Moon

The waiting is the cruellest part.

Dragonstone had always been a place of storms. The sea hurled itself endlessly against the jagged black cliffs below the castle, the wind screaming through ancient stone corridors as though the mountain itself mourned some forgotten grief.

You had lived there long enough that neither sound troubled you anymore, yet tonight every gust felt like an omen.

The great hall was quieter than you had ever known it to be. No music played, no servants spoke above a whisper, and even the youngest of the dragonkeepers seemed to tread more carefully through the corridors. Word had arrived shortly before dusk that the Triarchy’s fleet had met Prince Jacaerys in the Gullet, that a battle had begun.

Nothing further had followed.

Nothing certain, at least. Nothing that could be trusted.

You stood beside one of the narrow windows overlooking Blackwater Bay, your fingers clenched so tightly against the stone that they had long since gone numb, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care.

Beyond the glass the sea stretched endlessly into fading darkness, the last traces of sunset vanished an hour ago beneath gathering clouds. Every ship that appeared on the horizon made your heart leap into your throat only for it to sink again when the shape proved wrong. You had spent nearly the entire day doing little else, waiting for ravens, waiting for ships, waiting for news, waiting for someone to tell you whether your husband was still alive, because he had to be.

You miss him terribly, your husband.

There had once been a time when the title had seemed almost impossible, back when you were children racing through the halls of Driftmark and Dragonstone, bickering over everything and nothing while the adults around you exchanged knowing smiles.

Later had come the betrothal, then the wedding itself. Another carefully arranged union meant to strengthen bloodlines and secure alliances, at least on parchment. In truth, neither of you had objected nearly as much as propriety perhaps required.

If anything, Jace had spent the months before the wedding looking infuriatingly pleased by the entire affair.

The memory warmed and ached all at once.

You had been terrified on your wedding day.

Not of him, never of him, but of the enormity of it all. The ceremony, the expectations, the knowledge that after that night the world would no longer see the two of you as cousins who had grown up together, but as husband and wife, the future king and queen.

You remembered sitting beside him during the feast, scarcely touching your food while half the realm seemed determined to stare and smirk.

Jace had leaned closer then, hidden from the crowd by the chaos of celebration.

"You look as though they are marching you to an execution." You had shot him a glare, but his grin had only widened.

He continued, "You are marrying me."

"That is precisely the problem."

He had laughed at that, bright and warm and completely unoffended. The same laugh that had followed you through most of your life.

And later, when the feast had ended and the castle had finally grown quiet, when your nerves had returned twice as fiercely as before, he had been perfect. He was patient enough to coax a smile from you when you thought your heart might pound straight through your ribs, patient enough to sit beside you for nearly an hour talking about everything and nothing until your fear gave way to laughter, and he finally showed you exactly how he planned to demonstrate his love to you.

He had been patient enough to remind you, gently and repeatedly, that he was still Jace.

Not the prince. Not the heir. Not some stranger suddenly placed in your chambers.

Just your Jace.

The boy who had stolen your books and hidden them in absurd places. The boy who had followed you around Driftmark insisting he was helping whenever you attempted anything alone. The young man who reached for your hand whenever he thought no one was looking.

Your husband.

The title had never felt strange after that night.

Not when he reached for you in his sleep.

Not when he kissed your forehead before every departure, no matter how brief.

Not when he looked at you as though the gods had somehow given him more than he deserved.

His wife - the words had never failed to delight him.

Gods.

You would have given anything to hear him say them again.

The thought struck with such force that you had to close your eyes, as though shutting them might somehow keep the ache from spreading any further through your chest.

No. You refused to think like that, he had to be alive.

Jacaerys Velaryon was many things; he was stubborn, reckless, far too willing to throw himself into danger whenever duty demanded it, but he was alive. He had flown Vermax since childhood, crossed half the realm in service of his mother. This would be no different.

The heavy doors at the far end of the hall opened, and this time it was not a servant. Queen Rhaenyra entered surrounded by several members of her household, though even at a glance it was clear she scarcely noted them.

Your aunt looked exhausted.

The last months had carved new shadows beneath her eyes, and war had done what age never could, drawing strain into every line of her face and every measured step she took across the hall. When her gaze found yours, neither of you spoke.

You simply crossed the room together, and for a moment neither of you remembered crowns or titles or the weight of the realm pressing down upon your shoulders.

You took her hands. They were icy cold.

“Nothing?” she asked quietly.

You hated the hope in her voice because it mirrored your own. You swallowed and shook your head.

“Nothing.”

She had spent her entire life learning how to hide fear, yet this was her son, her heir, and no amount of royal dignity could erase that. You watched her glance toward the windows, toward the sea, toward the darkness swallowing the horizon, and suddenly she looked less like a queen than a mother waiting for her child to come home to her.

“I remember,” she said softly, “when he was six years old.”

The abruptness of the statement surprised you, though not enough to keep you from listening. “He insisted Vermax was large enough to carry him.”

Despite everything, a faint smile touched your lips. “At six?”

“He argued with me for nearly an hour.” The memory seemed to warm her briefly, though only briefly. “‘Aegon conquered kingdoms on dragonback,’ he told me. ‘Why must I wait?’” The smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “He cried when I refused him.”

You could picture it perfectly. Jace had always possessed that same relentless determination, the same certainty that if something needed doing, he should be the one to do it.

The queen released a slow breath and when she spoke again her voice was quieter still. “He was never afraid.”

The words seemed meant for herself more than for you. You looked down at your joined hands. “No.”

“He should have been.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes met yours as she reached up and touched your cheek, an old gesture, one she had used since you were a child running through the halls of Driftmark. “My sweet girl,” she murmured.

The affection nearly broke you, because it sounded dangerously close to pity.

Before either of you could speak again, hurried footsteps echoed through the hall. Both your heads snapped toward the sound. A messenger, breathless, boots were soaked with seawater, and hope exploded through the room so suddenly it felt physical.

The boy dropped to one knee before the queen. “My Queen.”

“What news?”

The messenger swallowed. You saw it then, the hesitation, the fear, and suddenly every instinct in your body screamed.

No. No. No.

The boy lowered his eyes.

“The battle is over.”

The entire hall seemed to stop breathing as everyone in the room stopped to listen as he continued, “The losses were heavy.”

“The prince-” His words faltered.

You felt Rhaenyra’s hand tighten painfully around yours. “The prince what?” the queen demanded.

The messenger swallowed again. “Several survivors report that Vermax was seen falling.”

The world tilted. For one impossible moment you thought you might collapse. Beside you, Rhaenyra went utterly still. The queen’s face became unreadable, not calm, not composed, simply blank, as though her mind had rejected the words entirely. “Seen by whom?” she asked.

The messenger blinked. “My Queen?”

“By whom?” Her voice sharpened. “Who witnessed this that you speak of?”

“Sailors, Your Grace. Men from Lord Velaryon’s fleet.”

“And did they see his body?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Did they recover Vermax?”

“No.”

“Did they see my son die?”

The messenger looked suddenly terrified. “No, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra released a slow breath. For the first time since the boy had entered, a flicker of life returned to her expression. “No body,” she said, the words sounding as though she were convincing herself.

The messenger lowered his head. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The queen turned away, and you knew immediately she was finished with the conversation, because if she remained there any longer she might break, and queens were not permitted such luxuries.

Everyone in the room understood what had gone unsaid; a prince missing after battle, a dragon falling from the sky, the heir to the Iron Throne lost somewhere upon a dark and merciless sea.

Three days passed in a blur of ravens, rumors, and prayers that seemed to grow thinner with each hour.

Messages arrived from the Gullet in fragments and contradiction, each one less certain than the last, each one leaving you no wiser than before. Sailors returned with salt in their hair and fear in their eyes, speaking of smoke and fire and the terrible confusion of battle, but none could say with any certainty whether Prince Jacaerys had lived through it.

Some swore they had seen Vermax fall, others insisted the dragon had vanished into cloud and flame, and a few claimed the prince had been lost with him.

The worst part was not knowing.

Death, for all its cruelty, possessed a certain finality. You could mourn the dead, bury them, you could've screamed and raged and wept for your husband until the pain eventually dulled into something survivable, but this was different.

Every morning you woke expecting news.

Every night you went to sleep without it.

You found Rhaenyra in the Painted Chamber shortly after dawn one day, standing before the great table of Westeros with her hands braced lightly upon its edge. The room was empty save for her.

Sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting pale gold across the painted mountains and rivers, yet the queen seemed untouched by its warmth. For a long moment neither of you spoke.

“They found pieces of Vermax.”

The words struck like a physical blow. You felt your stomach twist. “Where?” you asked, though you were not certain you wished to hear the answer.

“Floating among the wreckage.” Her voice remained steady, too steady, as if she had forced it into obedience. “The search vessels recovered scales. Fragments of wing membrane.” She paused, and when she spoke again there was something raw beneath the restraint. “Enough to know it was him.”

Vermax.

Gone.

You remembered the young dragon circling Dragonstone years ago, awkward and eager, barely more than a hatchling, all sharp angles and restless energy. You also remembered Jace’s pride every time he spoke of him. They grew together, learned together, and neither truly belonged to a world without the other.

You could not bear to imagine what Vermax’s death must have looked like.

The queen’s fingers brushed the painted coastline. “They say he fought until the end.”

You knew she was speaking as much about her son as she was about the dragon, and neither of you mentioned it.

Rhaenyra lowered her eyes. “I cannot remember his voice.”

The confession shattered something inside you.

“I try.” She pressed a hand against the edge of the table, as though it were the only thing keeping her upright. “I know I should be able to. I know it. Yet every time I think of him, I remember his face and not his voice, and I am terrified that if enough time passes, I shall lose that too.”

The cry came shortly after noon.

It began as a shout from the battlements, then another, and another after that, the sound echoing through the castle in a way that made every head turn. Footsteps thundered through nearby corridors. You looked up to see soldiers already moving toward the harbour below, and a knot of unease formed immediately in your chest.

You rose from your seat, the book resting in your lap slipping forgotten onto the bench. Outside, the castle seemed to have come alive all at once.

“What is happening?” you asked the first guard you encountered, and the man looked breathless when he answered.

“A ship.”

“A ship?” you repeated.

He nodded. “One of Lord Corlys’s.”

Hope was a dangerous thing, something you had learned repeatedly over the last several days, and yet your pulse quickened all the same. Without waiting for further explanation, you gathered your skirts and hurried after the others.

The wind struck your face the moment you emerged onto the battlements. A ship was making its slow approach toward Dragonstone’s harbour; Its sails were torn, one mast had clearly suffered damage.

The harbour below erupted into activity as the vessel finally reached shore. Tiny figures began moving across the docks. “Come,” Rhaenyra said suddenly, her voice sharp with urgency. Without waiting for a response, she turned and strode toward the stairs.

You followed immediately.

By the time you reached the harbour, a crowd had already gathered. You searched every face but none belonged to Jace.

The queen pushed forward, and no one dared stop her. “Where is Lord Corlys?” she demanded. A sailor pointed toward the ship, and moments later the Sea Snake himself appeared.

“My Queen,” he said carefully, and the world seemed to stop.

"Have you found Jacae-"

“The prince lives, your Grace.”

You stared at him, certain you had misheard, and beside you Rhaenyra made a sound that was dangerously close to a sob. “The prince lives,” Corlys repeated. “He was recovered from the water.”

“He is badly wounded,” Corlys continued, his voice rough with fatigue. “We were uncertain he would survive the journey.”

The relief lasted only an instant before terror returned twice as strong. Your feet were already moving. “Where is he?”

Corlys turned toward the ship, and for the first time you noticed the group of sailors descending the gangplank behind him. They carried a litter between them, and upon it lay a familiar figure, deathly pale.

Jace's clothing had been cut away in places, leaving blood-soaked bandages wrapped tightly around his chest and shoulder. Dried blood stained the side of his neck and disappeared into hair darkened by seawater and salt. One of his arms hung limp over the edge of the litter, unmoving.

You had imagined this moment a thousand times over the last four days, and not once had it looked like this.

“Jacaerys.” The name escaped before you realised you had spoken it.

You pushed forward through the crowd, heedless of the bodies in your way.

Up close, the damage was even worse.

A strangled sound caught in your throat. There were arrows.

Not still embedded in him, the maesters aboard ship had evidently removed those, but the evidence remained. Thick bandages wrapped his shoulder and side where shafts had pierced flesh, and another disappeared beneath the bloodstained linen crossing his ribs.

His lips had taken on a faint bluish tinge. He looked cold. Far too cold.

“Jace.”

Your voice broke on the name, but you received no answer.

The sight of his closed eyes filled you with a terror so complete it became difficult to breathe. You reached for him instinctively, but before your fingers could touch him a hand caught your arm.

“My lady.”

You barely heard the words. You tried to pull free at once, desperate to reach him, desperate to make him answer.

“Jace.”

The hand tightened.

“My lady, please. He requires treatment immediately,” someone said, but the words barely registered.

“He needs me.”

The statement emerged before you could stop it, raw and desperate and nothing like yourself.

“My lady, he needs physicians.”

The queen had reached the litter without you even noticing. Whatever composure she had maintained these past days fractured instantly. A trembling hand rose to his face, and she brushed damp hair from his forehead.

“My boy,” she whispered.

The words were so quiet you almost did not hear them.

The queen closed her eyes, and for a heartbeat she looked very close to collapsing. “Get him inside. Now.”

The maesters needed no encouragement. The litter lurched forward, and you followed immediately, only for another hand to catch your arm before you could go after him. This time you fought it at once, not violently, not consciously, but with the blind panic of someone who could not understand why they were being kept from the one person she needed most.

“He is my husband.”

The words came out sharp enough to surprise even yourself.

“He is hurt.”

“My lady-”

“He is my husband.”

The hand on your arm hesitated, and you realised vaguely that it was Ser Lorent, one of the Kingsguard. His grip loosened immediately, though not enough to release you entirely, only enough to keep you from throwing yourself directly into the path of the maesters.

His voice softened. “Princess.”

You looked at him then, and the knight’s expression was full of sympathy. “They must work.”

You looked toward the castle entrance, toward the place where Jace had vanished, and a memory surfaced without warning.

The morning he had departed for the Gullet, you had stood with him in the courtyard while Vermax waited nearby, restless and impatient. He had kissed your forehead before mounting his dragon, a small gesture, almost absent-minded, the sort of thing husbands and wives did every day.

Neither of you had treated it as a farewell. Neither of you had imagined it might become one.

The waiting proved worse the second time, because now he was here.

Only a few stone walls separated you from him, and still you could do nothing.

Occasionally someone would emerge from his chamber, and the queen would immediately rise to her feet, demanding updates before the door had even fully opened, but the answers never seemed sufficient.

"He lost a great deal of blood."

"The arrow missed the lung."

"The fever concerns us."

"We are doing everything we can."

The phrase quickly became one you despised with all your being. It sounded too much like the sort of thing people said when they were preparing you for the worst.

As daylight faded beyond the castle windows, you heard a groan that froze the blood in your veins, and you were moving toward the door before you even realised it.

A guard stepped into your path.

"Princess."

"That was Jacaerys."

The knight hesitated, and you knew immediately you were correct. "Please," you said quietly. "I only wish to see him."

The guard looked uncomfortable. "The maesters instructed-"

Your voice cracked. "I know what the maesters have said."

You stared at the closed door, at the barrier standing between you and your husband. A husband who had nearly drowned, who had fallen from the sky, who might still die while you sat obediently outside waiting for permission to care.

You crossed the corridor before anyone realised what you intended. The guard stepped forward.

"My lady-"

"He is my husband," you repeated, your voice trembling. "Not only a cousin or a prince." The guard looked horrified.

"If he dies, I will not be sitting in a corridor while it happens."

Then another voice spoke.

"Open the door."

You turned.

Rhaenyra stood at the far end of the passage. The queen looked exhausted, more exhausted than you had ever seen her, yet her gaze remained steady.

The guard immediately stepped aside. "Your Grace, the maesters instructed-"

"I heard what they instructed, open the door."

This time no one argued. The guard obeyed.

The chamber beyond smelled strongly of herbs, blood, and vinegar. For a heartbeat you remained frozen in the doorway, and then your eyes found the bed.

The world narrowed once again.

Jace lay motionless beneath a mountain of blankets. Someone had washed away most of the blood. Without it there was nothing to distract from how pale he had become, nothing to hide the dark bruising visible along his neck and jaw, nothing to disguise how frighteningly still he remained.

A maester approached immediately.

"My lady."

Your gaze never left the bed.

"Will he live?"

The question emerged before anything else. The old man hesitated, "He survived the journey."

"That is not what I asked."

"We believe he will, Princess." The maester continued. "The arrow wounds have been cleaned and stitched. The water in his lungs concerns us less than it did earlier. The greater danger now is fever."

You found yourself staring at Jace's hands, at the familiar shape of them, at the fact that they were still. He had never been still, even when he was sleeping Jace tended to move and fidget, to occupy more space than seemed physically possible.

"The fever?" Rhaenyra asked quietly from behind you.

The maester nodded. "If it worsens, infection may follow." The old maester glanced between the two of you, then, surprisingly, his attention settled upon you.

"He should not be left alone tonight."

The maester continued, "We will monitor him, of course. Medicines must be administered. Dressings changed. Yet fevers are strange things." His expression softened. "Patients often fare better when familiar voices remain nearby."

The maester inclined his head. "If you wish to stay, my lady, we would welcome the assistance."

For a moment you could only stare. After hours of being held back, stopped, and sent away, the words hardly seemed real. The old man smiled faintly. "You are his wife, after all."

Beside you, Rhaenyra released a slow breath. When you looked toward her, the queen was watching you with tired understanding.

"You should stay."

You hesitated. "Your Grace-"

"He will want you when he wakes." She stepped forward and pressed a kiss against your forehead, just as she had done when you were a child. Then she reached out and briefly touched her son's hand.

"My stubborn boy," she murmured.

The words were meant for him, for herself, for the gods, perhaps for all three.

When she finally withdrew, the chamber seemed strangely quieter.

You moved toward the bed slowly and sat in the chair which had already been pulled up next to the bed.

The first hours passed quietly. The sun disappeared beyond the western sea. Servants arrived to light candles throughout the chamber before departing once more. Shadows gathered in the corners of the room, and the air smelled faintly of herbs and vinegar, with the salt still lingering stubbornly in Jace's hair despite the maesters' efforts to wash it away.

He never woke.

Several times you thought he might. A slight movement beneath closed eyelids. A change in his breathing. Fingers twitching weakly against the blankets. Each time hope surged through you so quickly it almost hurt, and each time it faded once more.

The fever worsened shortly after nightfall. One of the older maesters noticed it first. You watched him place a hand against Jace's forehead before exchanging a glance with his apprentice.

"What is it?"

The apprentice hesitated, but the older maester did not. "The fever has risen."

Now that it had been mentioned, you could see it. A faint flush had appeared high across his cheeks, perspiration dampened the hair at his temples and his breathing seemed shallower.

The maester moved toward a nearby table. "We expected this, and so we shall bring it down."

A basin of cool water sat upon a nearby table, fresh cloths resting beside it. "When his skin grows too warm, use these." The maester's expression softened. "He knows your voice."

The old man glanced toward the bed. "Patients are often more aware than they appear. Speak to him."

Then he left.

For several moments, you simply stared at the basin, at the cloth resting within it. Then, slowly, you dipped it into the water and wrung it dry. You folded the cloth and gently pressed it against his forehead. The heat startled you.

Gods.

A knot of fear tightened inside your chest. You carefully brushed damp hair away from his face.

"Your mother has frightened half the castle." A faint smile touched your lips, briefly. "She threatened a maester earlier."

"She has not slept."

And so the smile disappeared.

At some point after midnight, a faint sound interrupted the silence. It had come from the bed. For a heartbeat, the room remained still. Then it came again, a murmur, barely audible. You immediately leaned forward.

"Jace?"

His head shifted slightly against the pillow. The movement was so faint you might have imagined it, yet your pulse leapt.

"...higher..." His brow furrowed. "...Vermax..."

The name hit like a knife.

"No," he muttered. The word emerged rough and strained. "No—"

His breathing quickened. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He looked younger, simply a frightened young man trapped inside a memory he could not escape.

Without thinking, you reached for him. Your hand closed around his. His expression remained tense. Another fragment escaped him, too slurred to understand. Then-

Your name.

Tears burned suddenly behind your eyes. You lowered your head, pressed his hand gently against your forehead, and for the first time since the ship had arrived, since you had seen your husband carried ashore looking more corpse than man, you allowed yourself to cry.

Not loudly - there was no strength left for that - only silent tears slipping free while candlelight flickered softly across the room.

The fever finally broke sometime before dawn, though you did not realise it at first.

It was the movement of his fingers that woke you.

For one disorienting moment you thought you had imagined it. The chamber was still dark, save for the faint grey light beginning to creep through the windows, and everything looked exactly as it had an hour before.

Then his hand tightened around yours, and for the first time it was not the weak twitching of fever, but a small yet deliberate squeeze.

You lifted your head so quickly your neck protested. “Jace?”

His eyes were already open, though only halfway, unfocused as he stared up at the ceiling. Then they found you, and the confusion in them faded almost at once. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.

“There you are.”

The sound of his voice nearly broke you. You had heard him mumbling through the fever for hours, but this was different.

For a moment you could only stare at him. He looked positively terrible, and there was no gentler way to put it. Bruises darkened one side of his face, his lips were still pale, and his voice sounded rough from seawater and days of unconsciousness.

He looked exhausted even lying motionless beneath the blankets, but none of that mattered anymore.

Tears started burning immediately behind your eyes.

“Oh, don’t,” he murmured, and the faint smile widened just enough to make him look unbearably like himself. “Don't cry.”

“You nearly died,” you said before you could stop yourself.

At once his expression softened, the teasing slipping away. For several seconds neither of you spoke. Then his thumb brushed weakly against your hand.

“I gathered,” he said quietly.

The simplicity of it hurt more than denial would have.

You swallowed hard and gave him a look that was meant to be stern and came out trembling instead. “You stupid man.”

A faint laugh escaped him, though it clearly cost him, his brows drawing together in grimace.

“You married me.”

"Wasn't aware I had a choice, actually." Without thinking too hard about it you leaned forward and pressed your forehead gently against his. Beyond the windows the sea continued its endless assault against Dragonstone’s cliffs, but inside the chamber there existed only the two of you.

Eventually he spoke again, his voice softer now, “I thought about you.”

Your eyes closed. “Jace-”

“When I fell.”

The memory clearly remained fresh, and painfully so. You lifted your head slightly, and his gaze drifted toward the ceiling once more.

“I remember the water,” he said after a moment. “The cold.” One hand tightened weakly against the blankets. “I remember trying to help Vermax.”

He swallowed; the loss of a dragon was not something words would ever mend. You reached up and gently brushed hair away from his forehead, and his eyes shifted back toward yours.

“I could not help him.” The pain in his voice was enough to make your own throat ache. Carefully, you threaded your fingers through his.

“He knew you stayed.” Jace looked at you, holding your gaze. “I promise he knew.”

He nodded once. He trusted you enough to accept the comfort and his fingers tightened around yours again.

“I remember thinking I would never see you again.”

You stared at him then, at the boy you had grown up with, the prince who had spent years pretending he was not watching you across feast halls, the young man who had once climbed halfway up a sea cliff because you had jokingly remarked that the flowers growing there were pretty, the husband who still reached for you in his sleep.

The thought of losing him hit with renewed force.

“Do not,” you said, and your voice cracked on the words. “Do not ever say that again.”

A faint smile appeared. “There is the woman I married.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Jace.”

The smile widened, weak and mischievous and entirely familiar. “I was beginning to think you liked me better unconscious.”

“You were much quieter. He actually laughed, though the sound dissolved into a wince almost immediately. You leaned forward at once. “Do not laugh.”

“You insult me and then forbid me from defending myself.”

“You are injured.”

“I am being persecuted.”

So somehow, despite everything, you found yourself smiling, and the sight seemed to satisfy him enormously.

You had spent half your lives together - before the marriage, before the betrothal, before either of you had been old enough to understand why the adults around you smiled whenever you argued.

His gaze drifted toward your joined hands, and a small smile returned. “You realise my mother is going to be unbearable.”

You laughed quietly. “Only now?”

“She nearly smothered me with affection before I left.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Actually, she may smother me literally this time.”

“You deserve it.”

“I fought a naval battle.”

“You worried her.”

“I was shot.”

You both went silent again.

“I am sorry,” he said softly.

You blinked. “For what?”

“For making you afraid.”

Before he could say anything else, you leaned forward carefully, mindful of bandages and bruises and injuries, and pressed a kiss against his forehead.

And when Jace squeezed your hand once more before drifting back toward sleep, you settled back into the chair without complaint.

Though there was a particular something that seemed right in the cold walls of Winterfell You had held his attention the entire night, but the same could not be said for you.

You were beautiful, and intense in a way that seemed to make most flinch when walking near you. The red silk against your skin looked as if it was blood singing to him, drawing him closer by the hour.

You had been talking to someone all night. Too young to be your father, and based on the similarities he assumed was a brother or at least a cousin. Your head turned slightly, and as if he had the Gods favors on his side you met his eyes.

It was less than two seconds, but even with the small time it was glorious. You immediately turned back to your brother. The Targaryen stood still waiting for a moment to see if you would turn back, hoping, praying that you would cast him a second time.

You did not. Your head did not wander toward him as you scanned the hall your lips pressed together and an intimating expression filling your pretty features as you analyzed the hall intently.

He watched some men flinch as you looked toward him, but he knew he would not if you would only turn back to look at him.

Please. Please.Please.Please.Please.

Despite all his internal pleading and praying to any power of above you still did not turn to grace him with his gaze once more. He then decided then it was time to take matters into his own hand. He crossed the hall quickly making his way toward you as if you were the sole thing keeping him grounded.

"Prince Baelor," the man next to you greeted, but he seemed to quickly take the hint excusing himself at he noticed the mismatched eyes trained on you and solely you.

You turned toward him. Something he couldn't quite read on your face, as it remained almost impassive, but you raised a brow, "I would suggest walking away."

You were blunt. Overly blunt and he chuckled slightly to himself. It seemed to be a Northern feature as most men had been talking to him different than the ones of King's Landing all night.

But even the woman still acted like the ones in King's Landing moving toward him as if he something luring them in. Not you though.

Baelor liked that. He was not sure he had ever heard anyone outside his family talk to him with full honestly, and if it was meant to deter him it only excited him more.

He tried his best to conjure a charming smile, but it did little to change your facial features. He enjoyed that too, "And why is that?" he asked.

"Because you don't want someone like me tarnishing your name."

He raised a brow, amusement crossing his face, "Why would that happen?" he asked, his sole focus on your face, meeting your eyes.

"My House does not have a kind reputation you want to be interacting with, especially as Heir to the Throne," you continued turning to face him fully.

He could feel the eyes of almost the entire North men burning into back, but he did not much care, "And what house is that?"

"Bolton."

Ah. House Bolton of the North. The sigil with a literal flayed man. That explained a lot. The eyes, the way every flinched from your intense gaze, but it truly changed nothing in his mind. He knew the stories of his house did not define him, just like he imagined the ones of yours did not fully do the same for you.

He nodded for a moment, letting the information sit. Surprise crossed your face for a second before you pushed it back down. Your eyes squinted slightly dragging slowly across his face as he allowed you to unmoving.

He tried to search for the proper words, but all that came was, "That explains the terrifying stare," he said with an easy grin, laughter laced through his words.

You raised an unamused brow, "Is that suppose to be a compliment?" There was some bite to your words, but did not truly seem genuine as you still had not turned away from him.

Baelor once more did not falter, his lips even turning up slightly, "You do not seem to like me much," he pointed out.

"I do not know you," you countered with a shrug, "I am assuming you are use to woman swooning at your feet."

He nodded, "I am," confirming what you could have well guessed.

He was a prince fo the realm. The Prince of the Realm set to inherit the throne after his father and that ca,e with a certain aura that he could not escape no matter how hard he tried. A constant eye on him. Father's always offering their daughter's since his father took the throne when he was only four and ten.

"I am not like most women."

He already discovered that in the short time in conversation. Your stare. Your face. The way you talked. The fact that you tried to drive him away rather than putting your hand forth for Queen.

Baelor tilted his head his eyes drifting over you. He could feel the stares of everything, and if he focused hard enough he could hear the whispers of others, but they did not matter.

All the mattered was you, your eyes on him, and you continued to speak to him.

He wanted to know more. He wanted you to look at something without your hesitate watchful stare, and he would work for it if he had too. "What if I do not want most woman."

Your lips turned up slightly, "Then you are in for a treat."

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Your eye catches something before you in the bushes. It's only a short glimpse and you pay it no mind. You ready your next arrow and then shoot at the tree. A horse neighs and a man falls of his horse. You barely missed his head. You force your horse to stop and jump off of it.

„By the gods! Fuck me! Are you alright ser? Please be alright! Please do not be dead!“, you scream. Rushing towards him you nearly stumble over your feet. When you reach him you find him lying on his front. Slowly you turn him around, cursing yourself for your foolishness. He looked fine, shocked but fine. Your eyes scan his body for any injuries but you find none. What you notice however is the way he is dressed.

„Are you alright?“, you ask the man again. He slowly blinks gazing up at you. His lips formed a smile. „Yes I am. You almost had me. If I would have ridden slower you would have shot me in my head.“, he answers you.

He groans when he tries to sit up and you curse under your breath. „Gods be good“ You help him sit up, he is probably bruised and he tries his hardest to hide the fact that he is in pain.

He studies you and looks at your horse and bow. His eyes locking with yours. „What does a lady like you, in the early hours of the morning, do outside in the forest with a bow? Hunting royalty like me?“, he asks. Your eyes widen in shock when you realise who is sitting infront of you. Now that you look at him closer there is no denying it. „Forgive me my prince. It was not my intent to hit you with my arrow nor to scare you. I just wanted to enjoy a morning ride and practicing with my bow. I was not paying attention at anything else“, you answer him honestly.

You feel a little ashamed of yourself for nearly killing the hand of the king, the heir to the iron throne, prince Baelor targaryen. He gives you a gentle smile and let's you help him up. „You know who I am but I do not know who you are. Where are you from and who are you?“ Baelors eyes sweep over your long hair and face. „I am Y/N, a Stark of Winterfell“, you answer him.

He takes your hand in his and lifts it up to give it a kiss. „It is nice to meet you Y/N“ You feel your cheeks heat up and you look to the side. The way his eyes gazed into yours made your heart race. „Well my prince it is nice meeting you too. Now I want to ask, what does a prince like you out here in the early hours of morning?“, you ask him. A sigh leaves his lips and for the first time he seems to drop the facade. He looks exhausted, drained even. „I just wanted to get some fresh air. Clearing my head“ He gazes past you into the trees. You understand that feeling. When everything get's to much.

That's one of the reasons why you always rode out in the early hours of the morning. The stress that was on you, suddenly felt lighter. „I understand. I often feel the same way. That is why I am riding out so often, it clears your mind“, you tell him. He nods and gives you a gentle smile. „Well my prince since I nearly killed you and probably caused you a heart attack, I want you to please come with me to Winterfell. I am sure my lord father will be delighted to have you among us. You will have a place to rest and food in your belly. If there is something else I can do for you than please ask me“, you offer him.

He thinks about it for a moment but you already see it in his eyes what he is going to say. „I will accept your offer“

You give him a bright smile and get your horses. Baelor manages to get on his horse and you still feel bad for what happend to him because of you. Then you ride towards Winterfell, side by side.

When you arrived at Winterfell, many gathered around you. Starring. A wolf and a dragon side by side. A lady alone with a prince. You know how this must look like, but you do not care. You never did care about what others thought of you. It would make you insane if you spend one thought on thinking about what others might think of you. It was not worth it.

Your brother was the first to greet you and bowed to Baelor when he saw him. Soon your whole family welcomed him and you were sitting inside the hall eating warm food. It was fine till your brother asked you how the two of you meet.

The gods surely were laughing at you. Your fathers interest was peaked and you felt your cheeks getting warmer. How do you explain to your family that you nearly killed the heir to the iron throne on one of your morning rides? That is something you might only find in a bad dream, your heart would race when you wake up. This however was not a dream. It was realitly. Baelor looked at you and then to your brother. A smile on his face. „Your sister is really talented with her bow, she even almost hit me“

You smile embarrassed. Baelor was not mad at you however. Something that you did not expect. You believed he would rage and be angry at you. But he was not. He gave you a gentle smile that reached his eyes. It made the tips of your ears turn red.

Lucky for you your brother did not dig further and your father talked Baelors ear of. Only your mother seemed to notice the look Baelor had given you and seemed to know something you did not.

After eating you returned to your chambers, your mother already waiting there. „Mother-“ Before you could even start to speak she silenced you with your hand. Walking closer towards you and cupping your face. Her eyes looking deeply into yours. „The Prince seemed to like you. I noticed it by the way he looked at you. Did the two of you kiss?“, she asks you. Your mouth falls open and you cannot believe what she is asking you. Your cheeks burning like fire now.

„Mother! No! By the old gods no!“ You nearly scream at her. Why would she think that the two of you kissed? Her eyes gazed into yours, trying to search for lies but she finds none. She let's go of your face and sighs. She sounds like she is disappointed. „Well...Goodnight then my dear“, she says. Then she leaves you. Your mouth still wide open. What has gotten into her? Well your mother was always strange, but this strange...

You shake your head and make yourself ready for bed. It is time that you get some sleep. However all you can think about is Baelor Targaryen. The gentle smile he gave you, just the thought of it makes your heart race.

You do not want to think much about it, but you cannot help yourself. His smile was just breathtaking, and you wanted to see it more often. When you are dressed in your nightgown you hear a knock at your door. „Come in”, you answer. You believe it is your little sister. She always comes to you at night, wanting you to read a story to her. The door opens but to your surprise it is not your sister entering your room but Prince Baelor. „My prince! What brings you to me?”, you ask him. Feeling a little bare in your nightgown.

He smiles at you calmy, his presence strangely calming you. Baelor comes closer to you but stops a few steps before you. „I know I am visiting you rather late Lady Y/N, I hope it does not bother you”, he begins. His eyes gazing into yours. Your fingers play with each other, and you give him a smile. „No not at all. Though I must admit that it surprises me”

You cannot hide that you are nervous and to your surprise once again he takes one of your hands in his, squeezing it gently. „Lady Y/N I do know that this might come as a surprise and I am very well aware of the fact that this seems a bit rushed, but I want to ask for your hand”, he tells you. Your eyes widen in shock, and you feel like you are dreaming. Why by the old gods would Baelor Targaryen ask for your hand? When Baelor saw how speechless you are he chuckled.

„I feel honoured; however, I do not understand why? As you say we have only just met and I do not see why you would be interested in making me wife”, you tell him honestly. He nods, understanding your trouble to understand why.

Baelors eyes gaze at your hands and it looks like even he needs a moment to find his words. When he opens his mouth again to speak his eyes are glinting with gentleness. „The moment you nearly hit me with an arrow took me quite of guard. When my back hit the ground, I believed it was over. But when I heard your curses and saw your face looking at me, it was like a gift from the gods. Do not miss understand me…but in my position I also must remarry sooner than later”, he tells you honestly.

You nod understanding him. He is an honest man, and he surely will make a great husband. So, you have no choice but to say yes. „I accept your proposal Prince Baelor” A bright smile on your face. He returns your smile. A happy moment between the two of you. „Well…we will have to tell my parents about it”, you say. Looking at your hands. Only now you notice that his are a little rougher than yours. He nods, his head tilting to the side. „I already talked with your father about it. He agreed, still I wanted to ask you. I would have not married you if you would have refused” Baelor Targaryen surprises you over and over again.