dunk:

for dunk, i imagine he tries to pledge himself to valarr at baelor’s funeral, to attempt to repay something he will never be able to. valarr tries to tell him to hit the road, and for some reason, despite agreeing with valarr in his anger, you convince him otherwise.

“my sister has insisted on taking you in, ser,” valarr grumbles, “you will be her protector. i wish nothing to do with you.”

and maybe it’s because the loss is so fresh, or you have to rehash the entire tale to the king or to matarys with valarr once you arrive back at king’s landing, or it’s that baelor’s absence from the red keep makes the castle feel that much different, but it doesn’t sink in that your father is well and truly gone until about two days after you arrive back in king’s landing.

dunk, who has begun to finish his training with the master-at-arms so that he can be your sworn sword, notices the little warmth you’d offered him disappears immediately. you’re ice cold, suddenly, scowling at him in the halls and offering few words the times you do speak. not necessarily buyer’s remorse—you do admire him for everything he stands for, egg appears to be happy that he’s here, and anyone who can humble aerion is a champion in your eyes.

but accident or no, had it not been for what he’d done, your father would still be here. ser duncan did not strike the blow, but he may as well have handed your uncle the mace.

i don’t know the grief would necessarily result in lashing out or altered behavior. baelor instilled in all three of you the importance of image, of high comport. you wouldn’t want to betray his memory now. not when it’s all you have left. so, you turn the ache inward, let it stew inside of you and start to consume you whole.

over the next few months, you lose sleep. you lose your appetite. social engagements now feel tedious and meaningless. matarys or valarr take turns coming to your quarters begging you to get out of bed, but you don’t know how to bring yourself to face the outside world. whispers soon start at court as you begin to withdraw from court life. she dismisses her ladies in waiting every time they come to her, they say, and stays in her room until her brothers force her out. a shame. the princess was full of life until that giant brute struck the bright prince. why would she bring him back here?

by now, the master-at-arms has deemed dunk’s training to be complete, and he now serves as your sworn protector. he follows you everywhere when you do leave your room, but most often is stationed outside your room. he’s kind. that’s the worst thing. it would be so easy to hate him if he weren’t so gentle to everyone around him, especially you.

some nights, he can hear you weeping from behind the door to your chambers, and he has to hold back tears himself. there is so much guilt inside of him, so much of it inside of you.

and one night, after almost a year of this, of wanting to hate dunk, searching for some evil or darkness inside of him every time you speak yet finding none every time, you snap at him. you’re tired, you’re angry. tired of being whispered at every time you walk through the gardens, angry at the world for continuing to spin while your father’s ashes scatter to the wind, tired of conversations at tea that amount to nothing because what is the point if we all die in the end anyway my father was a great man and he is dead and he will never be king and he is dead because of this stupid kind beautiful knight in front of me and if i do what i really want to do is it a betrayal of his memory will valarr and matarys hate me because of it i’m so tired please make it stop—

he lets you. lets you cry and scream and punch weakly at his armor, and you’re no longer a princess, you’re a girl who misses her father and the grief is a bottomless hole and you don’t know what to do with it spilling out of every pore on your skin. you slump against him eventually, and he holds you up, sniffling against him as he tries to shush you.

“i just want the pain to stop, ser duncan,” you whisper brokenly, “there is so much of it and so little of me left.”

he swallows the lump in his throat, and looks you in the eyes, grabbing you by the shoulder. “give it to me, princess,” he insists, “is that not why you brought me here? to shield you from the worst of it all?”

you kiss him. he freezes, unsure of what to do. he can’t. he’s already ruined you once, he can’t do it again. so why are his hands moving against his own volition, why is he pulling you closer when he should push you away, why are you leaning into his touch, why do you taste so sweet—

“my princess,” he says against your lips, unable to pull away, “we can’t.”

and yet you do. and it’s tender and heartbreaking and beautiful, and you start crying because it feels so good halfway through, and dunk freezes, thinking it’s because you’re hurting again, wonders if you’ve changed your mind, but then you shake your head and pull him in closer. “again, duncan, please.”

there’s no rocking of the bed or loud moaning. he engulfs you, drives in slow, drives in deep. the gentleness extends to every inch of him, you find, and there are a lot of inches. you’re breathless, and he kisses along your throat, breasts, and the top of your head, and whispers, “i’ve got you, princess, let it go, give it all to me, let me carry it for you, wee thing.”

worshipful. soft. ever so kind. and there is something building slowly but intensely inside of you, and you arch your back into him, wrap your legs around him, your head falls against the soft pillows, and dunk thinks you’re the most beautiful creature he’s ever laid his eyes upon when you cum, squeezing so tightly around him. you whine when he pulls out to cum on your stomach. “i won’t do that to you, princess,” he murmurs against your skin, “i’ve already taken too much.”

and in the candlelight, vision still blurry, the weight of his body on top of you, feeling his spend on your skin, you finally, finally feel human again.

gwayne:

i imagine gwayne would be a little less forgiving than dunk, by virtue of being highborn and the fact that he’s not indirectly responsible for any of your grief or existential dread. he can push a little more with you, and it also doesn’t help that you’re being a bit of a brat. can he blame you? no, not really. he’d also be angry if he were ordered to marry his cousin. he’s been tasked to escort you from the seat of your house to oldtown (i feel like this makes more sense. besides, if im told to marry cregan stark i WILL be marrying cregan stark!!! why would i be upset about that!!!)

you ride in a wheelhouse—it’s a two week ride from your family’s home to oldtown, and in the beginning you’re so quiet you might as well be a silent sister. when you finally begin to speak, it’s in snippy tones, dismissive and borderline rude. gwayne takes it like a champ, smiling graciously whenever you sneer at him. “whatever you wish, my lady.”

his brothers in arms whisper about your behavior when you’re away, calling it unbecoming and uncouth, but gwayne defends you every time. “anyone bound to my cousin deserves to unleash some of their rage before he snuffs out her light entirely. if he is to stifle her as soon as she is delivered to him, then i say let the lady blaze while she still can.”

and then you arrive at the inn. you’re not that far from oldtown, now, about two days time. you’ve grown more and more restless with every mile. he’s finally getting to sleep in an actual bed and is getting ready to settle in for a night when someone knocks anxiously on his door. “her ladyship is gone,” the guard says, breathless, “she climbed out her window.”

gwayne takes a deep breath, tired bones gearing up to once again move. “make no fuss, draw no attention to it. i will seek her out. if she does not appear in a few hours, we send out more men.”

he finds you an hour later. you’ve hidden in the woods, and he finds you weeping against a tree trunk, in a cloak and your nightgown. he’s both relieved and furious, and his composure finally snaps. “you could have been set upon by any manner of ruffian or lecher. i understand the anger of a reluctant bride, but this is far too much.”

“if a lecher stops your cousin from marrying me, let him,” you shout, angry tears streaming down your face. “do you think i haven’t heard the rumors? even in the westerlands we all know—ormund hightower wants a bride he can break like a horse. i am no horse, ser gwayne. i am no dog. i am no broodmare. though he certainly intends to make these of me.”

he says nothing, unable to disagree. in the dark, tears glinting under what little moonlight passed through the canopy of trees, he can’t help but notice your striking beauty.

“my mother wed my father and came to love him in time,” you continue. “i know this will never happen to me. i will never love your cousin.”

“love is an outlier in most marriages.” he sounds solemn.

“i know. but it is nice to think about. someone kind. someone tender. someone like…” you press your lips together, and then they start to wobble as you look him up and down.

“i’ve been horrible to you, ser gwayne.” you take a step forward, shivering from the chill of the wind, or perhaps something else. you take another step forward, painfully close, and gwayne takes a shaky inhale.

“can you forgive me?” you peer up at him through teary lashes, with an undercurrent in your eyes that makes him flex his fingers wantingly. he is only a man, after all. gods be good.

“there is nothing to forgive, lady y/n,” he replies quickly, genuinely. he needs to get you back to the inn before he loses control or before you do. “you are afraid and unsure, and ormund is many things, but gentle is not one of them. you have my sympathy. now come, let us return before—”

“wait.”

he closes his eyes, both eager and afraid for his life. whatever is about to happen, if ormund ever finds out, he will have gwayne gelded, skinned alive, and dipped in tar.

“if i am no maid, will he still have me?”

when his eyes open, you’re unbelievably closer now. you smell like flowers and bath oils, sweet and tempting.

“i… no. no, i don’t think he would.”

“you are a man,” you say, pressing a hand to his chest. where you touch, the skin sears beneath his doublet. “alone with a teary maiden girl all but ready to fall into your arms. say your… carnal desires got the better of you. what then, ser gwayne?”

“i don’t know, my lady. this is madness. i would never dare to dishonor—“

“please, gwayne.” you lean in, and he realizes you’re not the one trembling. he is. “grant me this boon, i beg you.”

he stares at you sadly, and your face falls. “o-or if i have misunderstood your gaze… forgive me. we can go back, and forget this ever happened—“

you go to withdraw. one look at the fresh tears brimming in your eyes and he crumbles. he crushes his lips against yours, tasting the salt of your tears, peppermint from your tea before bed.

“you are a cruel woman,” he says against your skin, trailing his lips from your mouth to your neck as you cling to him, mewling at his lips against your collarbone. “cold one moment and then pressing yourself up against me before i can refuse you.”

“gwayne.”

“i try to be a pious man,” he insists, pulling you to the ground. you plant your feet against the dirt, nightgown riding up, revealing your calves and thighs. gwayne groans. “but i am only mortal. seven forgive me.”

he has your maidenhead there. under any other circumstances, he would be remorseful of taking you here in the dirt, where any vagrant could come across you both. however he can do little but think of anything else but how sweet the dew from between your legs taste as he prepares you for him, the keening spilling from your lips sweeter than any song he’s ever heard.

and then he pushes himself into you, and you cling to him the entire time, reduced to soft tears and whimpers of “thank you, gwayne, thank you.”

whether you’re thanking him for saving you from his cousin’s grasp or how deep he’s fucking you, he can’t say. all he knows is this is a covenant he can never break now—one signed in your blood and the seed he’s about to spill in you. he kisses you when he finally does, and the way your walls clench around his twitching cock makes it all worth it.

Your quill scratches against the parchment as you attempt to compose words that would sound both dutiful and affectionate for Ormund, though your mind wanders far from the duties of a wife. A knock against the heavy oak door interrupts your concentration, startling you enough to leave a small blot of ink near your signature.

“Enter,” you call out, smoothing your green skirts as the door creaks open to reveal your sworn shield.

“My lady, Ser Gwayne Hightower has returned.”

Your heart gives a treacherous flutter against your ribs.

No raven has taken flight from Tumbleton, nor has any messenger arrived to announce Gwayne’s return. For all you know, Ormund remains at Tumbleton, and Gwayne rides on campaign with Ser Criston Cole. You have spent countless nights whispering prayers to the Seven for Gwayne’s safety, while your pleas for Ormund have grown rare.

The quill slips from your fingers as you rise so abruptly that the chair screeches against the stone floor. “Take me to him,” you demand.

“At once, my lady.”

The silk of your skirts rustles against the stone as you cross your chamber, each step stirring memories you have buried for months. 

Stolen moments when the world turned its back, the kisses that tasted of treason, and the sins committed behind closed doors – they all resurface now.

Though you are bound to Ormund Hightower by marriage, your heart has never belonged to him.

Your sworn shield slows his pace as you approach the great hall. “By your leave, my lady.”

“Granted, you may leave us,” you reply. He bows low, the scrape of his boots echoing against the stone before he disappears down the corridor, leaving you alone before the towering doors.

You draw a deep breath, willing your face into the composure expected of Lady Hightower. Beyond these doors waits the man you have prayed for since he rode from Oldtown.

The door groans as you push it open, revealing a quiet great hall. Only one man stands within.

“Gwayne,” you breathe, his name slipping past your lips before you can catch it.

Gwayne turns at the sound of the door, and for a heartbeat, something unguarded flickers across his features that vanishes before it can take root. Then, his composure returns, replacing vulnerability with the practised courtesy of a knight acknowledging his lord's wife.

“My lady,” he murmurs with a dip of the head. The formality feels like a blade between your ribs.

“Ser,” you retort before approaching him. “You did not write,” you say. “I would have awaited you in the courtyard, had you seen fit to send word of your return.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “Forgive me.”

Only then do you truly look at him. The campaign has left its mark. Shadows lie beneath his eyes. His face is leaner than when he rode from Oldtown. He has shed his armour, yet he carries the phantom weight of it in the way he holds his shoulders.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to touch him.

“What of my husband?” you ask with a tilt of your head, feigning the concern expected of Lady Hightower. It does not quite reach your eyes.

“Lord Ormund remains at Tumbleton,” he says cautiously, as if it should disappoint you. A muscle in his jaw jumps, betraying the unease that his cousin’s name stirs within him.

“For a noble cause,” you say after some thought. “I shall have to remain patient.” The lie comes with the practised ease of a woman who has spent years concealing her heart.

Your hand rises to settle against his forearm. His muscles tense beneath the sleeve of his gambeson. Your thumb brushes over a dried stain worked into the weave, blood, perhaps. You find yourself smoothing the fabric, as though you can undo the violence he has endured.

Leaning closer until the heat of him radiates against your skin, you lower your voice to a whisper. “Do not be a stranger, Gwayne. Not after all this time.”

You search his face, desperate to find the man you have longed for.

For a moment, you think he means to meet you halfway.

He inhales sharply. Then, with visible reluctance, he turns his head.

Your lips brush the edge of his jaw before you can stop yourself.

Gwayne’s eyes close, as though denying himself pains him. A shuddering breath escapes him before he opens them again, fixing his gaze somewhere over your shoulder rather than upon your face.

“We cannot,” he whispers.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

His hand rises slowly to cover yours where it still rests against his forearm. His calloused fingers curl gently around yours. He lifts your hand between you. His lips find your knuckles in a gentle kiss.

“I have fought alongside men who lost their lives for House Hightower. I cannot be the one who brings dishonour upon it.”

Only then does he release your hand.

You look away first, refusing to let him see how your eyes glaze over.

“You must be weary, Ser.”

The title is deliberate this time.

“Rest and refresh yourself.” Your voice remains composed, though your heart feels anything but. You take a step back, creating the distance he insisted upon. “I shall join you for supper.”

You offer him a small bow before turning away.

Each step toward the door feels heavier than the last.

You have imagined his return a hundred different ways. You have imagined, foolishly, that months apart would leave duty powerless against longing.

Instead, he has chosen duty.

And you cannot decide whether you admire him for it or resent him for it.

-

The balcony has always been your sanctuary.

Whenever the walls of the Hightower threaten to close around you and duty grows too heavy upon your shoulders, you find yourself here, high above Oldtown. The sea stretches endlessly before you.

Out here, there are no expectations.

No Ormund.

You rest your forearms upon the cold stone balustrade and lean forward, letting the wind lift loose strands of your hair. You close your eyes and breathe deeply.

This is where you are happiest.

The emerald gown you wear billows gently around your ankles, its skirts rustling in the sea breeze.

You wear it because Ormund always praises you in green.

Or perhaps...

Your fingers tighten against the stone.

Perhaps you wear it because you know another pair of eyes lingers longer whenever you do.

You smile despite yourself.

You do not hear your chamber door open. You only feel the warmth of him behind you.

Familiar.

Your breath catches.

Before you can turn, gentle fingers brush a lock of hair from your shoulder. Soft lips follow, pressing a kiss against the curve of your neck.

Your eyes fly open.

“Gwayne.”

You twist just enough to look over your shoulder, astonishment plain upon your face.

“My sworn shield—"

“I dismissed him.”

You stare at him. “You dismissed him?”

A mischievous smile touches his lips. “I told him I wished to speak with my lady in private.”

You blink.

There is something in the way he says it that has you suppressing a smile.

“You are wearing green.”

You glance down at the flowing silk. “I am.”

“The colour becomes you.”

You look away, unable to hide your smile.

A soft laugh escapes him, his fingers brushing lightly over the embroidered sleeve.

Gods, how you have missed that sound.

“I cannot decide,” he murmurs, “whether your husband has excellent taste...”

His thumb traces the golden thread.

“Or whether you delight in tormenting me.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the distant crash of waves below.

“You should not be here,” you whisper, though the words lack conviction.

“No?”

“No.”

“And yet... so long as I remain here, you have not asked me to leave.”

You ought to.

You know you ought to.

Instead, your hand finds the front of his doublet, smoothing a wrinkle that does not exist.

“You dismissed my sworn shield. He may grow suspicious.”

“I could not pass another day without seeing you.”

The confession settles between you like a prayer.

Sunlight catches the copper strands of his hair. You cannot believe only days have passed since you last saw him.

“I missed you,” you admit.

His eyes close.

“I thought of you every day,” you add, resting your forehead against his.

His lips meet yours with a tenderness that aches.

The kiss is brief.

Careful.

The sort of kiss shared by two people who know that every stolen moment may be their last.

-

You force the memory aside.

With a soft sigh, you reach for the small glass bottle on the dressing table. Lavender and vanilla. You dab the fragrance onto your wrist and neck. Ormund has always found the scent cloying.

You indulge in it in his absence.

You do not hear him knock.

Your eyes meet in the mirror, and your hand stills as you recap the bottle. Gwayne stands in the doorway, one hand on the handle.

“I have come to escort you to supper.”

You watch his brows draw together as he catches the scent of your perfume.

“Gods,” he murmurs.

“What?”

He steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“You know exactly what.”

He shakes his head, as though trying to clear it.

“I owe you an apology.”

“No.”

The word leaves you before he can say more.

“I know what I am, Gwayne.”

He opens his mouth, but no words come.

“I am another man's wife.”

You swallow against the ache in your throat.

“I wake beside Ormund and wish it were you.”

You look away.

“I know what awaits women like me.”

Gwayne kneels before you, his hands twitching at his sides.

“When I die, I shall burn for this.”

Your voice breaks.

“I shall burn for loving you.”

Gwayne reaches for your hands, his fingers closing around yours.

“Do not say that.”

You shake your head.

“You will not burn,” he insists.

“I have broken my vows.”

“Enough.”

His hand rises to your jaw, stopping the words before they can wound you further.

Before you can argue, his lips find yours.

“If the Seven truly mean to punish you for this,” he whispers against your lips, “then they will have to punish me too.”

His thumb brushes away a tear.

“If you burn, I shall burn with you.”

“What is wrong with you?” You growled, begetting propriety. 

Ormund has been married before—to a lady whose name you cannot recall. She had always been called Lady Hightower. 

Her identity had always come second to her position as his wife. She was unremarkable without him. Nobody. 

She had been nobody until her death. Even after her death. 

Ormund has enough heirs to ensure that his lineage would remain for a thousand years; there was no good reason for him to force your hand. 

You’d never agree to his arrangement even under normal circumstances. 

By marrying you, the Hightowers would have everything to gain. Their blood would have lordship over Rosebush. You would lose everything to them and to your son. 

“I ask myself that very question every night,” Ormund cuts through the mutton pie before bringing it to his lips. 

There was a slight tightness around his jaw, but he seemed unbothered. For now. 

“You would marry me just to have Rosebush?” 

His lips pressed into a thin line. 

He did not care for you. 

You smelled like roses. You were beautiful and untouched, but you were too bold for his liking. 

Men catch birds to put them in cages, but Ormund hates birds. They chirp too loudly. They shit everywhere. You are shit, stuck on his shoe. 

“Be thankful that you were not given to my cunt cousins, forgive my language.” He apologizes. You seem to have struck a nerve. 

“You are too clever for your own good. You’d have them wrapped around your fingers within a fortnight, but not me. You’ll never have control when you’re married to me.” He says. 

A shiver runs down your spine at the certainty of his tone. 

He seems to be the type of man who boxes women into two categories: the mother and the temptress. 

The mother coddles him, becomes everything that he wants to be—and then there’s you. The temptress who’d seduce her husband and make him do her bidding. 

You hate it. 

You hate his tone. 

You hate the way he reduces you into something that you are not. 

Only lightning strikes without retaliation. 

“You’ll put a son in my womb, mayhaps two to control me.” You glared. 

“But I won’t be carrying your son in my womb, my lord. I will be carrying your death.” You threatened, feigning calm. 

Ormund stands up—you could not read the emotion on his face, but it was clear that you won this argument. That you’d be leaving a seed of doubt about your marriage in his mind. That he’d constantly be looking over his shoulder from now on. 

“Ser Arthur, send Lady Rose to her chambers. Tell the servants that she does not have the stomach to eat today,” he announces. 

“Pathetic,” you grumbled under your breath. 

The afternoon sun was merciless, and the Hightower gowns that you were forced to wear did nothing to aid you against the heat. 

You could feel the lace clinging to your collarbones, making you itch constantly. 

You were wearing a dark green gown that started at the top of your neck and ended after your toes. 

The Hightowers were the only noble house that still wore such attire—the women of the Reach mostly wore cotton and linen at home. Those fabrics were better in the humid heat, as air flowed easily through their pores, but not the fucking Hightowers. 

They always had something to say about modesty and godliness. 

If the seven heavens are filled with Hightowers, you’d rather go to hell. 

“I am to be the Lady of Oldtown. It would not be wise to provoke my anger.” You glanced at the maiden who was busy sewing your gowns. 

She looked to be a child of ten and five. 

She refused to bring you food because of Ormund’s orders—so you’ve decided to frighten her. 

She’s a Tarly. It’s not like Ormund would fetch her head. 

“Lord Ormund has commanded that no food must be brought to your chambers.” She kept her eyes on the floor, fearing the heat of your gaze. 

“He may be your lord, but when I am his wife, and he marches off to battle, you will be under my rule.” You started. “—and I never forget those that have crossed me.” You threatened. 

She stops sewing for half a second. 

“—I will bring bread, my lady.” She relents. 

“You will bring pie and wine.” You reclined on the kline. 

“I could just call for the Maester,” she seemed to threaten, earning a smile from you. 

“But remember to bring my food first,” you rolled your eyes. 

“Yes, my lady.” She sighs. 

It was dinnertime when you were summoned into his chambers.

There was bread on the table—a bottle of Dornish and a board of Cyvasse.

"You called for me?" You opened your mouth to speak, softening your resolve. There was no use in making an enemy out of Ormund when it'd be easier to manipulate him as an ally.

He thinks he's better than his cousins? No, he's not.

Unlike his cousins, his intentions were as clear as day.

He wanted to control Rosebush, a tactical position for war.

He needed your legitimacy. He needs you alive.

"I wanted to apologize for what happened earlier," he bows his head slightly. Then he raises his gaze to look at you. Waiting for you.

"I apologize too," you said inauthentically.

None of that was my fault.

He pats the empty chair beside him and you reluctantly sat down.

"Play Cyvasse with me?" Although it sounded more like a command than a question.

"I used to play with my father when I was younger," you began while arranging the black pieces, a reminder of what side you're standing on in this war. "But my skills have waned through the years."

He pours you a goblet of wine.

"I shall play nice," he comforts.

You already know what words are stuck on his tongue. I shall play nice. I have been playing nice this entire time. Test my patience, and you will see how I am when I'm playing fair. You could read the thoughts behind his russet brown eyes.

"No need," you teased.

"I know how to survive," you force a smile.

"And there is also no shame in resigning, my lady." He taunts.

"Only fools resign—white moves first, and we're playing classic." You pat his hand, and he moves his rabble two spaces forward.

"Your father was a famous Cyvasse master, if I recall," he says while you mirror his move.

He moves the rabble on the left, forward.

"He was also a poet and a painter," you recalled fondly.

Poems were your breakfast, and paintings, your lunch.

You move the light horse on the left, and he mirrors your move this time.

"It's such a shame that he died early," Ormund reminds.

Mayhaps the curse on your family started with your father. It was not wise to tempt fate, yet your father enjoyed doing it—he died doing it.

"We all die in the end; it does not matter who goes first or last." You moved the rabble on your left to defend the rabble in the middle.

"In a sense, our deeds matter the most. My father was a generous man, and I'm certain that he resides in the seven heavens. How about you, my lord?" You glanced at him, waiting for the stubborn flicker in his eyebrows.

He takes your rabble on the middle, and you move the other one, threatening to attack.

"If I am not going to the seven heavens, I will make sure to drag you to the seven hells, my lady." He answers amusedly.

"So defensive," you mumbled under your breath.

He takes a deep breath, calming himself, and he locks eyes with you.

"The Mother says that obedience is the path to holiness. You've not been obedient to your King. Between the two of us, I'd worry for your soul more." Ormund returns the question to you, bringing his rabble on the second left forward.

You move your last rabble on the left two spaces.

He moves his dragon, and you take his rabble.

The Seven above rule all men from their heaven. Those who repent of their sins can taste the sweet milk of the merciful Mother in the afterlife.

He takes your pawn with his light horse; both of your horses were diagonal from one another.

He moves his rabble forward, and you take it with your rabble.

He moves his dragon again.

"For someone who is such a believer in faith, why do you forsake eternal peace for your worldly desires? Why give away your spot in the afterlife just to make sure that your nephew is King?" You asked, intending to pry his mind open.

You move your dragon to eat his, and he takes your dragon with his catapult.

You castle your king.

He does the same.

"It's such a stupid war you've found yourself fighting," you insulted.

He clenches his fists.

"If I were you, I would kneel to the rightful Queen." You offered.

"Rhaenyra is not here; she has not come to save you. You have such blind loyalty to an usurper who does not care for your safety. I am here. Hightower is here, and I am to be your lord husband. There is no Rhaenyra; there is no Aegon. You answer to me." He leaned forward.

You moved your catapult diagonally.

"I win," you leaned away from him.

He sends the board crashing on the floor. It's not about Cyvasse now.

"Very well, my lady." He says in a taunting manner.

"You may have won Cyvasse, but once we are wed—I will make sure that you bend to my will."

and unluckily for him, he does not get to meet you bloody and steeled on the battlefield. nor face your tongue in the cunning and wily words of the chambers where the small council gathers. 

it would be easier, he imagines, if you were an adversary in that regard. anything else would be easier. he would rather ride back into war and rebellion than attempt to face your true nature.

as battle-hardened as baelor is, he is no match for his alluring young niece.

a lovelier girl, baelor thinks as he stares at you from across the hall, i have never seen. 

it is hard enough to tear his eyes away from you at any given moment, though he forces himself to as soon as you meet his gaze. 

he had not thought his brother’s death would have hoisted unto him an entirely new set of grievances. he had promised to keep you safe, promised his brother on the death bed that you would want for nothing, that you would always be cared for and watched over.

baelor did not realize when he made that promise that you had intended for him to be the one to fulfill it. 

the responsibility falls solely on his shoulders—trying to honor the last wishes of his kin. you had been beside yourself with grief, he recalls, wearing those dark colors of mourning that did not suit you for months on end. 

perhaps it was a bit selfish of him. he should have been preparing himself for the matter of your betrothal and the alliance it would create for the crown many moons in advance. it was not only his burden as hand but rather his duty as your uncle. 

he had the power to ensure that the match he secured for you would not be one of misery and pain. he knew of several suitable candidates, and had thought he would, when the time was right, ensure that only the most genteel and kind would be introduced to you.

someone that you might wish to begin your new life with, far away from king’s landing.

perhaps it all went astray when he decided to delay the matter further and further. you were in no state to entertain suitors, not when you were grieving the loss of your father. and besides that, you had not expressed any interest in the issue when maekar had brought it up to you. 

instead you had looked at him. and what was he to do once you did that? 

you employed your strongest two soldiers, the most reliable ones standing at the front of the cavalry—your lovely, sad eyes that had all but blinked at him once or twice and that incorrigible pout. he was felled immediately.

you had come close to kiss maekar’s cheek first, as you bid them goodbye and took your leave for the evening. 

and then you had come towards him, and it felt as though time itself had slowed down for mere moments. he watched as your soft hair fell against his shoulder, as the overwhelming scent of your skin turned his thoughts into dust. and then you pressed your soft lips to his cheek, smiled, and left.

black silk swished by your ankles as you left, the dark red stole you often wrapped around your arms covered by the cascade of your hair. he could make out the image of the three-headed dragon you had embroidered on the fabric yourself. 

you had been so proud of your work that you’d come to show him and your father when you’d finished with it. 

moments after he saw ser donnel leave to escort you back to your chambers, he had told maekar that the matter of your betrothal would be readied when baelor deemed it time.

“she must marry, eventually,” maekar had said, running a hand over his beard. “better to prepare her now than to indulge her.”

“i am not indulging,” baelor had quipped back, a little too aggressively. he takes a long drink of his wine.

maekar had stared at him in confusion, raising an eyebrow, perhaps even suspicious, he now thinks.

“of course not. you would never do such a thing.” 

maekar’s thoughts go unsaid, surely something about you’re lucky the gods did not bless you with a daughter. you would never be able to say no to her. 

he takes another lengthy sip from his cup.

of course he knew the matter of your marriage was important. so important that it had somehow usurped all his other responsibilities, had somehow become the only thing he thought of when his mind was left to wander. 

but the idea of some haughty lannister or cold arryn getting their hands on you while you were still mourning seemed completely out of the question.

yes, he concludes, trying and failing to set the thought aside once and for all. it is more prudent to wait. to allow time for you and for him… to find you the best match he can. 

another selfish thought rears its head inside of him, even when he merely notices you thanking a knight of the kingsguard or making polite conversation with the lords of the court during a feast. 

you are a princess of their house. perhaps only a bargaining chip in the eyes of the small council, but he would not let them waste your chance for happiness on some alliance for soldiers and grain. 

you are a princess of their house and he is a prince, the thought reminds him, traveling through until it has spread from the inside out. it was a tradition of their family to marry princes to princesses. 

even from before the conqueror’s time—young ladies of the house could be wed to brothers and cousins and uncles, if it was so arranged—for honor, for their noble blood.

his father had never much cared for such traditions and nor had he. when it had come time to arrange valarr’s marriage, they had sought out an alliance to strengthen the crown’s relationships.

bloodraven whispers of slighted great houses, mulling over the stolen opportunity to put a noble daughter of the realm in the queen’s chair one day, when he was gone and valarr would rule. 

they sought you as a consolement. for you to sit besides their sons, for their lineage to have royal blood, to establish a relationship that might advance their house for generations to come.

perhaps that is why he is so adamantly opposed to answering questions about the offers for your hand. he’ll not sell you off and send you away, the last piece he has of his brother, to acquiesce a petty lord. 

if only he was, indeed, selfish.

he was not greedy either, though the thought of making you his wife so that he might protect you from all the world lingered in his mind almost daily. it was more potent, even, after two or three cups of wine. it would plague him when he tried to sleep, a tantalizing vision of you resting beside him.

naked and content, perhaps, the voice whispers in the back of his head. clear-headed or drunk, he cannot silence it. or wrapped in silks. sleeping soundly, with no tears or sadness. carrying his child, and thinking of a new life to bring into this world instead of those who have left it…

he has to tear himself away from the thought. it is entirely improper.

it does not leave him, and only comes back stronger when you are seated at the dinner table with your cousins.

baelor does not much like the way aerion has been looking at you as of late. 

at these dinners, with his father at the head and baelor right beside him, you are seated between valarr and aerion on the other side of the table. 

you talk politely with his son, asking no doubt of kiera, who is not present as she recovers from another babe she has lost. you smile gently at valarr, and tell him how you will pray for his wife’s fast recovery.

you ask aemon of the latest book he is reading, no doubt borrowed from the maester’s extensive collections. you ask aegon of his latest qualm with his brothers. you have even been so successful as to elicit a smile from your uncle maekar from time to time. 

but when it comes to aerion, your smiles fade quickly. you try not to look at the boy if you can avoid it, even when he pesters you by touching your hand or interrupting you. 

and baelor is staring again. 

it is hard to look away as it is, even more so when he wishes he might do something to protect you. you avoid aerion’s gaze but baelor sees how lecherous it truly is. 

another thought begins to haunt his mind—that of the day that aerion demands your hand for himself. even baelor could not deny that it would be a perfectly reasonable request—he is only your cousin, both borne of mothers from different houses. you would stay in king’s landing with your family, which would certainly ease your mind, he assumes. 

but despite all of that, even in the face of logic and sense, baelor decides he shall never give aerion your hand. his nephew is entirely unworthy. unlike, perhaps—

the thoughts had been the hardest to bury when he is alone with you. as crown prince, baelor has always possessed a great deal of admirable traits.

immunity to your charm is not one of them.

the way you fixate your lovely eyes on him when he is speaking, as though nothing in this world could be more important than whatever he is saying.

the way he has your full attention whether it is to speak about the courses at dinner or the latest small council meeting and the headache he had after it, or of the new taxes imparted recently on grain in king’s landing and highgarden.

you do not care about grain, he knows, and yet, you reply eloquently, offering him some insight or perspective he has never considered, before awaiting his response as you blink at him.

and he has never been one to fluster and stutter his sentences. not even when he was but a green knight or a newlywed, when there was nothing that seemed so important to focus on as jena and what she was saying.

you must bring it out of him. you seem to be able to take possession of his mind and enter it in a way that he can only name as sorcery. 

when you mention in passing that aerion has been bothering you, the boy is sent to summerhall within a matter of days. when aegon seeks your help convincing his father to allow him to squire, you are the first to bring it up at the dinner table, weaving the thought into conversation until you are sure that it has taken hold in his brother’s mind. 

baelor even finds himself agreeing with you, being convinced easily and quickly, even more so when you smile so sweetly at him that it muddles his mind. you say uncle quietly and rest your hand on his shoulder and he all but runs from your solar, leaving you behind, giggling at him no doubt.

what’s worse is that whatever charm you possess, it is rivaled only by your tenderness. 

he watches you play with rhae and daella, even though you have lady’s maids of your own to keep you company. you entertain your young cousins whenever they ask. you guide them away to the peace and quiet of your solar when his brother is yelling at his nephews, or when some violence has broken out in the training yard. 

when you ask him for things, it is rarely for the purpose of your own satisfaction. 

often it is silks and laces to make new dresses for the girls, some new toy for the children of the ladies at court, a commissioned painting to gift to kiera for her nameday, depicting the scenery of the tyrosh for her personal solar.

and for everything he thinks and knows of you, he should have guessed that he would be unable to deny your request. 

not when you recall the anniversary of jena’s passing each year and try to ease the pain his family still feels so deeply. you have the lemon cakes she so loved made and served with dinner, smiling with his sons, and then at him, and just for a few moments, a day that has always been so terrible is made slightly better.

but marriage has made you into another creature entirely. 

it has been only three moons since baelor had stood with you in the sept and covered your shoulders with the black and red cloak.

you had told him at the feast later in the day that you had been working on your wedding cloak, embroidering glimmering red dragons and the words of the house in high valyrian, for almost the turn of a moon.

“were you pleased with my work, husband?” you had asked, blinking those lovely eyes at him and watching as he lost all train of thought. 

baelor had nodded, picking up his goblet and nearly draining the entire thing empty. he did not realize how quickly you would adjust.

he had gone from uncle to husband in a matter of hours. your father might roll over in his grave if he could see you now, looking like a true targaryen bride, seated beside him at the high table, his father and mother only a few seats away. 

they had simply been pleased that baelor wished to marry again at all. he would assume something else—though perhaps it was obvious to others that you were among their favorite of the grandchildren and their prized eldest granddaughter—but their contentment had seemed genuine. 

they ate and drank and laughed, and the lords and ladies danced, and baelor swallowed hard as he was persuaded to lead you to the floor of the hall. you dance beautifully, you always have, and he recalls a time where you had begged your father for an foreign instructor. he had not listened, and you had come to ask your uncle baelor instead.

needless to say, the new instructor was on their way to king’s landing before the turn of the week—

“husband?” you had quietly asked then, gazing upon him with a sort of expression that he has never seen on your pretty features before. “what are you so lost in thought about?” 

“nothing of importance, niece,” he had replied curtly, before spinning you around the room as was expected of him. 

baelor tried to deny it—he tried to deny all of it. 

how beautiful you looked as you danced in his arms, how warm your skin felt against his, how sweet your scent was. you spoke to him sincerely and he responded in half-sentences and frayed thoughts, the wine taking over his senses, perhaps.

but as he returned you to your seat, breathless and giggling, he had decided then and there. he could not be swayed by your charm when it came to the matter of marriage. 

maekar had come to claim your next dance, and you had glanced at baelor quickly before accepting his hand, your eyes silently asking for permission. he had nodded, watching you then turn to your other uncle with a beaming smile. 

no, baelor had thought, this marriage cannot truly be of your own choosing. he did know the full length of the truth, and he would not ask you, but he knew you well enough to ascertain that some part of this was a farce. 

perhaps you wished to avoid the grim future that awaited you—for there was no doubt in baelor’s mind that aerion would have pestered him for your hand one day. or you wished not to leave the comfort of the red keep and your beloved cousins, abandoning them all to join your husband and your new family. 

of the options presented to you, he knew you misliked both. he had not expected you to some up with another alternative entirely, nor had he thought that he would accept it so easily.

persuasion, it seemed, was your esteemed general. 

you talked your way into and out of most anything you desired, and reflecting back, baelor believes he should have been more prudent. he cannot escape your charm, but he could have left the matter to maekar to sort out. 

perhaps he would have had an easier time convincing you that a marriage in the reach or riverlands would be much more suitable than what you had proposed.

or perhaps, the thought he cannot escape pipes up to remind him, you would have asked for maekar’s hand in marriage instead. then you would have been no longer his niece, not his wife, but rather his goodsister. 

his fist had tightened around the neck of the goblet at the mere thought, his eyes watching maekar dance with you. you were smiling at him, but as soon as baelor’s gaze found you, your eyes locked with his in an instant. 

baelor looked away quickly.

no, he decides in that very moment, he will not torment you by making you fulfill whatever duties you believed you had as his wife. he would allow you your freedom, leave you to do whatever pleased you, and he would not make you suffer because of his own uncontrollable lust and lechery. 

you were his niece before you were his wife. his duty, as he promised your father, was to protect you, not to force you to an early death in the birthing bed by giving you his seed. 

the thought was difficult enough to remember that night—the men of the feast had hoisted you up, carrying you to his chambers while shouting bawdy words of ribald. they had delivered you in just your tattered smallclothes, and you had been waiting for him on the bed.

you had not seemed so nervous as he thought, but perhaps only because you knew he would never harm you. 

at least, he supposes, he can find peace in that thought, that he protected you from a worse fate on your marriage night that many others suffered through.

even drunk on the sweet nectar of your cunt, baelor had forced himself to remember his vow from earlier. it was hard to do so, and perhaps the only thing harder was his cock, but he set aside the thought entirely.

that night, the first night as husband and wife, he had felt you peak against his mouth once, and on his fingers second. and finally once you were completely exhausted and boneless, sunken into the messy, wet sheets and gripping onto his arm as though you might fall away without him steadying you, he had slowly entered your weeping cunt and claimed your maidenhood for himself. 

even that night, he had finished on the soft skin of your belly, refusing to fill you with his seed. 

in your exhaustion, he thinks perhaps you did not even notice. by the time he had helped to clean you and bring you a cup of water, you had drank but a sip and fallen fast asleep against him. 

that night, he had laid awake, staring at the ceiling of his chambers, listening to the slow rustling of the wood burning in the fireplace, and decided this would very well be the first and last time he bedded you.

he had two healthy children and an heir and he had no need for another, especially not when it could be so dangerous for you. 

maekar’s beloved dyanna had perished bringing young rhae into this world, and she had been perfectly healthy during her previous five births. even jena had struggled bringing valarr into this world, and the maesters had told him it was scarcely an easy thing, even worse when it was the lady’s first child.

he looked over you, asleep in his arms, snoring softly with your hair spread out over his pillows. the scent of you might never truly leave these sheets and furs. 

and he vowed that he would fulfill his duty as your uncle and set aside his desires as your husband.

baelor never spells out his decision to you fully. if you are hurt by it, you do not show it.

(or rather, he does not notice.)

baelor keeps your interactions concise when he can. with maekar and his children off at summerhall shortly after the wedding, you had taken to eating meals in the solar with him.

he would arrive shortly before the maids began serving food, removing his cloak and sitting beside you as a serving girl pours him a cup of wine.

“how was the small council today? do you have another headache?” you ask gently, and thank the servant as she pours wine into your goblet next. the girl—who you addressed by name, as willa—smiles brightly at you before resuming her place by the wall.

“no, i am well.” 

the briefer baelor’s words are, the less you have to go off of. he does not wish you keep you engaged in conversation, or make the time longer than it needs to be. surely you wish to retire or partake in one of those activities you loved before your marriage. 

he often sees your latest embroidery project perched on a table by the fire in your solar. there are books there as well, thick volumes of targaryen history and a thinner book he recognizes as daeron the first’s retelling of the conquest of dorne. it is a favorite of his, the first account of dorne, his mother’s homeland, and he has read it cover to cover several times over.

a thought creeps in and he pushes it away—perhaps resting in bed with the fire blazing, since you are certain to get cold without it. you resting in his arms and breathing softly, resting your lovely eyes and keeping them hidden from him as he reads to you. he wonders what it would take to—

baelor blinks.

perhaps you merely wish to fill your time with other company. he often saw you with kiera in her solar when he is searching for valarr or with your lady’s maids in the gardens. it is not surprising to him that you would prefer their company.

“husband?” you ask quietly, and he turns his head. 

he has been so lost in his thoughts that he had not noticed you awaiting another response from him. when he looks at you, his heart begins to beat faster. 

you are always lovely, but perhaps lovelier still when your expression is filled with concern for him. you look as though there is nothing more important than understanding whatever thought is plaguing baelor, and discussing it until his mind is at ease. he thinks of the many ways you might be able to help ease him, and yet—

but he cannot let the thought linger for long. he asks of your day and listens to you recount it—filled with the very same activities and people that he suspected. 

you sound perhaps a touch lonelier without maekar’s children to help fill your day, but the quiet of the keep is enjoyable in its own way. 

once you have finished eating, he kisses your forehead chastely, and tells you that he is returning to his work in his study. 

even there, you continue to plague him. the way the yellow silk of your dress clung to your skin. how your hair fell around your face. the way you held his hand for a mere moment before he moved it away, your skin warm and soft, your breasts heaving with each breath—

he pushes his chair and stands up, taking a turn of the room and ending up breathing in the cool night air on the balcony. he thinks he might be able to relieve the hot tension and desire building in his chest and traveling lower with the distraction, but to no avail. his work sits incomplete on his desk.

it’s not until he takes himself in his hand later that night, in the darkness of his private chambers, thinking of the night of the wedding, stroking his manhood faster and faster as he thinks of how you had mewled under him as he took you—

he finds release, but he feels no relief. only a sense of propriety that seems to be fading the longer he thinks of you. and then, in the sheets that still smell of your skin, he sleeps.

-

“i require but a moment of your time, niece,” baelor says as he enters your solar. 

you are seated in the armchair by the fireplace, but you put down your embroidery—another dragon, he imagines—at the sound of his voice. you do not stand up, but you look towards him.

your maids look wide-eyed with concern, until he waves his hand to dismiss them. the door shuts as they step outside. 

“good morrow, husband,” you reply sweetly as always, smiling. “would you like tea? it is too early for wine but i can request-”

“no, i require nothing but an explanation. what is the meaning of this?” he clutches in his hand a piece of parchment, spelling out a list of your latest expenses, given to him by the master of coin at the small council meeting in the morning

lord penrose had looked at him with an odd sort of expression, a mixture of pity and amusement, when he had handed him the rolled up letter. 

baelor was not an impatient man. he was not prone to anger, either, but he felt his fist tighten around the paper and his jaw clench as he read the scribbled ink.

“the meaning of what, husband?” you ask innocently. you rise from your chair, setting aside your embroidery. you walk closer to him and he feels his resolve beginning to quiver. 

you wear a pretty gown of blue silk, a color that seems familiar to him for some reason, with a low neckline that he cannot remove his eyes from. he would not deem such a dress appropriate, but you are in the peace and quiet of your solar, with no one but maids for company. baelor’s jaw tenses again at the thought of ser donnel watching your skirts swish behind you as you had entered the room today, as he stood guard by the doors. 

usually, you cover your shoulders with that stole he is most familiar with. it does not seem to be found today. he stares at the bare skin there for entirely too long before looking upon your face again. you are standing closer than he realized.

he takes a step backwards, and he notices displeasure flick over your normally warm expression, if only for a moment, before returning to the sweet smile he is so familiar with.

if he had blinked, he would have missed it.

“lord penrose gave me a detailed account of your recent expenses,” he begins, the words coming out sternly. “two hundred gold dragons on white silk and myrish lace? another hefty amount on a seamstress and tailor in king’s landing? my niece, i-”

your face changes at once. the lovely smile melts away, replaced with a mispleased pout of your perfect lips. your eyebrows furrow and your eyes look at his with a mixture of concern and sadness.

baelor begins to regret his words instantly.

“are you cross with me?” you ask quietly, taking another step closer to him. your hands rests by your side but they move slowly, until your palms are pressed flat against the velvet of his doublet. “i did not mean to upset you.”

he can feel the warmth of your skin through the layers of cloth, he thinks. you are so close that the familiar, fragrant scent of your skin has taken hold of all his senses. the last time had been the night of—

he moves his head, trying to shake it slightly before looking back at your doleful eyes. his resolve begins to slip away slowly.

“not… upset, entirely. i-i spoke harshly. i only meant that-” baelor loses track of the thought as he stares at you. you look as though you are a child being scolded. “it is not proper, princess, to spend such an amount on clothes.”

“i understand, husband,” you reply solemnly, your expression unwavering.

“if you desired something, i merely wish you had told me first.”

“i did not wish to bother you with such frivolous requests. i thought that perhaps you would be pleased with my new gowns.”

“i…” baelor trails off. the one you wear now is particularly captivating. how can he be upset, when you had done it for him? 

yes, something in his mind tells him, a princess of the court, wife of the crown prince, no less, should not only be clothed in old dresses. 

it is a small thing to him, but perhaps an entirely different matter for you. there are ladies of the court, perhaps who might be your ladies in waiting one day in the distant future. he supposes you have to have something new to share with them, and take part in influencing some of the fashions of court.

though, he admits plainly, the lords of the court would thank him if their wives began dressing in this fashion. 

he would thank himself, if you began dressing like this—

“husband?” you ask again, your eyes widened while you await another answer.

“forgive me. i was… distracted,” he confesses, and your seize your opportunity.

you press your hands further into his chest, taking another step closer. 

“i did not mean any harm,” you begin, locking eyes with him. “i sought the merchants in king’s landing for a reason. i wanted different silks that i might support a great deal more families than just the ones the steward prefers. and i thought, perhaps, by commissioning new dressmakers, the ladies of court might seek them out too. i only wanted to help…”

well, he had not thought of it in that manner. 

there was no harm in the action. a bit of gold in exchange for the goodwill and support of the crafters and vendors of the city. you were right—the ladies of court would follow in your example, giving work to feed hungry families.   

“i… forgive me. i should not have taken that tone with you.”

“you should not apologize, husband. in fact, i am most grateful for an opportunity to speak with you before we dine. might i show you some of my new dresses? i would like to wear it at supper,” you say, but he swallows uncomfortably.

resisting you when you are fully clothed with your stole is a task he deems difficult enough. listening to you change your dresses behind a partition while you come out to show him the many options, each more revealing than the last is…

near impossible.

“i must return to my study for another meeting, niece. but i will see you at dinner,” he says, and presses another kiss to your forehead, his hands coming up to cup your cheek before departing. 

you bite the skin of the inside of your cheek, deep in thought as he leaves.

-

perhaps a few days later, baelor is seated in the armchair of his study. there is still dozens of documents for him to review, a proposal for the small council that needs to be finished before the afternoon meeting tomorrow, and it is nearing the hour of the owl. 

he has finally been able to rid himself of the image of you and whatever silky smallclothes you might be wearing underneath your new dresses, in order to finish some of his work. 

they must be even smaller than he imagines, though, if your dresses reveal so much soft, flawless skin to him without them making an appearance. 

(rid himself of it, he thinks, by releasing into his hand every night since. you are a haunting vision of blue silk, and he imagines how you might look wearing that very dress while he fucks you over the table in—)

there is a knock on the door. it is late, too late to be anyone but a knight of the kingsguard or his manservant preparing his chambers for sleep.

“enter,” baelor says, not looking up from the parchment spread across the desk. he reads the small words slowly, sleep growing heavy in his body. something about new taxes on imported fabrics and treaties between—

“it is very late, husband.” baelor turns to look at you in an instant.

his shoulders relax as he sinks further into his chair. you look just as he would have imagined at this hour—your hair slightly mussed, your expression sweet yet tired. in the dim candlelight that illuminates his study, you look closer to a goddess paying him a visit.

but he is no praying man.

his eyes travel down from your face, where you bite your lip hesitantly while awaiting his reply, to your nightgown and the soft, pale robe that covers it. with it untied, he can see what waits underneath—pure white silk, the color of stars, with lace around the neck. it stops just before your ankles, and he can see the slippers you wear if he sits up a little taller. 

the fabric feels delicate just from gazing upon it. you would be comfortable to sleep in it, no doubt. this must be one of the new gowns you had commissioned, because he has never seen clothing for sleep look so lovely and enticing.

you make your way closer, stopping beside his desk.

“it is almost the hour of the owl, niece. what are you doing awake?”

“i could not sleep,” you confess, running your fingers across some of the papers that lay cluttered on the surface of the bureau. “it evades me. i am not sufficiently tired.”

you glance up towards him, and the resolve, which has already been battered and beaten to near death by the strength of your forces—namely your bleary, beautiful eyes—begins to shake, as a newly anointed knight facing battle for the first time might.

“you should rest, princess.”

“i do not wish to rest.”

perhaps the silence of the castle and the lull of the night has made you braver and bolder than the young woman he thought he knew so well.

you move quickly, to perch yourself against his lap seamlessly, as though he was a seat made for you only.

your hand comes to stabilize yourself against baelor, fingers wrapping around the thickness of his muscled arm. he moves faster than you, wrapping both of his hands securely around your waist to steady you, taking in, finally, how thin the fabric of your nightgown truly is. he releases a shuddery, painful breath at the thought that follows.

he can feel the heat of your skin and how your flesh yields in his grip.

he has not felt you in so very long. your soft skin in his hands and the aroma of your hair, jasmine and something else he cannot name, make him dizzy with want.

he has tried so hard to make all the interactions chaste and short, and here you are, offering yourself to the predator, a misguided, sleepy creature of prey. 

his prey.

you trace the skin of his cheek with your soft fingers.

“you are not eating enough,” you say quietly. baelor holds back a quiet laugh.

“spoken like a true wife.”

“i am your true wife,” you reply with a tone he cannot quite place. “will you not come to bed with me? i have so missed your company, husband,” you purr.

he very nearly shuts his eyes at the sound. when his eyelids open again, you are staring at him with wide, doe-like eyes, blinking in eager anticipation. 

“niece,” baelor warns in a low voice. “i-”

“wife,” you correct again.

“i have much work to complete before i can retire,” he lies, knowing that the moment you leave him, he will be unable to finish writing even another sentence.

such is the strength of your power over him. even when you are not beside him, his mind can think of nothing else.

“can it not wait until the morning? i should like to sleep beside you,” you whisper, laying your head down on his shoulder. 

he looks down the length of your back, your thin excuse of a robe abandoned on the ground, the silk of your nightgown shining and shimmering in the candlelight. he notices how it stretches across your skin, revealing curves that he should not be looking at, how easily the fabric might be torn into two if he only pulled—

reality floods his veins as though someone had emptied a barrel of ice water on his skin. 

perhaps you are lonely, and truly, that is his mistake—he has tried his best to resist temptation by limiting the tempting interactions entirely.

with maekar and his children gone, you have no one to keep you company. it’s only natural you would seek him out, even in this state, because you wish to speak with someone else besides your maids. you have always been a unifying feature of their family, preferring to spend time with them rather than alone.

yes, that must be it, he concludes as you rest against his body, adjusting your legs to get more comfortable. 

your smooth skin brushes against his manhood—which is only growing harder with each passing moment—and he brings one hand to your thigh to stop you from moving any further. he soaks in the satisfied feeling when he feels your limb still under his touch.

this must all be borne of a loneliness you possess and a desire for company. he can easily remedy that—many of the lords of the court have daughters and wives and sisters who could be brought along to be your companions. 

it does not quite feel as though his idea will work when you are curled up so comfortably against him, fitting together as though you and he are two parts of a whole. 

but he shall have to try, regardless. he will not defile and debase you any further. you shall be allowed at least that much respect.

you make a soft, sweet noise of sleep against him. he feels you nuzzle your head against his shoulder further. you end up burying it into the crook of his neck, sighing softly, and he soaks in how your breath feels against his skin. 

“you should sleep, princess,” baelor says quietly into your ear. 

he cannot help it—everything seems much more intimate under the veil of darkness. all that he has tried so hard to push away in the daylight returns with a tenacity he did not expect.

something speaks up, the part he tries to keep silent. it calls him a fool—reminds him that he has a lovely creature, bound to him before the gods, that seems to desire him, desire his company. and all he has done is push her away time and time again.

the two sides begin to battle it out—his moral thoughts that somehow always travel back to the day he promised your father he would protect you and the perverse ones that tell the others to be quiet and please his wife, to give in and make her every wish come to fruition.

“i will,” you begin softly, the words said into his ear, a lustful shiver rolling over his muscles at the sound. “if you join me.” 

he exhales a deep breath, filled with both guilt and regret, and he knows you can hear it.

“i cannot. come, i shall escort you back to your chambers.” 

you sigh too—one of pure frustration, as he helps you stand up. 

baelor’s fingers barely skim the bare skin of your shoulder, bringing the fallen strap that was hovering on your arm back to its rightful place. then he picks up your robe and wraps it around you gently. 

he offers you his arm to lead you back to your chambers. you have a difficult time letting go.

“husband, i-”

“sleep now, niece. we shall talk during the day tomorrow.” 

“but i-” baelor turns his beautiful, mis-matched eyes towards you and the sentence dies on your tongue. you shall still have the last word, however, and so you hold onto his arm and lean in for a kiss before he can turn away from you.

he makes your knees weak without even trying.

baelor’s mouth is warm and his lips taste of sweet wine, no doubt the cup he was nursing before you entered his study.

in truth, you had slumbered hours ago, falling into sleep after baelor had left your chambers following supper. you wanted to be awake at such a time that you knew he would still be in his study, all alone.

your plan had, for the most part, failed. though you had gotten closer than previous attempts, and though it had been wonderful to feel his hands on your skin once more, he was still being too pious for your liking, too reminiscent of his namesake.

your hands are still wrapped around his arms, digging into the muscles as you feel baelor returning your kiss. you whimper into his mouth, surprised by the rough feel of his beard against your skin and his tongue touching yours. but the kiss itself is still surprisingly gentle, just as the ones on your wedding night had been. 

you had thought your teasing might earn you a glimpse of a different side of your husband, but it seems that you were mistaken.

no matter. you will accept each victory, no matter how small. 

and most unsurprisingly, he pulls away first. 

his lips look swollen and pink, and your own tug into a pleased smile at the image before you. baelor runs a hand over his beard, sighing, looking at you as though he is unsure of what he will do with you.

good, you think. let me be plagued with dreams of my kisses. 

“i bid you goodnight, my husband,” you sing sweetly, leaning your feet forward on your toes so that you can press one of those chaste kisses he so loves to his cheek. 

then you enter your chambers, leaving him in the corridor.

-

baelor thinks of nothing but your startling kiss and how your nightgown looked in the dim light of his study. 

the gown—if it can even be called that, since it was merely a few scraps of thin fabric stitched together—has been the only thing on his mind for days on end.

he tries ardently to distract himself by setting up meetings with lords mallister and santagar and tyrell to have them bring ladies of their family to court to serve as your companions. he speaks with the men for too long, asks questions that are irrelevant, and tries to prolong the encounter just so he is not left alone with this thoughts.

one thought in particular—namely the softness of your lips, a soldier rising through the ranks as he wins battle after battle.

and despite all of that effort, even days later, he finds himself unable to think of anything but the scent of your skin and the ease with which you climbed into his lap.

a lesser man might even think that you wanted him.

he tries, and fails, to cast the thought aside entirely. 

you, on the other hand, have not been thinking of anything else. baelor tells you when he joins you for dinner later in the week that he has arranged for your ladies-in-waiting to come to court earlier than he had planned. 

he tells you their names and their lineages, their relation to his small council and the relationships their families wish to maintain with the crown. 

but you pay little attention.

again, your husband has spurned you. 

you thought you were strong enough to deal with this rationally. that baelor was only being distant because you were newlyweds, because he did not want to seem eager. 

but you’re no fool, either. your little stunt in his study proved what you already knew to be true. your husband desired you, he just wouldn't allow himself to act on his desires. 

now he wishes to keep you complacent with noble ladies that will no doubt ask you questions that you have no answer for—such as when your husband planned on getting you with child and when the court would have another little prince or princess running around.

no matter what else happened, you knew you needed to take the issue into your own hands if you wanted a resolution. 

if you wanted your husband’s seed, you will have to go seek him out and make him give it to you. 

baelor does not meet you for dinner the following evening. he is in his study with his father and maekar, who is visiting from summerhall. 

he left the children behind, much to your displeasure, but brought along daeron and aerion. hardly a fair trade, you think, though the thought feels tainted. you have nothing against the elder, but the second-born is another deal entirely.

the boys had begun their morning sparring with your other cousins—or rather, your step-sons—in the training yard. you had walked by on the way to the gardens with your ladies, the lot of them giggling at the muscles and sweat of the boys below.

it is only aerion and matarys doing the sparring now. 

in the garden, daeron seems to be taking a nap in the sun, perched on one of the benches by the trees. valarr is taking a turn about the gardens with kiera, who is finally feeling well enough to come outside and enjoy the fresh air. 

seeing the way the two of them hold each other, the way their love and admiration for the other was so palpable to all of you, made your heart ache. 

yes, you wanted your husband to please you and give you a child of your own. but you also wanted that. 

love and affection and tenderness. 

the worst of it, perhaps, was that you knew baelor was incredibly capable of it. he was not at all like the lords you feared you would have been married off too—cold and cruel and devoid of kindness. baelor was overflowing with love for his children and his family. 

you were spoiled, perhaps, you think as you sulk in the shade with your new ladies. you were so used to his love and compassion growing up that you had only expected it to further grow as the moons of your marriage passed. 

now your husband seems to have nothing but proper concern for you. everything he does, everything he says, it is apparent that he wishes you to stay safe and well. he will not even touch you, perhaps for fear that he will break you, living up to his nickname after all, you suppose.

you bite into cherry and let the tartness linger on your tongue. lady bethany mallister, the daughter of the lord of ships, picks up a piece of fruit as well. 

you are tired of them, though not because they are not enjoyable company. it is your own situation that feeds your sadness. 

aly tyrell is funny beyond all measure. lady bethany is sweet and gentle and always compliments your dresses. lord santagar’s sister, sarena, is young and excited and reminds you of the innocent hope all girls possess at that age. you feel towards her perhaps that which an elder sister might feel towards the younger.

though your frustrations are targeted to your husband and his lack of action, you do not wish to take it out on them.

“at least,” you begin after taking another bite and chewing your cherry until your lips and tongue are red, “the fruit is sweet and the sun is warm.”

“i wonder if we will have another long spring,” bethany comments, picking up another slice of apple. 

“perhaps,” you mull. “it would bode well for the small folk. i know they dread winter so.”

“bethy, i cannot imagine what winter must be like at seagard. how do you survive the cold?” sarena asks, selecting a slice of blood orange for herself. 

“the same way everyone else does,” aly answers for her, “by staying warm in their husband’s beds.”

you laugh first, though it stings. the others follow.

“you shall be safe then, princess,” sarena says with a wide-eyed smile. “the prince would never let you be cold.”

“right you are, my lady. he would never.” you bite on your cheek, listening as aly begins another tale.

she is interrupted by a pale hand reaching towards the fruit, picking up a cluster of grapes. 

“cousin,” you greet, faking a sweet smile the way you are used to in his company.

“princess. ladies,” aerion says, narrowing his violet eyes towards you. “do your prince a favor, my ladies, and take a turn about the garden. i require a word with my dear aunt.”

the girls look toward you for permission first and you nod your head, something you know aerion did not appreciate, and they each get up and leave. 

sarena turns to look back at him twice, until aly steps to intentionally block her view, making her focus in front of her.

aerion looks a sweaty mess, slumping into bethany’s seat, next to you.

“so,” he starts. “how fares your marriage?”

“perfectly well,” you reply quickly. “baelor is a most thoughtful husband.”

“baelor,” aerion mimics with a scoff. he pops a grape into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously. “four moons ago you called him uncle.”

“a lot can change in four months, aerion. now he is my husband.”

“and some husband he is, i am sure. tell me, has he gotten a child on you yet? given his age, you can never know…”

you head snaps towards him, your fingers twitching as you try your hardest to refrain from slapping him.

“i will not dignify you with an answer. mind your tongue or i will-”

“you will what?” he questions, eating another grape, looking at you with a feigned, innocent expression. 

you cannot think of anything to say.

“you seem to forget that i am no longer your cousin. i am the crown prince’s wife now,” you finally reply, hoping he cannot see through your angry words, the saddened, lonely girl that sits beneath your visage. 

“of course not. i am merely looking out for you. well, if you require me… you know where i shall be.” 

“i do not require-“

“good day, aunt.” he picks up your tightened fist and presses a kiss to the skin of your hand. you pull your hand back instantly.

+

aerion’s words do not leave you for the rest of the day.

your ladies continue to chatter and gossip, but your thoughts are far away. you pick only bits and pieces, speaking when there is a silence meant for your reply.

“prince aerion is so handsome, is he not?” sarena says breathlessly, and bethany looks towards you with a concerned expression. aly rolls her eyes.

“as pretty as he is violent. i beg you to find literally anyone else to fancy. his older brother’s just over there-”

sarena scrunches her freckled nose in disagreement. you’ll warn her about pursuing aerion before he leaves once again for summerhall, but your mind cannot think of anything but your own plight.

it’s not until the sun has almost set and the air is much cooler that you are finally granted the opportunity to be alone with your thoughts.

alone, that you might finally concoct your plan.

you work quickly, before your mind has time to stop and think too much of your actions. your maid is confused when dismiss her after your bath, but you do not need her noticing that you do not plan to spend the evening in your chambers.

you dress yourself in the smallest of the newly-made nightgowns, not tying and lacing it where it ought to be, leaving it hanging off your shoulder and exposing the skin of your neck and chest more than you should.

part of the plan from the other night had worked—baelor had been susceptible to the charm of your new gowns, which seemed now to be worth every penny. perhaps that one was not the true victor, however.

you were confident that the one you donned now would be.

you forgo the robe entirely this time, knowing that baelor is not in his study across the corridor. he’s only in his chambers, only a door away. you step out into the hall and put a finger to your lips when ser donnel of the kingsguard sees you, standing in between the two doors for his watch until morning. 

though his eyes are wide at your clothes—or rather mostly lack of—he does not say anything. 

“no interruptions, ser donnel, if you can manage it. the prince and i have a most urgent matter to discuss.” 

he nods, and you smile, knocking on the door.

baelor’s gentle, deep voice echoes as he tells whomever it is to enter. 

it’s not until you step inside, gently closing the door behind you and padding barefoot to the desk and armchair by the fireplace where he works when he is tired of his study, that he notices you.

he looks up quickly, his gaze returning to the assortment of papers before him, before suddenly returning his eyes towards you, his head almost spinning. you bite back a smile.

“niece. what are you-”

“husband,” you greet, ignoring his use of your former title. “i require a moment of your time.”

his mismatched eyes, deep in a distracted thought, travel from your face, slowly raking downwards. 

he stops to observe your bared shoulder and the sheer silk that reveals the curve of your breasts and hips before making his way to your legs, and then back up when you clear your throat.

“what?” he questions, meeting your eyes once again. “did you say something?”

“no,” you lie, shaking your head innocently, putting one step in front of the other until you are much closer to him and the fire. it provides warmth to your exposed skin but it is not nearly warm enough.

nothing but the heat of your husband on top of you will cure your coldness, you think, thinking back to what aly had said in the garden.

“you should return to bed. and wear something warmer. there is a chill in the air tonight.”

“i do not wish to sleep alone,” you reply, taking yet another step closer. he does not have anywhere to escape to, seated in his chair with the fireplace on one side and you on the other. 

“we have discussed this, princess-”

“not princess,” you say, feeling bolder than ever before. 

you perch yourself against his desk, the silk slipping aside and baring your thighs to him. his eyes are fixated on the skin until you speak again, when he moves to meet your eyes again. you hold back another laugh at his attempts to be stoic and polite, even when you are vexing him so deeply. 

“niece-”

“not niece, either. wife. it is the only name i shall respond to,” you say quietly, hoping he can also feel the sincerity of your words.

you watch as baelor swallows, tension thick in the air between the two of you. he runs a hand over his beard as he does when he is frustrated and trying not to show it.

from so close, you can see all the gray hairs that litter his face. they blend together with the dark hair seamlessly. that, along with the wrinkles by his eyes and the absolute temptation in his eyes, is enough to make butterflies erupt in your chest. 

“you do not know what you are asking for,” baelor says, and you smile. 

“i do know. i have had many moons to think about it.”

“you-” baelor stops himself, releasing a deep breath. “you do not want me. you simply desire company. that is why i arranged-”

“my ladies are lovely. kind and funny and good at conversing.” 

“i am pleased to hear it. perhaps they-”

you move slowly, shifting from your position near his desk until you are settling yourself in his lap, just as the other night. 

and just like then, baelor’s hands come to secure you. always worried about your safety, he holds on tightly, his fingers sinking into the flesh of your waist as yours wrap around his neck. 

“as lovely as they are, they cannot give me what i want.” 

you lean in to kiss the hollow of his cheek again, working your way down until you can nestle your face into his neck, littering a handful of kisses there too. baelor’s hands tighten on your body as you feel him suck in a deep breath. 

you breathe in the scent of his skin, calming and soothing as it is, leather and amber and something else that is uniquely your husband.

“what is it that you want?” he questions quietly, with a soft groan that is music to your ears. you stir against his lap and feel his hardness growing against your thighs, warm and firm.

you must be well and truly deprived, you think, since the thought of his manhood against you is enough to make your mouth water.

“i want you. i have wanted you for as long as i can remember. now i have you but in name only.”

“sweet girl, i am only-”

“tell me, husband, am i so awful that you will not spend time with me? am i not the same niece that you so doted on before our marriage?”

“that is precisely why i cannot-”

you lean in to silence him with a kiss, your lips hot and wet against each other. you moan into his open mouth, gripping onto his shoulder fiercely, not pulling away even as you feel baelor try and resist you. 

he too gives in—his hand weaving into your hair, his huge palm holding your head in place. the other hand stays by your waist, adamantly about not straying, though you can feel the heat of his skin through your silk. 

and beneath you is an entirely different story than whatever baelor claims to be the truth—he grows harder and hotter as you move ever so slightly against him, adjusting yourself until you sit atop his manhood. 

you rock gently, your eyes rolling back at the sensation between your legs, one you have not felt so intensely since the night of your wedding.

you believe you could even find your pleasure like this, drowning in his kisses and moving your hips faster until you both feel that shuddery release that you have so longed for—

and then baelor stops, pulling away. his hand stays on the back of your head, cupping and pulling you gently to look at him. 

breathless, flushed in every way possible, with a familiar yet distant ache growing hot and tight in your belly, your swollen lips turn into a pout as you bat your eyelashes at him.

“why do you deny me, husband? why do you deny yourself? you cannot hide the truth. i know you desire me,” you say, rocking yourself against him once more.

baelor’s lovely eyes are hidden from you as he shuts them tightly, holding back a moan. 

“i am trying to protect you,” he says quietly, his eyes opening again. they are filled with pain, something that you detest. it fills you with an immense sadness. 

you lean forwards, pressing your forehead against his.

“you cannot protect me from everything,” you whisper. “and if you must, let us start with the rumors of the court. it wounds me every time someone questions why i am not yet with child.”

“who has said it? i will-”

“it does not matter who. i know they all think it.”

“let them, sweet girl,” baelor says, bringing his hand to hold your cheek tenderly instead. tears—born mostly of sadness and frustration—begin to well up in your eyes. “i am trying to keep you safe and yet you are attempting to force my hand at every turn.”

all you have ever wanted is before you—baelor as your husband, talking of how he wishes to keep you safe, as you always knew he would. and yet, somehow, it is a terrifying thing altogether to imagine a life such as the one you have been living forever.

far away from him, detached and alone, sharing nothing but a meal on occasion instead of days filled with the love you know he harbors inside.

“keep me safe from what?”

“everything,” he replies, his hand tightening around your waist. a tear runs down your cheek and he wipes it away with his thumb. “the childbed, for one. you are too young to leave this world because of my own selfish desire-”

“baelor,” you whisper, your pout magnifying in intensity, if possible. “there is no telling what the gods have planned for us. i have learned that lesson with enough pain. should we not enjoy our marriage for as long as we are blessed enough to do so?”

you bite your lower lip, blinking slowly at him, wondering if this might be where the tide finally turns. you lean in for another kiss, only getting a soft, hesitant one before he pulls you away with his hand on your face.

baelor turns his head away from you. 

“go to bed, niece. it grows late.”

you feel a selfish sort of anger burning in your chest. you have tried to reason with him—and the gods know your husband a reasonable man, more than most. but you are not content with this life, and you never will be, not until you have your husband the way you want him.

the way you know he wants you.

you do not move. a rational side of you tries to argue that you’ve made more progress than before. perhaps one more plan needs to be made, and you will have convinced him of your own accord to heed you.

however, the irrational side wins, the words spilling out before you can think twice about it. 

“you know, aerion visited me today. he said that i only need find him if my uncle is having too much trouble getting me with child.”

baelor snaps his head towards you in an instant, his dark and light eyes blazing with a hidden fury. even so, he keeps his composure more than you wished he would.

“and what did you tell him, hm?”

“i told him to leave. i should have told him that i would have his tongue cut out if he spoke in that way again. because-” you breathe, your entire body trembling in his grip. “because i know my husband can please me. i know he can give me the child we both desire. please baelor… do not let them win.”

you fiddle with the tied ribbon by the collar of your neck, pulling it until it falls flatly around you. he can make out your heaving breasts under the sheer fabric.

you move your head slowly, just to meet his eyes again, blinking quickly. perhaps it is past your time to admit defeat, that you were simply not armored enough today.

baelor brings both his hands to either side of your face and crashes his mouth onto yours.

you release a squeal in surprise, returning the force of his kiss with an intensity you have never felt before. baelor’s hands hold you tightly in place, with no opportunity to move, his mouth hard against yours. 

and yet, his lips are soft. he kisses you as though he wishes to cherish the memory, trying to learn the curves and divots of your face with his fingers. you moan against him as his hands move down, dragging slowly past your past, tracing down your back until he finally lands at your hips. 

he squeezes, as though he is trying to make certain you are truly there before him. the position is not nearly as comfortable as before, but you have no complaints, allowing him to explore your mouth with his tongue, breathing him in through your every sense. 

baelor does not pull away, even as he reads your mind and hoists you up as he stands from the armchair. he sets you on the edge of his desk, using his other hand to brush papers and books out of the way so there is a clearing for you to lay on. 

you giggle against his mouth at the sound, only wondering what ser donnel may be thinking from his post outside the door.

but then baelor pulls away, and the thought is lost, replaced instead with regret. you let out a greedy whine, your fingers pulling at his doublet, wishing for his lips on yours again.

“patience, sweet girl,” he says, and you feel a shiver work its way through your entire body. 

you are many things. patient is not one of them.

your fingers work deftly at the buttons of his doublet, undoing most of them easily, but before you can get the bloody thing off of his shoulders, baelor brings his hand to your jaw, cupping it and squishing your cheeks together.

“i said to be patient,” he reminds you, and you comply instantly, an eagerness to please him rolling smoothly through your body. 

something aches between your legs at his tone, but you are not stupid enough to be defiant now, when you are finally getting what you want.

you remember the night of your wedding as though it was yesterday—how gentle he’d been and how much pleasure he gave you, as though your pleasure mattered more than his. it had been—

the thought is distracted as you hear the sound of silk being torn. you gasp, looking up at baelor instantly.

“baelor, my gown—!” you cry out, though it is hard to care that much. you are mostly being dramatic because you want to see his reaction. 

“it has served its purpose,” baelor says calmly. 

he does not meet your eyes, rather, he stays focused on your newly exposed skin. the silk falls on either side of your body, revealing your breasts and the skin of your belly and legs to him completely. the air hardens your nipples further, and he stares, stares until you begin to tremble and shake with anticipation.

“husband,” you plead, wondering why he is only looking when he has you like this—a slavish position, bared completely for him while he still has all of his clothes on. 

his eyes wander further down, until he stops to stare at your cunt. you feel yourself burn with hotness at his gaze, wondering why he will not just get on with it. he has you exactly how he might want you—splayed out on his desk, your legs wrapped around him loosely. he need only—

baelor kneels. you almost sit up, wanting to know what he is thinking, but one of his huge hands on your stomach tells you, silently, to stay as you are.

“oh,” you sigh, feeling baelor’s hot breath on the sensitive skin of your thighs. his beard is scratchy, deliciously so, as he lines your inner thighs with kisses. when he takes a piece of the delicate skin between his teeth, you yelp, your hand weaving into his hair.

he looks up at you from the position—your legs almost wrapped around his head, his beautiful eyes—one blue, one brown, both dark with lust—looking up at you.

and you do not need him to speak to understand what he is saying. you lay back, keeping your eyes on him.

he dives in between your legs as though he is a man starved. 

the first lick makes your entire body tremble, and the second makes you moan out as though there is no one else in the castle save for the two of you. you feel his hot tongue work up and down your leaking cunt, focused on that one part that makes you see stars as his tongue teases it over and over again. 

he trails down, prodding against your sensitive hole with his tongue, lapping up your wetness, as your fingers grow tighter in his hair, pulling as you try to move your hips, a silent signal that you need more. 

baelor holds your hips down and his tongue returns to your sensitive pearl, simultaneously thrusting in two fingers. your eyes roll all the way back. you moan wantonly—it is all you have wanted.

no amount of your own fingers or folded pillows or thoughts of your husband could ever replace this. his tongue moves against you, flicking and sucking, the noises obscene as they fill the chamber. you cannot hold yourself back, certain someone can hear you, though it is hard to care. 

your back arches, rising off of his uncomfortable desk, but you know the feeling that grows deep in your belly. it’s tight and hot and wound up, but it loosens and stretches with every lick of your husband’s tongue.

but it’s different than the night of your wedding. this is so much better, not as gentle and sweet as that night.. no, this is rougher and more deliberate and filled with a fervor that you have unknowingly been creating in your husband all these moons.

the thought is enough to make you reach your peak instantly, but you hold back, wanting to bask in the sheer pleasure for a moment longer. baelor wraps his mouth around your pearl and continues thrusting his fingers in and out, the squelch of your soaking cunt making your entire body feel as though a flame has consumed you whole.

how—how could you have ever been satisfied by yourself? nothing could ever replace this feeling, you think dreamily, drunk on your husband’s affection. he enjoys it, you can tell, being the reason for your complete undoing.

baelor’s other hand reaches towards you, groping your exposed breast from his position. his fingers tease your nipple and you cry out, the pleasure close to unbearable.

he says something, his lips vibrating around you, and it makes your mouth gape open. you cannot understand him, but you guess it all the same, crying out his name over and over again. 

“good, sweet girl. perfect girl. let me feel your release on my tongue,” he murmurs against your cunt, and with a final thrust of his fingers and pinch of your nipples, you give in to the pleasure, succumb to your husband. 

the sheer bliss that washes over you is unlike anything you have ever felt before. it scorches through your body, a feeling something like lightening striking you, as the heat deep inside of you unwinds, and then snaps altogether.

the shockwaves continue as you moan out baelor’s name, and he does not let up. your body continues to shake in his grip, his tongue rough and almost painful against you, your sensitive cunt pulsing around his fingers. 

it’s not until you are completely boneless, slack-jawed and exhausted, collapsing against his desk, that you feel him slide his fingers out of you. 

you cannot imagine what a mess he has made of your thighs, though when he stands, groaning, you smile before you can help it. 

your juices linger on his beard, and the very thought makes you feel as though you are on fire.

using your hands on his doublet, you push him closer to your for a kiss, feeling the taste of yourself on his tongue and mouth, not receding until he finally uses his hands on your face to guide you away gently.

“that was incredible,” you whisper, leaning your head against his chest. his broad hands on your back support you, otherwise you are certain you would collapse back down.

“i am glad to hear it,” baelor says, polite as ever. “i shall escort you back to your chambers. let me retrieve my-”

“my chambers?” you question, pulling away to look up at him in confusion. “but we have not-”

“you are tired, sweet girl. i will not-”

you make a low, frustrated sound.

“i am not tired. i do not want to go back to my chambers. i want you, all of you. i want you to claim me, as is your right as my husband.”

“claim you?” baelor repeats slowly, watching you with his intense, consuming gaze. 

“will you not give me your seed, husband? as your wife, am i not entitled to it?” you ask, armed with that alluring pout that he is so mad for. 

it is not even so much your words, but rather how you say them, and how you look at him. as though there is nothing you desire more than him. 

baelor leans in for another kiss, your sweet mouth eager for his. 

and then he picks you up by the waist, your sore legs wrapping around his easily. he carries you over to his bed, placing you down with a gentle thud.

his time, when your hands come to his doublet, he lets you take it off of him. you remove it and the cloth falls somewhere behind him, just as your scraps of silk now lie on the ground by his desk.

his shirt is next, even as you paw at his breeches and their laces. he pulls the cotton from the back and yanks it off over his head, while he stares down at you. you are biting your lip in anticipation to claim the spoils of your victory.

sweet, eager girl. you have no idea what you are truly asking for. but he will give it to you all the same.

as soon as your fingers successfully untie the laces, he pulls them off, taking his hardened, throbbing cock into his hands. he strokes it as you watch wide-eyed, your chest heaving and breasts bouncing as you wait patiently for him to give you what you so desire.

he hovers over you, pressing a quick kiss to your mouth before working across to your jaw and then down the column of your neck. he goes over your collarbone, over where your heart beats under your skin, and onto your breasts.

baelor feels your fingers tighten around his arm and watches as your eyes roll back in your head as he takes your nipple into his hot mouth. he flicks his tongue against the sensitive skin, still stroking himself, his cock pulsing with every sweet sound you make. 

he switches to the other breast, lavishing it with attention while he moves your legs as though you are but a gift for him, positioning you until his cock is lined up against your drenched cunt. 

“husband,” you whimper, and he lets go of your tender nipple with a soft noise. “please… please take me,” you say, hot tears of frustration and overwhelmed pleasure running down the side of your face. 

he abandons your breast and moves, nudging the thick head of his cock so it slowly slips inside of you. your tight cunt sucks him in instantly, pleading for more as your face twists into a gasp, mouth falling open, eyes shutting tightly.

baelor comes close to your face, kissing your tears softly, until those lovely eyes flutter open to meet his. he groans, burying his face into your neck as you smile, teasing and sweet and yet so hungry for him.

“please, husband,” you moan again, a soft question this time. he answers by thrusting his length into you, all in one swift motion.

the sound of the bedframe thudding against the wall fills the chambers, followed by the lewd, wet sound of baelor moving in and out of your cunt. then there is your cries and pleas, your sweet moans that he cannot believe he has denied himself for so long.

“there, sweet girl,” he says, as he moves your pliable legs easily. he feels that soft spot inside of you that makes you lose all train of thought, makes your eyes shut and squeal louder than he has ever heard before. “this is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“yes, yes, baelor-” you continue, and brings himself all the way out, just to push back in. 

you take him as though you were made for him. and perhaps you were.

“i know, sweet girl. i will give you want you need. i will give you everything-”

but he lets go of the thought, focusing instead on the way your cunt pulses and tenses around him every time you hear his voice. and who is he to deny you, when he has already denied so much?

this overwhelming pleasure, this sensation that lights his very bones aflame. he could have had this every single night since the day he took as you as his wife in the sept, if only he had not been so—

“baelor!” you cry out, whining and panting as he pulls himself out of you, using every last bit of strength he possesses. 

your sweet cunt clenches around nothing, pulsating as he flips you over onto your belly, folding your legs until you’re exactly how he wants you. he keeps his hands on the soft flesh of your ass, digging in his fingers until he’s sure he’s marked you.

and then he slides back in, feeling the grip you have on his cock, his own eyes rolling back for a moment. 

his muscles tense and his bodies shudders, the new position allowing him to feel every last inch of himself buried deep inside of you.

it’s when you turn your head, attempting to look back at him, that he truly loses all sense of control.

this is all your fault—of course. 

how could any red-blooded man, even one as patient as he, resist your charms and temptation? resist your sweet smiles and your devious plans to make him lose his composure? 

it had worked, he thinks, worked too well. there’s only so much a man can take before he must give in, before he has to please his wife—a duty given to him by the gods.

yes, baelor thinks, watching your lovely features tighten up, as your body mimics the very same around his cock, you are a gift from the gods. 

gifts are not meant to be ignored. they are meant to be cherished. 

baelor leans forward, gripping the back of your neck, pushing his body weight on top of you, fucking you harder than before. 

all that he hears is your cries, all that he feels is the sweat and slick of flesh hitting flesh, and all he can focus is on how your cunt swallows him so perfectly. he knows he cannot last much longer, not when you flutter around him as if you are doing it on purpose.

he pulls out once again, flipping you back over easily. his arms come around either side of your head, boxing you in, as your legs end up spread atop his shoulders. baelor folds you in half, his nose brushing yours, leaning in for another hot kiss as he slides back inside. 

it is all he can do not to spill instantly at the very site of your hiccuped moans with each and every thrust. you are so perfect, your body tensing up again, ready for another release, he knows. 

i know because i am your husband. your body speaks only to me. 

his fingers do not tease this time—flicking over your pearl repeatedly as you weep, perhaps wanting more, perhaps wanting him to slow down. he does not listen.

your back attempts to rise off the bed again, arching as he does not give up his ministrations on your most sensitive part. 

baelor feels you begin to peak before your mind has even begun to process it. you clamp around him, the tension increasing and building until it snaps. he leans in for a kiss as he works you through it, not stopping any motion, swallowing your gasps and your damp tears. 

your entire body is limp by the time you have finished your pleasure. 

it feels as though that alone is more than enough for him, baelor thinks. he slows down his thrusts, coming to cup your face gently, pressing a light kiss to you.

“how do you feel, sweet girl? are you well?”

“no,” you say, to his immediate alarm. if he was not already completely pressed against you, he would adjust until he had you in his arms entirely. 

“no?” he repeats. “what can i-”

“you have not given me your seed yet,” you say, blinking those pretty, bleary eyes at him.

you look ruined in every sense of the word—your face sparkling with tears, lips bruised and swollen, your entire body marked by him in some way or another.  

“please,” you continue, and baelor begins thrusting back into you, almost without even thinking of it. it must feel incredibly sensitive for you, as you shiver and tremble under him, but you do not give up on your goal. “i want it, husband. i want your seed. please, will you not give it to me?”

it does not take much.

baelor moans loudly against the skin of your neck, the brunt of his release hitting him squarely in the chest. his hips begin to stutter, losing his control as he feels the hot spend fill your pulsating cunt. even that does not stop, not until you have milked his cock completely dry.

you are maddening. a creature sent to torment him in the world of the living and in the land of dreams. 

you giggle at the sensation, likely pleased with your victory. you pull on baelor’s neck until he gives you another kiss—this one long and lingering, your tongues playing together until finally baelor’s muscles give out from sheer exhaustion. 

he collapses next to you, an arm sprawled across your body.

you end up curled against his chest, mewling like a satisfied kitten might after receiving a fair serving of milk. he can feel the heat of your body radiating onto him, the sweat that coated both of your skin and your soft, tired breaths as your body melts into his. 

finally satisfied, he thinks, a smug feeling rolling over him lazily. 

this is what you needed, he knows, and now the sedition has slowly seeped out of you, as his seed is seeping out of your cunt. 

“now, wife,” he says, the words a steady whisper into your ear. “sleep. we shall talk in the morning.”

“mmh,” you make a sweet, pleasant noise and he feels your body still as you enter your slumber.

hopefully a peaceful one, such as that after a fiercely fought battle has been won he thinks, his own eyes beginning to shut. 

it could only be moments later—he has not even felt himself descend into sleep—that you stir in his grip. your soft lips begin littering kisses up the column of his neck, over the hair of his beard that grows there, all the way up until you find the lobe of his ear. 

you kiss there too, teasing the skin between your teeth until you finally release it, his eyes almost fluttering open again. 

“husband,” you whisper into his ear, “can we go again?”

“seven hells-”

You argued until your throat ran sore. Their minds were made up; even Jace demanded you go. So here you were, trudging through the unexpected storm. Your escorts were few to keep attention minimal. The goal was to move you as quietly as possible; tension was drawing thin now, and there was no room for misstep.

The ship was waiting, just a few yards ahead. The docks were empty, save for a stray man lingering near the boarding.

Seastar whistled and whined as you approached- perhaps an omen you missed in hindsight.

Because when you approached to greet the head of the ship, he lunged for you.

Seastar flew, hovered above you as you fought against the man. The troop of men escorting you drew their swords quickly, ready to act until the sound of more men stopped them cold.

How the Hightower’s got word of your passage was unknown. But in a blink of an eye, it felt as if all your knights had been slain. Dozens of Hightower soldiers circled. You struggled against the hold of the shipkeeper- Seastar swooping in with a puff of smoke and fire. 

The man falls; fire takes his body slowly, and Seastar finds her place back onto your shoulders. You turn- Hightower men everywhere. You look to the ship- empty and not going anywhere anytime soon. You look to the murky waters and consider jumping, but the soldiers part and draw your attention.

The man, you could only assume to be Ormund Hightower, rode through the kicked-up smoke and dust. He did not hurry, for he did not need to. Every path around you was blocked, and every person who may have helped you was dead. Your dragon was too young to carry you to safety and too inexperienced to truly fight them off.

Ormund drew his rein a short distance away. His eyes scanned the area and landed on the burning man behind you- a slight smile curved his lips. “Your guards are dead. No one is coming.”

“Go to hell!” You snapped, your fingers so tight around the dagger they grew white. 

His expression didn’t change. “You have nowhere left to go.” He dismounted and began a slow pace towards you. “Come quietly, and you will not be harmed.” He stopped a few short steps from you. “Bend the knee and come to me.”

You look past him, to the sea of armoured men waiting for your next move. Seastar gave a weak cry. Ormund followed your gaze.

“No one is coming for you. Not your mother or your brother. Now come.”

You back away; Ormund doesn’t follow. He watches you look around again, weighing your lack of options. You run down the docks and towards the sea. The water is bitter against your body as you leap in- a last escape attempt. Futile, you know, as you swim against the lapping waves. Seastar overhead, you hear the pained cry of an arrow cutting through her lower body. She wavers and struggles; you look up, crying out in Valyrian for her to fly away.

She struggles and doesn’t seem to want to listen to you, but as his men draw closer to the water edge and more arrows break the air, you give one last desperate demand that she leave- return home to Dragonstone so that your mother may sense something wrong.

Seastar goes, and you hope she may make it. The burning pain of an arrow catching your shoulder stops your attempts to swim away. His men have come; you expect more arrows to strike you down, but the searing pain of the one in your shoulder is enough to send your vision blurry.

You wake with a stinging headache and a dull, burning sensation in your shoulder. You suck in a sudden breath, the air stale and dry. You look around, eyes heavy, and for a moment you could not recognize where you were. Dark stone walls, no windows, lying on a dirty floor of hay and blankets torn to rags.

You crawl to the wall, bracing yourself against it as you slowly rise. The room tilts around you, your head screaming at you to lie back down and sleep. Slowly, the pieces came back to you. The dock, the slain guards, seastar- you slowly made your way to the heavy oak door. You leaned against it, struggling to stand yourself upright. You paw at the handle, but it is locked and heavy. You look for a window- there are none. There’s a small hatch on the door, small enough to slip your hand though it opened. You ran your fingers over it; it only opened from the outside.

You wait in that room for hours. You’re unsure if it is morning or night, or how many days have passed since your capture.

Finally, that heavy door opens with a shrill creak.

Two guards enter first, parting the way for him.

Ormund enters. Clothes pressed neat, hair well groomed, his skin unmarked with a single stain. Unmarked with what he had done at the docks. He strode in, another following him. A younger boy, your nose crinkles. An image of Alicent, Dearon, you believed his name to be.

You force yourself to stand on wobbly legs to meet them. Ormund’s gaze flicked to the bandages around your shoulder, then to your dress- filthy and torn now. He looked to your face and waited for the door to close behind him.

“You were unconscious for nearly a day.” He commented, fake concern laced in his words.

“Leave,” you bit out.

“No.” He replied simply, sternly. “Bend your knee to me.” 

A bitter, dry laugh escaped you. It almost hurt to laugh; your upper body was sore. “You think I will bend to you?” You ask, “You think you are in any position to ask me- Princess of the realm, daughter to the rightful heir of the Iron Throne-”

It was Ormund’s turn to laugh now. He cut you off, taking a few steps toward you. “Rhaenyra has no right to the throne; she is no queen. She is a sniveling woman who mistook her dragon to be strength within herself.” His mouth curled with contempt as he spoke of her. “A bitch with a dragon- it is laughable. No true claim. No right. No strength worth naming. She was never meant for the throne.”

Your nails dig into your palms as he speaks of her. “Viserys named her heir- Aegon is unfit to rule, Aemond nowhere to be found- it is my mother’s right to take King’s Landing and sit the throne as my Grandfather intended!”

“There are more befit to rule.” He dismisses swiftly. “You are in no position to argue with me; bend your knee before me. I have no interest in harming you, but do not force my hand.”

“I will never submit to you.”

Ormund looks to the guards, then to Daeron and back to you. Surely he wasn’t stupid enough to think you would bend your knee to your mother’s enemies? 

 “Then you will not eat.”

“You think that frightens me?”

“You will not drink, either. You will not sleep in comfort. You will receive no wine, no milk of the poppy, no relief for your shoulder beyond what is necessary to keep the wound from killing you.”

“You would let me suffer?”

“Yes.” His answer came without hesitation. “You will bend the knee,” he continued. “You will know hunger, thirst, pain, exhaustion- all of the harsh realities of war I’m sure your bitch mother has kept from you. You will learn to understand that I am the only comfort you will know, and that it is best to be kind to me.”

“And if I still refuse you?” “There is no hurry.”

Daeron, who had stood silent the whole time, looked to you with uncertain eyes. You had never met him; you were familiar with Aegon and Aemond from childhood; you had once played in the gardens with Helana- snickered with Aegon and your brothers when they made a fool of Aemond. Daeron looked so different to them.

You were pale from the blood loss and hunger settling in your stomach. Your pride remained, of course; you had no intention of abandoning it so easily, but exhaustion was beginning to crack through.

At last, Daeron spoke. “Must she be treated so harshly?” Ormund turned his head at the quiet question, and Daeron hesitated to continue. “She is a prisoner. Is that not enough? Her mother’s choices are not hers.”

“You sound like a boy.” Ormund spat coolly, “I have taught you better, have I not? This is war,” Ormund continued. “Do not forget it simply because she is a woman or that she bats frightened eyes at you.”

“She is still a princess-”

“She is Rhaenyra’s daughter and nothing more.” Ormund beckons Daeron closer. “Look at her; she is a bastard just like her brother.” Daeron remains tightlipped, unsure of what to say now. Ormund is closer, almost in his face as he explains. “You think her mother’s crimes end with her? You think a dragon’s blood makes her innocent of the danger she represents? She is a living banner for a dead claim.”

Daeron glanced toward you. “She did not choose any of this.”

 “Mercy is a luxury for peacetime. We are not at peace. We are surrounded by enemies, and every weakness we show will be used against us. You will learn,” he said coldly. “Or this war will teach you.”

Ormund means what he says. You are left alone for what feels like an eternity. The walls feel as if they may close around you; the stale air makes breathing undesirable. Eventually, the guards return and grant you a sliver of bread and a sip of water. It does nothing but stir the hunger in you. 

They return and pull you to your feet- draw your arms above your head and bind your wrists harshly with rope. You're left as quickly as they came, arms tied above your head, hanging limp from the ceiling. Your feet cannot fully rest on the floor, just your toes pressed against the bitter stone, splintered with hay and dirt.

Your arms grow sore slowly. An ache travels down them into your shoulders. You crane your body and thrash at first, but as the days pass, you realise there was no give in your restraints. Your wrists were bound so tight you fear they would fall off. Gruff rope cuts into your skin; eventually, with every thrash, you feel blood leak from them, roll down your arms slowly.

How long had you been here? How long had you been tied up? Sleep did not come to comfort you; now and again you would doze off for a few moments, but the jolt of your restraints or hunger pains would stir you again. Food and water came sporadically, long stretches of time in between. You had never felt hunger quite like this before- you stomach growled and felt as if it would eat itself. Your limbs fell weak; you dreamed of the sweet reality of just being able to lie down.

One day the door opens, and Daeron slips inside quickly. You barely lifted your head to look at him. He lingers at the door for a moment, unsure in his movements as he slowly approaches you. “How long have I been here?” You ask weakly.

“Two weeks.” 

A tear brims in your eye. “That can't be.”

“I’ve brought you something.” He comes to you fully now, and your eyes find the cloth in his hands. He unwraps it quickly: a small portion of bread and cheese; your mouth pools with saliva. “Slowly,” he whispers, holding the bread to your lips. You take a small bit, eyes falling closed at the soft warmth of it. 

“Do you have water?” You ask, and he takes the small cup and puts it to your lips.

“Slowly,” he reminded again. Your eyes close; you feel as if you could shed a tear. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, and Daeron presses a rag to your cheek to carefully dry the tears slipping from your eyes. His face read of only discomfort, not an ounce of satisfaction upon seeing you like this.

“You need not thank me.” He sighed, “I am sorry for what has been done to you.”

You look up to study his face. Auburn hair, kind eyes, soft features. “You’re Daeron.” He nodded. “I never had the pleasure of meeting you.”

“No,” he said quietly. “You did not.”

“My half-uncle.” You laughed, but the word seemed to trouble him. He looked around the room, as if waiting for someone to burst in and put an end to his kindness.

“You cannot continue like this.” He pressed another sliver of bread to you. “You must bend-”

“No.” Your words came out strong, harsher than you had intended.

“He will not stop this until you do. Bend the knee, put an end to this.”

“Has my mother written?” You ask, “I know she will come for me.”

“He is not going to show mercy because you endure it. You are starving yourself to prove that you cannot be broken, but he will only keep waiting.”

“Why are you here? Why are you daring to ask me to bend?”

“Because I do not want to see you suffer.”

Your face twisted with anger. “Then stop him!”

“I am sorry,” he spoke lowly. “I cannot- I’m sorry.”

Daeron left with a promise that he would come back again. You tell him that if he only means to sway your allegiance to your family, that he should not return.

You’re left alone in the dark once more.

You think of home. Of Dragonstone. The salty winds of the sea coating your skin, the distant grumble of dragons. Your mother’s voice calling for you. Your eyes fall closed, and you try to picture her, your mother. The only true parent you had known. Laenor was absent until the day he died, and you knew as your brothers did that deep down he was not your father. Harwin- the distant memories you held of him in your youth. You wonder in the darkness what life would’ve been with him there to guide you alongside Rhaenyra.

Would you be stronger in this moment? As hunger gnawed your bones so hard you fear they may snap. 

“As long as I live,” Rhaenyra had once told you, “no harm will befall you.”

She had said it with such certainty. Her hand cradling your head as she pet your hair to lull you to sleep. You believed her, your little hands clinging to her skirts.

“You will always be a part of me.”

“Perhaps not near me.”

“Perhaps not always safe at my side.”

“But always a part of me.”

Your body fell lax against your restraints. You bent forward; finally, the stronghold of tears behind your eyes began to break. Slowly, as you thought of your mother. Her soft words and gentle hand upon you. How her voice would grow strong when she spoke of you and your siblings' claim, how soon she would rise to rule and everything would be well. You thought of Jaceerys; you had always been very close with him. Fiercely loyal and protective of one another. 

Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys- still so young, you had not seen them in so long you struggled to envision their faces. Baela and Rhaena, how you missed them so.

And Lucerys- you cried harder; they had already taken him from your mother, and now they planned to take you.

“You harbor the blood of the dragon.” Daemon’s voice found you next, pensive and cool. You loved him as if he were your father, the only true one you had come to know.

“Dragons do not beg the world to be kind.” He had sat before you, taken your chin in his hand and held your stare after you had lamented your worries of what would happen. King Viserys dead, Aegon crowned, your mother’s premature labour and Luke- you had gone to him in swells of tears- your mother gone, grieving her son.

“You are strong. Stronger than you yet know.”

As the war drew closer, his words had grown darker.

“There may come a time when you suffer. You must do things you never thought you could. War makes monsters of men. Sometimes survival demands that you become something harder than you wished to be.”

You hated the way he spoke of suffering, as if it was inevitable.

“You are fierce,” he had said. “Do not let anyone take that from you.”

Alone and cold in this room; weeping as a child. You tried to remember his words- you had the blood of the dragon; you could weather this.

Not long passed between Daeron's visit and Ormund’s next appearance. It was the same day you assumed, because Ormund strode in with Daeron hot on his heels. You picked your head up to meet them. “How was my bread?” He asked simply, his expression neutral, though his tone left shivers down your spine. 

“She was starving-”

“I know.”

“And you left her tied up like this- how is anyone supposed to survive-” “You decided that my orders did not apply to you?” He turns to Daeron, then back to you. “I will lecture you another time, Daeron; we are here to deal with her first and foremost.”

“I didn’t ask him-” “But you allowed him to feed you? You should have refused; you’ve taken my food without permission, without respect.” Ormund looked to Daeron again. “You pity her? You think I am cruel? This is war, Daeron- why do you pity her? Because she is a ‘princess’? Because she is pretty and knows how to flash such mournful looks to you? Because she is far reached family?”

“All I think is that this has gone too far,” Daeron responded quietly.

“Then you think yourself wiser than I am?”

“No.”

“Yet you disobey me.” A single cold look from Ormund hushed Daeron; you had even felt a pool of dread for the boy. Ormund stepped closer to you- his nose wrinkled. “You have bread in your stomach. My bread.”

You did not know what to say; you could only look to him helplessly. “Whatever kindness my cousin thought to offer you, you will not keep it.”

She stared at him, face twisting in confusion as he leaned closer to you. Your hand twitches to strike him, but you are still suspended. “You will bring it back up.”

The command in Ormund’s voice was quiet, unnervingly so. “No,” you croak out.

“You will not keep the comfort of bread in your stomach.” He turned to Daeron again, beckoning him closer. “You fed her.” He states simply. “Without my permission.”

“She was starving…”

“You will help correct your mistake.” Daeron went still, and you looked between the men.

“No.” You rasp again. Your stomach still churned with hunger; the bread had hardly satiated you. You could not bring yourself to throw it up now, even if you wanted to.

“You wanted to show her mercy. You wanted to ease her suffering. Very well. Now you must do what you can to undo it.” 

Daeron opened his mouth to argue, but couldn’t bring the words up. He looked between his cousin and you. “She is already weak-”

“Then you should have thought of that before you fed her.”

“This is not right.”

Ormund’s eyes hardened. “You disobeyed me.”

“Please-”

The word was not for Ormund, but for Daeron as he stepped closer to you. “You wanted to help her, help her now. I am sure your hand will be softer than a guard's.” 

“I’m sorry,” Daeron whispers to you, and again you tell him to stay away.

“Do not!”

Daeron reaches to grab your face, but cannot bring himself to touch you. “I cannot- please, Ormund.”

“You can; you have done this to her, now undo it.”

Daeron’s hand pinches your cheeks; you are too weak to shake him off. His hold on you remained as soft as it could be; it made it worse, you thought. His hands trembled as they met your lips. With ease, your jaw parts and his fingers slide uncertainty down your throat.

His face turned away, unable to watch your face twist. Heat rose to it; tears immediately flooded your eyes as you gagged. You catch a glimpse of Ormund before your vision blurs and blackens. He stands still behind his cousin, silent and composed.

“Understand, Daeron, that this is a small cost of mercy.” 

You vomit, harshly. Daeron makes an uncontrolled noise from his throat, teetering between a sob and a pained cry. It spills to the floor; it burns your throat, and you heave several times after it. When he is sure everything is out of your stomach, Daeron steps back with a tremble. You hang your head; drool slides down your chin.

Your stomach turns painfully.

The floor is cleaned swiftly; Ormund cannot stand the stench. You remain tied, throat dry and stinging. Dry tears and saliva dry against your skin; you can still smell it on your breath. It is unbearable. You do not sleep; the guards have taken to waking you every time you threaten to doze off. You have given up trying to count the days or deciphering whether it was sun or moon. You only have the opening and closing of that squealing door.

Ormund visits you again, this time alone. Clean, composed, and perfect as always. He closed the door; not even the guards entered with him. 

“Do you understand?” He asks after a long, heavy silence. 

“Why you starve me? Why you keep me awake? Why you tie me to walls?” You do not raise your head to look at him anymore. Your voice is frail and monotone. “Why you forced Daeron's hand down my throat?”

Ormund approached. “You were given food that you were not meant to keep. I am sorry that my ward brought that upon you, but you had to understand that nothing comes to you without my permission.”

“You are cruel,” you cry, “Crueler than any man I’ve ever heard of!”

“I am patient,” he replies simply. “You think I do these things because I enjoy your suffering.”

“You do.”

“I enjoy obedience- there is a difference.” You said nothing, only tried to stop the tears leaking from your eyes. “The savagery of your blood knows nothing of obedience. That is why war has fallen upon our houses. You could end all this with obedience; it is that easy. Yet you still fight me.”

“I always will.” You croak. For a second, his eyes sharpened on you. He takes slow, deliberate steps around you. His eyes take in your twisted shoulder, your tattered dress, the oil and sweat that slickens your hair.

“Your mother has made efforts to find you.” He finally speaks up again from behind. Your face changes before you can stop it; you almost jump at the words.

“Where is she?”

“She has sent men. She has sent ravens. She has searched where she believes you might be.” Hope flickered bright in your eyes, and he smiled. “But her efforts have lacked something.”

“What?”

“Urgency. She has not come herself.” Ormund continued, “It is a shame, is it not? To see the bitch queen fight so fiercely for a crown, yet so little for her own daughter.”

“She is looking for me,” you insist, and he only hums lowly. “She will come.”

“If she meant to come, she would already be here. You must understand,” he said. “Your mother will not save you.”

You shake your head. “You lie.”

“Lots has happened in your weeks here.” He states, “Your brother- for example- has fallen. What was that bastard Prince’s name again?”

“Jace.” You pick your head up once again. “Jace cannot be- you lie! All you do is lie!”

“That is what occupies her mind; I am sure you are long forgotten as she and Daemon prepare to ride for King's Landing- I hear that with her new dragon riders, she has already sought new blood to replace you.”

“No- she searches for me- you lie!”

“Then where is she now? Why has she not stormed Oldtown to take you back? With her Dragon, Plenty- why has Daemon not torn through our walls himself to get his daughter back? Oh, is it because you are not his?”

You struggle and flail against your binding; you lunge for him, and he doesn’t move an inch. “Bend the knee.” He orders; you do not answer; you can only cry and fight to get to him.

“She is coming for me- they all are.” Your tone declines steadily. As if you were doubting your own words, your head spins and aches.

“I do not doubt that your mother loves you, but love did not protect you. She sent you to sea with only a few measly guards? Not even a dragon to aid your departure. Love did not stop me from taking you.” Ormund, for the first time, reaches to touch you. You watch as he does so stiffly, dreading almost caressing the filth on your cheek. But he does so; his fingers scrape over your skin. The first touch you had felt in weeks; you shiver at the feeling. “You would rather suffer for a woman who could not keep you safe than accept your place here?”

“I do not know anymore.” You whisper, voice hitching.

“You need not hate her; I am not so unreasonable. Keep your love, but you must kneel to me. Say that she was wrong, that her claim must end. That you will no longer stand for Rhaenyra Targaryen so that I may do what is necessary to aid you.”

“Okay.” You whisper, defeated.

That one simple word changes everything. Ormund has you cut down, and your body crashes onto the floor hard. Your legs are too worn to hold you up at the moment. Your arms shake as you sit up. You slowly shift until you are on your aching knees. You’ve lost a considerable amount of weight, but still it aches to press into your legs for support. Your hands tremble and clutch your skirts.

You struggled to look at him. He was untouched by the grime of the cell. Dark hair nearly arranged, clean-shaven, clothing pressed perfectly to his body. Rich greens and blacks edged with gold, fine clothing you had once pranced around in without a thought. Now sit before him, tatters, stained and blackened with dirt.

Broad-shouldered and imposing. His back was straight. His chin was lifted. His hands rested calmly at his sides, as though he had been waiting for this moment with absolute certainty that it would come today.

Ormund’s gaze moved over you slowly. “Look at me.”

“Look at me.” He repeated when you struggled to do so. His face portrayed nothing but pride. He had wanted this. Had been waiting so patiently for it. He had starved you for it. Bound you, broke your strength, taken away everything. You truly had nothing else to give him, but this.

“You have suffered, and you endured it. Strong,” he said quietly. “Just as you were taught to be.” Then he said, “You should have done this sooner.”

You lowered your eyes in shame; he only reveled in the victory.

Ormund waited another night before bringing you from the cell. You slept on the floor, truly slept this time. You were woken to guards lifting you harshly, dragging you from the small cell. The light burns your eyes. You flinch and weakly raise a hand to cover them. The air almost stings as you suck in a great breath; relief washes over your body.

You’re taken to a washroom, left alone until several servants come hurrying in. They undress you and warm a bath. They wash you; it is embarrassing as they scrub at your skin with force. Untangle your knotted and dirty hair. They empty the steaming bath water several times until it runs clear and your skin is devoid of any dirt. They urge you into the bath once more, water steaming around you as you sink into the warmth. Your head lulls back; you could almost sleep if there weren’t dozens of women tending to you.

Petals tickle your skin, floating with other aromatics in the water. They clean under your nails and remove your bandages. Your wound is long healed, though not cleanly. There will forever be a scar impaling your shoulder. It’s gnarly; you can’t stand to look at it as they gently clean and wrap it once more for the time being.

When they finish washing you, you are ushered out and dressed quickly. A loose nightgown, long flowing sleeves, and a robe slipped over it. The softness leaves goosebumps on your skin; you draw it tighter to your body and follow them to the next room.

A bedroom. You are sat on the bed, and a small plate of food is brought. Bread and broth, small portions. You know that is the best for you right now, but you cannot help but to imagine gorging it all down- then more and more, until your belly finally stops its screaming. They fed you, painfully slowly. You eat in silence, still yet to utter a single word.

They leave eventually; your belly holds the broth and bread uneasily, and you know it will be a long time before your body reaccustoms to the food. The door is locked from the outside; you’re left alone once again. The windows are barred, but light still filters in. The bed is soft under you, softer than you could ever dream of. You sink into the mattress absentmindedly. Your heavy eyes struggle to keep open, and without a second breath, you fall into a deep, long sleep.

You woke alone, to a dim room. The hearth lit in the corner; soft crackles of firewood pricked your ears and roused you from your heavy slumber. You were nestled under a thick blanket of fur, your body heavy against the bed. Your motions were slow as you rolled over to your side. You pushed yourself up slowly to look around and took another few moments to muster the will to move again.

Your knees wobbled, muscles stiff and still heading sleep's delicious call. You inched towards the door, pressing a hand to it and trying the handle- locked, of course. You stumbled to the wall beside the fire, head still fuzzy as your knees gave out and you slid to the floor.

You weren't sure how long you remained there, hunched over and soaking in the fire’s heat. You hardly noticed the door swing open and footsteps coming to your side. Strong hands met you, pulling you up with ease and leading you back to the bed. You fell onto it weakly and looked up to meet Ormund’s blue eyes.

“You’ve woken, finally; you’ve been sleeping for days.” He almost laughed as if he weren’t the reason for the state you were in.  “Slowly.” He spoke softly as you sat up once again.

Your throat was dry. “How long?”

“Nearly a week,” he answered, getting up to pour you a glass of water. He handed it to you with a smile. “You fell ill; fever took you your second night here.”

You stared at him, in a daze. He pressed a cool hand to your forehead. “Thankfully, you slept through most of it.”

You tried to move again, but exhaustion dragged at your limbs. Ormund rose immediately, stopping you from getting up. “Do not-”

“I can sit up!” you argued weakly. 

“You can barely keep your eyes open.” His voice was gentle, the act of a kind Lord returning. It is only an act; he was a master of deceit and flowery words, you remind yourself. He brings the water close to your face; you turn away quickly. Instead he lets you take it in your hands, trembling so fiercely you can barely lift it. He takes it back and supports it as you drink.

You hated that you needed his help. “Slowly,” he murmured. His voice was too soft, too intimate as he spoke so close to you. You drank, the sting of discomfort once again rising in your belly.

“Why are you acting like this?”

He said nothing.

“You lock me in a cell. Starve me. Torture me.” Your voice was weak, but the words were not. “And now you wash me and put me in a bed.”

“You needed care.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “You are the reason I needed it.”

“I had no intention of letting you die.”

“How comforting.”

“I mean it.” He pauses. “You have suffered enough.”

“Have I?”

“You have suffered enough to understand.”

You looked to the locked door, then to the barred windows. “What happens now? I have bent my knee to you.”

He stood, setting the cup aside. He paced the room a moment before answering. “You will rest and recover. Then I suppose it will be time you learn what your life will be from now on.”

You were too weak to fight him anymore. Too weak to shout. Anger possessed too much strength right now. A terrible thought popped into your mind: perhaps it was no longer worth it to fight at every moment. 

Perhaps the door would always be locked.

And Ormund would always be there.

Your head spun as you thought of it all. Ormund broke you from it, offering more water.

You closed your eyes, head rushed with pain. Slowly you nod, and he gives it to you.

It would seem that he has you right where he desires. Weak and frail, unable to do for yourself. Depending on him, and only him, for water, then food, then warmth- it kept going. 

He visits you periodically over the next few days. Slowly you regain enough strength to stand and do for yourself, but still he swoops in at every moment of frailty to offer assistance. It is cruel- you know- what he has done to you. But each visit gets easier to get through, to bite your tongue and swallow your pride. 

Ormund intends to marry you. 

Deep-rooted possession seeps from his pores as he looks to you. Political triumph shines in his eyes. What a twisted path fate had set you on. A bastard princess meant to flee wartime across the narrow sea- only to fall right into his hands.

His war prize, he mused. 

Not riches, land, or title.

Just you. Rhaenyra’s beloved daughter. 

The daughter of the woman Ormund despises. A living piece of the enemy’s bloodline, taken before you could flee. You will be his wife, paraded around publicly to the realm. Once he was certain you could behave, he could bring you into the light of his household. Dress you in his colors- as a Lady Hightower.

And every time you stood beside him, everyone would understand; Rhaenyra’s daughter had been taken. You had been made to kneel. You belonged to him now and forever.

“Do you understand what you are to me?”

“You were meant to flee across the sea. Instead, you were led right into my hands. Isn’t it well that I was the one to intercept you?”

Your family would never truly reclaim you. The thought of them does not frighten Ormund, for they would not dare risk your safety. Let them come with men and Dragons; he would merely press the cool blade of his sword to your neck and threaten to cut it open before them all.

“Let your mother send every ship she has. Let your father gather his armies.” Ormund's voice chilled to your bone. His body heavy upon yours, his hands possessive and smoothing over your skin as he pleases. “The moment they advance, I will put a blade to your throat.” 

You are forced to indulge him, to hold him back as he wishes. To run fingers through his hair and press feather-light kisses to his skin.

“And then,” he would muse, voice husky with excitement as he thought of the pleasure of taking you from them. “If they take another step, I will cut until the blade reaches your bone.”

They would not risk losing Rhaynyra’s only daughter. They would not let their so-called queen lose yet another child to war. 

He muses on what he would do to you if they tested him, but deep down he wishes the day never comes. He wants you to himself, like this, forever.

He does not want you sent to a convent, exchanged for political gain, or married elsewhere. He does not want you returned to your mother. He wants to be the one who possesses the daughter of the woman he hates so deeply.

He was the man who took you. 

The marriage comes swift, once you grow accustomed to his stern politeness and trust to feed from his hand. Once the swells of anger he takes out on the objects around him fall deft on your ears and you no longer look to him with contempt- but with tired agreement. You were his wife now. A prisoner can be exchanged for more. A stolen child reclaimed. A captive princess rescued.

But his wife? Bound to him in the eyes of the gods? Never. 

Besides, this was better than what your mother could ever give you. He believed it wholeheartedly. You will not fade in the background of war. You will remain safe, no one daring to touch a hair upon your head. He will dress you in the finest green gowns. Comfort, status reborn, protection.

Your hands smooth down your dress again and again, as though doing so could calm the trembling you feel inside. Your eyes remain lost upon the stone wall before you, cold and grey, just like this room that is not your home. You no longer clench your fists as you once did, but your fingers still tremble faintly as you run the fabric of the dress between them. You have been waiting for a long time, far too long. Gwayne should have arrived by now. Every night, when the sun disappears and everything falls silent, you whisper his name into the darkness, as though speaking it could make him appear, as though the words themselves possessed the power to bring him back to your side. But he does not return, and the fear grows within your chest like a weed you cannot tear out.

You remember when it all began, when Otto Hightower learned that Gwayne wished to marry you. It was a scandal that spread through every corner of the stronghold. Of course, you were nothing more than the daughter of an ordinary peasant woman, with no lands, no important family name, and no wealth to offer. And carrying the Hightower name after marrying him was almost an insult to them, something shameful they whispered about behind your back. But in the end, it was not quite so important, because Gwayne was the youngest of the family, the second son, the one who, according to the laws of the realm, had practically lost his importance from the moment he was born. He would inherit neither lands nor great titles, so if he married whomever he wished while continuing his training as a knight of the realm, there would not truly be a problem. And so Gwayne did it. He took you as his wife and, at the same time, became a knight, fulfilling both his dream and yours.

You remember that day clearly, as though it had been yesterday. Queen Alicent had left her youngest son, Daeron, with the Hightower family. Gwayne took him into his arms and looked at you, and in that instant, you understood everything without him having to say a single word.

“He is so small,” Gwayne said, holding him carefully and bringing him closer to you with a tenderness that made you smile.

You looked at him curiously, watching the baby who could barely open his eyes, and an unavoidable smile escaped you before you could stop it. “He has the Hightower name written all over him,” you whispered, pointing toward the small emblem on the blanket wrapped around him.

“Well, he was left with the greatest recognition a Targaryen can receive,” Gwayne admitted, before pointing toward the dragon egg that had been left beside the child, unhatched, cold and grey like a stone. “Father wants to send him far away so that he may be raised as a warrior.” His voice grew quieter as he spoke, as though he were sharing a secret. You lifted your gaze to meet his green eyes. “The same fate he chose for me,” he whispered.

“I can care for him,” you said, looking directly at him as you felt your hands longing to reach for the little one. “Having a child now is… well, your father believes it is not the right time. He has warned us many times, but with Daeron, we can… be that for him.” Your words emerged in a whisper, filled with hope and fear alike. “We can be his parents and give him the love he might not receive elsewhere.”

Your husband’s green eyes looked at you with a light you had never seen before, and he slowly nodded. “Although Alicent might someday… claim him,” he whispered, watching you with concern as he held the child with only one arm, while his other hand moved aside the brown hair that had fallen rebelliously across your face. When he tucked that strand behind your ear, his hand caressed your cheek with such gentleness that you closed your eyes for a moment, and then he tenderly lifted your chin so that you would look at him. “If we become attached…” He left the sentence unfinished, but you knew what he meant.

“You will have to do whatever the queen commands,” you said as you looked at him, feeling the weight of those words settle within your heart. But he shook his head.

“I would never take something away from my wife,” he said firmly, although his voice trembled slightly. “Least of all if doing so would make her suffer. I would stand against the Seven Kingdoms if they tried to take Daeron from us.” His hand tightened around yours, as though he wanted to make certain that you understood what he was saying.

“She has three children, Gwayne,” you said, remembering the other Targaryen children. “Making him grow up as though he had been forgotten would be… a miserable life, and he does not deserve a miserable life.” You moved closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body near yours. “We must give him a real family.”

And so he remained with you. Throughout all those years, you were always honest with the little boy who grew up as your son. You reminded him that his true parents were Alicent and King Viserys, because you believed it was only fair for him to know the truth, but you also told him that, to both of you, he was your only son, the most important one, the child who had entered your lives and filled them with joy.

But one night, when Daeron was eight years old, he asked you a question that broke your heart. He was preparing to sleep, his small head resting against the pillow and his large eyes looking at you solemnly.

“And when you have children,” Daeron asked in a calm voice, though there was a faint tremor beneath it, “will you remove me from your lives as well?” His fingers played with the edge of the blanket as he waited for your answer.

“No, never,” you told him, settling him into bed and carefully tucking him beneath the covers. “When we have children, they will be your siblings, because you are my son, my first, and your father loves you just as much as I do.” You gently stroked his hair. “It does not matter if they claim you. I will be there no matter what happens, always, because you are mine, and nothing will ever change that.”

And you kept that promise, even when war began in King’s Landing and everything changed. That night, Gwayne told you in a low, trembling voice, while your hands began to shake uncontrollably.

“Why now?” you whispered fearfully, feeling as though the ground were shifting beneath your feet. “Why does it have to be now?”

Gwayne knew it was the worst possible moment. Daeron was already a sixteen-year-old adolescent, a young man who loved the peaceful life you had given him, who spent his days caring for his younger brother Tyland, the child who had been born with the same red hair as a Hightower, just like Gwayne’s. That was enough for Daeron to truly love his family, because neither you nor Gwayne had ever drawn a distinction between your sons. Despite everything, Daeron carried Targaryen blood, and in that war, both of you knew what would come if someone claimed him.

“It is… I need to fight so that I may return to you,” Gwayne said, cradling your cheek between his large, warm hands. His fingers caressed your skin as though they wished to memorise every part of your face. “My sons and my wife are in danger. If Daeron is claimed in this war, I cannot imagine it. I cannot bear the thought of losing him or of someone using him.” His voice broke slightly, but he continued speaking. “But I will return. I always return. A knight never lies, and no matter where I may be, I will never dishonour my wife or my family.”

“Will you go with Ser Cole?” you asked, feeling the knot tighten in your throat. “The same man who never tires of insulting any woman who crosses his path.” You remembered the times you had heard his cruel words, the way he spoke of women as though they were lesser than men.

Gwayne shook his head, and his green eyes looked upon you with love. “Your husband is different, is he not? Have I not shown you, time and time again, that I am yours?” His fingers intertwined with your own. “Give me your trust once more, and I will return to you. I swear it by the Seven Gods.”

But the war caught up with Daeron, with you, and with little Tyland. One night, when you thought Gwayne had returned, Lord Ormund arrived at your home with his men and walked inside as though the lands belonged to him. You watched him from the doorway, feeling your heart begin to race with fear.

“The boy is coming with me,” Ormund said without any further preamble, looking you up and down as though you were nothing more than an ordinary servant. His voice was harsh and left no room for argument. Your body shuddered at those words, and your hands clung to the doorframe to keep yourself from falling.

“Daeron will not take part in that war,” you said in a voice firmer than you had believed yourself capable of, but Ormund laughed in your face, a cold laugh that froze your blood.

“This is what happens when too much power is given to a simple peasant woman,” he said, gripping your chin forcefully and pulling you closer until you could feel his breath against your face. “You are nothing before me. Now tell Daeron that he will fight for his family. I am going to begin cleansing him of that foolishness about you being his mother, because you are not. You never have been.”

“We never lied to him about where he came from,” you said with difficulty, feeling his fingers pressing into your skin. “If he sees me as his mother, it is because I did what Alicent could not. I gave him love and care. I raised him as though he were my own blood.”

Ormund smiled, but it was not a kind smile. That was when you heard Daeron’s voice behind you.

“Mother?” he asked, and then his tone changed when he saw Ormund. “Lord Ormund,” he said at once, his body going rigid.

Ormund released your chin and turned toward him with a triumphant smile. “I see that they have at least taught you some manners,” he said sarcastically. “We are going to war. Everything has already been prepared, and you will even bring that beast from outside.” He spoke of the dragon with disgust, as though it were an irritating animal rather than a powerful creature.

You looked at him, and you knew that Daeron would always protect you, no matter what. It was what Gwayne had taught him: to care for his family, to remain loyal, and never to abandon those he loved. But he was also your son, and fear ran through your entire body at the thought of what might happen to him.

Then your gaze returned to the present. You were in a room that was not yours, in Bitterbridge, which was nothing compared to your home. The walls were made of cold stone, the room itself was cold, and Tyland slept in the bed, the younger of your two sons, his dishevelled red hair spread across the pillow. Ormund had taken you with them. He had dragged you into the small encampment houses they had prepared for the war. Because, of course, he had to make certain that he would meet Gwayne despite everything, and if he kept you with him, then it was more than obvious that Gwayne would come. He always did. He always came looking for you, no matter how far away you were.

Your hands tightened over your dress as the memory of those days returned to your mind like a cold wave. You had been unable to protect Daeron, and that weighed on you more heavily than anything else. You had argued with Ormund so many times that you had already lost count. The first time was when he forbade Daeron from flying with his dragon, claiming it was a waste of time and that the boy needed to remain close to the ground like any ordinary soldier. The second was when he ordered the men in his army to shout at a group of defenceless civilians merely to frighten them, and you tried to intervene. But the worst of all was when he forced your boy, your Daeron, to kill an innocent man with his own hands. That day, you had tried to reach him, to run toward him and stop it, but Ormund seized your wrist with such force that you cried out.

“You cannot make him do that. He is only a child,” you said desperately, feeling tears threatening to spill from your eyes as you watched Daeron holding the sword, his hands trembling, looking at you with fear and confusion. His pale face broke your heart.

“It is none of your concern,” Ormund whispered with a cold smile, because of course he would not speak poorly of you while Daeron and his dragon were both in the same place. He knew the boy defended you, and that irritated him more than he wished to admit. “Servants do not interfere where they have not been summoned. You are not his mother. He was born for a greater role.” His voice became poisonous as he continued. “Besides, I need to make certain that your husband is still alive. Otherwise, I will decide what is to be done with you and your child.” His fingers tightened around your wrist, and you felt the pain all the way to the bone. “Now leave,” he ordered, and his men dragged you out of the hall while you could do nothing but look back and see Daeron with fear filling his eyes.

The mere memory of those days made several tears slip down your face now as you sat in that cold room. But then the door opened with a quiet creak, and you heard a voice you knew better than your own.

“Mother,” Daeron’s voice whispered, and you quickly wiped away your tears with the back of your hand, not wanting him to see you like this. You rose from the chair and looked at him, trying to appear strong.

“Yes?” you asked, straightening your dress and smoothing it down with your still-trembling hands. “We agreed that you cannot call me that here. I am your aunt,” you reminded him, looking directly at him and hoping no one else had heard. He slowly nodded, understanding the danger.

“Father has returned,” he whispered excitedly, and his eyes lit up in a way that reminded you of when he had been only a small child.

“Thank the gods,” you said with emotion, feeling the weight in your chest ease slightly. You looked toward the bed where Tyland slept and thought about how you would wake him to tell him that his father had returned.

But before you could leave to search for him, footsteps echoed through the corridor. Daeron immediately straightened, his body tense like a drawn bow, but when he saw Gwayne enter through the doorway, he relaxed completely. Your eyes fixed upon your husband, and your heart lurched.

“You look dreadful,” you whispered, taking in his filthy clothes, his dishevelled hair, and the dark circles beneath his eyes. But he approached you without caring about any of it, as though he had gone years without seeing you.

Gwayne cradled your cheeks between his large, warm hands and looked at you as though he were committing every part of your face to memory. He tilted your neck slightly so that he could see you better, and then took your hands in his. Daeron, who had been watching, did not understand his father’s actions until his eyes followed Gwayne’s gaze and landed upon the dark bruise around your wrist, the one Ormund had left days earlier when he had gripped you with such force.

“Did he do something to you?” Gwayne asked, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone. But you shook your head, trying to make it seem unimportant. “Daeron, did Ormund do anything to your mother?” he asked his son without taking his eyes off you.

“No, Father,” Daeron replied quickly, but then corrected himself as you had taught him. “Uncle,” he whispered, lowering his gaze.

Gwayne clenched his jaw, and fire burned within his green eyes. “If he did anything to you—if he did anything to any of you—I will not hesitate to slit his throat,” he said with a calmness far more frightening than any shouting could have been.

“He did nothing to me,” you said, and he nodded, though he did not appear convinced.

Then he embraced you, and you felt his body against yours, the scent of sweat and earth clinging to him, and the beating of his heart against your own. “I know I smell awful,” he said with a tired laugh, “but I spent so many nights dreaming of holding my wife again.” His arms wrapped tightly around you, and you clung to him as though he were your only lifeline in the midst of a raging sea.

Daeron smiled nervously as he watched his parents embrace, but his smile faded when he spoke. “You are not going to leave us, are you, Father?” he whispered in such a small voice that both of you turned to look at him. His large, frightened eyes reminded you of when he had been an eight-year-old boy asking whether you would abandon him.

Gwayne slowly released you and looked first at you, then at Daeron. “I need to think about what we should do,” he said seriously. “He is their most valuable piece. You know that, do you not?” he asked you, referring to the way Ormund used Daeron as his most valuable weapon.

“He made that perfectly clear,” you said, feeling a knot tighten in your throat. “Perhaps he can escape from here with Tessarion,” you added, looking at Daeron. “And we can flee by land. Rhaenyra is queen now, and I know it will not be long before they come here.” Your voice trembled slightly as you said it, because you knew danger lurked around every corner.

“Then let us ask for forgiveness,” Daeron said, hope rising in his voice, but you shook your head, feeling the weight of reality pressing down upon you.

“Darling,” you said, taking his face between your hands, “they killed two of her children in the span of only a few months. They deceived her with a boy who was not you.” You remembered how they had used a false Daeron to deceive the queen, and a shiver ran down your spine. “Had they surrendered you alongside Daemon, Queen Rhaenyra would surely have forgiven us. But now she may believe that we are traitors.” Your fingers caressed his cheek as you watched him come to understand your words.

“We will get out of here,” Gwayne said with determination, looking at both of you. “I will do whatever it takes, but for now, we must be cautious around Ormund.” He looked directly at you, and his hand found yours. “Be prepared. We may have to leave at any moment. Daeron, study every possible escape route you could take with the dragon, and I will take care of your mother and your brother.”

Daeron nodded and then stepped closer to embrace you tightly. You could feel his body trembling slightly, and you wrapped your arms around him in return, pressing a kiss to his hair. Gwayne smiled, taking your hand and kissing it gently. He had spent weeks believing that he would never see you again, that you had been lost to him forever. The fact that you were here against your will was a grave mistake on Ormund’s part. He believed that manipulating Daeron would allow him to control Gwayne, that holding you hostage would make him meek and obedient. But all he had truly accomplished was enraging a husband devoted in body and soul to his family—a man who would do anything to protect those he loved, regardless of the consequences.

The Meeting:

            The halls of the Keep were dark and cold and angry, if such a thing can truly be attributed to walls; the stench of blood and dragons and rot clinging to the stonework. Ormund didn’t like it, his father having instructed him long ago in the fact that the Targaryens are sinful, that they are rot and ruin and destruction, driving the land to chaos. 

            “Disgusting dragon riders,” he whispers, scuffing one booted foot along the carved stone floor. 

            “That’s not very nice, now is it?” a voice calls out from the shadows, one light and young and pretty, lilting through the air, echoing off the coldness like fire, wrapping him in warmth. He looks around, craning his head to catch a glimpse of the speaker, but he sees nothing. Nothing but stone and torches and tapestries and shadow. 

            “Who is there?” he calls out, his voice still young, still that of a child, the boy of seven which he is, the one tryingso hard to be a man for his father. To show his father that he’s worthy of the Hightower name, the seat, the power. 

            “It is I, the ghost that haunts these hallowed halls,” the voice continues, a bit of laughter contained in the wavering soprano sound. 

            “The ghost of what?” he asks, turning fully now in circle after circle looking, looking, looking and seeing nothing. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

            “You don’t believe ghosts?” the voice says, the words lilting up in a question yet tinged with a darker edge, a blade over his neck threatening to fall. “You, who live in the time of dragons and dragon riders. You, who live in the time of witches and magic and power, don’t believe in ghosts?” The voice seems to come from everywhere all at once, surrounding him with the darkening, deepening edge. 

            “N-no,” he stutters, straightening his shoulders, attempting to regain his composure, his power. The strength of the Hightower blood, the one not tainted by sin as his father says. 

            “You are a fool,” the voice says, blunt and cruel and tinged with hatred, anger. Disdain. Disdain for him? The Hightower heir? “And I am the ghost of the Dragon Queen.”

            “There is no such Dragon Queen in our history,” he says, now fully believing that it is simply a figure he cannot see, crossing his arms with the arrogance that only a seven year old lord can have. 

            “History is told by the victors, young Hightower,” the voice says. “Not the losers. Not the women who serve only as tools in the narrative you men create.”

            “You speak in blasphemy,” he says and above him he hears rustling. He looks up just as you drop down, dressed in riding clothes, landing on the stone floor in a crouch, eyes narrowed on him, cold and cruel and assessing despite the youth in your cheeks, the innocence that seems to radiate from you. “You are no ghost.”

            “You’re quite the genius, aren’t you?” you counter, crossing your small child arms over your chest, big eyes rolling at him in annoyance. “I am the Princess Targaryen at your service.”

            “You are not Princess Rhaenyra,” he says, having already met the silver-haired, tainted blood offspring of a poisoned, corrupted king. 

            “There are two princesses, you idiot,” you reply, eyes rolling once again and he struggles to see you as a child of five, a shadow haunting your eyes that makes you seem infinitely older. 

            “You are the half-borne,” he says, no malice in his tone yet your face twists, pinches, curls inwards, rage shimmering in your non-Targaryen eyes. 

            “Rhaenyra is my twin,” you hiss, stepping closer to him, your small chubby finger jabbing into his chest with more force than he expected. “Borne seven minutes before me. It does not matter if the rumours are true and we came from the same womb or not. I am her twin and she is mine. I am her other half, her opposite.”

            “If you are her twin,” he says, reaching forwards to touch your hair, feel it in his fingers, but you slap it away with your other hand, such force for a girl of five. “Then why are you not…” he trails off, unsure of how to word what he wants to say, unable to play the diplomatic game like his father. 

            “Not Targaryen?” you finish and he nods, your eyes rolling again and he wants to say that it is insolence to your better, but technically your station is higher than his and even though tainted blood runs through your veins, Ormund feels a strange sort of power. The kind that one would bend the knee for, serve for when there is no one else like it. “I am the darkness and she is the light.”

            “What do you mean dark? Light? There are no such denominations in the Seven,” he says, already knowing his scripture more than his history, Oldtown for piety and true faith. Not like King’s Landing, like the Keep. Like the Targaryens. 

            “You cannot find everything in your gods, young Hightower,” you whisper, stepping back from him. “I am the dark because I will do whatever she will not. I will cross any line.” With that, you smile once, a smile that makes you look like the five year old you are before melting backwards into the shadows. 

            In the space of one breath and the next, Ormund finds that you are gone. Completely. Faded away like you were never there at all. 

            And yet…Ormund is left the idea that perhaps tainted blood does not mean tainted people. 

            Perhaps…perhaps his father is wrong.

The General:

            Ormund is back in King’s Landing, sent by his father to see his uncle, his cousins. A diplomatic exercise, one where one must learn to see their enemies’ weaknesses in order to exploit them later on the battle, but he wishes that were still home. Still in Oldtown, waking in his bed, the familiar scent of prayer rather than the lingering stench of human refuse and dragon. 

            “Come on! Is that the best you can do?!” a voice, familiar and pretty, yet edged like a sharp drawn sword echoes along the stone walls and he steps forwards, away from the carriage which brought him back to the Keep, away from his family, towards the sound. The one he’s held onto since he was seven. 

            The one of power unmatched despite the tainted blood. 

            The one that made him question—makes him question—his father’s rulings. Beliefs. Makes him want to know himself and what he thinks rather than what he was told to believe. 

            “Princess,” replies an aggrieved, tired voice, accompanied by the clang of metal on metal, a sword blade hitting a sword blade. “I will hurt you if I give you all I have.”

            “Ser Rickon,” your voice replies, cocky and light and soothing to the now fourteen year old Ormund. Soothing in ways he doesn’t entirely understand. “I’ve been holding back too.” Ormund steps around the bend of the Keep, taking in the sight of the training yard, of you the Targaryen-not-Targaryen bedecked in fitted armour, holding a sword and clashing, pushing back against the fully grown, aged Kingsguard with a fury in your movements that he could never track. Not completely. 

            He knows, without a doubt, that anyone set against your blade would lose. It seems like you hold the ability toknow your opponent’s next move before they do. Anticipate and change your strike for soon the Kingsguard is on the ground, his sword kicked aside and your blade pressing against the hollow of his throat. 

            “I shall speak to my father,” he hears you say, stepping back and offering one hand to the man, which he takes, letting you haul him to his feet with more strength than one would expect from a girl of twelve. A princess no less. “Training must be improved. If this is what protects our lives…pity.” You turn, eyes scanning the yard, settling upon him, lips curling back in a smile that is strange and delightful as you lift a singular gloved hand up to wave at the same the guard comes up behind you for a stealth attack, one you’ve already anticipated, stepping to the side, his body collapsing on the ground. “Honestly, Ser Rickon! You do not fight in the yard when a lady’s back is turned! Manners, Ser. Manners.”

            “You’re quite good, Princess,” Ormund calls out, aware of the way your gaze has never left him even as you kick the guard in the side lightly as he lets out a broken chuckle, your steps moving up the hill towards him, his family behind him. He can practically hear the gears turning in his uncle’s head, Otto forever trying to figure out ways to make the throne a Hightower affair, his in truth. 

            But all Ormund cares about is you—the ghost of the mythical Dragon Queen, the darkness to Princess Rhaenyra’s light. 

            “I’m not bad,” you reply, now stopping before him, digging the point of your elaborate sword into the ground, stepping towards him, offering him your metal gloved hand for a shake. One he takes, a strange urge inside of him to feel your skin against his. To feel what you would feel like, if your hand would fit to his as if by the Seven’s creation. “But I have a long time to improve.”

            “Why do you practice?” Ormund asks, his uncle’s scoff audible behind him, his cousin Alicent’s small laugh, your eyes narrowing past him at them, lip curling and jaw setting before you turn back to him. 

            “Because one day,” you whisper, stepping closer, your hand still in his as you pull him to you, your bodies close yet not touching, “I will be a general. I will fight for my honor, my sister’s and the throne. Your family does not believe a woman can do so…I say,” you pull back, letting go of his hand, lips curved in a smirk as your eyes turn behind him, no doubt focused on his uncle, “all the more reason to prove the fuckers wrong.”

            You spin, turning away, the back of your armour, emblemed with a singular dragon appearing to claw up and off your back, hand reaching forwards, grabbing the sword from the dirt, sheathing it on the strange contraption on your back and walking away as his uncle sputters about manners, propriety. 

            Everything that being a princess is—but being a general is not. 

            “The General Targaryen,” Ormund muses beneath his breath, watching as you walk away, the only Targaryen seemingly free of the curse of taint and sin and disgust. The only one who seems proper even if you break all the rules. “The General Hightower.”

            He likes the sound of that title better. But not for him. 

            He likes it for you. 

            He just doesn’t yet understand why. 

The Betrothal:

            “Sister!” Rhaenyra calls out, her voice arching through the room, bouncing off the stone walls, surrounding you with the lightness. The lightness that has been darkening as all has come to pass. All that you have foreseen, all that you have known. All that you have plotted for and against. 

            “You are betrothed, I presume,” you call out as she steps into the room, her crown upon her head, the Princess of Dragonstone in entirety. 

            “I don’t like it when you do that,” she says and you twist on the stool before your dressing table, taking note of the way her face is drawn tight, the expression only slightly more open than before. You remember when she yelled at you, screamed and cursed the fact that you let the marriage between Alicent and your shared father commence. 

            It did not matter if you have seen there was no way to circumvent the union, only options before you to ensure your sister’s throne. She was angry and hurt that she did not know. She took it out on you, only now doling out bits of her love and attention, warming back up to you just in time for you to lose her again. 

            “I can’t help it,” you reply, folding your hands over your knee, fingers interlaced, her hands twined in the dark red skirts of her gown. “It is my gift.”

            “You don’t mean that,” she says, her voice soft in a way it hasn’t been in so long, her face crumpling in on itself as she steps in, collapsing upon your bed, her body seeming to fold in on itself. “You think it’s a curse, don’t you?”

            “No,” you tell her, the words thoughtful in only the way that true honesty can ever be. “I view it as useful neither gift nor curse, but a tool. If I didn’t…” you pause, tears stinging at your eyes, tears that you refuse to let fall because it is not strong, it is not what a future general does. Not what the Hand of the Queen does. 

            “If you didn’t what?” she asks and you look at her, your perfect, precious sister, still yet untainted by the blood of war, of the scent of death, things you have lived a thousand times every night, death after death after death as you struggle to find that way to victory. The way to win. You’ve died a thousand times every night, working towards that gleaming thread of victory, of your sister on the Iron Throne. 

            “I didn’t, I would break under the weight of what I see,” you whisper, looking down at your hands, the ones interlaced over your knee, together. Everything is stronger when there are more. 

            “Father always said we dream in cryptic ways,” she says, rising from the bed, her movements graceful and princess-like. Everything you are not from the silver hair to the violet eyes and the courtier way that she moves. “Yet nothing you dream is cryptic. Is it?”

            “No,” you answer, looking up with haunted eyes, only half here and half in those tangling threads, things to unravel, to solve. To solve before the dragons dance and blood runs through the streets, painting cities red. “It’s just not quite clear.”

            “I see the future Lord Hightower has been writing,” she says, her gaze snagging on a letter, one scrawled in Ormund’s careful, pious hand. “And here I thought the Lord Hightowers hated us.”

            “Otto, Alicent and Gwayne do not,” you counter. “They are friendly.”

            “They are not the shepherds of Oldtown,” Rhae counters, lifting the letter, her eyes scanning what’s been written in his hand, the pledges of friendship, of faith. Of belief. “He believes in you. In the Hand of the Queen.”

            “Shut up, Rhae,” you hiss, reaching and pulling the letter from her hand, the paper crinkling in your touch as you lay it aside, the scent of sandalwood still clinging to the paper. He douses his papers with it, said in the first one that he wanted it to be as if he were there, as if he were speaking to you. 

            “You have a plan,” she says and you look at her, lips pursing, one eyebrow arched. 

            “I always have a plan. You just don’t always know what it is—nor do I.” Your serious expression lasts for only a moment before the two of you are laughing, the sound like the times of girlhood, of innocence. 

            Before the real world reared its ugly head and prophecy overcame reality. 

            Before your sister was set to marry a Velaryon. 

            Before you had to sacrifice the freedom you’d been promised long ago. 

            All for the Queen on the Iron Throne.

            “Father?” you call out, stepping into his solar, boots scuffing along the seam between rug and stone. “Father, I need to speak with you.”

            “Come in, my darling,” he calls out and you follow the sound of his voice, crossing through the darkened rooms to where his desk rests, his body folded into the chair behind it. “What’s wrong? What have you foreseen?”

            “Many things. Wars and blood and Iron Thrones,” you reply, crossing the room to collapse into the second seat before his desk, leather clad legs tossed over one of the armrests, back against the other. “I have seen ways to ensure that Rhae is queen for a long, long time.”

            “Is that why you are here? To ensure it?” he asks and you look at him, your hand pulling the Valyrian steel blade from its sheath, the one Daemon gave you while Rhae got the pretty useless necklace. 

            “Yes,” you tell him, pressing the tip of the blade against the soft pad of your index finger, twirling and finding the lack of pain startling and yet so useful. “I need you to marry me off.”

            “You wanted freedom. I promised you that.”

            “I need that promise broken,” you tell him and his lips purse, his expression darkening but he nods, consenting, assenting, relenting. 

            “Daemon has been looking for a new bride—”

            “No,” you cut your father off, shaking your head and tipping your head back to look at the stone ceiling, the one carved by hands over centuries for the people with the blood of dragons in their veins. The conquerors who never understood the power of the individual. “The Hightower boy.”

            “Gwayne? Very well,” your father says and your lip curls as you look back to him, teeth grinding against one another, a squeaking sound in your ears. Loud and abrasive. 

            “No, the one to be the lord,” you tell him and he cocks his head at you, the look he has when assessing you and you do not know what he sees, but you can see something in his eyes. 

            “They don’t like us,” he says and you shrug, kicking your legs up and over, sitting up straight in the chair, ignoring the twinge of pain in your lower back from the press of the armrest. 

            “It doesn’t matter. Power is a potent aphrodisiac, Father. You should know better than anyone.”

            “I shall send a message,” he says. “We shall go from there.” You rise from the seat, nodding once at him, turning to go, to leave, but he stops you with his next words. “I am sorry, you know.”

            “For what?” you ask, the words scraping against the sides of your throat, rough and painful in a way that you rarely let anything be. 

            “For marrying her. I know what it’s done to Rhaenyra, to you. And I am sorry, but it was necessary.” It is no secret that publicly Rhae has always had your father’s favour, but you are the son he never had. You are the soldier, the knight, the general. The one with magic, with skill. The one who sees no lines, only what must be done. 

            “They will not say no,” you tell him and with that you leave, gritting your teeth, setting your jaw as a single lone tear slips down your cheek, trailing over your skin with a searing, burning feeling that feels far more painful than any fire from any dragon. 

            Even if your own dragon, Cannibal, burned you. 

            “The Targaryens want you to marry the that second borne daughter,” Ormund’s father says, tossing the official parchment onto the table in disgust, his lip curling as he tosses his letter opener aside, the metal clanging against the wood of the table. “What a disgrace.”

            “Father,” Ormund whispers, swallowing hard, the memory of your last letter, the sight of the places where you had pressed your quill deeper, the scent of your skin lingering on the paper burning deeper inside of him because why would he settle for letters when you could be his. When he could be yours. 

            He understands now that he loves you. That he has since he was seven and you, the impossible five year old dropped from the sky. That he has since he saw you defeat the Kingsguard, since he wanted you to be General Hightower, not Targaryen. 

            That he has even long before he learned that you were the one chosen by the fiercest and largest dragon of them all. An abominable creature of course but…was it really so bad? So sinful?

            Ormund doesn’t know. Only that he wants to be yours. 

            “What is it, boy?” his father says, looking at him, Hightower green eyes narrowed, nostrils flared. 

            “Power is important. It would put us closer to saving the realm…a proper ruler, one day,” he says, swallowing hard again, but not from want this time, but rather fear. Fear that his father will hear the love he has for you, will try to beat it out him, reinforce the idea that you are sinful. A disgrace. A rot to be carved away. 

            “You want to marry her?” he asks, tone already deepening, darkening but Ormund holds true, nodding, setting his jaw to appear strong, fierce and not scared. 

            “Purify the line,” he says and he holds his breath as his father looks away, eyes narrowing before finally nodding, assenting. 

            “Very well, my boy. You shall have her.”

The Courtship:

            The only thing that makes King’s Landing tolerable is knowing that you are here, that soon instead of the stench that clings to everything here, he will smell you, that strange perfume of your skin that is at once both sweet and strong. The strange perfume that he wants to have surrounding him at all times, you with him in truth. 

            But he would settle for your scent if you had to be away. 

            “The princesses are out riding, my lord,” one of the servants says, bowing low, eyes not meeting his, rather focused on his boots. Ones that shone in Oldtown, but here in the Keep have already picked up a fine layer of dust. Disregard as the rest of this place. He will be glad to have you out of it. 

            “Riding what?” he asks, but he needn’t have for he can hear the loud, overloud, sound of wings beating air, fast and furious and all too large. He turns, glancing out at the training yard, noticing Cannibal and Syrax both, growing larger as they near. 

            Cannibal had never been seen before he bonded you when you were four, saved you from danger and no one had any idea why he did so, only that he refused to let anyone near you and stayed under your window for the entire time you were a child. 

            You spoke to him before any courtier, it is said. 

            But Vhaegor was believed to be the largest of the dragons, until Cannibal. He can see how huge he is now as he dips to the side, his body canting and you leap from him, your figure small and dark as you land on the ground, your body rolling into a ball, rolling before you land on your feet, Cannibal already turned around, flying away. 

            Meanwhile, Syrax lands, dipping a wing and letting Princess Rhaenyra off gently, ensuring she is safe before departing after yours. 

            “You must have a death wish, dear sister,” he hears Rhaenyra exclaim, your laughter sounding in the yard as you loop your arm around her neck, pulling her in close before marching onwards, closer to him. 

            “I only do what you will not,” you reply, your voice light, still ringing with your laughter and he finds himself suddenly nervous, hands shifting to adjust his doublet, ensuring that it’s straight and he puffs out his chest, his heart speeding up when you look at him, your eyes narrowing, lips pursing before you break away from your sister, walking towards him. “Hello.”

            “H-hello,” he stutters, swallowing hard at the end of his words, your scent overwhelming, intoxicating. He feels slightly ashamed of his reaction to you, the way you change him from the strong heir to Oldtown to a stuttering young boy crushing for the first time, but when you smile at him, he finds he does not care. 

            “I have to change,” you tell him, reaching forwards, your hand finding his, fingers interlacing with his and all the blood seems to leave his body, rushing to all different places in his body at the feeling of your bare skin against his. 

            He wondered what it feel like, if it would mold to his and you do. It’s like you were made for him, like the Seven had intended this to be. Like the two of you were forged for one another. He follows after you, blood pulsing in his head as you drag him through hallway after hallway, up stairway after stairway before stopping outside an ornate door. 

            “Wait here,” you tell him, disappearing inside the room, the door closing behind you and he does, waiting patiently, leaning against the wall, interlacing his hands together in front of him, pretending that his hand is yours. That you are still touching him as casually as you did. 

            Touching him like you loved him as he loves you. 

            It’s no time at all before the door is pushed open and you step out, in a deep black gown, interspersed with bits of red. He swallows hard, his mouth feeling dry, like the wetness typical of a mouth has fled all of a sudden to his palms. He wipes them on his breeches as discreetly as he can but by the way your eyes track the movement, he knows you noticed. 

            “You look…” he trails off, his eyes tracing every line of your figure, caught up in your beauty, unsure of quite how to express the fact that he thinks you are a goddess. The most beautiful woman to ever live. 

            “Like a princess?” you ask and he startles, looking back up and meeting your eyes, nodding once, the movement jagged. 

            “Yes.”

            “You and I should probably become used to it,” you remark, stepping forwards and taking his hand again, looping it around your arm, “as this is how I must dress to be your Lady Hightower.”

            Your voice is resigned and he wants to tell you that he would never cage you as his lady, that he wants you, the General, but he cannot find the words for it.

            So, he says nothing at all.

            The gardens are well-tended, perfectly maintained, but even the scents of the prettiest flowers cannot cover up the permeating scent of rot that lingers in the courtyard, in the Keep. In all of King’s Landing. 

            But your scent, your touch is enough. It’s intoxicating to him, truly, the way your hand fits into and against his, the way your fingers fit the grooves between his as if you were always meant to hold his hand, as if this was fated, created. Deemed truthful by the Seven. 

            “How d—” he breaks off, pausing, bending his bend before the statue of the Mother, her effigy in the grounds. He feels you still, imagines you bent like him, paying respect to the idol of the god, one the many seven faces. 

            “You truly believe?” you ask and he jerks his head, a twinge of pain in the far back, like something snapping, his eyes wide with the surprise and shock coursing through his veins. 

            “You do not?” he asks and you shake your head, eyebrows arching as your free hand strays to your hip, stance asymmetrical as you look at him. 

            “I do not believe in your gods, no,” you tell him, your eyes flitting up and away towards the sky, eyes shuttering for just a moment, a thousand reflections of emotions glimmering in those perfect, precious eyes of bravery and truthfulness. 

            “Why not?” he asks and you look back at him, lips curving with a smile as if you cannot look at him without feeling joy. 

            “Because I do not believe in gods that do not exist. I believe in the gods in the world I can see. The Old Gods, the gods of nature. The ones who listen when you must pray. The ones who created us, but gave us the freedom to live. I believe that everything that happens is because of what we do. Not some mythical seven faced thing,” you tell him, your voice lilting and rising, shifting through the air like he always imagined a goddess would sound. 

            “But your father—”

            “My father does not know what he believes,” you counter, gesturing at the effigy of the Mother which stands before the two of you, the one gleaming in the sun, heat broiling off of the marble in strange visual waves. “He acts like a follower of the Seven, but it is not true. He does not go to sept or prayer. He rules and plays the sides that he must play.”

            “But the Seven are the only gods that truly matter,” Ormund counters, the lifetime of learning and prayer rearing within him. Lessons beat into him by his father’s hand, his belt, his knife, the fireplace pokers with red-hot ends. 

            “No,” you whisper, your expression softening on the edges, gaze going dreamy as if you remember something. “I do not believe in gods that cannot hear the prayers of the believers. No god can hear you through a sept, through a prayer mandated by man. No god can see through the candle smoke. You do not humble yourselves before them, you do not make an offering. You do nothing, but listen to some so-called holy man tell you what you must do. I do not subscribe to lies. I believe in the truth. In the gods in the wind and the sky and the ground and the water. That’s what I believe. I believe in that which I can see and hear and feel.”

            “Well,” he pauses, swallowing hard, fighting back against his father’s teachings that threaten to rear their head, have him lecturing you, making you believe. “I shall have enough faith for both of us in the Seven and you…can have enough for the two of us in your old gods.” And the toll that sentence, concession, takes on him is worth it to the smile on your face, to feel your arms as they wrap around him in a hug, his face pressed against your neck, your scent the only thing he can smell. 

            All he ever wants to smell. 

            Propriety be damned.  

The Wedding:

            The hall is full, you don’t even have to be inside it to know, you can hear the rustling of people inside of it, the sounds of whispers and murmurs and prayers as you stand, the gown on your frame heavy, far too heavy. This was what you never wanted. You wanted freedom and armour and swords and war. You wanted to fly on Cannibal’s back over the world, serving your sister, the Queen. 

            Instead, to ensure her throne, you must be wed. Become the Lady Hightower, rather than the Princess Targaryen you have been your entire life. 

            “My child,” your father calls out and you turn to him, your eyes heavy-lidded and tired, lined with tears, tears you will never let fall for it’s not strength to cry where people can witness weakness. “It is time.”

            “Of course,” you whisper, your hands twining in the layers of your white and silver skirt, the one that matches the one your sister’s, save for the gold that was on hers. The General has the silver; the Queen has the gold. You lift the heavy folds into your hands, stepping towards him, unsure of how to step and move in a gown like this when most of your life has been comprised of armor. 

            You know that gowns are a different sort of armour, ones made for ladies, ones made to present them as proper while hiding a multitude of secrets, but they have never been your favoured kind. Nonetheless, you cross the room, taking your father’s arm, the black and red cloak around your shoulders, soon to be replaced with ones of green and gold—Hightower colours. 

            The doors to the hall open, revealing the crowd of people curious and watching, whispering about your legitimacy, whether you are Targaryen at all, but it is nothing new. What is new, is the boy of no more than twenty who stands at the top of the stairs, looking at you with awe in green eyes, a nervous hand running through dark brown curls that are overlong and falling into his eyes. 

            A sight that makes you smile. 

            In truth, you love Ormund and it is no burden to marry him. You could have married Gwayne or the Tyrel lad or the Martel prince. There were other options, other ways to ensure that your sister would be the first woman on the Iron Throne, one who would not bleed, but you grew fond of the boy who wrote you letters. 

            The boy who said he believed in you. Something no one else had ever said. 

            “You will be fine, my dear,” your father whispers as the two of you begin the walk along the red roll of carpet, the one with golden tasselled edges, opulence and Targaryen power in a simple display. 

            “I know, Father,” you reply, your attention focused on the boy ahead, the one who’s Adam’s apple bobs hard, his chest rising and falling in erratic ways. “I have seen the outcomes. I will be wonderful.” The feeling is strange when Viserys pulls the cloak from your shoulders, your arms bare for a moment, skin prickling with goosebumps, coldness seeping in through the loss of the house which has been yours since before you were born. 

            But the coldness recedes when Ormund steps forwards with the green and gold cloak of the Hightowers, placing it over your shoulders, his palms pressing down against them for a moment, his touch grounding and precious and everything you need to survive through the rite of the Faith that you do not believe in. You would rather kneel before a Weirwood tree, the skirt of your gown digging into the damp, cold earth, the white stained black with soil. 

            But you find that this is okay too, your hands finding Ormund’s as the Septon speaks, his voice arching loud and clear through the hall, Ormund’s green eyes locked upon you the entire time. 

            And when you are pronounced of one flesh, you find that the kiss he gives you is sweet and grounding and promising. As if the press of his lips against yours is a promise like his Faith says: a promise to love you forever. 

            To believe in you.

            Ormund cannot take his eyes from you, his wife, clothed in white and silver wearing the cloak of green and gold, a Targaryen no longer. No, you are his wife. He wants to shout it from the rooftops, declare it to the entire world, but he refrains, contenting himself with dancing with you, his hand never leaving yours. 

            It is now, watching you spin in a swirl of skirts and cloaks that he remembers from that first day in the courtship, the walk around the gardens when you said that you believed in what you could see. In gods that could hear you. 

            “My love?” he says as he pulls you back in, his hand finding your waist, fitting to the curve as if it was always supposed to. “Is this marriage…real for you?”

            “It is before the Seven,” you whisper, eyes looking just past him, at someone over his shoulder, as if you cannot lie to him if you look at him. 

            “How can I make it true to you?” Your eyes find his again, shocked and surprised, wide open, pupils flaring and contracting and flaring again as they trace every line of his face, his skin flushing beneath your gaze. 

            “Take me to a Weirwood tree,” you whisper, your cheek pressing against his, lips at his ear, breath coursing over the shell of it, causing goosebumps to pebble along his skin, blood to rush to places it really shouldn’t in a public place. “On our trip, take me to Weirwood tree and there we shall make it real.”

            “So it is said,” he replies, his voice equally low and quiet at your ear, “so mote it be.” And he knows that he does not imagine, the tremor in your body, the shiver of your skin in his hands. You desire him as he desires you. 

            “You waved the bedding ceremony,” you remark, your hands coming to the clasp of the cloak, the golden leaf hooking around gold twines. “How will they know it’s true?”

            “Blood,” Ormund says, his back to you, muscles stiffening, rippling beneath the fabric of his doublet, his breath hitching as his arms move, the overlayer of the doublet shrugged off and onto the floor. 

            “Ah, I see,” you whisper, crossing the room, your cloak left behind in a pool on the stone floor. You cross to him, your hand resting in the place between his shoulder blades, rubbing a small circle as you step around to look at him, at the vein pulsing in his jaw, the way the line is sharp, taut, his neck tight and rigid. “Do you not want to consummate? Are you not ready? For if you’re not, I shall cut my hand and it will be done.”

            “NO!” he blurts out, the word too fast and too loud for the stillness of the chambers, his cheeks reddening as he looks down, down at his boot covered feet. “I just want it to be proper and I…” He swallows hard and you understand. 

            “You don’t know what to do,” you conclude and he nods, cheeks still red, ruddy as he looks at you, green eyes apologetic. Fearful. “Well luckily,” you whisper, stepping closer, watching as his Adam’s apple bobs with another hard, fearful, nervous swallow, “I do.”

            “How?” he asks, the blush fading, his brows drawing together and eyes flaring with anger, with jealousy and possessiveness. Perhaps the most potent aphrodisiac. More potent than power for here is power in love, a man who truly wants you as his. 

            “My uncle is a…an interesting man,” you whisper, lips curving in a sardonic kind of smile, your free hand, the one not resting between his shoulder blades, finds his, interlacing your fingers with his. “And he…he took my sister to a brothel one night and I followed. Not to see or know, but rather…because my blades are quite sharp.”

            “And?” Ormund whispers, his body pressing against yours, his body moving steps to you, to feel you against him even through the layers of fabric. 

            “And I saw what the act is,” you whisper, your gaze dropping from his eyes to his lips, his soft lips, the ones that you have felt against yours merely hours ago. The ones that made you feel what you supposed those people at the brothels did, except yours was made of love. “I know what to do.”

            “Teach me,” he whispers, his forehead dipping, pressing against yours, his eyes closing as he breathes in your scent, the one he says is everything he’s dreamed about. “Teach me so that I may know—for you.”

            “Very well,” you whisper, surging up, pressing your lips against his in a kiss that is hungry, that is full of love and desire. He gasps, eyes flying open, surprise glimmering in them before he melts against you, his hands finding your waist, your shifting to twine around his neck, lacing through the curly strands of his hair, his body pressing you back, back, back against the wall. 

            His mouth has opened, slanting, his tongue sliding into your mouth, sliding along yours in a way that leaves you breathless, his hands sliding from your waist, to your back up to the ties of your gown, the laces of the bodice. Your skin is fevered, flushing with want, a coil in your stomach from the press of his body against yours, the feeling of his lips and tongue and the way in desperation your teeth have clashed. 

            “Is this right?” he whispers, pulling back, pulling away as his fingers work the bodice ties loose, a line of saliva stretching between you and him. “Am I doing this right?”

            “I mean,” you pause, swallowing hard yourself, skin flushing anew, burning, burning, burning at the way his eyes track the movement of your swallow, green eyes black with desire. “I feel something so I assume so.” The scent of his skin like that of sandalwood and papyrus is all you can smell and it is intoxicating, but not so intoxicating as the way his eyes widen when your dress loosens, when you shrug out of it, the gown pooling underneath you on the floor, a halo around your feet. 

            “My god,” he rasps and then he’s kissing you again, his hand fisting in your hair as he pulls you against him, enough that you can feel his bulge, the one not growing so much as already grown. It’s hard and stiff and his hips move against you of their own accord and you wonder how he knows to do this when he has never done so before. 

            “I thought,” you gasp out as he finds a spot underneath your ear, his teeth working at the skin, tongue soothing the bite, “you’d never done this before.”

            “I haven’t,” he murmurs against your neck, “but with you, it seems I know.” He breathes in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent, his nose pressing against your skin before he lifts his head, the bed now behind you, your knees pressing into it, threatening to buckle as he pushes against you. “What is next?”

            “They, um, they,” you pause, breaking off, images flashing before your eyes, things that at the time you wished you hadn’t seen, but are useful now. Fingers at the place you never thought of as anything, hands and lips over chests, hips slamming against hips. “The men prepare the woman.”

            “How?” he asks, pulling back, pulling away from you, mouth pinching as though even this small bit of separation pains him. 

            “Their fingers,” you whisper, sighing when he looks confused, brows knitting in a way that is adorable, yet far too clueless. You remove your smallclothes, letting them fall to the floor, a heady rush of lust and love in your veins when you see the way he’s looking at you, when you hear the deep sound that escapes him. 

            You fall back onto the bed, shifting, spreading your legs, your hand going to your cunt, finding your clit, placing pressure against it, a bolt of something running through you, a small sound escaping your lips involuntarily. 

            “Let me,” Ormund whispers, his clothes now shed, his cock erect, hard, a clear bead resting on the tip as he climbs over your body, replacing your hand with his, his thumb pressing down on your clit, a curious finger dipping between your folds, pressing inside of you, the stretch burning and strange but at the same time, perfection and you let out a small sound, one that has Ormund looking at you with absolute lust. “You like this?” he asks, clarifying as he moves his finger in and out, tracking every reaction you have, every twist of your face, the way you move against him. 

            “Yes,” you breathe out and his lips curve in a cocky kind of smile, another finger sliding inside of you, knuckles dragging along your walls, his thumb never ceasing. 

            “Not enough,” he whispers and before you can ask him what he means, he’s shifting, lifting your hips, his tongue pressing against you. He’s tasting you and his fingers are moving, his tongue building a rhythm with them around your clit, his chest moving, rising and falling as if he’s breathing in the way you smell. Delighting in it. 

            It’s not long before the coil in your stomach is snapping, that feeling of heat and pleasure surging through your veins as he rises, his body over yours, his chin and lips still glistening with your release. 

            “Divine,” he whispers, his eyes hungry in a way you’ve never really seen before. “What’s next?” You can’t help but laugh a little, kind of laugh made of surprise, his lips curving up at the sound, his lips peppering kisses all over your skin, making you laugh all the more. 

            “You know what’s next,” you say and he pulls back, a solemn look in his eyes as he nods. 

            “Yes,” he says, “and you must know before I do that I love you. I feel you should know it before we do something that can never be taken back. I know…” he pauses, even as his cock presses against you, kissing your entrance. “I know that I may not have been your choice.”

            “You were my choice,” you tell him and he blinks, the look in his eyes like he is rewriting every thought he’s ever had. “I saw many options and my father did not suggest you. I did. I wanted you and I have you. I love you.” He presses his lips against yours, pressing inside of you, inching in and your gasp of pain is swallowed by his lips, a single tear sliding down his cheek as he pushes in, the burn echoing throughout your body. 

            “I’m sorry,” he whispers and you lift one hand from his back, wiping away the tear with the side of your finger, drawing him back to you in a kiss as he begins to move inside of you, building a rhythm, one punctuated by murmurs of love you. Love you. Love you. 

            And when his thrusts grow sloppy, you can feel his release nearing, yours drawing close again from the way he kisses you, his hands trailing over every inch of your body and the way his cock drags along your walls. 

            “Love—you,” he cries, just as your release comes through, that same feeling of pleasure, of heaviness in your limbs as he spills inside of you in thick hot ropes, his body collapsing beside yours, drawing you close to him, his eyes closing as he breathes you in. “I love you.”

            “And I you,” you whisper, your hand tracing the side of his face as his eyes open, lips pulling back in a smirk as he looks at you. 

            “I shall never tire of hearing you say that,” he whispers. “Can you say it again?”

            “I love you, I love you, I love you,” you whisper and he sighs in contentment, pulling you down beside him, your gaze snagging on a bruise on his shoulder, one dark and deep and in the shape of a belt. “What is that? Who hurt you?”

            “It’s nothing,” he whispers, a shadow falling over his face. “Just a reminder of the weight of blood. Something that…” he pauses, pulling the covers up and over the two of you, the ones which had been folded at the end of the bed, “I forget when I’m with you.”

            And you say nothing more, simply pressing a kiss against the purpling bruise and holding him while sleep claims you both.

            The Weirwood tree is tall and large and strong, wizened in a way that Ormund has never seen another tree be. It is a marker of the Old Gods, the Old Faith, something his father hates, something he should hate, his father’s message having been beaten into him a thousand times before, but standing here, his hand in yours, he finds he disagrees. 

            As he always does with you. 

            “What do we do, my love?” he asks you and you turn to him, a smile alight on your face as you pull him towards it, a small giggle escaping your lips, body clothed in a green and gold gown, beautiful and perfect and yet a part of him wishes you were wearing armour, clothes you loved above all else. 

            “We speak the truth,” you reply, kneeling down in the damp earth, not only the hem of your dress gathering dirt, but rather all of it. “We tell the tree how we love each other and then we say we take the other as our partner. It is that simple.” He kneels down with you, the scent of you and damp earth overwhelming him and he knows that for the rest of his life, when he thinks of his wedding it will be this: you in a dirt-stained gown and loose hair and the scent of dirt, your warm hands in his. 

            “Well then, I love you. I have since you dropped from the ceiling when you were five and I was seven and I will continue to do so forever.”

            “I love you as well,” you tell him, your smile softening, becoming loving in a way it’s never been before. “I have loved you since you sent your first letter and said that you believed in me and addressed me as General Targaryen because no one had ever believed in me before. And I could not imagine losing you, my letter boy, to anyone.”

            “What now?” he whispers, his heart seeming too large for his chest and he wants nothing more than to take you here and now—now that he understands everything to do. 

            “Now you say you take me for your wife,” you tell him and he squeezes your hand. 

            “I take you, Y/n Targaryen, as my wife.”

            “And I take you, Ormund Hightower, as my husband,” you whisper and then he’s letting go of your hands, his fingers framing your face as he cups you, pulling you to him and pressing a searing kiss to your lips. One that leaves you both breathless because you know.

            This is the moment that you became real. 

The First Child:

            Ormund waits, his hands twining together as Cannibal comes into view, his true name something only you know, a secret that you keep and that he does care that you do. He can practically hear his father’s mutterings, curses about you and your polluted blood and sinful nature, but he does care because he loves you. 

            He loves the things you’ve told him of your line, of your sister, of your mother. He has grown to love the things you love, his father’s messages be damned. 

            He watches as you leap from Cannibal’s back, landing in a roll, springing to your feet as Cannibal takes off for some distance place, someplace you can call him back from in some way that he does ask about. Your dragon is the only secret you keep and he does not care. 

            What he cares about is the wide smile on your face, the way your skin is glowing as you run to him, the scent of fire and ash clinging to your dark leather riding gear. He opens his arms and you run straight into them, your week away with your sister having taken a toll on him. 

            He spent the entire time pouring your oils on your pillow and holding it to him, wishing that it was you, even though he knew it wasn’t, the smell being off. Wrong. 

            “My love!” he cries as he picks you up, spinning around the courtyard of Oldtown. “How are you?”

            “I’m pregnant,” you blurt out as he sets you down, everything inside of him freezing in place. 

            “You’re what?” he breathes and watches as your smile widens, deepens, tears lining your perfect eyes. Eyes that are glimmering with a strange sort of happiness. 

            “I’m pregnant,” you whisper and he’s dropping to his knees before you, the dirt of the courtyard digging into his clothed knees, one hand on your hip, the other on your stomach as he looks at it. He expects to see the child moving inside of you already but it’s early, he knows. He just can’t believe it. 

            An heir, already. 

            “My miracle,” he whispers, looking up at you, tears gathering in his green eyes. “My forever miracle.” And he rises, pressing a deep kiss against your lips as he pulls you against him, every line of your body against every line of his and there is the thing he missed, the things your oils lack. The mystery ingredient: you. Just you. 

            You and another.

            “What do you think of the name Aemon?” Ormund says, stepping into the room, his attention on you, but his eyes still scanning the book of names he found in the library. 

            “No,” you whisper and he looks up at you, you who stands tall, belly round and protruding, five moons in now, the child kicking hard against you, wanting out, wanting to breathe air. “I want to name him Baelon—or, if it’s a girl, Baela.”

            “Why?” he whispers, taking note of the tears that line your eyes, tears that fall more easily now since the baby. 

            “My brother,” you whisper, voice thick as a single, glittering tear rolls down your cheek. “My brother was named Baelon.”

            “Very well,” Ormund says, dropping the book onto the bed, crossing to you, stepping behind you, interlacing his fingers beneath your bump and lifting, reliving you of the pressure for a moment. “Baelon it is.”

            Ormund hears your scream echoing off the stone walls of Oldtown, ricochetting to him in his solar, the new solar for the new Lord of Oldtown, his father now nothing but ash. It is a deep scream, a primal scream and he runs, leaving everything behind, every instinct in his body simply to get to you, pushing past servants and guards and anyone who gets in his way, bursting into the room just as you scream again, your hand on your stomach and a pool underneath you on the stone. 

            “MIDWIFE!” Ormund roars, his voice a matching primal sound for yours. “NOW!” The midwife runs in, followed by the Maester and they try to remove Ormund from the room, but he fights against them, fighting to stay with you, your hand reaching for him and his reaching for you and they soon give up on trying to separate you. 

            For there is something no one knows, save you and he: you are of one heart, one body, one mind. 

            By whatever God’s decree. 

            Twenty hours of labour, of your screams and cries, of your hand squeezing his and cursing him in the same breath that you confess how much you love him. Twenty hours for a silent child.

            “My lord,” the midwife says, the child in her arms silent and still. “He is not breathing.”

            “GIVE HIM TO ME!” you cry and she startles, body seizing for a moment but Ormund nods and she hands the green and gold bundle to you, one which you push back from the stillborn face. “Listen to me Baelon,” you whisper, “you will live. Even if I have to fight every god in the world, you will live. You will breathe and cry and scream because I am your mother and I am telling you to live.”

            He reaches for you, wanting to look you in the eyes and tell you that the child is gone, but it’s that moment that a sharp and keening cry breaks through the air, the baby screaming in your arms, face ruddy in only the way that a baby can be. And it opens its eyes to show startling green. 

            “Welcome Baelon,” he whispers. “You are a miracle, just like your mother.”

            It was after the labour, as you were penning your letter to your sister that a raven landed on the sill with a message. One that you opened, passing yours onto the bird, instructing it to take the message to Princess Rhaenyra. The message was written in your sister’s scrawling hand, a mere few words. Just: Jacerys Velaryon and his date of birth.

            Exactly two days before Baelon. 

            It must be a twin thing.

The Children:

            Five children, a miracle for the Hightower line, every single one carrying some piece of Valyria and Oldtown. Five children, four sons and one daughter. Baelon as the oldest, the heir to the Oldtown legacy, Aerys, the youngest, the most reckless. Rhaegar, the third born and the most studious, fascinated by the Andal faith. Matarys, the fourth born, the warrior. The most like you. 

            And Daenerys, the youngest, the only daughter. The one with red hair and green eyes, every inch the Hightower girl, but a mind of a Targaryen, steel and fire and swords. Spoiled beyond belief, but tough beyond all measure. 

            And now, a ward, a son of Alicent, your brother. Little more than a babe, one that you will raise. Young Daeron. 

            It seemed that your life was full, yet a dreamer always knows that the worst battle is around the corner and you knew that nothing would be solved before the green banners flew black. 

The Dance of the Dragons:

            “What?” you whisper, your throat thickening at the words still ringing through the hall, your father is dead, Aegon is king. “That is not his right!”

            “Rhaenyra is not fit,” Ormund says, the letter sealed with the Red Keep seal in his hand, the folded parchment flapping in the movements of his hand. “Daemon is a threat.”

            “Daemon is an idiot in love! And it is not his right! You cannot support this!” you cry, but Ormund’s face draws closed, shuttering as he sets his jaw. 

            “I am a Hightower and I support Aegon as king. His bloodline is partly pure. And you are a Hightower by marriage. You follow what I say.”

            “Don’t forget yourself, Ormund,” you hiss, stepping closer to him, your finger jabbing into his chest. “I am not a simple-minded fool and if this comes to war as I know it will, you do not want to be on my bad side.”

            “We have been married for seventeen years and yet you doubt me?” he whispers, his voice low, the door of his solar creaking open, a presence behind the two of you and you can feel your heartbeat in your throat, can hear your blood pulsing in your head. 

            “If you are not with me,” you hiss, “you are against me.” You turn and walk away, your chest feeling like it’s caving in, the warning from your father all those years ago ringing through you, the fact that Hightowers hate Targaryens. 

            You wonder, if perhaps, your love for the letter boy clouded the truth of the war you saw. If you made a wrong choice that will cost your sister her throne. 

            “Mother,” Baelon hisses from the shadows of the halls, stepping out, Aerys not far behind him. “We must leave. Our loyalty is to Aunt Rhae, not Alicent. Not Aegon. We cannot stay. We have to leave. Fight.”

            “I can’t,” you whisper and the tears that you have been feeling since your father died, since you heard the throne was stolen, boil over, spilling down your cheeks as your body shakes, your eldest son, a man grown, enfolding you in his arms. The arms which did not move until you ordered them too. Your miracle child.

            “Why not?” he whispers and you cry harder, the sobs wracking your body. 

            “Because I love him.”

            “We fly the banner of Aegon,” you hear Ormund say, his voice loud and dominating in the small space. “We support a righteous king.” You gasp, your chest aching, your hand pressing against your sternum, green gown never heavier than now. 

            “Mother,” Matarys whispers behind you and you turn, seeing your youngest son, his violet eyes gleaming with their own tears, his mind haunted by dreams. A dragon dreamer or possibly a battle seer, you are not yet sure. But his mind is haunted with fire and smoke and a shadow with jaws of steel. 

            “Yes, my darling?” you say, your voice cracking with the weight of tears. 

            “We need to leave,” he says and the pain rams through you again with all the force of a battering ram and you shake your head, pressing your lips together as you hold your arms out for your small son to run to. 

            “Not yet,” you whisper. 

            “Why not?”

            “Because I love him.”

            “The dragons are ready whenever you are, Mother,” Rhaegar says, his body leaning against the stone wall of your solar, your sons all gathered before you. You’re sharpening your sword, the one given to you by Daemon when you took Baelon to retrieve his egg as a child. 

            “I cannot leave,” you tell them. “I love him too much and when you all fall in love, you will understand.”

            “But you swore to Aunt Rhae,” Baelon cries and you shrug, tears slipping down your cheeks, an admission of weakness because Ormund has always, will always, be yours. 

            “What will it take for you to leave, Mother?” Rhaegar asks, logical to a fault, scholarly like Ormund. 

            “If he threatens us, you and me. Then I will leave. If I do not kill him first.”

            You can hear murmurs behind the closed doors of Ormund’s solar and you push the doors open, to see Ormund seated beside Daeron, whispering about power and righteousness and the taint of Targaryen blood. Of their sin.

            “Sins?” you call out and he looks up, startled, shame flooding his green eyes. Eyes that used to look at you with love, but have since become as dark and convoluted as his father’s. “You are despicable, Ormund!”

            “Why? Because I speak the truth?!”

            “BECAUSE YOU ARE BECOMING YOUR FATHER!” you scream, the sound bouncing off the stone walls, Daeron’s face drawing tight, fear and curiosity warring in them. “Daeron,” you say, tone softer, his face relaxing when he looks at you, the only mother he has ever known, “go.”

            He does, running from the room and closing the doors behind him with a echoing bang. 

            “I am not my father,” Ormund says, stepping around the table, towards you but you shake your head, lip curling as you step away from his touch. 

            “You are crazed, half-mad. Claiming my blood, the blood in your children is sinful. You are becoming exactly as he taught you to be and I swear if you lift a hand to my children, I will make you regret it. Do not do it.” And then you sweep from the room, the tears burned away now by anger and rage and an understanding that soon you will leave. 

            That soon he’ll finally do something that means you must flee. 

            It comes at dinner that night. 

            “All Targaryens,” Ormund mutters, his knife stabbing against his plate with particular force, “ save for young Daeron, should burn by their own dragon fire.” It’s like someone has stabbed you, pain spreading from your chest through your body and you can feel your lips open, a horrid sound echoing through the room as you push your chair back from the table, limbs weak and heavy, Ormund’s head lifting with urgency, gaze clearing as he looks at you, body already moving towards you. 

            And that’s what’s cruel, because for a second it looked like he was your Ormund. The boy you fell in love with and the man who set you free. 

            But soon the shutter falls and the monster is in its place. 

            “Mother, are you alright?” Baelon calls out and you close your eyes for a moment, drawing strength from the blackness of your closed eyes, the darkness, nodding once, teeth grinding against themselves. 

            “I will be,” you whisper, “later, most likely by tonight.” You don’t even need to see your children to know that they understand. 

            Tonight is the night that you’ve finally snapped. 

            Tonight is the night you leave. 

            “You know,” Ormund says, his hands undoing the laces of your gown, a ritual of undressing one another that you began in the early days of marriage, “this war will have costs.”

            “And let me guess,” you reply, tone arch and blood boiling at his touch, at his proximity, the kind of hate and anger that can only be borne of love, “you will pay them all.”

            “No,” he says, his answer surprising you, your breath hitching. “I will not pay the price if it is you. You are the only thing I cannot lose. You keep me sane for only am I complete with you. You are the price I will not pay.”

            Your chest feels hollow, scraped clean, his words running through you as you turn, your gown falling from your body as you pull him to you, pressing a kiss against him, one deep and searing, the two of you merely a tangle of tongues and teeth and limbs as you stumble to the bed. As you say goodbye even if he doesn’t know it yet. 

            And when he’s asleep, you rise from the bed, grabbing your sword, dressing in riding clothes as quietly as possible before slipping from the room, running to your children, banging on their doors, their bodies emerging, ready as you are. 

            “Mother,” Daenarys says when she emerges, “should we leave a note?”

            “No,” you tell her. “Your father lost that courtesy when he said we should all burn. Now, let’s go.” And the six of you slip from the castle soundlessly, crossing the courtyard to the edge where you call out into the night, in a language that is not human, that merely sounds like chuffs and chirps. 

            The language of the dragons, the language Leviathan (Cannibal’s real name) taught you when you were a child. 

            The language he promised you that he would hear no matter how far away he was. And he does not let you down, his large form rising above the five other creatures behind him. 

            The language that is the reason you are able to flee with your children, flying to Dragonstone, to battle, to Iron Thrones and Iron Crowns and your sister. 

            To the battle you saw all those years ago. 

—

            Ormund wakes to an empty bed, your side cold as if it was never slept in at all, only the faintest edge of your scent clinging to the cloth. He rises, dressing, calling for you, yelling your name through the halls, running to every place you go, the hill, the yard, the library, armoury. Everywhere.    

            And you are nowhere. 

            “WHERE IS SHE?! WHERE IS MY WIFE?!” he cries once he’s gathered all the servants in the grand hall, a single soldier stepping forwards, eyes cast to the floor. 

            “She and your children were reported to have left last night,” he says. “On dragonback. Cannibal led the charge with her on him.”

            Ormund can feel the last bit of his sanity disappear, everything shuddering into place as his father’s son. 

            “She is a traitor then,” he says but it is not him, not really, for the real Ormund is locked away, war making monsters out of men. 

            But the real Ormund whispers that he will get you back, no matter the cost because you were the only thing he never wanted to pay. 

            “If you see her,” he says, “kill her.”

—

            “You did not leave quickly,” Rhaenyra says, your hand twined with hers as the two of you stand on the balcony of her rooms in Dragonstone, her crown heavy on her brow and your new title as her Hand and General of the armies, Protector of the Land, heavy on yours. 

            “No,” you whisper, looking out at the dusky, smoke-filled sky. 

            “I had rather hoped you’d never leave at all,” she says and you turn to her, taking in the aged look on her face, the face that you know so well, have known and will always know better than anyone else in all the Seven Kingdoms. 

            “That hurts,” you say, your tone teasing and she laughs, just a bit, a small laugh, short and sharp and nostalgic all the same. 

            “I had hoped that love would be too strong,” she says, her lips pressing into a saddened, heavy smile. “I had hoped Ormund would be different.”             “You are not the only one.”

—

            “Lucerys should not go,” you whisper. “I see a shadow that takes him. It’s too dangerous.”

            “We need this diplomatic mission,” Rhae says and you reach for her hand, lifting it and pressing it against your heart, your head shaking. 

            “We might lose him.”

            “So, send me,” Matarys calls and you startle, looking back at him, your brows knitting and breaths changing, deeper and yet shorter, fear choking you. 

            “What? You said you see a shadow before you die,” you say and he stands, rising from his seat at the Black Council table, his body spindly and thin like a strong wind would blow him over. 

            “Let us change fate.” Rhae looks at you for a moment before shaking her head and nodding, assenting to the mission.

            “Very well.”

—

            You should never have let the mission go on. You should have gone with them, instead here you stand, looking at the two boys dead. 

            “The boys who clung to us, who hid their faces in our skirts,” Rhae whispers, her body pressing against you, hip to your hip, arm around you, the two of you holding each other up, “dead, all so I may sit upon a throne of swords?”

            “War has costs,” you whisper, your tears having long since dried away, evaporated by rage. “And I shall pay them just to have Aemond’s head on my wall. Oh my boy!”

—

            “Sir,” the messenger cries, stepping into the room. “News of the Targaryens.”

            “Say it and then leave,” he orders, jaw already gritting, a pit of fear that he refuses to acknowledge growing as he fears that he will hear that you are dead. That you are gone. 

            “Matarys and Lucerys have been killed by Aemond on a mission.” Ormund can feel that chokehold of anger, that familiar pain as he lifts his glass of spirits and hurls it at the wall, the glass shattering in a million shards. 

            “Get out.” And when he is alone, Ormund lets the tears of sanity slip down his cheeks as he thinks of the small boy who used to swing from his arms lying dead on a funeral pyre, set alight by dragon fire. 

            He cannot bear it. 

            He would rather death claim him now.

—

            “Before the battle, before I leave,” you hiss to Rhaenyra, drawing her aside, “I need you to listen in case when you take the throne, I am not there. Alright?”

            “Alright,” she says, her tone cautious, hesitant. 

            “Wear full body armour before you sit upon the throne and put cloth in case the moon curse comes. Make sure no blood will be seen upon your body. Promise me or else all will have been in vain and our sons will have died for nothing.”

            “I promise,” she vows and you nod, turning from her and leaving the hall, closing your eyes for a moment as the wind whips into your face, cold and cruel and cutting. 

            You will not come back from this battle. 

            Of that you are sure. 

The Battle of the Gullet:

            “Foolish girl,” you hiss at the sight of Rhaena atop Sheepstealer, the dragon out of control, not bonded in a true way to her. “To Jace,” you chuff at Leviathan and he huffs, the sound not a word, but a snort of indignation as he roars, the sound splitting the sky, Sheepstealer turning, veering, leaving Vermax in its path. 

            But then Sheepstealer’s tail swings, hitting Vermax and it’s the sight you saw in your dreams, the arrow soon to come. You squeeze your legs around the seat of Leviathan’s body and he dives, flying forwards, enough that as you hear the arrow launch, you are able to jump, leaping from Leviathan’s body, the arrow cutting through your armour, three others following in quick succession, ripping through your body. 

            “Y/N! NO!” Jace cries as your body falls, plummets, blood trailing from the wounds, your body landing atop the seat of Leviathan, but you cannot feel it. You cannot even feel what once was searing pain from the arrows cut. 

            Rather you feel nothing. 

            You feel empty, your blood trickling from you, falling onto Leviathan’s body, his words angry and worried and harsh.

            “You want to talk about foolish girl, little human? That’s you! You are my human and you are not allowed to die!” His roar is the last thing you hear before everything goes black, an image of green eyes surging up to meet you as you feel the gods reach down for you. 

            You fought off death all those years ago for Baelon and now it has come to collect. 

            You knew you would not come back. 

Daenarys’s letter:

Dear Father,

I know you may not even read this, may see my name and think betrayer but you should know that it is you who betrayed us long before we left. 

You betrayed us every time you spoke against Targaryens for that is what we are. Hightower blood may run through my veins, through my brothers’ veins, but not our mother’s. Not your wife’s. You said all should burn and you forgot that that was her. 

You said that your own wife should burn. 

And you should know that we had pressured her to leave from the moment the war broke, but her response was always “I cannot because I love him.” Her limit was you threatening her and us. And you hit it. So, we left. 

But do not let your hurt let her die without you saying goodbye. She took four arrows for Jace at the Battle of the Gullet. She’s dying, Father. They do not think she’ll make it. Please come. 

Please say goodbye because I know you love her as she loves you. It is the only thing I’m sure of, Father.

Please.

Your loving daughter,

Daenarys Hightower

—

            “My army,” Ormund calls, his heartbeat frantic, mind erratic. He wishes he had a dragon so that he could fly to you in no time at all and never have to worry about being too late, “we are to march to King’s Landing.”

            “To kill the Queen?” one asks and he shakes his head. 

            “No,” he answers. “To serve her. Fly our banners black. Now let us go.”

The Reunion:

            “Let me up!” you cry, the bandages tight around your body as you shift from side-to-side, trying to rise but finding that it hurts, giant ripping pain. “Come on, Daemon. Help me up.”

            “And let you die?” he asks, violet eyes narrowed on you, lips curved up in a soft smirk. “I think not, young General.” His arm is around Rhaenyra’s fingers and you lift your arms into a prayer clasp, shaking them at her. 

            “Please, sweet sister,” you cry and she laughs, a choked kind of laugh, tears falling from her eyes as she shakes her head. 

            “I cannot lose you. The Maesters are hopeful your bleeding is done, but they’re not confident.” You sigh and let your hands flop back to the bed, the motion jarring and you grunt, teeth gritting, eyes falling on Jace and Baelon, standing side-by-side, future King and Hand together. 

            “Jace, you owe me your life,” you sing-song, but he shakes his head. 

            “No can do,” he says, and Baelon glares at you, green eyes lined with tears, anger in those eyes that are a mimic of Ormund’s. 

            “I wish Matarys were here,” calls a soft voice, that of Rhaegar, but the mention of your youngest son, the one with violet eyes and dark curls causing a pain to rip through you, choked sobs leaving your lips, the kind that have your body heaving, aching, tearing. 

            Rhae crosses the floor, sinking down upon the bed beside you and drawing you to her as you did when you were little, your tears falling fast as you mourn the child that you had. That Aemond killed. For no reason but a throne. 

            One your sister sat on without bleeding, despite the period blood she found after. She listened and now she shall be Queen for years. 

            “I want my son,” you cry and Rhae’s arms tighten around you. 

            “I miss him too,” calls a voice that has your heart racing, your head turning, tears falling faster, sobs racking your body. Ormund. 

            “Here to kill us all?” Daemon sneers, drawing forth his sword, placing the blade against the hollow of Ormund’s throat, a bead of blood on the edge of the sword. 

            “No,” he answers, his hand waving at his simple, black garb, not a single weapon in sight. “I am here for my love.” He looks at you with green eyes clear, sane, not a hint of the broken man forged by his father’s hand. 

            “You’re here, truly,” you whisper and he nods, stepping around Daemon’s blade to go to you, falling onto his knees before the bed in a repentant pose, taking your hand and pressing it against his lips. 

            “I told you before,” he whispers, “that war may have many costs, but you are the only cost I would not pay.”

            “Where are your men?” Rhae asks and he lifts his head from the bed, from your hand, his green eyes meeting her violet ones. 

            “Here, flying the black banner,” he says. “My armies are hers. I am whatever side she claims in war. Because I will not pay the price of losing her.”

            “You mean it?” you ask and he looks at you, reaching his hand forwards to cup your cheek as he nods. 

            “You are and have always been, their general.”

The End:

            The war concluded with Queen Rhaenyra succeeding, her brother Aemond killed by her sister, Y/N. Aegon, Alicent and Helena also perished, war having shown that Side Black was the winner. 

            Vhaegor, the unbonded dragon, made a new choice—Ormund Hightower, the husband who rode with his wife when she went to slay her brother on the back of Leviathan, the mythical Cannibal. 

            Ormund gave up his seat at Oldtown to his second son Aerys and had two more children by his wife Y/N: Lucerys, the son and Matarya, the daughter. 

            Rhaenyra was succeeded by her son, Jacerys whose Hand was his cousin Baelon. And history has learned. 

            And history continues. 

He should be dead.

The last thing he remembered with any coherence was the sky, a sky choked with smoke and screaming. Beneath that memory lay only fractured images that swam behind his closed eyelids, fragments of chaos that refused to assemble into anything whole.

Vermax.

The name pierced through the darkness like a blade. His dragon. His beautiful, loyal Vermax, who had hatched from an egg placed in his cradle when he was nothing more than a squalling babe with a tuft of dark hair that already marked him as different from his silver-haired mother. Vermax had shrieked as the grappling hooks tore into his wings, as the Triarchy ships surrounded them, as the sea rose up to swallow them both.

Jace’s chest seized, he remembered the impact. He remembered the bone-shattering crash as Vermax slammed into the churning waters of the Gullet, and he remembered the dragon’s terrified, agonized roar. That sound had carried more than pain. It had carried something that felt like betrayal, as if Vermax could not understand why the sky had abandoned them. The cold of the sea had been absolute, salt water flooding his mouth, his throat, his lungs.

He had surfaced somehow. He had gasped and choked and reached for something, a piece of wreckage or a shattered mast, though the memory refused to sharpen. The waves had tossed him like a child’s toy. Through the spray and the smoke, the first bolt had taken him in the shoulder. The second had buried itself in his side, just beneath the ribs. The third was a blank space in his memory, a sensation his mind had simply refused to record.

What remained was the feeling that followed. A slow, spreading numbness. The way his limbs had stopped obeying him. The way the sky had tilted and spun, grey and gold and red bleeding together like watercolors on parchment. His last conscious thought had not been of his mother, nor of his brothers, nor of duty or the Iron Throne or the war that was tearing the realm apart. It had been of Vermax.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

—

He woke to the glow of candlelight, the light came from dozens of candles, the air smelled of salt and something else, something green and living. Herbs, perhaps, or flowers. It was an earthy smell, a growing smell, utterly unlike the smoke and blood and terror that had filled his nostrils before the darkness took him.

Jace tried to move, and his body screamed in protest. Every muscle, every joint, every inch of skin felt like an open wound packed with burning coals. Pain lanced through his shoulder, his side, his ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, and even that small motion sent fire racing down his spine.

“You shouldn’t move.”

The voice was soft and female, carrying an accent he had never heard before. The vowels were rounder than he was used to, the cadence lilting and unfamiliar, Jace turned his head slowly, every vertebra in his neck protesting, and saw you.

You were kneeling beside the bed, on a cushion of deep blue silk, and you were looking at him with an expression of such open relief that Jace forgot, for a moment, how to breathe.

You were beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the powdered faces and elaborate hairstyles of court ladies. You wore no jewelry, no rings, no gems at your throat. Your dress, if it could even be called that, was unlike anything he had ever seen, layers of fabric in pale ivory and soft gold that had been draped rather than tailored. The cut left your arms bare, and the neckline was wide and flowing. It was clothing from a warmer world entirely, bearing no resemblance to the heavy velvets and structured bodices of Westeros.

“You’re awake,” you said, and your smile was like dawn breaking over still water. “I was beginning to fear you wouldn’t open your eyes again.”

Jace opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was a dry, rasping croak. His throat felt as though it had been scoured raw.

You reached for a clay cup beside you, glazed deep blue, and lifted it to his lips with a careful hand. “Drink. Slowly. You’ve been without water for a long time.”

The water was cool and impossibly clean. It slid down his throat like mercy. He drank until you pulled the cup gently away, your expression soft but firm.

“I said slowly. Your body has been through a great ordeal.” Jace sagged back against the furs, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Even drinking had exhausted him. He could feel the heat radiating from his own skin, a fever burning beneath the surface. “Where…” His voice was barely a whisper, cracked and ruined. “Where am I?”

You set the cup aside. “My home. I found you on the shore.”

He tried to form another question, but his thoughts were slipping away from him like water through fingers. The shore. The battle. The arrows.

“Your body was full of arrows,” you said quietly, as if you had followed the path of his scattered thoughts. “You looked dead. I do not know how you survived.” A pause. “But I am glad you did.”

Jace stared at you, his vision blurring and sharpening in turns. The candles made halos around your silhouette. The cave walls curved around you both like cupped hands. He lay in a bed of soft furs with clean linen bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder. The space around him was strange, a blend of cave stone and polished wood and silk cushions.

He tried to focus on you again, on your strange dress and your unfamiliar accent and the way you looked at him without the calculating gaze of a courtier. Your expression held only simple, unguarded relief.

“You…” he started, but the words crumbled before he could shape them. He was so tired. The heat in his blood was growing worse, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air of the cave.

“Shh.” You leaned closer and pressed a cool cloth to his brow. Your touch was impossibly gentle. “You have a fever. The arrows were laced with something, I think. A poison, or something like it. It will take time to burn it out.”

Jace’s eyes fluttered. The cool cloth was a mercy, and your hand was steady against his skin.

“Where is this island?” he managed, the question barely a whisper. “How far from the battle…”

You shook your head, a small and quiet movement. “This is my island. That is all that matters now. You are here, and you are safe.” Your hand brushed the dark, sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead. “You are my guest. I will take care of you.”

He should have questioned you. He should have demanded to know where he was, who you were, how any of this was possible. He was a prince, raised on suspicion, trained to trust no one. But the fever was burning through him, and you were so calm, so steady, and your hands were so gentle, and he was so gods-damned tired.

“Rest,” you murmured. “You are not strong enough to stay awake. But you will be. In time.”

Jace’s eyes closed against his will. The darkness pulled at him, soft and warm. The last thing he felt was the cool cloth on his forehead and the gentle weight of your hand smoothing his hair back from his face.

“Sleep, Jace,” you whispered.

—

The days blurred together like watercolors left in the rain, Jace measured time by the changing quality of light that filtered through the cave's entrance, a distant glow that brightened and dimmed in a rhythm he slowly came to recognize. Morning, afternoon, evening, night. The cycle repeated itself over and over. He could not see the sky from his bed, only the rough stone ceiling and the flickering candles and, whenever he turned his head, the soft silhouette of you moving through the chamber.

You were always there, that was the first thing he truly understood once the fever broke and his mind began to piece itself back together. You were always there. When he woke gasping from nightmares of Vermax screaming, the arrows striking, the water closing over his head, you were beside him with your cool hand on his forehead and your voice murmuring words he could not quite catch but that soothed him anyway. When the pain in his wounds flared hot and unbearable, you were there with the medicine, spooning bitter liquid past his cracked lips and following it with cool water to wash away the taste. When the fever spiked and he thrashed in the furs, soaked in sweat and half-delirious, you were there with cloths dipped in cold water, pressing them to his chest, his neck, his brow.

He did not know how you slept. He did not know when you ate. He only knew that every time he opened his eyes, you were somewhere nearby, kneeling beside his bed or mixing herbs at the stone table or simply sitting on your silk cushion with your hands folded in your lap, watching the candles burn.

“You don’t have to stay,” he rasped one night, though it might have been day for all he could tell the difference. His voice was still weak and still cracked, but it no longer hurt to speak. “You must have other things to do.”

You looked up from the bowl you were mixing, and your lips curved into that soft, patient smile he was beginning to recognize. “I have nothing more important than keeping you alive, Jace. That is a full-time occupation, it seems.”

He wanted to argue, but exhaustion pulled him back under before he could form the words, the fever broke on what might have been the fifth day, or the sixth, or the seventh. He had lost count.

He woke drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead and the furs kicked to the foot of the bed, but his head was clear. For the first time since he had opened his eyes in this cave, his thoughts were not swimming in a haze of heat and pain. He could feel the wounds in his shoulder and side, still tender and still healing, but they no longer burned with the sharp, insistent fire of infection.

He was alive. He was going to stay alive, and that meant he had to get back.

His mother. His brothers. The war. Every day he spent lying in this bed was another day the Blacks fought without him, another day his family believed him dead, another day the Greens advanced their stolen throne. He had to get stronger. He had to return to Westeros.

“Your thoughts are very loud.” Jace turned his head. You were sitting on your cushion beside the bed, a piece of fabric in your hands and a needle moving in small, precise stitches. He had no idea how long you had been there. He had not even noticed you.

“My thoughts?” he repeated, his voice hoarse but steadier than before.

“You are frowning at the ceiling as though it has offended you.” You did not look up from your sewing, but there was a hint of amusement in your voice. “I assume you are planning your escape.”

Jace blinked. “I was not planning an escape. I was only thinking about how to leave.”

“That is the same thing.”

“It is absolutely not the same thing.” Now you did look up, one eyebrow raised, and Jace felt his face warm. He had walked directly into that.

“You want to go back,” you said, and your voice was quieter now, the teasing edge softened into something more serious. “It is natural. You have people waiting for you. A family. A war, perhaps, judging by the state of you when I found you.” You returned your attention to your stitching. “I understand.”

He was quiet for a moment, watching your hands move. The fabric you were working on was pale blue, the stitches neat and even. You were making him more bandages, he realized.

“Yes,” he admitted finally. “I have to go back. My family needs me. They probably think I am dead.”

“Then we will work to make you strong enough to leave.” You bit off the thread with your teeth, smooth and practiced. “But you cannot rush it. The wounds are healing well, but if you push too hard, too fast, you will undo all my hard work. And I have worked very hard, Jace.”

There was something almost stern in your tone, and despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “I would not dream of undoing your hard work.”

“Good.” You set the sewing aside and rose to your feet, your gossamer skirts rustling softly against the stone floor. “You have been lying in that bed for days. I think it is time you tried to sit up properly. Do you think you can manage it?”

Jace took a breath. His shoulder throbbed. His side ached. But the fever was gone, and his head was clear, and he was so gods-damned tired of lying flat on his back.

“Yes,” he said. “I think I can.” It was harder than he had expected.

His muscles had atrophied during the days of fever and stillness. His arms shook when he pushed himself up, and the wound in his side pulled sharply, and by the time he was sitting upright against the carved headboard, he was breathing hard and sweating again. But he was sitting. He was upright. He was looking at the cave from a new angle, and it was strange and wonderful and disorienting all at once.

“There,” you said, and you were smiling now, truly smiling, something brighter than the gentle curve of lips he had grown used to. “That was not so terrible, was it?”

“Terrible,” Jace managed, still catching his breath. “Absolutely terrible.”

“But you did it.”

He looked at you, at the way the candlelight caught the strange color of your eyes, and he found himself almost smiling back. “I did it.”

—

The days that followed fell into a pattern, you would help him sit up in the mornings, propping him against the headboard with pillows and furs. You would change his bandages, your fingers quick and efficient, your touch never lingering longer than necessary but never cold or impersonal either. You would bring him food, strange fruits he had never tasted before, sweet and tangy, and a porridge made from some grain he did not recognize, and fresh water that tasted cleaner than anything he had ever drunk in his life.

And you would talk about small things, the weather on the island, the herbs you used in your medicines, the fish you caught in the tidal pools below the cliffs. You had a dry, quiet sense of humor that surprised him, and a way of tilting your head when you were thinking that he found himself watching for.

In return, he told you things about himself. He was still a prince, still trained in caution, and so he held back the details that mattered most. But he told you about Dragonstone, about the volcanic rock and the sea winds and the dragons that wheeled in the sky. He told you about his brothers, careful to speak of them in the present tense even though Luke was-even though Luke had become something he could not yet say aloud.

He told you other things instead. That he missed the sea. That he had never been good at dancing. That his mother had taught him to read when he was four years old, and he had been so proud that he had carried the book around for a week straight, showing it to anyone who would look.

You laughed at that, a real laugh, bright and surprised, as if you had not expected him to say something so ordinary. “A week?”

“I was very proud of myself.”

“I can imagine. A little prince with his book, demanding that everyone admire his genius.”

“I did not demand. I simply made strong suggestions.”

“That is the same thing.”

“It is absolutely not the same thing, and I will not have my diplomatic skills insulted.”

You laughed again, and Jace realized with a jolt of surprise that he liked making you laugh. It was a good sound, your laugh, unstudied and unguarded, the sound of someone who spent too much time alone and had forgotten to be self-conscious about joy.

You were his only companion. His caretaker. His only visitor.

He had not seen another person even once in all the days he had been lying in this bed. No one came to the cave. No one called your name from outside. No one brought supplies or messages or news. It was only you, always you, appearing and disappearing through the winding passages of the cave system with the quiet confidence of someone who knew every stone by heart.

He had not asked about other people. It felt rude, somehow, when you were taking care of him and feeding him and changing his bandages and sitting beside him through the long, fevered nights. To ask about the absence of others would have sounded like an accusation, as though your company were insufficient, as though he had grown bored of you.

So he did not ask, but the question sat in the back of his mind, growing heavier with each passing day.

—

The day he walked for the first time was the day everything began to shift.

It was morning, the pale silver light filtering through the distant cave entrance, and you had just finished changing his bandages. The wounds were healing well, the flesh knitting together into angry red scars that would fade to white in time. You told him he would have a collection of them, a constellation across his shoulder and ribs. He said he would wear them with pride. You called him ridiculous.

“Today,” you announced, rising to your feet and brushing off your skirts, “you are going to walk.”

Jace looked up at you. “Walk.”

“Yes. Walk. Put one foot in front of the other. I assume you knew how to do it before you arrived here.”

“I knew how to walk.”

“Then today you will remember.”

It was harder than sitting up. It was harder than anything he had done since waking in this cave. His legs felt as though they belonged to someone else, weak and unsteady, the muscles wasted from days of lying still. You had to help him, your arm around his back and his arm across your shoulders, bearing some of his weight even though he tried very hard not to let you. You were smaller than him and slighter, and he was terrified of crushing you.

“You will not crush me,” you said, as if reading his thoughts. “I am stronger than I look. Stop trying to hold yourself up with pride alone and lean on me.”

He leaned on you, by the time he had taken five steps across the chamber, his legs were shaking and sweat was dripping down his face. But he had walked. Five steps. Then ten. Then, a few days later, he crossed the entire chamber without help, his hand braced against the wall and his breath coming hard and fast.

And the day after that, you smiled at him and said, “I think it is time you saw the sun.”

The cave system was a maze, Jace knew, that your home was larger than the single chamber where he had been lying. He had seen you disappear down passages and emerge from different directions, had caught glimpses of other rooms, a kitchen carved into the rock, a storage chamber lined with jars and barrels, a space where water trickled down the wall into a natural basin. But he had not grasped the full scale of it until you led him through it yourself.

The passages twisted and turned, branching off into side tunnels and dead ends. Some were narrow, barely wide enough for a single person to squeeze through. Others opened into wide chambers with high ceilings, lit by candles placed in alcoves and by thin shafts of daylight that pierced down through cracks in the rock. The walls were rough in some places and smooth in others, worn down by time and water and the patient labor of whoever had carved this place.

“Did you build all this?” Jace asked, his voice echoing strangely in the stone corridors. He was walking slowly, one hand on the wall for balance, but he was walking.

You glanced back at him. “The caves were here long before me. I only furnished them.”

“You furnished them very well,” he muttered, stepping around a carved wooden chest that would not have looked out of place in a merchant’s manse.

“I had time.”

That was all you said, as if it explained everything. As if it explained anything at all.

The light grew brighter as you walked, the grey-silver of filtered daylight giving way to a warm golden glow. Jace could smell the outside now, salt air and flowers and something green and growing. His heart beat faster. He had been underground for so long that he had almost forgotten what the sky looked like.

Then you stepped through the cave entrance, and he followed you, and the world opened up around him.

It was beautiful, there was no other word for it, no word that could possibly capture what Jace saw as he stood at the mouth of the cave, blinking in the sudden brightness, his eyes struggling to adjust after so many days of candlelight and shadow.

The island spread out before him like something from a dream, the cliffs where the cave was carved dropped down to a shoreline of white sand that gleamed in the morning sun. Beyond the beach, the water was the most extraordinary shade of blue he had ever seen, turquoise at the shore, deepening to sapphire further out, clear and calm and glittering with reflected light. The sky was vast and cloudless, a pale, soft blue that seemed to go on forever.

But it was the island itself that stole his breath, flowers grew everywhere, wild, sprawling, abundant blooms that cascaded down the cliffs and carpeted the meadows in explosions of color. He saw flowers in shades he had never encountered before, deep violet, vivid orange, a blue so pale it was almost silver. Trees heavy with fruit he did not recognize bent over natural pathways, their branches laden with something golden and round, something dark and pear-shaped, something that resembled a pomegranate but was the color of honey.

The air was warm and sweet, thick with the scent of blossoms and salt and damp earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance, strange, melodic calls that were not quite like any birdsong he knew. A waterfall tumbled down the cliff face to his left, a thin silver ribbon that caught the light and threw rainbows into the air.

Jace stood there, swaying slightly on his still-weak legs, and he could not speak.

“I know,” you said quietly, standing beside him. “It is a great deal, after so long underground.”

“I have never seen anything like this.”

“It is home.” Your voice was matter of fact, but there was something softer underneath it, something almost sad. “Come. There is a place to sit not far from here. You should not stand for too long yet.”

He let you lead him to a flat outcropping of rock cushioned with moss and ferns, and he sat down heavily, still staring out at the impossible landscape. The flowers swayed in the breeze. The waterfall sang its endless song. The sea glittered and danced.

And there was no one here, the realization crept up on him slowly, settling over his shoulders like a cold cloak. He looked out at the island, the meadows, the fruit trees, the white sand beach, the cliffs, and he saw no houses and no fishing boats pulled up on the shore. He saw no paths worn by the tread of many feet and no smoke rising from chimneys. He heard no voices calling in the distance. He saw no sign of human life at all.

Only the flowers. The birds. The waterfall. The sea.

And you.

—

He did not say anything at first, you helped him walk a little further each day, down to the edge of the meadow where the strange golden fruit grew on low, sprawling trees, up to a ridge that overlooked the eastern shore where the water was even bluer and the sky even wider. You showed him the tidal pools, teeming with tiny creatures he had never seen, brightly colored shells that moved on dozens of legs, star-shaped animals that clung to the rocks, fish that darted and flashed like living jewels.

And everywhere you went, you were the only person, he saw no footprints but yours, he saw no structures but the cave. The only signs of cultivation were a small vegetable garden tucked into a sheltered hollow behind the cliffs, neat rows of plants he recognized, mostly herbs and some kind of root vegetable, and further back, half-hidden by a grove of flowering trees, a low stone wall enclosing a patch of churned earth.

He heard the pigs before he saw them, a grunting, snuffling chorus rose and fell, punctuated by the occasional indignant squeal. Jace followed the sound, moving carefully along a narrow path between two rock formations, and emerged into a clearing where at least two dozen pigs were milling about in a large stone enclosure. They were fat and healthy, their coats glossy, their ears flopping. Piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt while larger sows dozed in the shade of the trees.

And you were in the middle of them, you were scattering something from a woven basket, scraps of fruit rinds and vegetable peels and some kind of grain, and the pigs crowded around you like old friends. You were speaking to them in a low, affectionate murmur, and your hands moved among them with the ease of long familiarity.

You looked up and saw him standing at the edge of the enclosure. Your expression shifted, just slightly. Something guarded, something wary, flickered behind your eyes before you smoothed it away.

“You found my pigs,” you said, Jace leaned against the stone wall, catching his breath. The walk had been longer than he had realized, and his side was aching. “You have a lot of pigs.”

“They keep me company.” You tossed another handful of scraps into the enclosure, and a particularly large sow shouldered her way forward to claim it. “And they are useful. The meat, the fat, the leather. Nothing goes to waste.”

He watched you for a moment. The pigs jostled around your legs, grunting and snuffling, and you moved among them without the slightest hesitation, like a shepherdess, like someone who had been doing this for years.

“Where are the other people?” he asked.

Your hands stilled on the basket. You did not look up.

“What other people?”

“The villagers. The farmers. Whoever else lives here.” Jace gestured vaguely at the enclosure, at the pigs, at the island beyond. “You said this was your island. But someone has to help you with all of this.”

He trailed off. You were looking at him now, and your expression was strange, as though you had been expecting this question and dreading it in equal measure.

“There are no other people, Jace,” you said quietly.

He stared at you. “What do you mean, there are no other people?”

“I mean it is only me.” You set the basket down on the stone wall. Your hands, now empty, folded together in front of you. “There is no village. There are no farmers. There are no fishermen or shepherds or traders. There is only me, and the pigs, and the birds, and the fish in the sea. That is all.”

The words refused to make sense. Jace shook his head, a short, sharp movement. “That cannot be right. You cannot live here alone. How do you survive? How do you get supplies? There has to be someone else, a trader who comes by ship, a neighboring island, something.”

“There is no one else.” Your voice was calm and steady, but there was something raw underneath it now. “No ships come here. No traders. No neighbors. The island is hidden. It does not appear on any map. No one knows it exists.”

“That is impossible.”

“It is simply true.”

Jace pushed himself off the stone wall, ignoring the protest of his healing wounds. His heart was beating too fast. His thoughts were spinning. “How did you get here, then? How do you live? You cannot simply be alone on an island forever.”

“I did not say I chose it.”

The words stopped him cold, you were still standing in the middle of the pig enclosure, surrounded by grunting, oblivious animals. Your strange dress fluttered in the breeze, the pale fabric catching the sunlight. Your face was composed, but your eyes were dark with something old and heavy and carefully buried.

“My brother sent me here,” you said. “As punishment.”

Jace opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Punishment for what?”

“For disobeying him.” Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings. “I did something he could not forgive. And instead of killing me, he sent me here. He had the means to do it, the ships, the men, the knowledge of this place. He left me with supplies and seeds and animals and told me I would never leave.”

“You have been here ever since,” Jace said slowly.

“I have been here ever since.”

“How long?”

You looked away, out over the blue water, and for a moment you were utterly still. “A long time.”

Jace’s mind was racing, scrambling to fit the pieces together. A brother with enough power to exile someone to a hidden island. Ships and men and the means to keep the place secret. A lord powerful enough to make his sister disappear without anyone asking questions.

“Who is your brother?” he asked.

Your jaw tightened. “A lord. That is all you need to know.”

“A lord of what? Where? What house?”

“It does not matter.” Your voice sharpened, just slightly, the first hint of steel he had ever heard from you. “What matters is that he is powerful enough to do this. Powerful enough that if I try to leave, if I find a way off this island and set foot on the mainland, I will be found and I will be brought back, and the consequences will be worse than exile.”

Jace stared at you, you were alone. Completely, utterly alone. You had been alone for what might have been months or years or decades. You had built a life in a cave, furnished it with silk and polished wood, grown a garden and raised pigs and taught yourself to heal. And no one had come for you. No one had visited. No one had even known you were here.

Until a dying dragon prince washed up on your shore.

“I am sorry,” he said, and the words felt pathetically inadequate. “I did not know.”

“How could you have known?” You picked up the basket again, your movements brisk and practical, as if you were eager to change the subject. “You were unconscious when you arrived. It is not as if I introduced myself and gave you a tour. Welcome to my prison, please enjoy the flowers.”

“It is not a prison.” You looked at him, and your smile was tired and sad and strangely kind. “It is a very beautiful prison. But it is a prison nonetheless.” You turned and walked away, the basket tucked under your arm, the pigs trailing after you like a strange, grunting entourage. Jace watched you go, your bare shoulders and your flowing dress and the way you moved through the meadow as if you had memorized every inch of it.

And he understood, suddenly, why you had never hesitated to save him. Why you had sat beside his bed for days on end. Why you had laughed at his stupid jokes and argued with him about the proper way to brew medicinal tea.

You were lonely.

Jace stood at the edge of the pig enclosure, the sun warm on his face and the sea glittering in the distance, and he thought about his mother and his brothers and the war and the throne.

He had to go back. He had to, but as he watched you disappear into the grove of flowering trees, your figure growing smaller and smaller against the impossible beauty of the island, he realized that leaving might be harder than he had thought.

—

In the days following your revelation—it is just me, there is no one else—Jace threw himself into the work of recovery with a ferocity that surprised even him. He woke early, before the light through the cave entrance had shifted from silver to gold, and he pushed his body harder than was probably wise. He walked the island's paths until his legs stopped shaking. He climbed the low cliffs until his arms stopped burning. He ate everything you put in front of him, slept when you told him to sleep, and bit back every complaint when you made him drink your bitter medicines.

"Someone is motivated," you remarked one morning, watching him pace the length of the chamber. He had been doing laps—back and forth, back and forth—testing the strength of his newly healed legs. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to pink, then to white, and the pain was a distant memory now, only flaring when he moved too quickly or twisted the wrong way.

"I have to get home," he said, not breaking stride. "My mother needs me. My brothers need me. Every day I spend here is another day they think I'm dead."

You nodded, your expression unreadable. "Then we had better build you a boat."

The boat took shape slowly, you showed him a grove of trees on the eastern side of the island, tall and straight, their wood pale and close-grained, ideal for shipbuilding. You had an axe, kept sharp and well-oiled in one of the storage chambers, and you handed it to him without ceremony.

"I will help where I can," you said, "but I am not a shipwright. You will have to figure out most of it yourself."

Jace had never built a boat before. He had sailed on dozens of them but knowing how to sail and knowing how to build were two very different things. He felled the first tree through trial and error, the axe handle blistering his palms, the sweat dripping into his eyes. By the time the trunk crashed to the ground, he was exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure.

"Not bad," you said from where you sat on a nearby rock, a pile of mending in your lap. You had been watching him work for the better part of an hour, offering no advice but plenty of company. "For a prince who has never done a day's labor in his life."

"I've done labor."

"Name one example."

He opened his mouth and swung the axe into the fallen trunk with more force than necessary. "I trained with swords. That's labor."

"Swords are not labor. Swords are play for princes."

"Then what do you call this?" He gestured at the tree, the axe, his blistered hands.

You smiled, that slow, warm smile that was becoming as familiar to him as the sunrise. "I call it a good start."

The days passed, Jace shaped the wood as best he could, stripping branches and hewing planks with tools you provided from the depths of the cave. Some of them were strange—shaped for hands slightly different from his own, their handles worn smooth by use that was not his. He didn't ask where they came from. He was learning that there were questions you would answer and questions you would not, and the line between them was invisible until he crossed it.

But you were always there, always nearby.

He had grown accustomed to the rhythm of your presence, the rustle of your strange, flowing dresses, the soft pad of your bare feet on stone, the quiet humming you did when you worked. You brought him water when the sun grew hot. You checked his scars every evening, your fingers against his skin, pronouncing him healed and healing well. You sat with him while he ate, and you talked about nothing and everything, and your laugh was the brightest sound on an island full of bright sounds.

"I should be further along by now," he said one evening, staring at the skeleton of the boat with frustration. The hull was taking shape, but slowly—too slowly. At this rate, it would be months before it was seaworthy.

"You are one person building a boat by hand," you pointed out. You were sitting cross-legged on a flat rock, sorting through a basket of herbs. The setting sun caught the planes of your face, the curve of your bare shoulders, the way your dress draped across your lap in soft folds. "I think you are allowed to take your time."

"I don't have time." He ran a hand through his hair—longer now, curling past his ears, in desperate need of a trim. "My mother—she needs me. The war—"

He stopped.

The war.

What war?

The thought slipped through his mind like water through fingers, there and gone before he could catch it. There was a war. Of course there was a war. He was fighting in it. Or he had been fighting in it. That was why he had been in the Gullet, why Vermax had—

Vermax.

His chest tightened. He remembered the dragon's scream. He remembered the water closing over his head. He remembered the arrows.

But what was the war about?

"The war," he repeated, more quietly now. "I have to get back to the war."

You looked up from your herbs, and your expression was gentle. Unreadable. "You will. When the boat is ready, you will."

"Right." He nodded, the motion jerky. "Right. The boat."

He picked up the axe and got back to work.

—

One afternoon you were down by the shore, sitting in the shade of a flowering tree while Jace worked on the boat's hull. "Brothers," he said, sanding down a rough edge of wood. "Three of them. Well—two full brothers. Two half-brothers. That's four. No, wait." He frowned. "Joffrey and... and the little ones. Aegon and..."

He stopped, the name wouldn't come.

"Viserys," you said quietly.

"Viserys. Right. Viserys." He shook his head, laughing at himself. "I don't know why I couldn't remember that. He's the youngest. Named after my grandfather."

You said nothing. You only watched him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and your fingers were very still on the mending in your lap.

"And Luke," Jace continued, the name coming easier now. "Lucerys. He's the second one. He's..."

Dead.

The word surfaced from somewhere deep, cold and sharp as a blade. But it didn't hurt the way it should have. It was distant. Muffled. Like a scream heard through a closed door.

"He's what?" you asked.

Jace blinked. "He's... he's at Dragonstone. With our mother. Waiting for me to come home."

You nodded slowly. "I am sure he misses you."

"He probably thinks I'm dead." Jace turned back to the boat, running his hand along the smooth wood. "I have to get back soon. Before he does something stupid. He's always doing stupid things, Luke. He's impulsive. Reckless. He doesn't think before he acts."

Luke is dead. Luke was torn apart by Vhagar above Storm's End. You weren't there. You didn't protect him.

But the voice was fading. Growing quieter. Harder to hear over the sound of the waves and the breeze and your soft, steady breathing.

—

The boat took longer than it should have, some days Jace worked on it from sunrise to sunset, his hands raw and calloused, his back aching, his mind fixed on the singular goal of getting home. But other days—more and more days, as the weeks wore on—he found himself... distracted.

The waterfall, for one thing.

It tumbled down the cliff face on the western side of the island, a silver ribbon that caught the sunlight and scattered it into rainbows. The pool at its base was deep and clear and shockingly cold, fed by some underground spring that kept it cool even in the heat of the afternoon. Jace had discovered it on one of his exploratory walks, and he had been drawn back to it again and again.

You came with him sometimes. You would sit on the rocks at the edge of the pool, your feet dangling in the water, your dress hiked up to your knees. You would tilt your face toward the sun and close your eyes, and Jace would find himself watching you instead of the waterfall.

"Are you going to swim or are you going to stare?" you asked one day, not opening your eyes.

"I wasn't staring."

"You were staring."

"I was... appreciating the scenery."

You opened one eye. "The scenery."

"The waterfall," he said, gesturing vaguely. "It's very nice."

You laughed—that bright, unguarded laugh that he had come to love—and he felt something warm bloom in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with the sun.

"Come on, then," you said, and before he could react, you slid off the rock and into the water with a splash that sent droplets arcing through the air like diamonds.

Jace stared at you. You surfaced a moment later, your hair plastered to your head, your dress clinging to your skin, the wet fabric rendered nearly transparent. The water lapped at your collarbones, and you were laughing again, and you looked—

You looked beautiful.

He had known you were beautiful from the moment he opened his eyes in the candlelit cave. But there was something different about you now. Something that had shifted, the curves of your face seemed softer. The color of your eyes seemed deeper. The way you moved—the way you laughed—the way you looked at him—it all seemed more vivid. More precious.

"Are you coming in or not?" you called, treading water in the center of the pool.

Jace pulled his shirt over his head and dove in after you, the water was cold and clean and wonderful. They splashed each other like children, chasing each other around the pool, ducking under the waterfall and emerging gasping and laughing. Jace couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like this—freely, openly, without the weight of duty pressing down on his shoulders.

Your dress clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric outlining every curve of your body. Jace tried very hard not to notice. He failed. "You're staring again," you said, but your voice was different now. Quieter. Almost shy.

"Sorry." He wasn't sorry.

—

"I was betrothed," he said one evening.

You were sitting on the rocks overlooking the western sea, watching the sun sink toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and pink. Jace sat beside you, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your arm near his. The boat sat half-finished on the beach below, forgotten for the day.

"Was?" you asked.

"Am. I am betrothed." He frowned. "I think. We were supposed to marry before... before I left."

"Before the battle."

"Before the battle, yes." He stared out at the sunset, trying to conjure her face. His betrothed. She was a Targaryen, he was sure of that. Silver hair. Purple eyes. A dragon. But her name—her name wouldn't come. "She's my cousin, I think. Or my step-sister. Both, actually. It's complicated."

"What is her name?"

Jace opened his mouth. The name wasn't there.

"I can't remember," he said, and the admission felt strange. Not frightening—it should have been frightening—but strange. Like discovering a pocket in a familiar coat that he had never noticed before. "I know her face. She's... she's fierce. Brave. She has a dragon. A small one, I think. Or maybe it's large. I can't..."

He trailed off.

You were quiet for a moment. Then, very softly: "Do you love her?"

"Love?" He considered the question. "I don't know. She's family. She's duty. She's... she's what I'm supposed to do, but i care for her, a lot."

"That is not the same as love."

"No," he agreed. "It's not."

He didn't say anything else. Neither did you. But your arm was warm against his, and the sunset was beautiful, and when he finally walked you back to the cave, his hand found the small of your back without thinking, and you leaned into the touch instead of pulling away.

—

He forgot about the betrothed entirely by morning.

—

The days grew warmer. Or perhaps they didn't—perhaps it was only that Jace had stopped paying attention to the passage of time. The boat sat on the beach, half-finished, and he told himself he would work on it tomorrow. Tomorrow came and went, and he spent it with you instead—walking the island paths, gathering fruit from the strange golden trees, sitting by the waterfall and talking about nothing.

What are you doing? a voice whispered in the back of his mind. You have to go home. Your mother needs you.

But what did his mother need him for? There was something—something important—something about a throne, a war, a betrayal. But the details were foggy now, blurred like ink left out in the rain.

He remembered her face. Her silver hair. Her voice saying his name, but the rest was slipping away, piece by piece, day by day, and the more he forgot, the more he noticed you.

The way you moved through the meadow, your skirts brushing the wildflowers. The way you hummed when you cooked, some melody he had never heard before but that felt familiar anyway. The way you looked at him sometimes, quick glances from beneath your lashes, as if you were checking to make sure he was still there. Still real. Still alive.

The way your hand felt in his when he helped you over a rocky patch of ground.

The way your laugh echoed off the cliffs and came back to them multiplied, a chorus of joy.

The way your eyes caught the light of the setting sun and held it, like they were made of something more than flesh.

He loved you.

He loved the sound of your voice and the curve of your smile and the gentle patience with which you had nursed him back from the edge of death. He loved your dry humor and your quiet strength and the way you never pressed him for answers he didn't have. He loved the life you had built here, alone on an island that should not exist, and he loved that you had let him into it.

He loved you.

And the more he loved you, the less he remembered.

—

The morning was hot and still, Jace had woken early, as he always did now, but instead of reaching for the axe or walking down to the beach where the half-finished boat sat waiting, he had gone straight to the waterfall.

The pool was cool and clear, fed by the endless rush of water that tumbled down the cliff face in a silver curtain. He shed his clothes on the rocks, just the loose linen breeches you had sewn for him from fabric found somewhere in the depths of the cave, and dove in without hesitation. The cold shock of the water stole his breath and cleared his head, chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep.

He floated on his back, staring up at the pale blue sky, watching the birds wheel overhead. His dark hair fanned out in the water around him. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to thin white lines, barely visible now. He was stronger than he had ever been, his muscles hardened by weeks of manual labor, his skin tanned golden by the sun.

He should have been thinking about the boat, about going home, about his mother and his brothers and the war.

He was thinking about you. Your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes caught the light. The way your hand felt in his. The way you looked at him sometimes, soft and searching, with something unspoken hovering just behind your lips. He had kissed you before, small kisses, brief and chaste, a press of his lips to your forehead when you fell asleep beside him, a brush of his mouth against your knuckles when you handed him a cup of water. But he had not kissed you properly. He had not kissed you the way he wanted to, the way he had been imagining for weeks, the way that left no doubt about what he felt.

He was thinking about that when he heard your footsteps on the rocks above. "You started without me."

Jace turned in the water, treading easily, and looked up at you. You were standing at the edge of the pool, barefoot on the smooth stone, wearing your dress of pale purple gossamer that drifted around your ankles in the faint breeze. The sun caught the planes of your face and the curve of your neck and the dip of your collarbones, and the sight of you struck him silent for a moment.

"Someone has to," he called back, forcing his voice into something approaching normal. "You sleep too late."

"I was gathering herbs. Some of us have work to do."

"Swimming is work. It builds character."

You laughed, that bright, warm sound that he had come to treasure more than anything else on this island. "Is that what you are doing? Building character?"

"Come in and find out."

You hesitated for just a moment. Your eyes met his across the water, and something flickered in your expression, something tentative and questioning, as if you were making a decision and waiting to see if he would notice.

Then you reached up and untied the clasps at your shoulders.

The dress fell and Jace stopped breathing.

You stood above him in nothing but the sunlight, bare to the sky and the water and his gaze. The curves of your body were soft and smooth, your skin glowing in the morning light. Your breasts were full and round and tight in the open air. Your waist dipped inward in a graceful curve before flaring out to the swell of your hips.

You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Are you coming in or not?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

You smiled, then you dove into the water in one clean, graceful arc, slicing through the surface with barely a splash.

You surfaced inches from him, the water lapped at your collarbones, but beneath the surface he could see the pale shape of your body, distorted by the ripples, impossibly close. Droplets clung to your lashes. Your hair floated around you like ink spilled in water. Your lips were parted and slightly wet, and you were looking at him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and Jace forgot how to think.

"The water is nice," you said, and your voice was teasing and light, but there was a tremor underneath it.

"Nice," he repeated. He could not stop staring at your mouth.

"Very refreshing."

"I had not noticed."

"No?"

"No."

His hand found your waist beneath the water. Your skin was cool and slick and impossibly soft. You did not pull away. You drifted closer, your bare legs brushing against his, and the contact sent a jolt through him like lightning striking water. He could feel the heat of your core through the cool water, a promise of the warmth waiting for him, and his cock stirred against the confines of his breeches.

"Jace," you whispered.

That was all. Just his name, but the way you said it, breathless and aching and full of want, broke something open inside him.

He kissed you, his mouth strong against yours. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand came up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. You made a small, desperate sound against his lips and kissed him back just as fiercely, your arms winding around his neck, your bare breasts pressing against the hard plane of his chest.

You were bare beneath his hands, there was nothing between his palms and your skin but water. He could feel every curve of you against the hard muscle of his own. His thumbs traced the ridges of your middle, and you shivered, and he swallowed the sound you made. His hands slid lower, cupping the full curve of your arse, kneading the firm flesh, pulling your hips against his so you could feel the rigid length of him pressing against your belly through the wet linen of his breeches.

"Jace," you gasped against his mouth. "Jace, I—"

"Tell me to stop." His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "Tell me to stop and I will stop."

"Do not stop." Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting into his sun-warmed skin. "Please do not stop."

He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened for him with a shuddering breath. The taste of you, sweet and clean and faintly herbal from the medicines you were always brewing, flooded his senses. He explored your mouth thoroughly, learning the texture of your tongue, the ridge of your teeth, the softness of your inner cheeks. You moaned into his mouth and sucked on his tongue, and the sensation went straight to his groin. He could feel your heart pounding against his chest, or perhaps that was his own heart, hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.

Your legs wrapped around his waist beneath the water. The movement was instinctive and natural, and it brought your hips flush against his, the heat of your sex pressing against the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches. He groaned against your mouth, low and rough, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. You were so warm. Even in the cool water, the core of you radiated a heat that he could feel through the fabric separating them.

He walked you backward through the pool, still kissing you, still holding you, until your back met the smooth stone of the cliff wall. The waterfall rushed beside them, a curtain of silver sound. He kissed the hollow of your throat, feeling your pulse flutter against his lips. He traced the delicate line of your collarbone with his tongue, tasting the clean, mineral tang of the spring water on your skin. He let his mouth drift lower, over the swell of your breast, and when his lips closed around one tight, pebbled nipple, you gasped and arched against him, your fingers fisting in his hair.

He lavished attention on your breasts, suckling first one and then the other, his tongue circling the tight buds, his teeth grazing them with just enough pressure to make you moan. Your breasts were perfect in his hands, full and soft, fitting his palms as though they had been made for him. He kneaded them gently, thumbs brushing over the wet peaks, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your head had fallen back against the stone, your lips parted, your eyes squeezed shut. The sight of you like this, bare and wanting and completely surrendered to his mouth, made his cock throb painfully against his breeches.

"I have wanted this," he breathed against your skin, his voice ragged. "Gods, I have wanted this for so long."

"Then do not wait any longer."

He lifted his head and looked at you. Your eyes were dark with want, your lips swollen from his kisses, your chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. The water lapped at your breasts, revealing and hiding, and he could feel every inch of you pressed against him, every curve, every soft place, every point of contact where your body met his.

"Are you sure?" he asked. He needed to hear it. He needed to know.

In answer, you cupped his face in your hands and pulled him down to you. "I have never been more sure of anything in my life."

He kissed you again, soft and sweet this time, a promise and a question all at once. Then his hand slid down your body beneath the water, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your legs tightened around his waist, and he felt you tremble against him. His fingers found the heat of you, warm and slick even in the cool water, and he traced the folds of your sex with a feather-light touch. You gasped and bucked against his hand. He explored you slowly, learning the shape of you, the soft outer lips, the slick inner petals, the hard pearl of your pleasure at the apex. When he circled that sensitive nub with his thumb, you cried out, a sound half-lost in the rush of the waterfall. He swallowed it with his mouth, kissing you through it, his touch gentle and searching and patient. He slid one finger inside you, feeling the tight, wet heat of your body grip him, and you moaned against his lips. He added a second finger, stretching you gently, his thumb still circling your sensitive peak, and you writhed against his hand, your inner walls clenching around his fingers.

"Please," you whispered, the word broken and beautiful. "Please, Jace. I need you inside me."

He withdrew his fingers, and you made a small sound of protest that he silenced with a kiss. He reached down and freed himself from his breeches, his cock springing out, hard and thick and aching. The head was dark with need, a bead of moisture already forming at the tip. You glanced down through the clear water and your eyes widened at the sight of him, long and rigid, curving slightly upward toward his belly.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured, positioning himself at your entrance. He rubbed the head of his cock against your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing you both with the promise of what was to come. "I want to watch your face when I enter you. I want to see what I do to you."

Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back. "Then do it. I want to feel you."

He pushed into you slowly, so slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The water made everything liquid and easy, but he wanted to savor this, the way your eyes fluttered closed, the way your mouth fell open, the way your body welcomed him. You were so tight and so warm and so perfect around him. He could feel every ridge and fold of your inner walls as they gripped him and fluttered and stretched to accommodate his size. Your heat enveloped him, searing even through the cool water, and he had to stop and breathe when he was fully sheathed, his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back.

"Look at me," he murmured. "Please. Look at me."

Your eyes opened. They were dark and shining, full of something that looked very much like love. "You feel incredible," you breathed. "I am so full."

He began to move, he withdrew almost completely, feeling the drag of your body against every inch of his length, and then pushed back in with a slow, deep thrust that made you both gasp. The sensation was overwhelming, the tight clutch of your body, the heat, the way your inner muscles rippled around him. He set a steady rhythm, each stroke deliberate and full, sliding into you to the hilt and then pulling back until only the head remained inside you. The water splashed gently around them, ripples spreading outward in concentric circles with every movement. Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper with every thrust. Your hands slid down his spine, tracing the ridges of muscle that flexed with every movement. You were making soft, breathless sounds, gasps and moans and fragments of his name, and he caught each one with his mouth, kissing you, drinking you down like wine.

"You feel incredible," he groaned against your lips. "So tight. So perfect. I could stay inside you forever."

"So do you," you gasped, your words barely coherent, slurred with pleasure. "Harder, Jace. Please."

He did not need to be asked twice. His pace quickened, his hips slamming against yours with increasing force. The sound of their coupling echoed off the cliff walls, wet and rhythmic, the slap of skin against skin beneath the water. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and he watched them, mesmerized by the way they moved, the way the water lapped at the peaks. He bent his head and captured one nipple in his mouth again, sucking hard, grazing it with his teeth, and you cried out sharply, your inner walls clenching around him.

He shifted his angle slightly, tilting his hips, and on the next thrust you cried out sharply, your head falling back against the stone, your whole body arching against his. He had found the right spot, that sensitive place deep inside you, and he drove into it again and again, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your brow furrowed and your lips parted and your eyes lost focus, and you were babbling now, a stream of broken words, his name and pleas for more and incoherent praise.

"There," you gasped. "Right there. Do not stop. Please do not stop."

He did not stop. He could not have stopped if the world was ending. There was nothing but you, your body, your voice, your hands on his skin. He felt your inner walls begin to flutter around him, the first warning signs of your approaching climax, and he moved his hand between your bodies, finding the slick, sensitive pearl of you beneath the water. He pressed his thumb against it in tight, circling strokes, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

"That is it," he murmured against your ear, his voice low and rough. "Let go. I want to feel you come apart around me."

Your climax took you by surprise. He felt it building, the way your breath quickened, the way your nails bit into his shoulders, the way your body tightened around him until he could barely move. And then you shattered, crying out his name, your head thrown back, your whole body arching and shuddering against his. He felt the rhythmic pulsing of your release gripping his cock, your inner walls milking him in waves, and he watched your face contort with pleasure, your mouth open, your eyes squeezed shut, your cheeks flushed dark. The sight of you, bare and beautiful and completely undone, was enough to push him over the edge. He drove into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and let go. His release surged through him in hot, pulsing waves, spilling deep inside you, and he groaned your name against the curve of your neck, his body shaking with the force of his climax.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breathing slowed, your chest rising and falling against his. Your fingers traced lazy patterns on the back of his neck. He remained inside you, still half-hard, reluctant to separate from the warmth of your body. He could feel his seed and your slickness mingled together, warm and wet around him, and the sensation was so intimate, so perfect, that he never wanted to move again.

"Jace," you whispered, and your voice was hoarse and sweet and utterly content.

He lifted his head and looked at you. Your cheeks were flushed. Your lips were red and swollen. Your hair was a wild tangle around your shoulders. Your eyes were soft and hazy with satisfaction. You had never looked more beautiful.

"I love you," he said.

The words came out before he could stop them, before he even realized he was thinking them. But once they were spoken, he knew they were true. He loved you. He loved you so completely and so absolutely that he could barely remember what his life had been before you. You were everything. You were the sun and the sea and the stars. You were the only thing that mattered.

Your eyes widened. "I love you too," you said. "I have loved you since the moment you opened your eyes."

He kissed you again, softly this time, tenderly, a kiss that tasted of water and salt and promises. And then he held you, your body still wrapped around his, the waterfall cool against his back, the sun warm on his face.

They did not leave the pool for a long time. When they finally climbed out, their skin pruned and their limbs heavy with satisfaction, they did not bother to dress. Jace carried you to a patch of soft grass beneath the flowering trees, and he laid you down among the fallen petals, pink and white and gold. He knelt between your spread thighs and looked down at you, at your bare body glistening with water droplets, at the place where his seed was already beginning to leak from your swollen folds, and he felt himself harden again at the sight.

He made love to you again, slower this time, sweeter. He kissed his way down your body, his mouth tracing the hollow of your throat, the swell of your breasts, the plane of your stomach. He paused to dip his tongue into your navel, making you squirm, and then continued lower, pressing kisses to your hip bones, the sensitive crease where your thighs met your body. When he reached the junction of your thighs, he settled between them and looked up at you. Your scent was intoxicating, musky and sweet and mixed with the salt of his own release. He could see the evidence of their earlier coupling, the glistening slickness that coated your folds, and the sight made him groan with want.

He tasted you properly for the first time. His tongue parted your folds, tracing a slow path from your entrance to the peak of your pleasure. The taste of you combined with the taste of him was earthy and raw and utterly intoxicating. You cried out and fisted your hands in the grass, your hips rising to meet his mouth. He took his time, learning what you liked, alternating between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and focused, circling attention to your sensitive peak. He slid two fingers inside you as he sucked on that tight bundle of nerves, curling them forward to press against that sensitive spot on your inner wall, and you came apart against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head, your voice breaking on his name, your body gushing wetness that he lapped up eagerly.

After that, they walked back to the cave hand in hand, bare and unashamed, their clothes forgotten on the rocks by the waterfall. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, and the island was alive with birdsong and the scent of flowers. Jace kept his hand on the small of your back as you walked, unable to stop touching you, his thumb tracing small circles against your skin.

When you reached the bedchamber, the bed where he had first woken, the furs soft and the candles flickering on the walls, he took you again. This time you pushed him down onto his back and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. You looked down at him and you reached between your bodies to guide him to your entrance. He watched his cock disappear inside you, inch by inch, watched the way your folds stretched to accommodate him, and the sight was almost enough to make him spend right there. You sank down until he was fully seated inside you, and you both moaned at the sensation.

You began to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sinuous rhythm. He watched you move above him, your breasts swaying with each roll of your hips, your stomach flexing, your head thrown back in pleasure. He reached up and cupped your breasts, rolling the tight peaks between his fingers, and you gasped and increased your pace. Your thighs flexed as you rose and fell, taking him deeper with every stroke. He guided you with his hands on your waist, helping you find a rhythm that made you both moan, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your hips.

"Look at you," he breathed, his voice full of wonder. "You are so beautiful riding my cock."

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and the new angle made you gasp. He thrust up into you from below, meeting your movements, and the wet sound of your bodies joining filled the chamber. Your inner walls were fluttering around him again, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He moved one hand to where your bodies were joined and pressed his thumb against your sensitive peak, circling it in time with your movements. You cried out and shattered above him, your body clenching around him, your back arching. The sight of you, lost in pleasure, pushed him over the edge. He thrust up into you one final time and spilled his seed deep inside you, groaning your name, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.

You collapsed against his chest, spent and trembling, and he wrapped his arms around you and held you close, still buried inside you. Your breath was warm against his neck. Your heart hammered against his chest. He could feel the thrum of your pulse where your bodies were still joined, and he never wanted to let you go.

You fell asleep like that, joined together, your body draped over his, and when you woke an hour later, the candles had burned lower and the light through the cave entrance had shifted to the gold of late afternoon. You stirred against him, and he felt himself harden again inside you, still buried in your warmth. You smiled sleepily and began to move your hips in a slow, lazy rhythm, and he rolled you onto your back and made love to you again, gentle and tender, whispering your name like a prayer.

After that day, they could not keep their hands off each other, it was as if a dam had broken. Every moment they were together, they were touching. His hand on the small of your back, your fingers tangled in his hair, his lips on your shoulder, your thigh pressed against his beneath the dinner table. The boat sat forgotten on the beach, the wood beginning to weather and grey in the salt air. The days blurred into a haze of sun and water and skin.

He took you in the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, the grass tickling your bare skin as he moved inside you, your legs wrapped around his waist and your fingers digging into his back. The sun was warm on his shoulders and the scent of blossoms was thick in the air. He rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him without breaking their connection, and you rode him among the flowers, your head thrown back, your breasts bouncing with every movement, the bright petals clinging to your damp skin.

You pulled him into the storage chamber one afternoon and pressed him against the cool stone wall. You sank to your knees before him on the worn stone floor, looking up at him and you freed him from his breeches with practiced hands. He was already hard, his cock springing out, the tip glistening. You wrapped your hand around the base of him, feeling the weight and heat of him in your palm, and then you leaned forward and took him into your mouth.

He groaned and buried his fingers in your hair as your lips closed around him. You took him slowly, deliberately, your tongue tracing the ridge on the underside of his shaft, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked. You worked him with your mouth and your hand in tandem, your head bobbing in a steady rhythm, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head on every upstroke. He watched you move, mesmerized, watching his cock disappear between your lips again and again, feeling the wet heat of your mouth, the gentle scrape of your teeth. When you took him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate his length, he groaned your name and tightened his grip on your hair.

You pulled back, your lips slick and swollen, a strand of saliva connecting you to his tip. You looked up at him and smiled, a slow, wicked smile, and then you took him deep again, hollowing your cheeks, increasing your pace. Your hand cupped him gently, rolling him in your palm, and the dual sensation pushed him closer and closer to the edge. When he could not hold back any longer, he warned you, his voice ragged, but you only took him deeper, and he spilled into your mouth with a ragged cry of your name. You swallowed everything he gave you, your throat working around him, and you did not pull away until he was spent and trembling.

You looked up at him, your lips slick and swollen, a tiny bead of his release at the corner of your mouth that you caught with your tongue. The sight of you, kneeling before him, having taken everything he had to give, made his spent cock twitch with interest. He pulled you to your feet and kissed you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue, and then he spun you around and bent you over the stone table where you mixed your medicines.

He bunched your skirts around your waist, baring you to his gaze. Your folds were already slick and glistening, your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. He ran his hand over the curve of your backside, kneading the firm flesh, and then he positioned himself at your entrance. He entered you from behind in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and you gasped and clutched at the worn stone surface. He set a hard, fast rhythm, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints and the other braced on the table beside yours. The sound of his hips slamming against your backside filled the small chamber, wet and rhythmic, punctuated by your breathless gasps and his low groans.

"Is this what you wanted when you got on your knees for me?" he asked, his voice rough. "Did you want me to bend you over and fuck you until you screamed?"

"Yes," you gasped, pushing back against him. "Yes, I wanted this. I wanted you."

He reached around and found your sensitive peak with his fingers, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The angle was perfect, driving him deep, hitting that spot inside you with every stroke. Your gasps turned to cries, your cries turned to screams, and when you came, your body clenching around him so tightly that he could barely move, he followed a heartbeat later, groaning your name into the curve of your shoulder, spilling himself deep inside you.

He stayed inside you until he softened, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade, both of you breathing hard. Then he pulled out gently and turned you around, and he kissed you softly, tenderly, his hands cupping your face.

Every night, they fell asleep tangled together in his bed, their bed now, and every morning they woke the same way. Sometimes he would wake first and simply watch you sleep, the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips curved into a faint smile as if you were dreaming of him. Sometimes you would wake first and trace the lines of his scars with your fingertips, until he stirred and rolled on top of you and the day began the way all their days began now, with your legs around his waist and your soft cries filling the candlelit chamber.

He could not get enough of you. He could not get enough of your taste or your scent or the sounds you made when you came apart in his arms. He could not get enough of the way your eyes fluttered closed when he kissed your neck, or the way your back arched when he ran his hands down your sides, or the way you whispered his name in the darkness, over and over, like an incantation. He learned every inch of your body, every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and every place that made you moan. He learned the rhythm you liked, slow and deep when you were tender, fast and hard when you were hungry. He learned how to read your body well enough to know which one you needed before you had to ask. He learned that you liked it when he talked to you while he moved inside you, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he loved you, how he wanted to stay buried in your warmth forever.

And every time he was inside you, every time you came apart in his arms, every time he lost himself in the heat and the pleasure and the overwhelming, consuming love he felt for you, something else slipped away.

In many ways, you were. You were his world now. You were everything.

And he was forgetting that there had ever been anything else.

—

The ship appeared on the horizon like a ghost from a life Jace had almost forgotten, he was down by the shore, skipping stones across the glass-flat water while you gathered shells further down the beach.

Then he saw it, a dark shape cut against the glare of the sun. At first he thought it was a cloud, or a trick of the light, or one of the strange birds that sometimes wheeled overhead. But the shape grew larger and sharper and resolved itself into masts and sails and a hull cutting through the water.

Jace's hand froze mid-throw. The stone dropped from his fingers and plunked into the shallows.

"Jace?" Your voice came from further down the beach, laced with concern. "What is it?"

"A ship."

The word felt strange in his mouth, foreign. He had not seen a ship in how long? Months? Years? He could not remember. Time had stopped meaning anything on this island.

He squinted against the sun, his heart beating faster. The ship was large, a warship by the look of it, three masts and a reinforced hull. As it drew closer, he could make out the banner snapping from the mainmast.

A seahorse. Silver on sea-green.

Velaryon.

The name hit him like a wave. His grandfather's house. His mother's allies. His family. The memories surged up from wherever they had been hiding, Dragonstone, Driftmark, the fleet, Lord Corlys, the war.

The war. He was fighting a war. His mother needed him. He had to go home.

"They are here for me," he breathed, and then he was running down the beach, waving his arms over his head, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Here! I am here!"

The soldiers came ashore in a longboat, six of them, their armor gleaming in the sun, the Velaryon seahorse embossed on their breastplates. They were grizzled men, seasoned fighters, and when they saw Jace standing on the beach, their faces broke into expressions of shock and relief and barely contained joy.

"Prince Jacaerys," the lead soldier breathed, dropping to one knee in the sand. "We thought you were dead. The Queen, your mother, she sent ships to every corner of the Narrow Sea. She never gave up hope."

Jace pulled the man to his feet, his hands shaking. "My mother. Is she well? Is the war still—"

"The war continues, my prince. The queen has taken Kings Landing. She will be overjoyed to see you. Everyone believed you had perished at the Gullet."

The Gullet. The arrows. Vermax screaming. The water closing over his head.

Jace shoved the memories aside. "I am alive," he said, and he was laughing now, giddy with relief and adrenaline. "I am alive, and I am coming home."

He turned to find you, you were standing a few paces back, your hands clasped in front of you, watching the soldiers with an expression he could not read. Your strange dress fluttered in the sea breeze, and your eyes were dark and unreadable.

"This is Y/N," Jace said, pulling you forward. You came reluctantly, your bare feet dragging in the sand. "She saved my life. She pulled me from the water and nursed me back to health. I would not be alive without her."

The lead soldier bowed to you, respectful. "The Queen will want to thank you personally, my lady. You have done the realm a great service."

You said nothing. You only nodded, a small, stiff movement.

Jace pulled you aside while the soldiers began unloading supplies from the longboat. His hands were still shaking. His heart was pounding. He felt more alive than he had in weeks, or months, or however long it had been.

"You are coming with me," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I know what you told me about your brother and the exile. But I am a prince, and my mother is the Queen. Whatever power your brother holds, it is nothing compared to the Iron Throne. We can protect you."

Your eyes widened. "Jace..."

"I mean it." He took your hands in his, squeezing tight. "You saved my life. You have been alone here for so long, and I am not going to leave you behind. Come with me to Westeros. I will keep you safe. I swear it."

For a long moment, you only looked at him. Your sea-glass eyes searched his face, looking for something he did not recognize. It might have been doubt or hesitation or some reason to refuse, then you smiled.

"Yes," you said. "I will come with you."

Jace pulled you into his arms and held you tight, his face buried in your hair, breathing in the scent of you, salt and flowers and home. "We leave at dawn," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we leave at dawn."

That night, you cooked a feast, the soldiers were camped on the beach, their tents pitched in a neat row above the tide line. They had offered to share their rations, but you had insisted, telling them in that quiet, gracious way of yours that they were guests on your island and that you would feed them.

Jace helped you carry platters of food down to the beach. There was roasted pork, crackling and golden, seasoned with herbs from your garden. There were strange fruits sliced and arranged in intricate patterns. There was fresh bread baked in the stone oven at the back of the cave, still warm and fragrant. And there was wine, more wine than Jace had ever seen in the cave, deep red wine in clay amphorae, rich and dark and potent.

"Where did you get all this?" he asked, watching you fill cup after cup for the soldiers.

You smiled, your hands steady on the amphora. "I have been saving it. For a special occasion."

The feast was a joyous affair. The soldiers laughed and sang and told Jace stories of the war, battles won and lost, allies gained and betrayed, the endless, grinding struggle for the Iron Throne. He listened with half an ear, nodding in the right places, but his attention kept drifting to you.

You moved among the soldiers like a ghost, refilling cups, offering plates of food, your smile never wavering. The men thanked you with drunken enthusiasm, their faces flushed with wine and gratitude. Jace felt a swell of pride watching you, his savior, his love, soon to be his companion in Westeros, where he would shower you with every luxury you had been denied on this lonely island.

"To the Prince!" one of the soldiers bellowed, raising his cup. "To Prince Jacaerys, returned from the dead!"

"To the Prince!" the others roared.

Jace raised his own cup and drank deep. The wine was stronger than he expected, and it went to his head almost immediately. The stars above seemed to blur and swirl. The fire on the beach danced and flickered. Your hand found his under the table, and he squeezed it tight.

Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, we go home

—

He woke to sunlight and the sound of birdsong, his head pounded. His mouth was dry and sour with the aftertaste of wine. He groaned and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to drive back the ache that throbbed behind them. How much had he drunk? He remembered the feast. He remembered the soldiers laughing, the wine flowing, your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered the fire on the beach and the stars wheeling overhead and the giddy, overwhelming relief of knowing that he was finally, finally going home.

The soldiers, Jace sat up so fast that the furs tangled around his legs and nearly sent him sprawling. The soldiers. The ship. They were leaving at dawn. He had to get up. He had to get dressed. He had to—

He stumbled out of the bed and through the winding passages of the cave, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone. The light grew brighter as he ran, golden and warm, and then he burst through the cave entrance and stopped dead at the edge of the cliff.

The beach was empty, his eyes swept the shoreline, back and forth, back and forth, searching for the tents and the longboat and the supply crates. He looked for the ship, the great Velaryon warship with its three masts and its silver seahorse banner, riding at anchor in the bay.

There was nothing there, the white sand stretched out below him, pristine and unmarked. The sea glittered in the morning sun, calm and blue and utterly empty all the way to the horizon. No ship. No sails. No sign that anyone had ever been here at all.

"What..." Jace's voice came out hoarse, cracked. He turned and ran down the path to the beach, his legs still unsteady, his heart pounding against his ribs. He reached the sand and walked through the place where the camp had been, his eyes scanning the ground for any trace of the soldiers. A footprint. A scrap of cloth. A ring of stones where the fire had burned. A spilled cup. Anything.

The sand was smooth and unblemished. The tide had come in during the night and erased whatever marks might have been left behind.

"Jace?" Your voice drifted down from the cliff above, calm and curious. "What are you doing?"

He looked up. You were standing at the mouth of the cave, barefoot, wrapped in one of your flowing dresses, your hair loose around your shoulders. The morning light caught the soft curves of your face and made your eyes gleam.

"The soldiers," Jace called up to you. "The ship. Where are they?"

You tilted your head, your brow furrowing slightly. "What soldiers?"

The question hit him like a physical blow. He stood there on the empty beach, staring up at you, waiting for you to laugh or smile or tell him it was a joke. You only looked back at him with mild, patient confusion.

"The soldiers," he repeated, his voice rising. "The Velaryon soldiers. Six of them. They came yesterday in a warship. They landed on the beach. We had a feast. You served them roast pork and wine. They were going to take us home this morning."

Your expression did not change. That small, puzzled frown remained, as though he were speaking a language you did not quite recognize.

"Jace," you said gently, "I think you must have dreamed it."

"I did not dream it." He was breathing hard now, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "They were here. They said my mother sent them. You spoke to them. You—"

He stopped, you were walking down the path to the beach now, your bare feet moving sure and steady over the rocks. When you reached the sand, you came to stand beside him, and your hand rose to rest against his cheek.

"You had a great deal of wine last night," you said, your voice soft and soothing. "More than I have ever seen you drink. Sometimes wine can make dreams feel very real."

Jace shook his head, pulling away from your touch. "It was not a dream. They were here. They were real."

"Then where are they now?" You gestured at the empty beach, the empty sea, the empty horizon. "Where is the ship? Where are the footprints? Where is the fire? If six men camped on this beach last night, where is the evidence of it?"

The sand was smooth. The sea was empty. There was no smoke rising from the ashes of a campfire. There were no tent pegs driven into the earth. There was no ship, no longboat, no sign that anyone but the two of you had ever set foot on this island.

"I do not know," he said, and his voice sounded thin and uncertain even to his own ears. "I do not understand."

You stepped closer, and your hand found his cheek again, and this time he did not pull away. Your palm was cool against his flushed skin.

"You have been through so much," you murmured. "Your body is still healing. Your mind is still healing. Dreams and memories and wishes can all blur together. But you are here with me, and you are safe. That is what matters."

Jace stared down at the sand. His head was pounding. His thoughts were tangled, slipping over each other like stones in a landslide. He remembered the feast so clearly, the taste of the roast pork, the sound of the soldiers' laughter, the weight of your hand in his. He remembered the banner snapping in the wind, silver seahorse on sea-green. He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, the shock and relief on his weathered face.

But the beach was empty.

"Perhaps you are right," he said slowly, and the words felt like surrender. "Perhaps I dreamed it."

You smiled, and your smile was warm and gentle and full of something that might have been relief. "Come back inside. I will make you something to eat. You will feel better once you have eaten."

He let you lead him back up the path and into the cave. He let you sit him down at the stone table. He let you place a plate of fruit and fresh bread in front of him, and he ate without tasting it, his mind still chasing the fragments of the dream that had felt so real.

That was what you had called it. A dream. And perhaps you were right. Perhaps the longing for home had grown so strong that his mind had conjured a rescue where none existed. Perhaps the wine had done the rest, weaving the longing into something that felt like memory.

Perhaps.

He did not think about it for the rest of the day, it was not until late afternoon that he noticed the pigs, he was walking past the enclosure without any particular destination in mind, his feet carrying him along the familiar path, when he stopped and frowned.

The pigs had always been numerous, he had never bothered to count them exactly, but now, looking at the enclosure, he could see that there were more than there had been the day before. Many more.

The sows jostled and grunted. The piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt. They were fat, healthy animals with glossy coats and floppy ears, rooting in the churned earth of the enclosure, there were at least twice as many pigs as there had been the day before.

Jace stood at the stone wall and stared at them. The pigs stared back, their small dark eyes unblinking, he stood there for a long time.

—

Days later, Jace found the hole by accident, though later he would wonder whether anything on this island ever happened by accident at all. He had been exploring, something he did more and more often now, wandering the island's paths and cliffs and hidden coves as if searching for something he could not name. He had walked further than usual that afternoon, following a thin stream that wound through a cleft in the cliffs, its water cold and clear and tasting faintly of minerals when he cupped his hands to drink. The stream led him deeper into the interior than he had ever gone before, past stands of flowering trees whose blossoms released a sweet, drowsy perfume, past moss-covered boulders that loomed overhead like the shoulders of buried giants and that was when he saw it.

A dark opening in the rock face, half-hidden by a curtain of flowering vines that spilled down from the cliff above in cascades of white and purple. The vines were thick and tangled, but they did not quite conceal the gap behind them. An opening wide enough for a man to walk through without ducking his head.

He should not have gone in. He knew that, even as his feet carried him forward, even as his hands reached out to push the vines aside. A voice in the back of his mind, the voice that had once belonged to a prince trained in caution and suspicion, whispered that he should turn around and walk back to the sunlit meadow and forget he had ever seen this place. But that voice had grown very quiet in the months he had spent on this island, and something else had grown louder.

The darkness swallowed him whole. He stood motionless for a long moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust, one hand pressed flat against the cool stone of the wall. The passage sloped downward, the floor worn smooth by the passage of time or water or the tread of feet. He could not see more than a few feet ahead, but he could feel the space around him opening up, widening into something larger than a simple tunnel. The air was dry and still, the silence so complete that he could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.

He walked deeper, the passage twisted once, then twice, then opened abruptly into a chamber so vast that Jace's footsteps echoed back to him from walls he could not see. Thin shafts of daylight pierced down through cracks in the ceiling high above, illuminating the space in pale, dusty columns that fell across the floor like the bars of a cage made of light and in those columns of light, Jace saw them.

Armor.

Dozens of sets, perhaps hundreds, arranged against the walls and stacked in corners and laid out on stone slabs that rose from the floor like altars. Breastplates and greaves and gauntlets and helms, their surfaces catching the thin light and throwing it back in dull gleams. Some were polished and gleaming, as if they had been cleaned and oiled with meticulous care. Others were rusted and crumbling, their edges flaking away into red-brown dust, their shapes barely recognizable beneath the corrosion of years or decades or centuries. Swords and axes and spears and maces, their blades dull with age and disuse, their hilts wrapped in leather that had rotted away to nothing.

And clothes, stacks and stacks of clothes, tunics and breeches and cloaks and boots and belts and gloves. They were piled against the walls in drifts that rose nearly to the ceiling, some of them neatly folded as if awaiting a return that would never come, others tossed carelessly into corners in tangled heaps of faded fabric. Some were new, the dyes still bright, the wool still soft, the linen still crisp and clean. Others were ancient and moth-eaten, their threads crumbling at the slightest touch, their colors bleached to ghostly echoes of what they had once been.

Jace stood in the center of the chamber and turned in a slow circle, his breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a fist beating against a locked door. The scale of it was incomprehensible. There were so many. Too many. More than one person could ever need. More than a dozen people could ever need. More than a hundred people could ever need. This was not a collection. This was a graveyard for the belongings of the dead.

His eyes caught on a breastplate near his feet, and the world tilted sideways, it was newer than the others. Its metal still held a faint gleam beneath a thin layer of dust, and its leather straps were still supple, and on its chest, embossed in silver that caught the light like a blade, was the seahorse of House Velaryon.

He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, his weathered face breaking into shock and relief. He remembered the feast on the beach, the crackling fire, the roast pork and the wine and your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered waking to find the beach empty and the sea bare and you standing at the mouth of the cave with your head tilted and your brow furrowed, asking him what soldiers he meant, telling him it was only a dream, only a dream, nothing more than a dream.

The soldiers who had never been here. The soldiers he had only imagined. Their armor was lying at his feet.

He stumbled backward. His heel caught on a gauntlet and sent it skittering across the stone floor with a sound like a startled crab. The noise echoed through the chamber and died away into silence, and Jace stood there with his hands shaking and his mind blank with a terror so absolute that it felt almost like calm. He could not think. He could not breathe. He could not make sense of what he was seeing, and some part of him understood with terrible clarity that making sense of it would destroy everything he had built on this island. Every moment of peace. Every hour of love. Every whispered word in the darkness. All of it balanced on the edge of this pit, and if he looked down, if he truly looked, he would fall.

"What are you doing here?"

He spun around so fast that his boots skidded on the stone floor, his heart slammed against his ribs, once, twice, a frantic drumbeat of pure animal terror.. "Nothing. I was only looking, I wanted to understand—"

"You were only looking." You stepped out of the shadows and into the thin light that filtered down from the cracks in the ceiling, and the expression on your face made his stomach drop. The gentle warmth he had come to love was gone. The softness was gone. Your jaw was tight, the muscles corded beneath your skin, and your hands were clenched into fists at your sides, and your eyes were fixed on him with a glittering intensity that pinned him in place like a butterfly on a board. "At what, precisely? At the belongings of dead men? At the evidence of my sins? At the proof that I am not the gentle, lonely woman you thought you loved?"

Your hands unclenched and clenched again, the fingers curling and uncurling in a rhythm that seemed almost involuntary, as though you were strangling something invisible.

"I asked you a question, Jace." Your voice dropped, soft and dangerous. "What are you doing here?"

He should have been afraid. He was afraid. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, and his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, and every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to run. But something else rose up inside him too, some scrap of the prince he used to be, some stubborn remnant of the boy who had faced down enemies on the battlefield and never flinched. He straightened his spine and met your eyes and refused to look away.

"Why are they here?" he asked, gesturing at the armor that surrounded them. "All of these. Dozens of sets. Hundreds, maybe. The soldiers who came for me, their armor is here. The same breastplate, the same sigil. It wasn't a dream was it? What happened to them?"

You stared at him. A muscle in your jaw twitched.

"It does not matter."

"It matters to me."

"It does not matter, Jace." Your voice was rising now, cracking at the edges, splintering into something raw and desperate. "It should not matter, Jace. Those men are gone. Let them stay gone. Let the past stay buried. We were happy. We were so happy. Why could you not leave well enough alone?"

"Because I need to know the truth."

"The truth will not make you happy. The truth will not keep you warm at night. The truth will not hold you when you wake from nightmares and tell you that everything is going to be all right."

"The truth is the truth. I deserve to know it."

You laughed, it was sharp and bitter and jagged, the laugh of someone who had been hurt too many times to believe in fairness anymore. "You sound just like them. Every single one of them. They all wanted the truth. They all thought they deserved to know. And do you know what happened when they found it?"

Jace did not answer. He did not need to answer. The armors answered for him.

"What happened to the soldiers?" he asked instead. His voice was very quiet. "The ones who came for me. The ones whose armor is lying at my feet. What did you do to them?"

Your face crumpled, the coldness shattered and the fury crumbled and underneath it was something far older and far more terrifying, a grief so immense it had calcified into rage over centuries of solitude. The tears that spilled down your cheeks were real, hot and sudden and utterly convincing.

"Why do you want to leave me?" you screamed, the sound echoed off the stone walls and came back multiplied, a chorus of accusations that battered him from every direction. Your voice was raw and ragged, shredded at the edges, and the pain in it was so enormous that Jace felt his own heart clench in response. The anger that had been building in him, the righteous fury at being lied to, began to waver. How could he be angry at someone who was in so much pain? How could he accuse someone who was so clearly suffering?

"Why do you want to leave me?" you cried again, and your voice broke on the last word. "Why do they always leave? Every single one of them, they wash up on my shore and I save them and I nurse them back to health and I give them everything I have, everything I am, and they tell me they love me, they look me in the eyes and they swear they love me, and I believe them every time, every single time I believe them because I am so desperate to be loved by someone, anyone, and then they remember. They always remember. And they always leave. They always want to go home. Why am I never enough? Why am I never enough for anyone?"

The question hung in the air, raw and bleeding. Your chest was heaving. Your hands were shaking. You looked at him with those burning eyes, and Jace felt his resolve crumbling, you were not a monster, you were wounded, a woman who had been abandoned and betrayed so many times that she had forgotten how to trust. How could he blame you for what you had done?

"I love you," he said, and his voice was shaking but he meant it with every fiber of his being. "I love you. I do. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone."

"Then why do you want to leave me?" Your voice was small now, wounded, the fury draining away to reveal the vulnerability beneath. "If you love me, why isn't that enough? Why do you need to go back? Why can't you just stay here with me? Why do you need a mother and brothers and a war and a throne? Why can you not just stay here and be mine?"

"Because I have a family." He was pleading now, hating himself for the pain he was causing you. "Because I have a mother who needs me and brothers who are waiting for me. Because there is a war, a war I was fighting, a war I was supposed to win. Because I have a duty."

"A duty." You laughed, but it was a broken sound, a laugh that was really a sob. "Duty. Honor. Family. I have heard all of this before. Every single one of them said the same thing. They had to go back. They had responsibilities. They had people who needed them. And what about me? What about what I need? I needed them. I loved them. And they left me anyway. They all left me. Just like you will leave me."

"I don't want to leave you," Jace said, and the words felt inadequate, pathetic. "I want to go home, yes. I want to see my mother. I want to protect her from the enemies who would see her dead and her throne stolen. But I want to take you with me. I want you to meet her. I want to marry you properly, before the whole court, with a septon and a cloak and vows spoken in the light of the Seven. I want to make you my queen. When I sit the Iron Throne, you will sit beside me."

He reached for you, desperate to comfort you, to wipe the tears from your cheeks. You did not pull away, but you did not lean into his touch either.

"I do not care what you did to these men," he said, his voice low and fierce. "I do not care what you have done. I love you. I love you more than I have ever loved anything in my life. I just want you to come with me. Please. Come with me."

For a long moment, you were silent, then you shook your head. Slowly. Miserably. With the exhausted certainty of someone who had heard these same promises too many times to count.

"It is not true," you whispered. "They always say this. When my brother sends them here, they always tell me they love me. They always promise they will stay. They look at me with those earnest eyes and they swear they are different from the others, and I believe them. I always believe them. Because I want to believe. Because I want so desperately for it to be true. And then they remember who they were before, and everything changes."

You pulled your hands out of his grip and wrapped your arms around yourself, your shoulders hunching inward as though you were trying to make yourself smaller, harder to hurt. Jace felt a surge of protectiveness so strong it almost knocked the breath out of him. He wanted to hold you. He wanted to shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.

"They remember their old lives," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "and they tell me they will save me. They tell me they will break the curse and take me away from here and marry me in a real sept with real vows. They promise me everything I have ever wanted. And for a little while I let myself hope. I let myself believe that this time will be different. This time the love will be real."

Your voice caught on the last word, splintering into something that was almost a sob. Jace felt tears prick at the corners of his own eyes. Gods, how could anyone have done this to you? How could anyone have been so cruel?

"But they never mean it," you said. "They are only saying what they think I want to hear. They are only trying to placate me, to buy themselves time, to find a way to escape. And when they try to break the curse and they fail, when they realize their love is not strong enough, when they understand that they do not really love me at all, they run. They try to leave. And I—"

You stopped. Your hands were trembling violently now, the fingers twisting together in front of you.

"What do you do?" Jace asked, though he already knew the answer. He knew it, and it horrified him, and yet somehow he could not bring himself to judge you for it. You had been hurt. You had been betrayed. You had been left alone for so long that you had forgotten what it felt like to be held. How could anyone expect you to react with grace when another man tried to abandon you?

"I do not let them leave." Your voice was barely a whisper, so quiet he had to lean closer to hear it. "They do not get to leave. They do not get to go back to their families and forget about me while I rot here alone. They stay. They stay here with me. Forever."

"The pigs," Jace said.

"They are happier as pigs," Your voice took on a defensive edge, almost childlike in its insistence. "They do not remember their old lives. They do not feel the disappointment. They do not want to leave. They are content. They have food and shelter and each other. I take care of them. I take better care of them than anyone ever took care of me." Your eyes searched his face, looking for understanding, looking for absolution. "They are better off this way. I gave them peace. I gave them a life without pain. Do you know what my brother gave me? Do you know what it feels like to be left here, alone, for centuries, with nothing but the sound of the waves and the crying of the gulls and the knowledge that no one is ever coming for you?"

Jace's throat was dry. "Why did you not do it to me?"

"Because I thought you were different." Your voice was small now, so small it was almost swallowed by the shadows of the cave. "Because when I looked at you, when I held you through the fevers and listened to you talk about your home and your family, I thought—I hoped—that you might really love me." A tear slid down your cheek, and you did not wipe it away. "I thought you would stay."

The guilt hit Jace like a physical blow. You had hoped. You had let yourself hope, despite everything, despite centuries of betrayal and abandonment, and he was about to become just another name on the long list of people who had disappointed you. He was about to leave you, just like all the others. He was about to prove that your hope had been misplaced, that love was a lie, that no one would ever truly choose you.

"I am sorry," he said, and he meant it with every part of himself. "I am so sorry. I do not want to leave you. I want to stay. I want both things. I want to go home, but I want you to come with me. Can I not have both things?"

"No one ever wants both things." You pulled your hands away, and your expression was hardening again, the vulnerability sealing itself back behind walls of old resentment. "They want to leave. They always want to leave. As soon as they remember their old lives, they want to leave. And when they realize they cannot break the curse, they run. They all run. And I have to stop them because if I do not stop them they will leave me alone again, and I cannot be alone again, Jace, I cannot, I would rather die than be alone again—"

"What curse?" Jace cut through your spiraling words, his voice urgent. "You said they could not break the curse. What curse?"

"It does not matter," you said. Your voice was empty now, drained of all the fury and grief that had filled it moments before. "You are going to leave me too. You are going to try to break the curse, and you are going to fail, because no one has ever succeeded, and then you are going to run. Just like all the others."

"Tell me what the curse is. Please. Let me help you."

You stared at him for a long, long moment. The candles flickered in their alcoves, their flames guttering in a draft he could not feel. The armor gleamed dully in the shadows, the relics of a hundred men who had stood where he was standing now and made the same promises he was making. Somewhere far away, muffled by stone and distance, the pigs grunted in their enclosure. The men who had failed. The men whose love had not been strong enough.

"My brother exiled me here," you said finally. Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings, as though you had told this story so many times that the words had lost all meaning. "Centuries ago. So long ago that the world I came from does not exist anymore, and when I disobeyed him, when I refused to do what he asked of me, he put a curse on this island as punishment. I cannot leave. No ship will carry me. No boat will bear my weight. If I try to swim, the sea itself will rise up and drag me back to shore. I am bound here, bound to this rock, until the curse is broken or the world ends."

"How do I break it?"

You looked at him, and your eyes were ancient and exhausted and utterly without hope. Jace felt his heart twist. You had been disappointed so many times. You did not believe he could do it.

"There is a cave," you said. "Behind the waterfall on the western cliff. There is a statue inside, a statue of me carved from black stone, wrapped in chains. I cannot enter the cave. It is spelled against me." Your hand rose unconsciously to your neck, as if feeling for the links of a collar that was not there. "If the statue is broken, the curse will be lifted. The chains will fall. I will be free."

"Then I will break it."

"It is not that simple." Your voice was quiet now, almost gentle, and there was something in it that felt like a warning, a kindness, an attempt to protect him from the disappointment you were certain was coming. "Only a man who knows my true nature can destroy the statue. Only a man who has seen what I am, what I have done, every monstrous thing I have committed in my long and miserable existence, and still loves me truly. Not charmed. Not tricked. Not fogged by the magic of this island. Real love. Clear-eyed love. Love that looks at the worst of me and does not flinch." You paused. "If his love is false, if it is only gratitude or loneliness or the lingering effects of my enchantments, the statue will not break. It will not even crack. And I will know. I will know that his love was a lie."

"I am not them," he said.

"You are. You are exactly like them."

"No." He stepped forward and took your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks. "I am not them. I am going to break the curse. I am going to set you free. I am going to take you away from this island and give you the life you deserve. I swear it."

"You cannot promise that."

"I can. I am." He pressed his forehead against yours. "I love you. I know what you are. I know what you have done. And I love you anyway. I love you not despite the worst of you but because of it. Because the worst of you was born from pain, and I want to heal that pain. I want to be the one who finally proves to you that love is real. That you are worthy of it. That you have always been worthy of it."

You let out a sound that was half laugh and half sob. "You are a fool, Jacaerys Velaryon."

"Take me to the cave behind the waterfall," he said. "Let me prove it."

"Alright," you whispered, as if you had expected him to ask. "I will take you. But do not say I did not warn you."

You turned and walked out of the cave, and Jace followed you, his heart pounding and his mind clear and his love for you burning in his chest like a flame that no wind could extinguish. He was going to save you. He was going to be the one. He was going to prove that love was stronger than any curse, stronger than any magic, stronger than centuries of solitude and betrayal.

He had to be the one. The alternative was unthinkable.

—

The walk was silent, you led him along the familiar path, the meadow with its strange flowers swaying in the breeze, the grove of fruit trees with their golden bounty hanging heavy from the branches, the rocky outcropping that overlooked the western shore where the sea stretched out blue and endless and utterly indifferent to what was about to happen. The waterfall was roaring louder than usual, or perhaps it only seemed that way. Perhaps it was the blood pounding in his ears. Perhaps it was the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him like a physical thing, a stone laid across his chest that made every breath feel shallow and insufficient.

You stopped at the edge of the pool, where the water churned white with the endless cascade. Your face was pale. Your hands were shaking at your sides, the fingers twisting together in that nervous gesture he had come to recognize, the one that always made him want to pull you into his arms and promise you that everything would be alright.

"There," you said, pointing, Jace squinted through the spray. Behind the curtain of falling water, barely visible through the silver torrent, was a dark opening in the rock face. A cave mouth, smaller than the one you lived in, half-hidden by the cascade. It looked like something that did not want to be found.

"I cannot enter," you said, and your voice was quiet, almost reverent. "The spell prevents me. The moment I step through the water, I am pushed back. It burns." You wrapped your arms around yourself, your fingers digging into the flesh of your upper arms. The gesture was meant to look vulnerable, meant to make him feel protective. It worked. "You have to go alone."

Jace nodded. He had expected this. Of course he had expected this. The hero always had to face the trial alone. That was how these stories went.

"I will come back," he said.

You did not answer. Your eyes were fixed on the waterfall, dark and terrified, and your lower lip trembled just slightly, just enough for him to notice.

"Hey." He touched your chin, turning your face toward him. Your skin was cold beneath his fingers. "I will come back. I promise."

"Everyone promises." Your voice was barely a whisper, and there was something in it that snagged at his heart like a fishhook. "Everyone who has ever stood on this shore has promised to come back."

"I am not everyone."

He kissed your lips and for just a moment he felt something move beneath the surface. A flicker. A pulse. Something that was not quite human. Then the moment passed, and you were just you again, fragile and frightened and looking at him with those sea-glass eyes that held all the sadness in the world.

He turned away before he could lose his nerve. He dove into the pool, and the water closed over his head like a fist.

The cold was shocking. It was more than cold. It was the absence of warmth, the absence of life, a cold that sank into his bones and wrapped around his heart and squeezed. He surfaced gasping, his breath torn from his lungs in a ragged gasp, and swam toward the waterfall with strong, desperate strokes. The roar grew louder as he approached, a wall of sound that pressed against his eardrums until he could hear nothing else. The spray blinded him, stinging his eyes, filling his mouth with the taste of minerals and stone. The current tried to push him back, tried to shove him away from the cave entrance as if the water itself did not want him to pass.

But he kept swimming. He had promised. He had promised he would come back, he reached the rock face and pulled himself up onto a narrow ledge, slick with moss and running water, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wet stone. The cave entrance yawned before him, dark and silent and somehow hungry, as if the darkness itself was waiting for him to step inside. He looked back once. You were still standing at the edge of the pool, a pale figure in a pale dress, your hands pressed to your mouth. You looked like a ghost. You looked like a memory of someone who had died a long time ago.

Then he turned and walked into the darkness.

—

The cave was small, smaller than he had expected. The passage was short, barely twenty paces, the walls rough and wet beneath his trailing fingers, the floor sloping downward into the heart of the rock. The roar of the waterfall faded behind him, muffled by the stone, until the only sound was the drip of water and the soft scuff of his bare feet on the rock and the steady, insistent pounding of his own heart.

The passage opened into a round chamber no larger than your bedchamber back in the main cave. The walls were smooth and wet, glistening with moisture, catching the light and throwing it back in a thousand tiny reflections. The only illumination came from somewhere above, a thin shaft of daylight that pierced through a crack in the rock and fell in a single golden beam onto the center of the chamber. It was like something out of a sept, that beam of light. It was like the light that fell on an altar, or a tomb, or a place where something sacred had been buried and forgotten.

And in the center of the chamber was the statue.

It was you, smooth and luminous, carved with such skill that it seemed almost alive. The surface of the stone had been polished to a soft gleam, catching the golden light and holding it, and the details were so fine that Jace could see the individual strands of hair. The statue knelt on a stone pedestal, its head bowed in an attitude of submission or prayer, its face frozen in an expression of such profound sorrow that Jace felt his chest tighten just looking at it. The eyes were closed. The lips were slightly parted, as if caught in the middle of a sigh. The shoulders were hunched forward, the spine curved, every line of the body speaking of exhaustion and despair and the weight of an eternity spent alone.

And the hands, the statue's hands were raised in front of its chest, palms facing each other, fingers slightly curled as if holding something invisible. And around those marble wrists, coiled so tightly they seemed to be part of the stone itself, were two snakes.

No. Not snakes. Bracelets. Golden bracelets, each one shaped like a serpent eating its own tail. But the serpents were not connected to each other. They were separate, independent, each one locked around a single wrist, each one devouring itself in an endless cycle of consumption and renewal. Their golden eyes gleamed in the shaft of daylight, bright and watchful and aware. Their scales were so finely detailed that Jace could count every one, each scale overlapping the next in perfect, reptilian precision. Their jaws were clamped tight around their own tails, and their bodies were wound around the marble wrists in coils that looked tight enough to bruise.

They were not chains. Not exactly. They were something worse. They were a trap that could not be escaped because there was nothing to break. The snakes held her wrists, and her wrists held the snakes, and neither could let go, and the whole thing was a perfect, closed loop of imprisonment that had no beginning and no end.

Jace stood in the darkness at the edge of the chamber, staring at the statue. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. His hands were slick with water and sweat. The marble figure knelt in its beam of light, motionless and patient, and the golden snakes watched him with their glittering eyes, and the silence was so complete that he could hear the blood rushing through his own veins.

He bent down and picked up a rock from the floor of the cave. It was heavy, sharp-edged, big enough to do damage. He turned it over in his hands, testing its weight, feeling the rough edges bite into his palm. Break the statue. Break the curse. Simple. You had told him what to do. You had told him it was simple.

He took a step toward the pedestal.

"Are you quite certain about this?"

Jace froze, the voice was male. Low and smooth and echoing, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It bounced off the wet stone walls, slid through the darkness, coiled around him like smoke, like water, like something that had been waiting in the shadows for a very long time. It was not a human voice. It was too resonant for that, too layered, as if many voices were speaking at once in perfect, dissonant harmony.

"Who is there?" Jace demanded. His voice sounded too loud in the silence, too harsh, too frightened. He hated how frightened he sounded.

No answer. Just the dripping of water. The distant, muffled roar of the falls.

"You should think very carefully before you do something you will regret for the rest of your life. Which, I should warn you, may not be very long."

Jace spun around, the rock raised like a weapon. The chamber was empty. The passage behind him was empty. The shadows pressed against the walls, still and silent and utterly unoccupied.

"I said who is there?"

"A friend." The voice was almost gentle now, almost kind. It was the voice of a father speaking to a wayward son, a mentor guiding a confused student. "Someone who does not want to see you make a mistake you cannot undo. Someone who has watched this same scene play out more times than I can count, and who is very, very tired of seeing young men throw their lives away."

Jace's grip tightened on the rock. The edges cut into his palm, grounding him. "Show yourself."

"I cannot. I am not really here. I am just a voice in the dark. A warning. A kindness, if you will let me be." The voice paused, and when it spoke again, it was softer. Sadder. "I am the only person on this island who is actually trying to help you, Jacaerys."

"Don't listen to it," Jace muttered to himself. He turned back toward the statue. "It's just another part of the curse. It's trying to stop you. She said there would be things trying to stop you."

"Is that what she told you?" The voice sounded amused now, deeply and darkly amused. "That the curse is the villain? That she is the victim? How very convenient for her. How very convenient that she has a story that makes her the helpless damsel and everyone else the monster. She tells that story very well. She has had centuries of practice."

Jace ignored it. He stepped closer to the pedestal. The marble woman knelt in her beam of light, motionless and sorrowful. The golden snakes glinted.

"She is very beautiful, isn't she?" the voice continued, and now it was almost conversational, almost casual, as if they were two old friends discussing the weather. "Of course she is. She's had centuries to perfect the act. The dresses. The smiles. The way she looks at you like you are the only man in the world, like you are the answer to every prayer she has ever whispered into the darkness. It is all very convincing. It is meant to be. She has been refining it for longer than your entire bloodline has existed."

"You do not know anything about her."

"I know everything about her." The voice was sharper now, the amusement draining away to reveal something harder underneath. "I know what she is. I know what she has done. I know how many men have stood exactly where you are standing now, holding a rock just like that one, thinking they were going to be the one. The special one. The one whose love was strong enough." A pause, heavy with meaning. "Do you know how many of them succeeded?"

Jace did not answer.

"None. Not one. In all the centuries she has been trapped on this island, not a single man has broken that statue. Do you know why? Because it cannot be broken. It is a trap. It is the bait, and you are the fish, and you are swimming toward it with your mouth wide open."

"You are lying." Jace's voice was shaking now. He hated that it was shaking. "You are just another part of the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."

"I am trying to stop you from destroying yourself." The voice was closer now, seeming to come from just behind his left shoulder. He spun around, but there was nothing there. Only shadows. Only the dripping of water. "Let me ask you something, Jacaerys. Can you remember your mother's name?"

He opened his mouth but nothing came out, the name was gone. It had been there a moment ago, he was sure of it. He could see her face, silver hair and sad eyes, could feel the shape of her in his memory. But the name, the name would not come.

"Your brothers," the voice continued, relentless and calm. "How many brothers do you have? What are their names?"

"I have brothers. I know I have brothers." His voice sounded desperate, even to his own ears. "Luke-Lucerys. And the others. The little ones."

"You are reciting words. You are not remembering. She has taken them from you, piece by piece, day by day. She has been stealing your memories since the moment you arrived. The food she feeds you. The wine she pours you. The herbs she puts in your medicine. They do not just heal your wounds. They erase you. They hollow you out. They make room for her."

Jace's mind was blank. Empty. There was nothing there but fog, thick and white and impenetrable, where his memories should have been.

"She has taken them from you," the voice said, and now it was almost gentle again, almost pitying. "Piece by piece. Day by day. Every moment you spend in her presence, she is stealing more of who you are. Your family. Your home. Your past. Your very self. And you call that love? You think that is what love looks like?"

"She saved my life."

"She kept you alive because she needed you. There is a difference. She needs a man to break the curse. She always needs a man to break the curse. That is how it works. That is how it has always worked. She lures them in with her beauty and her vulnerability and her sad, sad story, and she makes them love her, and then she sends them here to die. Because no one can break the curse. No one. The statue does not break. It has never broken. And when the man fails, when he realizes his love is not strong enough, she has her excuse. She was right all along. No one really loves her. So she turns them into pigs and waits for the next shipwreck, the next castaway, the next fool who will believe her lies."

He kept going "You think that is love?" The voice laughed, a soft and pitying laugh. "You think a woman who erases your past and steals your future and traps you on an island where you can never leave loves you? You think any of this is real?"

"I love her." Jace's voice cracked. "I know I love her. That is real. Whatever else she has done, my love for her is real."

"Oh, it feels real. I am sure it does. But do you know why it feels real?" The voice paused, letting the question hang in the darkness. "Because she makes it feel real. That is what she does. That is what the magic does. It wraps around your mind and makes you think you are feeling something true. But it is not true, Jacaerys. It is a trick. A trap. You have been ensnared since the moment you opened your eyes in that candlelit room and saw her kneeling beside your bed like a worried bride."

Jace's arm was lowering. The rock felt heavier now, so heavy he could barely hold it. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.

"She told me you would say things like this," he said, but his voice was weak. Uncertain. "She told me the curse would try to stop me. She warned me there would be voices."

"The curse is not stopping you. I am not the curse. I am the only thing standing between you and an eternity of rooting in the dirt with all the other men who believed her lies." The voice was right next to his ear now, so close he could feel the cold breath of it against his skin. "Do you want to know the real story, Jacaerys? Do you want to know who she really is?"

He did not answer. He did not want to know. He wanted to cover his ears and run back through the waterfall and hold you in his arms and forget this voice had ever spoken to him. But his feet would not move. His body would not obey him.

"She is not a victim," the voice whispered. "She is not a lonely woman trapped by a cruel brother. That is a story she invented centuries ago because it makes men feel protective. It makes them feel noble. It makes them want to save her. The truth is much simpler, and much uglier. She is a goddess, a thing that was worshipped before your ancestors crawled out of the mud. And she was imprisoned here not as punishment, but as containment. Because she is dangerous. Because she feeds on devotion the way a spider feeds on flies."

"You are lying."

"Am I? If you break that statue," the voice said, "she will be free. And the moment she is free, she will have no more use for you. Her love for you, such as it is, will vanish. It is not real love, Jacaerys. It is bait. It is a lure. It is the promise of everything you have ever wanted, dangled in front of you to make you do what she needs. And once you have done it, once you have served your purpose, she will discard you like all the others."

"Stop." Jace's voice cracked on the word.

"That is the part she did not tell you, is it not? She did not tell you that her love is conditional. She did not tell you that it lasts only as long as she is trapped. The moment she is free, the magic breaks both ways. The chains fall from her wrists, and her love for you falls with them."

"You are lying." Jace's voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the distant roar of the waterfall. "You are the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."

"She told every man before you the exact same story. Word for word. The cruel brother. The lonely exile. The curse that can only be broken by true love. She told it to the knight in rusted armor whose bones are rotting in that cave. She told it to the merchant captain whose shield is propped against the wall. And you are just the latest audience."

"Stop."

"She does not love you. She cannot love you. She is not capable of love. She is capable of hunger, and she calls it love because that is what makes men stay. But it is not love. It has never been love. It is just need. Just appetite. Just the endless, grinding loneliness of a creature that consumes everything it touches and is still never full."

Jace opened his eyes. The statue knelt in its beam of light. The golden snakes watched him with their glittering, knowing eyes. The marble face was frozen in its expression of eternal sorrow.

What if the voice was right?

What if none of it was real?

What if he broke the statue, and your love disappeared, and he spent the rest of his life chasing a ghost?

What if he was just the next fool in line?

"Go back," the voice whispered. "Go back to the beach. Build your boat. Leave this place while you still can. While you still remember enough of yourself to want to leave. She will try to stop you. She will cry and plead and tell you she loves you. But it will be a lie. It has always been a lie. Go back, Jacaerys. Go home. Save yourself."

—

You had been waiting for hours. You stood at the edge of the pool, your bare feet sinking into the damp sand, your eyes fixed on the curtain of falling water. The roar of the waterfall filled your ears until you could hear nothing else, but you were listening for something beneath the roar. A shout. A crash. The sound of stone breaking. The sound of a man drowning.

Anything. Please, anything.

Jace surfaced at the edge of the pool, gasping, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his skin slick with water and gleaming in the sunlight. He pulled himself onto the sand, his chest heaving, his arms trembling with exhaustion, and for a moment he just knelt there on his hands and knees, catching his breath, water streaming from his body in rivulets. You just stared at him, searching his face for some sign of what had happened, some clue in the set of his jaw or the light in his eyes. Was the curse broken? Had he succeeded? Had he been the one, the only one, the man whose love was finally strong enough?

"I did it," he said, and his voice was warm and triumphant and full of a joy you had never heard from him before. "I broke the curse."

You stumbled forward, your legs barely supporting you, your hands reaching for him before your mind had fully registered what he had said. "You—you did? It is broken? I am free?"

"You are free." He rose to his feet, still smiling, and opened his arms to you. "You are free, Y/N. We can leave. Together. Just like I promised."

A sob tore from your throat, raw and jagged and utterly involuntary. You threw yourself into his arms, your body shaking, tears streaming down your face in hot, messy rivulets. He caught you and held you tight, his hands warm on your back, his lips pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, your cheek, his voice murmuring reassurances that you could barely hear over the pounding of your own heart.

"I love you," you gasped, the words tumbling out between sobs, unstoppable, irrepressible. "I love you, I love you, I love you—"

"I love you too." His voice was soft. Tender. Everything you had ever wanted to hear. "I told you I would save you. I told you I was different. I told you I was not like the others."

He kissed you, it was a deep kiss, a passionate kiss, the kind of kiss that spoke of relief and joy and a future finally within reach. You melted into him, your body pressing against his, your hands sliding up his chest, his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his wet hair. The waterfall roared behind you, but it sounded different now, less like a threat and more like applause. The sun was warm on your skin, warmer than it had ever been. You were free. You were finally, impossibly free. After centuries of solitude, centuries of hoping and losing and hoping again, someone had finally loved you enough.

You did not notice anything until you felt the cold metal snap shut against your skin, you tore away from him, stumbling backward, your hand flying to your wrist. Something was there. Something heavy and cold and horribly, sickeningly familiar. You looked down, and the world stopped.

A golden snake. Coiled around your forearm, its tail clamped in its own jaws, its scales gleaming in the sunlight with a wet, organic sheen. Its eyes were bright and watchful and alive. It was warm against your skin, warm like something that had a heartbeat, warm like something that was feeding.

Identical to the ones in the cave. Identical to the ones that had bound the statue for centuries, the statue that was supposed to be destroyed, the statue that he had told you he had broken.

But the statue was not destroyed. You knew that now with a cold, creeping certainty. He had not broken it. He had done something else. Something worse.

"What—" Your voice came out strangled, barely a whisper, the words catching in your throat like bones. "What is this?"

Jace was still standing by the water's edge. His smile was gone. His face had changed, shifted into something you did not recognize. The warmth in his eyes had drained away, replaced by something flat and cold and terribly, terribly calm. He looked at you the way a scholar might look at a pinned insect, curious and detached and utterly without feeling.

He raised his own arm.

The matching snake was coiled around his wrist. Twin to yours. Identical in every detail, from the curve of the scales to the glint of the golden eyes. Linked by nothing visible. Linked all the same. You could feel it, the connection between them, an invisible chain that stretched from your wrist to his and bound you together tighter than any iron ever could.

"I could not break the curse," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The voice of a man who had made a decision and was at peace with it. "The statue would not break. I struck it with the rock, and the rock shattered. I struck it with my fists, and my knuckles bled. I threw myself against it, and it did not even crack." He paused, his dark eyes fixed on yours, unblinking. "The voice, your brother, he told me the truth. He told me what you really are. He told me what you have done. He told me what you would do to me the moment you were free."

"No." You shook your head, backing away from him. Your wrist was burning where the snake touched your skin, a cold fire that spread up your arm and into your chest. "No, Jace, whatever he told you, it is a lie. It is always a lie. He is trying to trap you, he is trying to turn you against me—"

"Is it a lie?" He tilted his head, regarding you with that terrible calm. "He told me the curse made me love you. He told me you have been feeding on my devotion since the moment I opened my eyes. He told me you would leave me the instant you were free."

"That is not true!" You were screaming now, your voice raw and cracking. "I love you! I have never loved anyone the way I love you! You have to believe me!"

"Then why can I not remember my mother's name?" His voice cracked on the word mother, just slightly, and beneath the coldness you saw something flicker. Something wounded. Something that still hurt. "Why can I not remember my brothers' faces? Why did I wake up this morning and realize that I could not recall the sound of my father's voice, or the color of my brother's eyes, or the name of the dragon I rode into battle? You took everything from me. Everything I was. Everything I loved. You hollowed me out and filled me with yourself, and you expected me to believe it was love?"

"I did not mean to!" You were sobbing now, the tears hot and bitter on your cheeks. "I did not want to take your memories, i loved you so much i did not want you to leave me."

"You loved being loved." His voice was flat. Final. "There is a difference."

You stared at him. Your chest was heaving. Your wrist was throbbing, the golden snake pulsing against your skin like a second heartbeat. You could feel it now, the thing that bound you together. It was not just a chain. It was a tether. A leash.

"The statue forced you to have a physical body," Jace said, and his voice had shifted again, becoming almost conversational. Almost pleasant. "You are not mortal. You are not human something that was bound to this island and trapped in the stone. The chains kept you here. The statue kept you solid. Touchable. Real." He paused. "Without the statue, you would have no body. You would be nothing but mist and memory. Is that not what your brother wanted? To keep you contained? To keep you in a form that could touch and taste and take?"

You did not answer. You could not answer. Your throat had closed around the words.

"I could not break the curse," Jace said, and he took a step toward you, his bare feet silent on the sand. "I could not destroy the statue. But I could transfer it. I could take the chains off the stone and put them onto something else. Something living. Something that could carry them." He raised his arm again, showing you the snake coiled around his wrist, and his smile returned. It was not a kind smile. "You are not bound to the island anymore. You are bound to me."

The world tilted. The roar of the waterfall seemed to fade, replaced by a high, thin ringing in your ears. The sun was too bright. The sand was too soft. The golden snake was too warm against your skin.

"You—" Your voice would not work. "You did not—"

"I did." He was still calm. Still cold. Still looking at you with those eyes that used to be so full of love. "The voice told me it was the only way. The only way to make sure you could not leave me. The only way to make sure your love was real. The only way to be certain that when I woke up tomorrow, you would still be there, and the day after that, and the day after that."

"You trapped me."

He laughed. It was a soft laugh, a quiet laugh, but there was nothing warm in it. "I freed you. You can leave the island now. The chains that bound you to this rock are gone. You can walk onto a ship and sail away and see the world again. Is that not what you wanted? Is that not what you have been begging me for since the moment we met?"

"You bound me to you!"

"And you bound me to you first." His voice sharpened, the calm cracking for just a moment to reveal the fury underneath. "You made me love you. You made me forget my own mother's name. You drugged my food and whispered in my ear and wrapped yourself around my mind so tightly I could not tell where you ended and I began. You trapped me on this island long before I ever trapped you. The only difference is that my chains were made of kisses and lies, and yours are made of gold."

"I loved you!" The words tore from your throat, raw and ragged. "I loved you! Everything I did, I did because I loved you!"

"You made me forget my mother's name," he said again, and his voice was quieter now, almost sad. "Do you understand what that means? Do you understand what you took from me? She is out there somewhere, fighting a war, grieving a son she believes is dead, and I cannot remember her name. I cannot remember her face. I know I love her. I know I owe her everything. But when I try to picture her, there is nothing there. Just fog. Just you."

You opened your mouth, but no words came. What could you possibly say? What defense could you offer that would not sound hollow and selfish and monstrous?

"You stole my memories and drugged my food and lied to me for months," Jace continued, and now he was walking toward you, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. "You let me believe I was going home. You let me build a boat I was never going to finish. You let me dream of a future that did not exist. And when I found out the truth, when I confronted you in that cave full of dead men's armor, what did you do? Did you apologize? Did you offer to help me leave? No. You cried. You made yourself the victim. You told me how lonely you were, how sad you were, how much you had suffered. You made me comfort you. You made me feel guilty for discovering your lies."

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, close enough that you could see the pulse beating in his throat. "And I did feel guilty," he said. "I felt so guilty that I almost forgot what you had done. I almost let myself believe that you were the victim. That I was the one who had wronged you by wanting to go home. That is how good you are at this. That is how deep your hooks go."

"Please." Your voice was barely a whisper now. "Please, Jace, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I only wanted to be loved. I only wanted—"

"I know what you wanted." He reached up and touched your face, his fingers gentle against your tear-streaked cheek. The gesture was almost tender. Almost loving. It made your skin crawl. "You wanted someone to stay. You wanted someone to choose you. And now someone has. I have chosen you. I have chosen you over my family, over my throne, over my memories, over everything I ever was. I have given up my entire life to be with you. Are you not happy? Is this not what you wanted?"

"You have made me your prisoner."

"I have made you my equal." His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. "We are connected now. Bound together. What happens to one of us happens to the other. If you leave, I will feel it. If you try to run, I will know. And if you try to hurt me—" He shrugged. "The snakes will not let you. They protect what they hold. That is what the voice told me."

"The voice. He told you to do this?"

"He gave me a choice. Break the statue, free you, and watch you leave me the moment we set foot on the mainland. Or bind you to me, keep you close, and never wonder again whether your love was real." His smile returned, and it was the saddest smile you had ever seen. "It was not a difficult choice. I love you. I cannot lose you. So I made sure I would never have to."

You stared at him. The man you loved. The man who had just destroyed you. The man who had looked at your chains and decided to put them on himself rather than break them, because he could not bear the thought of you walking free.

"This is not love," you whispered. "This is possession."

"Is there a difference?" He tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering. "You tell me. You have been doing this for centuries. You tell me where love ends and possession begins. You tell me whether what you felt for me was really love, or just the desperate hunger of a lonely creature who needed someone, anyone, to fill the void. You tell me whether I am any different from you, or whether I am just the first man who was willing to sink to your level."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The words would not come.

"Exactly," Jace said. "You cannot tell me. Because you do not know either. Because you have been confusing love and hunger for so long that you cannot tell them apart anymore. And now I am the same. You have made me the same." He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. "We are equals now. Partners. Two monsters bound together for eternity. Is that not romantic? Is that not what you always wanted? Someone who would never leave you, never abandon you, never choose anything over you?"

"You are insane," you breathed.

"I am what you made me." He pulled back and looked into your eyes, and his expression was unreadable. "You wanted me to stay. I am staying. You wanted me to love you. I love you. You wanted me to be different from the others. I am different. I am the one who did not run. I am the one who looked at the chains and chose to wear them. I am the one who gave up everything to be with you." He cupped your face in both hands, gentle and terrible and utterly inescapable. "Why are you not happy? If you really loved me, you would be happy. This is what you wanted. This is what you have been asking for since the moment we met. Someone who would stay. Someone who would choose you. Someone who would never leave."

He kissed your forehead, and his lips were warm, and the golden snake pulsed against your wrist like a second heart.

"I am going to build us a boat," he said. "A real one this time. One that can carry us both back to Westeros. And you are going to meet my mother, and I am going to take back my throne, and you are going to be my queen. Just like I promised. Just like we planned. The only difference is that now I know you will not leave me. Now I know your love is real. Because it has to be. Because you have no choice." He pulled back and smiled, and his smile was beautiful and broken and utterly terrifying. "You are free now, Y/N. Free from the island. Free from your brother's curse. Free from the statue and the chains and the centuries of solitude. You can go anywhere you want. You can do anything you want. The whole world is open to you." He took your hand, the one with the golden snake coiled around the wrist, and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. "As long as you never leave my side."

You looked down at the snake. At his hand holding yours. At the invisible chain that stretched between you, unbreakable and eternal.

"You are a monster," you whispered.

“Cousin!” Y/N said, his face lighting up at the sight of Gwayne.

A matching smile pulled at Gwayne’s lips, and he held out his arm to shake his cousin’s hand in greeting. 

Y/N ignored Gwayne’s outstretched hand and gathered him into a tight hug, squeezing him tight enough that Gwayne could feel his cousin’s muscles, thick and corded as they pressed against him. After a moment, Y/N released him, but kept one arm around Gwayne’s shoulder, pulling him close so they could walk up the steps to the Hightower Hall together. 

“How are you? The years have been kind to you, my friend,” Y/N said, while Gwayne took a moment to control the flush that crossed his cheeks. 

Y/N had been much changed by the years, a man instead of a boy, a Lord instead of an heir, and ruggedly handsome instead of boyishly pretty. He was as friendly as he was when they were both youths. Although that is perhaps where time had differed between the Gwayne and his cousin: Y/N had grown open and friendly—his youthful traits deepening into adult traditions—while Gwayne had grown reserved, the joy of his youth stifled by the knowledge that he was not the son his father had hoped for. 

“I am well,” Gwayne said, “and happy to see that you are hale. I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing. I did not know him well, but I have heard he was quite an extraordinary man.” 

“Aye, he was,” Y/N said, disquieted. Gwayne kicked himself for mentioning the late Lord Borromus Selmy—perhaps his skill in hospitality was not as good as he had thought—but the disquiet left Y/N’s face nearly as soon as it appeared. He continued, “But no man is too great to avoid the inevitable kiss of death. Now, tell me of all that has happened to you, cousin, while we climb the thousand fucking steps up the tower. When we finish, it will be like we have never parted.”  

—

Ormund sat at the head of the table while Prince Daeron sat to his right, and his cousin, Lord Y/N Selmy, sat on his left. Gwayne was seated on Y/N’s other side and had yet so far occupied most of their cousin’s time, talking, laughing, and reminiscing about the years they had spent together as boys. 

Ormund had grown up with Gwayne and Y/N, too; however, his memory of their youth was not as vibrant as theirs—he could not remember every little, foolish game they had played, every jape they had pulled on their sisters—and so Ormund grew annoyed at Gwayne for taking their cousin’s focus away from him, the Lord of the house, with the remembrance of silly trifles. 

He wished to discuss how Y/N was finding it running Harvest Hall, he wished to discuss the progress of the wheat fields in the Crownlands, and he wished to discuss what Y/N thought of the gift Ormund had sent him after the death of his Lord father. He wished, merely, that his childhood friend might turn to him and discuss the burden they shared as Lords of their houses; something Gwayne would never understand.

However, Y/N appeared uninterested in discussing the Crownlands, Harvest Hall, and politics at all. When Ormund asked him how the Dornish Marches fared so close to the Dornish border, Y/N said that, ‘It was relatively peaceful,’ before turning back to Gwayne and laughing as he recalled the scullery maid who was in love with Gwayne.

“You were always a proper gentleman, Cousin,” Y/N said, “I remember when she snuck into your rooms, you refused to kiss her because she was too young.” 

Ormund snorted, a petulant anger bubbling in his stomach. That was not the reason Gwayne had refused to kiss her. It was because she had tits and a cunt, and not a cock he could sit on. 

Gwayne flushed when he heard Ormund’s snort, and he glanced at Ormund with trepidation. Gwayne knew that Ormund knew what he was. Gwayne knew that Y/N did not. He was worried Ormund would tell their cousin and reveal his dirty, shameful secret. 

Ormund imagined it. He imagined telling Y/N that Gwayne only liked being taken by men, and he wondered what Y/N’s reaction would be. Disgust? Hatred? Would he avoid being alone with Gwayne; would he avoid spending time with Gwayne at all?

The thought pleased Ormund. If Y/N did not spend time with Gwayne, it would free him up to spend time with him instead. Maybe their dinner conversations could be filled with topics Ormund preferred discussing, and not inane chatter. Maybe they could take supper in his solar and play cyvasse. Ormund had always been better at cyvasse than Y/N.  

“Well,” Ormund started, smirked. Gwayne’s eyes filled with terror, and his hands rested on the table as if he was prepared to bolt from the room. “Gwayne–”

“Gwayne has always had many admirers,” Young Prince Daeron said, interrupting Ormund before he could expose Gwayne’s secret. 

Ormund grit his teeth. Daeron had an unnatural loyalty to his uncle and loathed to see him upset. And Ormund knew he could not upset the young prince in turn; not when his sire was the King, and his grandsire the man who controlled the king, and Ormund’s uncle the same.

“Yes,” Ormund grit out, “And why wouldn’t he? Gwayne is, as you say, Y/N, a true gentleman.” 

Y/N laughed, his teeth gleaming like pearls. “And surely because he is handsome as well.”

Gwayne flushed a deep red. 

“Although, Cousin,” Y/N continued, and this time he turned his smiling gaze towards Ormund, “I seem to remember it was you who always had the most admirers in our youth. Perhaps none so bold as to sneak into your chambers, but a fair few offers of scandal. Of course, no one could blame them. I mean,” and here, Y/N stretched out his hand and pinched Ormund’s jaw, “look at this gorgeous face.” 

This close, Ormund could smell the soap that clung to Y/N’s skin. It was not the rosehip soap he gave every guest that came to the High Tower, but a spicy, exotic scent that Ormund instinctively knew was Dornish. It was a pleasant scent that tickled Ormund’s nose; a scent he wanted to get more of. 

Y/N took back his hand after a moment, and the scent was gone, only the faint echoes in his nose and the lingering warmth of Y/N’s fingers on his jaw. 

“Yes, well.” Ormund cleared his throat, willing the sudden heat that rose to his cheeks to dissipate as quickly as it had come. “I never took them up on their offers. The Seven is against such pre-marital relations.”

“Of course,” and Y/N winked at Daeron as if he didn’t believe Ormund.

“Speaking of,” Ormund said, floundering under Y/N’s gaze all of a sudden. He had wanted Y/N’s attention all night, but now that he had it, he was not sure what to do with it. “Will you be coming with us to the Sept on the morrow?”

Ormund knew the Selmys were not as religious as the Hightowers; however, he always knew Y/N to attend the sept service with his mother, Alice Hightower, in the years they had lived in Oldtown. Surely he would attend with him, even though this time his mother—and Ormund’s aunt—had stayed in Harvest Hall. 

“Ah, well,” Y/N coughed and took a sip of wine. “I seem to have already promised my morning to my knights. Travelling has left little time for sword practise, and I fear if I do not lift my sword soon, my muscles will rot.” 

Ormund opened his mouth to protest—surely mere knights did not take precedent over a lord, and a cousin at that—but Y/N quieted him by placing his hand on Ormund’s wrist. He held the part of Ormund’s wrist not covered by his tunic sleeve; his hand was warm and dry and large, his fingers calloused the way all swordsmen’s were.

Y/N touched easily, as if it did not cost him anything to do so. The sight of his hand on his wrist brought a memory to Ormund’s mind. He recalled that in their youths, Y/N easily flung an arm over his and Gwayne’s shoulders, how he hugged and prodded at friends with ease, and how he frequently pressed quick, chaste kisses against everyone’s cheeks, friends, family, and servants alike.

His nature was opposite to a Hightower’s; it was the camaraderie of a comfortable, confident man who saw nothing wrong with gentle embraces. It was the camaraderie of a Selmy.

“But,” Y/N continued, gently squeezing Ormund’s wrist before taking the warmth away, “how about you join me in the training yard afterwards? It has been too long since we have tested our mettle against each other.” 

Ormund sniffed, feeling colder for the lack of Y/N touch. “I suppose,” he said, but Ormund was pleased; Y/N had not invited Gwayne to join them in the training yard.

—

Gwayne had not enjoyed attending the Sept’s service for many years, not when every word felt like a pointed barb, not when he felt like a failure for a nature he could not control. 

Yet, Gwayne still went to the services with Ormund and sweet Daeron for no other reason than to prevent Ormund’s anger and avoid the gossip of the maids. And although Gwayne sometimes found his mind drifting to the beauty of the light as it crept in through the stained windows, this time, Gwayne’s mind wandered to his cousin and the offer to train in the yard he had extended to Gwayne after supper had concluded and Ormund set off to take his bath. 

Gwayne found he wished to accept his cousin’s offer, and that even the light in the sept was not enough to keep his legs from growing restless. 

If he left now, Gwayne thought, he would have Y/N to himself for at least an hour. He would not have to listen to Ormund’s chatter, or watch him primping like a peacock. Gwayne could sneak out the next time everyone bowed their heads; he could have metal in his hands before they lifted them again. It could be easy 

Feeling bold, and bored, and restless, Gwayne stood from his seat, keeping his eyes on Ormund’s bowed neck and silently crept out of the Sept. When he was out of hearing distance, Gwayne fled towards the training yard.

Y/N was in the training yard as he said he would be, trading blows with a knight that Gwayne did not recognise, someone he assumed was a Selmy man-at-arms. They had both shed their tunics, and sweat beaded on their bare skin, glistening in the sun that was beginning to crest over the tower’s walls. 

Y/N’s chest heaved with exertion, and as he swung his sword, the beads of sweat trailed down the ridges of his chest and back, pooling in the thick muscles of his abdomen before slipping beneath his breeches and to his co—

Gwayne burned, and tore his gaze away from his cousin, choosing to focus on the man he was fighting—on the hair that wasn’t the right colour, the face that wasn’t the right shape, and the arms that weren’t the right size. 

The sun of the early morn was suddenly too strong too, and Gwayne pretended it was solely because of the Selmy man-at-arms. 

“Is the service over, then?” Y/N said, smiling, pulling Gwayne from his thoughts as he set down his sword and approached him.  

He would not be smiling at him, Gwayne thought, if he knew of what raced through Gwayne’s mind at the sight of his bare chest. 

“No, I thought I might escape earlier,” Gwayne said, “Slipped out while everyone was praying.”

Y/N laughed. “Good man. Come, Ser Lyonel will give you his sword. You can show me what kind of soldier you have become while I have given in to the Lord’s idleness.”  

And so Gwayne did. They fought and chased each other around the yard—with real swords instead of the wooden ones of their youths—and they matched each other blow for blow. Y/N may have claimed to have given in to the Lord’s idleness, but it did not show in his swordplay. He was as sharp as Gwayne, as quick, and, embarrassingly, slightly stronger. 

At some point, their swords had been knocked to the side, and Y/N tackled Gwayne to the ground. 

They wrestled in the dirt, limbs pressing against limbs, chests pressing against chests. Gwayne tried to fight back against Y/N’s strength, but it was little use; Y/N kept him caged against the ground, his arm around Gwayne’s neck, his body against Gwayne’s back, and his hot breath against Gwayne’s ear. 

“Fine! Fine,” Gwayne conceded, going loose-limbed in Y/N’s hold. 

Gwayne’s cheeks burned as he felt a pulsing between his legs, and blood shamefully filling his cock. He hid his face in the dirt, pretending to catch his breath, while Y/N released his hold and leaned back against Gwayne’s thighs. The movement made his cock rub against the ground, and a spark of pleasure shot through Gwayne’s body; he had to hide his moan by biting his lip. He was a beast, a fool, and he should have stayed in the sept.

“Well, I suppose we know who the better swordsman is.” 

Ormund’s voice shocked Gwayne out of his despair—replacing it instead with a gripping mortification—and he moved his face out of the dirt to stare at his cousin. Ormund was dressed down from his Sept garb, in a simple but fine green sparring tunic. He peered down at Gwayne, a sneer twisting his lips up as he looked at Gwayne like he was a bug beneath his boot. 

Gwayne saw the anger on Ormund’s face, and thought, if only you knew. 

“Oh, hardly!” Y/N said, before finally, finally moving from Gwayne’s thighs, relieving the pressure on his cock, but now removing Gwayne’s excuse for standing. “We have only proven I am a better wrestler. Gwayne is deft at sword handling.”  

Ormund laughed, mean, and said, simply for Gwayne’s humiliation, “Well, of that, there’s no doubt.”  

Gwayne had no illusions of what Ormund truly meant when he said, ‘sword handling,’ and he flushed, wishing he could get up and leave without exposing his shame to Y/N and Ormund. 

“What?” Y/N said.

“Nothing,” Ormund said, and he stepped past Gwayne to collect one of the swords that had been abandoned. 

“Anyway,” Ormund continued, “I thought we would be practising, Y/N. Not you and Gwayne.” Ormund’s voice held petulance that was not suitable for a man his age or stature, yet seemingly charmed Y/N into laughter.

No one else knew of Ormund’s peccadilloes and accepted them as readily as Y/N did. Even when they were in their youth, Y/N allowed himself to be manoeuvred for the sake of Ormund’s comfort. He had always been the first to accept them. He had also always been the first to break them. 

Y/N stepped beside Ormund and wrapped his sweaty, dirty arm around Ormund’s clean shoulder, no doubt knowing that he was sensitive to smells and dirt. 

Ormund froze, his shoulders hunching, but he did not push Y/N away as he might have done anyone else; he stayed under Y/N’s arm and let him run a dusty hand through his clean hair. 

“Don’t worry, cousin,” Y/N said, “there is enough of me to go around. Now,” he took up the other abandoned sword, “let's see if I can muddy up your pretty clothes.”

While Y/N and Ormund sparred, Gwayne crept to the side of the training ring, carefully concealing himself so that none could see that his breeches were a little tighter than usual. He silently watched the match and thought of every sermon he had listened to, every ugly old septon, and every septa who had ever scowled at him. 

After several excruciating moments—moments that were not helped by the sight of Y/N’s arms as he swung his sword—the blood finally returned to Gwayne’s head, and he saw himself fit enough to take refreshment from the table the servants had set up for them. 

He sat and listened as Y/N talked to Ormund while they fought, a few compliments on his swing, a few japes at his footwork, and after a while Gwayne began to enjoy himself again, watching his two cousins as they pranced around the training yard. 

“Hey, Gwayne,” Y/N said at some point later. He was still locked in a match with Ormund, but he turned his focus towards Gwayne, perhaps because he wished to tease Ormund and knew it would annoy him. “Are you watching?”

“Don’t pay attention to him!” Ormund said, swinging with more anger, “Pay attention to me!” 

Y/N laughed, matching Ormund’s blows with an ease that had Gwayne suspecting that the Harvest Hall swordmasters were better tutors than the Hightower ones. 

“I am paying attention to you, quite well,” Y/N said, blocking a particularly hard blow from Ormund to prove his point. “I am just also paying attention to our sweet, red-headed cousin.” 

Ormund huffed in frustration, sweat curling the hairs on his forehead. Dust clung to the hems of his breeches, and there was a small smudge across his cheek that Gwayne thought he didn’t know was there. He looked angry, a bitter pout on his face.

Gwayne had forgotten how easily their cousin got under Ormund’s skin; he had forgotten how much fun it was to watch it happen. 

Ormund let himself be distracted by his frustrations and Y/N’s perceived lack of focus. With a swing, Y/N knocked Ormund’s sword from his hand and crowed in victory. 

After a moment, and a brief congratulation from Gwayne, Y/N turned to console Ormund, a kindly smile on his face. But Y/N couldn’t get the words out: Ormund punched him across the nose. 

Blood dripped onto the training pitch. 

Ormund vomited. 

And Gwayne laughed.

—

Ormund wracked his fingers together as he paced outside Y/N’s chambers. The maester had come and gone, Gwayne had come and gone, and their disapproving gazes lingered long after they had disappeared around the corner and left him to make his apologies. 

Ormund was not used to apologising. He was not used to the shame that curled hot in his stomach, or the jealousy that roared up inside him. He was not used to being denied what he wanted, or having attention drawn away from him. 

It’s just—it wasn’t fair. How many years had it been since he last saw Y/N? Since they had exchanged words that weren’t merely on paper? And now, Gwayne was commandeering all of Y/N time. He was taking him away from Ormund. 

Gwayne had held most of Y/N’s attention at dinner the other night, when Ormund had been wanting to converse with him. 

Gwayne had sparred with Y/N, interloping and joining Y/N while Ormund was still in the Sept, praying to the Gods and being the proper pious son. 

And Gwayne had ignored the fact that Y/N had said he and Ormund would spar after the Sept service, not with him! 

Ormund knocked on Y/N’s door, an unusual trepidation in his heart. 

“Come in,” Y/N said, his voice soft and muffled by the door. 

Ormund always hated stepping into other people's spaces, where their unconscious human stinks filled the air too thickly for the breeze to chase away; however, Y/N’s smell, even when they were youths, had never been too overbearing or disgusting. His sweat, at times, was musky, and the Dornish soap or perfume he now used was more than pleasing enough to erase Ormund’s doubts about entering the room. In fact, at times, he found himself liking Y/N’s scent. 

Ormund pushed the door open and carefully stepped into Y/N’s chambers. 

A bathtub full of dirty water sat in the centre of the room, and Y/N’s training clothes lay beside it; the chests Y/N had brought from Harvest Hall filled the corners of the room, some open and exposing the wardrobe inside, and others closed and tucked away. The chairs were covered in worn doublets, waiting to be taken to the laundry, and half-cleaned boots were lying strewn on the floor.

The room was a mess, and Ormund could feel his hackles rise, desperate for his smelling oils; and yet, the smell was not bad. Notes of Y/N’s soap still lingered, and the musk of Y/N’s scent gently sweetened the air.

Y/N himself sat away from the disorder of the room, lying on his bed, cleaned of blood and dirt, and resting over the covers of his freshly made bed in only his small clothes. He held a bandage over his nose—thankfully free of blood—and he did not remove it, even as Ormund crept over to him and hesitantly sat on the edge of his bed.

“What is it?” Y/N said, his eyes sharp. 

Ormund blustered. He was sure he’d had a proper apology rehearsed, something he was sure would make Y/N forgive him for not-quite-accidentally punching him in the face. Something that would allow them to return to the easiness of the previous day.

“I– I was coming to see how you were,” Ormund said, looking anywhere except at Y/N. Finding the sight of the cluttered room too distressing, he settled on Y/N’s bare chest. His chest was clean, at least, and seemed to gleam in the sun with every twitch of his muscles. 

“You punched me.”

“Well, you see, I-” Ormund stuttered over his words in a way he never did. He felt flustered under Y/N’s direct gaze, like he was six-and-ten again and frozen in place as a five-and-ten-year-old Y/N, with longer hair and a smile that was much too handsome for someone his age, charged him down with a sweaty tunic.

Y/N laughed, and the noise was a little stifled by the bandage over his nose, but it fluttered in the room and filled the air. “You’re a sore loser,” he said, smiling, “you broke my nose. Five-and-thirty, and you break my nose. I can’t believe it.” 

“Yes. I get it!” Ormund huffed before finally looking at Y/N’s face. “Are you… all right?” 

Y/N hummed and closed his eyes, settling further back against his bed. His bare thigh brushed against Ormund’s hand, and Ormund shivered when the hair on Y/N’s leg tickled his skin. It was softer than he thought it would be. Not that Ormund had spent much time thinking about Y/N’s leg hair. 

“I’m all right,” Y/N said after he got comfortable. “But you haven’t apologised yet.” 

“Right, well, I’m sorry,” Ormund said, and he meant it, truly. It wasn’t Y/N’s fault that Gwayne had desperately needed Y/N’s attention and had stolen it away from Ormund. It wasn’t Y/N’s fault at all, except for that he was the kind of person whose attention people needed.

“You’re sorry?” 

“Yes, of course. I’ll make it up to you, if you want,” Ormund said, imagining a feast of Y/N’s favourite foods he could order the kitchen to make, or a cask of fine Arbour Gold that was Y/N’s favourite he could tap into.  

“Really?” Y/N asked, and he peeked a swollen eye open to look sceptically at Ormund. And sure, it was true that Ormund was not known for assisting others, but surely his cousin shouldn’t look so perplexed by his offer.

“Yes,” Ormund affirmed, determined not to sour his relationship with Y/N any further, even if it meant extending himself more than he would for anyone else.  

“Good,” Y/N said, “because the maester left before I could ask and my bruises are killing me,” and he blindly reached over to fumble for a jar that was resting on his bedside table. He pressed it into Ormund’s hands.

“What’s this?” Ormund asked, lifting the lid to smell the dubiously coloured paste. He was pleasantly surprised when it was the same spicy scent that clung to Y/N’s skin. He took another smell of it, pleased.

“My maester at Harvest Hall brews it. It is to help with pain.” 

“And? What do you want me to do with it?” Ormund looked at the paste. His maester had never made anything of the sort before. Perhaps Y/N was simply worried about the strikes Ormund had taken in the yard and wished to ease his guilt. 

Y/N laughed softly, “Put it on my bruises.” 

Ormund’s eyes shot to Y/N’s face, but his eyes were closed, and though he was smiling, he did not appear to be joking. 

Ormund knew that soldiers often had homebrew recipes for soothing aches and pains, and that they shared them and frequently helped massage each other in spots they could not reach themselves. But Ormund had never been asked to help, nor would he have accepted had they asked. The thought of touching another man’s skin in such an intimate way disgusted him.  

“Me? Why can’t you do it?” Ormund said, frowning. 

Y/N groaned, “Would that I could, but I fear every time I sit up my head spins. Did you know you had a twin?” Y/N said, “He’s been standing by your shoulder all this time.” 

Ormund was still not convinced, but a small guilt ate at his stomach. It was his fault Y/N was in such a state of infirmity, after all, and he had promised to make it up to him. 

As if sensing his wavering resolve, Y/N said, “Don’t worry. It smells nice.” As if Ormund had not already opened the jar and made that assertion for himself. 

“Fine,” Ormund huffed, then slightly less certain said, “Where?” 

“Anywhere you see a bruise. Massage the paste into the skin.”

And so, with an unusual guilt in his stomach and subtle heat to his skin, hesitantly Ormund got to work. He scooped out the paste with his finger, gagging slightly at the texture, before placing it on a bruise that was on Y/N’s arm.

Ormund worked with uncertain hands, rubbing the paste into Y/N’s skin. The salve seemed to disappear after several moments of his working, so Ormund took that as proof of its functioning and moved on to the next small bruise on Y/N’s arm, following the same procedure. 

He pressed the paste against a bruise on Y/N’s forearm, where the hair was thicker. Y/N didn't shave his body as Ormund did, yet it did not disturb Ormund as much as he thought it would. He traced his finger across the soft hair over and over again, watching as it shifted under his touch.

When the paste on his arm disappeared, Ormund moved to the bruises on Y/N’s torso. However, before he began his ministrations, he hesitated, his hands pausing over the bruise on Y/N’s abdomen. 

Arms were one thing, but Y/N’s abdomen? Ormund was sure the only person whose abdomen he had touched, besides his own, was his wife's. And even then, he tried not to linger on her body, to get their marital duty—the few times they had done it—over with as quickly as possible. She never smelled as good as he hoped she would, and certainly never as good as Y/N–

Ormund pressed the paste against the sharp ridges of Y/N’s abdomen. Y/N let out a pained grunt, and his muscles clenched for a moment—his skin rippling beneath Ormund’s fingertips—before they relaxed again. 

Ormund’s neck grew hot, and his doublet suddenly felt too warm; sweat gathered at his forehead. Yet, he continued to spread the paste and began to massage it into Y/N’s smooth skin. Y/N’s muscles were firm and reacted to Ormund’s touch, jumping lightly whenever he pressed too hard against the bruise, or twitching if his nails tickled. 

Ormund had never been so close to another man before, had never touched another man so intimately before, and he found himself helplessly fascinated by it. He found himself helplessly enjoying it. His heart raced as his fingers trailed Y/N’s skin, and heat began to pool deep in his gut, drawing blood away from his head and into his cock.

Ormund burned, and shame filled him, and still he could not stop his hands from wandering to the next bruise, from touching the skin Y/N had freely offered him to touch. The smell of the salve danced in his mouth as well, and Ormund had the strange desire to press his tongue against Y/N’s skin and see if it tasted as heady as it smelled; to see if Y/N tasted as heady as he looked. 

When the salve had disappeared on Y/N’s abdomen, he moved down to Y/N’s thigh, where a small bruise stained the inside of his thigh. Ormund began his ministrations without hesitation, eager to touch and feel this new part of Y/N. 

Ormund’s cock pulsed as his fingers dug into the meat of Y/N’s thick, strong thigh—straining against his small clothes as every touch of fabric sent sparks down to his toes—and yet he still could not stop himself from working the paste into Y/N’s skin, from feeling the sparse hair on his thigh, and from imagining what would happen if he trailed his hands upwards and touched Y/N’s cock. 

Ormund stared at where Y/N’s cock was hidden beneath his small clothes, desperate to see if his touch was affecting Y/N as much as it was him. But Y/N’s cock did not fill or twitch as Ormund’s had; his cock was not straining at the seams of his small clothes and pulsing, ready to burst, as Ormund’s was. 

The fact of it made hot shame burn at Ormund’s cheeks. He was the sinner here; he was the one being affected by touching another man’s body. Not Y/N. Not Gwayne. Ormund, hard and wanting and–

Ormund’s knuckles accidentally brushed Y/N’s cock, and like a bottle smashing against the floor, Ormund burst. 

He orgasmed before he knew what was happening, and he gasped as the strength of it almost knocked him over. His body shook with it, his toes curled with it, and he keeled over, pressing his head against the bed sheet, as ropes of his cum stained the inside of his small clothes. 

Ormund couldn’t stop the desperate groan from slipping from his lips, and even though shame and humiliation curled in his stomach, he wanted nothing more than to fully touch Y/N’s cock, to hold it, to feel it, to press it to his lips and see if it tasted as good as he imagined it would.

When his orgasm abated, and the cum grew sticky in his small clothes, Ormund lifted his head from the bed, tears already welling in his eyes as he looked at Y/N. 

What would Y/N think of him now? Surely he would pack his bags and leave the moment Ormund stood. Could he try to make excuses? Could he try to pretend he was merely suffering from a cramp?

But Y/N’s eyes were closed, and his mouth was open; soft snores left his lips with every inbreath as his chest steadily rose and fell. He was asleep.  

A Sigil of Mine @entitled-fangirl

Crushing Worry @justmymindandstuff

You are happy and in love with your husband Cregan Stark. The birth of your first child is imminent. But something changes in Cregan and suddenly you feel overwhelmed by his protectiveness. Your husband seems to have forgotten that you are a dragon princess, you are not made out of glass

N/A @gtgbabie0babi

Your dreams are often plagued by nightmares of events that are yet to unfold, Cregan is always there to hold you when they become too much

Our Silver Haired Daughter @streamofcolors

With Cregan at your side, you face your fear and give birth to your silver-haired daughter.

Runaway Queen @julez-5

A Targaryen Queen Princess trying to do what’s right runs back to the only man she knows she can trust.

His Second Child @sluttysnowangel666

after returning to Winterfell and restoring the balance of your marriage, cregan finds himself once again haunted by a familiar threat of the past.

Hearth @realmsofdreams

as the second wife of lord cregan stark, you’ve poured your heart into raising his son rickon as your own. but at rickon’s third nameday feast, northern lords, obsessed with the stark legacy, dismiss your role and pressure cregan to wed a “proven” noblewoman to secure heirs, ignoring your unfruitful womb.

Shadows of the Past @justmymindandstuff

Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, is forced to remarry after the death of his first wife and childhood sweetheart. His new bride is the eldest daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Rhea Royce. Cregan fears the worst. But his wife is sweet, gentle, beautiful, kind. Everything he could wish for. He starts thinking you are slowly building a life together in the north, however he realizes that it is not as idyllic for you as he thought.

Frostbitten Kisses @creganed

The marriage of the Princess to Lord Ormund Hightower was celebrated with all the pomp befitting the union of two great houses, though those with ears to hear noted that the bride smiled less than a maiden ought on her wedding day. Lord Ormund, for his part, comported himself with the dignity and restraint one would expect of a lord of his years and station, and it was widely remarked that he showed remarkable patience with a bride who had clearly been ill-prepared for the duties of wifehood by her mother's notoriously disordered household.

That the Lord of Oldtown was more than twice his bride's age occasioned little comment; such matches were common enough, and the princess was said to be of a meek and biddable disposition, Eustace notes with barely concealed satisfaction that Lord Ormund undertook the correction of these deficiencies with "patience and firmness befitting a father as much as a husband," and that within a moon of their wedding, the princess had shed the immodest Lyseni fashions of her maidenhood in favor of the woolens and silks proper to a Hightower lady. That she wept at the exchange is mentioned only in Mushroom's account, and Mushroom is not to be trusted in matters of women's tears.

What passed between them in the privacy of the Hightower is not recorded, though Eustace assures us that Lord Ormund was a man of "vigorous piety" who attended services at the Starry Sept each morning and kept a septon in his household for the spiritual edification of his young wife. Mushroom, predictably, takes the opposite view, devoting several lurid pages to the claim that the princess was so thoroughly subjected to her husband's "attentions" that she could scarcely walk on the mornings. The fool further alleges that Lord Ormund kept a collection of certain items—hair, ribbons, "tokens of affection"—which he would produce in the bedchamber to the princess's mingled shame and, Mushroom insinuates, secret pleasure. That Mushroom had never set foot in the Hightower seems not to have constrained his imagination in the slightest.

On the matter of the princess's behavior, the two sources are in rare agreement, though they differ in interpretation. Both record that she was seldom seen in public during the early year of her marriage, a circumstance Eustace attributes to her natural modesty and devotion to her household duties, while Mushroom—with a leer that is almost audible on the page—suggests she was kept close because Lord Ormund could not bear for other men to look upon what belonged to him. "He dressed her like a septa and locked her away like a jewel," Mushroom writes, "and she, poor simple creature, mistook his jealousy for love."

What is known is that the princess's famed dragon was seldom seen above Oldtown, and when it did appear, its cries were said to be so mournful that smallfolk made the sign of the Seven. Septon Eustace takes this as evidence that even the beast sensed the wickedness of its mistress, for dragons, as all men know, are creatures of sin and sorcery, bound to their riders by pacts that no godly man should contemplate. That Lord Ormund tolerated the creature's presence at all was counted as further proof of his extraordinary forbearance.

The servants' gossip, dutifully recorded by Mushroom with his customary indifference to decency, painted a picture of a household in which the lord was forever correcting his wife's deficiencies. She spoke too freely, it was said. She asked impertinent questions. She had been raised in the Targaryen fashion, which is to say without discipline, without modesty, and without any proper understanding of a wife's subordination to her husband. Lord Ormund, who had been blessed in his first marriage with a lady of impeccable breeding, was said to find his new bride's temperament trying in the extreme. Yet he never raised his hand to her in public, nor spoke a harsh word where others might hear—a restraint that Septon Eustace lauds as evidence of his sanctity, though Mushroom, with characteristic coarseness, suggests that whatever correction occurred happened behind closed doors and left no marks that could be seen when the lady was clothed.

That she bore him a child is indisputable, and Eustace takes care to note that she performed this duty without complaint, as befits a godly wife. Mushroom, ever eager to soil the cleanest linen, claims that Lord Ormund was so determined to see her with child that he kept her "occupied in the matter nightly" from the first week of their marriage, and that the princess, "young and tender as she was," learned to endure it and eventually to welcome it, for she knew no other existence.

When the war began in earnest, Lord Ormund—whether out of husbandly concern or a darker desire to keep his wife ignorant of her family's fortunes—took great pains to ensure that tidings from the east did not reach the princess's ears. Septon Eustace praises this as the act of a devoted husband protecting his delicate wife from matters too weighty for the female mind to bear, though even he admits that Lord Ormund's efforts went beyond ordinary solicitude. Letters from Dragonstone were said to have gone astray. Riders bearing news from King's Landing were turned away at the gates. The princess, by all accounts, knew nothing of her mother's mounting peril, of her brother Lucerys's death above Shipbreaker Bay, or of the gathering storm that would soon consume the realm.

Mushroom, inevitably, offers a third interpretation. The Lord of Oldtown, he claims, knew that if his wife learned of the war, she would fly at once to her mother's side on that wretched beast of hers, and he could not bear the thought of losing her—not to Rhaenyra, not to the blacks, not to anyone. "He kept her ignorant as a septa," the fool writes, "and just as cloistered, for he feared her dragon more than he feared the gods, and her mother's influence most of all." That Lord Ormund's motives were possessive rather than protective is a charge the greens have always denied, though it must be said that the princess's ignorance of such momentous events—occurring to her own blood, in her own name—required a degree of isolation that even the most devoted husband would find difficult to justify.

The revelation, when it came, was devastating, through a servant's careless remark, Mushroom claims, though Septon Eustace insists it was delivered gently by Lord Ormund himself, the princess, upon learning of her brother's fate, collapsed with a shriek that witnesses later described as inhuman. Septon Eustace, with his customary sympathy for the female condition, attributes her collapse to "the weakness of her sex, which cannot bear shocks that men must endure with fortitude." Mushroom attributes it to the fact that she had been deceived for weeks by the husband who had sworn to cherish her, and that her grief was as much for the lie as for the brother.

When Lord Ormund departed for the war, the princess remained at the Hightower for some months—long enough for Septon Eustace to praise her dutiful attention to the household in her husband's absence, and long enough for Mushroom to invent half a dozen scandals that supposedly occurred the moment the lord's back was turned. That she eventually flew to King's Landing with her children is not disputed. The meaning of that flight, however, has been contested by every chronicler who set pen to the Dance. Septon Eustace declares it an act of wifely desertion, a betrayal made all the more damning by the fact that she left Lord Ormund's children from his first marriage behind, "abandoning her stepchildren as carelessly as she abandoned her vows." Mushroom, by contrast, claims she fled because she had received word that her husband had fallen—a false report, as it transpired, but one she was eager to believe, for it freed her from a marriage she had come to loathe.

The fool further alleges that the princess miscarried a child upon learning of Prince Jacaerys's death, and that Lord Ormund was responsible not only for concealing the news but for the babe's loss itself, for "her womb had been so battered by his ceaseless demands that it could no longer hold what was planted there." This is Mushroom at his most indefensible, fashioning tragedy into titillation, yet the rumor took hold in certain circles and has proven difficult to dislodge from the popular imagination.

What followed in the North has been the subject of more ink than any other chapter of the princess's life. That she entered into an irregular union with Lord Cregan Stark while her lawful husband yet lived is a fact that even her most ardent defenders cannot deny. Septon Eustace pronounces it bigamy and whoredom, declaring that the princess had "inherited her mother's talent for spreading her legs wherever advantage might be gained." That she bore Stark a son within the year is cited as proof that the union was consummated with an enthusiasm unbecoming a woman who still had a husband living, whatever reports she claimed to have received.

Mushroom, predictably, provides details. The princess and Lord Stark, he writes, were inseparable from the moment of her arrival, the Northman being "everything the Hightower was not: young, hale, and possessed of an appetite that matched her own newly awakened desires." The fool devotes an improbable number of pages to the coupling itself—pages that remain popular in certain disreputable establishments to this day—claiming that the princess, after years of what he terms "Oldtown discipline," discovered in Winterfell that the marital act could be something other than duty and penance. That she took to it with a fervor that shocked even the Northmen, a people not known for prudishness, is presented by Mushroom as a redemption of sorts, though Septon Eustace sees only confirmation of her inherent depravity.

What followed the war was a matter that threatened to plunge the ravaged realm into fresh conflict, for Lord Ormund Hightower, upon learning the full extent of his wife's second marriage, did not accept his cuckolding, he gathered his surviving forces—still some four thousand strong, hardened by the campaigns in the Reach—and began a march north with the stated intention of reclaiming his wife and children from the "savage seducer" who had stolen them. That Cregan Stark, for his part, began marshaling the northern levies in response is well documented, and for several tense months the realm stood on the brink of a private war that would have bled what little peace the Dance had left.

It was the young king, Aegon the Third, who prevented this catastrophe, though he was but a boy of ten and crushed by the griefs that would define his reign. His elder sister, the princess, had refused the throne in his favor—a decision Eustace calls humble and Mushroom calls foolish—and now she found herself in the impossible position of having two husbands, each of whom could claim her by law, and each of whom commanded armies that the crown could ill afford to oppose. That she loved one of these men and had borne him a son is indisputable; that she had also borne a son to the other, and had once loved him too, complicated matters beyond the solving of any maester's counsel.

The compromise that was eventually brokered—by the princess herself, if Mushroom is to be believed, though Eustace insists it was the work of the King's Hand—was as unorthodox as it was pragmatic. The princess would remain the wife of Cregan Stark in the North, where the old gods held sway and the Faith's proclamations carried little weight. But she would also return to Oldtown for a portion of each year, bringing with her the son she had borne Lord Ormund, the child Aelias, so that the boy might know his father and his Hightower kin. That she would, during these visits, resume her duties as Lady of Oldtown—all of her duties, as Mushroom takes pains to specify—was an unspoken term of the arrangement, one that the princess accepted with what Eustace calls "penitent grace" and "She had been broken to the saddle young," Mushroom writes with characteristic crudeness, "and learned to ride whichever mount was beneath her."

Lord Ormund, for his part, accepted the arrangement with the grim dignity of a man who had won the war but lost the peace. When she returned to Oldtown each spring with young Aelias, the servants noted that Lord Ormund seemed to shed ten years in a single day—and that on the mornings after her arrival, she was often seen walking with some difficulty, a detail that Mushroom, predictably, does not allow to pass without comment.

Mushroom, who claims to have witnessed the first reunion of Lord Ormund and the Stark at a royal wedding some years later, describes the encounter with relish: "The Wolf and the Beacon stood at opposite ends of the hall, each with the princess between them like a bone between two hounds, and the looks they exchanged could have curdled milk. Yet she went to each in turn—to Ormund first, as courtesy demanded, for he was the elder husband and the one most grievously wronged—and spoke to him softly, and touched his face, and he unbent enough to press his lips to her lips. Then she crossed to Stark, who had watched the exchange with the patience of a man who knew she would come to him eventually, and he put his arm around her with a possessiveness that made the Hightower man reach for his sword. It was, all agreed, the most uncomfortable wedding feast since King Viserys had made his family dine together during the last year of his reign."

And he understood your hesitancy completely. Alyssa's father had never been presence. A fling from you were eighteen. He had stuck around for exactly until the middle of the second trimester was over when he decided he was not cut out to be a father, and that partying suited him better. Leaving you at nineteen a single mother, with no one to share the responsibilities with.

You didn't talk about him much, but you had once said he was a very small portion of your life and tended not to get wrapped up in thinking about it. Baelor had never asked for his name. He did not need to know one. If you wanted to share with him, that was okay. And if you never did that was okay too.

The first time they had met she was three and a half. She had a lot of energy and only stopped talking when her lungs begged her for air. She showed him her extensive collection of play make-up that he allowed her to put on his face, before she passed out on top of him watching Frozen.

 You had watched the entire time, with a look in your eyes as if you were expecting him to take off running. He had learned that was your default shortly after. That everyone would flake out at some point or another.

But Baelor Targaryen was not just anyone.

Now a year later she was in a picture smooshed in between Valarr and Matarys on his desk. Next to the picture of the pair of you. She was his in everything, but blood. He went to preschool registration, was listed as the next emergency contact after you on her forms, he paid for swimming lessons, she called his parents Grammy and Grampy, and he loved her just as much as his boys.

He thought his days of chasing young children were over, but he was proven wrong, something he was grateful for as he could imagine a life without you or Alyssa.

His relationship with you was very private. You had met most of his family and attended dinners. You had gone to the few stray events for his work, but he kept you under wraps. Not because he was ashamed of you, but because he enjoyed the peace that came with not everyone in the world knowing.

The fact that you weren't constantly followed every time you went to work or out with your friends. That Alyssa's preschool did not yet have to be in one that had strict protocols and a gate to be buzzed in through like his children.

His eyes gravitated toward the large diamond glowing from the morning sun on your left finger. Though that was soon to come crashing down once the wedding invites began to be sent out.

Your hands weaved through Alyssa's hair skillfully as you had been well practiced by now. "Grammy said we can get ice cream today. She told me when she picked me up from school," she lifted her fingers counting them "Two days ago," she declared.

Baelor laughed into his coffee, "You will have to eat some for your mom and I."

"You guys can come," she reasoned with all her four and half years of logic.

"We have to pack up the house," you reminded her.

She nodded, "Right, because we are going to live in with Daddy," she added.

He smiled at the term. It was newer something she had begun called him once she started preschool hearing other's using it, but it caused a warmth to spread through him that he did not even know was possible.

You had finished tying her hair off by the time there was a knock on the door. Alyssa grabbed her bunny stuffed animal and sprinted toward the door. She bounced waiting for you to open the door.

Baelor grabbed the abandoned Frozen backup on the kitchen table that had everything she could need for a sleepover as you opened the door. He moved behind you missing the first part of greetings, "Thank you for taking her," you said politely. Looking down at Alyssa who kept trying to drag his mother off to the car.

Myriah waved it off, "Of course. I love Grammy and Alyssa days. The younger Daeron is currently staying with us so this will be a vast change in energy levels," she laughed shaking her head as she reached out taking the frozen backpack from Baelor.

"Younger Daeron?" you asked, never having met

"Oh. I thought that was Aerion."

"I am sure you will meet him soon enough. He is supposedly back for good, but we will see. Anyways I will keep her as long as you need, and make sure you take time for yourselves at some point!"

The hours dragged on, packing room after room, storing your life neatly in boxes. It had taken longer than it could have, but he enjoyed it this way. You would pause telling him stories of what each random object made had discovered and the stories it held.

But now as you were propped up on the counter.Yours and Baelor's shirts discarded in a pile on the floor as his hands and mouth roamed your body packing was the last thing on his mind.

"We were told to take some time for ourselves," he reasoned, pressing his mouth to your pulse point.

"I don't think this is what she meant," you argued, but you pushed yourself further into him. Your legs wrapped into him pulling him closer. Your nails raked down his back causing the muscles to tense under them, as he nipped at your flesh earning a low moan from you.

His hands rested on your hips, running around the waist pants of your hands. You lifted your hops slightly, using him to help hold you up, and he was beyond eager to shed another layer between the pair of you.

Then the doorbell rang followed by a pounding at the door.

He pulled away, with a frown reaching down to grab his shirt. You let out a sound of disapproval, "It is no one important. Your mum would have called if she was coming back early," you reasoned, trying to pull him back into you.

"Then let me send them away and we can continue," he answered pressing a kiss to the side of your head. You made another sound of annoyance, but did not argue, freeing him to do as he said.

He pulled a shirt over his head making his way toward the door. He should have checked through the peep hole, and he would soon come to regret this decision. He opened the door with a polite grin, but paused immediately. The last person he would ever expected to knock on your door stood before him.

Daeron. Daeron Targaryen. Maekar's eldest son. His nephew, Daeron.

Baelor did not answer for a moment blinking in confusion wondering if this was some dream, because suddenly reality made no sense.

The high of lust from moments ago went away as if he had just been drenched in a bucket of ice cold water, "What?" The man paused looking around to make sure he was in fact in your home instead of his own, "What are you doing here?"

"I—I saw a picture at Gram's and Alyssa—" his words were cut off, by another voice. Sterner, shaper, full of annoyance that you currently felt at being interrupted..

"Baelor who—" your words died immediately as your eyes locked on the man in the doorway. "What the fuck are you doing here?" you asked, suddenly it was no longer annoyance, but burning hot anger. Your tone taking form that Baelor had never heard.

His mismatched eyes flickered between you both, only filling with more confusion by the minute, "You know him?" he asked in confusion, as only hours ago you had no clue who they were referencing.

You stopped beside him, your jaw locked, "This is Alyssa's…" you made a gesture with your hand, because in your mind you did not believe he deserved the title of father. "How do you know him?"

It clicked instantly for Baelor, his eyes widening even further as he turned toward his nephew, "Oh. This is Maekar's eldest son."

Now your eyes widened , your face matching his his before you turned back to Daeron, "You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

The main indication of your anger was the fact that you did not make tea nor shove food in front of the new guests face like you did with everyone else. You refused to sit at the table standing behind Baelor as you glared at Daeron who looked around the home awkwardly.

"You said your name was Daemon Dayne," you suddenly declared, the edge in your voice clear as day.

"I lied," he admitted, as if you needed it.

You scoffed, shaking your head, "I caught onto that now thanks."

Baelor let out a sigh, trying his best to muster a kind smile, "Why are you here, Daeron?" he asked, plainly, but it did have the bite it would coming from you.

The younger nodded, "Right. Well. I was at Gram's and I saw Alyssa. She was just playing with her stuffed bear or whatever, and "I was like huh? Who is that?" Well, I did not think anything of it, and then I put the pieces together on who she was, " he answered, with a shrug.

The story did not sound like a full one, missing details, and you seemed to be ready to call that out as your voice immediately cut through the tense air, "How…" you trailed off for a second your eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Baelor watched you curiously trying to figure out where your train of thought was headed, "How did you know that was her? You've never met her. Why did you think Baelor's mum would have her I never met your family?"

He was silent for a moment, causing the elder man's attention to drift back toward him, awaiting his answer. You watched him closely, one that would send chills back toward most mens spines.

Daeron opened his mouth and closed it a few times before finally, "I saw a picture of you and Alyssa with Baelor and his boys," he admitted, as he looked away for only a minute trying to conceal the features on his face. You barked out a laugh as if you saw straight through him, shaking your head as you turned away from the table, shaking your head before facing them once more. "Gram wouldn't let me meet her, but I am her father—"

"Baelor is Alyssa's father," you said cutting him off. Both men turned toward you, "He has been here when you have been doing off doing Gods knows what for almost five years! You have no right to show up here, because you saw a picture of me and him, because other than you would not have even spared us a second thought!"

"That is not—" Daeron started, but did not get far.

"It is not your turn to talk," you continued cutting him off, "Alyssa is four and a half years old. I did not even start dating Baelor until she was three and half. That was almost four years for you to decide you made a mistake and seek us out, but you didn't."

Baelor stood, to you resting a hand on your shoulder trying to provide you a sense of comfort, but you did not turn toward him. Your burning gaze stayed locked on Daeron as you continued on, "He has been the one to be there for the last year, and actually give meaning to the word father. If you really want to be in her life you will put in the work, and not show up here on a whim, because you saw a picture of me and your uncle. Now I think you need to leave. My number is still the same if you want to see your daughter, but as you can see she is not here," you said, pointing towards the entry way that would lead him back outside.

Daeron stood, mouth open ready to argue, making his way toward you, but Baelor was immediately standing in front of you like a shield. He did not threaten the young man with violence or even yell at him to leave, but merely stared at him. Waiting, ready to prepare wherever this man turn.

He hesitated for only a moment longer, before letting out a scoff and making his way back toward the entrance he had walked through only moments ago for the first time in close to five years.

Baelor and yourself both stood in silence until the slamming door rattled the house, and then as if it had triggered something inside yourself, you let out a small sob, "I—I…." you trailed off running a hand down your face before looking up to him. Your face crumbled, "I am sure now that this is it?" you asked.

His face dropped at your words. "How could you think that?" he asked immediately making his way toward you.

You turned away as if you were ready to flee, or maybe bracing yourself for him to start running. "I just mean here is your chance to run. To step away from all of this before I am your wife. I am giving you an out," you replied.

An out? A chance to run? Oh, how that could not be even close to the first thing he wanted to do currently.

He wanted to hug you. To kiss away your tears, and to tell you that everything would be alright, because no matter the obstacle you would make it through it. Together.

He grabbed you gently turning you to face him, "I am not going anywhere," he promised, bringing your face into his hand. His thumbs moving to wipe your stray tear. He then ducked his head trying to meet your eyes. He needed you to know just how much he meant his words.

You looked a him a moment, tears streaming down your face, as your lips were turned down in a frown trembling slightly. Even now, you were beautiful to him. The most beautiful woman he had ever met. The one of his dreams. You both stared at the other in silence a moment letting everything around you fade to only the pair of you.

He pressed a kiss to each of your cheeks, then your nose, and finally your lips letting it linger for a moment, "I am not running away form this, from you, or Alyssa. You guys are my family. You are it for me. And I am never, ever stepping away from anything, no matter how chaotic it may get."

baelor taglist: @sacha1slytherin @erylilly @thebl00dwyrm @ilocuras24 @xkatherinexo @alaeratrrn @ynnlvrs @theonewhoshallbeunnamed @sem-ra @arkadiaphilosopher @slimyfrogblogs @c0c0nutbiscuit @eowyns-fantasy @feral4youu

a knight of the seven kingdoms tags: @kyvillasstuff @goldengirl86 @scarletwolfxox @witch-of-letters @confusedwhitegirl10 @itspbjellytime

general taglist: @xkatherinexo @sacha1slytherin @qardasngan @bl3ssedp0etry @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @someonehereisstupid @honeybylove @zealousdazementality @shinewarrior01 @shipperqueen93 @thorins-queen-of-erebor @sw0zzle @darylandbethfanforever9 @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @hrh007 @leolionsthings @inturnipexplorer

if you would like to join the tag list for future stories feel free to drop a comment :)

ᝰ Benjicot Blackwood

Would you want to marry me Benji? | @the-fiction-witch

Loyalty’s embrace | @leftoverpages

Starlit Sands | @/leftoverpages

Beneath Weirwood’s Shade | @/leftoverpages

The shortest marriage tour  Part 02 | @jacaerysgf

Your mother had decided that you must find a husband and so she set you out on a tour to go to the different regions of the kingdom and seek out a husband. Though nobody will approach you with your father looming not even two steps behind you. You fear there is no hope until you reach house blackwood and meet the only son of samwell blackwood.

Fighting words | @/jacaerysgf

one of the bracken boys has been hitting on you for days now and youre sick of it. He happens to take it too far with you and your best friend shows you a side of himself you’ve never seen. and you like it. a lot.

lies and sneaking | @/jacaerysgf

you are sick of being stuck inside the stone hedge walls and decide to sneak out. You end up running into the worst man you know but it leads to a lot more.

“Subtle” @/jacaerysgf

Dull Blades | @temporarily-your-saint

THE BRIDGE | @spider-stark

Your wardship with House Blackwood was meant to bridge the chasm between your families. Years later, you return to Stone Hedge as the whispers of war spread—only for Lord Tully to call for a hunt.

SWORN RIVALS | @/spider-stark

Taking up sparring with your sworn rival is likely never a good idea.

LADY STRONG | @/spider-stark

Stuck in the Riverland’s on a marriage tour, you pretend to be Lady Strong when Benjicot Blackwood doesn’t recognize you as the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms

Velaryon/Strong!Reader

The wolf, the raven and the arrow | @thesongoficeandfir3

𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐆𝐔𝐘 | @urblondiebaby

Ben was known for his brutality, receiving the name Bloody Ben from his opponents, but in your hands, he turns to putty.

You are mine, and I am yours. | @clairifys

Fem!Targ!Reader

Queen’s Envoy | @illyrianbrat

The Princess is sent as an envoy to get more allies. She is tasked with treating lords in the Riverlands. As she finds herself far from home, she discovers a certain Blackwood boy, who isn’t as scary as she thought.

the love of a bracken is meant only for a blackwood | @randomgurl2326

being in love with your house’s enemy dating back centuries is not exactly… ideal. especially with a brother who only cares about you when it involves his (father’s) ideals.

His Bride | @multific

A short piece about obsession, blood and love. What more do you need?

Betrothed Part 02 Part 03 | @yourwonkywriter

Along the way to Harrenhal (½) | @/yourwonkywriter

The ballad of the raven and the dragon | @slaytheusurper

Being the only daughter of queen Rhaenrya and the heir to the throne is not easy, after convincing your mother to let you patrol near the riverlands you come across a battle where you meet the infamous Bloody Ben.

𝑎 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 | @hxtd

rhaenyra's daughter unknowingly encounters the infamous man who fought so heedlessly for her mother's crown.

𝐁𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐭'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞 | @witchthewriter

“Sweet nothing” | @skyrigel

Between war, blood and chaos, your husband founds himself running home to your sweet nothing.

“Pretty when you smile” | @/skyrigel

“A settlement was made but they never said anything about the pretty bride and a smitten groom.”

“Come back, be here ...” | @/skyrigel

You and Benji meet when sky goes blaze and sun comes up, by the woods. But this time somthing hits different.

The Blackwood Knight | @thebenjiblackwoodexpress

Benjicot falls for a Bracken lady and volunteers to be her knight.

love mirage | @wntrswolf

Nameday Celebration | @princessbellecerise

Call it recklessness or sheer stupidity, but Benjicot is determined not to miss his lovers nameday…Even if it means sneaking into enemy territory for the night

His Lady’s Love | @moobell55

Fight Like a Girl | @bearwithegg

A Shared Comfort | @hellish-idiot

The feast begins and you share a conversation with young Lord Benjicot. You contemplate feelings of loss at the Raventree Hall's dead weirwood.

Harsh Words, Quick Regrets | @/hellish-idiot

A good morning turns into a distasteful night. In regret you seek Benji out, but the battle has already ended.

A Dragon Flees  | @/hellish-idiot

In the aftermath of losing your little brother you cannot bear living in the same halls he once did. Reluctantly your mother arranges a host to home you in heed of the war to come. One of her strongest Riverland supporters, house Blackwood of Raventree Hall.

A Raven Observes |@/ hellish-idiot

You arrive at Raventree Hall after an exhausting ride. You grapple with the differences between home, and your new surroundings. Finally meeting the kind Lord Blackwood. As well as an awkward, and tense encounter with his son, Benjicot.

His Princess | @aemondapologistfrfr

During Rhaenyras absence Jace and Baela deploy you out to deal with the Blackwoods and the Brackens, atop Silverwing. You treat with Lord Benjicot and prepare for a battle with the Brackens. You both can’t help the feelings that arise from working closely together.

The Labor of Our Fruits | @the20thangel

The Dragon and Raven Masterlist | @/the20thangel

I love you. It’s ruining my life. | @yikes-aemond

You meet Benjicot Blackwood in the woods and continue to pine after him for years.

Blackheart | @aprilcolours

From Eden. | @painted-flag

caught in the brewing of war, Daenys Velaryon must forge alliances for her mother’s claim to the throne. The Riverlands are paramount and she had the inexplicable luck of meeting Benjicot Blackwood.

ᝰ Harwin Strong

The white dragon | @misguidedasgardian

How the existence of Rhaenyra’s younger sister can change the course of history, the youngest daughter of King Viserys Targaryen and the Queen Aemma Arryn.

The lovers  | @heartysworld

𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞. | @auroraborealyss

when the fight breaks out, ser harwin strong decides to get the most important lady in the room to safety

Love in the Kingswood  | @lol-im-done

Princess Rhaenyra’s Lady in Waiting, Lady (Y/N) Vaelor, slays a boar to protect her cousin, upon her return to the royal camp she realizes she’s caught the attention of Ser Harwin Strong, and as they go on their own hunt they fall in love.

One day  | @thebigbadbatswife

You and Harwin have only ever seen each other from a distance. Perhaps one day you would finally have the confidence to approach him.

ARGHURYS | @djadins

As the youngest daughter of Aemma and Viserys Targaryen, your duties at court differ from those of your sister. But like your sister, your father is still very protective over you, not letting you participate in the hunt for Aegon’s second name day.

All That Could Have Been  | @thatlittlered

Hands | @/thatlittlered

Kiss Me Whenever You Want | @/thatlittlered

Growing Strong Masterlist | @theforgottenmcrmy

You’ve been brought to King’s Landing by Princess Rhaenyra’s search for her next lady in waiting. While your father, Lord Tyrell, and brother are hopeful for your prospects should you be chosen to serve the Princess, you’re having doubts about leaving the Reach and your family behind in favor of the storied but unfamiliar capital city. Thankfully, and perhaps a little ironically, you may be able to find some refuge in the man that they call Breakbones.

how the tables turn | @blayresmuses

you’ve been trying to catch ser harwins attention for weeks and are on the verge of giving up until he shows up in your quarters unannounced.

Princess | @faith-forgxtten-land

the morning after ser harwin breakbones carries his princess to safety and has his way with her

the third time’s the charm 3/3 | @theship-thewalrus

twice you have tried to confess your love to ser harwin, you could only hope the third time's the charm

Fly with me | @navstuffs

Ser Harwin Strong isn’t afraid of anything. He is just a little suspicious of flying.

Bewitching | @inklore

Quiet Love | @letaliabane

Caged | @/letaliabane

on the night of rhaenyra’s wedding, the tension is high between the broken bond of two former lovers. with jealousy brewing, will they fall back into each others arms?

𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐰𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞 | @/witchthewriter

THE ART OF SWORDS | @house-strong