𝗽𝗿𝟯𝘁𝘁𝘆𝗴!𝗿𝗹𝘇

Eventually, after considerable effort, she managed to fend off Sir Gwayne’s attention and excused herself to her chambers. She had already had enough of him—and of the warning looks Aemond had been casting her way throughout the evening.

Exhausted and desperate to clear her mind, she instructed her lady attendant to prepare a bath. Once the tub by the fireplace was filled, the attendant helped unlace her gown, and she felt immediate relief as the constricting garment fell away.

After undoing the intricate hairstyle her maid had created earlier that evening, she slipped off the rest of her clothing. Barefoot, she tested the water with a tentative dip of her toes. The temperature made her flinch momentarily, but she soon slid in completely, welcoming the soothing warmth.

The maid began washing her hair with soft, deliberate motions that relaxed her to the point of near slumber. She had nearly drifted off when a sudden noise startled her awake—he had entered the room.

The water rippled as she instinctively sat up, gripping the edge of the tub to turn and face him. The expression on his face revealed everything: he was furious. Approaching the tub with measured steps, he glared at the maid and commanded curtly, “Get out. Now.”

The maid didn’t hesitate. She scrambled to her feet and fled the room, leaving them alone.

An oppressive silence settled between them, stretching for what felt like an eternity. Her awareness of her exposed state grew acute—he had never seen her like this before. Why would he? She had assumed he held no interest in her at all.

“Husband,” she murmured, her voice low as she finished rinsing the soap from her arms. “You seem troubled.”

“It is because I am,” he replied, his tone colder and sharper than she had ever heard. “Why are you so fond of my uncle?”

She let out a small, incredulous laugh, rising from the water with deliberate slowness. Droplets fell to the floor as she wrung out her hair, her voice tinged with defiance as she answered, “I don't know what makes you think that.”

His gaze briefly scanned her, lingering against his will. The flickering firelight accentuated her curves, the water glistening on her skin. Averting his eyes, he looked down, only to notice how uncomfortable his trousers were starting to feel. “Maybe it’s all the attention you’ve been giving him these past few days,” he muttered, annoyance clear in his voice.

A smirk tugged at her lips. He was truly unbelievable. “Why would you care, Aemond?” Her words were sharper than intended, brimming with defiance. “If it were you that I directed all my attention to, you wouldn't even bother to notice.”

She turned her back on him, reaching for a small washcloth hanging on a nearby table. Draping it over herself, she approached the mirror and began drying off, her movements unhurried.

“You know that is not true,” he said quietly, his voice heavy with something she couldn’t quite place. His eyes tracked her reflection as she moved.

She paused, glancing over her shoulder, disbelief etched across her features. “Do I really?” Her tone was biting. “And I’m supposed to believe you just because you’re suddenly jealous of your uncle?”

She stepped closer to him, closing the space between them until only a few paces separated them. The lavender scent of her soap enveloped him, and he struggled against the urge to draw her closer, to bury his face in her neck.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she tilted her head. “All you've ever done is avoid and ignore me, do you even feel anything for me?”

Before she had even finished speaking, he closed the distance between them in a single stride. His rough hand cupped her neck while the other settled firmly on her bare waist. He kissed her—fierce, passionate, and unrelenting. For a moment, she froze in surprise before her eyes fluttered shut, and she surrendered to the overwhelming sensation.

Her dress slightly fluttered as the dragon descended and finally hit the ground. The sigh it released reached the stairs where she was waiting for him to finally finish for the day.

Now that the war was approaching, it was no wonder that he frequented the pit so often, and from time to time, she felt like watching.

Jacaerys dismounted the dragon, dusting himself off as he issued orders to the dragonkeepers, who promptly returned to their tasks. She couldn’t help but watch his every move, imagining his scent. The familiar mix of smoke and sweat often lingered in his hair, not that she minded it.

They locked eyes as he began to make his way up to her, a cheeky smile made it's way to her face.

"Don’t you think you spend too much time down here?" she asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"Don’t you think you spend too much time waiting for me to finish?" he countered with a smirk before taking her hand. "Come," he gestured.

"Jace..." the girl said in a somewhat irritated tone. He already knew the fear the dragons generated in her, and even so, he tried to make her finally accept that living in Dragonstone meant that she would often be in the presence of them, mostly because that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

"Here," he said as they approached Vermax. The creature frightened her, but even so, she couldn't help but notice how his hand found its way to her waist, steadying her in front of the dragon.

"Press your hand; as long as you are by my side, he won’t harm you." His tone was reassuring, but she still doubted, and the look on her face gave it away. "I promise."

She took a quick breath and slowly brought the palm of her hand to its snout; the heat that the beast emanated was palpable in an instant.

"It’s so… warm," she said as she caressed its scales.

He could only smile as he admired the girl standing before him. They had been friends for as long as they could remember, but as they grew older, the line between friendship and something more began to blur. Yet, neither of them would admit it.

Her hand lingered on the beast’s snout, her fingers tracing the ridges of its scales as if seeking some hidden truth in their texture.

“See?” he murmured, his voice soft but insistent. “He knows you. They always know.”

She pulled her hand back, suddenly aware of how close Jacaerys had moved. He stood beside her, that characteristic scent clinging to him like a second skin.

“And if he hadn’t?” she asked, trying to keep her tone sharp, but it faltered under the weight of his gaze.

“Then I would have burned with you,” he said, the words half a jest but ringing with something deeper, something unspoken.

Her soft chuckle echoed lightly through the pit. "Do not jest, my prince."

"I do not," he replied plainly, his gaze darting toward her. "Why would I?"

Avoiding his eyes, she lowered her head and fidgeted with the embroidery on her dress. "I’m afraid I am not worthy of such sacrifice."

He furrowed his brows slightly and stepped closer to her. "Well…" Gently, he lifted her chin so she would meet his gaze. "I disagree."

The space between them shrank with each passing second until he was practically speaking against her lips. "You say that because you don’t truly know how much you mean to me."

His words left her stunned, a warmth spreading across her face as their lips hovered mere inches apart.

Suddenly, a deafening screech startled them, breaking the moment. They quickly looked around to find the dragonkeepers struggling to contain a young dragon resisting their efforts.

Awkwardly, she looked down and took a step back from him. "Your Grace," she murmured, giving him a slight curtsy before dismissing herself.

"You shouldn't be fantasizing about that chair as much as you do, it could bring you trouble..." She let her words linger, but he knew exactly what she was referring to. "What makes you think I do such a thing?" he questioned, playing along.

A soft smirk appeared on her face but quickly disappeared. "Because you admire that thing more than anything...or anyone," she said as she eyed the rusty throne above them before returning her gaze to him.

"Mhm," he simply hummed, his hands still behind his back.

She softly sighed and stood in silence for a moment before turning to fully face him. It seemed that changing the subject was her only option. "Why haven't you come to bed yet?"

She impatiently fidgeted with her pendant, a habit she had never noticed until he remarked upon it a few nights ago.

"There's no need for you to worry about me, sweet wife," he said as he drew his gaze back to the throne, avoiding her in hopes that she might leave.

"But still, I do," she rushed to his side, growing irritated with his distant behavior.

"Aemond," she called out, her voice tinged with an unfamiliar desperation—this wasn't like her, but then again, he wasn't being himself either.

In a last attempt to get some reaction from the man, she cupped the sides of his face, stroking his cheek sweetly. "What's wrong?"

He held onto her wrists and sighed. He looked worn out, but it wasn't because of the war—no, she already knew that it didn't take such a toll on him.

Knowing Aemond and his pride, she knew how hard it was for him to open up, to bare his thoughts to her, to trust her completely.

"I do not wish to lose you to childbirth."

Her heart shattered at his words. "Why would you think such things?" she looked into his eye, only to find a broken man. "You have nothing to worry about—I promise you I'll be unharmed."

He avoided her gaze. “Aemond,” she persisted, “nothing will happen to me.”