let him feel every vein on my cock when I put it in him,” He explained, sliding in at an agonizingly slow pace. “I teased him until he was begging for it. I let him squirm. Almost like you were, just now. He sounded a bit more desperate. ”

He bottomed out again, punching the air out of you. He practically spit the next word out, aimed directly at Jace, who grinned at the sound. 

“Whorish.” The hand on your sternum slid down, just above your womb. Then, he pressed down, and you gasped, feeling him at both sides. “I let him feel me so deep in him, I wanted him to feel me in his throat. I wanted to eat him from the inside out. Tried to fuck back on me, I didn’t let him.”

He held still for a beat. Two. All the air felt sucked out of your lungs, and Cregan’s tongue snaked out to ghost along your earlobe, and then he lowered his voice to the quietest, lowest whisper he’d had all night. 

“Not you, Y/N. You do everything I say. You’re so sweet, my love.” 

He slid out again. And when he fucked back into you, the slow, measured, torturous pace was gone, replaced with a forceful, quick one that filled the room with a wet, obscene plap plap plap as his fat balls slapped against your pussy.

Your body seized in his clutch. “C-Cregan!” 

“I know, pet,” He growled, low tone dripping with faux sympathy, “I’ve got you, little thing.”

You shifted onto your tiptoes, fighting for a better angle. You were fully sweating now, overheating in the warm, thick fabric of your dress. His force continued to wreak havoc on your lungs, and combined with his body lumbering over your back, it almost felt like you were suffocating, choking on your husband’s essence. 

His hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to look back at Jace in the chair, who was clenching his jaw now, nostrils flaring with every deep heave of his breath. You wanted to say something, either to him or to Cregan, it didn’t matter. The pleasure was fogging your brain so beautifully that someone, anyone needed to hear it, but your words were gone.

“Think about him,” Cregan commanded, “Look upon our prince and imagine him taking my place.”

Jace’s eyebrows shot up, arousal so clearly painting his features. He was flushed, hair dishevelled, trousers wrinkling from where he had gripped them so clearly. And he was still so hard, tenting the dark, rich fabric. You wanted it in your mouth. You wanted to tear the fabric from his body and take him into your throat, to let him wrap his fingers in your hair and take and take and take and take—

“Say his name.”

You clenched down so hard on Cregan, his exhale turned into a moan, throaty and hungered. Your hips tried to push back, movement involuntary and animal, but he held you in place.

“No,” He scolded, “No. I held him in place, so I’m holding you in place now too. Now do as you’re told.”

“J—” You choked out, breath coming out short and shallow, “Jace.”

Jace’s head tipped back, groaning quietly into the air. His hips shifted upwards, humping like a dog at something that wasn’t there. A reprieve he was not allowed to receive.

“Y/N,” He murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

“You want her,” Cregan said, “You want me.”

Jace’s words emerged, pulled from behind gritted teeth. “I do.”

“What do you want?”

“Anything—” You’d never heard him sound so desperate. How quickly he’d gone from pretending to be in control to showing that he’d never really had it in him at all. “Everything. Her cunt on my mouth and your cock in my ass and her tongue in my throat and—and—”

“My fingers against that little spot in your hole, yeah? The one that makes you cry like a girl?”

Jace’s hips jerked, and he nodded. “Yes. Gods, yes. I miss you inside me.”

“You’ll get it. Soon. Be patient.”

You moaned, the conversation in you bringing back that sweet shade of green that you’d felt in the hot springs. Except the jealousy wasn’t aimed at Jace, and it didn’t have the bitter aftertaste. The jealousy enveloped them both, a jealousy that you hadn’t been there, that you hadn’t seen them rut against each other in the woods or to watch Cregan fuck Jace with his fingers until tears spilled from his pretty brown eyes. When you spoke, you almost weren’t aware of it. 

“Y-you too, Cregan.”

He twitched inside of you. He seemed to know what you wanted, but needed the confirmation. 

“Me?”

“Say his name too, Cregan. Pretend I’m him.”

At that, they both moaned. Desire. Adoration. Surprise. The melody filled the room and travelled down your diaphragm into your stomach, compounded by the shift in Cregan’s movements. 

Animal instinct seemed to recognize your request first. His thrusting turned brutal and mean, befitting of a spoiled, antagonizing prince that needed to be ground into submission. When his brain caught up to his body, he groaned again, and fisted a hand in your hair. You yelped.

“I—Fuck,” Cregan slurred, “You feel so good, my sweet boy—”

Your cunt clenched unexpectedly. My sweet boy. You could be his sweet boy.

“Jace,” You whined. 

“Jacaerys.” Cregan drew out every syllable, savoring this flavor of his prince’s name, one he had not tasted in a very long time.

The both of you dissolved into each other quickly. Cregan continued to pound into you, and you managed to fuck back onto him, despite his best efforts to hold you back. You reached for your skirts, the movements clumsy and jerking. You searched for the hem, trying madly to reach past it. When you did, you immediately found your clit and swirled your fingers, rutting into the movement like a rabbit.

Jace’s name filled the room until it no longer held meaning, until it sounded abstract, until it rose in pitch, grew throatier, and was cried out by the both of you. All the while, the man whose name it was stood watching, jaw gaping, cock aching, as the two people he’d been yearning for peaked in their shared pleasure. And in that shared pleasure, they shared a single word, a single idea, a single thought: him. Jace, Jace, Jace, Jacaerys, Jace.

He watched your back tilt upwards, pushing against Cregan until you bared your neck and your head fell onto Cregan’s shoulder. Your breasts strained against the neckline of your dress and your skin seemed to glow when the firelight hit the sheen of your sweat just right. He watched Cregan’s lip curl, looking more beast than man, before burrowing into your neck and calling Jace’s name against your carotid artery. 

His eyes sank down, to where you had lifted your skirts to rub at your clit, and where Cregan fucked into you once, twice, before burying himself as deep as he could in you, likely hoping that he would spill right up against your fertile little womb. He remained fixated on the sight, like if he stared hard enough he would be able to see through your skin and watch it happen.

When you came down, you were trembling in Cregan’s arms, his broad chest searing into your back. Your breathing was labored, loud, groans marking your every exhale. You could feel just how much Cregan had filled you, and braced yourself for the walk back to your quarters with his spend dripping down your thighs and stockings. He stayed in you, enjoying your warmth for a little longer.

You cracked your bleary eyes open. Jace shifted in the chair and considered his next action. A few seconds later, he stood, and walked slowly towards the desk. Cregan hadn’t told him he could move. But Cregan seemed almost as ruined as you, hair mussed and fingers curled into the fat of your hips. He lifted his head from your neck ever so slightly to watch the prince approach, and said nothing. Jace seemed willing to take his chances.

He leaned over the desk, finally seeing how Cregan had ruined you up close. The corners of his lips, which were pink and swollen from biting them, turned upwards. One hand came up to trace your face, thumb swiping across the apple of your cheek. His touch felt akin to someone stoking a dying fire. He flashed a glance at Cregan before looking back at your own mouth. 

And then he leaned in, and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was gentle but deep, like he was trying to drink up any remaining pleasure that might have been left in your body. Your neck craned, chasing after the taste of Jace’s mouth as he swiped his tongue against your lower lip. You folded immediately, mouth falling open and a hand coming up to his chest. Finally, you wanted to say. You’re here. I’ve been waiting for you. 

You heard a sound leave Cregan’s throat, needy and absolutely involuntary. You had never heard him make a sound like this. How new everything felt suddenly. A spot you had never seen before, on a map you had studied a thousand times.

So quickly Jace came and so quickly he was gone, parting from your lips with a fond phantom of a smile. You blinked slowly, finally able to trace his features without fear or apprehension. You watched as his eyes, nearly blown black from how wide his pupils had become, shifted from your face to another just below yours. 

Wordlessly, his neck shifted downwards, brown eyes meeting gray at a closeness now unmarred with risk or potential betrayal. Jace raked his gaze over Cregan’s face, spent, sweaty and flushed with release. A sight he had seen in person years ago, and seen most recently in his dreams when he was at his loneliest. 

Cregan leaned in first. Jace simply met him halfway. 

Your breath caught at the back of your throat as you watched your husband kiss his best friend, chiseled jawlines moving in tandem, tongues lapping at each other. You felt your core pulse, and Cregan groaned into the kiss, brows creasing. Jace’s second hand rose to Cregan’s face, mirroring the position it had taken along your own skin.

They savored each other for longer than Jace had kissed you, and you let it happen. Your chest was full of all of the moments over the past few weeks, every question, every what if. Moments where you had watched them brush against each other or meet each other’s gaze, in such a manner that had you trying to string together a narrative, evidence, a theory, anything, that indicated something like this. 

The proof was right in front of you. And you were happy to catalog every second. 

When Jace pulled away, he flickered his eyes between both of your faces, both so close to his. You watched his brown eyes simmer with something you could not name. Then his gaze turned calculating, and then it turned sly. He applied a gentle pressure to your cheek, at the same time he did to Cregan. Pushing the three of you even closer, which seemed almost impossible.

Cregan made a face. “What—”

“Shh,” Jace whispered, “Let me.”

He pushed again. You would run out of room. Your mind pulsed as it tried to identify what he was trying to do. When the side of your face not held by Jace met Cregan’s, you seemed to understand.

This won’t work, you thought, desperately hoping you were wrong, surely, he can’t mean to—

The corner of your lip met Cregan’s, and then Jace’s mouth descended on you both. 

The sensation was strange. A rhythm you hadn’t quite danced to before. You tried to mimic Jace’s movements, but Cregan was motionless at your side, and you wondered how this was meant to work. 

Jace’s skin was softer. You could feel some stubble off of your husband, the slight dryness from prolonged exposure to the cold.

You would have pulled away. You almost did, worried the moment would turn awkward. 

Until Cregan reached over to grab at the back of Jace’s head, and his other hand reached over to the one the prince had on your face. He pressed the three of you even closer—a difficult feat—and opened his mouth. His tongue darted from your lips to Jace’s. You jolted, realizing that you could feel Cregan’s tongue against Jace’s mouth, because you were there too. 

Something clicked into place. Something frantic, primal, ancient. Jace opened his mouth. You opened yours. And when their tongues touched yours, you understood then why many said good things came in threes.

Three noses bumping into each other. Three pairs of lips navigating a familiar sequence, this time with an entirely new component to it. Best of all, three tongues flicking against each other, two of them licking into the third, then switching places. You and Cregan pushed into Jace, you and Jace pushed into Cregan, they pushed into you. The three of you tangled together in a delicious, frenzied cycle, needing still to be impossibly closer.

You whined against their mouths when you felt Cregan’s cock twitch inside you. You knew what would happen if you kept at it. He would get hard again, and this time, no matter what he said, you would not be able to hold back and demand Jace join, despite how spent you were. They would press you between them, bodies so hot that you would inevitably melt into the two of them, drip down their chins and their throats, and cease to exist as a person. 

This had to end. You did not want it to. While your spirit was willing, you felt your body utterly ruined. You relished it for a few moments longer, before pulling away, lips wet and panting. Your eyes fluttered open, watching them pull away too. 

Cregan was breathing heavily, face bewildered, but not unsettled.

“I–” He licked his lips, trying to commit your combined tastes to memory. “Where the fuck did you learn that?” 

Jace had the audacity to look sheepish in his reply. “Some Lyseni courtesans were guests at court last year. They can be very, well, creative in their pursuits of pleasure.”

You laughed once, breathless and still trying to process what had just transpired.

“You’ll kill me,” You muttered, “Both of you are going to kill me.”

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

The next few days were a blurred build up to the night of Jace’s farewell feast. You were filled with a seemingly perpetual arousal, kept on the precipice of the best kind of waiting. You returned to your host of administrative tasks, but found the occasional sweet reprieve at being cornered by either of them in an empty hallway or disoccupied study. 

“My lady, the napkins have been pressed as you asked.”

At night, the kissing, gods, the kissing. The three of you, late at night after the work was done, would return to Cregan’s study with an excess of Dornish wine. When the three of you were drunk enough, you would sit in one of their laps and do nothing but alternate kissing each other. You would sit in Jace’s lap, brace your hands on his firm chest, and grind yourself down onto him, feeling his hard cock through your smallclothes and his trousers.  Or, you would sit in Cregan’s lap and let him drag his teeth against your neck while Jace claimed your mouth with his own. Regardless, you would be reduced into a whiny stupor from the visual and physical stimuli descending on you.

“Lady Stark, will you still be wearing the violet gown tonight?”

If the hour stretched late enough, one of you would eventually crack, and ask Jace to show you that Lyseni kissing again. You came twice during this, mind hazy from the hours of grinding against them and the drawn out state of arousal they had placed you in. This strange new union was always a forceful push enough that would have you falling apart in someone’s lap. 

“Lady Stark?"

And other times, you would watch, transfixed, as he and Cregan swapped spit lazily for minutes at a time. You had gripped your goblet with such a force that you were positive you would bend the fine metal, unable to look away as your husband and the prince moved mouths and bodies languidly against each other. As if you were analyzing, studying, preparing yourself to reach out and slot yourself between them both—

“Milady?”

You snapped back to where you were standing, in the middle of the banquet hall where preparations were well underway for the farewell feast. You blinked, meeting eyes with the woman who had just been trying to get your attention.

“Hm?” You raised your eyebrows. “Oh. Yes. Yes, thank you, Rose.”

She nodded sheepishly, and walked away. You pursed your lips, trying to forget about it. A fruitless endeavor. You were on the verge of becoming rabid. You had begged and pleaded for more. It never came.

“Please,” You murmured achingly, “Touch me. Both of you.”

Cregan shook his head. 

“He asked for one night. That’s all I’m willing to share you for. You’ll get it when the time is right, pet.”

If not tonight, when? It had to be tonight. Jace was set to leave on the morrow, good weather permitting. They had taken such a hold on your brain that you found yourself retracing parts of your body that they had traced. A hand on your ribcage where Jace had placed his in the barn with Vermax. Tracing your collarbone with your fingers, where Cregan had placed a bruising kiss while you had been sitting in Jace’s lap a few nights ago. Running your tongue across your teeth, where you had felt both of their own tongues tracing the night it had all started. 

Gods bless Lyseni courtesans, you thought distractedly. 

The rest of the evening was spent in a similar daze. You made your rounds in the kitchen, taste testing sauces, soups, and the sweet creams that would be drizzled on the desserts. You headed up to bathe, attended by your maids as you stared into the distance. 

You were dressed in the deep violet gown you had asked them to press for you, with a neckline low enough to garner attention but not too low as to be immodest. They placed silver pins in your hair, and dressed you in your favorite set of jewelry: a silver pendant with amethyst stones inlaid delicately against the metal, with earrings to match. A gift from Cregan for your wedding. 

You met Cregan at the bottom of the stairs. He walked you down the hallway, a hand on the small on your back.

“Thank you for planning everything,” He said, “Everything has been delightful.”

“It’s been busy, but I was happy to do so.”

“Tonight will be exciting.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Will it?”

A voice from behind you replied, “I certainly hope so.”

The pair of you turned to see Jace. He was a vision in crimson velvet, a dark sash draped over his shoulder, pinned in place with a silver dragon pin. His hair was perfectly curled, sword at his hip. The only word that came to mind was regal. When he smiled, his chin turned upward, carrying himself with all the grace and pride befitting the heir to the Iron Throne. 

“Your grace,” Cregan greeted, “Are you ready?”

“I am.” Jace’s eyes landed on you. He raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

He didn’t need to specify what for. For a second, you glanced at Cregan, who was just as smug. Something you didn’t really see from him.

You took a deep breath. “I… Yes.” 

To say the next few hours were excruciating would have been an understatement. And yet, it made total sense.

The entire night was wrought with an evolution of that initial dynamic you had been so keen to observe when Jace had first arrived. If Jace brushed past you, without fail, he would gently readjust you with delicate fingers on your waist. “Pardon me, Lady Stark,” he whispered every time, loud enough for only you to hear. Your little secret. 

There was no shortage of drinks, of this you had made sure. You had also brought out a gift Jace had sent ahead of time before his visit—several cases of wine from The Reach and The Arbor as a thanks to the lords and ladies of the North for receiving him. At dinner, he raised his cup to the North, its people, and his gracious hosts, Lord and Lady Stark. When Jace mentioned you, Cregan squeezed your thigh under the table, and you grew rigid as a brittle wooden board, ready to snap at any moment. 

As the drinks flowed, they were the final ingredient to a potent and dangerous concoction. The first ingredient had been the heat of the room, the hustle and bustle of the conversation and the music blending together as you took it all in. Next, the pace you had taken all day long, running here and there to make sure everything was perfect and ready to go. Worst of all—strongest, too—had been the mounting expectation of whatever was going to happen once this was over. 

You searched the ballroom for a tall frame draped in dark furs. Dark hair partially tied up. There, speaking with two of Lord Bolton’s sons, he stood tall, poised and elegant like a wolf before a hunt. You held back a sigh. Your husband, your Cregan, your man. He looked beautiful, though he would reject the word outright. Men were not beautiful, he might say.

Or maybe he wouldn’t. Not anymore, you hoped. There was no need to shy away from it now that the truth was out in the open. He was Cregan and he was human and he had been in love with Jace once and he still loved him, but he also loved you. He was capable of holding both of those loves and they were not at odds with each other. Quite the opposite. 

Cregan Stark. Your husband. Lord of Winterfell. Lover of princes and ladies alike. Your heart felt full.

“I told you. You are very lucky.”

Around you, your guests started to pair up. The singers were preparing for another number. Jace looked at you knowingly, and held out a hand.

He raised an eyebrow. “Will you indulge me one last time, Lady Y/N?”

You placed your hand in his. “How could I refuse?”

When he positioned himself, he pulled you closer than he had the first time. Your chests were nearly touching. The music began, and he immediately took the lead. You grinned.

“You know this one.” 

Jace nodded. “It is one of my favorites.”

He moved with you around the hall, not even needing to watch where he was going. Instead, he remained trained on your face. You felt your face grow warm from the attention. 

“Have you enjoyed your time in The North, Jace?” You asked, blinking up at him.

“I have,” he conceded. “I have learned so much more than I did my first time here. And I leave with a new friend. You have been so welcoming to me, my lady.”

He paused, considering his next words. The next time he spoke, he leaned in, lowering his voice. “Especially considering the… behavior I exhibited initially. I imagine that were I a woman, you would have assumed the worst.”

“Your being a man did not matter,” You confessed, “I assumed it within the first few days of your being here.”

This surprised him. “I… You did?”

You laughed. For once, you seemed to have the upper hand with him. “I know my husband. I saw the way he looked at you, and how you looked back. I’m not quiet because I don’t like speaking. But because when you’re silent, you hear every whisper, my prince. Even those that might not be spoken aloud.”

Jace blinked. He seemed stunned, unable to find something to say. The Prince of Dragonstone, words stolen away by Cregan Stark’s meek southern wife. You beamed, triumphant. A moment later, you tilted your head, success giving way to something more genuine.

“Will you miss him?”

Jace lifted his gaze, fixing on one point in the room. You watched his eyes and neck move, coordinating with his feet to keep his eyes on him. You didn’t even need to look to know. Jace watched Cregan with the serenity of someone who had held something once, and come to terms with not being able to hold onto it forever. That was what you saw when they stared at each other, you realized. 

Finally, there was a name for it. Peace. A bond forged from mutual respect and absolution. Whatever had once taken root was no longer there. They would never resent each other for it. If anything, they would care for each other even more. When he looked back at you, you saw yourself reflected in that peace.

“Yes and no,” He answered clearly. “I will miss my friend. But I feel as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders having been here after so long. It was a confirmation I hadn’t realized I’d been searching for. I have you to thank for that, also.”

He spun you around, but you didn’t look away from him as you made a face. “Me?”

Jace nodded, smiling. “I knew coming here how much Cregan loved you. He’s never been good with emotions, but his tone when writing about you was so warm, and… meeting you, spending time with you and him, I see why. I see how he cares for you, and you him. I leave here knowing his heart is safe with you. Just like I know how yours is safe with him.”

You smiled back at this, heart swelling even more. “Thank you, my prince. It has been an honor and a pleasure to be your host, and an even greater pleasure to gain your friendship.” 

The dance slowed to an end. The room burst into applause, and when you looked up, Cregan was watching you both, seemingly ignoring one of the Bolton boys as he attempted to keep Cregan’s attention. The emotion on his face could only be labeled as affection. 

The two of you watched Cregan apologize to the Boltons, brush past them, and cross the room. He seemed to part the onslaught of guests as he walked through them. People would see him, bow their heads, and step to the side. When he landed in front of you both, he held out his arm. You let go of Jace’s hand.

“The night grows long,” Cregan mused, “And the prince has a long journey ahead of him on the morrow. Shall we say our goodbyes and escort him back to his quarters, wife?”

You felt your mouth tip open. It was here. You paused for a beat, then nodded. Jace clenched his jaw, then smirked.

The three of you made a quick round to bid your guests a restful evening. Everyone seemed quite understanding that Jace was feeling tired. The entire time, when you were not speaking, you bit down on your tongue. Lest your teeth rattle with anticipation.

Cregan led you and Jace up the stairs. The ascent was slow, quiet. The symphony of your steps bounced off the stones, echoing throughout the stairwell. 

“The music was lovely,” You murmured innocently. 

“The food was marvelous.” Jace echoed your tone.

Your trio rounded a corner and you found everyone’s slow walk speeding up. Compliments were paid to your organizational choices. Another flight of stairs. Your thighs tensed with exertion and excitement. By the time you hit the top of the staircase, Jace grinned.

He grabbed your hand, then he grabbed Cregan’s. Cregan chuckled quietly, and you found yourself breaking into giggles as well.

“I’ve been waiting for this for weeks,” Jace admitted. Then, he broke into a light jog, taking you and your husband along with him. The drinks, the arousal, the warmth in your chest. All three of these had your head tipping back in joyful, girlish laughter. This was everything you had been wanting, and all of your clothes were still on.

Jace’s door appeared at the end of the hall. He let go of your hands only to open it, and once you were all inside, they pounced on you. How they seemed to move so in sync, you could not say. You had been wound up so tightly you could no longer tell which way was right and which way was left. 

Cregan’s mouth landed on yours, and you immediately opened yourself for him. Pure instinct, letting him lick into your mouth with hot breaths against your mouth. Rough and demanding. He grabbed at your sides, squeezing your hips. Jace stepped behind you, tracing open mouthed kisses along the side of your throat, moving up under your ear. His hands slotted themselves over Cregan’s hands, calloused hands brushing even larger calloused hands. 

You reached behind you to fist Jace’s curls between your fingers, and rubbed Cregan’s chest in front of you. Already, your heart was pounding. Cregan pulled away to nip at your collarbone, and as if reading Jace’s mind, you craned your neck in pursuit of his heart-shaped lips. 

Jace’s kisses were not as aggressive as Cregan’s but they were just as deep. He did not immediately demand you open his mouth to slide his tongue against yours, but rather he spent time courting your lips, then teasing with a quick slide of his tongue against your lower lip. When you bit down on his lower lip, he took that as permission. Only then did his kisses grow faster, humming against your lips when you sucked on his tongue, desperate to get it deeper in your throat. 

His front pressed up against your back, and there, nestled between your buttocks, you could feel something poking you, growing more and more insistent with each passing moment. His hands moved away from Cregan’s at your side and slid up your back, trying to find the laces of your bodice. He parted from your lips to fully concentrate on undoing the problematic knots, and you wrapped both of your arms around your husband’s neck. 

Cregan immediately straightened, moving his hands down to squeeze at your ass. You gasped, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck. 

“Who goes first?” You asked breathlessly. 

“Me,” Cregan responded immediately, “I fuck you first, then Jace fucks you.”

You sighed, bodice becoming looser as Jace successfully undid the laces. “When do you fuck Jace?”

They froze. Cregan gaped at you, then looked at Jace.

Jace cleared his throat. “I–”

Cregan raised an eyebrow. “You–”

“What,” You asked, taken aback at their surprise, “I ask to watch you stick your tongues down each other’s throats, can I not watch my husband stick his c—”

“I didn’t think you’d want to see the… well. The whole of it,” Jace answered. 

Cregan snickered, a hand gripping your chin. “Oh, she wants to see the hole of it, Jace, I promise you.”

“She continues to surprise me.”

“I’m not surprised at all,” Cregan sighed after a moment, rubbing his forehead against yours, “Gods, you greedy little thing.” 

You leaned forward, needing someone desperately. He kissed you again, groaning as you began to unbutton his black jerkin. The vest fell to the floor quickly, leaving him in his thick, gray, cotton doublet. Cregan helped you with the buttons on this one when you pulled away to watch your fingers, which had started to tremble with excitement.

“Easy, pet,” He murmured fondly as his chest was revealed, “We’ve not even touched you yet.

That could not remain true for much longer, you thought, as your bodice and skirts finally gave way thanks to Jace’s ministrations. They pooled at your feet, leaving you in your slip, stockings, and boots. Jace took you by the hand and pushed you back to sit gently on the bed. 

Your boots were unlaced. Two pairs of foreign hands pulled down each stocking, and then they parted your legs. You were left to lift your cotton slip and pull it over your head. It left you the first to be naked, you realized as you laid flat on the bed. Cregan was right behind you, and Jace’s clothes remained in place. 

The pair of them hovered above where you needed. You propped yourself up on your elbows and found yourself with Jace’s eyes dragging slowly up your body, twinkling in the firelight all the meanwhile. 

“You’re unreal,” Jace mumbled, “Sculpted in the image of Mother and Maiden alike.”

“O-oh,” You sighed, a shudder traveling down your spine. You had never been told that before. 

Cregan nipped at your bare thigh, before touching Jace’s cheek. “So this is how you southerners seduce women.”

“Only the exceptionally beautiful ones,” Jace argued, flicking his eyes between you and Cregan, “You use it too much and it becomes blasphemy.”

You licked your lips seeing them both slotted between your legs. “This is already blasphemy enough.” 

“Quite true,” Cregan said, moving his hand to the back of Jace’s head, “And it’s about to be even more so.”

Cregan’s lips wrapped around your pearl. Jace’s mouth landed at your hole, immediately beginning to lap at your wetness as if he hadn’t seen water in days. 

The simultaneous pleasure, courtesy of two of the most powerful men in Westeros kneeling at your feet to worship at your altar. Such a devotional was unlike any other. 

The difference in their kisses translated almost perfectly to this. Cregan enjoyed a bit of force when pinning you down like this. “I know she can take it, she’s taken worse,” was his rationale. Jace, for all of his teasing and mastery of making you want, was as gentle as he was needy. He seemed to understand that this was new to you too, but that this would be his only chance to lap at you. 

They switched places, tongues touching as they moved around your pussy. Jace moaned when it happened, and between watching it happen and feeling the vibration against your core, you cried out, head falling back. Now, it was Jace’s turn to suck softly on your clit, while Cregan decided to stick his tongue inside of you and fuck you with it. You couldn’t make up your mind on where to focus—at this rate your mind was gone, turned to mush, leaking out of your cunt and being soaked up by their mouths.

Cregan’s hands squeezed at your thighs and Jace had one hand on your hip. You were so focused on your own pleasure you didn’t see Jace’s free hand land at the front of Cregan’s trousers, cupping your husband’s hardness with a restrained vigor. Cregan’s hips pushed into Jace’s touch, and he grunted into your pussy as Jace began to squeeze his bulge.

Jace slid his tongue down to where Cregan’s was. He stuck his tongue into your walls as well, holding back a humbling moan when he felt the tightness of your cunt forcing Cregan’s tongue up against his own. He could take it no longer, delving his hands under the dark wool of Cregan’s trousers. 

Jace wrapped his hand around Cregan’s hard cock, remembering the weight of his thick, veiny member, before cupping his fat, heavy balls. Jace’s touch had Cregan groaning into your hole, causing you to gasp out, reaching for both of their heads. Your orgasm was approaching embarrassingly fast, and they got the message when your fists landed in their hair. You hung one leg on their respective outside shoulders, heels digging into their shoulder blades.

Closeness. What a funny word. How could it be that something was too much but never enough?

Cregan’s hand rose up to meet yours in his hair. His index finger tapped your wedding band. Your head rose, face screwed up in pleasure, and saw them both joined together inside of you. A different form of Jace’s Lyseni kiss. The sight was more than enough. You descended into your pleasure, hips bucking against their faces as you demanded for more, for them to stop, for them to keep going, for someone to fuck you, for this night to never end. 

Jace was painfully hard. Between Cregan’s cock in his hand, and now you reaching your peak all over him and your husband’s tongues, he could no longer bear it. As you came down, he realized that he’d be relegated to the side yet again before being allowed to participate. He would not be able to just sit idle while watching the two of you again. 

You lay limp on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as you tried to regain your bearings. They pulled their mouths away, and you let them go. Your eyes fluttered shut for barely half a second, before you heard more kissing, Cregan grunting, Jace gasping. 

You lifted your head with a speed you didn’t think you still had, only to find Jace’s hand in Cregan’s pants while Cregan gripped Jace by the scruff of his neck. Like he was a pup who had just been caught misbehaving. If the hand pumping his cock was the misbehavior, Cregan didn’t seem eager to correct it. You whined at the sight, so ready to watch the prince fall apart on Cregan’s cock. 

Your sound roused them both. Cregan’s movements slowed, and his eyes cracked open. He found you staring at the both of them, chest rising and falling with need. He jerked his hips into Jace’s hand, and for a moment, you almost understood what it was like to be Jace the very first night it had all happened. 

Jace opened his eyes to look back at you, and he bit his lip. He looked at Cregan, who was watching you as well. Jace spit into his other hand, moving to wrap it around Cregan’s member, before leaning over to suck on Cregan’s jugular. Cregan inhaled sharply, hips thrusting into the prince’s hands. 

“Go to her,” Jace murmured against his skin, “Fuck her and I’ll ready myself for you.”

They stood, shedding their remaining clothes as you moved further back on the bed to make room for them both. Soon, the pair were just as naked as you were, moving to the edge of the bed closest to where you were. Standing next to each other, you could not help but compare.

Jace’s muscles were different from your husband’s. Where Cregan was stocky and strong, the muscle was hidden beneath a small layer of plush skin, which was very common in Northern men. Foolish southerners would call it “pudgy”. You called it very, very attractive. His long, thick cock stood at attention, red and willing, hefty balls sagging beneath.

Objectively, Jace was prettier. He was leaner, lighter. Better for riding. His slimness did not necessarily mean fragility—his arms and thighs were well sculpted from years of training, and his shoulders and chest were dotted with freckles too. While his cock was slightly smaller than Cregan’s, it was, like the rest of him, a bit prettier than your husband’s. Pink at the tip, with a generous upward curve that left your mouth watering.

Cregan tilted his head. “Have you had enough of your ogling?” He asked, nodding once. “Lie back.” 

As Cregan crawled onto the bed, Jace walked to the vanity on the far side of the room. He heard you and Cregan kiss as he inspected the vials spread across the grain of the wood, before landing on a vial of perfume oil. He grabbed it before returning to the bed, setting it on a table right next to the mattress. 

When Jace’s head hit the pillow next to yours, Cregan took it as permission to hike your legs around his waist, one hand propping himself up against the headboard. He took himself into his hand, pumped his cock a few times before sliding it up and down your slit, gathering your wetness along his tip.

“Cregan,” Jace said softly, “How many times have I told you not to tease?”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment. Cregan clenched his jaw, and you could finally tell what was being said. So did Jace, who immediately lowered his eyes. 

“Prepare yourself for me,” Cregan said finally, nodding at the vial Jace had grabbed, “Give her something pretty to look at.”

A moment later, Cregan entered you, and did not give you a moment’s reprieve. His pace was immediately fast and rough, and you reached for his arms to find purchase on something. Cregan’s hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to turn your head to where Jace was lying, currently opening the vial.

“Watch him,” He ordered, “You love watching, don’t you, love?”

You nodded as best you could with your head in his grip, eyes pinned to Jace’s form as he came onto his knees, pressing his face against the pillow. His fingers glistened with oil, and a faint smell of jasmine hit your nose. Your mouth fell open as he lifted his fingers up and behind him. From where you were, you couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but the face he made and accompanying sound that escaped him seconds after left nothing to the imagination. 

“Good boy,” Cregan praised, before looking back down at you. You felt yourself clench at his words. Cregan’s pace continued, your hands tracing whatever part of your body you could land your hands on. His broad back and shoulders, hairy chest, or strong plush biceps, you needed something to hold onto as you watched the Prince of Dragonstone finger himself open in preparation for the cock you were currently speared on.

“See normally,” Cregan mumbled into your ear, “I’d have him just like that, but I would be the one to put my fingers in his pink little hole.”

Jace nodded, lip curling up in pleasure. “His f-fingers are quite long,” Jace answered, “Not sure if you’ve noticed.”  

You keened. “Yes,” You agreed, “Quite—ah!—quite talented too.”

Jace groaned. You watched his arm begin to speed up. From atop you, Cregan watched slack-jawed as you both compared notes in front of him. He thrust even harder a few times, desperate to drive the breath from your lungs. The movement pushed you into the pillows, back arching into him.

“C-Cregan,” You cried, whining as the harsh thrusting slowed into deep grinding, “Gods, s-so good.” 

His lips crashed into yours, so bruising and demanding and so very much Cregan, you tightened your legs around his waist. His weight on top of you was almost crushing, but the way he draped himself over you as he moved languidly in and out of you had you enveloped in a blanket of pleasure and veneration radiating off of his being into yours. 

Across from you, Jace was already pressing a second finger into his ass, his other hand wrapping around his cock as he watched Cregan fold you in half. The sound of your cries was soft and needy, but you didn’t complain or try to run from Cregan’s force. You soaked it all up, thirsty and wanting.

When Cregan pulled away, he groaned against your open mouth. “Soon,” He told you, “And after I fill you up, he’ll fuck you too.”

You snaked a hand between you both, rubbing at your nub with a mounting need. You looked back at Jace, moan wrenching from your throat as you watched him, moaning into the pillow, flush covering his delicate freckles. There was a sheen across his forehead and cheekbones, lips forming a delicate little o-shape. Jace’s eyes locked with yours, and you wanted so badly to reach out and touch him. You were rendered immobile beneath your husband’s weight.

You looked down at Jace’s pink cock. He seemed to have found a good rhythm, fucking his cock into his hand and then fucking back onto his fingers. When you realized that he was matching the thrust of his cock into his hand up to the rhythm of Cregan’s hips, your eyes screwed shut, pleasure building impossibly high.

“Cregan,” You called, bucking your hips up into his, “Please.”

“It’s alright, love.” He nodded against your neck, hips beginning to stutter. “Me too. I’ve got you.”

He thrusted a few more times, movements out of rhythm but still so deep inside of you, until his grunts turned into long, drawn out calls of your name. When you felt him spill his hot seed, cock pulsing inside of you, it tipped you over the edge as well, clit pulsating as you pushed your fingers into the sensation. There was always so much, and this time was no different. You looked up at him, vision blurred, to see his hair mussed and a bead of sweat dripping down his nose. It landed on your cheek, and he wiped it away. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Jace shift. He whimpered when his fingers left his hole. He moved closer, eyes trained on where you and Cregan were still connected.

When Cregan pulled out of you, the three of you twisted your necks to watch Cregan’s creamy, white seed spill out of you. You sighed, lower belly warm as he dragged a finger through his release, smearing it across your cunt. He pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Keep them open,” He murmured in your ear, rubbing your thighs. “You’ve been such a good little hostess, wife. How kind of you to gift our prince your tight little cunt.” 

His words caused you to clench down on nothing, and Jace groaned when more cum spilled out. Cregan rolled to your side, letting Jace take his place. Jace’s lips landed on yours, deep but not demanding. His eyes studied your face, the flush of your skin as it travelled down your shoulders and tits.

“My lady,” He whispered, cock poking at your entrance, “Can I? Let me—”

“Yes, fuck.” Your voice was breathy, shifting your hips to catch the head of his cock. The two of you gasped at the sensation. Cregan sighed next to you and both of you shifted to look at him. Your eyes were wide, Jace’s were hooded. Waiting. He had held the reins for most of the operation. Was it any wonder the two of you deferred to him?

Cregan looked between you both, before his lips turned upwards. “Well, go on,” He goaded, “Or does our prince need to tell me where to put his cock?”

Jace swallowed, shaking his head. He grabbed one leg, slinging it over his shoulder. Your chest lurched at the angle, and Jace slid into your pussy. An involuntary sound spilled from his lips, a similar whine coming from yours. You were so—

“So wet, Y/N,” Jace growled, licking up your jawline, “Is that you, or is that his cum?”

“Both,” You said, “It’s both of us.”

Jace’s thrusts were slow and controlled, but still had a way of wrenching soft whimpers from your lips. His lips descended on one of your nipples, and you buried your hands in his hair. You opened your chest to give him better access, nodding desperately as he grazed his teeth delicately across the hard nub. 

His hips tried different angles, each one hitting better than the last, until  he shifted his movement to the left ever so slightly and let out a breathy laugh when you clenched around him and moaned his name. 

“Jace,” You said, “Oh, right there, my prince, please, please, please.”

Jace hit the spot again, experimentally, and he pinned your wrists to the bed to stop you from curling in on yourself. He grinned, groaning softly. 

“No, you’re not going anywhere.” His pace became faster, your head beginning to writhe back and forth on the pillow. You were so sensitive, but Jace was just beginning to let his more merciless nature show. 

“You’ll sit there and take it and show your husband how obedient you are, hmm?”

Your hands balled into fists, unable to touch Jace where you wanted. You wanted your fingers in his mouth. You were sure he would accept them willingly. His pupils were blown so wide his eyes looked more black than brown, and his brows were furrowed in concentration, nose scrunched up ever so slightly as he chased after his own pleasure. He tilted his head, eyes widening.

“Yes? Answer.”

“Yes!” You nodded, unable to deny it. “Yes, yes, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“She always gets desperate when she’s sensitive,” Cregan told Jace. Your head turned, spotting him lying on his side. His cock was half hard, and beginning to swell again. A man starved, his eyes did not settle in one place for very long. Between your face and Jace’s, your tits, where Jace was fucking into you, there was simply too much to take in. “She doesn’t know whether to run from it or let it happen. Isn’t that right, Y/N?”

You chewed on your lip but nodded. The observation was true, but to be teased like this made the faintest shame brew in your chest, and even worse, the shame made your pussy clench. Jace gasped at this, gripping the headboard with one hand and your clit with the other. Your body tensed up as Jace used the headboard for leverage, swiping his fingers across your nub, doubling the sweet anguish traveling through your veins. 

Cregan began to stroke himself again, spurred on by the sudden mania overtaking Jace and being taken out on you. His two favorite people, making each other feel so good right in front of him. The two of you looked so beautiful, your eyes rolling back up into your head as Jace’s head tipped back, revealing the creamy expanse of his neck. He almost wanted to cum again, but knew to save it for what was to come. 

Jace groaning your name, you moaning Jace’s. Gods, what a sight, what a sound. He didn’t think he would ever forget tonight. 

His hand left your clit to grip the leg not propped over Jace’s shoulder, and then he hauled it up to match. The angle allowed him to reach even deeper, and the curve of his cock proved sweet in ramming up against that warm, spongy spot inside of you that had your legs beginning to tremble. This much pleasure could not be good for your body. Surely, you would combust.

“Oh, fuck,” Jace grunted, returning his fingers to between your legs. A fire licked up your mound and shot straight up your spine, fingernails digging into your palms. You bucked against Jace’s movements. He pressed a kiss to one of your ankles before his pace turned harder, rhythm slowing just enough to maintain precision—an effort in vain. 

“Jace, I’m going to—”

“Yes,” He nodded, “Can I—please, inside—”

“Yes,” Your legs slid off his shoulders, immediately wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his ass cheeks, “Yes, Jacaerys, cum in me too.”

Your words pushed him over, paired with the insistence of your legs. Jace could not have escaped even if he wanted to, he realized as his balls tensed up. His arms wrapped around you and yours wrapped around him. His ache crashed into yours, and the two of you hurtled into release, writhing against each other in the aftershocks. 

He buried his face between your breasts, hips bucking wildly as his seed mixed with Cregan’s. The thought had him thrusting weakly as his orgasm died down, trying to extend the sensation in his lower stomach for as long as possible. 

He pulled out of you, cock beginning to soften, and remained draped over you, panting against one of your breasts. He flicked his tongue against your nipple, and you almost shoved him off. You were too weak to actually see it through, twitching against Jace’s lean frame as he pressed kisses into your hairline, damp with sweat.

“Gorgeous,” He whispered into your skin, “Doing so well for us, pretty girl.”

Jace lowered his mouth to yours, lazily tangling his tongue with your tongue in the brief interlude before the final act. You felt Cregan stand from the bed, too engrossed in the taste of Jace’s lips to actually focus on what your husband was doing.

The prince pulled away, and you cracked your eyes open to see Cregan at the foot of the bed, gaze dark, shoulders squared. Jace twisted his head. They exchanged a glance, and then Jace looked back at you. He gave you one final kiss, before crawling backwards until his buttocks met the tops of Cregan’s thighs. You moved to sit up, but Cregan shook his head.

“Come here.”

You raised your eyebrows, eyes darting from side to side. “Me? What are you—”

“Look at the mess his grace made,” Cregan murmured, hand sliding up Jace’s spine. The prince shuddered, eyes falling between your thighs. Your cunt was ruined, he realized, swallowing thickly. Cum was oozing out from your hole, your clit was swollen, and Cregan’s cum, previously dislodged by Jace’s fucking you had smeared across your folds.

“Should he not be made to clean it up?”

Your thighs twitched, mouth gaping. You looked at Jace, who seemed near close to drooling like a hound. When your eyes returned to Cregan’s face, there was no room for argument. Still, you tried.

“I can’t—”

“But you will.” Cregan’s hand nestled into Jace’s hair, giving it a light tug. “And he will be good and clean you up. You can take one more, pet. I know you have it in you. You always do.”

You almost hesitated, before spotting where Cregan’s fingers were tangling themselves in Jace’s hair. Your lower lip found itself pinned down by your teeth, but not out of apprehension. 

A few moments later, you slid down the bed, at the same time as Cregan walked to the nightstand. He took the oil and smeared it over himself. When he stood behind Jace again, he rubbed the remainder all over the prince’s hole. Jace jumped, before craning his hips back. 

Cregan smiled crookedly before applying a gentle pressure against Jace’s hole with his thumb. It gave almost immediately, welcoming Cregan back in greedily. He dipped his thumb in and out too slow for comfort, and Jace’s forehead made contact with one of your parted thighs.

He toyed with Jace’s hole a little longer, gauging whether or not he was ready for Cregan’s cock, now fully hard again. He wasn’t sure how long he would last, having came once already, on top of watching Jace fuck you. When he pulled his thumb out, he also pulled the softest whimper from the back of Jace’s throat. 

“Please,” Jace said, one hand reaching back to spread himself open for Cregan, “Please, I need you.”

Cregan bent down, slotting a wet, open mouthed kiss between Jace’s shoulder blades. He gripped himself, pressing the head of his cock right up against Jace’s asshole. All of the air still in Jace’s body left him, leaving only anticipation that bled from every pore on his skin. 

“Put your mouth on her.” The command was said quietly against Jace’s skin. “Then I’ll fuck you, my sweet boy.”

Jace exhaled shakily at the name. He had not been called that in years. He licked his lips, looking back at your cunt. Your tired eyes were watching him fondly, a hand reaching for his cheek. You took a trembling breath, before falling in line with what Cregan wanted. 

“Eat,” You whispered sweetly, beaming when he pressed his face into your palm, “Be good for us.”

The silver of your wedding band was cold against his cheek. A miniscule oasis from the layer of heat that had blanketed the room. He shut his eyes and allowed himself one more moment to enjoy the cool metal on his skin. Then, he turned, and placed a dedicated kiss on your palm. When he drew away, he lowered his neck, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth to trace a long stripe from your hole to your clit.

The sensitivity was too much. You jumped at the wet warmth of his tongue, and Jace splayed a hand over your lower stomach, pinning you in place. You shivered, scar touching your skin. He licked you again, and then began to dip his tongue into your folds.

“Fuck!”

Jace hummed against your folds, half-hard member twitching at your expletive and the mixed flavor of his own cum and Cregan’s. He canted his hips back, unable to form words anymore. 

Cregan chose mercy. He pushed in, forcing Jace to gasp against your cunt. His eyes burned as he stared unblinking at how he slid into Jace’s tight hole, jaw clenching as he gave Jace a moment to adjust. The prince was still as tight as he remembered him. Jace seemed to disagree with the decision.

“Ngh, move.” This was the most princely he’d sounded since coming into the room, his demand bitten out and gruff. Jace brushed his nose against your clit, and you tangled both hands in his hair. Cregan lifted his eyes, landing on your debauched, sweaty face, and you nodded. 

Cregan bottomed out, reaching for Jace’s slender waist. He was going to need the leverage. He held Jace in place as he slid out, and then began to fuck the prince with an abandon Cregan hadn’t expected of himself.

The three of you were falling apart. This drawn out session had stripped the three of you to your most animal senses. Humping, grabbing, moaning, licking. Titles were seemingly gone, and what was left were three sweaty lovers in search of a reverie so prolonged it verged on painful, still delicious enough to keep at the pursuit. 

Cregan’s hands tightened around Jace’s waist. Jace groaned, hoping desperately he’d have bruises to further commit the night to memory. He angled his hips upward, knowing how close Cregan he was to his prostate. He knew Cregan was looking for it too. All Jace had to do was guide the way. 

When he found it, Jace’s voice cracked. The timbre of his voice gave way, leaving a whiny mess still dipping his tongue into your hole. His whimpering and the accompanying vibration had you crying out too. The praise spilled out of you, a woman possessed. 

“That’s it,” You said, “Take it, Jace. I know you can do it, darling. Take it like I did.”

Cregan, yearning for that mythical closeness, rested his knees against the mattress, stomach pressing against Jace’s lower back. He began mouthing at Jace’s shoulders, showering him with affirmations every time his lips were detached from his skin long enough. Cregan’s hips never let up.

“Just as tight as I remember, sweet boy,” He growled, “‘M going to fuck you until you’re begging me to stop.”

“Never stop,” Jace pleaded, lapping at your clit, “Don’t want you to.” 

“No?” Cregan’s hands slid to his front, tweaking at Jace’s nipples, before sliding a hand down to grip Jace’s twitching, ruddy member. “Even like this?”

Jace cried out again, wrapping his lips around your clit. Your back arched off the bed, tugging so intensely at Jace’s pretty locks that his scalp ached sweetly. Your entire body was trembling now. Jace was wrecked, pinned between you and your husband as Cregan took and you were made to give. 

The three of you, connected. You and Cregan, slowly suffocating Jace with your love. And Jace, in the middle of it all, unable to do anything but accept it all. Even as his a knot began to form in his lower stomach, ass tightening with Cregan still inside. When he clenched down on Cregan, Cregan’s hips bucked, before retaking the rhythm he was still trying to hold onto. 

“Feel too good, Jace,” He groaned, “‘M not gonna last.”

“Cum in me,” Jace demanded, lifting his mouth off of you, “Let me feel you in me when I leave.”

Cregan drove himself into Jace even harder, final orgasm now in view. He cupped Jace’s balls, squeezing, as if attempting to coax Jace’s cum out of them. Jace reattached his tongue to your clit, two fingers sliding into your painfully sensitive hole, trying to find more of the sticky, creamy cum they had both placed so lovingly in you. Your body was no longer your own, you realized with a pleased satisfaction. They had taken control of it and decided how to position it, how to fill it, when you’d had enough.

“And you,” Jace murmured breathlessly into your skin, “I want to feel your pussy squeeze around my fingers one more time.”

His words triggered an avalanche, starting with you and ending with Cregan. Your vision turned white, body stiffening for a beat. Then, your body jolted, cunt clenching helplessly around Jace’s digits. He suckled on your clit through every single wave of painful pleasure, until you were sobbing, trying weakly to push his head away. 

Jace let his head fall back on your soft thigh. He couldn’t tell if you were the one trembling or he was. His eyes squeezed shut, feeling the familiar tug in his balls. He bit down on your thigh when he came again, cum spilling over Cregan’s fist, his own walls fluttering against Cregan’s incessant pounding. 

Finally, Cregan wrapped himself on Jace, burying himself the deepest he’d been in the prince all night, shuddering on top of him as he spilled more of his warm, sticky cum into the heir to the Iron Throne.

The three of you rode out the final waves until it hurt, room smelling of sweat, sex, and funnily enough, jasmine. The only sounds were those of the crackling wood of the hearth and three different staccatos of breath. 

Carefully, Cregan pulled himself out of Jace. Jace, boneless, fell forward, nuzzling into your thigh. You carded a hand through his sweaty curls, attempting to soothe after all of your yanking. You felt the mattress dip behind you. Cregan had slid onto your side of the bed, lying behind you. He pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder. He looked utterly spent, heart still hammering just under his sweaty chest. 

When Jace had regained his bearings, he crawled up to be level with you and Cregan. He wrapped his hands around your waist, and looked at you both. Cregan had one hand splayed across your lower back, and used the other to slide up Jace’s arm. All your touches had turned tender, now. Any tension or desire had bled into each other late into the night, leaving only fondness and a feeling of completion. A circle being closed.

“If Aegon the Conqueror had done this instead,” Jace decided, “I believe the North would have fallen much faster.”

Cregan swatted his arm. Jace caught his hand, scars brushing. You giggled, sleep beginning to settle over your body. 

“I mean it. If he’d just bent over for Torrhen Stark–”

“Jacaerys.”

As your eyes fluttered shut, you smiled between their bodies. It was cold outside, but you had your husband at your back, and a prince of dragon blood at your front.

For the rest of the night, there would be no cold to be spoken of.

•❆·.　❆　　.•　·•　❅　·❆.

minors dni. if i didn't tag you, it was because i couldn't see an age anywhere on your blog <3

The casket arrived in Pittsburgh without Task Force 141.

Brendon noticed that before anything else.

Before the black government vehicle rolled through the secured hangar doors on the military side of Pittsburgh International Airport. Before the uniformed officers stepped onto the concrete beneath the cold November sky. Before the British flag stretched tightly across polished wood came into view, every fold immaculate beneath the floodlights lining the military ramp.

None of them were there.

No Price. No Ghost. No Soap, Gaz, or Roach.

Instead, a British officer Brendon had never met walked beside you.

Major Elias Ward had accompanied your remains from RAF Brize Norton to Dover Air Force Base, where the official dignified transfer and mortuary processing had taken place. When you were cleared for the final journey home, he boarded the dedicated aircraft with you and remained beside you until it touched down on the military ramp at Pittsburgh International Airport, near the 911th Airlift Wing’s Air Reserve Station.

His uniform was spotless, but exhaustion had settled into the lines around his eyes. He carried a narrow black presentation case against his chest as though it contained something fragile.

Brendon stood with one hand resting on his son’s shoulder and the other wrapped tightly around his daughter’s fingers.

Mason was eleven and old enough to understand what the casket meant, although he had not cried since the casualty officers came to the house. He had stood beside Brendon while two uniformed strangers explained that his mother had died overseas, his hands buried in the front pocket of his sweatshirt and his face frighteningly blank.

Seven-year-old Sophie kept staring toward the aircraft as though she expected you to step down after everyone else.

Brendon was still wearing his hospital clothes beneath his coat. He had left PTMC as soon as another attending could take over the procedure, stripping off his gloves while Garcia explained that your flight had landed earlier than expected.

He remembered telling her to close for him.

He remembered Garcia taking his shoulders in both hands and telling him she had it.

After that, there was nothing.

He could not remember changing out of his surgical gown. He could not remember calling the children’s school or driving across the city. He could not remember parking outside the hangar.

He only remembered the casket coming through the doors without the people who had promised to bring you home.

Major Ward stopped in front of him.

“Doctor Park?”

Brendon did not look at the officer. His eyes remained fixed on the flag covering you.

“Where are they?”

Ward’s expression tightened.

“Captain Price and his unit were placed under operational restriction following the incident.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Mason’s shoulder went rigid beneath Brendon’s palm.

Ward glanced toward the children before lowering his voice.

“They were not cleared to leave immediately. By the time they were, none of them believed they had the right to stand beside her casket and face you.”

Brendon finally looked at him.

“They didn’t believe they had the right?”

“No, sir.”

“They could survive chemical attacks, gunfire and torture, but they couldn’t face my children?”

Ward’s jaw shifted.

“There is a difference between recovering one of your own and delivering her to the people who were waiting for her.”

Brendon wanted to hit him.

He wanted to grab the front of the man’s uniform and demand that he open the casket, wake you up and explain how five men trained to walk through hell had been too afraid to stand in a hangar with your husband and children.

Instead, Sophie tugged on his sleeve.

“Daddy?”

Every person in the hangar went still. She looked past him toward the casket.

“Is Mommy inside there?”

Brendon crouched in front of her. His knees struck the concrete harder than he intended, but he barely felt it.

“Yes, sweetheart.”

Sophie stared at him, her small face serious.

“Can we see her?”

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Ward turned his face away.

“Later,” Brendon finally managed. His voice scraped against his throat. “After they make her ready.”

“Why does she have to get ready?”

Brendon swallowed.

“Because she had a very long trip.”

Sophie considered that before nodding. She trusted him. She believed that he still understood how the world worked and that, if he promised she could see her mother later, he could make it happen.

That was the worst part.

She pressed herself against his chest, and Brendon held her while the honour guard approached the casket.

Mason did not move.

His face stayed blank as the officers lifted you. Only his breathing changed, growing shallow and uneven beneath Brendon’s hand.

They carried you past them with slow, measured steps.

Brendon watched until the casket disappeared beyond the hangar doors.

Major Ward remained behind.

“The Regiment asked me to give you this.”

Brendon slowly rose.

Ward lowered the narrow case and opened it.

A folded Union Flag rested inside, along with your beret, dog tags and the battered watch Brendon had given you on your first wedding anniversary.

He had bought it because you were always late.

You had laughed when you opened the box and told him that a watch could not fix a personality defect. Then you had worn it every day for thirteen years.

Brendon stared at the scratches across its face.

“The flag covered her during the transfer out of theatre,” Ward said. “She served beside British soldiers. She saved British lives. The Regiment wanted her family to know she was considered one of ours.”

Brendon looked at the Union Flag.

“She was ours here, too.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

Ward accepted the words without argument.

Brendon reached for the watch.

The metal was cold against his palm.

“Was she alone?”

“No, sir.”

Ward answered immediately, and something in Brendon’s chest twisted.

“She was never alone.”

“Who was with her?”

Ward’s gaze dropped briefly to the presentation case.

“Sergeant MacTavish.”

Soap.

Brendon closed his fingers around the watch.

“Did she suffer?”

Ward took a careful breath.

“I was not present when she died.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“No.” Ward’s voice softened. “It isn’t.”

Brendon waited.

“She was given pain relief as soon as the team reached cover. Captain Price remained with her until evacuation personnel arrived. Sergeant Riley did not leave her during the flight out of theatre.”

Ghost.

Brendon looked toward the doors through which they had carried you.

“Then why isn’t he here?”

Ward did not answer.

He did not need to.

Brendon closed the case himself.

Price came to the house three nights later.

All five of them did.

Brendon had been sitting at the kitchen table with your calendar in front of him, staring at an appointment you had written down for Mason’s dentist six months from now.

Mason — dentist, 3:30. Do not let Brendon claim he forgot.

Your handwriting slanted upward at the end, as though even the letters were amused with him.

The doorbell rang shortly after nine.

Sophie was asleep upstairs with one of your old sweatshirts tucked beneath her chin. Mason had gone to bed but had not closed his bedroom door, something he had not done since the casualty officers came.

Brendon opened the front door and found Task Force 141 standing beneath the porch light in civilian clothes.

They looked wrong without their gear.

Smaller somehow.

Human in a way Brendon had never wanted them to be.

Price stood at the front in a dark coat, his shoulders squared as though he were reporting for punishment. Ghost remained behind him, his face covered even here. Gaz kept his hands buried in his pockets. Roach stared at the wooden boards beneath his feet.

Soap had one arm strapped against his chest.

Brendon saw the bandages near his throat. Healing burns climbed along one side of his face, disappearing beneath his collar.

He understood before anyone spoke.

“Which one?”

No one answered.

Brendon stepped onto the porch and shut the door behind him so the children would not hear.

“Which one did she die saving?”

Soap’s eyes filled immediately.

“Me.”

Brendon crossed the space between them.

Price moved first, putting himself between Brendon and Soap.

Brendon’s fist struck Price across the mouth.

The blow snapped his head sideways. Price stumbled into the railing, one hand catching the wooden post as blood appeared along his lower lip.

Ghost did not reach for Brendon.

None of them did.

Brendon hit Price again, catching him near the jaw.

“You promised me.”

Price remained upright this time.

“You stood in my kitchen.” Brendon grabbed the front of Price’s coat. His hands shook violently against the fabric. “You ate at my table. You looked my children in the face and promised you would bring her home.”

“I did.”

“In a box!”

The words carried through the quiet street.

Price closed his eyes.

Brendon shoved him away.

The captain struck the railing again but made no attempt to defend himself.

Brendon turned toward Soap.

Soap looked ill. His injured arm remained secured tightly against his chest, and stitches disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.

“She came back for me,” he said.

His Scottish accent had gone thin with grief.

“The first blast trapped my leg. She could’ve made the extraction point, but she came back.”

Brendon pressed both hands over his face.

“She got me loose,” Soap continued. “There was another device.”

“Stop.”

“She covered me before it went.”

“I said stop.”

Soap’s mouth closed.

For several seconds, the only sound came from Brendon’s breathing.

Then Soap spoke again.

“She was conscious afterward.”

Brendon’s hands dropped.

Price looked sharply at Soap, but Soap continued.

“She knew she wasn’t coming home,” he whispered. “She made me take her tags. Told me Mason would pretend he was fine and Sophie would start sleeping with the hallway light on.”

Brendon stared at him.

“She said you’d forget to eat unless someone put food directly in front of you.”

A sob tore out of Brendon before he could swallow it.

He bent forward, one hand braced against his knee, the other pressed to his mouth.

Soap looked down at the porch boards.

“She told me to tell you that she wasn’t scared until she thought about you having to tell the kids.”

Brendon squeezed his eyes shut. He could see you saying it.

Not because you had not been afraid to die, but because even at the end, you would have been thinking about everyone except yourself.

“She kept asking if we’d contacted you,” Price said quietly. Blood remained on his lower lip. “We told her we had.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Brendon looked up.

Price did not look away.

“Communications were compromised. We couldn’t reach command until after she was gone.”

“You lied to her.”

“Yes.”

Brendon straightened, his vision blurring. His mind was no longer on the porch. It was with you in those final minutes, wondering whether you had been scared, whether it had hurt, whether you had known how badly he would have wanted to be there.

God, if he had been, he would have begged you to stay. He would have kept asking you to hold on until the words became selfish, because he would not have known how to let you go.

So he said the only thing that made sense now.

“Good.”

Price’s brow tightened.

“Good,” Brendon repeated, his voice breaking. “She didn’t need to know I wasn’t there.”

The front door opened behind him. Mason stood in the doorway wearing his pyjamas. His hair was rumpled from bed, but his eyes were wide awake.

Brendon’s stomach dropped.

“Mason—”

His son’s gaze moved across the five men before settling on Soap’s injured arm.

“You're the one?”

Soap’s face crumpled.

“Aye.”

Mason walked onto the porch.

Brendon reached for him, but his son moved past his hand and stopped in front of Soap.

“My mom saved you?”

“She did.”

“Why?”

Soap lowered himself carefully onto one knee despite his injuries. His face tightened with the movement, but he did not stop until he was level with Mason.

“Because she was my friend,” he said. “Because she knew I had people waiting for me too.”

Mason’s chin trembled.

“Then you better do something good.”

Soap stared at him.

“With your life,” Mason said. “You better make it worth what she gave you.”

Soap bowed his head.

“I’ll try.”

“That isn’t good enough.”

“No,” Soap whispered. “It isn’t.”

Mason stood there for another second, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Then he turned and buried his face against Brendon’s chest. Brendon wrapped both arms around him.

Mason’s entire body shook as the first sob came out of him. It sounded small and frightened, nothing like the silence he had carried around for the past three days.

Brendon held the back of his head and pressed his face into his son’s hair.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, although he no longer knew whether he was speaking to Mason or trying to convince himself. “I’ve got you.”

Behind them, the front door opened wider.

Sophie appeared in the doorway, clutching one of your old sweatshirts.

The grey fabric hung nearly to her knees. She had pushed one sleeve clumsily above her wrist while the other covered most of her hand.

She looked at the men who had returned without you.

“Are you Mommy’s friends?”

Price wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yes, love.”

Sophie held the sweatshirt tighter.

“She would want you to come inside, then.”

That broke whatever composure they had left.

Gaz pressed a hand over his mouth. Roach sank onto the porch step, elbows braced against his knees as his head dropped. Price turned away, his jaw tightening while he stared into the darkness beyond the railing.

Ghost said nothing. He only looked towards the empty street, as though there were something in the dark he could drag you back from, if only for your children.

Ghost understood the first punch. Price had promised to bring you home, and the rest of them had made that promise in their own ways. Brendon had every right to break something when they arrived on his porch without you.

Then your daughter appeared wearing the grey sweatshirt you had stolen from your husband years ago.

Ghost recognised it immediately. He remembered you curled into the corner of a safe-house sofa, arguing with Brendon through a cracked phone screen while Ghost cleaned blood from his gloves just outside the camera’s view.

“My name is on the tag,” Brendon had said.

You had twisted around to check before laughing and wearing it anyway.

Something tightened beneath Ghost’s ribs, but he pushed the feeling aside.

Years before Brendon, that laugh had belonged to moments shared only with him. Whatever had existed between the two of you had never been given much of a chance to become a life. Ghost had wanted you, but wanting you had been easy. Staying would have meant letting you close enough to see everything he kept buried, and he had been too damaged and too frightened of what loving him might eventually cost you to ask for that.

He had let you go before you could build a future around a man who did not know how to believe in one.

It had hurt you. For a while, the two of you spoke only when the job required it, but eventually you found your way back to each other. You became friends again, not the way you had been before, but close enough to trust each other through long missions, bad orders and everything that followed.

Ghost never tried to interfere when you met Brendon, although he remembered the first time you mentioned him.

You had returned from a favour for Laswell after helping an American unit with something outside Pittsburgh. Pittsburgh, of all bloody places. Ghost had barely thought about the city before you came back saying you had met someone there.

Once the assignment was over, the soldiers from the base had taken you to a nearby bar. Some drunken patron had mistaken your patience for permission and put his hands where they did not belong.

You had not needed rescuing. Ghost knew you could have put the man through the nearest table before anyone finished ordering another round, but Brendon had stepped in anyway.

You told the story with an amused smile, describing the American doctor who had caught the man’s wrist and calmly advised him to move before you broke it yourself. Brendon had understood that you were perfectly capable of defending yourself. He had simply made it clear that the stranger would not be touching you again.

Things had taken off from there.

Ghost remembered the jealousy that settled beneath his skin when you returned. You seemed lighter and distracted, carrying a private happiness you tried and failed to hide. When Soap made some filthy joke about how thoroughly the American doctor must have seen you off before the flight home, you told him to shut his mouth without meeting anyone’s eyes.

That had been answer enough.

Ghost kept his thoughts to himself. He assumed Brendon would become a story you occasionally told, one unexpected night with an American you had met in a city neither of you had expected to matter.

He never imagined it would lead to a wedding ring beneath your gloves, photographs tucked into your vest and two children waiting for you in Pittsburgh. He never imagined he would one day stand on your porch and see that same grey sweatshirt hanging from your daughter’s shoulders while your husband tried to survive the fact that you were gone.

Pittsburgh should have been a passing detail. Instead, it became the place where you built the rest of your life.

Even after you married Brendon, there were moments when the past still found its way between you and Ghost.

One night in a safe house, you sat cross-legged on the floor beside him with the pieces of your rifles spread across an old towel. You cleaned his weapon while he worked on yours, continuing a habit left over from the years when trusting each other had come more easily than admitting what you felt.

Ghost inspected the bolt you handed back to him.

“You missed a spot.”

You glanced over without lifting your head. “No, I didn’t.”

“Carbon on the edge.”

“That was already there.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You keeping photographs of it now?”

Ghost looked at you across the scattered gun parts. “Could start.”

Your mouth curved. “You always were fussy about my weapons.”

“Someone had to keep you alive.”

“That what you called it?”

The teasing came back easily—too easily—and for a moment, the years between you seemed to disappear. Ghost remembered the way you looked at him then, amused and fond, with just enough understanding in your eyes to make the room feel smaller.

Then your phone vibrated against the floor, and Brendon’s name lit the screen.

The old familiarity between you settled back into the past where it belonged.

You picked up the phone with a softness already touching your face.

“Hey, you.”

The warmth in your voice struck Ghost harder than he expected. He lowered his head and returned to your rifle, dragging the cloth carefully through the chamber while Brendon spoke through the phone.

“No, we’re fine,” you said, glancing towards Ghost. “Just cleaning up before we move again.”

Brendon said something that made you smile, and Ghost kept his attention fixed on the weapon in his hands.

“I know,” you murmured. “I miss you too.”

There was no hesitation in your voice. Whatever flame had once existed between you and Ghost belonged to another time, while Brendon had become the life you were returning to.

When the call ended, you placed the phone beside your knee and reached for the rifle.

“Where were we?”

Ghost checked the chamber one last time before handing it back to you.

“We’re finished.”

You studied him for a moment, as though you knew something had shifted and respected him enough to leave it alone.

“All right, then.”

Ghost missed the years when your smiles had turned towards him first. He still remembered the softness of your lips against his and the way you had once looked at him as though there might still be a man beneath everything the world had made of him.

Missing it did not make it his.

Brendon had built the life with you that Ghost had once been too afraid to imagine. He had seen how freely you smiled around your husband and heard the warmth that entered your voice whenever you spoke about the home waiting for you in Pittsburgh. Your love for Brendon lived in every part of you: the ring beneath your gloves, the photographs tucked into your vest and the children waiting for their mother to come home.

Ghost respected you both too much to turn his regret into something you had to carry.

Perhaps another version of him, in another life, might have been brave enough to stay. In this one, he had always stood outside the frame.

When Sophie invited them inside, Ghost lowered his head and waited for Brendon to open the door.

Brendon looked down at his children and understood that you were still taking care of them through every habit you had left behind.

There was Mason’s stubbornness, Sophie’s open heart, the extra meals labelled in the freezer, the emergency contacts taped inside the kitchen cupboard, and your handwriting on the calendar reminding him about dentist appointments months after your death.

He opened the door wider. The five men entered quietly.

Gaz helped Roach to his feet. Price paused beside Brendon, his lower lip already swelling, but neither man apologised.

There was nothing either of them could say that would make an apology useful.

Soap stopped at the threshold.

Mason had not released Brendon’s coat, but he turned his head enough to look at him.

Soap waited.

After a moment, Mason gave a small nod.

Only then did Soap step inside.

Sophie led them toward the living room, dragging the sleeve of your sweatshirt along the floor.

“You have to be quiet,” she told them. “Mommy’s things are sleeping.”

Price made a sound that might have been a breath or the beginning of another breakdown.

Brendon remained on the porch.

The cold air moved against his face, carrying the faint smell of rain and chimney smoke from somewhere farther down the street.

The road was empty.

For one irrational moment, he imagined headlights turning the corner. Your car pulling into the driveway. You leaning across the centre console to grab your bag before stepping out, tired and irritated because nobody had warned you that Pittsburgh had already become this cold.

He imagined you climbing the steps and asking why everyone was standing around looking miserable.

Nothing happened.

The street remained empty.

Inside the house, the Union Flag rested beside the folded American one.

Two countries had claimed the honour of mourning you.

Neither could give you back.

Brendon opened his hand.

Your watch lay in his palm, its scratched face reflecting the porch light. The second hand had stopped sometime during the journey home.

He pressed it into his skin until the metal hurt.

Then he went inside to raise the children you had died trying to come home to.

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?”

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde !

· 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

“My lord,” you said as you dropped into a practiced curtsy before the long table he sat behind, feeling the ache in your legs on the descent after three long days at sea. You fought to remember the words your father told you to repeat, because he’d fought alongside Lord Ormund once, and knew much of his peculiar propensities. “My family thanks you for… providing me shelter here, among family, in such… troubled times.”

“Family,” Ormund scoffed in amusement. His mouth curled into an amused grin as he rose from his chair, wooden legs screeching along the cobbles. He rounded the table in slow strides and shook his dark-auburn head. “No, child— Daeron is family.”

He motioned to the chairs behind him with a lazy, ringed hand as he approached you. It was not hard to find which men sitting there belonged to your cousin; he was the youngest of them, to be sure, and wore a slightly more masculine version of Alicent’s face upon his rounder one.

“You, my girl, are a guest,” Ormund corrected with an artificial kindness that made your stomach feel sick. 

Sicker still was the smell of candlewax and salt and sea brine stained on the walls. The scent of bathing oils and incense filled your lungs the moment Ormund planted himself before you, with two wide palms splayed on either side of your arms. His chiseled features, carved from stone, looked almost apologetic when he ducked his head into your eyeline. 

“I do this as a favor to your father, and to my nephew,” the older man confessed. “Daeron has seen little family over these years, save myself— and I will not deny him the comfort of the blood he still has left to him.”

His voice was warm with a knight’s tenderness, though there was little of it in his words. 

His fingers were tender, too, as he drew them around the hood upon your head to pull it back from your hair — but the way he examined the Valyrian-silver strands between them was far less than kind. His strong jaw clenched; his pale eyes hardened; his chest rose and fell beneath his coat with a huff.

“Mm,” he muttered in disgust.“We’ll have to do something about this.”

Your hair is dyed a shade to complement your skin tone two days later. Your wardrobe is stripped of its Targaryen silks and replaced with Hightower green and gold within a week. You study the Hightower histories, you pray to the Hightower gods, you speak the way Hightowers speak. Within a month at Oldtown, you are stripped of any remnants of your Targaryen identity — a fact which seems to please Ormund, whose praise comes more and more frequently these days.

In his own accounting of the matter, he sees it as good work. Godly work. To have tamed a wild Valyrian beast, who rides no dragon but carries the blood of one all the same. They say Targaryens are destined to destroy, never create. And yet, Ormund has made a civilized thing out of you — fit for suppers at his tables, fit for silence everywhere else.

But he does not yet know about the dreams. 

You have always had them, or at least, since you were capable of comprehending their existence. They come less like sleep and more like drowning — fires not yet lit, soldiers not yet dead, rulers not yet born. You haven’t yet found a safe way to say I dreamed it and be believed, or be forgiven in the saying. So you do not say it.

Instead, you drink.

It started as a cup of Arbor Gold to sand down the edges of a dream when it still clung to you at breakfast, the only remedy the maesters could summon to ease your temperament. That turned into silver flasks tucked into the boning of your bodice — to be snuck during lessons and meetings and dinners with middling ale, to quiet your mind whenever the dreams began to claw at it. 

That, inevitably, turned into passing out at bars and brothels only to be woken over the shoulder of a soldier carrying you back home again.

It’s how you learned of Ormund’s keen nose, when he insisted he could smell the scent of ale on your breath from a hall’s length away, and could perfectly name which wine you’d snuck from the cellar accordingly. His worry for your obvious excess comes masked as irritation — because he is the one who had built you so carefully, and still he is the one watching you come apart at every seam he had sewn so carefully for you.

When you go missing one day until sundown, and Bold John interrupts the lord’s supper with news of your whereabouts and your refusal to return, Ormund goes to get you himself. He finds you a half-league outside the city, in a half-rundown pleasure house that wreaks of smoke, sour ale, and very heavily of sex — stale air humid from golden candles and naked bodies pressed too close together.

Ormund presses an embroidered handkerchief to his nose as he weaves through the crowd, spine straight and chin level. He finds you in the very back of the den of sin, slouched alone at a table with empty mugs of ale scattered all around you. Your dyed hair is half-loose from its pins as your heavy head lolls on your fist. With your tired eyes fluttering open and closed, you don’t realize the man’s towering over your table until he slams his fists upon it, jostling the cups standing there.

“Why, in the name of the Mother, are you in a brothel?” Ormund spits in place of a greeting.

Your eyes lift slowly to meet his sharper ones. The man’s angry features are softened slightly by the haze of alcohol clouding your vision. “This is the only ale in the city that isn’t watered down…” you shrug and can’t quite tell if you’re slurring or not.

“Well,” he scoffs a not-quite laugh. “I would hate to ask how many establishments you must’ve visited to figure that one out—” 

His head whips over his shoulder when a woman wearing nothing above the waist drifts past him, trailing her manicured fingers across the curls twisting at the nape of his neck — surely mistaking him for a rich lord in want of company. He flinches from her touch as if it had burned him. His chest flares with embarrassment and rage alike when you bury your laugh behind your cup.

“This is not godly, what you’re doing to yourself. Do you know that?” he scolds lowly, features twisted in disgust. “I have given you a home, a place at mine own table, and yet you repay that gift by—” 

He cuts himself off and exhales hard through his nose before the anger can get the best of him. He tilts his chin to peer down at you from the bridge of his nose as his long fingers twitch at his sides. 

“Perhaps Oldtown was the wrong place for you after all,” he concludes in a more even tone. “Perhaps you are better suited elsewhere, somewhere more able to accommodate your… temperament—”

“It’s the dreams,” you blurt, as if the words had been pushed out of you at his disappointment — at the thought of being abandoned, again. Your features crumble as you peer up at him with glassy, wet eyes. “Drinking is the only thing that helps… I cannot stop them, but I cannot bear them sober—”

“Dreams?” Ormund repeats, chuckling with a newfound amusement. “You’ve ruined yourself over a few childish fantasies?” 

Your chest burns red hot at his laughter. The embers prickle at your skin and the backs of your eyes. “I dreamt of Rhaenyra,” you spit through gritted teeth. “Sitting the Iron Throne.” 

“There!” Ormund chuckles, shrugging with his palms splayed ahead of him. “A dream, indeed— A woman upon the Iron Throne.”

“The news of King’s Landing’s fall will come with the news of your uncle’s death,” you continue lowly, hardly audible over the bustling brothel, without once taking your eyes off of his. “Slain by Rhaenyra’s own hand… And it will not be a swift death, either, my lord…”

Ormund’s features flicker under the weight of your words — a look of distant horror gone again in a blink. He shakes his head with a smug sort of smile. “My uncle is at Highgarden. Securing the Tyrell’s loyalty. He will return, in time, with gold and bannermen, though I’m sure you will have drunk yourself to death by the time they arrive.”

Rhaenyra takes King’s Landing a month later. 

A raven is sent with haste, disclosing that her very first act as Queen was to slay the catalyst of this very war. Otto Hightower’s head sits now on a pike outside the Red Keep, the scrawled parchment says, which Ormund reads with a frightening sort of composure about him.

“Sire?” Daeron presses the other side of the desk, anxious hands trembling behind his back. “Is everything alright?”

Ormund’s eyes lift slowly to look at him. “Your grandsire is dead,” he answers plainly and without reservation. “Slain by Rhaenyra the Usurper, who now sits the Iron Throne— where is your cousin, pray tell?” 

Daeron’s wide eyes flit away and back again, pink mouth parting as he tries to make sense of the sudden news and his uncle’s strange question. “My— I’m not sure— In her bedchamber, perhaps— But why—” 

Ormund rises from his chair and storms out of the room before the boy can finish his stammering. He makes a beeline directly for your chambers; a small space near enough to the servants’ quarters where the handmaidens can keep an eye on your comings and goings. He slams the heavy door open with so much as a knock to announce himself — it strikes hard against the wall with a resounding bang that shudders the glowing candle flames beside it.

You sit up straight in the center of your bed, blanketed by quilts and already donned in your pale white nightgown. The heavy novel on your lap slides from your thighs as you lurch suddenly in fright. 

You have little time to make sense of the sudden intrusion before Ormund closes the distance between you, wrapping a firm hand around your throat to pin you back against the pillows again — he holds you not with cruelty, but with fear. And you can feel it in the way his long, cold fingers tremble around your throat.

“You knew,” he snarls. 

Your wide eyes flit back and forth between his narrow ones as your weak hands attempt to pry his calloused fingers from your neck. “Knew what—?”

“My uncle’s slaughter,” Ormund shouts over your fearful wavering. “I cannot believe I allowed a traitorous Targaryen dragon to sit at my table— to sleep under my roof—” 

“I only dreamt it, my lord,” you choke out. 

“Liar.” 

You whimper when his fist closes tighter, but you do not fight him. Instead, your pleading gaze searches within his raging one for something that feels halfway human. 

“You wept the night your mother died,” is the first thing you think to say — the first dream you had the first night you slept within these walls. Ormund falters instantly at the sudden confession. “Not at her bedside, because you didn’t want to look weak in front of your father, but after. In the Godswood. Where no one would think to go looking for a Hightower.”

Ormund’s hand slackens slightly around your throat. A look of surprise softens his features.

“That’s why you keep the Seven so close now,” you continue tearily. “Because you still feel guilty that you turned to the Old Gods, and you worry that doing so disappointed your father, even though you’re not sure he ever caught you—”

“How—” Ormund chokes on the simple word. It gets lost somewhere in his throat and turns to ash on his tongue as his wet eyes dart between both of yours. “How do you—”

“I dreamt it…” you repeat again, voice thick with tears.

His calloused hands gentle around your throat. The pads of fingers ghost along your pulse as they drift to the edge of your jaw, and up to your temple where your silver roots begin to show through the dye. He looks half-horrified and half-bewildered.

“I have… dreamt of you,” Ormund confesses distantly, breathing fanning warm along your cheek. “I thought it madness at the time, a man dreaming of his own ward, but… It was you in my head, was it not? Or— was it only mine own guilt wearing your face to taunt me?”

“I cannot help it,” you answer vaguely, voice trembling. “I’ve never been able to stop it.”

“I do not want you to stop it,” Ormund shakes his head, firm with reverence as he clasps both warm hands around your jaw. His touch is solid enough to make you tense but still achingly tender in his way. “This is the work of the gods… I thought I was doing some small kindness for Daeron’s sake, taking you in, but…”

The rough pad of his thumb smooths gently over your burning cheek as he trails off.

Your eyes widen at his words, at the madness swimming in his glittering gaze. The same man who stormed in here minutes ago with the intent to hurt you, now one confession shy of dropping to his knees and worshiping you like the gods themselves. He touches you softly now, for perhaps the first time since you set foot in Oldtown. And you, having gone so long without any gentle touch at all, almost let yourself take sanctuary in it. Almost.

“Do you have any idea what we could do with this mind of yours?” He smiles wide until his eyes squint at the edges. “We could rule the world entire if we wished.”

We, he says, and you don’t know whether to be comforted or frightened by the implication.

“I don’t want to rule the world,” you tell him in a small, shaking voice. “I just… I want to rest.”

“Then rest,” Ormund nods with a smile that creases the corners of his pale eyes as his hands slide down to rest around your neck like a collar. “But dream. For me.”

The war leads the Hightower host to Tumbleton, where the town’s ancient castle is seized for Ormund’s use alone. The army idles there in wait for Aemond’s arrival and for Vhagar’s great shadow to fly in overhead. And in that waiting, you’ve seemingly become one of Ormund’s most trusted confidants. 

He visits your chambers more nights than not now. Enough that you’ve grown used to waking with him already beside you — with his warm weight settled into the mattress and his arm heavy across your waist, prepared to hold you through the nightmares that find you more regularly these days. You spend the bulk of your days with him, too, standing at his elbow before his campaign maps and his questions of whether the visions have given you a day, a name, or a river crossing to avoid.

You have told him of your limits far more than once, though he seems to forget in his unrelenting hunger for victory. “I cannot see everything, my lord,” you told him in the bath, as his gentle fingers smoothed fresh dye into your silver roots. “It only comes to me in sleep, and I cannot— summon an answer from them at command the way a maester can summon an answer from his books.”

“And yet…” Ormund crooned, dipping his stained hands into the warm water beside your bare chest, and washing the swirling dye from his fingertips. “You have given me more than any maester I have ever paid for in gold.”

You peered up at him with teary eyes. “I fear you place too much faith in me, my lord.”

“And I fear you place too little,” he grinned.

You spend a slow morning hunched over a chessboard with Daeron — the only true companion you’ve managed to find in all your time away from home, other than Ormund perhaps. The morning sun spills in silver-gold rays from the narrow windows, falling over the carved pieces ahead of you and turning the boy’s long hair a more flaming shade of Hightower red. 

“You’ve cornered my king again…” you croon within a feigned sigh of defeat, head lolling on one hand while your other drifts lazily over the wooden board. “You’re getting rather good at this, cousin.”

Daeron glares playfully at you beneath his lashes, green eyes glinting with amusement as his lip twitches with the hint of a smile. “You moved your bishop away from my king last turn. And now you’ve sacrificed your queen to a pawn.”

“Have I?” you hum in faux-puzzlement, brows lowered and lips jutted.

“If you’re going to let me win, you could at least be convincing about it—”

The door swings wide with a rusted screeching sound. Ormund’s shadow falls over the board like a cloud crossing the sun. “Leave us,” he tells his nephew in lieu of any actual greeting and leaves little room for argument as his broad form lingers at the entrance.

Daeron tenses instantly at the man’s sudden presence and rises from his seat without a word. He flashes you a quick glance that looks almost like trepidation at leaving you alone with him, but obeys his uncle nonetheless. The door shuts behind the boy with a quiet click. The remaining oxygen in the room goes with him.

Ormund flashes you a polite smile from across the room, though you aren’t looking at him to see it. “You weren’t in bed last night,” is all he says.

“I fell asleep in the library,” you tell him and hope he doesn’t notice how the words catch briefly in your throat. You reset the board ahead of you with anxious hands and hear the soft scrape of his boots along the cobbles as he approaches you.

“And what of your dreams?”

You shake your head, gaze averted. “Nothing of importance, my lord.”

“But you have seen something?” he presses.

You inhale sharply through your nose. “I saw a… a village in the Riverlands— burned down to its bones— women wailing over children with no faces left to grieve over,” you confess, more of a half-truth than a whole lie. “It concerns no war of yours, my lord.”

Ormund says nothing as he descends into the seat Daeron had left warm and watches you arrange the bone-carved pieces into their proper squares. His eyes crease at the edges with a quiet sort of tenderness. “Tell me, then,” he hums with an airiness you see rarely from him. “Will I win this round?”

Your eyes lift finally to his narrowed ones. “You will,” you answer, but do not tell him how.

He makes the first move, plucking his pawn between two fingers and moving it to the center. You answer with your pawn of dark onyx. “Have you ever heard of Meria Martell? The Yellow Toad of Dorne?” he asks as he pushes his knight forward.

“No,” you hum and advance your bishop, a fine move but admittedly not the best one. “I don’t believe I have.”

“Shame…” Ormund sighs and ponders his next move, pale fingers drumming lightly over the table. “She was the only woman ever to have been gifted with a truly military mind… Though the gods divested her of beauty in turn— hideous, hairless, thick of waist, blind.” He advances his knight again, claiming the territory undefended by your bishop. “She does not sound so formidable, but when Aegon the Conqueror claimed her lands, she swore that Dorne would ever be unbowed, unbent…”

Your fingers push your rook a square shy of where it ought to go. You swallow hard and look at Ormund through your lashes, wondering if he’d noticed. But he’s too deep in his ramblings to realize.

“Then a great host descended from the Red Mountains— us Hightowers regrettably among them,” he explains and claims your rook from the board, setting it to the side with a satisfied click. His quiet pride at himself eases the unrelenting panic in your chest. “Meria poisoned her own wells, hid her soldiers in the sand. Her castle, when they found it, was empty. The thought she was vanquished, but… She rose from the darkness and slaughtered them all in their beds.”

You meet Ormund’s amused smile with a wearier one. “Was she a hero, then? Or a villain?”

You move a pawn forward instead of the knight that would’ve threatened his king.  A flicker of hesitation crosses his strong features at the tactless move, but he dismisses the oversight a second later and plucks his ivory queen forward two squares.

“The Targaryens knew nothing of our civilization— the Faith, the Citadel,” Ormund answers, and seemingly forgets that you, yourself, are Targaryen by blood in his ramblings. A smile sits loosely on his mouth as he watches you consider your next move. “What they had, what they still have is strength. Their armies, the… obscenity of their dragons… But Meria outwitted her enemy. Because a cunning mind can resist the most savage of…”

You advance your remaining undefended piece, opening a path across the board for Ormund’s taking. His features screw in confusion a second later.

“What are you doing?” he scolds, brows lowered over his narrowed eyes.

You blink owlishly at him. “What do you mean, my lord?”

“That piece,” he spits and points a ringed finger at the board. “Why would you move it there when you very well could’ve taken my queen?”

Your breath catches somewhere in your throat, which feels like it’s tightening more and more by the second. Daeron was right, you think to yourself. You could stand to be a bit more convincing. 

“I-I’m sorry, my lord,” you stammer. “I didn’t notice—”

“Oh, don’t patronize yourself by playing the fool,” Ormund scoffs. “You are letting me win— Like I’m some child who cannot stomach the thought of losing.”

“We can start again, my lord,” you assure him, fingers trembling as you reach across the board. 

Your body jolts when he catches your wrist in a blink, quick like a snake going in for the strike. The sudden sweeping motion sends pieces from the board scattering to the cobbles below. Fear flashes hard across your face. Ormund softens at the sight of it, with a practiced breath in and out through his nose. His long fingers loosen slightly around your wrist, but they do not yet draw back.

“You should always want to win,” the man lectures you firmly, but without the bite in his voice from before. “Never hand a victory to anyone. Not even to me. The gods did not grant you that gift of yours so that you might spend it sparing another man’s pride.”

You shake your head, features crumbling at words. “It is not a gift,” you tell him in a tiny voice.

Ormund softens for you instantly. He rises slowly from his seat and pulls the adjacent one nearer to you. His knees brush your dress skirts when his hands again find yours. All the anger from before is gone from his touch now, as he warms your cold fingers between his warmer ones. 

“You’ve seen something,” he says — not quite a question, but not an assured statement either.

You shake your head and turn back towards the table. “It was nothing—”

Ormund watches you for a long moment. A fond smile twitches at the corners of his mouth as he ducks his head to catch your averted gaze. “You always look away when you lie. Did you know that?”

Your eyes snap to his on instinct. Your chest flares with a mixture of embarrassment and something that feels like intimacy, at the thought of being so noticed in such a small, simple way.

“Tell me,” he coaxes gently. “Tell it plain, however brutal it may be.”

You inhale deeply through your nose and try to will the words past the invisible hand around your throat. “I saw your death,” you waver and watch as his broad shoulders inflate with a breath he forgets to let go. “Here. At Tumbleton. Against a northern army— a bleeding man missing one arm.”

For a long moment, Ormund just looks at you. The edges of his eyes soften slightly just before his pink mouth curls into a slow smile. A laugh sputters from his lips all at once, more disbelieving than unkind.

“A one-armed man?” he repeats, aglow now with amusement. “I have fought hundreds of whole men and lived to tell it over supper afterward— I’m sure I can manage a rogue short one limb.”

When your weary look doesn’t soften to match his own ease, Ormund gentles again with a more sincere answer. “But… now that I know it, I can simply… step around it now. Can’t I?” he mutters. “Is that not the true use of your gift?”

You’re not all the way certain that’s how the “gift” works — if a dream can ever be undreamt — but you don’t tell him as much now. You’d much rather go on believing his truths over anyone else’s

“Is this why you’ve been avoiding me?” Ormund wonders quietly, brows lowering over his glimmering eyes. “Because of what you’ve seen?”

You nod once.

“And now… looking at me… do you see it still?”

You nod again, slower this time. 

For one blink, Ormund’s features go grey and slack before your eyes — his curls are matted to his forehead with blood, and his throat is cut open and weeping from a blade. Then you blink once more, and he’s Ormund again; whole and breathing and alive. The constant change is disorienting. You can never quite be sure, from one blink to the next, which face is truly his.

His broad hands rise to your face, cupping your jaw between his calloused palms with a gentleness that threatens to undo you completely. “I am here,” he tells you sternly, though his thumb smooths along your cheekbone much sweeter in comparison. “I am still whole, and I plan to stay that way for a great while yet— especially now that I know precisely what’s coming.”

You feel your hands reach up towards his own. You fold your fingers around his wrists and clutch him hard by the sleeves of his coat. You try hard to feel the steady thrum of his pulse under your touch, to remind yourself that his heart’s still beating.

“See?" he mutters. “I’m still here."

He draws you in and presses his forehead against yours. A whimper swells in the back of your throat at the foreign act of tenderness, though it turns into a stuttered breath on the way out.

Your eyes flutter shut as you breathe him in — the sun-fresh linen of his clothes, the sweet soap from his bath, the mint leaves on his breath. 

Ormund shifts slightly and turns his head until his nose brushes your hair, smelling of earthy dye and bathing oils. His eyes drift towards the narrow window and the sliver of blue sky beyond it; where Vhagar has not yet come, and where Rhaenyra’s dragons could appear at any moment.

“We could sit that throne,” he breathes suddenly into the quiet. “Daeron, as the rightful heir... Myself as his Hand… And you, at my side…”

You go very still against him.

“Think of it," Ormund presses. “A king who need not gamble at war the way every other fool king before him has— Rhaenyra sits a throne she cannot see one single day into. But we— We could sit together and never once be surprised by anything the world sends our way ever again."

Ormund draws back just far enough to look at you properly. His calloused hands are still tender on your cheeks, but something much more mad in comparison swims in his eyes now.

“We would bring the realm a peace it has not known since its creation. We could stop a war before it’s ever started— famine before the granaries empty— rebellions before the first man raises his sword.” The words tumble quickly from his mouth, as if he were seeing the future unfold behind his own eyes. “Daeron is kind; he’s righteous. He’d be the first king to sit that throne in a hundred years and truly deserve it… And we could help him restore peace to the Seven Kingdoms… Is that not what you want?"

“I don’t know what I want,” you waver, features crumpling under the weight of your burning tears as his face turns corpse again. “I just want it to stop—”

His expression gentles past his wonder, twisting sympathetically as he draws you back into him again. 

“Then let me make it stop,” Ormund mutters, tracing the bridge of your nose with the tip of his. “And if I cannot make it stop, at least let me carry it… So that you will never have to bear the weight of it alone again—”

He turns his head to swallow your mouth into a searing kiss. You sigh through your nose at the firm weight of it, and at the sweet-mint taste on his tongue when it finds yours in a long, languid lick. 

You hold him hard by the wrists and kiss him back even harder, burying all your withheld fears and desires into his mouth. His hands drop to your waist, and yours settle behind his neck on instinct, fingers toying at the auburn curls coiled at the nape of his neck.

Ormund guides you up from your seat and against the table’s edge without taking his lips off yours. The last of the scattered pieces fall to the ground as he urges you upon it, bending down over you until your back is flush against the cool oak below. Then he kisses down, down, down your body — smearing his lips along your jaw and neck and chest and the lace of your corset. 

You hear his knees hit the cobbles with a quiet thud, and feel his cold hands pushing your skirts up your warm inner thighs, right before his wet mouth kisses the most sensitive part of you. 

Your back arches off the table as your hands dart immediately to his curls, keeping him pressed against you there. A broken moan tumbles gracelessly from your mouth. It’s the first time in your life that you’ve ever felt almost human — held — whole.

JACAERYS, 10; READER, 15; 120 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Driftmark!" the captain shouts from the quarterdeck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's nonsensical. She had to have known.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words taste sour.

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

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

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

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

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

"But I should not think those things."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jacaerys," you start to say.

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

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

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

"Jacaerys—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please. Please can I help?

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

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

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

Jacaerys looks up hopefully.

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

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

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

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

————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Silence!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"—but I cannot restore his eye."

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

"What would you have me do?"

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

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

Uncle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stay your hand," Viserys orders.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————————————

JACAERYS, 18; READER, 23; 128 AC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thoughts invariably return to you.

He thought you would be waiting for him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

All Jace had done was arrive too little too late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—instead it is you.

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

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

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

It had not done you justice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jace flushes and looks away.

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

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

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

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

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

You are looking at him, finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You were."

"I was looking."

"You were looking rather fiercely."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Raqiarzy," you say fondly, smoothing an errant strand of silver hair away from Maegor's face before looking back up at Jace again. "This is Prince Jacaerys Velaryon. He is my nephew—your cousin. He will be our king one day after his mother."

Your words settle restlessly inside him. He will be our king one day after his mother. He has heard those words his entire life—from maesters, and lords, and his mother, and you. But it feels—it feels different now. He has fantasized standing beside you as your husband more times than he dares to admit, but—but as your king?

His throat bobs, breath catching, heart racing, mind shifting as his gaze slides up to the throne not a dozen feet away, then drifting to you, thoughts spinning and spiraling, enough to make him dizzy.

"Do you remember the plushes you two were gifted for your fourth nameday?" you ask the twins suddenly, drawing Jace from his mind, pulse hammering in his ears, shame crashing over him in devastating force.

—and what in the Seven Hells is he thinking?

He can see Luke giving him an odd look from the corner of his eye, and Jace desperately tries to compose himself, dragging in one slow breath through his nose as though it might somehow banish the treacherous images from his mind. His face feels unbearably hot.

Maegelle lights up beside Maegor. "Stuffed Hūraxes and stuffed Vēzarrion?" she asks, leaning into your arm and looking up at you with adoring eyes.

"Mhm," you confirm, running your fingers absently through her hair. "Do you remember who sent them?"

The twins exchange a thoughtful look, and then Maegor's eyes grow round as he looks at Jace, no longer accusing. "It was you!"

Jace clears his throat, grateful for something else to occupy his thoughts. He says faintly, "I hope they survived. I wish I could have been there for the celebrations."

"How did you know what they look like?" Maegor demands, leaning forward now. "You even knew about the little white patch on Vēzarrion's wing!"

"I keep stuffed Hūraxes in my room every day." Maegelle nods, excited. "He protects it!"

"We wanted to keep real Vēzarrion and real Hūraxes in our rooms, but mother wouldn't allow us," Maegor frowns. Then he asks again, "How did you know what they looked like? You've never seen them before."

Jace's eyes instinctively drift to you, but you only smile.

"Your mother writes to me often," he admits. "She is very thorough, as I'm sure you know."

You squint at him. "What does that mean?" you ask, but Jace only grins and holds his hands up in faux-surrender. You tilt your head and say, "Jacaerys."

Maegelle giggles, and Maegor immediately nods, brows knit together as he frowns, nodding in agreement.

"She knows everything," he complains. "I can never get away with anything. I try to skip lessons, and she knows. I try to sneak snacks, and she knows. I hid a frog in Maester Orwyle's desk, and somehow she knew that too."

Jace's smile widens a bit as he huffs out a laugh. He says, "Once I tried to hide beneath your mother's bed so I wouldn't have to attend sword training. I thought I was clever because certainly the last place she would look was right beneath her nose. She found me within ten minutes."

You laugh at the memory, and Jace's heart skips a beat when you lean slightly into him, head resting on his shoulder as you look down at Maegor and Maegelle, both of whom suddenly seem thoroughly delighted.

"You skipped lessons too?" Maegor asks excited.

"Frequently," you answer before Jace can.

Jace's lips part in mock offense. "I hardly think frequently is fair."

"Jacaerys," you say dryly, head tilted to the side as you give him a lazy smile. "You once convinced Luke that you had been kidnapped by pirates because you wished to avoid histories. He had the entire keep in a frenzy."

Luke snorts loudly behind him, finally taking a step forward to greet you. He leans in to ghost his lips against your cheek before he says, "I forgot about that."

"I was seven," Jace mutters, ears burning.

"You were a little menace," you correct.

Maegelle hides her face in your gown as she laughs, and Maegor stares at Jace with newfound admiration.

"Mother always said you were clever," he says, scrutinizing Jace carefully. Jace flushes slightly at the idea of you telling your children about him. "She did not mention you were also troublesome. You will have to share some of your tricks with me."

"He was dreadful," you confirm, "and if he knows what's good for him, he will share nothing."

"I protest," Jace says immediately, looking down at you. "You, too, were troublesome, muña. Do not cast the blame all on me."

Maegor and Maegelle gasp as though they were just handed gold.

"You used to adore me when you were little," you sigh wistfully. "You never used to talk back like this."

"I still adore you," he murmurs quietly, far more sincere than the teasing he aimed for.

You tilt your head up to look at him, and Jace cannot breathe again, because you are so close, so close that if he only leaned in a smidge then—Luke pinches his side hard, and Jace grimaces, shooting him an irritated look. Luke's expression is one of naked disbelief: what are you doing? it seems to say without a single word being spoken.

Heat crawls up Jace's neck, and he follows Luke's pointed glance across the Great Hall.

Aegon is watching him. Aemond, too.

The elder prince lounges against a pillar, but the amusement on his face is far too sharp to be entirely genuine. Beside him, Aemond stands with his hands behind his back, one violet eye fixed upon Jace with a type of scrutiny that makes him feel he's been caught doing something he ought not.

Jace's stomach drops, suddenly very aware that he is standing before half of the court and you, whether he likes it or not, are someone else's wife. It is one thing wanting you so desperately that it makes his heart ache—it is another entirely to put you in a position where your honor could be questioned.

He straightens immediately, subtly putting a bit of distance between the two of you. Your brows scrunch slightly, giving him a confused look, but luckily, Baela and Rhaena beckon you for a conversation, and you busy yourself with doting over them, pressing your lips to their hair as you fawn over how beautiful they've become.

He exhales, ears still burning as he chances another glance toward Aegon. The older prince tilts his head, the corner of his mouth curling upward ever so slightly. Jace's eye twitches in irritation. Then he looks down at Maegor as the boy grabs his hand, tugging insistently until Jace gives him his full attention.

"Will you tell us stories?" the boy asks hopefully. "About mother?"

Jace blinks, and his gaze flicks across the hall once more. Aegon is still watching. A curious, vindictive thought slips into Jace's mind, and a slow smile curls at the corners of his mouth. He intends to marry you one day—the thought comes as naturally as breathing, he has never doubted it once. One day, you will be his wife and his queen, and when that day comes—well, that would make your children his too, wouldn't it?

He kneels before Maegor and smiles as he agrees, "As many as you want."

Aegon can keep his goblet and his smug little smile. Jace will take everything else.

————————————

"What in the Seven Hells was that, Jace?"

Jace blinks as he looks at his brother, making his way across the outer edges of the training yard a few hours after the petition.

Soon, they will have to return to their mother's apartments to prepare for the supper the king wishes to host for his mother's family and Alicent's. Luke wanted to go down to the dragonpit and stay there until it was time, because he loathed to be around the vicious nobles of the court longer than he had to, but Jace thought it best that they show themselves a little longer. Prove to the court they are not afraid, that they are the rightful heirs—that they are Rhaenyra's sons and they will cower in the face of green schemes.

"What was what?" Jace asks, tilting his head to the side to look at Luke over his shoulder.

Luke stops walking altogether, and Jace stops with him. Luke says dryly, "You cannot be serious."

Jace squints at him questioningly.

"What?" he asks again, gaze flitting across the training yard. He sees Cole in the distance, and he frowns, trying to look over the crowd to see who else might be there—if you might be there—but he can't see over all of the heads. When Luke doesn't immediately reply, Jace glances at him again, raising his eyebrows, beckoning. "What was what?"

"Seriously,?" Luke hisses, grabbing his arm and forcing Jace to look at him. Jace frowns when he feels his brother's fingers digging into his upper arm, a pinched expression on his face. "You were practically climbing into her lap in front of the entire court."

Jace's face flushes, attention snapping fully to Luke once the mortifying accusation registers. "I was not."

"Yes, you were," Luke accuses. "In front of everyone."

"I was embracing my aunt," Jace denies, voice hushed as he pulls Luke to the side. "What are you talking about?"

"You were embracing her for an awfully long time," Luke whispers back, giving him an incredulous look. "What were you thinking? She's married, Jace. You do remember that, right?"

"Of course, I do," Jace snaps, bitter over the fact that his own brother is throwing it in his face. He does not need to be reminded that you are married. It has haunted him every day for the last eight years. "I was only acting as I always have. We have always been close. You know this."

Luke does not believe him. Jace can tell as much from the sidelong glance his younger brother gives him, but he does not care. He was acting as he always has—it is the truth. You have always welcomed him into your arms, and he has always gone willingly. He has always buried his face in your shoulder when he needed comfort, touch lingering a little longer than propriety perhaps allowed. He has always called you muña, has always reached for your hand without thinking, has always smiled whenever you smiled.

None of that has changed, only his intentions. That, Jace decides stubbornly, is not something anyone could have possibly seen.

"You're lucky Aegon found the whole thing amusing instead of making a fuss over it," Luke finally says, and Jace's expression hardens, jaw tightening as he inhales and stares ahead, fighting a shake of his head. "He won't be laughing forever."

"Perhaps she won't be his forever," Jace snips before he can stop himself, raising his chin and looking away. Luke's eyes bulge as he casts a disbelieving look toward him. Jace raises his hands in faux surrender. "I'm only saying."

"Jace," Luke hisses, "have you lost all sense?"

Jace shakes his head, staring ahead as he says simply, "No."

"I'm going to tell mother," Luke threatens.

Jace gives him a sharp, irritated look.

"What is there to tell?" he scoffs. Then, more aggravated, "Why must you tattle like a child? You are ten and seven now, act like it."

He does not need his mother knowing that he's infatuated with you—not that she would have much room to speak, all things considered.

"Bold coming from someone on the verge of throwing a fit for not getting his way."

"You—" Luke barely dodges as Jace tries to shove him hard, and Jace inhales sharply to calm himself down, shaking his head as he grabs Luke's bicep to pull him close. He says quietly, "I have loved her for as long as I can remember. I simply grew old enough to understand what that means. How do you propose I sit back and watch her be mistreated by Alicent's pig sons? What would you have me do, Luke?"

Luke sighs and looks away, chweing the inside of his cheek. "We are already under scrutiny, Jace. Look at what just happened—if grandsire hadn't shown, we would have been–" Luke cuts himself off, looking away. He does not need to finish the sentence for Jace to know what he was going to say: they would have been declared bastards before the whole court. "We need to tread carefully."

Jace knows this. He does. He knows he will be playing a dangerous game if he moves forward as he wishes—knows that it could backfire profusely, not just on him, but on you. But—but how is he not supposed to try?

"What do you even plan to do?" Luke continues, forcing Jace to look at him again. Jace rolls his eyes and turns away, but Luke steps in front of him again. "I'm serious. Do you plan to ask the High Septon to annul her marriage to Aegon? Approve of a divorce? They have two kids, Jace—it will not be so easy. And do you even know if she feels the same? Or does she still see you as the little boy who followed her everywhere?"

"I am a man grown," Jace scoffs. "I am not a little boy anymore."

"The last she saw of you, you were."

Jace rolls his eyes again, jaw tightening as he shakes his head. His chest aches as Luke's words settle over him—do you feel the same? Did you miss him? Ache for him how he ached for you? Or have you made a life for yourself that you are content with? His throat spasms as he swallows, uncertainty clawing at his chest.

"I liked you better when you couldn't speak," Jace snaps because he has nothing else to say. After a few moments pass, he says quietly, "I have to try. If she tells me that she—" He can hardly bring himself to push the words out. "—that she loves Aegon, if she tells me that she is happy and wants nothing more than the life she has, then I will leave it alone."

Luke squints as he searches his brother's face, as though he does not believe him. Jace presses his lips together, throat bobbing as he swallows.

Jace has wanted you for so long that he scarcely remembers what life felt like before the wanting began. It has become instinctive as breathing, woven so tightly into the foundations of who he is that he cannot imagine untangling himself from it. He has imagined futures with at his side, as his wife, his queen; he has imagined children, and children of children, and a long reign in his name and yours.

But he wants your happiness more. Preferably with him, of course. He wants to be the one who makes you laugh until tears sting your eyes. He wants to be the man whose children cling to your skirts, whose bed you crawl into after long days, whose name you breathe in throes of pleasure. He wants to grow old at your side and spend the rest of his life thanking the gods that they had finally been merciful.

But if that happiness belongs elsewhere—if, somehow, you have found it with Aegon… Then what right does he have to tear it away?

"I would never ask her to give up a happy life for me," he says quietly, gaze shifting to the ground, "but I need to hear it from her."

"Get him Maegelle! Hah!"

Your daughter? What is your daughter doing in the training yard?

Jace's gaze cuts to the side when he hears Aegon's obnoxious voice coming from the crowd on the opposite side of the training yard. He tilts his head to the side, sharing a look with Luke before he makes his way over. He grabs Luke's arm to keep him close as he pushes closer to the front of the people gathered, curious to see what has drawn so many knights and squires away from their drills.

Then he sees you.

You stand at the edge of the sparring ring, arms crossed over your chest, lips curved down as you watch the twins spar in the center with wooden practice swords and surprising enthusiasm. Your brows are knit together with the same concentration you always had whenever you were watching him and Luke train years ago.

Jace almost finds himself smiling, until he realizes Aegon is standing behind you, one arm slung comfortably around your shoulders, letting you rest your weight on him, a fresh goblet of wine dangling from his hand. The gesture is so effortless that it makes Jace's stomach turn, as though he's stood with you there a thousand times before.

Worse, you do not pull away.

Jace's jaw tightens. He can feel Luke looking at him to his side, and it's a distinct effort not to let the discomfort—the pain and uncertainty—show on his face. Could you be happy here? Without his mother? Without him? It has been eight years, he reminds himself. Eight years is a long time—long enough to build a life one can be content with, even when dealt a poor hand. Aemond, too, is on your opposite side, he realizes dully. He is leaning back against the wall, head tilted as he watches the twins spar with one another.

He says something to you that Jace cannot hear, and you snort and reply, giving Aemond an easy smile. He has to stop himself from physically shrinking from the sight of it.

He wonders, have you found in your half-siblings the home you once had in him, his mother, and Luke? When did Aegon's arm start resting there so casually? Do you seek him out at feasts the same way you once sought him? Do you instinctively drift toward his side after long days? Has that same hand, so casually resting upon your shoulder, held you through sleepless nights? Wiped away tears? Tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear? Every answer he imagines hurts.

He has always imagined Aegon to be a worthless cur undeserving of your hand, an absent husband who drowned himself in wine and whores while you tried to keep your family afloat—but he is here, a random evening watching as the twins spar with one another, one arm around your shoulders as though it belongs there. Like a husband. Like a father.

He had been pained for years at the thought of you being neglected, but—but it also brought him a semblance of comfort, because he would be able to swoop in and rescue you. He would show you love, he would take care of you, hold you, be with you.

Somehow, the idea of Aegon treating you properly feels infinitely worse, and he feels ashamed for it.

He watches a delighted expression cross your face at something Aegon says, and then you toss your head back and laugh. For the briefest instant, the prince grins—not the careless smirk he wears before the court, but something softer, almost boyish, that makes Jace nauseous.

"Jace," Luke says quietly.

Jace only shakes his head slightly, forcing a smile on his face as he glances over at his younger brother. His lips part to speak, but the smile freezes on his face when someone speaks somewhere to his left.

"I hear she entertains both of the brothers," an unfamiliar voice murmurs. "The princess."

Jace stares ahead blankly, the words taking a heartbeat too long to register. The blood beneath his skin simmers faintly. What did he just say? Is he talking about you?

"Aye," another answers with a snort. Jace tilts his head to the side, gaze focusing on the red-haired squire standing in the small crowd of onlookers—not much older than Jace himself. "The elder first. The younger whenever her husband is too deep in his cups. Makes you wonder whether those twins favor their father after all. Runs in the family, I'd say."

How dare they?

"What did you just say?" Jace asks coldly, turning to face the small group of men.

The red-haired one has the audacity to look annoyed at the interruption, gaze flicking up to meet Jace, and for a moment, his vision tints red—they wouldn't look at him like that if he looked like Aegon or Aemond. They would see his hair and eyes, and they would know who they were speaking to—instead, they look at him and see him as an equal.

"I asked you a question, you mongrel. What did you just say?" Jace repeats, taking a step forward, head tilting slightly. He can hardly think straight—he can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, drowning out everything else around him. "I dare you to repeat it."

For a second, it seems as though the squire is going to step forward, an indignant expression on his face, but before he could make a treacherous mistake, one of his thick-headed friends grabs his arm and bows deeply.

"My prince," he says quickly, stumbling over his words. The red-haired squire's face whitens, and the two behind him immediately follow suit, heads bowed so quickly they nearly collide with one another. "Forgive us. We meant no offense. We—we did not realize, truly—"

"I did not ask what you meant. I asked you what you said."

There's a long moment where all four of the squires remain silent, heads bowed—Jace can see that their hands are shaking, and his lip curls up in disgust.

"We said nothing, my prince."

Jace exhales through his nose—a laugh or a scoff, he's not sure. How dare they? He is furious in a way he has not been in a long, long time, nails digging so deep into his palms that he might draw blood.

"You had no difficulty finding your tongue when you believed no prince was listening," Jace says coolly. "Find it again."

They stand trembling now, heads bowed, hoping that if they pretend the words had never left their mouths, they might escape the consequences of speaking them. His fists curl tight at his sides—they do not know you. They have no right to speak your name or stain it with their filth.

He takes another step forward when they do not speak. "No?" he questions, and then huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. "Then count yourselves fortunate that I do not take your heads for the insult. Get out of my sight."

Jace exhales shakily as the four squires stumble to their feet and rush away. His eyes slide shut as he wills himself to calm down, and just as he's about to turn to Luke, he feels a familiar hand brush against his lower back. He knows you are standing there before he even turns and opens his eyes.

"Is everything okay?" you ask quietly, and Jace lets out a wavering puff of air as he turns to look at you. Your brows are furrowed slightly in concern, eyes roving over him carefully as you try to figure out what's wrong. "Mandianna?"

Do you know what they say about you? Are these common whispers, the same as the topic of his birth had once been? Did they turn on you again once Jace and his brothers left? Is there any truth to them?

The more treacherous question makes his stomach turn. He does not want to know the answer to that. He has imagined you abed with Aegon too many times to count over the past few years, each time agonizing in a way he could never quite explain, a private form of torture he inflicted upon himself whenever his thoughts grew particularly cruel. He would picture Aegon's hands where he wanted his own to be, mouth wandering your skin, arms wrapped around you beneath the sheets, body pressed into you in way Jace has only ever been able to dream about. Your face buried into his neck, breath pitching every time his body moved against yours, fingers tangled in silver hair instead of dark curls.

Each imagination had been enough to leave him sick with jealousy. He does not need another uncle added to them.

"Everything is fine," he lies.

You know instantly he is not telling the truth—you have always been able to catch him in a lie before he's even spoken a word—but he presses on anyway. His hand drops to yours, fingers tingling as he lifts it enough so that he can bend his head down and ghost his lips against your knuckles. He wonders if he imagines the way your breath hitches.

"Luke and I should go," he tells you. "We need to prepare for supper."

Your lips part slightly, and Jace thinks you are going to press him—to give him that look you always did when he was a boy, the one that pulled every secret from him without you having to ask twice. Instead, your gaze drops to where his fingers remain curled around yours.

"Of course," you say softly.

Jace realizes he is still holding your hand. He should let go, he thinks distantly, but instead, his thumb glides along your knuckles once, lingering, before he finally forces his fingers to loosen. The loss of your warmth leaves his palm strangely cold.

"We'll see you there?" Luke asks from beside him.

You wink at him. "Of course."

You glance at Jace again, an unreadable expression on your face, Jace's lips part to question you, but then your hand comes up, fingers briefly smoothing one of his dark curls away from his forehead. Jace's breath hitches, smile freezing.

"Go," you tell him fondly. "Before your mother sends someone looking for you and blames me for your absence.

He swallows thickly and then inclines his head obediently, "Yes, muña."

Jace turns away before he can do something foolish. Luke has the decency to wait until they have crossed half the yard before speaking.

"You are hopeless."

"Shut up."

————————————

Jace has spent the better part of the last fifteen minutes pretending not to watch the doors, nodding along absently to whatever Baela is saying beside him while his attention strays toward the entrance every few breaths.

You are late.

Not late enough to warrant the growing impatience twisting inside his chest, but late nonetheless, and every moment that passes where you remain out of reach only serves to further agitate the restlessness that has plagued him since the moment he saw you again.

"Can you please stop tapping your foot?" Baela finally asks, letting out an exasperated puff of air as she glances at Jace.

He immediately gives frowns at her, confused, and then she looks down pointedly at Jace's left leg, rapidly bouncing against the floor. He stills it immediately, face flushing slightly.

"I have yet to eat today," Jace lies, because he does not want to admit that he's antsy waiting for your arrival. "I'm merely hungry."

Baela rolls her eyes as she takes a sip from her goblet, and Jace gives her an indignant look, because what is what supposed to mean?

"I'm sure," she agrees dryly, "because it is food you are waiting for to come through that door."

Jace blinks once, lips parting in offense, but he does not get the chance to question her before Luke snorts and agrees, "It is not food he is hungry for."

Jace gapes, face hot as he stares at Luke in sheer disbelief, but Baela and Rhaena burst into laughter as though they know exactly what Luke is talking about, and Jace feels the distinct urge to sink into his seat. Did he tell them? Did they already know? How obvious was he being about it?

He spares a glance over to the opposite side of the table where the Queen and the Hand sit with Aemond and Helaena. Alicent is looking directly at them—so is Otto—and neither appears particularly amused.

Jace's stomach drops. The Queen's brows are drawn together in suspicion, gaze moving slowly between Jace and the rest as though attempting to decipher what could possibly have been said that inspired such an outburst. Beside her, Otto raises his chin slightly, eyes narrowed in that calculating way Jace remembers all too well from Driftmark as he watched the accusations of Jace, Luke, and Joffrey's legitimacy finally be given life.

They could not have heard, surely. Luke had spoken quietly, and the distance between them was too great for his voice to carry over the conversation filling the room.

Still, Jace sits up straighter. "Stop laughing," he hisses through clenched teeth, but it only serves to make the three of them laugh harder. Jace exhales hard, shaking his head before he straightens in his seat and looks away, doing his best to ignore them.

He's about to drive his foot into Luke's shin when the doors finally open again, and Jace's heart thuds painfully in his chest as his gaze cuts toward them just as you enter the room. There is an unsettlingly dull expression on your face when you walk in, and Jace's brows furrow slightly in confusion until you seem to shake your head and the expression off of your face right with it.

Your lips curl up into a smile that is distinctly bland compared to the ones he's used to as his mother and Daemon rise to their feet to greet you.

Aegon is with you, Jace realizes bitterly—it does not hurt as much as it did to see you in the training yard with him. He expected him to walk in with you when he saw that Helaena and Aemond had already arrived with their mother and grandfather, but he still does not like it. Maegor and Maegelle trail closely behind the two of you, dressed in fine reds for supper, and the sight of them manages to soften some of the irritation tightening Jace's jaw, because Maegor immediately brightens at the sight of him, waving his hand in a quick greeting.

You exchange a few quiet words with his mother before ghosting your lips to her cheeks, and Jace finds himself watching your face closely, trying to catch another glimpse of that strange expression you had worn upon entering the room. What was that? Are you unhappy? Are you only pretending to be content? Jace cannot tell, and it is gone now, carefully tucked away beneath smiles and pleasantries.

Then your eyes find his, and the smile changes, warming and softening in that familiar way that makes his heart flutter. Jace is on his feet before he realizes that he has moved, taking one of your hands in his.

"Muña," he greets softly, pressing a kiss against your cheek, lingering perhaps a heartbeat longer than necessary before forcing himself to straighten. "Ao jurnegon gevie."

You look beautiful.

He is wistful as he looks over you, a tight feeling in his chest as he looks over the deep red gown you wear. The velvet fabric hugs your figure, spilling elegantly against the floor, and Jace cannot decide whether it is the gown that makes you radiant, or you simply are yourself—for he is fairly certain he would have found you the most beautiful woman in the room even had you arrived dressed in plain linen instead.

You smile at him lightly, a pleased expression on your face as your gaze roves over him once. Jace is giddy from it—he has always preened beneath your praise, seeking out that particular look of pride in your eyes. Even now, perhaps especially now, some part of him still desperately wants to impress you, to do something—anything—that might make you look at him as though he is everything you hoped he would become.

"Emā issare gūrēñare aōha Valyrio," you murmur. Jace loves the way High Valyrian sounds rolling off your tongue—it is musical and natural in a way he has never been able to make it sound on his, much as he tried. "Iksan biare."

You have been practicing your High Valyrian. I am glad.

"Hen rhinka," he replies easily. Of course.

He is still holding your hand, he realizes, pressing his luck and letting his fingers ghost up along the inside of your wrist just to feel the way your pulse flutters beneath his touch. Do you want him the way he wants you? Jace cannot tell, but the slight quickening beneath his fingertips sends a dangerous flicker of hope through him nonetheless.

"Mother!"

You both startle. Jace's hand falls away from yours as Maegor suddenly appears at your side, entirely oblivious to the moment he has interrupted. He does not have to look at Luke to see the disbelief plain on his face, and he does not dare glance over at Aegon or Aemond—or worse, the Queen or the Hand—to see their reactions to what just transpired.

It is fine, he tells himself. He was only greeting you.

The boy reaches for the back of your chair with both hands and pulls it out with such enthusiasm that the wooden legs scrape loudly against the stone floor. Once he's pulled out the chair, he stands beside it tall, gesturing proudly toward the seat.

"For you, mother."

Your lips curve up into fond smile. "How gallant of you, byka dārilaros. You are such a gentleman—your father could learn from your lead."

Maegor positively beams, and you reach down to smooth a hand over his silver hair before leaning forward to press a kiss to the crown of his head. The boy bounces on the balls of his feet beneath your affection, eyes wide and adoring as he looks up at you, and your lips curve up as you stroke his hair gently before nodding in the direction of the two empty chairs near Luke.

"Go on. You and your sister are sitting beside your cousin tonight. Be sure to torment him properly."

Luke gives you an alarmed look, but you only wink at him in response. Maegor grabs Maegelle's hand and drags her over to the empty seats, already reaching for Luke's arm and babbling about a story you read him last night. Jace snorts and looks over at you, breath catching slightly at the soft expression on your face as your gaze lingers on the two of them for a moment longer.

You finally begin to sit, and Jace moves without thinking, giving the servant waiting to push your chair in a sharp look to back off. His hand catches the back of your chair, gently pushing it forward beneath you so that you can sit properly at the table.

You turn your head to the side to look up at him, smiling lightly. "Thank you, mandianna."

"Of course," he murmurs, pleased with himself—until he feels someone staring at him, that is.

His gaze lifts to your opposite side, where Aegon has taken his seat. He is watching Jace with narrowed eyes—the amusement from earlier in the day long gone. For a long moment, neither prince looks away. Jace's hand remains on the back of your chair, and Aegon's gaze drops pointedly toward it, then back up at Jace.

Jace understands the message perfectly, but he tightens his fingers around the carved wood instead, stubborn, until Aegon tilts his head and straightens in his chair, irritated. Then Jace gives him a pleasant smile and releases your chair, moving to take his own seat beside you.

Maybe Luke was right—this is a dangerous game. But as he settles into the chair at your side, close enough that the sleeve of his tunic brushes lightly against your gown, he finds that he cannot bring himself to regret it in the slightest.

"I am a gentleman," Aegon finally complains, leaning his elbow on the table, head resting in his hand as he gives you a lazy smile.

"You are neither gentle nor man, valonqar," you drawl, leaning back in your seat to look at him. "I could not think of a word less fitting if I tried, and my vocabulary is vast."

Jace cannot even bring himself to feel pleased by your insult, because there is a casualness in the way you tease him that tells him this is familiar. The type of insult born from years in one another's company, where neither party has to wonder whether the other will take offense.

Aegon only grins. "How cruelly my own wife wounds me," he sighs. Then his smile sharpens, eyes meeting Jace's instead of yours—Jace is so focused on whatever Aegon is about to say that he almost forgets to stand as the kingsguard carries his grandsire through the door to sit at the center of the table. Aegon continues quietly, "Though you know better than most that I am very much a man, and as I recall, you rather prefer me when I am anything but gentle."

"Aegon the Crude," you roll your eyes and mutter.

Aegon winks at you and says in response, "Aegon the Generous. At least, that is what I have been told."

Jace flushes immediately, gaze averting to the side, trying to focus as Alicent leads a prayer and his grandsire begins a toasts to his brother and Rhaena's betrothal and failing miserably.

He hates the image that Aegon's words conjure almost as much as he hates the man for deliberately putting it there. You beneath him, back arched as Aegon's hands roam where Jace aches to place his own, his mouth tracing the bare skin of your throat while his body presses yours into the mattress, you panting his name as he stretches you open, silver instead of brown, pale, unblemished skin instead of sun-kissed freckled.

His stomach twists. The jealousy is vicious, burning through his veins with enough force to make him want to reach across the table and wipe that smug expression from Aegon's face. Under the jealousy is something far worse—hotter, more shameful, awakened by the very image he wants desperately to banish from mind. Because the thought of Aegon with you is unbearable, but the thought of you—

That is the problem. He cannot picture you in such a state without imagining himself taking Aegon's place. His hands, his mouth, his body, his name, his hair. Is that how you like it? he cannot help but wonder, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Whenever Jace has imagined being with you—far more often than he would ever confess, one hand wrapped around his cock, head tilted back against his bed frame—it had always been different. Slow and tender, he would take his time with you, kissing you as though he has eight lost years to make up for, touching you with a reverence bordering on worship. He has imagined your arms wrapped around him and your forehead pressed to his, breathy words exchanged in the darkness as the two of you lost yourselves in one another.

But maybe that is not what you want. Maybe you prefer something less tender.

He swallows thickly, warmth creeping higher beneath his collar as the question takes root. What would you want from him, then, if tenderness alone would not satisfy you? His imagination betrays him at once: his chest pressed firmly against your back, his mouth at your ear, one hand sliding up to curl around your throat as he holds you close to him. He imagines turning your face toward his, mouth finding yours messily, panting, gasping, soft moans and ragged cries of his name.

Would you like him that way? Is that what you would want from him? He has never pictured it happening like that, but he could do it, he thinks—he could do anything you want, be anything you want.

Jace shifts in his seat, exhaling hard through his nose as he tries to focus on what his grandsire is saying—he should be ashamed, having thoughts like this at supper while you are sat at his side, oblivious. What is wrong with him?

Once he is certain that his mind is clear of the disgraceful images circulating through his head, he dares to spare a glance back at you. You are leaning back in your seat, head tilted back slightly so you can look up at the ceiling, looking as though you would rather be anywhere else.

It is horribly rude, he thinks, fighting a smile, considering your father, the king, is across from you, attempting to address the entire table, and you have apparently decided that whatever intricacies decorate the ceiling are infinitely more deserving of your attention.

Then, his gaze traitorously slips down the slope of your neck. He catches himself before it can wander any farther, eyes snapping dutifully back to your face, but the damage is already done. His mind drifts back to where he had only just freed it from—to the weight of his hand there, palm curved against your throat, thumb resting beneath your jaw.

Jace swallows thickly, suddenly wondering whether you would still look so carelessly bored then. Whether that distant expression would finally disappear as he leaned close behind you, breath warm against your ear, and demanded your attention in full for himself. He catches himself before his mind can go down another spiral.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

Then, your eyes slide sideways and meet his. Jace immediately realizes he has been caught staring and flushes. One of your brows arches. You ask silently, what?

Jace shakes his head quickly, jaw tightening. Your eyes narrow, and he looks away. He sees you tilt your head curiously from the corner of his eye, and then, he feels your foot brush against his ankle beneath the table.

His entire body goes rigid, gaze snapping toward you. You are still watching him, curiosity flickering in your eyes, and Jace knows that this was an innocent touch. You were only trying to get his attention after he so pointedly looked away from you—he should move his leg away and that should be the end of it, but… but instead, something reckless takes hold of him.

He inhales deeply before he shifts his leg beneath the table until his knee presses against yours. Your brows lifts, and his heart pounds as he waits for you to pull away. You do not.

Emboldened, Jace lets the contact remain, the length of his leg resting deliberately against yours beneath the cover of the tablecloth. It is such a small thing—hardly anything at all, really—but with the thoughts that had been consuming him only moments before, the warmth of you against him feels unbearably intimate.

He wonders, do you think anything of it? Is the reason you do not pull away because this is no different from the countless casual touches you shared when the two of you were young? Or is there some small part of you that is as aware of the contact as he is? That feels the warmth of his leg pressed against yours, that knows there is a distinct lack of innocence behind the touch, but you do not move away because, perhaps, you want him close too?

Jace turns his attention forward as though nothing has happened, and from the corner of his eye, he sees you glance down toward the tablecloth and then back at him.

"You know," Aegon suddenly murmurs, leaning over you to address Jace. Jace's heart skips a beat, wondering if he noticed the contact hidden beneath the table, but Aegon's gaze betrays nothing. "It's a shame your younger brother was betrothed before you. I'd rather hoped that marriage might finally afford you the opportunity to discover what it is like to share a woman's bed."

Jace scoffs under his breath, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. He glances at Aegon, and then his gaze drifts toward you—you are staring forward, face refusing to betray whatever thoughts are running through your mind with his leg pressed to yours the way it is.

Jace finally looks up at his uncle with a faint curve of his lips and asks easily, "What makes you think I haven't discovered it already?"

Your attention immediately snaps toward him, brows furrowed and gaze sharp, and Jace is thrown off momentarily by the intensity in it. There is something there, he realizes—surprise, certainly, but something that looks suspiciously like displeasure flickers across your face before you manage to smooth it away.

His pulse quickens. Are you jealous?

The thought is so hopeful and self-serving that he immediately tells himself he has imagined it. Why should you care whether he has shared another woman's bed? You are married—you have been married for eight years. Surely, you cannot expect him to have spent all that time—

Well, he has, but you do not know that.

Aegon catches a laugh before he can make a scene while the king is still speaking, grin sharpening as he looks at you pointedly and then tilts his head to the side to look at Jace more head on. "Oh? Have you now? Has our lovely little nephew wet his cock at last?"

Jace drags his attention from you with considerable effort and says, "I don't recall my private affairs being any concern of yours."

"They aren't," Aegon says easily, leaning back in his chair with a grin. "I am merely curious."

"Then remain curious, uncle."

"And let us toast to Prince Lucerys as well," his grandsire says, a tired smile on his face as he lifts his goblet to Jace's younger brother. Your gaze drifts over to Luke briefly, and he forces himself to follow, giving his brother a small smile when he sees how he stiffens beneath the attention of the full room. "The future Lord of the Tides."

Jace races his cup to his brother, ignoring as Aegon's grin widens when he leans in again. He can feel your gaze still fixed upon the side of his face, far more distracting than anything your husband could possibly say.

Then Aegon murmurs to you, "See, wife. It seems your perfect little prince may not be so perfect after all."

Aegon sounds openly bitter, and you make a noise in the back of your throat—a scoff or a laugh. Jace pauses. Your perfect little prince. The words warm some silly, childish part of his chest. Do you really talk about him, praise him, so much around Aegon that your husband is resentful over it?

Then he hesitates. Does the thought of him seeking pleasure in another woman's bed sit uneasy with you because, somewhere in your mind, Jace is still the sweet little boy you raised years ago? Or does it disturb you because you do not want him in another woman's bed at all? He finds himself deflating slightly, because one option is far more likely than the other. He needs to know.

Your eyes flick toward him, and he holds your gaze this time. There is an expression on your face that he cannot decipher. Something about it makes him feel strangely guilty, any delight he might have felt over the prospect of you being jealous trickling away.

It is absurd. He has done nothing. The entire insinuation is a lie of his own making, a careless remark offered only because he refused to let Aegon embarrass him. Yet suddenly, Jace feels as though he has disappointed you somehow—as though the perfect little boy you have apparently preserved in your memory all these years has returned to you a man, and, within the span of a single evening, revealed himself to be just as capable of vice as the brother you married.

Except he is not, he wants to tell you desperately. There have been no women. There has only ever been you.

His attention drifts to the side when the low murmur of conversation around the table begins to fade, the scrape of silverware against plates quieting as his grandsire struggles to his feet to speak. Jace reluctantly tears his gaze from you.

"It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table," Viserys begins, voice strained with exertion, breath shuddered. "The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other in the years past."

He hears you make a noise in the back of your throat, leaning back in your chair again as you share an unreadable look with Aegon. Jace hates it, fingers tightening in his lap as he wonders what passed between you in that single glance—what understanding eight years together has afforded the two of you that he cannot hope to decipher.

Then, your leg shifts against his. He thinks you might be pulling away, but you only press the side of your leg harder against his. Jace's breath catches, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales, gaze cutting to the side, but you are still looking at Aegon, talking to one another without speaking.

Was that an accident or intentional?

"My own face… is no longer a handsome one, if indeed it ever was," he distantly hears his grandsire continue, but his pulse is roaring in his ears again, throat bobbing as he tries to figure out if he should press his luck. Would it be too much to shift his leg beneath yours, to nudge your feet apart, spread your legs a little just to see how you react? The thought alone sends a wildly inappropriate rush of heat through him. "But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king… but your father, your brother, your husband… and your grandsire. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer among you."

Would you startle and pull away, finally realizing there is nothing innocent about the game he is playing beneath the table? Or would you let him? Would you glance at him with that same unreadable expression and leave your legs parted at his behest? How far will you let him go before you stop pretending not to understand what he's doing? Or have you already?

Gods, has he lost all sense? His grandsire is speaking of his death, of a house broken nearly beyond repair, and Jace is sitting at his table contemplating how far he might push the boundaries of your affection before you finally push back. Shame burns hot across his face, and he forces himself to remain perfectly still, ridding himself of all thoughts to slide his foot between your legs to nudge your knees apart.

"Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts," Viserys continues, his labored voice drawing Jace's attention forward again. "The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly."

Jace hears you inhale, looking away from Aegon at last, and his gaze drifts back to you. The boredom gone, along with whatever had passed between you and your husband, and you stare at your father with something far more complicated written across your face. Jace watches as your jaw tightens and brows furrow as you look down at the empty plate in front of you.

In Jace's defense, when his hand settles on your thigh beneath the tablecloth, he really, really does mean it only as comfort.

But your entire body stills and everything between the two of you changes. Jace feels it happen in the span of a single hitched breath—the moment the touch ceases to be innocent, when the warmth of his palm against your leg, fingertips pressing into the plush skin of your thigh, becomes something neither of you can reasonably mistake for the affection of a nephew comforting his aunt. His fingers remain perfectly still, but every nerve in his body is suddenly alive and tingling.

He does not dare to look at you now, attention pinned ahead as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, heart pounding in his chest, pulse roaring in his ears.

Somewhere beyond you, his mother rises to her feet. He distantly hears her speak of Queen Alicent, hears the scrape of a goblet being lifted, and the answering murmur as Alicent stands in return. The entire table seems to be listening as the two women raise their cups to one another after years of tension and resentment. Jace hears almost none of it.

His fingers tighten around your thigh slightly, accidentally, really, but when you still do not bat his touch away, his hand slides up slightly, thumb stroking over the fabric of your gown. Your breath catches again as you stare ahead, lashes fluttering slightly, and Jace's stomach clenches, heat rushing downward so quickly that he has to stop himself from shifting in his seat.

Then, Aegon rises. Jace watches warily as the prince steps out from his chair, subtly drawing his hand back into his lap. Aegon makes his way around you in Jace's direction, moving with the lazy confidence of someone already well into his cups. He stops behind Jace's chair and bends slightly, obnoxiously reaching across the table for the wine.

"I see it, you know," Aegon murmurs beneath the swell of conversation. Jace goes rigid. "The way you look at my wife."

Jace's jaw flexes as he forces himself not to react to Aegon's words. He stares ahead blankly. He cannot afford to lose grip of his temper—not here, not ever, but especially not here with the Queen and the Hand and both of his uncles watching him keenly for any and every mistake.

"Like a loyal hound, aren't you? Ten years is rather impressive," Aegon says quietly with a widening smile. "If you're so desperate to know what she's like, I'd be willing to give you a demonstration sometime. Save you all the trouble of wondering what pleases her."

Jace is on his feet in an instant, fist slamming so hard against the table that conversation silences and all eyes swivel to him.

"Jace," Baela hisses quietly, eyes wide.

"Don't," you say under your breath, quiet enough that only he can overhear.

On the far end of the table, Aemond rises to his feet slowly, head tilted to the side as though daring Jace to raise a hand to Aegon. For one terrible moment, Jace wants to. Damn the consequences—he'll put his fist into Aegon's jaw and knock the smug smirk right off of his face. He does not care that he'll walk right into the trap—angry and reckless, humiliated before the entire family—not if it means getting to watch him stumble back, bruised and bloodied.

Then, his gaze drops down to you, and he sees the severe expression on your face, expression hard and gaze sharp with warning. Jace exhales hard through his nose, glancing back slowly at Aegon.

The older prince grins shamelessly, leaning back again—the audacity to look amused as though he had not just spoken of you like some common whore whose intimacy could be displayed for another man's entertainment. He has never deserved you, Jace thinks furiously. Jace would never talk about you like this to another man, would never treat you with anything less than the devotion you deserve. It is infuriating that Aegon gets everything Jace has ever wanted and does not even have the decency to be appreciative of it.

Jace presses his tongue to the inside of his teeth, forcing the white-hot fury at bay as he smiles, strained. He says at last, "You should mind your cups, uncle. It is only the beginning of the evening, and you are already speaking in twisted tongues."

Irritation flashes across Aegon's face; he barely withholds a roll of his eyes, realizing that not only is he not going to get the reaction he wants, but Jace was able to get in a public dig at his drinking habits. Jace's smile is a little less forced and a little more mocking as Aegon makes his way back to his seat.

Then, his gaze shifts down to you. Your eyes meet his, and you tilt your head to the questioningly, wondering why he's still standing. He holds his hand out to you and murmurs, "Would you do me the honor of a dance, muña?"

"Yes, yes," his grandsire suddenly says, leaning forward and waving his hand. "The music."

You give him a small, indulgent smile before placing your hand in his and allowing him to help you to your feet. Your husband has settled back into his chair, sipping at his refilled goblet, but the careless amusement from moments before has vanished. His eyes follow Jace as he steps closer to you, releasing your hand only to settle his palm against the small of your back.

Jace hold's Aegon's gaze momentarily as he guides you away from the table, and he cannot help the faint satisfaction that curls in his chest—childish and vindictive and spiteful, but he does not care.

Behind him, another chair scrapes against the floor. Baela calls brightly, "Helaena—cousin. Dance with me?"

Jace glances back in time to see Helaena blink in surprise before a hesitant smile spreads across her face as she rises to her feet, lifting her skirts slightly as she shuffles over to Baela.

Maegor and Maegelle are quick to steal Rhaena, working in union to each grab a hand to drag her out of her seat, despite her vocal protests and pleas for her father and Rhaenyra and you to get them to release her. For the first time that evening, laughter begins to spread naturally around the table, and Jace turns his attention back on you, lips curled up into a small smile.

Your smile matches his as you say with a short laugh, "The last time we danced, you were half the height and I led."

"Well," Jace says, voice lower than he intends. "I am a man grown now. Perhaps it is time you let me take the lead."

Your brows lift, and Jace realizes what the words sound like only after they have already left his mouth. Heat creeps up the back of his neck—perhaps it is time you let me take the lead. After his lingering touch at your thigh and the thoughts that had plagued him at the table—wondering how you like to be touched, what you might want from him, what it would be like to take you in full—the words suddenly sound far less innocent than he intends for them to be.

Did you hear it too?

He cannot tell. The corners of your mouth curl upward, and Jace swears he sees something knowing flicker in your eyes before you question, "And what makes you so certain I would enjoy letting you do that?"

His pulse jumps. Surely that was intentional, wasn't it? You could have phrased that a hundred different ways that did not sound so—

Is he just reading too much into it? Jace cannot tell and it's driving him crazy. He swallows thickly. There is still time to retreat—to laugh it off and make some jest about how much his dancing has improved since he was a boy—but instead, he lifts his chin slightly.

He leans his head in slightly. "You should give me the opportunity to prove myself," he replies, finding himself growing bolder. "You might find I have learned a great deal since you last had me in your hands.

Your gaze searches his face for a moment before you tilt your head in acquiescence and step closer, allowing him to guide you into position.

"Very well, mandianna," you murmur at last. "Show me what you have learned."

Jace's heart pounds. He cannot tell whether the conversation is still about dancing.

The musicians start the opening of the song, and Jace takes your hand properly in his, his other settling at your waist as he leads you into the first steps. He remembers enough not to embarrass himself, thankfully, despite the fact that he has hardly danced at all over the last few years, but he is far too conscious of you to focus fully on the rhythm—your palm is warm against his, and you let him guide your body as he pleases.

"There," he says when you follow him through a turn without resistance. "This is not so difficult, is it?"

Your eyes narrow playfully. "Do not become arrogant, Jacaerys. You have only just begun. I'm hardly impressed yet."

Jace's mouth curves upward. Bolder, he says, "Then I suppose I shall have to pace myself, so that I may keep going until you're satisfied."

You inhale sharply through your nose, gaze more calculating now as you stare at him. His heart pounds as he waits for you to reply, because there is no ignorance to the twofold meaning to his words this time.

"Careful, mandianna," you murmur. "Someone might misunderstand you."

Jace's hands tightens at your waist as he pulls you closer for the next step of the dance. He lowers his voice as he says, "That depends entirely upon what you believe I meant."

You squint at him, and Jace slows with the music as the kingsguard prepares to return his grandsire to his chambers. He stands at your side, one hand still resting lightly on your mid back, as they gather around the king's chair and carefully lift it from the floor.

You both incline your heads dutifully as they carry him past, remaining silent until the guards disappear beyond the doors. Jace feels you draw a slow breath beside him, the playful tension between you momentarily forgotten as you stare to where your father had left.

You tell him quietly, "You are testing your luck, Jacaerys."

"Am I?" he questions, searching your face. Is this your way of warning him that his attention is unwanted, an attempt to draw a boundary he has been too blinded by hope to see? Or is it the opposite? The not knowing is enough to drive him mad. "Then let me know where my luck ends, muña. Speak with me tonight."

He hates that it comes out pleading when he was going for confidence.

You let out a soft puff of air, but before you get the chance to give him an answer, Aemond slams his fist against the dinner table and rises to his feet, cup in hand. Jace startles at the noise, glancing at Luke, who is still sitting at the table and looks closer to frightened fawn than man, and realizes he must have done something to set off Aemond. Jace stiffens, hand dropping from your back as he braces himself for whatever is about to be said.

"Final tribute," Aemond drawls,raising his cup to Luke and then to Jace. Baela and Helaena pause from where they were dancing around each other, laughter fading. Even the twins share a look with one another, slowing in their chaotic dance with Rhaena. "To the health of my nephews: Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… Strong."

"Aemond," Alicent says carefully.

Jace exhales hard through his nose, fists tightening at his side as he tilts his head. He knows what Aemond wants—the knowledge should make it easier to ignore him, but somehow, it only makes the anger worse. Only hours ago, Vaemond had stood before the entire court and called his mother a whore, naming Jace and his brother bastards. His body has scarcely grown cold, and now Aemond stands beneath the same roof, moments after his dying father pleaded for unity, as he renews life to the accusation.

Aemond's lips curl up into a smug smile as he continues louder.

"Come," he announces, louder this time, ensuring that every person in the room hears him clearly, "let us drain our cups to these three Strong boys."

He should let it go. He should not give Aemond the reaction he wants.

"I dare you to say that again," Jace says before he can stop himself, raising his chin as he stares at Aemond.

Aemond raises his eyebrows with faux innocence.

"Why? It was only a compliment." Jace feels your fingers close around his wrist the moment he starts to move forward, and for a fleeting second, the touch stops him from doing something he cannot take back. Then Aemond meets his eyes directly and asks, "Do you not think yourself Strong?"

Jace tears his wrist from your grasp and drives his fist into Aemond's face before he can think better of it. Pain bursts across his knuckles, but the satisfaction Jace expects never comes. The moment his fist connects, the room erupts around him. Chairs scrape hard against stone as Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Alicent rise to their feet. Aegon slams Luke's face hard into the table when he rises to help Jace. Someone shouts Jace's name, telling him to stop. The twins scream in surprise. Jace hardly hears any of it, lunging forward again, only to be yanked backward.

"Enough, Jacaerys," you hiss, fingers digging hard into his bicep as you pull him back, shoving him hard when his gaze flits above your shoulder back to Aemond.

He turns toward you, chest heaving, because why is it he that you are telling enough? It is Aemond who started this, Aemond who all but called him and his brothers bastards for all to hear, Aemond who stands there smugly. Betrayed, he wonders, how could you take his side? Was he misreading everything after all? The shared look with Aegon, his arm around you in the training yard, entertains both brothers—

"Take Maegor and Maegelle back to their chambers," you say coolly, "before you make this worse than it already is."

For a moment, he can only stare at you in disbelief. He knows you are right to an extent—he is making a scene, and the last thing his family needs right now are more whispers circulating about them. Somewhere beneath the fury and betrayal, he knows it perfectly well, but the dismissal still burns with Aemond standing there watching, bloodied mouth curling into the start of another insufferable smile.

Then Daemon steps forward, gaze meeting his momentarily, as though daring him to defy you, before he steps between him and Aemond, his attention turning to the older prince instead.

Jace scoffs, looking away, and just as he is about to turn on his heel to leave, you reach out again, thumb pressing briefly against his pulse. You lean in this time as you speak, voice low enough that only he can overhear what you say: "You and I will talk later."

His anger falters, gaze searching yours before he finally nods, swallowing his pride and whatever protest is left lingering on his tongue as he obeys without argument.

————————————

Jace stands outside your door for nigh an hour trying to work up the courage to knock.

Ser Steffon Darklyn watches him with open curiosity from where he stands vigilant at your door. Every time Jace throws a vicious glare in his direction, the man averts his gaze back to the sprawling corridor leading to your chambers, and then he returns to observing Jace, not moments later, the next time he lifts his hand to knock and drops it back at his side.

Is it true? Do you favor Aegon and Aemond now? Have years away—

"My prince," Ser Steffon finally says, clearing his throat, and Jace's gaze lifts to the older man, cold. "Would you like me to announce your arrival to the princess?"

A sharp no is about to fly off his tongue when he hesitates, glancing at the door to your apartments one last time before he nods once, raising his chin and looking away.

He ignores the amused expression on Ser Steffon's face out of courtesy for you, because he knows that you have long favored the man for being the first to indulge your requests to learn the sword.

Ser Steffon knocks politely twice before he pushes the heavy door open and says, "Princess, the prince Jacaerys has been waiting outside your chambers for some time now. Would you see him?"

Jace flushes hot and fast, all courtesy for you disappearing as he glares wildly at the knight's back, because there was no reason for him to say he's been waiting for some time.

"Oh," he hears you say. The anger drains into nerves instantly as he raises his chin and stiffens slightly. "Let him in."

Jace exhales hard through his nose, gaze flicking up as Ser Steffon inclines his head before stepping to the side to allow Jace past. He gives the older man a serious side eye as he steps forward, but Ser Steffon ignores it, letting Jace into the room before shutting the door behind him.

Jace knows exactly what he's going to say: he's going to demand to know why it was him and not Aemond you told to back down earlier, he's going to ask if you are happy, he's going to tell you to let him know where his luck ends as you promised at supper.

Then, his gaze meets yours and you are wearing thin, silk night slip at your vanity, a platter of fruits before you, and every thought drifts away like dust in the wind. His lips part as he stares at you—the soft black fabric inching up your thigh, the strap threatening to slide down your shoulder, the way you tilt your head to the side curiously when you see how his pupils are suddenly blown wide as he stares at you.

Aggravation hits him just as swiftly as desire, because were you really dressed like this for that kingsguard of yours to see? Jace flushes hot as he looks around wildly before his gaze falls upon a robe draped over your dresser, he grabs it furiously and then tosses it at you.

"Put it on," he hisses. He hates the amused look you give him as you rise to your feet and slide the robe of your shoulders. It is hardly better, but Jace can actually bring himself to meet your eyes now. He demands, "You let your sworn shield see you dressed like that?"

You tilt your head. "It is not my fault you came to me when I was getting ready to sleep. I waited for you for three hours, mandianna—I resigned to bed because I figured you were upset and would not come."

Petulantly, Jace crosses his arms and raises his chin as he asks, "And why would I be so upset that I would not come?" simply because he wants to hear you say the answer.

You tilt your head with an amused smile. You say easily, "Because I sent you to your chambers after Aemond antagonized you."

Jace instantly points at you, vindicated. "And tell me, why should I be the one chastised when it was your half-brother who purposely reignited the rumors that were just put to question not hours before?"

"Because the realm expects more of you, Jacaerys," you say dryly without hesitation, taking a seat on the edge of your bed and motioning for him to join you. Jace falters at your words, shoulders slumping slightly, feet shuffling against the burgundy carpets as he makes his way over to you. "These rumors will be ignited and snuffed continuously throughout your life and reign. Do you plan to strike every courtier who dares reference your strength?"

Jace's eye twitches. "If they mean it as a slight concerning my—" His jaw tightens over the word parentage, unable to force it out. He finished simply, "Perhaps."

When you immediately give him a sidelong glance, he bristles in defense. He demands, "Do you think I forgot that you, yourself, said that we would meet such accusations with dragonfire, and you chastise me for striking?"

You raise your eyebrows, hand lifting to grab his chin firmly. Jace silences beneath your touch, breath catching when he feels how the blunt tips of your nail dig into his cheeks.

"No, you stupid boy," you say sharply. Jace thinks he should be offended by the insult, but he can hardly focus on anything besides the feeling your fingers hot against his skin and the fact that beneath the robe he handed you, you only wear a thin night slip. "I said that I would meet such accusations with dragonfire. You cannot afford such—”

You do not finish whatever you're about to say, hand dropping back to your side with an exhale, but Jace can imagine, swallowing thickly as he remembers your fury following the prank he, Aegon, and Luke played on Aemond. Shame coils low in his gut as he looks away.

"I should not have struck him," he finally says quietly, "but he deserved it."

You huff out a laugh through your nose. "He deserved far more than a strike," you say at last. "He is insolent. Alicent coddled him after what happened in Driftmark. He has become insufferable."

Jace hates the familiarity with which you speak of him. It makes his stomach turn, sourness building in the back of his throat. It is he and Luke and Joffrey you should be speaking of with such familiarity—not your half-brothers.

You do not even know Joffrey, Jace realizes, a lump in his throat. You do not know his favorite color or his favorite story, that he dislikes sweets and has taken to High Valyrian better than Jace ever did. You do not know Joffrey, or Aegon, or Viserys. It is not fair—none of this is fair.

"He is a prick," Jace mutters.

"That too," you agree, and Jace cannot help the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips as he looks down.

You rise to your feet. Jace's gaze shifts up questioningly, but you're making your way across the room to a table, you lift a flagon of wine and then look over your shoulder at him, lifting it and motioning toward him. Jace hesitates before he nods—you have never offered him wine before. The last time he remembers, Aegon had tried to slip him some as a joke at Lucerys's eighth nameday celebration, and you had slapped the back of his head so hard that his uncle had nearly cried.

"I have grown fond of it over the past few years," you say absently as you turn two goblets right side up and fill up both generously. "Wine, I mean. The gods know the twins drive me to it."

Jace is grateful for something to begin with, because he had struggling with how to approach the conversation he wants to have. He fixes his posture as you finish pouring the glasses and make your way back over to him.

He says, "They have grown." He winced at the observation—it has been eight years, obviously, they have grown. "You—" He cuts himself off abruptly, unsure how to phrase what he realizes he's about to say. Finally, he finishes, "You appear to have a good relationship with them."

I hate them sometimes, he remembers you crying to his mother nearly a decade before when Jace was not supposed to be listening. I wanted to love them the same way you loved Jacaerys—

You hum lightly as you pass him his goblet, and he fights a shiver when your fingers brush his. You do not respond right away, sitting back down carelessly at the top of the bed, relaxing back against the pillows.

Jace's throat spasms as he swallows a large gulp of the sweet Arbor Red. He has sat in bed with you hundreds of times before, but never with this type of intimacy—always two children curled up with one another, now you are both adults, sipping on wine, close enough to feel the heat on one another's skin. His chest is tight with nerves.

He could imagine this—life with you, life like this. Returning to his chambers after long days at court to you lounging in your robe against the pillows, smiling when you see him, a glass of wine in hand and another poured for him. He wants it desperately—more than he has ever wanted anything in his entire life.

"Children do tend to grow in eight years," you reply dryly as you take a long sip of your wine, not acknowledging the second half of his statement for a long moment. After what feels like an eternity, you finally smile wryly and tell him, "I struggled the first few years—to be a mother for them, that is."

"You were only a child yourself," Jace notes quietly. "You cannot be blamed."

Something softens in your face at his words—he wonders if anyone has ever acknowledged that beside his mother, or if they had simply placed two infants in your arms and expected you to be a mother for them, as though bringing two children into the world had somehow made you cease to be one yourself. Jace hates it—the idea of you being alone, struggling, drowning beneath expectations and exhaustion and no one around you willing to do everything Jace would have done without hesitation had he been allowed to be there.

"I was angry at them for a time," you admit after a long silence, staring into your wine. "I knew it wasn't their fault deep down, but I was—I was so weak after they were born, Jacaerys. I could barely walk without someone helping me. I could not climb stairs without feeling as though I might collapse. I could not ride. I could not fly. Zūgaxes would call for me, and I could not even get to him."

Jace knows this, but he doesn't dare interrupt you, gaze focused on the pinched corners of your mouth and the way your gaze lowers to your dark sheets.

He remembers seeing you at Driftmark during Lady Laena's funeral, remembers the way you could barely hold yourself up, the way your dresses were hanging from your shoulders, what you said to his mother when you thought the two of you were alone. He remembers the weariness in your eyes and the exhaustion plain on your face when you thought no one was looking, but he was always looking at you.

"Everyone kept telling me how fortunate I was," you continue, exhaling through your nose as you look away. "Two healthy babes. A son and daughter. They would place them in my arms and tell me how much I must love them, how happy I must be, and all I could think about was everything I could no longer do."

He wants to reach out for you. His fingers twitch in his lap as he holds his goblet carefully. Your free hand is not too far away—he could take it in his, entwine your fingers, squeeze it lightly.

I'm here, he wants to tell you, and if you want me to stay, I won't leave again.

"I tried to leave them behind and fly to Dragonstone once—after the birth," you tell him, drawing him from his thoughts. His hand settles back in his lap as his gaze lifts to the heavy expression on your face. "I did not even make it to the Blackwater before I fell unconscious upon Zuzu. I hadn't even been strapped in properly, because my fingers weren't strong enough to clip myself in. I would have fallen to my death had he not sensed when I lost conscious and turned around. I think I knew it was a risk when I was climbing atop him. I think a part of me would have preferred it."

He does not think you mean to say that last part aloud, because your expression immediately twists, and Jace feels sick. The wine he just sipped threatens to come up as he imagines you alone in the sky, barely conscious and too weak to properly secure yourself. What would have happened if Zūgaxes had not been able to get you back safely? Before he can stop himself, he imagines your hands slipping from his saddle, your body falling through open air. He imagines his mother receiving word on Dragonstone, and him—

"Do not say that," he whispers, jaw so tight that it is almost painful. "Do not say you would have preferred to die. I—I cannot—I do not want–"

Jace does not know a life without you. His first memories are of Vermax's green scales and the warmth of your arms around him. You have been the center of his life for as long as he can remember, and he has loved you just as long. You are as essential to him as air, water, food—there has never been a version of his world in which you did not exist somewhere within it, even during the two years of silence before Driftmark.

He would think of you every day, crying incessantly into his mother's skirts, demanding to know why you would not answer his ravens, what he had done to make you stop loving him. Rhaenyra would hold him while he sobbed himself sick, rubbing his back as he clung to her and begged her to bring you back. It had hurt, and not in the vague, aching way that people often spoke of missing someone, but in a way that manifested physically. His chest ached until it became difficult to breathe, and his stomach turned whenever he thought too long about the possibility that you had forgotten him. More than once, his mother had summoned Maester Geradys because she had been convinced Jace was falling ill. Those two years had nearly ruined him; he cannot imagine an eternity without you.

"Please," he finally says quietly, unable to even bring himself to meet your gaze. "Just—"

"Come here, mandianna," you murmur.

Jace comes without need for any more prompting, eyes sliding shut as you take the goblet from him and place it on your bedside table. Then your arms are around him, and Jace folds into you with a quickness that is more instinctual than anything else. For a fleeting second, he is ten years old again, small enough to bury himself against you and believe nothing terrible could happen as long as you held him tightly enough. His arms wind tightly around your waist, face pressing into the crook of your neck as you draw him closer, one hand settling against the back of his head.

He breathes you in—the familiar lavender and the faint trace of wine—his throat is painfully tight as he sinks into you.

"You have always been so sweet," you sigh into his hair, gently combing through the dark curls at the back of his neck, nails scratching his scalp lightly. Jace can hardly keep his eyes open as he presses his forehead to your warm skin. "So terribly sensitive."

Jace's eyes snap open as he pulls back just enough to frown at you, indignant. "You just spoke of—" He cannot finish the sentence, shaking his head as he protests, "I am not sensitive."

"Mm," you say, and you clearly do not believe him from the amused smile on your lips. "Of course not."

The amusement in your eyes is mortifying, suddenly painfully aware that he is still clinging to you with his face tucked to your neck. He releases you reluctantly, clearing his throat as he sits upright.

"You do not sound as though you believe me," Jace scowls, looking away.

This is not how this was supposed to go. He had come here determined to make you see him differently. He had spent the entire evening testing the boundaries between you, trying to prove that he was no longer the little boy who followed you everywhere and pretended to be asleep so you would carry him around. He wanted you to look at him and see a man—a man capable of protecting you, loving you, satisfying you, a man worthy of being called your husband.

Instead, within half an hour of entering your chambers, he has nearly cried in your arms. Wonderful.

"Pouting does not befit you, mandianna," you tease, leaning in to press your lips to his temple briefly before you reach for the goblet of wine you put to the side so that you could comfort him. He reaches for his own too, desperately in need of something to numb the embarrassment he feels. "Anyway, it has been a long time since then, Jacaerys. You do not need to worry; I do not feel that way anymore."

"What changed?" he asks you quietly, not daring to ask the question he really wants to know: are you happy now?

You stare at him inexplicably for a moment, as though you do not know how to answer, and then you smile lightly and turn your back to him, shuffling through the drawer near your bed to pull out two pieces of parchment.

The one you first show him is familiar—his cheeks heat up when he recognizes the drawing you set before him. He had forgotten it, or, rather, he had simply assumed it had been discarded years ago. The parchment is faded now, worn and yellowed with time, but the childish figures drawn across it remain unmistakable.

You stand at the center, a mess of scribbles and a big smile. Luke stands on one side of you and Jace stands at the other, both of them holding your hands with arms so long that it would be unsettling in reality. Rhaenyra and Laenor are squeezed into the remaining space, Rhaenyra little more than a head with an enormous crown and legs beneath her, and Laenor drawn absurdly tall, his smile taking up nearly half of his face. Above the five of you, several messily drawn dragons circle beneath a violently yellow sun.

Jace vaguely remembers making it. He and Luke had found you crying in one of the gardens after you thought everyone had gone to dinner. Neither of them had understood why, and you had wiped your face the moment you saw them, insisting nothing was wrong, but Jace had known better, so he and Luke had disappeared into his chambers armed with parchment and charcoal to make a gift for you.

Luke had drawn himself and Laenor, and Jace had drawn himself and Rhaenyra. They had argued terribly over who would draw you until Luke accidentally snapped his charcoal in half and solved the matter entirely. He remembers presenting it to you with Luke and telling you the same thing you had told them both dozens of times before: it is okay to be sad, so long as you are never sad alone.

"You kept this?" he asks with what he intends to be a laugh, but comes out too weak. "After all this time?"

"Of course," you say quietly, an unreadable expression on your face as you stare down at it. "Whenever I felt alone, I would take it out and remind myself that somewhere, there were people who loved me enough to draw me wildly disproportionate." Jace laughs, swallowing thickly as he looks up at you, heart fluttering at the soft expression on your face as you stare down at the picture. "It made me smile, even when I was sad."

He wants to reach out for you again, fingers twitching at his side. After a moment's hesitation, he does, slipping his hand into yours and entwining your fingers. His pulse pounds, half expecting you to pull away, but you do not, squeezing lightly as you finally show him the other piece of parchment.

"That's—" he begins, surprised, cutting himself off.

It's a replica of his and Luke's drawing, except a bit more sloppily drawn with two more tiny figures wedged on either side of you, each with a wild scribble of silver hair and big smiles.

"Maegelle said that I only smiled when I was looking at your drawing," you say quietly. "She and Maegor did not even know who any of you were then—I… I rarely spoke to them outside of when it was absolutely necessary. They only knew that these people made their mother happy, and they decided if they added themselves to the picture, perhaps they could make me happy too."

Jace does not know how to reply to that, staring down at the two little figures crudely squeezed into the new version of the drawing. He imagines the two children studying the first drawing, trying to understand why a bunch of scribbled strangers they had never met could make their mother smile when they could not, and rather than resent those strangers for possessing some piece of you that remained beyond their reach, they had simply decided to join them.

"I was awful to them, Jacaerys," you admit, voice breaking, and Jace hates seeing you like this. Hates seeing you sad. Hates the reminder that you have spent ten years alone, suffering, and he was stuck across the Blackwater, unable to do anything about it. He wants to wipe away your tears and hold you close the same way you did for him for years, but he doesn't know if you would let him. "When Maegelle cried, I would hand her off to Melynda and tell her to leave the room until she stopped crying. When Maegor reached for me, I would walk away. They didn't understand why I kept pushing them away, no matter how hard they tried to be near me, and they still only ever wanted me to be happy."

"Are you?" he finally dares to ask, voice little more than a breath. "Are you happy?"

You stare at him for a long moment, lips parting as though to answer, but no words leave them. Jace's heart is pounding again. What answer does he want to hear? Selfishly, he thought he wanted you to say no, so that he could be your knight in shining armor, your prince from a fairytale who would swoop you off your feet and carry you off to a brighter future.

Now, he isn't so sure, because the idea of you being unhappy for a decade, forced to content yourself with life so that you do not climb back onto Zūgaxes's back, knowing you might fall, makes him terribly sick.

"I love the twins," you finally say, thumb pressing over the little silver-haired figure that Jace assumes is Maegelle, if only because the hair is slightly longer than the other. "Even when they drive me mad. I have Zūgaxes. I can fly again. I can walk without someone hovering behind me—most days at least. Some days are still… difficult."

But are you happy? Jace wonders, a treacherous flicker of hope stirring inside him when he realizes you didn't mention Aegon.

"And Aegon?" he finally asks. His uncle's name tastes bitter in his mouth, and Jace feels your fingers tense between his. He watches you carefully, thumb stilling against your hand. He forces himself to press, "What of him? Does he make you happy?"

There it is again—that calculating expression you had worn earlier when his double-meaning words edged on too plainly spoken. Jace feels as though he has stepped onto dangerously thin ice, but instead of retreating, he finds himself leaning closer.

"Does he treat you right? Does he love you?" he murmurs, watching your face carefully. "Does he make you feel wanted?"

"Jacaerys," you start to say, voice low with warning.

Jace is undeterred. Perhaps it is the wine you gave him, the light buzz finally reaching his head, giving him all the confidence he needs to press the subject, or perhaps he is just desperate after having been plagued with uncertainty all day and all evening, but he cannot bring himself to back down.

"It is a simple question," he tells you quickly.

"No," you say quietly. "It is not."

His heart begins to pound. "Tell me," he insists. "Tell me that he loves you as he should. Tell me that he makes you happy. Tell me that you have never wanted for anything from him."

"This is none of your business," you tell him firmly, slipping your hand from his instead of answering. His skin tingles where yours had once been flush against his, and Jace's throat bobs as he tries to figure out what to do—should he press? Should he drop it? "You have no right to question me about my marriage."

"Why not?" he asks boldly, making his decision the moment he sees that dull expression from earlier in the night briefly cross your face again as your gaze flicks away.

"Why not?" you echo, giving him a disbelieving look.

"Yes," he says, agitated and unrepentant. "Why shouldn't I care whether or not you are happy?"

"That is not what I said," you sigh, shaking your head. "You are being deliberately obtuse."

"Then why don't you answer my question?"

"Because I do not owe you the details of my marriage, Jacaerys."

"I'm not asking for the details."

"Then what are you asking for?"

"I am asking for a simple answer," he tells you, reaching for your hands again, taking them both in his. He shifts onto his knees and leans in slightly, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Tell me. If he loves you, if he makes you happy, if he gives you everything you want, then it is an easy answer. I will never ask again."

It is a lie—he knows it the moment the words leave his mouth. He would ask himself every day for the rest of his life. He would lie awake wondering whether Aegon had touched you gently that evening, whether he had made you laugh, whether Jace might have had he been in his position instead. He would torture himself with knowledge that another man possessed everything Jace has wanted since he was old enough to understand wanting at all.

But he would leave you alone. If you told him that Aegon made you happy, Jace would bury whatever foolish hope had begun to take root inside of him today. He would accept that whatever he wanted from you could never be his and content himself with whatever place in your life you were willing to give him.

"What does it matter?" you finally ask him, shaking your head. He can see your defenses dropping in real time as you consider his question, a hopeless expression settling over your face as you look away from him again, but you do not pull your hands back. "What would it change, Jacaerys? If I told you that this marriage isn't what I'd wished, what would you do with that answer?"

Jace stares at you, and for one terrible moment, his mind goes completely blank of all of things he would do, everything that would change if you would just tell him what he needs to hear.

"Everything," he finally breathes out, pulse pounding, breath unsteady as his fingers tighten around yours. "I would do everything. Anything. I would—I could make you happy, muña."

"Jacaerys—" you start to say.

"I could," he insists. The words come louder this time, almost frantic, as though if he can only make you understand, everything will suddenly become simple. "I know I could. I know a part of you still looks at me and sees the boy I was when you left, but I'm not. I know I could be what you need."

"You do not know what you're saying," you say, shaking your head, but Jace's grip on your hands tightens. He shifts closer, desperate, knees pressing against yours as he tries to force you to hear him. "Jacaerys—"

"I do," he insists. His chest rising and falling too quickly, every shred of caution he possessed earlier in the evening abandoning him now. He has spent hours wondering how far you would let him go, months preparing for this moment, years fantasizing it. He cannot hide it anymore. He breathes, "I would be good to you. I would make you feel wanted. I would make certain you never have to wonder whether you are loved. I would never speak of you the way he did tonight. I would never treat loving you as though it were some burden I had been forced to carry."

Your lips part as you stare at him. He is so close to you that he can almost feel your breath on his lips, can see the way your pupils widen ever so slightly as you stare at him.

"I would choose you. Every day, I would choose you," he tells you softly, hands tightening around yours. "So tell me, what I am supposed to do, how I am meant to sit beside you and watch you be unhappy when I know—when I know that if you would only just let me—" He stops, swallowing hard. "I could make you happy."

You pull your hands away from his, and Jace feels cold, rejection spreading like ice through his veins as you shake your head and rise from the bed, stepping away from him.

"You do not know what you're saying," you say again, quieter.

Distantly, he recognizes that there is a distinct lack of conviction in your voice, that it seems more like you are trying to convince yourself than him, but it does not quell the rage that suddenly rises in his chest.

You still see him as a child.

"I am not a child anymore," he hisses, frustrated, rising to his feet, quick and angry.

"I did not say you were."

"You do not have to," he snaps, following you when you turn away from him. He grabs your wrist and forces you to face him again. He can feel your pulse hammering beneath his fingers when they circle your wrist. "You still look at me and see the boy who I was. I want you to look at me and see me."

"Jacaerys," you say, pleading for him to listen. "It would not change that I am married. It would not change that Aegon is my husband. What is it you want from me?"

"You," he answers before he can stop to think if maybe there is a better way of phrasing this. You stare at him, expression unsettlingly blank. "I want you. Gods, what do you think I have been trying to tell you?"

You swallow thickly, lips parting, but Jace barrels on before you can shut him down.

"I know that you are married." His voice rises with his frustration. "I know he is your husband. I know all of it, and I have spent years knowing it, and it has not made me want you any less."

"I do not know what you expect me to do."

"I don't know either!" The admission bursts from him, raw and almost angry. Jace drags a hand through his hair as he turns away for half a heartbeat to take in a shuddered breath before facing you again. A part of him had thought that once he confessed what he felt for you, everything would fall into place—that you would know what to do, as you always have."I don't know. I thought—I don't know." He laughs once, shaking his head, breathless and bitter. "I thought if I told you, perhaps I would know what came next. Or you would. Gods, I don’t know. But I cannot keep pretending that it does not ruin me to see you with someone who does not deserve you. To stand there and watch him take for granted what I have wanted for as long as I can remember and act as though it does not tear me apart. And then tonight—everything I felt before it was worse—stronger—because he was insufferable, and you kept looking at me like—" He stops himself, shaking his head. "You let me touch you. You knew what I meant when we danced. You knew what I was doing."

"I should have stopped you," you rasp, voice weak, catching over the words. "I—"

"But you didn't," Jace interrupts, taking a step closer, taking your hands in his again, "why didn't you?"

You stare at him so helplessly that Jace knows your answer without you even having to say anything.

"Muña," he breathes , trying to get you to listen to him. "Let me make you happy. Please. Kostilus."

Your eyes are wide, lips parted around a breath that never seems to come, and Jace waits, heart beating rapidly in his chest. He waits for you to tell him no, waits for you to order him from your chambers and finally draw the boundary he has spent the entire evening recklessly searching for.

You do none of those things. Instead, his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your gaze drops to his mouth. It is only for a heartbeat, perhaps less, but Jace sees it nonetheless, and whatever remains of his good sense abandons him entirely.

It all happens too quickly, all that desperate courage he has gathered over the course of the evening propels him forward before he has the slightest idea what he is doing. His nose bumps awkwardly against yours, and his mouth catches the corner of your lips instead of landing properly upon them.

Jace freezes, mortification washing over him. Neither of you moves for a horrible second, and he thinks, humiliated, that of all the ways he imagined this moment over the years, never once had he considered the possibility that he might fuck it up.

Then, you inhale sharply, turning your face toward his just enough that your lips brush his, and Jace stops breathing. His world narrows to that single point of contact between the two of you.

His hand rises to your cheek, trembling as his palm settles against your warm skin. This time, when he closes the distance, he does it slowly, eyes remaining fixed upon yours until his mouth presses to yours, your lips soft and sweet against his own. He braces himself for you to pull away, for you to tilt the lower half of your face out of reach. You do not.

Jace kisses you properly now. It is still too clumsy for his liking. He cannot figure out how to pace himself for the life of him. Too hesitant at first, then too eager when the realization finally crashes over him that this is you beneath his hands, your lips against his. He can taste the wine on your tongue, and the fruit from the platter you were picking at before he arrived.

Years of longing and an entire day of restraint unravel in the space of a heartbeat as he tilts your head back to kiss you deeper. His other hand finds your hip by instinct, drawing your body closer to his, and your breath hitches against his mouth. Jace kisses you until his lungs burn and his head feels light, and even then, he kisses you still, terrified that the moment he stops, you will send him away.

"I am sorry," he breathes when he is finally forced to part his lips from your, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged as he tries to catch it. He does not know what he's apologizing for. Kissing you? He is not sorry for that, and you certainly know it from the way he's holding you. His eyes are wide and searching as he tries to figure out where your mind is at. His thumb strokes helplessly along your cheek, gaze dropping back to your lips. "I should not have—I only thought you—"

His words dissolve into a low moan in the back of his throat when you press your lips against his this time. Jace's whole body feels hot and shaky. Your hands find his waist, and his lashes flutter when your lips move slowly against his, easing them open so that you might trace your tongue along the inside of his mouth.

Jace wonders if he is dreaming—a pleasant, wine-induced dream, and he would wake up in the morning hot and aching desperately for you, cursing himself for allowing his imagination to conjure something so terribly convincing.

But then your fingers tighten on his waist, and you pull him closer until his slim body is flush to yours, and Jace knows that it is real because no dream has ever felt like this before.

A shuddered breath escapes him against your lips, something between disbelief and relief, and whatever hesitation had seized him moments before disappears. You are kissing him. You are kissing him. He had stopped, apologized, given you every opportunity to push him away, and instead you closed the distance yourself.

He has imagined this dozens, hundreds of times before, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of having you like this, of having your lips on his, feeling your chest heaving and pulse pounding. Jace is dizzy with need—it is not enough, he has to have you in full.

His hands lift to your face, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head back as he kisses you again. A second time. A third. Needy and eager, you can hardly keep up with him, hands curled around his tunic, holding him close as he presses his mouth to yours like he wants to devour you. It is not enough.

"Muña," he breathes into your mouth, pulling your body closer so that he can feel you flush to him. He walks you backward until your back hits the cool stone wall of your chambers, and his lips slide messily from yours to your cheek, along the line of your jaw until he can kiss down your throat. "I just want you to be happy. I want to make you feel good."

The words aren't meant to come out as desperate as they do, pleading, begging you to just let him help you be happy, but you shiver against him all the same.

"Jacaerys," you gasp, breath hitching as he slides your robe off your shoulders, letting it drop to the ground at your feet. He lets out a low moan into the skin of your neck, fingers toying with the thin strap of your night slip. "I—"

"I will stay, if you'd let me," he continues, lashes fluttering as his teeth graze your collarbone. One hand lifts to entwine with your hair so he can tilt your head back gently, kissing back up the line of your throat until his lips hover above yours, eyes searching as he continues, "My mother plans to return to Dragonstone with the rest in the morning, but I will stay. With you. As I promised all those years ago. You only need say the word."

He does not know what the look in your eyes means as you stare at him. He hates that—hates there was once a time where he could look at you and know what you exactly what you were thinking, and hates that the privilege now seems to belong to Aegon.

He kisses you again, harder this time, deeper—if he cannot convey himself in words, he will do it through actions. He will kiss you hard enough that anytime you kiss another, you will only think of how perfectly his lips slotted against yours, deep enough so that you will taste him on your tongue when your husband tries to take your bed.

He lets out a low moan into your mouth as he drags his tongue along the roof of your mouth, the inside of your lips, gliding along your tongue. It is messier than he has imagined it in times past—when he would fist his cock pretending your lips were on his, he was kissing you slow and careful. Now, spit slicks around his lips and yours, and each breath of his is wet and ragged. He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth and rolls it between his teeth.

It is not enough, he thinks, kissing sloppily down your neck again, arms winding around your waist. He needs more.

"Jacaerys," you breathe his name again, and his gaze lifts to your face.

There is a haziness to your eyes that drives him crazy, a need that is only reflected in his own.

You want him, he thinks, inhaling shakily as his fingers bite into the skin at your waist. You want him as desperately as he wants you.

Before he can lose his courage, his hands slide up the curves of your body to shift the thin straps of your nightslip over your shoulders. His throat bobs, breath not reaching his lungs as he leans back just enough to watch as he lowers the slip from your body. The fabric catches briefly on your arms before sliding lower, and Jace's hands still, eyes sliding shut.

For all the times he has imagined this, he suddenly finds himself terrified to look.

It is ridiculous. He has conjured half a hundred different versions of you in the privacy of his chambers, pieced together by his traitorous imagination, but none of those fantasies had ever accounted for the sheer enormity of actually standing before you now. Of being allowed to see you. Of knowing that when he finally lowers his gaze, it will no longer be something imagined.

"Mandianna?"

His eyes reopen at last, and all the breath leaves his lungs in one fell swoop.

You are beautiful. The thought is almost painfully inadequate. He steps forward just enough to reach out for you again, fingers skimming along the bare skin of your waist, the curve of your hip. He has always known you were beautiful. He knew it when he was young and possessed no understanding of why he couldn't stop himself from giggling and hiding his face whenever you smiled at him. He knew it when he would have fits of irritation whenever a bard implied any noble lady other than you was the most beautiful woman in the room. He knew it in Driftmark, even when your eyes were tired and your body was weak and everyone around him said you looked closer to corpse than woman. He knew it when he saw you in the throne room earlier today, and for one humiliating moment, he had forgotten how to breathe. This is different.

"Gods," he whispers.

You tilt your head. "Is something wrong?"

"No." The answer comes so quickly that you laugh, and Jace flushes. "No, I—"

He fumbles for words. His hands continue their absent exploration, tracing the lines of your body with reverence. His gaze flicks up to your face, searching for the slightest sign you want him to stop, but you remain where you are.

"Iksā gevie," he breathes at last, and your expression softens.

You are beautiful.

Jace leans forward and kisses you again, gentler now. There is none of the frantic desperation from moments before, only the lingering wonder that you are really here, really allowing him to do this.

Then, the moment is ruined.

Aegon has seen you like this. The thought strikes him with enough force that his stomach twists, and he has to tilt the lower half of his face away from yours, parting from you as his jaw tightens. He cannot even relish in the fact that you find yourself chasing after his lips before he catches himself grimacing.

But now that the thought has crossed his mind, he cannot push it away. It sours inside him, curdling the sanctity of this moment.

Aegon has stood where he stands now. Aegon has known every part of you that Jace is only now discovering. Aegon's hands have been dozens, hundreds of times, where his only just touched for the first time. Eight years of marriage in which his uncle has been permitted an intimacy with you that Jace had only allowed himself to dream of.

"What is it?" you ask him, one hand coming up to his chin, tilting his face up so that he is looking at you.

"Nothing."

You tilt your head with an indulgent smile. "Jacaerys."

He exhales sharply through his nose, scowling as he looks away. It is foolish. He has you in front of him, bare and wanting, as he has dreamed, and instead of savoring in the moment, he is allowing your wretched husband to invade it.

"Does he tell you?" he asks you quietly. "That you're beautiful? Does he even know how fortunate he is to call you his wife?"

He would, Jace thinks darkly, if he knew the lengths Jace is willing to go to call you his.

Your lips part as you stare at him. Before you can dismiss the question with another shake of your head, he leans to ghost his lips against yours, relishing in the way you falter.

"Tell me," he murmurs against your lips. "Please, muña. I need to know."

"Enough of this, Jacaerys," you finally say roughly, turning your face away from his. Jace does not mind. He kisses you still, trailing his lips gently along your cheek, to your ear, down the length of your neck, easing the words from you. "He prefers whores. He only comes to me when he has indulged in a cup of wine."

Jace's mouth stills against your skin. He does not know why the words both anger and please him. He is glad that you do not lie with one another as frequently as he feared, you do not seek each other for pleasure as you do in his nightmares, but—but how dare he prefer whores to you? How dare he have the right to call you his wife, the right to your bed, arms, and cunt, and he still seeks out other women? If it were Jace—

If it were Jace, if it were Jace, if it were Jace.

"How often?"

"Jacaerys," you warn, voice low.

"Please, muña," he says again, glancing up at you. "I just want to know."

You relent when he looks up at you with beckoning eyes. You have always been weak for him when he looks at you like that, always struggled to deny him anything when he turns his eyes up to you, wide and pleading—he has taken advantage of it for as long as he could remember, and he takes advantage of it now.

You press your lips together and say, "Often enough."

Jace's blood runs hot. "And when he does?"

You sigh, tilting your head back against the stone, patience waning, and Jace quits while he's already behind, not wanting to risk an argument while you're bare and wanting in his arms for the first time. He busies himself at your neck again, kissing down the length of your throat slowly, fingers stroking the skin at your hip.

"It makes me angry," he admits, voice muffled slightly against your skin as he nips and licks at your neck. He continues lower, lashes fluttering as he trails open-mouthed kisses between the valley of your breasts. "Worse, really. There is no word that can articulate how it feels knowing that mongrel has everything I have ever wanted and treats you with such—" He cuts himself off abruptly, resting his forehead against your collarbone. "I only wish to see you treated as you deserve. I—"

I wish to be the one to treat you that way.

He does not give you the opportunity to respond again, lips finding your skin, mouth wandering lower. He presses lingering kisses along your skin—an apology for every careless touch you have endured because he was too young to do anything when your father handed you off to Aegon. He wants you to understand the difference without having to put it into words—that there is nowhere he would rather be, there is no woman in the world he would prefer to be abed with than you.

Your fingers slip uncertainly into his dark curls when he lowers himself to his knees before you.

"Jacaerys," you say hesitantly, and Jace glances up. The sight of you looking down at him with furrowed brows nearly steals what little courage he has managed to build up. "What are you doing?"

Jace does not fully know himself. The only experience he has comes from the poorly written romances he'd managed to sneak from Rhaena when she wasn't paying attention and the increasingly indecent conversations he had overheard from the men around him as he grew older, boasting crudely over cups of lovers beneath them, thighs closed tight around their ears—the pleasure a man can give with naught but his mouth—but he had always flushed and looked away, feigning disinterest. He wishes now that he had listened more.

Once or twice, he had considered visiting a pleasure house. He had even convinced himself it would be sensible—to learn what he was doing before he ever found himself in the position he is now. But every time he seriously entertained the idea, his stomach turned. The idea of touching another woman, of kissing her, of sinking inside her and pretending it was you beneath his hands, made his skin crawl.

So he has remained hopelessly inexperienced, despite what he might have implied at supper earlier.

"Trust me," is all he says, hoping you cannot hear the uncertainty behind the words. He press another soft kiss against your skin, a second to your inner thigh as he eases your legs apart. He cannot breathe at the sight of your cunt so close to his face, half-convinced this might be a dream. "I just want to make you feel good. Let me try, muña."

He does not wait for you to second guess him, dragging his lips from your skin to the apex of your thighs, warmth breath ghosting over you. Your breath hitches, entire body tensing, and before he can lose his nerves, Jace buries his face between your thighs. His breath hitches the moment his mouth is on you, savoring in the taste of you, the scent of you, the warmth of you. His fingers bite deep into the plush skin of your thighs to hold you still, and Jace's lashes flutter as he drags his tongue between your folds, lapping at you desperately before he presses the tip of his tongue to your hole.

"Oh," he hears you breathe, thighs tensing beneath his touch, hips jerking against his face. His eyes slide shut momentarily as he relishes in the sound of the soft noises spilling from your lips above him—gasps and moans and whines caught in the back of your throat. "I—What—what are you—"

Instead of answering, he shifts one of your thighs so that it rests on his shoulder so that he might bury his tongue deeper inside of you, and you choke on your words. His eyes flick upward, wide and searching, to watch the way your chest heaves, head tilted back against the stone, lips swollen and slick from Jace's own mouth, trying to figure out what you like.

Jace has spent years dreaming of this, he thinks for the dozenth that night. Years imagining the moment he could touch you, hold you, kiss you, lay with you; none compares to having you writhing against his mouth, cunt grinding on his tongue.

How could Aegon ever be with another after seeing you in the throes of pleasure like this? Jace would suffocate between your thighs if it meant he would die with the sound of your pretty moans in his ears.

Unless—unless Aegon has never seen you like this?

Heat rushes low—his trousers have been painfully tight from the moment his lips first touched yours, but he aches now, lungs burning as his hips jerk slightly, rutting against air as he seeks out friction. He parts his lips from your cunt just long enough to suck in a gulp of air to his lungs before latching back onto you, tongue sweeping between your soaked folds, lapping at your slick before he sucks the small little bud at the front of your cunt into his mouth.

The cry that spills from your lips is music to his ears, gaze flying up as your back arches against the wall, hips rocking against his face, your heel digging into his mid-back. The hand you buried in his hair twists at the dark locks painfully, your other scratching at the stone behind you, and his eyes half-roll back at the stinging to his scalp.

There is no way, he realizes, the image of you writhing on his tongue seared behind his eyelids as his eyes slide shut so that he can focus on eating you in earnest. He groans into you, one hand tight around your thigh, the other fisting your ass to pull you impossibly closer. There is no way Aegon has ever seen you like this, had you like this, because if he had, he would never go to another.

Jace is the only one who gets to see you like this.

Jace is the only one who gets to have you like this.

"Jacaerys," you gasp, voice breathy, hitching over his name, thighs trembling around his head. "Please."

Jace's gaze snaps back up toward you. He's panting as he pulls his mouth from your cunt, savoring the keening noise that spills from your lips.

Distantly, he knows that this is reckless. He knows that Ser Steffon is right outside your door, and he can likely hear everything happening behind your doors. He knows that you are married, and he knows the consequences for both of you would be dire if someone walked in while his face is buried in your cunt.

Still, he says hoarsely what you have told him dozens of times before, "Ivestragon ziry drējī."

Say it correctly.

You stare at him, eyes wide and lips parted in disbelief, and a thrill runs through him, grip tightening on your thighs, breath ghosting hot over your cunt. He wants so badly to drown himself in the taste of you again, tongue darting out to lap at the slickness on his lips and chin, but he refrains, waiting.

"Kostilus," you finally breathe out, voice shaky, fingers trembling in his hair. They slip down the slope of his nose, resting on his lips, and Jace's lips part instinctively, lashes fluttering as he takes your two fingers into his mouth. "Kostilus, Jacaerys."

Jace's vision flashes white as he moans around your fingers, hips rutting forward against air again. Your fingers slip from his mouth so he can dive forward again, sloppily dragging his tongue between your folds, fucking it deep into your hole before he kisses messily up your cunt to the sensitive bud that makes you writhe.

He's mortified when his abdomen tightens and his hips jerk one final time, and he recognizes the familiar, sticky warmth suddenly seeping through his trousers, but he's so lost in the taste and feel of you that all he can do is hold you tighter, panting as you grind your hips against his face and he desperately tries to kee up.

You're keening above him, pretty, pitched moans that make him dizzy—because he's making you feel like this. He is. Not your husband, not Aemond, not anyone—only him.

He wants to feel you fall apart on his tongue, wants you to grab his hair and rock your hips against his face, use him—he wants you to use him however you see fit. Take him for everything he has and more.

Jace knows that you are married. He knows he cannot ask you for what he wants yet because he does not know how to achieve it, cannot yet find the courage to tell you how desperately he needs to be the man you choose before all others. He wants to be your husband—he wants to be your husband so bad that it kills him sometimes to know that the path getting there will be a long, difficult one.

But Jace is patient. He has waited a decade to be reunited with you, he will wait a decade more to wed you, if need be.

If this is all you can give him for now, he will take it. He will accept being something can only exist in stolen moments behind closed doors, beneath sheets in the dead of night, in sweat slicked skin and breathy moans, if it means that one day he might have the right to love you openly and call you his wife.

"Hah—" you gasp, thighs trembling on either side of his head. Jace suddenly understands why men always sounded so proud of themselves when they spoke of having their women wanton and writhing on their tongue. He is so drunk off the taste of you, the sound of your pleasure, that he hardly cares that his lungs burn. "I'm—I think—I'm going—"

Jace's gaze cuts upward, jaw falling half slack as he watches you come undone above him. You cry his name, fisting his hair and grinding your cunt against his mouth, and Jace thinks he finishes a second time untouched, cock twitching in his trousers, seed dripping down his thighs.

His fingers loosen on your thighs, thumbs easing circles into your skin as he returns to lapping at your cunt, careful not to let a single drop of you go to waste. His lashes flutter as he dares to suck your bud into his mouth again, only for you to start squirming and tugging at his hair.

"Jacaerys," you gasp, trying to pull your hips away, but Jace follows, tongue swirling circles, dragging between your folds. He dips it back into your hole to feel the way it tightens around him, and his mind goes blank as he imagines his cock in its place. "J—mandianna, stop—hold on, it's too sensitive. Jacaerys!"

Jace only pulls back when your voice sharpens and your heel kicking hard into his back twice, eyes a bit hazy as he looks up at you. Your expression softens at the sight of him. He wonders how much of a mess he must look right now—on his knees before you, chest heaving with every breath, face flushed, lips swollen and chin slick, hair a tangled mess from where your fingers had been tugging it.

One of your hands, still trembling, drops to his face, cradling his cheek gently. You tilt his face up, and Jace leans helplessly into your palm, turning his face just enough to press a kiss to the center of it.

"I meant what I said," he tells you, voice hoarse, eyes searching your face. "I'll stay. You need only say the word, muña. You do not have to be alone anymore."

It would be a dangerous game, he realizes. One day with you—in the throne room, at the training yard, during supper—had been enough for him to nearly expose the two of you before there was even anything to expose.

What would become of the two of you after days of stolen glances and nights spent slipping unnoticed into one another's chambers? How long before his hand lingered where it should not, before someone noticed the way his eyes followed you through every room, before the whispers that already plagued the family found fresh fodder?

Jace watches the same realization cross your face and his heart sinks. Your expression turns distant and calculating as you consider every risk he has been too desperate to care about.

"Say something," he murmurs.

Your eyes meet his again at last. "We will talk in the morning."

His heart sinks. "Muña—"

"In the morning, Jacaerys," you repeat, softer this time, thumb brushing once across his cheek. "When neither of us has wine in our blood, and you have had time to consider what you are asking of me."

Jace wants to protest that he has had eight years to consider it. Instead, he presses his lips to your palm again and nods, rising to his feet so that he might guide you to the bed.

Perhaps it is for the best, he thinks, that despite everything that has transpired tonight, the two of you have not gone any further. His gaze drops briefly before returning to yours.

"We should be careful," he murmurs. "If this is to continue."

Your brows lift slightly. "You have only just discovered caution?"

Jace almost smiles. "I mean it. I will not make the same mistake my mother did." His expression sobers. "I will not put a child in you who bears my face and leave you to answer for it."

Your entire expression changes. "Jacaerys."

He mistakes the sharpness in your voice for offense—perhaps he was being too presumptuous, you could very well tell him this will never happen again come morning. The thought makes his stomach turn violently.

"I only meant—"

"You were not a mistake." Jace goes still, throat bobbing as he stares down at you. "Do not speak of yourself that way—or your mother, for that matter."

Jace makes a bitter noise in the back of his throat—a scoff, maybe a laugh, and then he speaks out loud the words that have haunted him for as long as he's known he does not look like his father. "You cannot tell me that no one thought it. That there was not some immediate disappointment—regret—when I came into the world with brown hair and brown eyes instead of silver and violet."

You have the nerve to laugh at him, and when he shoots you an accusing look, you only grab his hand so that you can ghost your lips to his knuckles.

"Mandianna," you say fondly. "Tomorrow morning, I want you to ask your mother what my reaction was when I saw you for the first time. She will tell you."

Jace falters, fingers tensing against yours as he gives you a questioning look, but you only raise your eyebrows, signaling you will say no more.

He sighs and looks away, "I only mean to say that I do not want my son to go through what I have. Nor do I want you to go through what my mother has."

"I know," you soothe, running your thumb over his knuckles before releasing his hand. "We will talk in the morning. I would ask you to stay, but the twins rise with the sun and enjoy waking their disgruntled father with them, so Aegon tends to appear at my door shortly after sunrise to deposit them here so that he might return to his own bed. I would rather not risk him finding you in mine."

Jace's jaw tightens at the reminder of your husband, hating the domestic image that comes to mind—Aegon with sleep trussed hair and tired eyes, two children at his heel, showing up to your door with a yawn so he might return to sleep.

It should be him, he thinks despondently. It should be him with your children, him who can be with you when the sun is high, him as your husband. Not Aegon.

"Of course," he finally says, voice strained. Then he swallows as his gaze lifts to yours, tone softening as he tells you, "I missed you a lot, muña."

"I missed you too, mandianna," you say quietly. "Go rest. We will figure everything out."

Jace does not think he's going to get a wink of sleep, but he nods anyway, inclining his head slightly before he makes his way to your door.

He takes one last lingering look at you, hesitating when he sees the distant expression on your face as soon as you think his back is turned, and then he inhales deeply before lowering his gaze and leaving your chambers, an ache in his chest that already feels unbearable.

If Ser Steffon heard anything from the other side of the door, he gives no indication of it beyond the faintly awkward look that crosses his face when Jace steps into the corridor, wiping at the lower half of his face.

Jace answers it with a vicious glare before hurrying away.

————————————

"Jacaerys," his mother demands when he finally makes his way to the courtyard, where she, Daemon, his brothers and cousins are all waiting. It is hours past dawn—they were supposed to leave for Dragonstone as soon as the sun breached the horizon. "Where have you been? We've been waiting for you."

Jace's jaw tightens as he walks past his mother without a word to the horse the stable boys readied for him. He has been trying to rationalize your absence for hours. He had waited in the godswood and the gardens, lingered near the training yard and the library; he was desperate to catch so much as a glimpse of your familiar smile. He did not dare go to your chambers.

You had promised. You had sworn to him that you would speak in the morning, and Jace had hardly slept because of it. He alternated between wild hope and sickening dread as he imagined every possible outcome of the conversation awaiting him. He paced the corridors of the keep and stared up at the moon above until his eyes were heavy and circled, but he could not bring himself to return to his chambers.

Finally, morning had come, but you were nowhere to be found. You are avoiding him.

The thought has been festering inside him for hours, growing uglier each time he searches another part of the keep for you. Perhaps sobreity had brought regret with it, he thinks with a lump in his throat. Perhaps you had wakened this morning and remembered his mouth upon yours, his hands against your skin, and realized with horror what you had allowed to happen.

What has he done? He had pushed all evening, testing every boundary you placed before him until eventually there had been none left to cross. He had kissed you. He had put his hands on you. He had—

His stomach twists so violently that he almost retches. What if he had mistakken hesitation for invitation simply because he had wanted you so desperately? What if you only kissed him because you have never been able to say no to him? What if—

"Jacaerys," his mother snaps, grabbing his wrist before he can sit astride his horse. Jace inhales sharply, raising his chin and straightening his shoulders, refusing to turn around until she forces him to. When she sees the expression on his face—the tears wetting his eyes, and the way his lips tremble faintly—fury drains into concern. Her voice softens immediately, hand rising to cradle his face as she asks quietly, "Jacaerys, what's wrong, sweet boy? What has happened?"

Jace swallows thickly, gaze averting up to the sky as he desperately tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He shakes his head once, but his mother is persistent, tilting her head, lips pursed as she waits for an answer.

"I cannot find her," he finally admits, and he hates how small his voice sounds. Rhaenyra's brows draw together, confused.

"Who?" she asks, and Jace gives her a look that makes the question unnecessary. Understanding flickers across her face. "I am sure she is just busy with the twins, Jacaerys. I—"

"She said she would speak with me in the morning," he continues, words coming faster. "She promised me, and I have looked everywhere, and she is nowhere, and I think–" His voice cracks. His lashes flutter as he forces himself to stop and swallow, clearing his throat. "I think I have done something terrible."

"Jace—"

"I should not have pushed her." His eyes squeeze shut. "I should have left things as they were. Everything was finally right between us again, and I ruined it."

His mother stares at him, concern deepening into confusion. "Jacaerys, what exactly did you do?"

Jace stares at his mother helplessly. He cannot very well stand in the middle of the courtyard and confess that he spent half the night with his mouth pressed to his married aunt's cunt while Daemon, his brothers, cousins, and half a dozen stable boys stand within earshot. Rhaenyra's brows furrow slowly, glancing at him once before her gaze draws back to the direction of the keep, a calculating expression on her face.

"It does not matter," he rushes out before she can put two and two together. "It does not matter. I just—I need to speak with her."

Rhaenyra studies him for another long moment, and Jace struggles not to squirm beneath her scrutiny, afraid she can see everything that he had done with you the night before. At last, she finally says, "Then come back with me."

Jace blinks. "What?"

"We will see the others safely to Dragonstone, and then you and I can return on dragonback. If you are so desperate to speak with her, I see no reason you cannot."

Relief loosens the tension in his shoulders. It is not ideal—he had wanted to speak with you this morning, had spent hours imagining exactly what he might say, loathes the idea of not knowing what terms the two of you are on for days on end—but at least he does not have to return to Dragonstone wondering when he might see you again.

"Yes, that—" he starts to say, voice catching. "I would like that."

Rhaenyra gives his cheek an affectionate pat before releasing him, turning to make her way toward the carriage.

"Mother," he calls after a moment, and she pauses. Jace hesitates, remembering what you had told him to ask in passing the night before. Jace shifts awkwardly on his feet, feeling strangely foolish now that he has to ask. "What did muña do when she first saw me?" His mother's eyes narrow, and Jace is flustered, feeling as though he needs to explain the sudden question. He defends, "She told me to ask."

Understanding dawns across Rhaenyra's face, and then she immediately starts to laugh, hand lifting to her mouth to stifle her giggles. Jace flushes the longer she laughs and does not answer, fighting a scowl.

"She wailed," his mother finally says through her a sigh as she calms her laughter. "Quite inconsolably, actually."

Jace stares at her, unsure how this was supposed to make him feel better. "She cried?"

Rhaenyra hums in agreement, and Jace's face falls. She notices immediately and gives him a small, fond smile, tucking a dark curl behind his ear.

"Sweet boy, not because she was disappointed. When I put you in her arms the first time, she refused to let you go. I, too, thought something was wrong at first, because she wept so hard that I could hardly get her to answer me when I asked her why she was crying. Finally, she told me that you were perfect—" Jace's throat bobs terribly, and Rhaenyra tilts her head slightly as she cradles his face again "—her exact words, mind you. Then she asked quite sweetly if she might keep you."

"Keep me?" Jace echoes.

"You must understand, she was very young." Rhaenyra laughs again, hand dropping from his face to adjust Viserys against her shoulder. "She seemed to believe that because I had made you, I could simply make another if I wished. I spent the better part of an afternoon explaining that you were my firstborn son and heir, and no, she could not keep you merely because she asked so sweetly."

Jace cannot help the smile slowly spreading across his face.

"That did not discourage her, of course, spoiled little thing. She does hate being told no. She asked for you again on her next nameday, and the one after that, if memory serves. Every year for quite some time." Jace's ears burn as he flushes and looks away. His mother reaches out to hold his hand gently. He wonders if she understands what prompted you to tell him to ask this, because she gives him a soft smile and says, "She loved everything about you, but your eyes were always her favorite. She used to hold you in the sunlight because she swore they looked like pools of honey when the sun caught them right. I had to tell her to stop more than once. She would have kept you there all afternoon if I let her, and I was afraid the sun would burn you if you were kept out there too long."

"Oh," Jace says quietly, swallowing thickly as he stares down at the ground.

Her expression softens, more serious now as she tells him, "You know, she was lonely before you were born, Jacaerys."

His smile fades slightly, gaze lifting to meet hers. His mother has mentioned this before in passing when he was younger, but never elaborated on it, simply sent him off to go spend time with you.

"I tried to be there for her. I loved her dearly, but I was fourteen years her elder. By the time she was old enough to want someone to play with, I had already grown beyond such things and had courtly duties to attend to." Rhaenyra looks toward the keep, something wistful passing over her face. "She tried to befriend Aegon when she was young—" Jace's expression twists at the mention of your husband. "—but Alicent—the Queen—kept her children away from me and mine, and your muña was always lumped in with us. Sometimes I would find her watching the other noble children in the garden and training yard. They would be running about together, playing their games, and she would simply stand at the edge and watch them."

Jace swallows thickly, voice hoarser than he intends as he asks quietly, "Why didn't she join them?"

"I do not know," Rhaenyra admits. "Perhaps she did not know how. Perhaps she was scared. She was always a little apart from everyone else. You know well that she had her own whispers following her. Many thought she was—" A bitter expression crosses his mother's face. "—thought she was cursed because of the manner she came into this world. The manner in which she claimed her dragon only made people believe it more."

Jace chews the inside of his cheek, chest aching at the thought of you younger, smaller, standing alone as you watched other children laugh together. He cannot imagine it.

For as long as he could remember, you have always been bright smiles and pretty laughter, the difference between a perfect day and a ruined one. He cannot stand the idea of you small and alone, desperate for friends but unable to make any. He thinks of the dulled look on your face as you entered the throne room, the emptiness in your eyes when you first arrived to supper—worst of all, the distant one you wore last night before he left.

He has ruined everything.

"So when you were born," Rhaenyra continues, looking back at him with a small smile. "I was happy for more reasons than one. I had my sweet son, and she finally had someone who belonged to her as much as she belonged to him. I knew that once you were old enough to toddle about after her, neither of you would ever truly be alone."

Jace swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat, head hanging forward slightly. Tears sting at the corner of his eyes again, and he blinks them away before his mother can notice.

"Jacaerys," his mother says quietly, beckoning him to look at her. He lifts his head reluctantly, eyes heavy. "Whatever happened between the two of you, she has loved you from the moment she first laid eyes upon you. There is nothing in this world that will change that."

Except she does not know that, Jace wants to say, fists curling at his side. What if last night had cost him the one thing he had spent eight years desperate to have back? What if, in his selfish desire to have more of you, he had destroyed the chance to simply have you at all? What if—

"She really asked you to give me to her?" he asks instead, voice rough as he tries to joke to change the subject, hoping that his mother does not see the doubt swirling in his eyes.

He thinks she does, because her smile is a bit sadder as she says, "Repeatedly."

"What did you tell her?"

"That she could borrow you." Rhaenyra laughs softly, reaching up to brush an errant curl from his forehead. "I'm afraid she never did learn to give you back. Come, sweet boy, it is time for us to bring your brothers and cousins home. We will return on dragonback soon after."

————————————

"What is the meaning of this?" you demand, slamming your fists against the doors to your chambers. "Ser Steffon—who is out there? Let me out this instant, you mongrels, I will feed you to my dragon if you do not unbar my chambers immediately."

You had woken late to find your doors barred from the outside and Ser Steffon conspicuously absent from his post. At first, you had assumed some drunken foolishness on Aegon's part—a poorly conceived jest that you would make your half-brother regret the moment you were free—but nearly an hour has passed, and no one will answer you.

You pace the length of your room, agitated, furious, terrified. Something is terribly wrong.

Had they figured out what you had done with Jacaerys? Were they locking you in your chambers so you might not flee before they bring you before the High Septon to humiliate you? You would not put it past them—Alicent has always held a particular disdain toward you, and you have been at odds with the Faith ever since the septons tried to convince thirteen-year-old Aegon to let the maesters cut you open to save the twins.

No, if they knew what happened, there would be much more noise. It is the silence that is unsettling. The Red Keep is never silent in the afternoon. You should hear servants rushing through the corridors, bringing meals to the lords who do not wish to leave their chambers, guards changing their watch, absent chatter and laughter. But there is nothing.

"Aegon," you call loudly, slamming your fist against the door, because he had not come by with the twins this morning either. He always comes by with the twins. "Who is out there? Answer me now!"

You press your ear to the door. For several heartbeats, you hear nothing. Then, there is the faint scrape of armor shifting beyond the door, and you tilt your head to the side, stilling as your focus narrows in on the sound.

"I can hear you," you say, voice dropping dangerously low. "Open the door immediately, and I might grant you the privilege of choosing how you are going to die."

"Forgive me, princess. I cannot open the door."

The voice is unfamiliar. Your stomach drops. What is happening? Fear curdles low in your stomach, skin itchy with anxiety. Your gaze flicks from the heavy door to the bars on your window—your apartments are too high to climb from, and there is no way for Zūgaxes to free you lest risking bringing the entire tower down with you in it.

"Where is Ser Steffon?" you demand. "Who are you? Where are my sister and my nephews? Where are my children?"

Where are Maegor and Maegelle? Where are Jacaerys and Lucerys? Rhaenyra, Daemon, everyone else? What is happening? Why are you locked in?

"Your children are safe, princess," the guard says simply.

"Where are they?"

"I have been instructed only to assure you that Prince Maegor and Princess Maegelle are unharmed."

What? Unharmed? Why would they be harmed?

"Instructed by whom?" you hiss, only to be met with more silence. You strike the door again, fury beginning to overwhelm your fear. "Where is my husband? Answer me, you worthless dog!"

"I cannot say."

"My sister?"

Your heart begins to hammer when the guard does not respond. Rhaenyra and the boys were supposed to leave for Dragonstone at dawn—Jacaerys was supposed to leave with her.

Jacaerys, who would be waiting for you. Jacaerys, who you had watched leave your chambers only with the assurance that when the sun rose, the two of you would speak about what had transpired between you and what in the Seven Hells you intended to do next. Jacaerys, who would undoubtedly assume the worst when you did not show.

Your stomach twists as you imagine him waiting somewhere for you, watching the hours pass with no sign of your arrival. You know exactly where his mind will go. He will convince himself that you regret everything that happened between you, that you had woken sober and ashamed and had broken your promise because you could not bear to face him after what you had allowed him to do.

He will think he had done something wrong. The thought makes panic claw at your throat. You slam your fist against the door again, and again, and again, tears of frustration pricking at your eyes.

He had been so uncertain when he left you. He had searched your face for reassurance, and his confidence crumbled the moment you told him the two of you must wait until morning to speak. You should not have sent him away. You do not even know why you sent him away. You had just been—you had been scared.

You had been scared for what you'd done, of what you'd allowed him to do, of how easily you'd forgotten everything else as soon as his mouth was on yours—your husband, children, his mother, the realm. Every consequence that should have been enough to make you push him away had disappeared the moment he touched you, and you'd been terrified of how desperately some part of you had wanted him to stay.

When he offered to remain in King's Landing with you, some reckless part of you had wanted to say yes before he even finished speaking. You'd wanted to pull him into your bed and keep him there until morning, consequences be damned. For one night, you had wanted to forget that you were Aegon's wife, that you have been alone, desperately trying not to drown for a decade, that war was most likely on the horizon and your children would be at the center of it.

So, you had sent him away and told yourself that morning would make everything clearer. Instead, morning has come and gone, and Jacaerys is somewhere far beyond these walls believing you had abandoned him again.

What is happening? Why are you locked in your rooms?

"Let me out," you demand, voice rising, furious, slamming your fists against your door again and again and again. "Let me out! Let me out, let me out, let me out!"

You opened the door and she walked in ahead of you like she owned the place, which was probably how she walked into every room she’d ever entered. The lobby was empty. You expected her to head for one of the apartment doors on the ground floor, to indicate somehow where she lived, but instead she sat down in the exact center of the lobby and began grooming her flank with the meticulous disdain of someone who had been terribly inconvenienced.

“Right,” you said. “Not helpful.”

You waited. The cat groomed. The elevator went up and came back down empty. Someone’s mail was sticking out of box 3B. The radiators clanked.

“Okay,” you said finally. “I have to go up. If you’re still here tomorrow, we’ll figure something out.”

She paused mid-lick to give you a look that said she had never been dismissed in her life and wasn’t about to start now.

She was still there when you got back from work the next day. Not in the lobby, outside again, on the same patch of concrete, curled into the exact same shape as if she’d never moved. The November dark had settled in thick and cold, her fur was beaded with the beginnings of frost, it made your chest clench.

“Absolutely not,” you told her, scooping her up before you could think better of it. She was heavier than she looked, a dense warm weight in your arms, and she made a sound like a creaking door as you carried her inside. “You’re coming upstairs. You’re eating something. We’re figuring out who you belong to.”

She didn’t struggle. She settled against your shoulder like she’d been doing this for a thousand years, her purr starting up low and rough like a motor that hadn’t been run in a while. Her claws kneaded gently into your coat, catching on the wool.

Your apartment was small. One bedroom, a galley kitchen, a living room that doubled as a dining room that doubled as an office. The cat surveyed it from the threshold with an expression you could only describe as politely appalled.

“It’s not much,” you said defensively, setting her down. “But it’s warm.”

She sniffed the baseboard. She investigated the corner where the radiator met the wall. She walked into the kitchen and sat down in front of the refrigerator with the clear expectation that it would open for her.

“What do you even eat?” you muttered, opening the fridge and scanning your meager contents. You didn’t have cat food. You didn’t have anything that seemed cat-appropriate. But you did have milk, and you did have a package of those cheap hot dogs from a supermarket.

“This is probably terrible for you,” you said, boiling one anyway and cutting it into small pieces, pouring a bowl of milk. “But you look like you’ve survived worse.”

She ate like she’d never seen food before. She drank the milk in laps. She looked up at you with a milk-white mustache on her gray muzzle and made a sound that resembled approval.

“You’re welcome,” you said, and sat down on the floor beside her.

You put up posters in the neighborhood: FOUND CAT, with a photo that didn’t do her justice and your phone number at the bottom. You posted in the local lost pet groups. You took her to a vet to check for a microchip, but there was nothing, which the vet found strange given the obvious quality of her collar.

“This is full-grain Italian leather,” the vet said, turning the collar over in her hands. “And the hardware is eighteen-karat gold plated. Someone spent a lot of money on this cat.”

“But no tag,” you said.

“But no tag,” the vet agreed. “Some people just assume their animals will never get out. Especially indoor cats. How’s she been eating?”

“Everything,” you said. “Anything. I gave her the crusts from my grilled cheese yesterday and she acted like it was a five-star meal.”

The vet laughed. “At her age, that’s a good sign. She’s healthy, just old. Very old. Probably fifteen, maybe older. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

So you did. You bought proper cat food eventually, the decent mid-range kind from the grocery store, and she ate it with the same enthusiasm she’d shown for the hot dogs and the milk and the leftover tuna salad. She slept on your bed every night. She sat in the window and watched the street below. You started calling her Lady, for lack of anything better, she ignored it with the same regal indifference she showed to everything else.

“You’re someone’s, aren’t you?” you said one evening, scratching under her chin while she purred like a broken generator. “Someone filthy rich.”

She closed her eyes and leaned into your hand, offering no answers.

You found the flyer on a Tuesday morning in early December, taped to a lamppost two blocks from your work office. The paper was thick and slightly glossy, the kind of paper that cost money, and the photo printed on it was clearly professional, the same gray cat, the same yellow-green eyes, but photographed against a dark background with studio lighting that made her look like a painting.

MISSING: VHAGAR, the flyer read. $7,000 REWARD FOR SAFE RETURN.

There was a phone number. That was all. No name. Just the cat’s name, the reward, and a number.

Vhagar. You tested the name in your mouth as you walked home, the flyer clutched in your cold hand. It sounded ancient. Mythological. Exactly the kind of name someone would give a cat who wore eighteen-karat gold on her collar and had professional photographs taken of her.

“Your name is Vhagar,” you told the cat when you got home. She was sprawled across your pillow in a pose of magnificent indolence, one paw draped over her eyes. At the sound of the name, her tail twitched. “That’s you, isn’t it? Vhagar.”

She lifted her head and looked at you, and for the first time since you’d found her, she let out a proper meow, short and declarative, as if to say finally, you’ve figured it out.

You sat down on the edge of your bed. Seven thousand dollars. That was two months of rent. That was the dental work you’d been putting off. That was breathing room, actual breathing room, the kind you hadn’t had since you’d moved to this city with its brutal rents and its casual cruelties and its complete indifference to whether you sank or swam.

But it wasn’t the money that made you pull out your phone. It was the way she’d been shivering on the concrete. The way someone had loved her enough to buy her that collar and take those photos and offer seven thousand dollars no questions asked, but not enough to put a tag on her. Not enough to think she might ever leave.

You typed the number into your phone before you could talk yourself out of it.

He answered on the second ring.

“Yes.”

Not hello. Not who is this. Just yes, flat and dry as old paper, a voice that expected the world to get to the point and not waste his time.

“Hi,” you said, suddenly aware that you hadn’t planned what to say. “I’m calling about the cat. The flyer. Vhagar. I think I have her.”

A pause. Just long enough to make you check if the call had dropped.

“Proof,” the voice said. “Send me proof.”

“What kind of...“

“A video that shows she’s alive and unharmed and actually in your possession.”

The demand was clipped, almost cold, and you felt a spike of irritation. You were doing him a favor. You could have kept the cat. You could have ignored the flyer entirely. But you swallowed your pride because seven thousand dollars was seven thousand dollars, and you’d already decided.

“Do you have Whatsapp or something with this number?” you asked, “I’ll send a video.”

He said yes and hung up without saying goodbye.

“Charming,” you muttered to the cat. Vhagar yawned, showing a pink mouth.

You recorded a thirty-second video of Vhagar on your bed, demonstrating that she was indeed alive and unharmed and being gently scratched behind the ears by someone who was not a cat thief. You sent it to the number. Thirty seconds later, your phone buzzed.

That’s her. Where can we meet?

You looked up the name attached to the number, of course. You weren’t stupid. You were about to meet a stranger from the internet to return a cat worth seven thousand dollars, and you wanted to know what you were walking into.

His name was Aemond Targaryen. The social media profile that came up was locked down tight: private, no profile picture, just the name and a cover photo of what looked like a dragon from some fantasy series. You scrolled anyway, finding nothing, until you thought to try LinkedIn.

His LinkedIn profile was not private.

The photo hit you first: a man in his twenties, maybe, with sharp cheekbones and jawlines like cut glass and hair so pale it was almost silver, pulled back from his face. He was wearing a dark suit and looking slightly to the left of the camera with an expression of controlled impatience, like he’d been forced to sit for the photograph and was counting the seconds until he could leave.

Below the photo was a wall of text. Degrees. Certifications. Projects. Internships at companies you’d seen on the news. A master’s degree. A bachelor’s from some private university in Oldtown. Fluent in four languages. Currently serving as Vice President of Strategic Operations at Targaryen Industries, which a quick search revealed to be a multinational conglomerate dealing in everything from real estate to renewable energy to defense contracting.

Old money. Very, very old money. The kind of money that had its own Wikipedia page and several unflattering investigative journalism pieces.

“You belong to him?” you asked Vhagar, who had climbed onto your laptop keyboard and was slowly erasing several paragraphs of an email you’d been drafting. “You belong to a billionaire’s son with a dragon fixation and cheekbones that could cut glass?”

Vhagar purred smugly and stepped on the delete key.

The meeting place was outside a high-rise in city center that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated poor people. All black glass and angular steel, a lobby visible through the ground-floor windows that contained more marble than the average museum. A doorman in a uniform stood at attention by the revolving doors.

Aemond Targaryen was waiting on the sidewalk.

He looked exactly like his LinkedIn photo and nothing like it at all. The photo had captured his bone structure but missed everything else: the way he held himself like a blade, the way his one visible eye tracked movement with unsettling precision, the way the left side of his face bore a long, pale scar that cut through his eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline. He was wearing a long black coat that probably cost as much as the cat’s reward, and he was looking at the cat carrier in your hands with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“Vhagar,” he said, and his voice was different now, still dry, still clipped, but with something underneath it that you recognized. You’d made that sound yourself, sometimes, when you came home to find Lady waiting for you on the pillow. Relief, maybe. Or something close to it.

“She’s fine,” you said, setting the carrier down. “She’s been eating well. Sleeping a lot. She’s very…opinionated.”

He crouched down, actually crouched, in his thousand-dollar coat on the sidewalk, and opened the carrier door. Vhagar emerged with the slow dignity of a dowager queen descending from her carriage, and when she saw him, she made a sound that was almost a chirp. She headbutted his hand. She allowed him to pick her up, tucking her massive gray body against his chest like she’d been doing it all her life. Which, you supposed, she had.

“Where did you find her?” he asked, not looking at you. His attention was entirely on the cat, his long fingers stroking through her fur with a gentleness that seemed at odds with everything else about him.

“Outside my building. She was sleeping on the concrete.”

His jaw tightened. “How long?”

“About three weeks ago.”

He didn’t say anything. His hand stilled on Vhagar’s back. Then he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and your own phone buzzed in your pocket.

“The reward,” he said. “Thank you for returning her.”

You checked your banking app. Seven thousand dollars, transferred and pending.

“Right,” you said. “Well. Take care of her. And maybe…put a tag on her collar next time.”

He looked at you then. Actually looked at you, his single visible eye, the other was covered by a swoop of hair but seemed to be a glass prosthetic, you weren’t sure, fixing on your face with an intensity that made you want to step backward. His eye was violet. A pale, impossible shade of purple that you had assumed was contacts until you were standing three feet away from him and could see the way the light hit it.

“She has never run away before,” he said, and it sounded almost like an accusation. As if you had somehow lured his ancient cat away from her penthouse and convinced her to live on hot dogs and milk.

“Well,” you said again, because his stare was unnerving, “she’s home now.”

He didn’t thank you again. He turned and walked into the building, Vhagar draped over his shoulder like a fur stole, the doorman holding the door for him with a murmured “Mr. Targaryen” that you caught on the wind.

You stood on the sidewalk for a moment longer, the December cold seeping through your coat, and then you went home.

You assumed that was the end of it. You had your money, he had his cat, and your worlds had brushed against each other for exactly long enough to complete a transaction. You unfollowed the lost pet groups. You washed Vhagar’s fur off your pillowcases. You tried to ignore the way your apartment felt quieter now, emptier, the absence of her rumbling purr leaving a gap in the dark that you hadn’t expected to miss.

Four days later, your phone buzzed with a message from an unsaved number.

What did you do to my cat?

You stared at the screen. You had not saved his number but you had not deleted the chat.

Sorry?, you typed back.

The response came immediately. Vhagar. She won’t eat. She refuses her food. What were you feeding her?

You tried to remember. Milk? Boiled sausages? Some tuna. The vet said she was healthy.

The typing indicator appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then your phone started ringing.

“Milk,” Aemond Targaryen said when you answered, his voice flat with barely contained outrage. “You fed a fifteen-year-old purebred Persian cat milk and boiled sausages?”

“She liked them,” you said defensively. “She ate them right up. What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” he said, “is that Vhagar’s normal diet consists of sustainably sourced Beluga caviar, free-range quail eggs, and a fish broth reduction that my family’s private chef prepares fresh every three days. She has never eaten processed meat in her life. She has certainly never consumed grocery store milk. And now she is sitting in front of her bowl looking at me as if I have personally betrayed her by serving her the same food she has happily eaten for fifteen years.”

You sat down on your bed. “She ate Beluga caviar? Like, the stuff that costs hundreds of dollars an ounce?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It kind of feels like the point.”

He made a sound of pure frustration, not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. “The point is that she’s refusing to eat. She’s refusing to eat and she’s refusing to come when I call her and she spent the entire morning glaring at me from the top of her custom-built cat tower, which, I might add, has three separate levels and a water feature.”

You tried to picture Vhagar, your Lady, who had slept on a spare pillow and eaten crusts off your plate, in a climate-controlled cat tower with a water feature. The image wouldn’t resolve.

“Have you tried…playing with her?” you asked.

“She doesn’t play,” Aemond said, as if you’d suggested she do her own taxes. “I throw her the toy mouse from Hermès and she demolishes it. That’s not playing. That’s destruction.”

“What about cardboard boxes?”

Silence. Long, profound silence, broken only by the faint sound of Vhagar yowling in the background.

“Cardboard boxes,” he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.

“Yeah. You know. The things stuff gets shipped in? Cats love them. She went absolutely feral for the box my Amazon order came in. I put an old towel in it and she slept there for three days.”

“You want me,” Aemond Targaryen said, each word precise and clipped, “to give a member of my family, a cat who has been passed down through three generations, who has her own room in our estate, who has been photographed for Architectural Digest, a cardboard box?”

“I mean, it can’t hurt?”

Another long pause. The background yowling grew louder.

“This is absurd,” he said, and hung up.

The cardboard box apparently worked, because two days later he messaged you again. Not a call this time, a text, long and oddly formal, like a business proposal that had been written through gritted teeth.

Vhagar has been eating again. The box was…effective. However, she seems to have developed an attachment to your presence during her time away. She has been restless. The veterinarian suggested she may benefit from continued exposure to you as a source of environmental enrichment, which is a phrase I cannot believe I am typing. I am prepared to offer you a weekly retainer to visit and spend time with her. The compensation would be commensurate with your trouble.

Attached was a number that made your eyes water.

You read the message three times. You thought about the seven thousand dollars already sitting in your savings account. You thought about the way Vhagar had looked at you when you handed her over, that yellow-green stare that had seemed to say this isn’t over. You thought about Aemond Targaryen’s voice on the phone, dry and furious and somehow, despite everything, deeply concerned about a fifteen-year-old cat who missed you.

“This is insane,” you said to your empty apartment.

But you typed back: When do I start?

The first visit was awkward. Aemond’s apartment, if you could call a space that occupied nearly an entire floor of a high-rise an apartment, was a cathedral of minimalist wealth, all pale wood and pale stone and pale furniture that looked like it had never been sat on. Vhagar greeted you at the door with a yowl that seemed to say finally, you’ve arrived, and immediately led you to her custom cat tower, which was indeed three stories tall and featured a tiny chandelier.

“She’s been waiting by the door since this morning,” Aemond said. He was standing in the doorway of what appeared to be a library, dressed in a dark sweater that did nothing to soften the angles of his face. “I don’t understand why.”

“She’s a cat,” you said, sitting cross-legged on the heated marble floor while Vhagar climbed into your lap. “They’re mysterious.”

“She’s never sat in anyone’s lap but mine. And my mother’s. And occasionally my sister’s, though that ended badly.”

“What happened?”

“My sister is allergic. She found out when Vhagar sat on her face.”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. Aemond was watching you with an expression that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t not one either, a slight softening around his mouth, a tilt to his head that made him look more like a person.

“Tea?” he asked, and it sounded almost reluctant, like the offer had escaped without his permission.

“Sure,” you said. “Tea would be great.”

Every Saturday, you took the train and spent the afternoon in Aemond Targaryen’s penthouse, ostensibly to entertain a cat who spent most of her time ignoring you in favor of her cardboard box. But Aemond was always there, hovering, appearing with cups of tea that grew progressively more elaborate, then plates of food that started as simple snacks and evolved into full meals.

“You said you’ve been eating bread and cheese for dinner,” he said one evening, setting a plate of something that looked like it belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant on the coffee table in front of you. “That’s not nutritious.”

“I’m aware,” you said, but you ate it anyway, and it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.

He started finding reasons to extend your visits. A new toy for Vhagar to try. A documentary about Chartreux cats he thought you should watch. An outing to a cat café that he claimed was for research purposes but that mostly involved him standing in the corner looking deeply uncomfortable while cats climbed all over you.

“You’re not a cat person,” you observed, as a calico tried to scale his leg.

“I’m a Vhagar person,” he corrected, gently removing the calico and placing it on the floor. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“I’m beginning to think there might be,” he said, and then he turned away before you could ask what he meant.

Winter turned into spring. Your Saturday visits turned into Saturday visits plus occasional Wednesday dinners plus a standing invitation to a Sunday morning walk in a park, which Aemond claimed was for Vhagar’s benefit even though Vhagar never actually walked. He texted you articles about cat behavior and screenshots of Vhagar doing mundane things with captions like She sat in the box again. I don’t understand and The chef wants to know if she can have the sausage recipe.

“There’s no recipe,” you told him. “You boil them.”

“I told him that. He didn’t believe me.”

He started asking about your life. Your job. Your family. The things you cared about and the things you were afraid of and the things you wanted but had never let yourself reach for. He listened carefully, his pale eye fixed on your face, his sharp features softening in increments so small you almost didn’t notice them until one day you looked at him and realized you couldn’t remember why you’d ever found him cold.

Vhagar, for her part, seemed entirely unimpressed with the whole arrangement. She spent most of your visits asleep in her cardboard box, a new one now, because Aemond had his assistant procure them weekly, and only occasionally deigned to acknowledge your presence with a slow blink or a rumbling purr.

“She likes you,” Aemond said one evening, watching the cat knead her claws into an old towel.

“She tolerates me.”

“No.” He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on Vhagar. “She likes you. She’s particular. She doesn’t tolerate anyone she doesn’t like. She bit my brother once. Drew blood.”

“What did your brother do?”

“Breathed too loudly, I think.”

You laughed, Aemond glanced at you, and the expression on his face was something you’d never seen before, open, almost unguarded, his mouth curved into the ghost of a smile that transformed his severe features into startlingly beautiful.

“I’m glad you found her,” he said quietly. “The cat. I’m glad you found her.”

“Me too,” you said, and you weren’t entirely sure you were talking about the cat anymore.

Vhagar yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep, indifferent to everything but the warmth of the room and the comfort of her box.

You learned the layout of his penthouse the way you'd once learned the streets of your neighborhood, by heart, by instinct, by the slow accretion of familiarity that turns the unfamiliar into home.

You learned other things, too. That Aemond took his coffee black but would drink tea if you made it. That he read three books a month and annotated them in a spidery, elegant script. That he had a brother he never mentioned and a sister he mentioned only in passing and a mother who called him every Sunday at precisely eleven in the morning, which he answered without fail even if he was in the middle of a sentence. That his left eye, the one always covered, the one the scar bisected, was a wound he carried with him everywhere, a quiet grief he never spoke about directly but that shaped the way he moved through rooms, always keeping his right side to the door.

You learned about Alys by accident.

It was a Saturday in late March, the kind of day that pretends to be spring but still bites with winter's teeth, and you had arrived at the penthouse to find Aemond already pulling on his coat.

"Something's come up," he said, and his voice had that clipped quality it got when he was trying not to show frustration. "I have to go out of town. I'll be back Monday."

"Okay," you said, hanging your own coat on the hook he'd cleared for you weeks ago. "Do you want me to come back then, or..."

"No." He paused, his hands stilling on his scarf. "I was hoping you could stay with Vhagar. She gets…unsettled when I'm gone too long."

The last time he'd gone out of town, a business trip to Westerlands, three days, he'd called you twice a day with updates on Vhagar's mood and appetite. You hadn't minded. The money was good, and honestly, you'd grown fond of the old cat's cranky companionship.

"Sure," you said. "Where are you going?"

"Riverlands."

You waited for elaboration. None came.

"That's…specific."

He didn't meet your eyes. "Alys lives there. She doesn't like the city."

The name landed in your chest like a stone hurled. Alys. A woman's name, spoken with a familiarity that suggested it had been in his mouth many times before. You realized, with a strange hollow feeling, that he'd never mentioned her. Not once. In all those afternoons and evenings and Sunday walks, he'd never said a word about a girlfriend waiting for him in some small town hours away.

"I didn't know you were seeing someone," you said, and you were proud of how neutral your voice came out.

"It's complicated." He adjusted his scarf, still not looking at you. "We've been together for a while. She prefers her independence. I prefer…" He trailed off, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "It works."

"Right," you said. "Well. Go. Vhagar and I will be fine."

He finally looked at you then, something unreadable flickering across his features. "Thank you," he said, and left.

The penthouse felt different without him. Larger, certainly, all those minimalist rooms spreading out around you like a museum after hours. But also quieter in a way that felt less peaceful and more hollow. Vhagar seemed to sense it too; she followed you from room to room with more persistence than usual, her ragged meow punctuating the silence.

You did what you always did when you were catsitting: you sat on the heated floor with Vhagar in your lap, you watched your shows that Aemond pretended to disdain but always ended up commenting on, you ate from the refrigerator that his private chef kept stocked with things you couldn't pronounce. But your mind kept circling back to the name. Alys. The way he'd said it: flat, contained, like a fact he'd long since stopped examining.

On Sunday morning, the house phone rang at half past eleven. You let it ring. The answering machine beeped. A woman's voice which you assumed belonged to his mother, given the time, came through:

Aemond, I've spoken with the surgeon. He has an opening in April. Answer your phone.

Surgeon. April. Cold settled in your stomach.

When Aemond returned on Monday evening, he looked tired in a way that went beyond travel fatigue. His coat was rumpled, his hair escaping its usual careful restraint, his mouth set in a thin line that softened only slightly when Vhagar waddled over to greet him.

"Good trip?" you asked, gathering your things.

"Fine."

"How's Alys?"

The pause was a beat too long. "Fine."

"She must be something," you said carefully, "to keep you driving hours every time you have a free weekend."

He didn't take the bait. He just bent down to scratch Vhagar's chin, his expression shuttered. "She's very busy. Her practice takes up most of her time."

"Practice?"

"Traditional medicine. Herbalism. Holistic healing." He said it without irony, without skepticism, as if a woman who made her living selling tinctures and salves was the most natural thing in the world for a man with multiple advanced degrees and a vice presidency at a multinational corporation. "She's very skilled."

"I'm sure she is," you said, and left before you could say something you'd regret.

After that, you started noticing things.

The way Aemond's phone would buzz and he'd check it immediately, his expression flickering. The way he'd disappear into his study for hours, his voice a low murmur behind the closed door, emerging with that same tired look he'd worn coming back from Riverlands. The way he never texted Alys, or if he did, she never texted back, because every communication seemed to require a phone call, a ritual, a set-aside block of time he guarded fiercely.

"She doesn't like texting," he explained once, when you'd commented on the absurdity of him scheduling a two-hour call in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. "She finds it impersonal."

You thought about the string of unanswered texts on your own phone: friends from college, coworkers, the guy you'd gone on two dates with last month before he'd ghosted you, and wondered what it would be like to have someone so devoted to you that they'd carve out hours of their day just to hear your voice, while you couldn't be bothered to send a single line of text back.

"She must be very special," you said.

"She is." But he said it the way someone might recite a fact they'd memorized rather than a truth they felt in their bones.

The pieces assembled themselves slowly over weeks. Alys was older than him. Alys had a practice in a small town hours from the city. Alys refused to move, refused to visit, refused to integrate herself into his life in any way that required effort on her part. Alys gave him just enough to keep him coming back: a phone call, a weekend, a jar of something homemade that he'd place on his kitchen counter and stare at with an expression that made your chest ache.

He was too smart for this. That was the thing that got you, the thing that lodged under your ribs like a splinter. Aemond Targaryen, with his degrees and his four languages and his portfolio of accomplishments that would have been impressive for a man twice his age, was being strung along by someone who couldn't even be bothered to answer a text message. And he accepted it. He accepted it like it was all he deserved, like affection was a currency that could only be earned through suffering, like love was something you had to bleed for. You suspected he was taught to fish out flirts and gold diggers easily, but he hadn't been taught to examine his emotinal needs.

You saw it in the way he was with Vhagar, too. The cat tolerated him at best: she allowed his attention, accepted his offerings of caviar and quail eggs, but rarely sought him out the way she sought you. And yet he adored her. He planned his schedule around her meals. He commissioned custom furniture for her comfort. He spoke about her like she was a revered ancestor, which, in his family, she practically was.

And you. You, who had been hired as a catsitter and somehow become something more: a fixture in his home, a recipient of his cooking, his concern and his increasingly frequent glances that lingered just a moment too long. You, who he'd started looking at like you were precious, unexpected, something he hadn't known he was allowed to want.

The pattern was right there, written in the architecture of his life: Aemond Targaryen attached himself to people who barely tolerated him, and he called it love because he didn't know what else to call it.

The call came on a Thursday in late April.

"I need you to take Vhagar," Aemond said, his voice strained in a way you'd never heard before. "For several days. A week, maybe. Can you do that?"

You were at work, hunched over your desk with a spreadsheet blurring in front of your eyes. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I just...I have a procedure tomorrow, and I won't be able to care for her."

"Procedure?" Your stomach dropped. "What kind of procedure?"

A pause. You could hear him breathing, slow and controlled, the way he breathed when he was trying to keep himself together. "My eye. My mother found a surgeon. Another one. He thinks there's a chance."

The word another hit you like a punch. How many surgeries had there been? How many times had he gone under the knife, hoping for something that never came?

"I'll come to pick her up," you asnwered.

When you arrived at the penthouse, the doorman let you up without question, you were on the permanent access list now, a fact that still felt surreal every time you thought about it, and Aemond was waiting at the door.

He looked terrible.

His face was pale. His left eye, the one that was always covered, was visible now, hair finally brushed back. He was holding himself very still, very straight, the posture of someone who had learned long ago to carry pain without showing it.

"Before you say anything," he said, "I'm fine."

"You're having surgery."

"Another surgery. They're all the same." He stepped aside to let you in. "My mother is optimistic. She's always optimistic. The surgeon says there's a thirty percent chance of partial vision restoration, which means there's a seventy percent chance of nothing at all. I've made my peace with it. She hasn't."

You followed him into the living room, where Vhagar was sprawled in her cardboard box, a new one, large and rectangular, with a towel that had been arranged just so. She blinked at you slowly and didn't get up.

"When is it?" you asked.

"Tomorrow morning. Early. I have a car picking me up at five."

"You're going alone?"

The question seemed to confuse him. "Yes. Who else would go with me?"

You thought about Alys, somewhere in Riverlands, mixing her herbs and ignoring her phone. You thought about his mother, who had arranged the surgery but apparently not her schedule to be there for it. You thought about his siblings, who he never spoke about.

"I could go with you," you said, before you could stop yourself.

Surprise flickered across his face. "That's not necessary. You're here for Vhagar."

"Vhagar can come. She's a cat. She'll sleep through the whole thing."

"Vhagar in a hospital waiting room?"

"Fine, not in the waiting room. But I can still go. You shouldn't be alone."

He looked at you for a long moment, his good eye searching your face. "Why?" he asked finally. The question sounded genuine, as if he truly couldn't fathom why anyone would offer him comfort without being asked.

"Because that's what people do," you said. "They show up for each other."

"Ah." He turned away, busying himself with a stack of papers on the kitchen counter. "I appreciate the offer. Truly. But I've been doing this alone for a long time. I know how to handle my own treatment. Take Vhagar. I'll call you when I'm home."

You took Vhagar. You packed her into her carrier, which was, of course, custom-made leather with a monogrammed cushion, and you carried her down to the lobby and out to the street, and you stood there on the sidewalk for a full minute before you turned around and went back inside.

Aemond was still in the kitchen when you walked back in, Vhagar's carrier swinging from your hand. He looked up, his expression shifting from surprise to confusion to what that looked almost like relief before he shut it down.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm staying," you set the carrier down and opened it. Vhagar emerged with an indignant yowl and immediately headed for her cardboard box. "You shouldn't be alone, and I'm not letting you send me home just because you're too stubborn to admit you need help."

"The guest room is made up," he said, his voice was very quiet.

"Good. I'm ordering takeout. What do you want?"

"I have a list of approved restaurants in the drawer."

"Of course you do."

The surgery happened. You didn't go with him, he insisted, and you could tell it was important to him, this one last bastion of self-sufficiency, but you were there when he came back, pale and shaking and trying very hard to pretend he wasn't. The bandage was fresh, the swelling worse, and he walked through the door like a soldier returning from a battle he'd already known he would lose.

"Thirty percent," he said, lowering himself onto the couch carefully. "We'll know in a few weeks."

"The guest room is very nice," you said. "Also I made breakfast."

"You made breakfast?"

"Don't sound so surprised. I can cook some things. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. The basics."

He ate the eggs and the toast. He drank the coffee. Then he fell asleep on the couch, his head tilted back against the cushions, his bandaged eye turned toward the ceiling, and you covered him with a blanket and sat in the armchair across from him and watched the afternoon light move across his face.

Vhagar jumped onto his lap and settled there, a warm gray weight, he didn't wake up.

You stayed longer. Aemond was supposed to be resting, but resting turned out to mean pacing the penthouse at odd hours, staring out the windows, picking at the meals you ordered from his list of approved restaurants because apparently your culinary skills didn't extend past breakfast.

"I can make pasta," you offered on the third day, when he was eyeing a container of takeout Thai with the expression of someone who had eaten too much takeout Thai. "It won't be good pasta, but it'll be pasta."

"I don't trust your definition of pasta."

"It comes from a box. You boil it. You put sauce on it."

"Sauce from a jar?"

"Sauce from a jar," you confirmed.

He looked genuinely pained. "Order from the place on 57th. The one with the green awning. They know my order."

"Of course they do."

That evening, as you were eating pasta that had definitely never seen the inside of a jar, you decided to ask the question that had been sitting in your throat for days.

"Does Alys know you had surgery?"

Aemond's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "I mentioned it."

"You mentioned it."

"We talked last night. She's sending a jar of her salve. For the inflammation." He said it matter-of-factly, as if this were a perfectly normal response to your partner undergoing eye surgery. "She says it's very effective. Arnica, mostly, with some other herbs. She grows them herself."

"She's not coming to visit?"

He set his fork down. "She doesn't like the city. I told you."

"She doesn't like the city enough to visit her boyfriend after surgery?"

"It's not that simple."

"It seems pretty simple from where I'm sitting."

His jaw tightened, the familiar muscle jumping beneath his skin. "Alys is…she's not like other people. She has her own life, her own practice, her own way of doing things. I knew that when we started this. I accepted it."

"What does she accept about you?"

The question landed harder than you'd intended. His good eye fixed on your face, sharp and suddenly very violet, and for a moment you thought he was going to snap at you, tell you to leave, remind you that you were just the catsitter and this was none of your business.

Instead, he muttered, "I don't know."

You ate in silence after that. Vhagar, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, climbed onto the table and tried to stick her face in Aemond's pasta, and he let her.

At three in the morning, you found him in the living room, sitting in the dark with Vhagar in his lap and the lights of the city spread out below him like a carpet of stars. His bandage glowed white in the dimness, he didn't turn when you came in, just kept staring out the window with an expression that made something twist painfully in your chest.

"Can't sleep?" you asked, settling into the armchair beside him.

"The pain medication wears off around two. I'm used to it."

"That's not what I asked."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "I keep thinking about what you said. At dinner."

"I said a lot of things at dinner."

"About what she accepts." He turned to look at you, even in the darkness, even with half his face covered in gauze, the intensity of his gaze made it hard to breathe. "I don't think she accepts anything about me. I think she tolerates me. And I've spent so long thinking that was the same thing."

"It's not," you said.

"No. It's not." He looked back out the window. "Vhagar tolerates me. But she chose you. When she ran away, she found you, and she stayed. She doesn't do that for anyone."

"She stayed for the hot dogs."

"She stayed for you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I think I understand why now."

Vhagar purred in his lap. The distance between your chair and the couch felt impossibly vast and impossibly small all at once, a gap that could be crossed in two steps or two years depending on whether either of you had the courage to move.

"She's not coming," Aemond said. "Alys. She's not coming, and I don't think I mind as much as I should."

"How do you feel about it?"

He was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, scraped raw, the voice of someone admitting the truth against his will.

"Relieved," he said. "I feel relieved."

You sat in silence, keeping him company in the small hours of the morning until the sky began to pale and Vhagar yawned and stretched and demanded her breakfast.

Part 2: coming soon...

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